Without Restraint

by Angela Knight

  No sooner had she braked at a stoplight than Paul McCartney began crooning “Let it Be” from her pants pocket. She sighed and dug the iPhone out under Frank’s amused gaze. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, baby. How are you this fine morning?”

  I just got shot at by a cop killer. And you? Nope, not the kind of thing to say to a mother who’d never liked her choice of career to begin with. “Doing great, Mom. How are you?”

  “Well, your father decided he wanted to have y’all over for a hamburger cookout at five. Can you make it?”

  Alex frowned and accelerated as the light turned green. She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. It was, after all, Wednesday. “Aren’t you going to prayer meeting tonight?”

  Her mother paused a beat too long. “Not tonight, dear. We haven’t seen you kids in what it seems like forever . . .”

  Oh, she definitely didn’t like this. “We were all at the last home game a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Yes, dear, but your dad has something he wants to say to you.”

  “‘You’ as in all of us, or ‘you’ as in me?”

  Another long, worrying pause. “You as in you.” As if sensing Alex’s reaction, she added hastily, “Your brothers are coming, too. It’ll be just the six of us, like it was before all my chicks grew up and left the nest.”

  Shit. “Oh.”

  “So can you make it? I’m fixin’ your favorite peach pie.”

  Oh, hell, Mom’s Southern accent was thickening. Whenever the magnolia quotient increased in Mary Rogers’s voice, she was setting somebody up. Thing was, ducking the invitation would just piss her off and make the inevitable explosion worse. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

  “Great! I’ll see you then.” She hung up.

  “Fuck.” Alex tossed the iPhone into the center console in disgust. “I am in so much trouble.”

  “What’s the problem?” Frank asked.

  “Mom asked me over to a cookout tonight.”

  He grinned. “Is she that bad a cook?”

  “No, she’s a great cook. The trouble is, it’s Wednesday. Mom always goes to prayer meeting on Wednesdays unless there’s a dire emergency.”

  “Could she have heard about the sniper taking a shot at us?”

  Alex frowned. “I don’t think so. She was way too calm, and anyway, she’d have asked about something like that first thing. No, I think this is an intervention, because my brothers aren’t bringing their wives. We haven’t had one of those since Harry was dating that stripper.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  “Not unless you’ve been moonlighting as a stripper. No, I’ve got a feeling this is about Ted and that damned YouTube video of him whipping Cal.”

  “Which is an issue why?”

  “Because I brought Ted to dinner at the house damn near every time I went myself. And I never warned them about his sexuality.”

  “And they think it was their business why?”

  “My brother Andy’s got a four-year-old son.”

  “And they’re indignant because Ted could have sneezed on the kid and given him the gay?”

  “No, but I’ll bet you fifty bucks everybody’s pissed because they think I put Bryson in danger of being molested.”

  “By Ted?” He stared at her, outraged. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

  She shook her head. “Cal’s sister accused Cal of the same thing after the local news ran the YouTube thing. She won’t even let him see his nephews anymore.”

  “Your family and Cal’s sister both sound like fucking . . .” He shut his mouth firmly.

  Alex sighed. “I see I’ve given you the wrong impression. Yeah, Mom’s very religious, but she’s loving about it. My dad couldn’t care less; his defensive coach is gay. But Andy is really protective when it comes to his kid. Harry and Tim are still single, so they’re less paranoid on the subject.”

  “Yeah, but pedophiles are a lot more likely to identify as straight than gay. After all, it’s women who have all the kids. If you’re a pedophile, even if you’re not straight, you’re going to want to pretend to be straight so you can get at kids through their mother.”

  “You know that, and I know that, but Andy Junior’s pissed-off daddy does not give a shit.”

  As they turned into his development, he gave her a long look. “Want me to go with you? Sounds like you could use backup.”

  Alex hesitated. The thought of telling her mother she was dating the tall, handsome Navy SEAL hero was tempting; it would distract Mary nicely, and Andy would be less likely to tear into her in front of company. “No, better not,” she said reluctantly. “This is likely to get really ugly.”

