Untameable

He sat up straighter. His black eyes narrowed. “What did he say?”

“That you were first, and I was next.”

His expression was hard to read. “Do you have an answering machine on your phone?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yes, sir, and a ham radio and a plasma TV, a couple of sports cars …!”

“Ms. Perry,” he said curtly.

“Sorry, sir. I forgot myself. Won’t happen again.” She crossed her heart.

He shook his head. “It’s not a laughing matter.”

“I wasn’t laughing. It’s just that I don’t have the budget for that type of equipment,” she said with a straight face.

“I should have known that.”

Probably so, but, then, he and his brother—not to mention his seethingly rabid mother—were worth millions, if the gossip was true. She didn’t doubt that he could walk into the nearest electronics store and purchase the highest-ticket item it contained without blinking an eye. Joceline was on a much stricter budget.

“You live in an unsecured apartment house,” he said, thinking aloud.

“We have locks on the doors and a telephone.”

He glared at her. “Locks keep honest people out. That’s all they do.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “Over the years that I’ve worked here,” she began, “I’ve heard a lot of people make threats. I don’t know of a single one that actually turned into an incident.”

“Yes, well I do,” he said curtly. “I won’t take chances with your life, or your son’s.”

“It was your life I was thinking about,” she said quietly. “He has a reason for wanting to harm you.”

His eyebrows arched. “Are you actually expressing concern for my welfare, Ms. Perry?” he asked with mock astonishment.

“Yes, sir,” she said calmly. “It’s very difficult to train a boss not to expect impossible menial tasks,” she added with a gleam in her blue eyes. “I’m not anxious to break in somebody new.”

He laughed faintly. “Touché.” He glanced at his watch and got to his feet. “I’ll talk to a few people and see what sort of arrangements I can make for someone to keep an eye on you after work.”

“On our budget, sir, we can probably afford a ten-year-old boy in a trench coat with one of those Junior Spy kits.”

He really glared at her then. “My brother has all sorts of shadowy contacts that we don’t talk about. I’m sure at least one of them owes him a favor. Rourke comes to mind.”

“No,” she said at once. “No, absolutely not. I will not have that one-eyed lunatic anywhere near me!”

His eyebrows arched. She’d rarely been so outspoken about any of the people who came through the office. “He’s very good at private security.”

Her jaw set so tightly that it bulged.

“Out with it,” he ordered.

She shifted restlessly. “He said I should be gagged and locked in a closet.”

He had to stifle a laugh. “May I ask what prompted him to make such a remark?”

Her eyes avoided his. “He was making fun of my shoes.”

He looked down. She was wearing the ballet slippers she usually wore to work, bad for the instep but extremely comfortable—and affordable.

“Some of us can’t manage Neiman Marcus even on a good government salary,” she said, still ruffled months after the remark was made.

“Rourke pops off and thinks he’s being amusing.”

“He’ll get popped off if he makes another such remark to me,” she said curtly.

He chuckled. “I’ll see if anybody else owes Mac a favor.”

“It sounded like Harold Monroe, but I couldn’t prove it. He was probably just fishing, to see if he could frighten me. And he knew I’d tell you what he said,” she added. She hesitated. “Sir, you really could use someone to watch your back. Monroe may be a certifiable idiot, but he has family connections who aren’t.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Don’t get insulted,” she added when he looked annoyed. “You FBI types always think you’re the biggest, meanest dogs on the block and usually you’re right. I don’t like funerals,” she added firmly.

“Or breaking in new bosses.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Exactly.”

“I’ll do my best to stay alive.” He started out the door and hesitated. “If my brother calls, tell him I want to talk to him. I’ll be back after two.”

“I did notice that, sir,” she added pleasantly, “having noted it on your calendar.”

His jaw clenched.

“Won’t you be late for court?” she asked. “It’s Judge Cummings sitting today, too, isn’t it, and he doesn’t like the FBI.” She smiled angelically. “Do be polite, sir.”

He muttered something under his breath.

“Sir!” she exclaimed. “This is a government office …!”

He was out the door before she could finish the sentence.

BETTY RIMES was constantly amused by Joceline’s ongoing verbal attacks on her boss.

“He could just fire you,” Betty pointed out.

“He wouldn’t dare. There are very few paralegals working outside the judicial system, where would he ever find someone to replace me?” Joceline asked, amused.

