Deadly Past

by Kris Rafferty

  “I’m fine,” she said. Charlie was really close, and chose to remain so, though he’d dropped his hands.

  “Get back on the table before you fall on your face,” he said. Cynthia waved him off, then felt guilty when he compressed his lips and scrubbed his face with his hands. He looked exhausted, and it reminded her that he’d been up most of the night, worried because she hadn’t answered her phone. Guilt, guilt, guilt.

  “Not telling Benton where I was last night gives cover to the killer,” she said.

  He returned to his tiny chair. “We’ll contact your gym when we leave here,” he said. “They’ll have records of you checking in and out last night. Maybe security video to fill in the time gaps prior to the safe house security feeds of you coming and going. It will help solidify your alibi.”

  “Alibi? I remember being at the crime scene when the vics were alive, and—” Cynthia cringed, knowing she had to fess up. “I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t want to deal with your reaction—”

  He groaned, shifting in his chair as if he couldn’t get comfortable. “How bad is it? No, go ahead. I’m fine. It’s okay, you can tell me, but first, will you get back on the table? You look like you’re about to fall down.”

  She shook her head. “I accidentally deleted the surveillance video on the safe house main server. The only video that survived is on the flash drive.”

  Charlie blinked a few times, frowning. “Excuse me?”

  “Get that look off your face. I didn’t do it on purpose. I—” She tucked her hair behind her ears and felt it pouf out, which is what it always did when she didn’t take the time to dry it properly. To align it right. The expression on his face was making her nervous, so she paced the small eight-foot cubby of a room to release some energy, and every time she glimpsed Charlie’s shocked expression, her heart did a little skip. “You know I’m not good with tech. You know it. It’s like I’m allergic to the stuff, and tech knows it. Not my fault.” He shook his head, clearly stunned, and she supposed it was to be expected. Charlie was a forensic guy. Hearing she’d destroyed evidence had to offend him on a visceral level.

  “You deleted it.” His tone suggested he still had trouble processing her confession.

  “Accidentally. But I took a copy first.”

  “But they have video of you leaving the safe house. Yes?” His gaze locked with hers, and suddenly she didn’t want to pace anymore. She wanted to sit down.

  “No.” She cringed at his shocked reaction. “I’d turned it off, thinking to activate a fail-safe—”

  “No.” He stood up, and his hands reached for her as if he wanted to shake her, but when she stepped back, he sat down so quickly the chair squeaked and she thought it would break.

  “I was afraid what would happen if I touched the machine again, so I kept it off, leaving it for the experts. I thought it was for the best.”

  His jaw muscles twitched. “If those experts recover the video, they’ll see what was deleted. Copied. They’ll wonder why it happened, why that timeframe. They’ll wonder who did it, blocks away from a mass execution of WITSEC witnesses.”

  Her heart sank. “I’ll explain.”

  “It reeks of intent, Cynthia.”

  “I know.”

  “You fucked up,” he growled.

  “I know!” Did he have to keep rubbing it in? Leaning a hip against the exam table, she avoided Charlie’s gaze.

  “What did you have for supper last night?” he said.

  “Hmm?” Now that he’d mentioned it, she was hungry. “Falafel truck parked outside the precinct house.”

  “We’ll take a statement from the falafel guy. Get it on the record when you left work.” He nodded once, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “You remember leaving work. That’s good.”

  “Yeah.” She did. “And though I can’t remember going to the gym, the workout clothes in my bag were still sweaty, and gym member cards are used, so there’ll be proof.” She struggled to remember. “After the falafel, though, the next thing I remember is waking up at the safe house.”

  He studied her features. “But you said you remembered images.”

  “Just flashes of memory. The vics lined up against a brick wall. Alive.”

  “That’s a lot. We can work with that.” He pinned her with a stare. “I presume you’d remember planning a mass execution, gathering the vics up, binding them, transporting them to the scene.”

  She nodded. “Yeah. Didn’t do that.” She had a bruise on her hip from last night, and leaning on the table irritated it. She shifted her stance, attempting to get comfortable.

