The Hitman's Mistake (Love Thrives in Emma Springs Book 1) Read online

  She stopped by the bag scanner, and bent to tie her shoelace.

  The toe of a tiny pink sock caught her eye.

  She plucked it from behind the table leg and fingered the hand knit stitches.

  A baby. The world needed the innocence of babies. A soft smile came to her lips while she imagined rocking an infant in her arms.

  She passed through the body scanner, headed back to her Chinese Elm, and tucked the sock in her tote. Monday, she’d hand it off to the security guard in charge of the lost and found box.

  Guards. Her pulse quickened. She searched the empty lobby.

  The TSA officers had been on normal duty scanning every visitor when she’d arrived at four. There had to be a night watchman. A shift change?

  Why hadn’t she noticed their absence?

  Because you’ve been too busy admiring Agent of Interest’s butt, that’s why.

  She pinched off a brown leaf. Maybe the one stationed at this post got delayed.

  By what? Hardly any traffic. Everyone else except Ike had clocked out to go home to their families. The brittle elm leaf crushed to bits in her grip.

  A muffled pop disturbed the silence.

  She tilted her head, straining to hear better.

  Elevator cables groaned a nerve-wracking whine while a descending car eased to a halt.

  This better be Ike. Shirley complained he often stayed too late.

  If not, she’d go check. When she’d seen him earlier, she’d sworn his fingers trembled enough to cause the travel brochures to flutter.

  Why’d they want to send her on a trip now, anyway? Oh well. She leaned around the ficus at the end of the row, faced the elevator, and prepared to give Ike a bright smile to lighten his spirits.

  The doors opened.

  A gray-haired man wearing a leather jacket and black jeans backed out a step.

  Holding a gun.

  She choked down a scream and slid behind the next plant over, her bushy Bamboo Palm.

  Fan-shaped leaves skimmed her cheek while she squinted. Oh no! A body slumped against the rear wall of the elevator car. Was it—?

  The gun’s barrel stayed aimed at Ike’s bloody shirt.

  This can’t be happening again!

  Not to Ike and Shirley, people she loved.

  Gripping a slender trunk of bamboo, she hunched behind the thickest section. A sickening wave of panic welled in her stomach.

  The killer shoved his revolver inside his jacket, stepped over Ike’s legs, and took out a knife. He pried a bullet from the back wall with gloved hands, and then pinned Ike’s right arm to the hand rail. He raised the knife.

  No! She plucked out her trowel.

  He turned and stood motionless. Wearing a scowl, he surveyed the lobby and then looked out the front windows.

  She held her breath. A few leafy branches and four feet of open space separated her from Ike’s assassin.

  He slid the knife into his boot and stepped out.

  It felt like troops of aphids crawled up her spine.

  A bright green snake tattoo wound around his neck—with its jaws open and fangs poised to strike the gunman’s earlobe.

  A shudder caused the leaf at her elbow to move as he strode by her, surely close enough to hear her heart thumping in her chest. A can of spray paint stuck out of his back pocket.

  He headed toward the front entrance and pressed a phone to his ear. “Tell Maneski the judge bled out, per his request . . . No time to chop off proof, the street’s still busy. Painted the cameras.”

  She looked at Ike’s hand and gagged.

  Air whooshed through the revolving doors.

  Snake Neck ran out, jumped into a black sedan parked at the curb, and drove off.

  Leaves rustled when she expelled the breath she’d been holding. Get down and get busy, you can worry later. Mom’s old saying flew through her mind.

  She yanked off her gardening gloves, dialed 911 on her cell, and dashed to the elevator.

  Ike lay sprawled on the floor, his shoe holding open the bobbing doors. Elbowing the elevator’s emergency stop button, she withdrew the cloth from her pocket and pressed it into his bloody chest.

  She searched Ike’s neck for a pulse. Faint beating reached her trembling fingers.

  “911, what’s your emergency?”

  “I need an ambulance.”

  “For yourself?”

