Say You're Sorry

by Karen Rose

  “Yes. With your phone.” She laid them carefully on the bed beside him. “You’re not supposed to be working. You’re officially on medical leave until you’re healed and cleared to return to duty.”

  Gideon gave her his best innocent look. “I won’t. I promise.”

  She snorted. “Right.” She sat in the chair and glanced over at Daisy. “She needs to go home and rest.”

  He sighed. “I apparently asked her to stay when I was on pain meds last night.”

  “I doubt she would have left, even if you hadn’t. She’s loyal. And smart. She called me last night.”

  Gideon blinked. “She did?”

  “She did. She asked us to place surveillance cameras at the rec center where they’ll do Miss Hart’s memorial service. Told us to look for a man with an injured hand who might be wearing her friend’s necklace. We will, of course.”

  “Good,” Gideon murmured.

  Molina gave Daisy a sympathetic look. “I don’t think it’s sunk in yet. That her friend is gone, I mean. She seemed too . . . rational.”

  “She is rational.” And loyal and smart. And fearless. The memory of her scrambling up that hillside with his rifle, of her going after that car on foot . . . they still made his gut turn to water. “And the death of her friend is starting to sink in.”

  His hospital gown was still a little damp from where she’d cried all over him. And then she’d let him hold her. He’d been the one to give her comfort. It felt too damn good.

  Too damn right. Whatever it took, he was keeping that feeling.

  “I heard that the little girl was found,” he told his boss. “My night nurse told me.”

  “It’s all over the news, so I’m not surprised.”

  “She’s still okay?”

  “Unhurt. Her grandparents admitted to giving her a large dose of Benadryl. They were on a long drive and wanted to keep her quiet.”

  “Lovely,” he said sarcastically.

  “Yeah, well.” She shrugged. “Not sure if they’ll be charged or not. The kid being quiet might have saved her. If she’d screamed, he might have killed her, too.”

  “Too?” Gideon asked quietly. “You mean besides the man at the rest area?”

  “I hope he’s the only one. He grabbed a nurse from another hospital’s parking lot. The nurse hasn’t been seen since.” She grimaced. “The interior of the minivan the kid was found in was covered in blood.” She sighed. “And brain matter.”

  God. “He shot the nurse.”

  “It appears so.”

  “He needed medical attention,” Gideon said grimly. “At least Daisy hit him hard. Hopefully this slows him down a little. What’s next?”

  “Agent Schumacher and Detectives Sokolov and Rhee go to Portland.”

  That detail he vaguely remembered from the night before. “Did you get a hit on the license plates of the beige car?” Because Daisy had reported them when she’d called 911. He vaguely remembered that as well.

  “They’re registered to Delfina Borge. California DMV says she lives in Blythe. That’s near the Arizona border. She’s never been reported as missing. We’re going to contact her employer as soon as their office opens. She was a professor in a small college. The last post on social media said she’d quit and was about to go on a two-year trip around the world. That was over a year ago.”

  “What about the other victims? What have we done to connect them?”

  Irritation flickered in her eyes, but Gideon didn’t sense that it was directed toward him. “The team’s working on it,” she said. “So far they haven’t found any commonalities. Even where the victims’ last movements were traceable, there’s no pattern. A few were last seen at bars. One at a movie theater. She’d just seen a horror movie. One at a concert.”

  “Who was performing?” Gideon asked.

  Molina shook her head, bewildered. “Barry Manilow, of all people. The venue’s security has been very cooperative. They’re sending us tapes today.”

  Tapes. Gideon stilled, his brain reconnecting with an almost audible click. The pet store from Saturday. The shopping center’s security staff had also been cooperative. They’d given him a digital file of the surveillance tapes of the parking lot outside the pet store during the adoption clinic.

  The beige car had followed them up to Redding. What if it had been following them even longer?

  “Daisy volunteered at a pet store Saturday,” he said. “They were hosting an adoption clinic for an animal shelter.”

