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  Rusti let out a slow breath of relief. Of course, Baxter would check on her, talk to Petra, but Rusti hoped by late tomorrow she could tell him the whole truth. Surely Razor would have completed his mission by then and the police would have arrested the drug gang.

  She still couldn’t believe Baxter was the informer. Naturally, all cops weren’t like her fiancé Dane, who had honored the badge and brought pride to the department. There might be corruption among the police, but Baxter had told her his team hadn’t nailed down a motive, and the informer would certainly know what the motive was. Still, knowing it and revealing it were two different things. As desperately as she wanted to clear her conscience, tell this police detective everything and be done with it, she couldn’t risk it. She couldn’t forget that Razor had said Baxter was as much a suspect as anyone else in the police department. And the detective could be lying. Even she, who prided herself on her honesty, had been lying ever since she’d agreed to pretend she was René. She would have to wait until Razor got the evidence into safe hands. And that had better be soon. She couldn’t continue this duplicity much longer. She dreaded having to face Detective Baxter after he learned she’d withheld information and sided with the FBI.

  When the telephone rang, she glanced at the detective. “Go ahead and answer it,” he said.

  It was Petra—she was on her way. Rusti didn’t want to spend another night at René’s alone. Not after all that had happened. And she didn’t want to drive back to her own place in Pasadena. It was too late and she was too tired. Besides, she wanted to straighten up. It was horrible to think of leaving René’s personal items strewn all over.

  Baxter’s crew gathered up their equipment. “I’ll leave two men,” he said. “Be sure to let them know if you go out. It’s important to cooperate with your protectors. Sometimes people get spooked about being watched and take it into their heads to try to outwit them.” He looked tired and grim. “When that happens, we’re just wasting our time and the taxpayers’ money.”

  She nodded, willing to cooperate and do anything he asked—except give Razor away.

  Baxter handed her another card. “Call me if you think of anything that might have even the slightest bearing on this.” He paused. “By the way, Razor Jones has disappeared from the hospital. Know anything about that?”

  Rusti shook her head. A tingle of alarm shot through her. Baxter didn’t seem to notice. If she could only keep it together until he left, everything would work itself out.

  He hesitated, his frown deepening. “You may receive strange phone calls. Sometimes killers like to toy with the families of the deceased. My tech placed a tap on the phone.”

  That didn’t thrill her, but she said nothing. She escorted him to the door, wondering if he’d show up again, like Colombo, the TV detective who always seemed to know what a guilty person was thinking.

  After the door closed, the minutes ticked by and in the silence her sense of loss increased until the very marrow of her bones ached. She wished Razor were here to hold her in his comforting arms. He was the only one who knew the real René, the only one who knew that her sister had died in the line of duty. And that knowledge cemented a bond between them that nothing could break. That is, if she could trust him.

  Chapter Ten

  Earlier, when Razor had pulled away from the curb in front of René’s condo, he’d sensed that Rusti was watching. He hadn’t actually seen her, but he’d felt her presence. A link like that between them could spell disaster. What was it about? Whatever the connection, she kept popping back into his mind as he headed for Terrilla’s, even while he was trying to keep his mind on his forthcoming meeting with the crime boss. Now that he had the microfilm, he should back off and let the police handle the twin. And he would—just as soon as he delivered the microfilm into safe hands. Until then, Rusti wasn’t safe. René had been his partner; he couldn’t let her sister down.

  After his meeting with Terrilla he’d go back and check up on Rusti. Even with Baxter’s men on the job, he was uneasy about her safety. He’d have to stay out of sight, but that wasn’t a problem. His surveillance skills had been honed to the nth degree. Hell, he might even stay the night. After that he’d put her out of his mind and concentrate on the bust.

  The FBI plan had been derailed, but he couldn’t let that stop him. It represented months of irreplaceable work. He refused to let this mission fail. Not when he’d come this far—not when René and Kincaid had sacrificed their lives for it. Not when Buck had authorized continuing with their plan as a temporary memorial to René. She’d have wanted that and they owed it to Rusti to see that her twin hadn’t died in vain. As if that would square things with her.