  Frank shot her an Oh, please look. “Alex, I spent ten years getting shot at by terrorists. I think I can handle your brother acting pissy.”

  She gave in. “Let me ask Mom if she’d mind another guest.”

  As it turned out, her mother was more than pleased to have Alex bring a date, despite the night’s supposed objective. Which was something of a surprise; the family didn’t often wave its dirty laundry in front of strangers. Then again, maybe Alex wasn’t the only one who hoped Frank’s presence would spike Andy’s guns.

  Considering the way my luck’s gone lately, she thought grimly, exposure to the entire Rogers clan in a raging snit will drive Frank off for good.

  * * *

  CSI Jerry Mathews backed out of Alex’s patrol car. She and Frank watched, along with Detective Tracy, who’d arrived while they’d gone off to pick up the car. Mathews held two objects in his blue-gloved hands, one a tiny black cylinder, the other a flat device the size of an iPhone. “Well, you were right. I found this attached to the underside of the passenger seat.”

  “What is it?” Alex eyed the two devices warily.

  Mathews gestured with the tiny cylinder. “Mic.” He held up the flat rectangle. “Can’t say for sure what this is until I send it off to the FBI for analysis, but I suspect it’s some kind of radio.”

  Frank cursed in disgust.

  “That about sums it up,” Mathews agreed.

  “Will we be able to backtrack the sniper with this?” demanded Tracy, blue eyes narrow as he studied the devices, a grim set to his jaw. Today he wore pressed navy pants and a pink dress shirt and tie striped in pink and blue. The color did absolutely nothing to blunt his overwhelming masculinity.

  Mathews shrugged as he slid the mic and recorder into an evidence bag. “Ask the FBI. I don’t have the expertise to take this thing apart.”

  Alex glowered in simmering frustration. “What I want to know is how that thing got in my car.”

  Tracy hesitated a moment, his mouth tight. “Same way the camera got in that dummy smoke detector at Ted’s apartment.”

  “So Cal was right,” Alex said.

  “Looks that way,” Mathews said.

  “What are you talking about?” Frank demanded.

  Tracy told them about Cal’s suspicions that someone had planted a camera in Ted’s bedroom to shoot the YouTube video. “We’d searched the apartment before, but we didn’t find anything. After I talked to Cal, Mathews and I went back to take a look again. This time we noticed a pale circle over the door where the paint was a different color, as if something had covered it in that location.”

  “Like you get when a picture frame’s been moved,” said Alex.

  “Right. Except I knew for a fact it hadn’t been there before. I compared it to the photos Mathews took when we went in the day before, and sure enough, there’d been one of those battery-operated smoke detectors in that location. Got on the Internet, and come to find out, they sell cameras that fit inside phony smoke detectors, supposedly to hide nanny cams.”

  “So the killer must have gone back to get the smoke detector,” Frank said.

  “Exactly. But apparently there really had been a smoke detector there in the past, long enough for the paint to be discolored. What I can’t figure out is why he didn’t put the original detector back up.”

 
; “Maybe he’s a dumbass,” Mathews suggested.

  “Or maybe something scared him off before he could finish the job.” He gestured at the bag, his handsome face grimly satisfied. “But this time we beat him to the evidence. We’ll send this off to the FBI. They’ll use the serial number to determine the manufacturer, who’ll be able to tell us what website they sold it through. Feds’ll get a warrant for the website, who’ll be able to give us the credit card or whatever used to buy it.” He grimaced. “Assuming it wasn’t one of those prepaid debit cards the killer paid cash for.”

  Alex stared at him. “That’s going to take weeks.”

  Tracy looked grim. “At least.”

  Frank said what they all were thinking. “And in the meantime, the bastard’s going to keep shooting at cops.”

  “Maybe not,” Mathews argued. “Maybe this is somebody who targeted Alex and Ted in particular. Could be a case they worked that’s going to come to trial, and somebody doesn’t want them to testify.”