  “You think he might have followed you from there?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “I’ll get the tapes from the shopping center,” she said. “Thanks.”

  He gave her a brisk nod. “You’re welcome.” He didn’t offer her his copy of the tapes. The Bureau would, he reasoned, have to get their own anyway. Chain of evidence and all that. Especially now that he was involved as a victim. Asshole shooter. Making me a fucking victim.

  But I can tell them where to look on the tape if I see him first. He was pretty certain he’d see the beige car. Seeing who was driving it would be the icing on the cake.

  Molina stood up, studying his face intently. “You’re to rest, Agent Reynolds.”

  He nodded soberly. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re so full of it, Gideon.”

  She surprised a laugh out of him. “I can’t do much else but rest from here,” he said.

  “Uh-huh. You’re on medical leave until you’re cleared to return.”

  “I know.”

  She sighed. “I’m serious. Do not get yourself hurt any worse. Okay?”

  “Hey, I was just on a drive with a pretty girl,” he said lightly. “It’s not my fault some asshole shot me.”

  A slight sound came from the chair where Daisy slept. Something between a cough and a laugh. Okay, so she wasn’t really asleep. “Daisy?”

  She sat up, rubbing at her eyes. “Sorry. I really was asleep until you laughed, Gideon. I mostly caught the ‘not my fault’ line.”

  And the “pretty girl” line, he thought. Her cheeks were a charming pink.

  Daisy stood up. “I’ll wait outside if you want to finish your meeting.”

  “No,” Gideon said.

  “Not necessary,” Molina said at the same time. “I’m on my way out.” Holding the door open, she turned to point her finger at Gideon. “I’m serious,” she said, very soberly. “You are on leave. You will have an agent assigned to your protection detail.”

  That was good. They’d keep Daisy safe. “Thank you.”

  Molina narrowed her eyes, as if not trusting his easy acceptance of a bodyguard. “You are not to investigate this case. Are we clear?”

  He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Crystal.”

  She rolled her eyes again. “Or you will face disciplinary actions.”

  “I understand.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Molina muttered, shutting the door behind her.

  Daisy blinked, rolling her head side to side. “What was that?”

  He smiled at her. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

  She stood up, shouldering Brutus’s bag. “I’m going to get coffee. You want some?”

  “Yes, thank you.” He hesitated. “And thank you for staying. I didn’t realize how much I needed to see you when I woke up, until I did and you were there.”

  Her smile lit up her eyes. “I wanted to.” She cupped his cheek, her thumb riffling through the day-old growth as she stroked his jaw. “I needed to. I needed to see you when I woke up, too.” She brushed a kiss over his lips. “Now do the thing you were planning to do while you were saying all those ‘Yes, ma’ams’ to your boss.”

  He snorted. “Yes, ma’am.”

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 7:25 A.M.

&nb
sp; He squinted at the light flooding his bedroom. He’d neglected to pull the shades last night and his damn window faced east. Rolling over, he pulled the pillow over his head, only to peek out when he heard a whimper.

  Mutt was pawing at his mattress, a sure sign that the dog needed to go out.

  It was the worst part about having a damn dog. But if he didn’t take Mutt out, he’d be cleaning up a pile of shit.

  He groaned, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. He needed to walk off this stiffness in his joints. He’d been in a car too much yesterday. And his hand throbbed.

  At least he didn’t have to go into work this morning. Hank and the substitute pilot would be flying back from New York City today.

  He checked the calendar on his phone for his next shift. Wednesday, round trip to Salt Lake. His hand would not be better by Wednesday. He needed at least a week before he could handle the flight duties safely.

  He’d have to call in sick. He’d spend the time finishing what would be a beautiful portfolio of photos for the old man. Lots of photos of him with very bad people. And some very beautiful people. The bad people—notable drug dealers who hired him to carry product in his planes—would get him in trouble with the cops. The beautiful people would get him into trouble with Sydney.