“We have a part-time administrative assistant,” she was reminded grimly. “And Phyllis Hicks does offer to make coffee for the boss.”

“I don’t do menial chores,” Joceline reiterated. “It isn’t in my job description.”

Betty sipped her coffee. “Yes, but, dear, she’d work for half what they pay you,” she added worriedly. “It’s a flat economy. So many people are out of work.”

Joceline didn’t let her uneasiness show. She just smiled. “Mr. Blackhawk is used to me and he doesn’t like strangers.”

“That’s true. It’s just that he doesn’t make the major budgetary decisions.”

Joceline stared at her. “What do you know that you’re not telling me?”

Betty bit her lip. “It’s probably nothing …”

“Tell me.”

“I overheard one of the senior agents discussing something Mr. Grier said at lunch.” Garon Grier was now the Special Agent in Charge for the Jacobsville satellite office, and he frequently showed up at the San Antonio office to have lunch with the San Antonio SAC. “Mr. Grier was disturbed at talk that they were going to reduce his office staff, and our own SAC apparently wondered out loud if we could make do with one administrative assistant for the Violent Crimes Squad here, with a part-time assistant.”

Joceline didn’t move. She stared at the other woman with dawning horror. Betty had been with the Bureau for a long time, over ten years, and she had seniority.

“I said it was probably just talk. He might have even been joking. Please don’t worry,” Betty said gently. “Probably they’ll come up with some other idea for saving money by cutting our travel budget. I just didn’t want it to come at you out of the blue. You’re a great paralegal. I know Judge Cummings would snap you up in a second for his office, or the assistant D.A. would for hers.”

That was true. But no matter how good the working conditions, or how great the pay, those offices wouldn’t contain Jon Blackhawk. While that might be a good thing, in some respects, it was devastating in another.

“Joceline, you’re not going to lose your job,” Betty said, her tone reassuring. “The SAC and Mr. Blackhawk would both fight for you.”

They would. She knew that. Despite her insistence on the parameters of her duties, she was good at what she did, and she never slacked or avoided work. There were those unavoidable times when she was late for work …

She looked up at Betty worriedly. “I’ve been late sometimes.”

The older woman was sympathetic. “Everybody knows why,” she said surprisingly.

“What?”

“We know your son has medical problems,” the older woman replied with a smile.

“But I never told anyone,” she stammered. “I mean, Mr. Blackhawk came by when I had to bring Markie to the hospital,” she began.

“And he told all of us,” she said. “He didn’t want anyone assuming that you missed work for some frivolous reason. He’s quite fond of you, in his way. Although watching him react to you is funny. You do put his back up, as they say.”

“Keeps him on his toes.” Joceline laughed. “He really does tend to brood.”

“Oh, coffee!” Phyllis said, smiling. “Can I have some, too?”

“Sure, sit down,” Joceline invited. She noted the younger woman’s clothing; it looked like the sort of thing Cammy Blackhawk would wear. But Phyllis had said her father worked as a police detective and Phyllis was in college part-time. Where would she get the money for expensive clothes? Maybe Joceline was just tired and getting irritated over minor matters.

“We were talking about our workload,” Betty commented.

“It’s so boring,” Phyllis said. “I wish I could be a detective, like my dad, and get to go to crime scenes.”

“You watch too many crime television shows, Phyllis.” Betty chuckled.

Phyllis gave her a blank stare.

“You know, those forensic programs that deal with trace evidence solving big cases,” Joceline said helpfully. “They call it fiction.”

“So many people don’t know the difference.” Betty sighed. “Now juries are so clued up that they argue with attorneys about trace evidence in murder trials. They watch a television show a few times and think they’re qualified to rule on pathological evidence.”

“Yes, it’s nothing like what they show on television,” Phyllis said. “Bodies are so clean and tidy. In real life, the blood is everywhere. It splashes around like paint …” She stopped because they were staring at her silently. “Oh, my dad lets me look at file photos sometimes,” she said quickly. “To teach me how evidence is really gathered.”

“I see,” Betty said, but she was visibly uncomfortable.

“Some of those shows are just a little too graphic for me, especially when my son might walk in and see something that would give him nightmares,” Joceline said with a smile.

