Free Deliverer by Tamara Hart Heiner Page A

away.
    Truman cleared his throat. They should know he had connections everywhere. "Never mind. I already know who you are. You're all over the news, though the police are hesitant to link your disappearance to the robbery."
    The police had saved him more often than they knew, and he meant the real ones, not the planted agents who worked to keep his name off the radar.
    Someone would connect the dots, though. Some ambitious policeman or detective would come along, say to hell with conventions, and put two and two together. "They haven't found your friend's body yet. That will throw them off track; I don't usually deal in homicides." He said the words lightly, as if her death were no big deal. But he felt it, like another rock added to the sack of burdens he carried.
    The Carnicero 's daughter choked, a soft sound that could have been a sob. She reached for her cup of water and knocked it over.
    Truman clenched his fists. I'm sorry. It never should have happened. He couldn't say that. Not exactly.
    Grey was right. He was too soft, and they would prey on him. "An unfortunate incident. I do regret it." He began to cut his steak, keeping his eyes on his plate now. "Life is cruel. There's no way around it." Damn this whole situation. They shouldn't be here. Yet here they were.
    He shoved some of the cut steak into their bowls as if he were feeding Barley. "Eat. I'm not trying to starve you. You're no good to me dead." They fished around in the green muck for the meat he'd left them. They weren't starving yet, but watching them devour the tiny pieces of steak was pathetic. He stood up, pushing his chair away from the table. "Grey."
    Grey entered quickly, as if he'd been waiting just outside the room.
    "I'm done. Get them back to the attic." Truman strode out of the room, trying to escape the acrid taste in his mouth.

 
    Chapter 11
     
    He went straight to his office. His head pounded with too many thoughts. He shouldn't have eaten with them. He didn't want to know them. He didn't need to know who they were. Suddenly they seemed more real to him, and he resented it.
    Out. They had to get out of his house.
    Truman settled himself behind the desk, sinking into the padded chair. Where was Barley when he needed him? Sid should be in Canada by now. Truman scrolled through his contacts and pressed send.
    "Hello," Sid greeted, his voice smooth and mirthful all at the same time.
    How did Sid manage that? He didn't know who was calling. He had no fear, no concern for those who might wish to end his career. "It's Truman."
    "Truman." The smile came through the phone. "What can I do for you?"
    Truman gritted his teeth, wanting to wash his phone of Sid's sliminess. "Are you in Canada yet?"
    "Yes, arrived just yesterday. You ready to enact our deal?"
    "I'm ready to discuss things, yes." Truman led out a careful breath, hoping Sid didn’t notice his anxiety. He needed to get these girls out of his house. "I'd like to meet with you tomorrow."
    "Certainly. I'm free in the morning. You remember where the house is?"
    "I can find it again." Truman had only been to Sid's Montreal residence one time, right after he inherited his father's accounts. Sid had insisted on offering his help to Truman as he established himself.
    Truman had rejected his help, and managed to make a name for himself without it. But the fact that the man had built a replica of a South American summer home, complete with palm trees, in the northern part of North America, said a lot about what he expected reality to do for him: Bend.
    "Good,” Sid replied. “We'll see you at ten. I'll have breakfast ready."
    Truman hung up and drummed his fingers on the desk. Within a week, the girls would be gone, and Truman would have a little bit of extra money, as well. Just a little bit. It made him nervous to leave the girls at the house without him, though.
    He opened the desk drawer and scanned the list of phone numbers. Fayande was their contact inside the Montreal police force, and his