Page 142 of One Wrong Move
“Then tell us. Please.”
Randy released a shaky exhale. “Come on in the apartment, but what we discuss stays in the apartment. Deal?”
“Deal,” Deckard said. “Unless someone is in immediate danger from what you tell me. That I can’t ignore.”
“The only ones in danger are you guys if you keep at it,” Randy said in a hushed whisper, even though they were the only ones there. “The powers that be will take you out.”
Deckard arched his brows. “The powers that be?”
“In the apartment,” Randy said, leading him up the stairs.
Fifteen minutes later, Deckard and Harper sipped on cups of coffee while they waited for Randy to clean up the broken-egg mess from dropping the grocery bag and put away his perishables.
“How long have you lived here?” Deckard asked, looking about the sparsely furnished apartment.
“Awhile,” Randy said. Grabbing a cup of coffee of his own, he took a seat in the armchair facing Deckard and Harper on the couch. He took a sip, then set his mug on the windowsill beside him. “You want to know about the shirt.”
Harper lurched forward. “Yes.”
“Whoa there,” Deckard said. “Don’t want to spook the poor guy,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.
“Right,” she whispered, easing back.
“Dude.” Randy rubbed his hands on his jeans, his knee bouncing up and down as his leg shook. “I’ve been spooked ever since.”
Deckard scooted forward on the couch, inching to the edge. “Ever since?”
“Ever since I got that call,” Randy said, lifting his mug in hiswobbly hold and taking another sip. “Does anyone else know you’re here?” He looked at Harper. “Anyone from the Bureau?”
“No.” She shook her head.
“The only people who know we are here are part of our investigative agency, and no one there will utter a word.” Deckard lifted his coffee mug, the hot ceramic heating his hands that refused to warm. Boston in October was colder than he’d anticipated. “We pride ourselves on discretion. It’s a necessity in our business.” He took a sip, the warm liquid sliding down his throat.
“Please,” Harper said, fidgeting with the hem of her green blouse—the same emerald of her beautiful eyes. “We know something is very wrong, but we don’t know where to go next.”
“Notwhere,” Randy said, setting his mug down. “Who.”
Harper frowned. “Who?”
Randy stood and strode to the back hall. “I have something you’ll want to see. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
“No problem,” Deckard said.
“Thank you,” Harper added.
She scooted closer to Deckard. “I think this might finally be the information we need,” she whispered as she reached over and clutched his free hand.
“You’re cold,” she said.
“It’s cold in this place.”
She rubbed his hand, trying to warm him. It only took a second with her soft hand caressing his.
Randy shlepped back in, clutching a folder to his chest.
Harper kept holding his hand, and the hint of a smile touched Deckard’s lips.
“Look, you two might wish you hadn’t gone here.” Randy tapped the folder. “I’ll give them to you, but you can’t tell anyone where you got them.” Desperation settled in his dull gray eyes. “You give me your word?”
