Ben shrugged. “Because you have them. For her. I find it… encouraging.”
Unease settled against his skin and for some reason Michael thought of the debt he owe to the man in front of him. Rather than pursue it, he changed the subject altogether. “What's in the bag?”
Now the kid smiled. “Cheap suit. FBI badge—the usual.”
He began to wonder, not for the first time, if his partner was on drugs. “You want me to play Fed? Here? You were paying attention when I explained to you the pile of shit I had to slog through just to make it out with my neck intact the last time I got involved in one of her investigations, right?”
“It's been two years. No one's going to remember you.”
Michael thought of Sabrina's partner—Strickland. From a distance the guy had looked like your typical cop. Rumpled. A bit dopey. Up close was a different story. Christopher Strickland was going to remember him. No doubt about it. He shook his head. “You go.”
“Can't. I get to go to the hospital and play diplomat from Russian embassy,” Ben said in a thick Russian accent. “And no, we can't switch. Your Ruskie sucks.”
“Eto luchshe chem vash, mudak.” It’s better than yours, asshole.
When he still didn't move, Ben crossed his arms over his chest and gave him a hard look. “Look—this is how the job gets done, you know that. The sooner we get in, the sooner we can get out. So... quit being a pussy and put on the suit.”
20
Michael hit the station lobby and flashed his fake badge at the desk sergeant. The guy bounced a sharp look from the badge to his face and back again. His lip curled up a bit and he chuffed a harsh, one-note laugh. “I'll phone it up. Homicide's on three,” he said before slapping the desk phone out of its cradle.
Feds always got the ticker tape parades when they came to town. It was enough to give him a case of the warm fuzzies but he understood. He'd never been a fan of law enforcement. Michael stowed the badge in his breast pocket and nodded his thanks before making his way to the elevator, feeling like he was on display every step of the way.
He kept his face turned away from the surveillance cameras mounted in every corner—more out of habit than actual need. Lark had wanted to come with him but that had earned him nothing more than a round of belly laughs in the face. Instead he'd been left behind, reduced to maintaining and manipulating security feeds from both the station and the hospital. Michael could just see him, surrounded by computers in Miss Ettie's sunroom, scowling at the monitors. He'd been pissed beyond belief that he was getting the big freeze, but what could he do? Run and tattle that the other kids wouldn't play with him? Fat chance. Admitting to Shaw that you couldn't handle the task at hand was like chumming shark-infested waters. Lark would rather eat the crap sandwich Ben was feeding him than disappoint the boss.
The door slid open on the third floor and he shouldered his way past the silent patrol officer, felt his eyes drilling into his back until they slid closed again, but he didn't turn around. Instead, he asked the closest cop to point him in Mathews' direction.
He made it about halfway across the room when he happened across it. Sabrina's desk. Clean. Uncluttered. The desk butted up to it was disgusting—and occupied.
Strickland sat with his feet kicked up on his cluttered workspace, head buried in a stack of files resting in his lap. He walked by without slowing, heading for Mathews' office. Strickland never looked up.
A couple of sharp knuckle raps earned him a terse bark that sound like come in. Michael pushed the door open, fixing his best I'm just here to help smile on his face. Behind the desk was a man in his early forties, sandy hair cut high and tight and small dark eyes that looked like they were already counting the days until retirement. “You the Fed?” Mathews said.
Michael nodded. “Yes. Special Agent Marcus Payne, sir.” The word sir stuck in his throat but he took a few steps into the room and leaned across the worn desktop to offer his hand. It was taken and given a few disgruntled pumps before being all but thrown back at him.
“Got a call from your field office. Told me you'd be coming in,” Mathews said, managing to make it sound like he'd caught Michael taking a piss on his prize tulips. “Have a seat. Inspector Vaughn was just about to get down to the debrief.”
Michael looked at the pair of chairs to his right. The one offered was empty. Sabrina sat in the other, less than two feet away.