  “So, no premeditation,” he said. “Do you remember coming to my house? Dumping those items in my trunk?” She shook her head. “Nine o’clock, so you couldn’t have anyway. Your gym member card will give you an alibi for that, at least.”

  Her shoe slipped, and she had to catch herself. She was feeling shaky. “So, me at the scene was wrong place at the wrong time?”

  His brow furrowed briefly, as a rebuke, as if she’d slipped on the floor just to piss him off. “Your phone was in your car when you found it, and you called me at ten. It must have died then, and you heard shots fired. Then you ran to the crime scene.”

  “No. I remember them alive. I remember screams.” She shook her head, glancing at the exam table and wondering how undignified she’d look if she crawled back on it. “I don’t remember anything, really. I remember the falafel. The rest is a blank.”

  “You don’t have to remember. We can deduce.” He shifted on his chair, looking uncomfortable. It made her play with the idea of asking him to change places with her. “You drove and parked the Lexus across the street from the safe house. We know that. You had to have walked to the gym, got back to your car at ten, called me, phone dies”—he shrugged—“you hear screams and run three blocks to the crime scene. You see vics alive, blackout, and you have video of you walking to the safe house, gun drawn, injured. That about right?”

  “Sure. Whatever.” She still didn’t remember anything after eating a falafel, which had been amazing, and thoughts of food were making her stomach rumble.

  “That’s what we tell Benton.” He stood and stepped in front of her, towering over her. “First, we’ll go to the crime scene and check it out. Tell Benton after we see the evidence to make sure it supports our story.”

  “And if it doesn’t?” she said. He stepped closer, forcing her to lean against the exam table or risk touching him.

  “Don’t borrow trouble.” He took another step closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, his eyes focusing on her lips. “We’ll tell Benton after I give the all-clear. You understand?”

  Cynthia had to tilt her head back to catch his gaze, because he’d trapped her between him and the table. “Benton has…has my…back,” she stuttered. “My team—”

  “Will have conflicting loyalties. I won’t.”

  Charlie lifted her by the waist, sitting her ass back on the padded exam table. It was a relief, because now she didn’t have to crane her neck to meet his gaze, but her thighs had automatically spread to accommodate his body. Now, with him so close, his hands touching her, all sorts of naughty thoughts popped into her head. Instead of pivoting back to his tiny chair, Charlie’s fingers dug into her waist and his eyes narrowed. He seemed to see something in her expression that pissed him off. Then his gaze dropped to her lips and her confusion cleared. She knew exactly what he was seeing. What she’d not thought to hide.

  Her desire. She wanted him, was fighting it, and… He knew.

  What he couldn’t know was his nearness was dredging up every arousing dream she’d suffered through since their kiss months ago. In those dreams, she didn’t have to wonder what would have happened if Charlie hadn’t rejected her kiss. Her dreams were full of wonderful, happily-ever-afters, but inevitably she’d wake frustrated, because they were onl
y dreams, and she knew Charlie’s rejection had been for the best. Those months ago, he’d broken the kiss off, but she should never have kissed him in the first place. And as much as Cynthia hated to admit it, that’s why Cynthia was truly embarrassed.

  Now Charlie stood so close she could feel the heat of his body, and that made it impossible to hide her flushed cheeks, her rapid breathing and hungry eyes. Though Charlie’s demeanor shouted rejection, he didn’t step away, didn’t attempt in any way to dissipate the trigger prompting her arousal. His nearness.

  He was too close, her mind shouted. Too male. Too fucking attractive to pretend she didn’t want him. Why was he doing this to her? Fearing he was moments away from forcing her to admit her attraction, she panicked. She tilted her chin up, putting her lips mere inches from his, thinking he’d panic, too, and step back.

  “We kissing now?” she said, her tone dripping with belligerence. The only reaction she received was a miniscule tightening of the skin around his eyes. And…a flicker of hurt?

