Undercover Protector. Molly O'Keefe

       Is he even in the office?

      That idea perked her up. Maybe he’d lied and said he was in the office so she wouldn’t make off with his… She glanced around the room. He didn’t even have a TV to make off with.

      In any case, it was a little too silent in the house for there to be human and a dog inside.

      She stepped lightly across the room to the corner of the hallway, where the light turned to shadows.

      A narrow beam of sunlight seeped out from beneath the closed office door.

      She shut her eyes so she wouldn’t be distracted and listened for a sound—the groan of a floorboard or a chair, the clatter of keyboard keys, a sneeze—anything that would indicate that she wasn’t alone. That the room she needed to get into was occupied.

      She breathed deeply, held it.

      Silence.

      Nothing but silence.

      She opened her eyes, controlled the sudden heavy pound of her excited heart and stepped closer. She watched the strip of sunlight from beneath the door and reached out a hand to touch the knob. A smooth twist and she’d know if it was locked.

      The muscles of her shoulder, her arm twitched with the adrenaline rush. She released the air in her lungs to ease the tension.

      The brass ball was cool in her hand. She took another breath and started a slow rotation.

      A shadow passed through the light under the door.

      Could be the dog, she told herself, but she paused anyway. The floor creaked. Could still be the dog.

      She heard a muffled cough. A very human muffled cough and the floor creaked again, this time closer to the door.

      He was in there. And he was on the move.

      She stepped into the bathroom and prepared a slightly expectant look on her face, but the office door remained shut.

      She shook her head at her aggressive eagerness. It was one of her better qualities as an agent, but she knew she was walking a fine line between being aggressive and being stupid in this case.

      Don’t be stupid, she told herself and turned to case the bathroom.

      The medicine cabinet door squawked when she opened it to reveal toothpaste, a red toothbrush, a razor and shaving foam.

      The bottom shelf was filled with prescription pill bottles.

      Pulling her phone from her pocket she text messaged Gordon the name of the prescribing doctor—Herrara—and the address of the dispensing pharmacy in Goleta, California.

      He had a bottle of liquid morphine with a syringe still wrapped in plastic, unused. No prescription. She swallowed a hard lump in her throat and wondered if he was afraid of addiction, or if he had it around because he was so afraid of pain.

      A bottle of Vicodin, with the prescription fill date nearly a week ago and the bottle was full. He was either no longer taking his medication or he had another bottle somewhere. She glanced toward the office. The guy could have untold drugs in there—a meth lab, though the air did not smell of cat urine so probably not. But still, morphine, Vicodin…Gomez wasn’t fooling around with his pain.

      The pharmaceutical inventory also contained a potent anti-inflammatory and a high-dosage antibiotic, probably to fight infection in the burn wounds.

      When she shut the cabinet door, her face was reflected in the water spotted mirror. Plain. Hair scrapped back, no makeup, her thin lips nearly disappearing into her pale face. Not a face worth looking at twice or remembering.

      She wondered for a moment what Gomez would do if Liz were here cleaning his house. The man wouldn’t hide, that’s for sure. He’d probably camp out in the kitchen.

      Maggie switched her phone to vibrate, closed it and tucked it back in her pocket. About twenty rolls of toilet paper were stacked up against the wall. He clearly did not intend to visit the grocery store any time soon.

      Two towels, both brown, hung over a plastic rod

      A stool sat in the bath-shower and a generic bottle of shampoo-conditioner rested on its side on the floor of the tub.

      A bar of white soap rested in a small purple dish.

      Nothing good here, she surmised looking around. After the initial casing she realized that the bathroom was very dirty. Scary black stuff stained the tile grout and gray soap scum coated the tub. She didn’t even want to look at the toilet.

      Maggie checked her watch. Gordon should be done by now. She pulled out the front door, saw the red flag up on the mailbox and smiled.

      Good old Gordon. This was why she put up with his inappropriate comments and tendency to whine—the man was an efficiency genius.

      After grabbing the iPod and check stub, she replaced the electronics in his drawer—trying not to notice the worn magazine with the beautiful brunette on the cover. Then she put the pay stub back in its envelope and licked the corners of the flap—spots that most postal machines missed sealing the adhesive—closed it then stacked it among the rest of his ignored mail.

      She paused, listening for him, but the house was still silent.

      Excellent, she mentally cooed and as quietly as possible she slid open the patio door and stepped out onto the wooden deck. The ravine butted up against the patio, giving the house an extraordinary level of seclusion, which wasn’t so good considering someone wanted to kill him.

      She noted a sliding glass door that led from his office to the deck. A giant hunk of dog pressed tight against the glass and Gomez sat at a desk beyond the slumbering animal, Gomez’s back to the door and view.

      She turned the other way to be out of sight should he suddenly decide to look out his window and saw the garage nestled among the trees of the ravine.

      She checked her watch then jogged across the burned grass toward the building. The door creaked hideously as she opened it, revealing the musky near-emptiness of the shabby garage.

      Empty but for a motorcycle, parked in the center.

      She whistled between her teeth and approached the Ducati Multistrada 1100 S. It was like finding the Mona Lisa in someone’s basement.

      That is a hell of a bike, she thought circling it, admiring its lines, its lovely power and feline grace. The 1100 S was a very expensive, elite racing bike. She shook her head sadly. Gomez probably couldn’t even drive it anymore. And that was a shame because, of any bike, this one deserved to be ridden well and often.

      Oh, man…I could, she thought with near hunger for the chance. Her fingers practically twitched with the sudden urge to straddle it just once.

      She and Patrick used to race Nighthawks. The year of her high school graduation they drove up the coast on their bikes, camping and drinking too much beer along the way.

      Thinking of Patrick, his smile beneath his beat-up helmet, was enough to kill her distraction.

      She turned, noted the brand-new washer and dryer in the corner and left the garage.

      Halfway across the lawn her pocket began to vibrate and she pulled out her phone.

      Sooner or later you’re going to have to clean, the text message read. I’ll be thinking of you. Gordon.

      Her partner thought he was hilarious.

      But he was right. She was hired to do a job and she’d never get a chance to finish her real job if she didn’t get her hands dirty.

      Maggie smiled, thinking of his note, his wish not to be disturbed and she walked to his office door and knocked. Loud.

      There was a scuffle. A dog’s bark. Something hit a wall or the patio window. And finally, a few moments later the door eased open.

      A dog’s