Watched Too Long: A Thriller (Val Ryker Series) Read online

  WATCHED TOO LONG

  Small town Wisconsin cop Val Ryker is about to move in with her longtime firefighter boyfriend when her old boss asks for a favor. Former Chicago Homicide lieutenant Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels, needs Val to babysit for a few days.

  Val isn’t comfortable around toddlers, but she accepts.

  Then one baby becomes two, and some criminals from Jack’s past come calling with child abduction and arson on their agenda.

  Val might not know babies. But she knows a whole lot about putting up a fight…

  WATCHED TOO LONG by Ann Voss Peterson and JA Konrath

  Some would kill for a good babysitter…

  WATCHED TOO LONG

  A Val Ryker Thriller

  ANN VOSS PETERSON

  J.A. KONRATH

  CONTENTS

  Author Note from Co-Author J.A. Konrath

  Begin reading WATCHED TOO LONG

  About the Authors | Books by Ann Voss Peterson | Copyright

  Author Note from Co-Author J.A. Konrath

  This book takes place during the same timeframe as my horrific suspense novel WebCam, written under my pen name Jack Kilborn. It also happens concurrently with my ninth Jack Daniels thriller Rum Runner. Some characters, and situations, appear in all three stories, and they overlap and crossover with one another.

  You do not have to read all three books to find out what happens. Each of these can be read and enjoyed as a standalone. There are no spoilers.

  That said, it was an exciting challenge to write three stories that interweave, and I hope readers will enjoy this experiment. If you like Watched Too Long, please give WebCam and Rum Runner a try. This trilogy was a whole lot of fun to write. I believe you’ll also enjoy my co-writer’s series featuring the heroes of this story, Val Ryker and David Lund. I recommend starting with the first book in Ann Voss Peterson’s Val Ryker trilogy, Pushed Too Far. It’s terrific.

  As always, thanks for reading.

  Joe Konrath

  Jet Row

  His full name, courtesy of parents who had done too many drugs, was Sylvester Tweety Bird Hoffman.

  He thought that name sucked, so he called himself Jethro Muhammad Ali Ice Cube Lotsa Dollas King Shaquille Hussein Kanye Williams.

  That was a mouthful, so on the street he was known as Jet Row.

  When Jet Row was sixteen, he set fire to the bed where his mom and dad were passed out from too many drugs. He did it partly because they’d spent his whole life neglecting and abusing him, but mostly because the dumb ass crackheads had named him Sylvester Tweety Bird. How was a young brother supposed to get ahead in the hood with a name like that? Especially since, technically, he wasn’t a brother.

  Jet Row, like his parents, was white. He grew up in a mostly black neighborhood, with mostly black peers, and, like his parents, tried to fit in best he could. For the most part, he fit in fine.

  Except for that starting fires thing. That was a peculiarity that transcended race. Which was why Jet Row, entirely independent of the color of his skin, was pretty much thought of as an asshole by everyone who knew him. Including his parents. Whom he set on fire.

  His parents hadn’t died. But they weren’t very forgiving, either, and kicked Jet Row out of their apartment on Chicago’s south side.

  Living on the streets, no longer held back by anything family-related, Jet Row hooked up with the Folk Nation, in a set known as the C-Notes, and quickly worked his way up the gang hierarchy with mostly arson-related jobs, even when arson wasn’t called for, or even a wise idea. When a fellow C-Note opined that Jet Row was perhaps having some difficulties controlling his growing reliance on pyromania, Jet Row torched his car.

  He was made a lieutenant in the gang shortly after his nineteenth birthday. And it was on his watch, while he was in an alley setting fire to a dumpster that was filled with pieces of a smaller dumpster, that he got the call from the C-Note General, a serious cat named Del Ray, about kidnapping some cop’s kid.

  “You want I should torch the shorty?”

  “Naw.”

  “Maybe light the place up, scare the kid?”

  “Naw, man. It’s a two year old. Just grab it, bring it back to Chi-town.”

  “Who the kid with?”

  “I dunno. Some peeps. Grab the kid and jet.”