  “Do you want me to kiss you?” It sounded like a threat, and for the first time ever, she saw resentment in his gaze…directed at her. He cupped her cheek and drew his thumb pad over her lower lip. “There was a time I couldn’t kiss you even if I’d wanted to. Couldn’t speak, lift a finger, or even wiggle a toe. Couldn’t hold you when you’d cried.” He dropped his hand to hers, gripping it. “Or squeeze your hand as you cried at my hospital bedside.” Charlie’s gaze moved from her lips to her eyes, and she saw his resentment fade. He was back to looking like the man she’d come to rely on. Just Charlie. Supportive, kind, strong Charlie. “I’m not that person anymore, Cynthia. Stop pushing me away.” After a last glance at her lips, he turned and sat in the corner again, leaving her breathless and confused.

  Pushing him away? Is that what he thought she was doing? She was trying to save their friendship.

  If she’d been alone in the room, she’d be clutching her chest, trying to settle her skipping heart. The man had a way of devastating her without even trying. There was a time, he’d said. Yes, she remembered it well. Watching her grieving parents struggle though burying a son, consoling a daughter, moving on with their lives. And Charlie. Sitting with him as he fought his paralysis and emotional hell as he suffered in a body that had become a prison of pain.

  She remembered hours of resting her cheek on his hand, clutching his fingers, because they were the only part of him not bruised or abraded. She’d read aloud the complete works of Edgar Rice Burroughs in his hospital room. It took the whole Tarzan series and the John Carter of Mars series for Charlie to regain control of his limbs. They’d celebrated by starting Tolkien’s The Hobbit, and Charlie was sitting up by the time she’d reached Smaug hoarding treasures in the Lonely Mountain. Then her mother died of a heart attack almost a year to the day Terrance died, and her father stroked out two days later, leaving Cynthia alone.

  Charlie became her security blanket. She’d become his burden. She owed him an apology, but couldn’t go there. So she settled on a less explosive olive branch. “Thank you,” she said, squeezing his hand back. The paper crinkled under her butt, reminding her that they were back in a hospital again, holding hands.

  Charlie’s cheek kicked up, but his eyes were sad. “Yeah? For what?”

  “For always being there for me,” she said. He winked, and that was all it took to make her feel weepy.

  A discreet knock on the door was a welcome distraction, and prompted Charlie to move away from Cynthia. Dr. Josephine Kepler stepped inside, making the small room feel even smaller. She was young, with dark hair twisted into a messy bun. Her white smock’s lapel was adorned with multiple ribbon pins.

  “Good news,” Dr. Kepler said, her gaze directed at her clipboard. “CAT scan results indicate no concussion. No thrombosis, no fluid retention beyond what would be considered normal for minimal bruising. There’s swelling around the laceration, but it’s to be expected. It should remain tender for about a week, but scabbing indicates you’re healing quickly. You’re young, healthy.” She glanced up from the clipboard and flashed her brown eyes at Cynthia. “How exactly did this happen?” The doctor glanced at Charlie, as if maybe she was about to ask him to leave the room for privacy’s sake.

  “The gym last night. Sparring.” Cynthia put up her fists and jabbed, illustrating sucker punches. “Ironic, right? Every injury I’ve ever had resulted from training, rather than using my skills to thwart bad guys.”

  “Bad guys, huh?” Dr. Kepler smiled. “You were doing weapons training?”

  “What?” Cynthia said. Dr. Kepler’s smile faded, and then she exchanged glances with Charlie again.

  Charlie cleared his throat. “Cynthia, your laceration, and the bruising around it, is consistent with a pistol-whipping.”

  “Ah. Yeah. That’s what I get for training with a newbie.” Cynthia donned a sheepish grin as she visualized a few more sucker punches…at Charlie’s jaw. Why had he kept that from her?

  The doctor handed Cynthia a CD in a clear plastic case. “A copy of your CAT scan. I’ve written the name of a specialist on the disc, just in case you develop further symptoms.”

  Good news dispensed, the doctor left, and moments later Cynthia hooked her Kate Spade pocketbook over her elbow, intent on getting the hell out of there. When she and Charlie stepped through the ER’s automatic glass doors into the parking lot, she threw him a glare.