“I was never squeamish, even when I was little,” Phyllis scoffed. “That murder case we worked on with Mr. Blackhawk was really fascinating, the one that Jay Copper got arrested for,” she added suddenly. “Aren’t you working with a file about that Hancock man? Digging out information about his past?”

“I’m trying to run down stuff. I got some rap sheets from San Antonio P.D. this morning. They’re on my desk. I haven’t had time to input the information. I may have to sign them out and do it at home.”

“I guess it’s a long rap sheet,” Phyllis said.

“Very.”

“Such a sad case, the Kilraven murders,” Betty said. “Imagine, someone killing a child like that.”

“Kids, adults, a life is a life.” Phyllis shrugged. “They all die the same.”

“You have a different outlook when you have a child,” Joceline said tautly.

Phyllis assumed a smile. “Well, of course you do.”

Betty sipped more coffee. “I worry about Monroe’s threats,” she said somberly. “Mr. Blackhawk seems to think it’s a joke, but the man is dangerous. His wife’s uncle taught him how to be a monster, and his brother-in-law is a terror.”

Joceline nodded. “Jay Copper is going to do some very hard time, if he manages to avoid the needle,” she added meaningfully. “Imagine ordering the death of a woman and a small child!”

“And I’m sure that he did order it, despite all his denials,” Betty said grimly. “Dan Jones may have done the actual killing, but Jay Copper was behind it. If they can just convict him, is the thing. I hope they do.”

“Mr. Blackhawk is supposed to meet an informant tonight at seven,” Joceline said heavily. “He refuses to have a bodyguard. He doesn’t think Monroe is a threat.”

“That’s foolhardy,” Betty said. “Look what happened to Detective Marquez when he went to meet some shadowy informant.”

Marquez had been blindsided and hospitalized. Joceline was uneasy about the meeting tonight. “Mr. Blackhawk takes chances.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be all right,” Phyllis said airily. She glanced at her watch—a very expensive one. “Gosh, I have to get back to work. Thanks for the coffee.”

She left without putting change in the kitty that helped pay for renewing the canteen supplies. Without a word, Betty took a bill out of her pocket and placed it in the container.

“Young people.” She sighed.

Joceline smiled. “You’re nice.”

“Thanks. So are you.”

“I do hope they can convict Jay Copper of little Melly Kilraven’s murder,” Joceline said quietly. “Kilraven still isn’t over it,” she added gently, “although he and his wife, Winnie, are expecting around the new year.” She smiled. “What a Christmas present they’re going to have this year if she goes into labor early!”

“Christmas!” Betty exclaimed. “I haven’t even started shopping!”

“It isn’t even Thanksgiving yet,” she was reminded.

“Yes, but I usually have everything bought by August.” She laughed. “I’m efficient on the job. I wish I could be that efficient off it.”

Joceline laughed, too. “Well, we all do what we can.”

The phone rang. Joceline got to her feet. “Back to work. Thanks for the heads-up,” she added in a soft tone. “At least if I get the ax, I’ll be somewhat prepared. Perhaps I should start working up a résumé.”

“Wait,” Betty advised. “A lot of this is all talk. I don’t think the office can operate with just me taking a workload from the squad, and only a part-timer for Mr. Blackhawk all at once. I’d have a nervous breakdown. And I can’t persuade people to talk to me like you can. You’re marvelous at digging out information.”

Joceline pursed her lips. “I can do that,” she agreed. “Maybe there’s work for a skip tracer,” she added, indicating a line of work that involved digging out information for detectives. “I might look good in a trench coat.”

Betty laughed again.

JUST BEFORE quitting time, the phone rang as Joceline was gathering things into her bag to take home, including the long file on Bart Hancock.

Joceline picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“My love! It’s been so long!”

She knew that voice. Its South African accent was unmistakable. She pictured a rugged, tanned face with an eye patch and blond hair in a long ponytail. “Rourke,” she muttered.

“You know you’re happy to have me around again,” he drawled. “Guess what? I’m going to be your shadow for a few weeks. Until the would-be perp stops making threats, at least.”

“I can’t wait,” she replied. “Do you have body armor?”

He hesitated. “Excuse me?”

“Body armor,” she emphasized. “Riot gear.”

“No. But I can borrow some. Why will I need it?”

“If you attempt to shadow me, I’ll rub bear grease all over you and open the lion cage at the zoo,” she said sweetly.