  “Yeah, we’re working that angle. The rest of Violent Crimes is checking the court docket and going over every ticket they wrote and drunk they’ve arrested.” Reading their expressions, Tracy shrugged. “Cop killer. We take care of our own.”

  Alex voiced the ugly little suspicion that had been niggling at the back of her mind. “Do you think it could be a cop?”

  Tracy, Frank, and Mathews stiffened and stared. “You suggesting a cop killed Ted?”

  “I don’t like the idea either, Frank, but between getting the thing into my car and planting that camera at Ted’s . . .”

  “You don’t have a garage, Alex. You park your car in the front yard. Anybody could get at it.”

  “I lock the damned car. How would he have gotten inside to plant the bug?”

  “There are ways to jimmy a locked car door.”

  “And cops know most of them.” Though car manufacturers had made that a lot harder than it used to be.

  “So do car thieves and everybody who knows how to do a Google search,” Tracy put in.

  Frank’s mouth pulled into a grim line. “Not that I’m real thrilled with the idea of somebody just coming into your yard and breaking into your car.”

  “Another thing: he was able to get our addresses in order to plant shit and snipe at us. The department doesn’t exactly give that information out, given that none of us have listed phone numbers. I could buy learning where one of us live, but all three?”

  “Could be a hacker,” Mathews suggested. “Maybe he figured out a way to get into the department’s computers.”

  Alex stared at him. “That’s an ugly thought.”

  “Not as ugly as the idea of a cop-killing deputy stalking other officers,” Tracy said.

  “Granted, but is it really a good idea to completely dismiss the possibility?”

  “I’m going to have to see a lot more evidence that can’t be explained by some racist with a hard-on for cops.” His eyes narrowed. “In the meantime, I’m going to have tech support see if somebody’s hacked the department’s computer system.”

  Alex opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Sergeant Gaffney walked up. “Hey, Murphy and Rogers—what’re y’all doing, padding your overtime? Get lost. Go get some sleep.”

  “I’m not done going over her car yet, Sarge,” Mathews protested.

  “So quit running your mouth and get to work. In the meantime, Murph, give Rogers a ride home.”

  “Sure, Sarge,” Frank said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Alex added, suddenly aware of the pull of exhaustion on her body like the weight of an anchor. Gaffney was right; she desperately needed some sack time. Besides, by now SIG was probably plotting to claw her to shreds for aggravated cat neglect.

  As she and Frank turned to go, Gaffney spoke again, her voice deliberately lower. “Keep an eye on each other, you two. Some bastard out there wants to hate y’all to death.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Frank said, and damn near saluted before he arrested the gesture. It seemed old SEAL habits die hard. “Come on, Rogers.”

  “Want to crash over at my house?” she asked him softly, following him to his garage. “The boys are going to be swarming around yours for a while yet. Doubt you’d be able to get any sleep.”

  He gave her a grateful look. “That’d be wonderful . . . Though I doubt I can manage anything more taxing than falling facedown onto the nearest flat surface.”

  “You saved my life today. Literally. The least I can do is provide you with the flat surface in question.” She grimaced, remembering her mother’s invitation to tonight’s intervention-slash-lynching. “Besides, considering you promised to help me fend off my relatives tonight, it’s in my best interest to make sure you’re well rested.”

  “Hey, Afghanistan, Iraq, or your mama’s dinner table, we SEALs are up to the job.”

  Alex snorted. “You haven’t met my relatives yet.” She paused and lowered her voice. “The sniper heard us plan our thing today. He must have, to know where we’d be. If he recorded it . . .”

  “You’re afraid he’ll release it to the media the way he did the video of Cal and Ted.” He sighed and looped an arm around her neck. “Maybe we’ll get him before he gets a chance.”

  “But the odds are, we won’t. Sending that bug off to the Feds, waiting for it to come back, then backtracking it . . . that’s going to take weeks. If we’re lucky. And that’s assuming he was dumb enough to use his own credit card.” She gnawed her lower lip, imagining her family’s reaction to learning the kind of relationship she and Frank had.

