No Easy Catch (Carmen Sisters) Read online

  Shae rolled her eyes. Mother Stillwell had flagged her down in the church parking lot, in a car that needed a paint job and a new muffler. Even the driver’s window seemed stuck in the “up” position, barely allowing enough room for a smoker to flip out a cigarette butt. Yet that hadn’t stopped Mother Stillwell. Through that slit of an opening, she’d reminded Shae that “he’s coming,” as if she was talking about Jesus’ return, as foretold in 1 Thessalonians 4:16.

  “Here you go, ladies.” Their server placed a mammoth-sized slice of cheesecake between them. Spying each other, the sisters locked forks, ready to battle to be the first one to sample the dessert.

  “Only because you’re treating me, I concede,” Brecee said with a grin. “I know sweets are your weakness.”

  And it showed, too. The debacle with Alex Peterson had caused Shae’s weight to fluctuate and her hair to thin in some places due to stress. Thanks to a hair weave, her tresses were on the mend. She would never snub her nose at any woman wearing synthetic hair again. But she would love to look like Brecee, who maintained her figure by working out, wore minimal makeup on her blemish-free skin, and had recently experimented with highlights in her long, brown mane—with stunning results.

  Could it be true, what Brecee had suggested? Had Shae been so gullible as to allow an old church busybody to plant a bug in her ear?

  Brecee helped herself to a bite of cheesecake. “I never mentioned this, but not long after you moved to Nebraska, Mother Stillwell was playing ‘matchmaker missionary’ again. This time, she had me on her radar. I dodged her as long as I could before she cornered me outside the restroom. You know, for an old woman with a cane, she gets around as if she’s wearing shoes on wheels.” Brecee chuckled. “Anyway, remember Brian Evans?”

  Shae frowned as she slid another forkful of dessert in her mouth. “The name sounds familiar, but his face is fuzzy.” Their home church in Philly had been huge. “Why?”

  Brecee grunted. “Mother Stillwell said God had spoken Brian’s name and my name in her ear. Right. Two days later, Brian was busted for buying drugs—another decoy in the church. Mother Stillwell apologized to me and retracted her earlier declaration, claiming she’d meant Evans Bryson and blaming the mistake on her blood pressure medicine. Then, remember—”

  “Stop it.” Shae cracked up and had to make an effort to keep her food inside her mouth. “You’re really making me feel stupid that I might have subconsciously entertained her remarks.” She sobered and looked away. “I’m so through with men in church. They’re no different from the ones outside the temple walls.”

  “There are decoys everywhere. And you’re anything but stupid.” Brecee reached across the table and patted Shae’s hand. “It’s a known fact that sisters around Jesus Is the Way Church are praying to be next on Mother Stillwell’s hit list for husbands.”

  “Sometimes I wonder, why me?” Shae propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. Of course, there was no answer. Didn’t the Bible say that God sent sunshine and rain on good and evil alike? At times, it didn’t seem fair that the Lord would allow the saint to go through the same trials that she thought should be reserved for the sinner. She was definitely going to have to reread Matthew, chapter five.

  Brecee leaned forward. “Listen to me, Sis. You can’t let that jerk make you give up on your happily-ever-after. I’m praying that Jesus will release you from your mental bondage.”

  “Thanks.” Shae smiled but didn’t feel it.

  “You’re going to get back in the dating pool again, even if I have to push you in there,” Brecee said, wagging a manicured finger at her.

  “You better have a truck to assist you, because I’m not budging.”

  “But we’re believers of Lamentations three twenty-three, remember? God’s mercies are new every morning.” Brecee patted her chest. “Just like God set aside seven thousand men in Israel that wouldn’t bow to Baal in First Kings, I happen to believe that the Lord has set aside some good men for us—the women of God. My faith’s in God, not men.”

  “My faith’s in God keeping the wolves away.”

  “Amen.” Brecee exchanged a high five with her, then signaled for the check.

  Their server appeared, wearing a mischievous smile. “Ladies, your bill has already been paid.”

  Shae and Brecee stared at her in surprise. “What? Who?” they asked in unison.