  For now, he had to feel out the gangland turf, get Terrilla’s input. Some lunatic had his own agenda, and with a situation like that anything could happen. Razor mentally ticked off Terrilla’s rival gang members and couldn’t come up with anyone who might have it in for him enough to kill him. Or Bull. Terrilla’s gang was as disciplined as a team of Feds. Except for a couple of wild cards. But Terrilla could handle them. So what was going on?

  If the Egyptia shootings and René’s murder were linked, it seemed logical that the perp knew about the microfilm, or suspected it existed. If Terrilla had proof of its existence, Razor knew he’d be dead by now. And his death wouldn’t be from a wildcat shooting like at the club. It would be handled with a lot more finesse.

  Maybe the bullet that Bull took had been meant for him, and the shooter missed and had taken a second and third shot to finish the job. Or maybe one of the bullets was meant for René. That seemed likely since someone murdered her the next day. At this point, he couldn’t latch onto a clear reason for the hit. But what bothered him most was that the shooting came as a surprise. He didn’t like surprises.

  He’d been caught off guard when Kincaid was stabbed just two blocks from the Egyptia—probably by the same person who killed Majai. Kincaid’s murder, and the theft of the coded secrets he carried, had started the chain of events. Razor knew if he’d scrapped the plan then, as Buck had suggested, René would be alive today. It didn’t help much that she was the one who insisted they finish what they’d started. For Kincaid, she’d said. The truth was, Razor had wanted to continue playing the game himself. He’d been obsessed with it—still was, they were so damn close to bringing Terrilla down—

  Quick action to avoid a car cutting in ahead of him cut off his thoughts. It took less than a nanosecond before he was all business again, figuring out how best to play it with the old man.

  It was nearly midnight before Razor pulled up to the twelve-foot-high wrought-iron gates blocking entry to Terrilla’s estate. He reached out the window and swiped his card through the sentry box, and the gates rumbled open. Settling back, he felt a pull as though the dried blood that glued the dressing to his chest had pulled free. He was bleeding again. Damn. He should have changed the dressing, but he couldn’t afford the delay. He already had too many hours to account for.

  He let himself into the mansion. It felt deserted. Servant’s night off? The hollow echo of his bootsteps followed him as he searched through the marble halls. He found the old kingpin dozing in his chair in the walnut-paneled den. Razor touched him on the shoulder.

  Terrilla stretched and smiled, then his smile faded. “They let you go with that bleeding wound? What kind of hospital is that?”

  “I took off.”

  Terrilla straightened, his eyes now alert. “When? You know I don’t like to be in the dark about anything.”

  Razor swore to himself. He had about a second to smooth this over and divert attention from himself. “When I heard them delivering the dinner trays. You know how it is with hospital food.”

  Terrilla laughed, but he stayed on target. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Like I mentioned on the phone, someone stabbed Majai, the lead dancer at the club, this afternoon. I went there to nose around and ran into a regular cop convention. Baxter thinks there’s a connection bet
ween the dancer’s murder today and the shooting last night.”

  “What do you think?”

  Razor sank deeper into his persona. “Hell, I don’t know. But I don’t like it. It attracts too much attention.”

  “My thoughts exactly. Did Baxter see you?”

  “No, but when he hears I was there, he’ll want to know why.”

  “And your answer will be what?”

  “That I had the hots for Majai and slipped her a C note just before I took that bullet. And an invitation to join me later. I was there today to make another date, since the shooting messed up my plans the previous night.”

  Terrilla purred. “That wasn’t Majai you invited to your bed.”

  Razor wasn’t surprised that the kingpin knew that, he had a pipeline to the club through his daughter, and God only knows who else. “I know. It was her twin. She came to see me at the hospital and read me the riot act. Wow, what a fireball. She’s a redhead, and God, what a temper.”

  Terrilla bit off the end of a cigar and lit it. He puffed a few times, then took the cigar out of his mouth and stared at the red glow. “Too bad about Majai. Think she was a plant?”