There was a slow, deep chuckle. “Joceline, my love, I have two tame lions who live with me back home in South Africa. I’m not intimidated by big cats. However, if you’d like to rub me all over with bear grease,” he added in a deep, velvety tone, “I can be in your office in two minutes flat. I’ll even run red lights!”

She slammed the receiver down, her lips making a thin line. She muttered under her breath.

A minute later, the phone rang again. She jerked it up and, without thinking, said, “If you call here one more time, Rourke, I’ll have you up for harassment!”

There was a faint pause, as if she’d shocked the listener. Then Kilraven’s voice came over the line, deep and very somber.

“Joceline, I’ve got some bad news.”

“Winnie …?” she began worriedly, because she was fond of his wife. They often went shopping together.

He swallowed. “Not Winnie. My brother …”

“Jon? Something’s happened to Jon?” She sounded almost hysterical and she didn’t care. Harold Monroe’s phone call came back to her in a flash of anguish. She gripped the phone, hard. “What happened?”

“He’s been shot. Critically. He’s at the Hal Marshall Memorial Medical Center … Hello? Joceline?”

He was talking to himself. Joceline had her purse over her shoulder. She ran to Betty’s small office and told her what had happened.

“I’m on my way to the hospital. I’ll call you the minute I know something!”

Betty started to mention that Jon’s family was certainly gathered around him, and would relay any news. But the look on Joceline’s face stopped the words in her mouth. She wondered if Joceline was even aware of her feelings for Jon Blackhawk, which were blatant on her drawn, worried face.

CHAPTER SIX

KILRAVEN WAS SITTING in an uncomfortable chair in the emergency room waiting area, with Winnie beside him. He looked up when Joceline walked in. His expression, usually unreadable, was as concerned as hers.

“Have you heard anything new?” she asked, pausing to greet Winnie with a hug.

“They’ve taken him into surgery,” Kilraven replied grimly. “They said they’ll know more when they operate. He was shot in the back. In the back!”

Joceline’s face flamed. “I hope they find Harold Monroe and hang him.”

Kilraven nodded. “I can’t prove it, but I’m sure he’s the one who did it. And I’ll find the proof, no matter how long it takes me!”

“I’ll help,” Joceline agreed harshly.

“Want some coffee?” Winnie asked her husband, who nodded.

“I’ll go get it,” he said, starting to rise.

She pushed him back down. “I need the exercise. The doctor says it’s good for me to move around. But thanks, sweetheart.” She bent to kiss him. “Would you like a cup, Joceline?” she added.

“Yes, please.” Joceline dug for a dollar bill and handed it to her insistently. “You’re not buying me coffee,” she said stubbornly. “I’m an employee of a federal agency and I won’t be the subject of a bribery scandal,” she added with mock hauteur.

Winnie chuckled. “Have it your way, Elliott Ness.”

Kilraven frowned. “He headed up the FBI in Chicago during racketeering days. He was incorruptible.”

“The history professor,” Winnie teased, and kissed him again.

“I’m not up on American history unless it has Scots connections.” His area of expertise was seventeenth-century Scottish history.

“Was Elliott Ness a Scot?” Joceline wondered aloud.

“I’ll look into it,” Kilraven promised.

Winnie went to get coffee. Kilraven and Joceline sat rigidly, watching the doors open and close as medical personnel in green scrubs went to and fro, occasionally flanked by white-coated physicians with stethoscopes draped around their necks.

“Busy place,” Kilraven ventured.

“Yes.” She turned over her purse. “Have you called your mother?”

“She’s on her way here,” he said. “I made her promise not to drive.” He grimaced. “She’s wrapped two cars around telephone poles in the past five years.”

“Oh. She drives like you, then,” Joceline said with a pleasant smile.

He glared at her. “I have never wrecked a car.”

“Sorry. I forgot. They were blown out from under you. Major difference.” She was nodding.

He shifted. “Everybody gets bomb threats.”

“Yours aren’t threats, and how lucky that you weren’t in the cars at the time they exploded.”

“Can I help it if I inspire passion in people?”

“People in black ops do that, I’m told.” She chuckled.

He shrugged. “I’m trying to walk the straight and narrow, especially now,” he said with a smile. “I’m doing the most boring job the company could find for me. Surveillance.”