  Then there was the sort of public shitstorm that would descend on the department . . . People would demand they be fired. And in a right-to-fire state like South Carolina, there wasn’t a damn thing they could do about it. Yeah, they could sue, but they’d probably lose. Her eyes filled. “I love being a cop. I don’t want to lose my job because of a bunch of self-righteous assholes sticking their noses in my bedroom.”

  “Look.” Frank moved around in front of her and took her by both shoulders. “We’ll deal with it, whatever happens. That bastard shot at us. With real bullets, not innuendo and gossip. We survived, Alex.”

  “This time. But what happens next time?”

  “Next time we’ll keep surviving.” He rubbed her shoulders. “Look, I’ve been in combat. I’ve seen what happens to men who let themselves get distracted by worry and fear. They get shot, Alex.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. You have to concentrate on now, on staying alive this minute. You have to believe that whatever you face in the future, you’ll be able to handle. And you will. The woman who didn’t hesitate to take on that asshole Donny Royce without any backup at all is more than a match for a bunch of gossips.”

  “It’s not the gossips I’m worried about. It’s the Coach.” Her hands curled into helpless fists. “And my mother.”

  “We’ll handle it, Alex.”

  She subsided, hoping to hell he was right.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  As they pulled into the house’s gravel driveway, Alex felt a sudden uncomfortable awareness of the contrast between Frank’s near mansion and the little mill-village place she’d inherited from her grandmother. “I’ll warn you,” she said as she turned off the engine, “it’s not what you’re used to.”

  “What?” Frank asked absently as he drew his weapon and got out of the car in a wary glide. He scanned the yard and surrounding houses as he straightened, obviously searching for threats.

  Prodded, Alex did the same. The Glock was a cool and comforting weight in her hand. She didn’t see any sign of gun-brandishing killers. “My house. I’m afraid it’s going to suffer by comparison to yours.”

  Frank snorted, scanning the yard as he following her to the short sidewalk and up the stairs onto the screened porch. “Baby, I once slept sitting up in the Pacific Ocean, in water so cold I had to piss myself to fend off hypothermia. I guarantee your house is a fuck of a lot more comfortable than that.”

/>   Alex laughed as she unlocked the front door and led the way inside. “Well, yeah, I’d hope my bed would beat Hell Week in terms of physical comfort.”

  “The Bataan Death March beat Hell Week in terms of comfort . . . Whoa.” Frank rocked back on his heels as a small furry blur headed toward them, growling feline obscenities. “Incoming.”

  The cat leaped into Alex’s arms, still grumbling. She gave him an apologetic ear scratch. “Yes, SIG, I starved you horribly.” She headed toward the kitchen carrying her bitterly complaining burden. Curious, Frank followed. “I know, I know—if you had opposable thumbs, you’d have called the SPCA and reported my ass. But I have a good excuse: this asshole shot at me.”

  Judging by his raucous complaints, SIG didn’t think a near-death experience was a good enough excuse for not running a can opener. “Okay, okay!” She put the cat down and opened a cabinet to grab a can. When the can opener began its familiar grinding hum, SIG’s complaints took on a near-hysterical volume.

  “Boy, that beast is a cat video waiting to happen.” Frank picked up SIG’s water bowl and filled it at the sink. “You need to get him his own YouTube channel. You’d have a million people subscribing, just to watch him cuss you.”

  Alex laughed as she filled SIG’s food bowl. The cat plunged her head into it with an ecstatic growl. “SIG already has seven thousand three hundred and sixty Facebook friends.”

  He stared at her. “You’re shitting me.”

  “Nope.” She ran a hand down SIG’s sleek back. The cat was too busy eating to lift his head. “The neighbor’s Pekingese is bitterly jealous. She’s only got three thousand.”

  Frank blinked at her in wordless astonishment.

  “What?”

  “You got your cat his own Facebook page—and you named him after a gun? And how does he post?”

  “He kind of paws the keys,” Alex told him, deadpan. “I considered naming him SIG P-239, because he’s small, but he’s really loud. But it was too much a mouthful. As it is, I call him by his full name, he knows I’m pissed. Isn’t that right, SIG Sauer?”