21
One of Sabrina’s most valued attributes was her ability to compartmentalize. She could divide herself into sections—mother, cop, friend, partner—one section rarely bled into another. It was how she had survived eight-three days of rape and torture. How she'd been able to pull the trigger and blow her brother's face away when she'd been faced with what he'd done to her. It was her ability to operate in sections that allowed her to sit in Mathews’ office next to Michael without totally losing it.
She'd been called into Mathews' office for what she assumed would be the re-boot of her weekly reminder of how much he hated her. Before her transfer, he used to call her in and sit her down; just so he could go over all the ways she wasn't fit to carry a badge. She was impulsive. Insubordinate. Non-compliant with department policy... oh, and despite evidence to the contrary, he was convinced that she'd had a fellow officer murdered a few years ago. He'd warn her that he was watching her, that one screw up was all he needed to give her the boot. She'd let him rant at her for a while and when he ran out of steam, she'd thank him for his time and leave. It was kinda their thing.
Waiting for the wind-up, she picked her favorite water spot on the wall—the one shaped like Florida—to the left of his head and started staring. It never came. Instead he said, “A Fed is on his way up here to stick his nose in the kiddie murder you and Pigpen picked up today. Try not to embarrass the shit out of me, will ya?”
A few knocks sounded behind her, but she didn't bother to turn around. You met one Fed, you met them all. Then she heard his voice and she couldn't turn around.
Michael. Michael was here.
Taking a deep breath, she turned and held out her hand, formed her mouth into a courteous smile. “It's nice to meet you, Agent Payne. I'm Inspector Vaughn.” She looked down at the hand she held out in front of her. As steady as you please. He took it and gave it a shake while saying something about how nice it was to meet her. Her eyes touched his for a moment—the quiet gray of them seemed a bit darker than she remembered but just as beautiful. His face was calm, passive even. It was a look she remembered well.
The part of her that wanted to bolt from the room reared its ugly head for just a moment but she walled it off. Pulling her hand back, she dropped it into her lap and looked at her Captain. “Shall I start?” Mathews grunted at her and she took it as an affirmative. She started talking, filling them both in on the case and they listened. Michael asked a few questions and she answered him, surprised at the tremor-free sound of her own voice.
When finished, she sat back in her seat and let the two of them talk it out. She was too busy concentrating on keeping herself in her seat to participate in what they were saying. The creak of Mathews' desk chair drew her attention. He sat up in his chair and placed his hands, folded, on top of his desk. A sure sign that he was about to say something that would piss her off.
Instinctively, she clamped down on her temper in an attempt to cut Mathews’ mouth off at the pass. Looking at O’Shea, he said, “I feel I should mention that I have deep reservations concerning Inspector Vaughn's ability to lead an investigation of this magnitude. Not only is she newly returned from a fifteen-month stint on SWAT, she's rash and unpredictable.” Mathew looked at her and she saw herself lunging across the desk to bitch-slap him silly. “Vaughn's been instructed to provide you with full cooperation and to assist you in all matters of this investigation,” he said, even though he’d informed her of no such thing. “But in the interest of transparency, I’ll admit that she’s not the Inspector I’d have chosen for this assignment. If at any time, you feel like yo
u would prefer a different liaison, don’t hesitate to say so.”
Never one to disappoint, Mathews hit every nerve Sabrina had and it took everything she had to keep her mouth shut. Egotistical, over-blown, self-important son of a—
“I’ve been fully briefed on what you view as Inspector Vaughn’s shortcomings, Captain Mathews. I’m also aware that, despite where she’s been for the past fifteen months, she’s the best investigator you’ve got." O’Shea stood, looking down at Mathews with a mix of amusement and contempt, “As for her being expected to comply—if I wanted someone to follow me around and lick my shoes, I would’ve asked for a dog. Inspector Vaughn is expected to speak her mind, ask questions and follow the evidence. If that leads her in a different direction than the one I’m heading, I’ll welcome and appreciate any insight she can provide.” O’Shea delivered the last of his statement directly to her.