  “Not likely. If Kincaid was dealing with anyone at the Egyptia, my money’s on that bouncer, Bob Cane. He’s only been on the job for a couple of months.” Razor shook his head. “Kincaid could’ve cleared this all up. But with him dead…” He shot a meaningful glance at the old man. “We’ve got to get a handle on people acting on their own.”

  “It’s handled. I already warned everyone to back off.”

  Razor waited for the sense of relief that should have followed Terrilla’s words. Until now, when the old man spoke, everyone in the gang had listened and jumped. But unknown factors had been unleashed, making the environment more explosive. “Good. The twin might know something, and I want her alive to talk. I’ll make some moves on her to gain her confidence.” Just saying those words made Razor feel rotten, disloyal. He should be used to playing the scumbag, so why was this time different?

  ****

  Baxter had been gone only a few minutes from René’s apartment when a huffy and breathless Petra arrived, escorted by a uniformed policeman.

  “What’s going on, Rusti?” Petra asked. “I feel like I’m under arrest or something.”

  “It’s okay, officer,” Rusti said. “She’s a friend.”

  “If you say so, Ms. Collins.” A half smile played across the officer’s face as he looked down on his diminutive prisoner. Rusti didn’t return his smile. The sight of a six-foot-tall man lording it over a woman not quite five-feet failed to amuse her.

  “There were two cops out there in a police car,” Petra said, “and this one wouldn’t let me by. He insisted on coming up the walk with me.”

  “I’ll be right outside, Ms. Collins,” the officer said. “I’m Anderson. My partner is Geary. We’ll be on duty until 7:00 A.M.” He touched his hand to his hat. “You get a good night’s sleep, now, Ma’am.”

  Petra frowned as she surveyed the mess. “Were you robbed or something?”

  Rusti shoulders trembled as silent tears shook her. Petra led her to the sofa and sat quietly beside her until the tears abated and Rusti could speak. She wanted to tell Petra everything, from the moment Razor Jones had tucked the jeweled pillbox into her belt until now. But this madness had no end. Rusti twisted the damp tissue in her hands. She couldn’t unburden herself at Razor’s expense.

  “Oh, Rusti…what is it?” Petra asked.

  The release of tears had calmed Rusti. And suddenly it seemed as though days had past, weeks even, since she had discovered her sister’s body, and she was a different person now. A person caught in a tangled web of events with no meaning, no purpose and no way out.

  “René is dead,” Rusti said.

  “What?” Petra’s face paled. “I don’t understand.”

  If Rusti failed to repeat the terrible words, all this warped time might fold in on itself, and things would go back the way they were before…but that was wishful thinking. “René is dead, Petra. Murdered.”

  It wasn’t until Rusti repeated René is dead that she felt the utter finality of the words. She struggled to maintain her equilibrium as the color drained from Petra’s face. Petra embraced her and Rusti clung tight, drawing strength from her friend’s vibrant little body, so warm, so alive.

  When they released each other, Petra asked softly, “Why would anyone want to kill René?”

  Rusti paced the room, explaining all she could without revealing Razor’s secrets. “Someone searched the club dressing room,” she said, “just like this condo. The police think René surprised the thief…and to get away without being caught, he killed her.”

  “Oh, Rusti,” Petra said, her hazel eyes glistening with tears. “And you just found her again. It isn’t fair.” She paused, studying the disorder around them. “You don’t think someone was looking for that expensive pillbox, do you?”

  Rusti shrugged, unable to say more without jeopardizing Razor’s cover.

  “Well, guessing isn’t helping,” Petra said. She picked up a lamp from the floor and placed it on the end table. “Let’s get this mess cleaned up. The exercise will drain some of our anger and frustration, and maybe we’ll find something that’ll help the police.”

  Rusti reeled from the abrupt about-face, but it was so like Petra to push away the pain and get busy. “You’re a Godsend,” Rusti said. “I couldn’t have managed without you this past year, since Dane…and I don’t think I could get through this without you either.”