“It’s safer than what you used to do,” she said. She frowned. “Did you send Rourke after me?”

“Yes, I did,” he said, “and stop trying to run him off. Monroe is deadly serious, as you might have noticed today. Jon told me that Monroe said you’re next. You have a small child and the two of you live in an apartment building with no security to speak of. Rourke will protect you.”

“Who’s going to protect him from me?” she wondered aloud.

“That is a good question.”

They paused to stare at the door leading to the surgical wing. A surgeon in green scrubs came out it, looked toward Kilraven and motioned for him to join him. Joceline went, too, ignoring the surgeon’s obvious surprise. Under other circumstances, Kilraven would have chuckled at her concern for a boss she constantly drove nuts.

Joceline could hear her own heart beating and hoped Kilraven wouldn’t notice. She was scared to death. If Jon Blackhawk died, it would be like the sun going out forever. She refused to even entertain the possibility. But she knew that he could die. And might. She gripped her purse like a lifeline, hoping, praying … let him live, please, I’ll go to church more, I’ll give to charity more, I’ll be a better person, be kinder, more tolerant … She closed her eyes. You can’t bargain with God, she told herself.

“I’m cautiously optimistic,” the surgeon said, glancing at Joceline when her explosion of soft breath diverted him. “The bullet missed the major organs and lodged in the wall of his chest. It did some damage to a lung, and of course filled the pleural cavity with blood. We’ve removed the bullet and inserted a tube to drain the excess fluid and reinflate the lung. The damage to his lung is minimal. Apparently he was shot from a distance, and with a nonfragmenting bullet, thank God. The damage will heal. It helps that he’s young and in great physical shape.”

“Can I see him?” Kilraven asked quietly.

He hesitated. But he was a kindly man, and these two people loved his patient. He wondered if the woman was a girlfriend. She was certainly concerned.

“In a few minutes,” he told them. “We’ll move him into recovery temporarily, then he’ll go to ICU for a day or two. Just as a precaution,” he emphasized when he noted his two listeners going pale. “We want to make sure complications don’t develop that might retard his progress. We’ll keep him for three or four days after that, again, to make sure he’s progressing as we think he should. But I think he’ll be fine,” he added gently.

“They’ll come to get us, when we can see him?” Kilraven asked, glancing at Joceline as if it were a given that she’d go in, too.

“I’ll send a nurse,” he promised. “He’s an FBI agent, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Kilraven replied. “One of the best.”

“We do a big business in gunshot wounds in our emergency room,” the doctor said with a heavy sigh. “Sadly there are more guns than trauma surgeons in this area.”

“One day that will change,” Kilraven said.

The doctor only smiled. “Not in my lifetime, I’m afraid. I’ll get back to work. They just brought in a child of seven, victim of a drive-by shooting.” He shook his head. “In my day, drugs were only whispered about. There was no wide-scale distribution, no gangs with guns, no …” He shrugged. “It was a less tolerant world, but far less violent.”

“They did this experiment,” Kilraven said quietly. “I read about it. They put rats in a confined area until they were so crowded that they could barely move. They became aggressive and began attacking the others and even cannibalizing them.”

The doctor nodded. “We are too many, with too few resources, in too little space in cities on this planet. Nature has a way of thinning the population without any help from us.” He glanced toward the emergency room. “However, I must add that I prefer nature’s approach. Guns and knives are messy.”

“I agree,” Kilraven said. “I’ve seen my share of the results.”

Nobody added that he’d helped a few criminals into emergency rooms.

The surgeon smiled reassuringly and went back to work.

Joceline was trying to avoid letting Kilraven see her tears.

“Hey, now,” he said in a teasing tone. “Don’t do that. Never let them see you cry.”

She laughed with a hiccup and brushed at her eyes. “He’s an awful boss,” she muttered. “Keeps me working late, throws things, insults me …”

“Jon insults you?” he asked, shocked.

“He asks me to make coffee,” she scoffed. She brushed away another tear. “Imagine that!”

“He’s just tired of threatened lawsuits from visiting attorneys who have to drink the coffee the agents make,” Kilraven explained.

“Then they should stop letting Murdock make coffee,” she pointed out.

“That’s been suggested,” he replied. “At the same time, they mentioned dirt and shovels …”