  Which will get me into trouble with Sydney.

  You’re already in trouble with Sydney. She’s owned your ass since you were twelve years old. You should have killed her then.

  Because Sydney had compromising photos of him, too. Of them together. And even though it had never been his choice, the photos made it look like it had been. Once his father saw them, any hope he had of forcing the old man’s hand would be gone. I’ll be lucky if the old man doesn’t order me killed for fucking his wife.

  The only good thing to come of the photos Sydney had taken was that it had given him the idea to begin collecting his own blackmail fodder. So at a minimum, they’d all be at a stalemate.

  If he was lucky, the sale wasn’t yet finalized and the portfolio he’d gathered would put the brakes on it.

  He wanted the airline. He deserved it. He’d earned it. Every time he’d let the old man walk all over him. Every time he’d allowed Sydney to . . .

  To fuck me up. To ruin me. I earned it. Again and again and again.

  He slapped the sides of his head, hard. “Not having this conversation today.” He’d deal with Sydney at a time of his choosing.

  Grabbing the remote on his nightstand, he turned on the TV on his dresser, tuning in to CNN. He was interested to know what the media was reporting on the events of yesterday. And, if he was honest, if it had made the national news yet.

  He pulled on his track pants, searching for his shoes as he listened to the anchor welcome them to the “bottom of the hour” and prattle on for a moment about the newest congressional scandal and the war in the Middle East.

  “And now for the latest news out of Sacramento,” the woman on-screen said soberly. “The man suspected of killing twenty-six-year-old Sacramento native Trisha Hart has been linked to the deaths of at least six more women, this according to our sources, and is the subject of an ongoing FBI investigation. Many of the victims were found with letters carved into their torsos. Common to all of the victims was a knife found at the scene—washed, bleached, and left to dry. The victims have been found in seven different states over the past ten years. It’s the opinion of one source at Sacramento PD, who requested anonymity because he wasn’t authorized to comment on this case, that this is the work of a serial killer.”

  Abandoning his shoe search, he slowly lowered himself to the bed. “Fuck,” he muttered at the TV, where the abduction and safe return of the big-brown-eyed kid was now being discussed—and attributed to the same man, who had left a “trail of death” in his wake.

  They’d put it together, he thought grimly. He hadn’t expected that they would. It was the letters. I never should have started that.

  But it was done now. At least they can’t trace the victims to me. He’d never been fingerprinted and his DNA had never been analyzed anywhere, so the skin samples that the cops took from under Daisy’s nails could not implicate him. Nor could any prints he’d left on the beige Chevy, if any of the car was even salvageable after being burned up.

  He found his shoes, shoved his foot into one, then leaned over to tie it. But he paused once again when a new photo popped up on- screen. And he heard himself growl.

  “Special Agent Gideon Reynolds,” the anchor said, “one of the lead investigators on the serial killer case, was shot and hospitalized yesterday. It is believed the shooter, the serial killer, and the kidnapper are one and the same. Special Agent Reynolds should be released from the hospital later today and is expected to make a full recovery. The FBI and Sacramento PD will be holding a joint press conference later this morning. This is a developing story, so stay tuned for further updates.” She then turned to her left. “And now, the weather.”

  The Fed won’t make a full recovery, he thought. Because I’m going to kill him. But at least while he’s in the hospital, he won’t be hovering over Daisy. He glared balefully at his bandaged hand. Who shot me, the bitch.

  It was bizarre how he’d been fantasizing about keeping Daisy as his own less than twenty-four hours ago. Now all he could think about was making her suffer for shooting his damn hand and ruining his car.

  He wondered where Daisy was at the moment. It was Monday morning. Turning off the TV, he switched on the radio next to his bed and set it to The Big Bang with TNT and Poppy—a.k.a. Eleanor, a.k.a. Daisy. He could at least find out if she was at work or home. That way he’d know where to go to shoot her, for God’s sake.