  “What?”

  “What do you mean what?”

  “You said my name. Jet.”

  “Naw, I mean jet. Skate. Bounce. Get out of there. Grab the kid and leave.”

  “And then burn them all?”

  “Brother, I don’t care what you do to them. We just want the kid.”

  “I hear you. Burn those muthas to the ground. Check. Leave nothing but ash. Shake ’n bake, homey.”

  “You got some psychological shit to work out, you feel me?”

  “What?”

  Jet Row had been squirting lighter fluid on the burning dumpster and hadn’t been paying attention.

  “I said you need to deal with your shit. Now take three boppers and some wheels. Address is Lake Loyal. Up in Wisconsin.”

  “I got these Molotovs, man. Made with detergent. Homemade napalm. Sticks to you as it burns. Peeps be like, ‘Ah! I can’t brush it off! It’s burning!”’

  “Whatever, man. Just get it done.”

  And so it began.

  Val

  It’s only a closet.

  So why do I feel like I’m giving up all of my earthly possessions?

  Val stared at the dent she made in her bedroom storage. She’d promised Lund that she would clean out half her stuff to make room for his. There was a bureau, a dresser, and a small closet, and each was filled with mostly outdated clothing and shoes that Val rarely, if ever, wore.

  But they were hers. Having to get rid of any of it triggered some dormant, selfish gene she’d thought she’d buried long ago. The same gene that didn’t want to share the four-square ball at second grade recess. Even at seven years old, Val had known it was difficult to get that ball and holding onto it was more important than actually playing with it. So she’d stand there, without playing four-square, clutching the ball and whining if any other child got too close.

  Not her proudest childhood memories.

  “How about these?” Grace said. Her niece was holding up a pair of metallic silver boots with chunky heels.

  “Those are my clubbing boots,” Val said.

  “Clubbing? In Lake Loyal, Wisconsin?”

  “I used to go.”

  “When? Back when you lived in Chicago?”

  Grace was right. She hadn’t worn them since her rookie cop days in the Windy City. But Val didn’t want to admit it. “There are clubs in Madison.”

  “And you’ve gone to those… when?”

  “There’s always the potential to go clubbing.”

  “It’s not even called clubbing anymore. It’s called raving. And these aren’t rave-worthy. They look like something you’d wear to a Kiss show.”

  “There’s also the potential for that. See all the possibility in these boots?”

  Grace made a come-on face, a dead ringer for Val’s sister. “Can you name a single Kiss song?”

  “The one where they aren’t going to take it anymore.”

  “That’s Twisted Sister.”

  “I wasn’t a big fan of hair bands.”

  “Then you shouldn’t be a fan of these boots.”

  “Freakfest on State Street. I can wear them on Halloween.”

  Grace was unmoved. “Goodwill pile.”

  She tossed the boots on top of a pair of hemp sandals, green Crocs with a broken strap, and some
high-waisted, acid-wash jeans Val was still reluctant to part with.

  Val picked the pants up for the fourth time. “I bet they still fit.”

  “When was the last time you wore them?”

  “High school.” Val shifted onto her butt, hiked up her skirt, and began to scootch her legs into denim.

  “They’re not in style anymore, Aunt Val.”

  Val sucked in a deep breath and managed to zip the fly. “See? They fit.”

  “You’re turning bright red. Can you feel your feet?”

  “A little.”

  “Those are too tight.”

  “Tight is the style.”

  “Is camel toe the style?”

  Val looked down. The jeans were so tight Val could see she needed a bikini wax.

  “Goodwill,” Val said, trying to tug them off. “Can you grab the legs?”

  The women spent the hard part of thirty seconds peeling the jeans off of Val. When they went back into the Goodwill pile, Val picked up the broken Croc.

  “This can be fixed.”

  Grace snatched the plastic shoe from her. “Is this about your crappy old wardrobe, or is this about David?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying if he was moving in with me, I’d throw away everything to make room.”

  Val narrowed her eyes. “Do you have a crush on my fiancé?”