  “No.” She stuck her phone between her shoulder and ear. “There’s been a shooting. A bad chest wound.” She squeezed Ike’s cool hand. “Ike, it’s Miranda.”

  He didn’t squeeze back.

  “Ike.” She clasped his shoulder. His eyelids remained closed in a face the color of dull clay.

  “What’s your location?” the voice demanded.

  “Seattle Justice Building, the main entrance.” She took a breath of air tainted by paint fumes. “His pulse seems weak.”

  “An ambulance has been dispatched. Stay on the line until they arrive. Put pressure on his wound.”

  “I am.”

  “Where’s the shooter?”

  “Gone. He drove away in a black car. Ike’s lost a lot of blood.”

  “You know the victim?”

  Her heart clenched. “Yes. Judge Isaac Gilson. I need to call his wife.”

  His arm nudged her. “Not yet,” he said.

  “Hold on,” she told the operator.

  Pain-filled eyes met hers. “You’re not safe,” he uttered in a ragged whisper.

  Her phone slipped from her hand. “There’s another gunman?”

  “No,” he choked out.

  “The one who shot you left.”

  He nodded, and his eyes closed.

  “Stay with me, Ike.” She slowed her voice to a calm tempo. “They’re sending an ambulance.” Wedging her back into the corner steadied her body.

  The revolving doors swished. A bearded man entered the lobby wearing a Seahawks cap and a black jacket.

  “Help’s arrived.” She leaned forward to attract the man’s attention.

  Ike clasped her wrist. “Don’t.” His eyes flashed hatred. Detective Karpenito. Dangerous. Get far away. Now. Call Shirley for instructions.”

  “I will.”

  “Promise me, leave the state. Tell no one.” His grip loosened. “You’re . . . child we always wanted.” His eyelids drooped. “Don’t trust cops . . . crooked. Tell Shirley I love her.”

  “I’ll call Shirley right away. Stay awake, Ike. I hear the ambulance.” All the breathable air vanished from the tight space while panic rose in her chest. She craned her head around the bank of buttons to see the street.

  After agonizing moments, the blaring ambulance passed by without stopping.

  The detective stood at a front window and motioned the aid car to the right.

  She snatched her phone and pushed it into her cheek. “Operator?” she hissed.

  “Yes?”

  “Tell your ambulance to ignore the guy in the window. We’re near the west entrance they passed a second ago. Under the glass atrium.”

  “I’ll direct them back to you.”

  The sirens faded while uneven footsteps from leather-soled shoes approached her. “Ike, he’s coming. Stay still,” she whispered.

  The detective’s squinting eyes honed in on her bloody cloth. His fleshy face reddened.

  He stretched his hand toward Ike’s neck. “A call came in about a shooting. I must check for a—”

  “I’ve searched his neck and wrists, no pulse,” she assured him. Her free hand balled into a fist.

  “Horrible tragedy. I’m a Seattle detective.” He shoved an SPD badge toward her.

  The last numbers were thirty-one, but his pudgy fi
ngers covered the rest. “Your name, miss?”

  “Miranda Whitley.” She fished out her building ID and bus pass from under her apron, and gave the empty lobby a fleeting look, willing anyone else to appear.

  “Ms. Whitley, I’ll need your statement after I secure the murder scene.” He flipped open a spiral bound notebook and scribbled a note. “You’re in danger if the killer’s nearby.” He looked around the empty rotunda. “Did you see which way he went? Can you describe him?”

  She swallowed. “No, I’d been . . . in the bathroom.”

  “I see.” His lips pursed. “Your home address?”

  Fury and anguish roiled in her gut. “I live at 1201 Pike.” She’d invented a number, hopefully an apartment building. They’d figure it out pretty soon, but with any luck, she’d be gone.

  He pulled out a wallet, thumbed through a wad of bills, and held out a fifty. “You did your best. The poor man’s passed. Grab a taxi home. I’ll come by shortly for your statement.” His voice had smoothed to reassuring.