  “Pistol-whipped?” she said, not slowing her gait. “I was pistol-whipped, and you didn’t think I’d be interested? I thought I’d fallen and hit my head.”

  “You had dirt all over you. You did fall.” When they’d reached his black Charger, he opened the passenger side door and waited for her to slide inside before closing it again.

  When he was behind the wheel, she threw her hands in the air and then let them drop. “I was pistol-whipped. Someone got the jump on me. Don’t you think that’s something you should have told me?”

  “I needed you at the ER. If I’d told you that, you’d have fought even harder to skip it.”

  She tugged at her seat belt and buckled in. “You’re so damn controlling, you drive me crazy. This is good news. Someone else was at the crime scene with me, and probably killed those men.”

  “We already knew that. The killer hit you over your head—”

  “I didn’t know, because someone failed to tell me I was pistol-whipped.” She compressed her lips as he slipped the key into the ignition. “Maybe with my gun, too. We should dust it for prints.”

  “No blood on the grip, so unlikely,” he said, putting the car into gear. “I looked when you tried to hand it over. Remember? When you thought you were a murderer?” He grimaced, looking all I told you so, as he checked his mirrors.

  “It was discharged. Maybe someone other than me shot it. There could be prints. We need to check, access IAFIS. Charlie, we have to try.” He nodded, keeping his foot on the brake, holding her gaze as he waited for an opportunity to merge into traffic. “The vics were Coppola snitches,” she said. “Benton won’t lack suspects.”

  “I’ll do it myself so we don’t flag anyone’s attention.” He drove, turning the wheel. “What are you thinking? Revenge killings?”

  “Maybe, but the Coppola syndicate is as much a family as a business, and Dante Coppola turned state’s evidence, so why kill his underlings for doing the same?”

  He glanced at her. “Call Benton and tell him we’re on our way. And nothing else.”

  “You are so bossy. Tell me to breathe. I dare you.” She pulled her seriously charge-deprived iPhone from her pocket, plugged it into his car charger, and dialed. “People will wonder why we’re arriving together.”

  “Benton already knows I brought you to the ER.”

  “Exactly,” she said. “People will wonder.” Charlie shook his head. He wasn’t saying it, but she knew he was thinking Who cares? “No one knows we know each
other, Charlie. Everyone believes we’re acquaintances. And work acquaintances, at that.”

  He kept his eyes on the road. “Whose fault is that?”

  “I’m not assigning blame.” Benton wasn’t picking up.

  “I am.” He glanced at her, before shifting lanes.

  “Don’t be like that,” she said. The call went to Benton’s voice mail. She disconnected the line. “I keep my private life private for a reason. It’s nobody’s business, and I don’t want to talk about Terrance.” He grimaced, keeping his eyes on the heavy traffic, which had bogged down. It was forcing him to brake repeatedly, and all the stops and starts were making Cynthia’s stomach queasy.

  “I’m not Terrance,” he said.

  No, but they both knew there was no explaining Charlie without delving into what happened ten years ago. Her late brother and Charlie were intertwined forever in her head, and every decision she’d made since the accident somehow could be tracked back to that day. “You know what I mean,” she said.

  “Yeah, I do.” And his grimace told her he wasn’t happy about it. The traffic began to move again, thankfully.

  “You have to admit that suddenly informing everyone we’re best friends will put us in the spotlight, and prompt questions,” she said. “I’m on the cusp of being implicated in a murder case, Charlie, and you’re the department’s forensic pathologist. It will look suspicious.”

  “But I am your best friend, Cynthia. It’s the truth.” He shook his head, grimacing. “I shouldn’t be touching this case with a ten-foot pole, and neither should you. Why don’t you take a medical leave? Your head injury is perfect cover. I’ll take some time off, hand this off to a substitute M.E. Benton and the team can field this case without us. Sooner or later we’ll be kicked to the curb anyway. They’ll find your prints, your DNA, and even a half decent prosecutor will use that to crucify you during evidentiary proceedings. Add suspected tampering with evidence? They’ll fry you.”

  “You’re right,” she said. The right thing to do was to leave this case, her future, her freedom, in the hands of Benton and the team.