  The station was actually playing music for a change instead of talk, talk, talk. He applied a mustache and eyebrows and smoothed a wig over his bald head, finishing as the song was over, and poor Mutt was spinning in circles next to his bedroom door. He paused, leash in his right hand, when the DJ started talking over the music.

  “And that was a blast from the past,” the man said. “Kansas with ‘Dust in the Wind.’ I’m Alfred, substituting for TNT and Poppy. TNT’s taking a vacation and Poppy’s out sick, so send her good thoughts, okay?”

  He switched the radio off and slipped both his gun and his switchblade into his coat pocket. Not at the radio station? He’d find out if she was home, and if so, he’d create a disturbance so that she came outside. He could force her back inside her place, slit her throat, and be gone in under a minute.

  With one hand?

  Fine, I’ll shoot her. His gun was silenced. Even if her upstairs neighbors were home they wouldn’t hear anything. He’d prefer to bring her home and make her a guest in his basement, but if that wasn’t possible, a fast kill would have to do.

  “Her home it is, Mutt.” Mutt panted his approval.

  And if she wasn’t home, she was probably at the hospital with Reynolds. If so, he’d hide outside and shoot her as soon as she was visible.

  And then when Reynolds was released, he’d do the same thing to him.

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 7:25 A.M.

  It didn’t take Gideon long to spot the beige car on the shopping center’s surveillance tape. It had already been parked in the lot when he and Daisy had arrived.

  A shiver of cold ran down Gideon’s spine. He’d been waiting for her.

  He fast-forwarded in bursts until the car was gone, then rewound until he saw it again. Then he waited.

  And clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw popped. A man approached. With a dog.

  Gideon recognized the man. He was the unemployed drama teacher who’d hit on Daisy. The one Daisy had been kind to.

  “Son of a motherfucking bitch,” he snarled.

  And the pulse monitor began to beep just as Daisy entered with two cups of coffee and a fast-dwindling smile. “What happene
d?” Sitting in the chair farthest from the monitor, she set one of the coffees on the table next to his bed but out of his reach. “The nurse is going to be here any—”

  “Agent Reynolds!” the nurse scolded. “What are you doing?” She forcibly took the laptop from his hands, closed it, and handed it to Daisy. “You are resting. Not working.”

  Gideon closed his eyes, trying to relax, but all he could see was that man, sitting less than an arm’s length from Daisy. He could have hurt her then. Could have shot her. Could have touched her.

  But he hadn’t. He’d waited. He’d followed them, all the way to Redding, then Macdoel. He shot at me. Not Daisy.

  Because he wanted me gone. He wanted her. And then? Gideon didn’t have to imagine what the bastard would have done to Daisy had he been successful in killing Gideon.

  He’d already done it to Trish Hart.

  But he didn’t. Because Daisy can take care of herself.

  Gideon was finally able to drag in a breath. Then another. The memory of Daisy’s face as she’d taken aim at the bastard’s shooting hand . . . She’d been strong. Intense. Focused. Confident in her abilities.

  And as sexy as that was, it was more comforting at the moment. Little by little he calmed himself, reining in his racing pulse, until the nurse finally made a noise of approval.

  He opened his eyes to find Daisy watching him, her coffee clutched in one hand, Brutus in the other. She held Brutus up to her face, nuzzling her cheek into the little dog’s fur. When he smiled she seemed to breathe again.

  “I’m okay,” he assured her. He glanced up at the nurse. “Really.”

  “That’s because now you are not working,” the nurse said tartly.

  He chuckled. “Yes, ma’am.”

  The nurse shook her head. “You are not fooling me with that one, not again anyway. You ‘Yes, ma’am’ to make people leave you alone.”

  Daisy snorted into her coffee.

  He raised a brow at her. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

  “I am,” she said. “Which is why I’m agreeing with her.”