Mathews turned, gave her a look that would've killed her if looks were capable. “Get out.”
“Yes, sir,” she said quietly, unable to scrape away the smirk that’d plastered itself to her face. Easing herself from the chair, she stood and managed to get through the door without giving voice to the myriad of smartass comments that were doing the Super Bowl shuffle around her head.
She started toward the bullpen but pulled up short. Strickland was sitting at his desk, going over witness statements to make sure they hadn't missed anything from the canvass. She was about halfway between her desk and Mathews' office when she pulled up short. Michael was less than twenty yards away. More than a year, he'd finally come back—but as usual, he hadn't come for her.
On impulse, she grabbed her jacket off the back of her chair and pulled it on.
Suddenly, this was last place she wanted to be.
22
Michael shouldn't have opened his mouth. He should've listened to the crap Mathews spewed, nodded, thanked him for his time and left. That's what he was getting ready to do, but then he made the mistake of looking at her. The look of quiet resignation on Sabrina’s face told him that this was something she'd heard before. Something she was long used to. And that didn't sit well with him at all.
So he stood, towering over that self-important piece of shit and let loose. He didn't regret what he said or the shouting match the ensued behind closed doors, with Mathews threatening to call his superior and him laughing in his face. No—what he regretted was that he'd allowed Sabrina out of his sight for the two minutes it took him to tell Mathews to shove it up his ass. He should've remembered that she had a habit of taking off when the situation at hand promised to be emotionally messy.
Her coat was gone which meant she’d left the building. Glancing at Strickland, he saw that he'd traded the files in his lap for his keyboard. He was peering at his computer screen, painfully pecking at the keys with an excruciating lack of skill or speed. “Where’d your partner go?” Michael said, yanking open one of her desk drawers to rifle through it. Not because he thought it would offer him any answers but because his messing it up would make her angry.
“Better not do that. She gets testy when assholes touch her stuff,” Strickland said, glancing up from the screen with a frown. Sabrina's partner looked at him as if he'd known he was here all along, which went to show that no matter how impressive Michael found him, he continually underestimated the man.
Slamming the drawer shut, he went for another one, scattering colored paperclips and perfectly sharpened pencils everywhere. “Where’d she go?”
“Home. Spelunking. Around the world in eighty days—how should I know? She was here and now she's not,” Strickland said, his tone gaining edge as he sat back from his computer to look at Michael.
“You just let her go?” he said, slamming yet another drawer.
“Let her? I'm sorry—are we talking about the same woman?” Strickland said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “No one lets her do anything—you of all people should know that.”
Michael ignored Strickland’s last comment. “If you see her, tell her I need to talk to her,” he said, pulling a business card from his breast pocket and flipped it at Strickland who stared at him while it sailed over his desk and onto the floor next to his chair. Without even looking at it, Strickland turned back to his computer and resumed his hunt and peck routine. “Yeah, I’ll be sure to do that for you. Have a good day,” he said.
Clenching his jaw with enough force to make his teeth ache, Michael walked away before he did something he probably wouldn't regret.
He walked to the lot that housed officer parking. Her car was nowhere to be seen. She was in the wind and he had no idea where she'd gone.
______
The boy was awake, although he was pretending not to be. Sabrina pulled up a chair and prepared to wait him out. If at all possible, he was even paler than she remembered, the dark shock of hair that fell across his forehead standing out in stark relief against the impossible white of his skin. She glanced at the tray of untouched food on the nearby over bed table. How long had it been since he ate?
The social worker was long gone. As horrific as the circumstances were, she was doubtful that his case took any kind of precedent. There were children everywhere, in need of social services. She assumed it went down as it always did—they came in, took a report, tried to ask the kid some general questions and talked to the doctors about his condition. Not much they could do, really—he was the Russian Embassy's problem, now.