  Their server wasn’t bashful about pointing in the direction of two good-

  looking, dark-skinned brothers waiting for a table near the lobby. Both men waved, and one of them winked, saluting the sisters with his glass of wine.

  “Hmm-mm. Now, there are two possibilities,” Brecee teased.

  “I’ll pass, but you go for it.” Shae meant every word. She stood and gathered her purse and coat, and Brecee followed suit.

  Shae was not in the mood for small talk, but it appeared their benefactors had other ideas. The men shifted their weight to a cocky stance as she and Brecee walked toward the exit.

  “Gorgeous,” Brecee mumbled, then flashed one of her flirtatious smiles that seemed to turn men into cartoon characters with tongues hanging out of their mouths, eyes bugging out, and hearts pounding outside their chests.

  “Ladies,” said one of them—definitely the better-looking one.

  As if Shae no longer had a heartbeat to succumb to their charm, she simply nodded her acknowledgment and then pulled Brecee along before she could further encourage them.

  “Hey!” Brecee exclaimed as they stepped into the brisk air. “It wouldn’t hurt to say hello.”

  Shae didn’t care how handsome they were. Okay, she did appreciate a good specimen; but the trust was gone. She wasn’t interested in striking out again. As far as she was concerned, the game was already over.

  2

  The sound of gunfire propelled Rahn from sleep. Without a light to guide him, he was disoriented. His only thought was to get the pistol he had recently purchased, courtesy of Missouri’s Concealed Carry Law, but never used. First time for everything.

  Wait a minute. The noise that had startled him was actually his alarm. Groaning with relief, he fumbled on his nightstand for the remote that controlled the lights. With the lamps illuminated, Rahn noted his surroundings. He was safely nestled in his master bedroom.

  Must have been a nightmare. Rahn peered at the clock. It was nearly seven thirty. He couldn’t believe he had slept through the night, considering he had been shell-shocked when he’d arrived at home. Being someone who was not easily intimidated, Rahn was annoyed by his own freak-out behavior. He rubbed his face. “Get a grip,” he told himself.

  Minutes later, he had just settled under the covers again when his phone rang. “Yeah?” he answered. His voice was rough, his throat scratchy.

  “Rahn, this is Greg Saxon, KMMD sports. A story came over the wire that you were involved in an attempted carjacking over the weekend.”

  He scooted up in the bed. News traveled fast. Great.

  “Can you verify that?” Greg pressed on. “I was hoping you’d give me an exclusive interview.”

  Are you crazy? was on the tip of his tongue. Anything he said could be used against him. Get a grip. He was the victim, not the criminal. But did he want to make a public statement? Too late. This phone call indicated that word had already gotten out. So, the question was, how did he want to handle the aftermath?

  The sports broadcaster was a halfway decent guy, making Rahn think twice about brushing him off. He was well respected and reported sports fairly. Rahn couldn’t say the same about other media outlets, whose commentaries were often anything but objective. Not once had Greg ever tried to twist his words during post-game interviews, even when his performance on the field had been lackluster. And Greg was about to wed Janet Harris, who managed one of Rahn’s charities, Future Professionals, a nonprofit organization that helped boys in low-income families gain leadership skills.

  After weighing his options, Rahn agreed. “Okay, man. When are
you talking?”

  “Tomorrow morning at eleven. Thanks, I’ll see you then.”

  Once they’d disconnected, Rahn rolled over and closed his eyes. The last thing he remembered was a gunman dressed like a gold-toothed fairy godfather.

  A few hours later, Rahn woke again, famished. He got up and eventually made his way to the kitchen, where he prepared two omelets and ate them with gusto. Next, he showered, shaved, and dressed, as if it was any normal day in the life of a baseball player during off-season.

  Opting not to take his SUV, which would be history as soon as he returned it to the dealer, Rahn got into his Audi. Déjà vu kicked in as he headed downtown on Highway 40, searching for the detour signs he’d seen last night, which may as well have said “Death Trap.” There was nothing. The construction crews had already removed them. Just thinking about the setup angered him.