  A cop would never send her away. She kept one hand on Ike and took the bill. “Okay.”

  “You’ve done what you can. The building’s not safe.” He checked his watch. “I’ll come by for your statement within an hour. You need to wait for me at home. Do you understand?”

  She looked at his ear to avoid his probing eyes. Clear streaks ran beside his beard. Glue? She dropped her head and focused on her shoes. “Yes. I’ll go to my apartment. Give me a minute.”

  He shuffled his feet, and his body teetered for a brief instant while he balanced on platform soles. “Hard to see a guy die,” he stated.

  “Yeah.” Her nails dug into her palm.

  The sirens became louder again.

  “A man waving a gun!” Karpenito shouted to her. He pulled out his revolver before dashing around her plants toward the emergency exit. “Get out now!” he yelled. The door to the alley banged shut behind him.

  “There’s no gunman, Ike. The lying cop ran from the ambulance.” She stroked his wrinkled brow.

  He responded by raising his eyelids a fraction, then they closed.

  Lights flashed out front and an aid car stopped at the curb.

  No one got out.

  She grabbed her phone. “Operator?”

  “Yes?”

  “The medics are sitting in the ambulance. We’re inside.”

  “Protocol for a shooting,” she stated. “The police need to clear the building.”

  “Screw protocol.” Miranda dropped the phone and put Ike’s hand on the cloth. “Push it against your chest, Ike.”

  His hand stayed in place.

  She ran to the revolving doors, gave them a shove, and dashed to the front of the ambulance.

  The passenger-side window rolled down.

  “He’s dying,” Miranda pleaded. “You can’t let him die! The shooter drove off.”

  The driver bent forward and stared at her, and then a look passed between the two men.

  She gripped the window frame and leaned in. “Please. Give me the stretcher. I’ll bring him to you. I can’t lose Ike, too. I can’t.” Tears streamed down her cheeks while she stumbled backward.

  “Okay, ma’am,” the passenger said.

  Both men jumped out at the same time. One grabbed a supply box and the other opened the rear door, removing a gurney.

  They checked Ike’s vitals quickly, bandaged his wound, and wheeled him out.

  She trailed behind them.

  “We weren’t needed at a nearby fender bender. Lucky break,” the driver said.

  Lucky? The crooked cop wanted Ike dead and her gone. She scrunched a corner of her apron.

  “We got clearance to transport.” The other medic opened the rear door. “Police are enroute.”

  “Which hospital are you taking him to?” she asked.

  “Seattle General. Don’t worry. He’ll be there soon.” His authoritative voice convinced her, at least for a moment.

  “Thanks, guys.” She leaned over and kissed Ike’s cheek. “You’re going to be fine. I’ll phone Shirley.”

  Ike blinked once.

  The metallic smell of blood hit her again. A wave of nausea threatened. Silver flecks danced and flickered in her vision. She leaned against the building and hugged her sides until the light-headedness subsided.

  Sirens blared when the ambulance took off with Ike.

  He was alive, but the detective and killer thought he’d died. Flashes of kindness from Shirley and Ike wound through her fractured mind. Then her brain skipped back to his killer. The name he’d used. Maneski.

  She’d seen it in print.

  In a headline.

  ‘Maneski-The Butcher-Indicted.’ Ike had presided at the trial of the notorious head of a drug cartel known for dismembering his enemies.

  Mobsters. She’d better get a move on if she wanted to outrun them. She dashed inside and reached for her tote. Blood covered her hands. Grabbing her spray bottle, she misted them, then swiped them across her apron.

  The trigger lever caught on her badge lanyard.

  I’m screwed. The dirty cop would run her ID. She grabbed her tote, ran to the cabinet under the stairs, and shoved it inside. Now to get away.

  Pushing open the stairwell’s heavy door, a tiny beam of light travelled from the top of her Douglas fir to the atrium ceiling above the lobby.