  Grace laughed and gave her aunt a shove. “How about you be serious and actually try to own your feelings? Do you want him to move in or not?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s going to require some changes. Making concessions. Possibly even sacrifices. How are you supposed to live with a guy when you can’t even give up a pair of ugly, broken Crocs to make room for him?”

  “You should switch your major to psychology.”

  “My major is psychology. Well, one of them, anyway. And I gotta run. Early class tomorrow. Give David a kiss for me, and tell him I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For how you’re going to act all evening.”

  Val walked her niece to the front door, gave her a hug, and watched her pull on her coat, duck into the barn to say goodbye to the horses, and finally climb into her car. Val also found herself scanning the treeline for anyone who might be watching. Old habit.

  Grace left to go back to UW-Madison, and Val watched until her car was swallowed by the road.

  The kitchen phone rang, and Val picked it up. Like most of her wardrobe, her phone was old school, a Princess model with a curly cord. Grace had loved it when she’d come to live with Val at twelve years old. Now she mocked it endlessly.

  “Ryker.”

  “Val, it’s Jack.”

  It was always sad when Grace left, but Val perked up at her old friend’s voice. “Jack! How long has it been?”

  “Too long. I’m sorry I don’t call more often.”

  “Blame is on me, too.”

  “You’re busy with cop stuff. I’m retired. I have no excuse.”

  It wasn’t exactly full-time cop stuff, not anything like it used to be when she was chief, but that wasn’t the point. Val had just never been good at friendship maintenance. The fact that Jack forgave her that fault was a big reason they had remained friends so long. “A baby is a perfect excuse. How’s Samantha?”

  “That’s why I’m calling. I need a favor. Would you mind watching her for a few days?”

  Val’s automatic reaction was to say yes. She owed Jack a few big favors. The huge type of big. But even though Val could run a police station, she hadn’t babysat a toddler in…

  Well. Ever.

  “She’s really well behaved,” Jack filled in the silence, “and she’s potty trained. It would just be for a few days. Phin and I are… well…”

  “You okay, Jack?”

  “We haven’t had sex in six months.”

  Wow. Yuck. Val had gone six months without sex, even longer, but never while in a relationship. Jack was married, and she was married to a younger guy.

  “So you need me to watch Sam so you can make a booty call?” Val asked, trying to make light of the bombshell.

  “It’ll be that, or I kick him out.”

  “Jesus, Jack.”

  “Relationships are hard, Val. Hey, how are you and Lund doing? Set a date yet?”

  “No, but he’s, uh, moving in today.”

  “That’s great! I… ah, shit. It’s a bad time, then. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

  “No! It’s okay, Jack. We can watch Sam for you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Not a problem. We’ve both taken a couple of days off for the move. And Lund will love a chance to be domestic. He adores kids.”

  “Thanks, Val. This means a lot. Can we drop her off in three hours?”

  That soon? “Yeah. Sure.”

  “She’s a really good kid. She practically watches herself. I’ll see you soon. Thanks!”

  Jack hung up. Val stared at the receiver. She knew Lund had planned a romantic dinner tonight after moving his stuff in. But if they were watching Sam, that would have to be postponed. Would he be annoyed?

  Well, if he was, then he shouldn’t be moving in. Things came up. Life happened. As Lake Loyal Fire Chief, Lund was used to having to roll with the punches. He’d have to learn that the same thing happened in his personal life. Sometimes the best laid plans went astray. Better he learn to accept that now.

  Val went back into her bedroom, threw the Goodwill pile back into her closet to deal with at a more appropriate time, and walked over to her DVD collection to search for something kid-friendly.

  After ten minutes of searching, the only moderately kid-friendly movies Val found were Legally Blonde, The Devil Wears Prada, and Aliens. Sam was probably too young to understand post-feminist comedies, and Val wasn’t sure if giant, acid-blooded aliens devouring an entire planet and stalking a little girl would be appropriate for a little girl. Best put it in the maybe pile.

  Her cell rang—the ringtone was It’s Raining Men. Lund’s number. He’d programmed it in after they’d shared a second bottle of wine, thinking he was funny. Which he was. Every time Val heard it, she had to suppress a smile.

