He’d always lived alone. He’d never wanted to get married, though he’d been thinking lately that maybe he should find himself a pretty, articulate, but not-too-smart girlfriend who he could turn into a long-term fiancée. While California was progressive, it wouldn’t serve him well to be labeled as gay, especially when he wasn’t. He just didn’t want to be attached to one woman. He wanted—needed—his freedom.
He strode to his home office and turned on his computer. And, as promised, received a link to the live feed from the bug that Rykov’s man had planted in Alex Morgan’s apartment while Travis took her to dinner. The idea had been last minute, just to make sure she wasn’t playing him. Travis was still very suspicious that a former cop who’d turned her partner in for using a prostitute was at the hotel at the same time as Huang was supposed to be taken out. All his contacts said she was completely on the outs with Sac PD, but she had been screwing the lead detective investigating the shooting. Travis couldn’t be certain of anything at this point.
He clicked the link to listen. A moment later Alex’s voice came through his speakers.
“... I fear that this might just be a fishing expedition.”
He frowned. Who was she talking to?
There was silence for a moment, which told Travis that she was on a phone conversation. Then Alex said, “So you didn’t open it simply on Matt’s say-so.”
Matt. Matt fucking Elliott.
That lying, manipulative bitch. What was she doing? Was she a political spy? Trying to get into his campaign? Or worse? Working for Matt Elliott? Except ... she was talking about Matt, not to him.
Had this whole night been a set-up from the beginning? He’d intended to dangle the job offer, then pull it at the last minute, with some excuse that the CHP was bringing in an expert to set up his security, and he’d call her when he needed her, or some such crap. He simply needed her to trust him tonight, to tell him everything she knew.
And she hadn’t. She’d lied.
“But the shooter is Russian.”
How the hell did she know that? There was absolutely no connection between the young shooter and Rykov, so how did she know he was Russian when the police didn’t even have an ID on the kid?
If Travis had a problem, Sergei Rykov had a problem. As soon as Alex Morgan got off the call, Travis called Rykov.
“That bitch is working for someone. You need to find out who. I only caught part of her conversation, I want the rest.”
“You are in no position to demand anything, or do you forget why you’re in this little mess in the first place?”
“If I go down, you go with me. And don’t even think about taking me out, because I have enough evidence to put you away for the rest of your life.”
“Do not threaten me. You have far more to lose than I do.”
Travis kicked his desk. “What are you going to do?”
“You’re prone to acting rashly. I will find out what Ms. Morgan knows, then determine the best course of action. You, go about your business and do not get in my way.”
Rykov hung up.
Travis threw his cell phone against the wall. One accident and he was under that bastard’s thumb.
It’s not like he’d planned to kill anyone. He’d felt awful, but he shouldn’t have to go to prison for an accident.
He heard a loud knock and almost feared that someone had bugged his place, heard his conversation with Sergei Rykov, were coming to arrest him. Then he realized it was his computer, still running the live feed from the bug in Alex’s apartment.
He walked back to his desk and put his palms down. Closed his eyes and listened.
As soon as he heard Matt Elliott’s voice, he punched his fist through the wall.
Chapter Thirteen
Matt knocked on Alex’s door. The entire drive to her apartment his emotions bounced between anger and fear. Anger that Alex had called Dean and not him to ask about whatever Travis Hart said that upset her, and fear that she believed Hart.
Ultimately, he was determined to set the record straight. He had never lied to Alex, and she was damn well going to believe him before he walked out.
She answered the door, wearing cut-off sweat pants and a tank top. She stared at him, incredulous. “It’s nearly midnight.”
“Why are you ignoring my calls?” Matt asked. “You called Dean, but won’t pick up your phone for me?”
“I talked to you what, an hour ago? What’s going on?”
“Tell me what Travis Hart said to you.”
She blinked, then realization crossed her face. “Oh.”
He walked in and shut the door.
“Sure, come in, why not?”
She turned away from him and he took three long strides until he was face to face.
“It’s not a big deal,” she said.
“Like hell it isn’t. What did he say?”
Her expression was blank, which irritated him. He was on the edge here, needing Alex to trust him, and she maintained a poker face. “That you’re vindictive.”
“What else?”
“Who is Sharon?”
It took Matt a good thirty seconds to put it all together.
“Whatever he told you can’t possibly be the truth.”
“Then why don’t you tell me? Since you’re already here.”
Matt was not an emotional person. He’d always been the calm one in his unit, the even-tempered prosecutor that every jury loved. The family mediator. But he was shaking.