  “Please Ike, fight,” she whispered. “You’re going to be fine.” A chill swept over her. She’d said the same fateful words to her dad.

  No. This wasn’t her fault, and she’d be damned if she’d go out without a fight, for her and for Ike.

  She shoved open the exit door to the alley and stood in fading light.

  Finding safety required cash.

  “Crap. My purse,” she muttered. She caught the closing door and stopped.

  “Like I said, 1201 Pine. Whitley.” Karpenito wheezed from somewhere near the elevator. “Get some hearing aids.” Rubber-soled shoes squished closer.

  Every nerve ending went on alert while she crept inside and ducked behind her palm tree again.

  “Caucasian. Five eight. Medium build. Reddish-brown hair,” he said. “Finish it now. No evidence.”

  An image of her body lying in the morgue flashed in her brain. Who’d come to lift the white sheet and identify her? She clutched her keyring in a death grip.

  Her wall of foliage blocked her while she tip-toed to reach the stairwell closet. Using her butt, she propped the door open, extracted her shoulder bag, and stepped into the narrow aisle.

  The latch clicked shut behind her. She crouched behind the fir. Crap. Had he heard?

  The detective bent down at the other end of her plant hedge. His stumpy hand reached between the potted palm and the ficus to snatch her glove from the floor.

  Every muscle screamed to run.

  She was trapped.

  Chapter 2

  Karpenito’s steps grew softer, fading down the hallway.

  Miranda dashed into the deserted alley and headed toward the sidewalk.

  The acrid stench of burning plastic filled the narrow lane between the two buildings. A plume of smoke curled skyward from the bent lid on a dumpster.

  She pinched her nose and ducked her head. Ike’s blood stained her apron.

  Her stomach lurched. She yanked it over her head, threw it atop the smoldering heap, and jogged around the corner.

  After pushing open the familiar door and inhaling the aroma of coffee, her thumping heart eased.

  The rail-thin barista narrowed her eyes. “You work in the Justice Building, don’t you? What caused those sirens a minute ago?”

  A few customers looked up.

  Miranda shrugged. “A dumpster fire, I th
ink.”

  “Vagrants,” the woman sputtered.

  Could they see her shaking? “Uh-huh. Back in a minute. Pit stop.”

  The deadbolt to the restroom slipped into place on the second try. Her badges clattered together while she tugged the lanyard off. She grabbed her phone.

  “Hello?” Shirley answered on the first ring.

  “It’s Miranda. Ike’s been shot, and he’s in an ambulance headed to Seattle General.”

  “Dear God, help us. It’s happened.” Her voice faded.

  “A crooked cop tried to send the ambulance away.”

  “No,” Shirley groaned.

  “The cop left. Ike insisted I leave town right now. Do you have anyone to help you?”

  “Thank God you rescued Ike,” she said. “He wouldn’t believe the threats came from a Seattle police officer. He blamed Maneski’s thugs. Hold on, there’s pounding at my door.”

  “Don’t answer it! Shirley!”

  A man’s voice rumbled in the background.

  Miranda collapsed against the sink, keeping the phone pressed to her ear.

  “A policeman Ike trusted will take me to the hospital,” Shirley said. “Keep us in your prayers.”

  “Of course. Ike said to tell you he loves you.”

  A door clicked shut from Shirley’s end. “Sweet, sweet Ike. He’d want us to stay calm,” she whispered. “Don’t trust anyone until I talk to him. Follow his orders.”

  “Where should—” The phone disconnected, severing the connection to the one person who understood the danger.

  Bulging eyes stared back at her from the mirror a foot away. She touched her nose, broken during a wrestling session with her little brother, Kenny.

  Blood covered her wrist.

  She cranked the water to full blast, dunked her forearm, and watched a pinkish stream swirl down the drain.

  Her world had spun out of control again.

  She pulled open the door and checked each chair out front. Executives and tourists chatted in clusters or studied phones while they sipped drinks.

  A laptop for customer use sat on an empty table in the middle of the room.