  “You ready to join our lives?” he said when she picked up. “And by that I mean; join my crap with your crap.”

  “Bad news,” Val said. “I’ve got to babysit Jack’s daughter, Sam, for a few days.”

  “Why is that bad news?”

  “Well, I know we were both excited about you moving in.”

  “No problem. How old is Sam? Two? Two-year-olds are fun. I’ll pick up some kid food before I come over.”

  Kid food? Val hadn’t thought of that.

  “You got any Disney movies?” she asked.

  “All of Pixar. Already packed it.”

  “Lund, I know you’re disappointed…”

  “Not one bit. Sam can help us unpack. Did you make room in the closet?”

  “I haven’t really had time. Been childproofing the house.”

  Val frowned. She actually had no idea how to childproof a house, beyond the safety pamphlets her officers used to hand out at local community festivals. By the time Grace had come to live with her, she had already turned twelve. Val eyed her living room, trying to mentally check off all the ways a two year old could die. Electrocution via outlet? Smothering behind the sofa? Pulling a TV on top of herself? Choking on a Hummel figurine?

  Maybe it was a good thing all her mother’s Hummel figurines were broken a few years back.

  “No problem,” Lund said. “I can help.”

  “Help childproof the house?”

  “Yes. And help clean out your closet. What time is Sam coming over?”

  Val checked the clock. “About two and a half hours.”

  “I should be there around then. Love you.”

  “Uh, love you, too.”

  Hackqueem

  Hackqueem, spelled with a C, a K, and a Q, stared at the flaming car and shook his head.
r />   “Jet Row, man, why you have to torch our ride?”

  Jet Row shrugged. “It’s life, homey. Shit burns.”

  Hackqueem spat on the side of the road. “Del Ray is gonna be pissed, man. No reason to light up a perfectly good Prius.”

  “That car was bullshit,” Jet Row said.

  “It got fifty miles per gallon, homeboy.”

  “Sixty on the highway,” Sha Nay Nay said. “Prius was solid.”

  “I’m calling Del Ray.” Bön Dawg—no e but with an umlaut over the o—had his cell phone out, and Hackqueem slapped it away.

  “Don’t be stupid. You gonna buy Del Ray a new Prius?”

  “Wasn’t new,” Sha Nay Nay said. “It was an ’11.”

  “Are you gonna buy Del Ray an ’11 Prius?”

  “Naw. I’m busted. Just bought an Xbox. That Lego Batman 3 shit is dope.”

  “Dawg, you get to the Braniac boss fight yet?”

  “I’m stuck on a level. I can’t put out that fire.”

  “Gotta use Superman to blow it out. Or Batman’s arctic suit.”

  “Why you want to put it out?” Jet Row said. “Let it burn, baby.”

  “We need new wheels,” Hackqueem said. Then he stomped out the small fire Jet Row had started on the side of the road. “What are you, five damn years old? Do I have to take your matches away from you?”

  “Got a Zippo.”

  “Do I have to take your Zippo?”

  “I’m straight.”

  Hackqueem thought about the 9mm in his pocket, wondered if he could kill them all and blame it on another gang.

  “How about we jack a ride?” Bön Dawg said.

  “Good idea,” said Jet Row. “We jack a car, then burn that mo-fo.”

  “We’re not burning anything,” Hackqueem said. “Lemme think.”

  That’s when a van pulled up to them. Four old people, two men and two women.

  “We saw a burning car down the road,” said the old geezer who was driving. “Are you kids okay?”

  And so it was on, like Donkey Kong.

  Val

  Val spent an hour tending to her deathtrap of a kitchen, moving poisonous cleaners to higher shelves, putting duct tape on sharp corners, taping over outlets, making sure cords were tucked away, hiding the mop bucket (she’d read a warning about children drowning in mop buckets in one of those safety pamphlets). Crawling around at toddler-level was an eye-opener. Almost everything in sight had the potential to maim or kill. It was a wonder any child reached the age of four.