  They began to set things in order. Rusti watched for anything that might reveal René’s FBI connections. Keeping things from Petra was difficult enough without proof of her sister’s ties to the Bureau. Of course, the truth about René would dispel any reservations Petra still had about her, and Rusti longed to talk about her sister’s courage. If she could just hold on until this was all over. Tomorrow would bring them closer to the truth—and farther away from the horror of the past two days.

  She’d survived losing her mother, both adoptive parents, and her fiancé, but the violence of her sister’s murder was taking its toll. Even with Petra’s distracting presence Rusti’s mind never strayed far from the vivid details. If she hadn’t discovered René’s body, she might have dealt with her death differently. But finding René like that was something she would never forget. It was as though someone had taken a knife and cut out a piece of her heart.

  “What about bringing your P.I. friend, Jerry Nichols, into this?” Petra asked. “The police have such a load of cases, this one may not get top priority. You need someone to look for René’s killer full-time.” Petra chewed on her lower lip. “You need your own personal detective. Maybe even your own personal bodyguard.”

  Rusti had considered calling Jerry, but because she couldn’t tell him everything, she’d held back. Not even Jerry could solve René’s murder without knowing the whole story. And if he started poking around, he might learn the truth about René. And Razor. Rusti sighed. She couldn’t risk it.

  Jerry had seen the story about Majai’s murder in the newspaper and left a call on her cell phone. She would return it soon. But for now, only she and Razor knew the whole truth, and like it or not, she had to keep it that way. She shuddered, realizing the risk she was taking and just how closely their secret tied them together.

  Rusti’s uneasy thoughts about the danger of her intimate relationship with Razor Jones kept churning in her mind until the doorbell abruptly shattered them.

  It was Officer Anderson again. “We’ll do random checks all through the night,” he told her.

  Rusti thanked him and locked up while Petra made two whispered phone calls—one short and one longer. Rusti thought the longer call must have been to David, Petra’s fiancé.

  When Petra hung up Rusti said, “You shower first.”

  Then she lay down on the bed, waiting for Petra to finish in the bathroom. She had never valued her best friend as much as she did
tonight. Her quiet efficiency in the face of tragedy had helped Rusti dig in and get the job done. Seeing René’s condo restored to its usual tidiness did more to soothe Rusti than anything that had happened since the shooting. Except the time she’d spent with Razor. His unyielding strength and surprising gentleness had comforted her more than she’d been willing to admit. He was a contradiction, a frightening but interesting contradiction—cold and hard as steel, yet she remembered how comforting his arms had felt around her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Feeling safe and snug in the warmth of her thoughts about Razor, Rusti closed her eyes. When she awoke an hour later, she found Petra sleeping beside her. Rusti took a quick shower, and rather than disturb Petra, she took a pillow out to the living room and stretched out on the sofa.

  After tossing and turning, she finally drifted off, only to be awakened from an uneasy sleep by the sound of glass breaking, and then a scraping noise like someone opening and closing drawers. A door banged. Rusti sprang to her feet. She froze in the doorway as a shadow moved across the room. Her heart skipped a beat. In the soft glow of the bathroom light she saw a dark figure slip out the broken window. She dashed forward, leaned on the sill and called, “Stop him!”

  But the intruder had disappeared. She heard heavy footsteps and saw one of the uniformed policemen cut through the privacy hedge and vanish from sight. How could Petra have slept through all this? She lay in bed on her side, one arm dangling over the edge.

  Her hand moved. She reached out. “Help me, Rusti,” she murmured.

  “Petra!” Rusti shot to her side.

  The light from the bathroom was too dim. Rusti flipped on the bedside lamp and yanked down the covers. Petra’s nightclothes were soaked with blood. Crimson stained the white sheets. Blood flowed from a long gash in Petra’s neck.

  Rusti screamed for help as she grabbed a fistful of tissues, pressed them to the wound and held them tight. With her free hand, she patted Petra’s cheeks. “Stay with me, Petra. Look at me.” But Petra was now unconscious.