A brief conversation with the charge nurse when she got here told her that Ben had come and gone. The business card he left at the station was embossed with the insignia for the Russian consulate. It looked official—just like the badge Michael had been flashing around the station earlier. A quick look in the waiting room reassured her that Ben had taken precautions before he'd left. The Pip pretending to watch Maury barely glanced at her but he knew she was there. His kind didn't miss much.
She glanced at her watch. It was just after three o'clock. How long did she think she could hide out here before she had to face Michael? Just the thought of him tied her stomach in knots.
The door pushed open, letting a young female nurse in with a soft hiss and click. “How's our boy?” she said, checking the level on the bag of fluid hanging from the pole.
“Playing possum.” Sabrina watched as she made sure the leather restraint cuffs that kept him in bed were secure.
“Can't say I blame him. He's been through a lot,” the nurse said, brushing hair off the boy's forehead. He flinched but managed to keep his eyes closed. “The doctor will be by in a few minutes to give you a full report.”
The phone in her pocket buzzed against her ribcage. She smiled the nurse out the door before she reached for it. “This is Vaughn.”
“Hey, if it isn't my long-lost partner,” Strickland said.
Sighing, she closed her eyes for a moment. She'd known this was coming. “Hey, Strick. What's up?”
“Oh, nothing much... just trying to solve this pesky murder.” His voice had that nasty bite to it that set her teeth on edge. “Were you planning on coming out of hiding anytime soon, or am I gonna have to do it on my own?”
“I'm not hiding. I'm at the hospital—the boy's awake.” She was still able to lie like a pro. Years of practice made sure of that.
“Uh huh... right. He left about an hour ago, so it's safe to come back.” Strickland wasn't buying it. He never did.
She didn't bother to ask who he was talking about. It would be an insult to her partner's intelligence. Of course he'd recognize Michael—there was no use denying it. “Was there a reason you called?”
“Actually, yes. The house our victim was found in was a foreclosed property. I traced the paperwork back to a local bank. It hit the auction block about six months ago and was bought by a shell company. Among their list of business expenses—quarterly trips to Thailand, Cambodia and Columbia. It's a bit of a tangle but I think I traced ownership back to a private investor. Walter Elm.”
All of the countries he listed wer
e well known as sex tourism destinations but the last one snagged her attention. “Columbia? When was the last Elm went to Columbia?”
“Less than a month about. I'm heading to his office now. Wanna go?”
The hiss and click of the door told her that the promised doctor had arrived. “Yeah. Give me thirty to get back to the station. Look, the doctor is here—I'm gonna get the rundown from him and then I'm on my way.”
Dropping the phone in her pocket, she looked up with a smile, but it died within seconds of realizing that, despite the white coat and stethoscope, the man in front of her wasn't in the habit of saving lives.
He was in the habit of taking them.
23
In spite of the nagging knot in the pit of his stomach, Michael forced himself through Sabrina's front gate and up the walk. He knocked on the door and waited, even though he knew she wasn't home. Her car was nowhere to be seen... but there was a black Nissan Titan parked in the driveway like it belonged there.
He told himself it was perfectly reasonable for him to be here. He was on an assignment and Sabrina was a part of it. He had every right to establish that whoever was here was supposed to be. It was professional courtesy that had him standing on her front porch—nothing more.
He was full of shit.
The door opened and he suddenly felt like he was sucking wind. Nickels stood in the doorway. His bare feet and rumpled hair told Michael more in two seconds than a long-winded explanation ever could. He was comfortable and relaxed. He was exactly where he should be. He was at home and Michael was intruding.
Nickels stared at him for a moment before speaking. “You've got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Where is she?” he said, trying his best to ignore the intense urge to grab the man in front of him and break his neck. The baby on Nickels' hip made it marginally easier to keep his hands to himself.
The Sabrina Vaughn series Set 2 Page 8