  In no time, Rahn arrived at the TV station. He parked his car but didn’t get out right away. “I can’t believe I agreed to this.” He would’ve preferred not to rehash his humiliation. Then he remembered that he had forgotten to give Jesus His props once his impending death crisis came to an end. “I’m late, Jesus, but thank You for what You did last night. I will make a change in my life. I promised You that. Please help me to figure out how to do that.” Rahn paused, wondering how drastic those changes would have to be. He didn’t have time for further contemplation. He had an interview to do. “Amen,” he said, postponing the rest of that conversation.

  Once Rahn had gathered a degree of dignity, he stepped out of his vehicle and strolled through the revolving door into the lobby. He dead-ended into a massive black desk that blocked him from going any farther. A middle-aged security guard watched him closely but didn’t say a word.

  “Hello. I’m Rahn Maxwell, here to see Greg Saxon.”

  “I know.” The guard gave a sheepish smile and slid a pass across the desk. “I’m a fan, Mr. Maxwell,” he confessed, with a celebrity-stricken look of awe.

  What impact would the incident have on Rahn’s image? Would people be disappointed that he hadn’t fended off the bad guys with crime-fighting skills worth replaying on YouTube?

  “Glad to meet you”—Rahn scanned the man’s name tag—“Thomas.” He extended his hand.

  Grinning, Thomas shook his hand, then picked up the phone and punched a few keys. “Mr. Saxon, your guest has arrived.”

  Rahn stuffed his hands in his pockets and glanced around the spacious lobby. After Thomas disconnected the call, he entertained Rahn with his favorite Cardinal plays.

  He was rescued when a door opened, and Greg breezed through. “Hey, it’s good to see you, man. Scary last night, huh?” He pumped Rahn’s hand longer than necessary. “This way.”

  Rahn didn’t answer but simply followed the short, muscular man into the newsroom. Writers, reporters, and other staffers spied him from behind their computer terminals. Some of the staff gawked openly at him. Why did he agree to this? To rehash the story would mean reliving the nightmare that professionals applied shock treatments to patients to help them forget.

  Too late to back out now. Rahn was in step with Greg as they trekked down a long hallway, the walls of which were lined with the station’s numerous awards.

  It wasn’t Rahn’s first time down this corridor. Usually, it was for a post-game interview, recapping a bad play or discussing the mechanics of how his team had swept an opposing team—never anything as serious as facing death. Inside the studio, he followed Greg up a step to a circular platform, where two chairs and a table were situated for their live interview. An audio tech waited to pin microphones on their shirts.

  After the sound check, the theme music of the midday show played overhead, and then the director cued Greg. Either the studio lights were too hot, or he was breaking out in a sweat, and the interview was just beginning.

  ***

  Shae had just returned from a breaking news story about a grade school evacuation. On any given day, a handful of rumors circulated throughout the newsroom. Most were easily ignored, though some merited verification. But this morning, a doozy of a tale was gaining momentum when Shae walked into the newsroom. The Monday buzz was three gunmen had spared the life of a local sports figure because of his celebrity status.

  “That’s a joke, right?” Shae asked her colleague Diane Duncan, an investigative reporter, who shared one side of a spacious cubicle with her.

  “Truth is stranger than fiction, I always say.” Diane tapped out a few words on her keyboard, then stopped and spun around in her chair. “Get this: Greg snagged the first interview with Rahn Maxwell.” She pumped her fist in the air.

  “Go, Greg.” Shae grinned and mimicked Diane, although she had no idea who Rahn Maxwell was or what sport he played. “We are the news leader.” She took off her coat, draped it over the back of her chair, and got situated at her desk.

  She removed her flurry ball hat and hooked it on a small hat stand she had assembled in the corner of her cubicle. The miniature hat store was a result of her rushing to work after the later church service. Since headpieces were second nature to her on Sundays, Shae hadn’t realized that she was still wearing one.

  The crystal-pleated, ruffled satin flowers and feathers hat had wowed her producer, who formed a grand idea for Shae to wear it at the end of the Sunday newscasts as a “kicker”—a feel-good story to leave with the viewers after all of the bad news they had been exposed to. Shae thought it was a silly idea, but hundreds of viewers had called and posted comments on the station’s Web site applauding the gesture, so her hats had become commonplace on Sundays.

  Absentmindedly, Shae finger-combed her hair, careful not to get a manicured nail tangled in the last remaining tracks of weave. With her hair growth, they would be coming out soon enough. They had been a headache since day one—evidence of the toll a bad relationship took, mentally and physically, on a woman. Whatever length she ended up with, so be it.

  Once she booted her computer and signed in, Shae began logging her notes on the story as she waited for her photographer to load scene video into a master file. In less than fifteen minutes, she would be able to retrieve it, so her words could match the images prior to editing.

  “Maybe it was a drug deal gone bad or something.” Diane pulled Shae back into the rumor arena. “You know, there are always three sides to a story—his, hers, and the witnesses’. Nobody spared Christ’s life, so I don’t see what’s so special about Rahn’s.”

  That was an odd remark, considering Diane was a devout church skipper. Regardless of status, everyone’s life had value. Christ didn’t make distinctions. Shae was about to say as much but decided to leave her colleague’s outlandish statements alone. Like Shae’s sister Brecee, Diane didn’t know how to bite her tongue. Neither did she put on a religious pretense in front of Shae.

  Diane shrugged. “No disrespect. I’m just asking.”

  What was Rahn’s purpose for which God had spared his life? Grace, of course, but what else? Shae didn’t have the luxury of time to ponder someone else’s purpose when her immediate need was to get her story ready for broadcast.

  Shae had just refocused on proofing her script when Diane turned up the volume on her television. “Get over here and listen to his interview.”

  Honestly, Shae didn’t want to, but she was nosy by nature. Her profession ruled out.

  “He is one fine-looking brother.” Diane nearly drooled. “Makes me want a bowl of chocolate pretzels.”

  “Snack food?”

  “I’m hungry. Everybody looks like food to me right about now. Remember, my shift began at four, when you probably were rolling over in bed.” Diane sighed. “Anyway, he’s a catch.”

  “Welcome to Sports Break,” Greg began. “Our segment today has nothing to do with the upcoming spring training, rumors of trades, or an early prediction of who will be in the pennant race. My guest is the reigning three-time MVP for the National League of Major League Baseball. Outfielder Rahn Maxwell is making headlines th
is morning, not because he saved a play, but because the sport saved his life.”

  A robotic camera turned to Rahn as Greg addressed him. “First, we’re glad you’re okay.”

  Linking his hands together, Rahn nodded.

  Good-looking! Shae had yet to see a black man with a thin, trimmed beard who didn’t turn heads. Yep, she’d give him a high score for looks, but one woman’s dream was another woman’s nightmare. Never again would she be sucked into that starring role.

  “So, how did you become a victim of an attempted carjacking?”

  He seemed to tense at the term. “It happened so fast. One moment, I’m on my way home after a function downtown, driving west on Highway Forty.”

  “About what time was this?”

  “I’d say after midnight early Sunday morning. I didn’t think anything was suspicious when I saw the detour sign, so I exited. It was dark. The next thing I knew, headlights sped toward me from behind. I had the strangest feeling something wasn’t right. Why would another motorist race off the highway, not knowing what direction the detour would take him? Then the car blocked me in.”

  Greg listened intently, wearing a concerned expression. Shae always thought he was a great interviewer, causing his guests to forget about the cameras.

  “I consider myself just as fearless as the next man, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared. I anticipated the headlines would announce my death. At that moment, I realized that I was no longer in control of my destiny,” Rahn admitted, for the whole world to hear.

  “Unbelievable.” Greg shook his head. “We checked with the police before the show. They said the detour sign was bogus. It’s the latest crime fad popping up in cities across the country.”

  “So I was played. Great.” Rahn looked disgusted with himself. “I guess that’s why I didn’t see any detour signs at the exit on my drive here. Anyway, I’m convinced that if it had not been for me playing professional baseball, and their respect for the sport, things would have turned out differently.”