by Coyle, Matt;
“Miranda. Wake up!”
Nothing.
I whipped off the freeway onto Genesee and bolted up the slight hill to the hospital. I locked up the brakes and skidded to a stop in front of the emergency room entrance. Miranda was dead weight and a tough lift up out of the passenger seat, but I managed to threshold hoist her into the emergency room.
“I need a doctor!”
Waiting room patients’ heads turned toward me, and the admitting nurse behind the counter eyed me with cold eyes. I carried Miranda over to the counter and an orderly appeared from behind a curtain pushing a gurney. He helped me ease Miranda onto the gurney and pushed her behind the curtain.
The admitting nurse pushed a clipboard with forms on it at me. She looked to be in her fifties and filled up her chair with extra hanging over the sides. Her eyes had seen a lot and right now they saw a domestic abuser. I didn’t bother to explain.
“Fill out that form and return it to me when you’re done.” She nodded over to the few empty chairs in the waiting area.
I stayed where I was and studied the form. The only lines I’d be able to fill in would be Miranda’s first name and that she’d passed out and banged her head. The rest I didn’t know. Last name. Age. Residence. Phone number. Her insurer. Whether or not she even had insurance.
“I don’t really know her. I can’t fill this out.”
“You just found her lying unconscious somewhere and brought her in because you’re a Good Samaritan?” She doled out the sarcasm like Ski Mask had the water onto my face and eyed my swollen nose and the faded rainbows around my eyes.
“Her first name’s Miranda. That’s all I know. Someone must have attacked her, and she passed out right in front of me. Her head banged the ground pretty hard and there’s a small lump on the back of her head.”
I could have told her that Miranda had gotten hurt saving my life but I doubted she’d believe that any more than she believed I hadn’t been the one to put Miranda in her present condition. I could have also told her that Miranda worked for Alan Rankin and given her his phone number. But I wanted to see him as much as I wanted to see the police.
The nurse pulled the top form off the clipboard and handed the board back to me. “Fill out your personal information and return the form to me when you’re finished.” She nodded to the waiting area. “Have a seat in the waiting area. The doctor will want to talk to you.”
I fought the urge to bolt out of the hospital and jump into my car and go find Brianne.
She was in danger and still my responsibility. But she hadn’t saved my life. And put her own life in jeopardy doing it. I owed it to Miranda to stick around. I needed to know that she’d be okay.
I sat down and leaned against the wall that was painted a shade of green I’d only ever seen in hospitals. Sort of lime green mixed with gray. Or death. I looked down at the form. The bad guys already knew who I was. Hopefully, Miranda would recover, but when she did, she’d tell Alan Rankin what had happened tonight. If the cops questioned her, she’d either tell them about rescuing me or she wouldn’t. I wasn’t going to file a complaint with the police. This was my puzzle to solve, not theirs. I pulled the pen from behind the clasp and wrote John Doe on the form. Nothing else.
It had only been about ten minutes since I’d called Brianne. I’d give her more time to settle in somewhere before I called and found out where that somewhere was. I wanted her full attention on getting the hell away from her house.
I took a deep breath, a luxury I hadn’t had in the last couple hours, and immediately was reminded of Ski Mask’s punches to my solar-plexus and the salt water I’d swallowed. I swallowed the pain and tried to relax so I could think.
The night didn’t add up. Somebody knew that Brianne and I had gone to the FBI today. How? I’d kept my eyes in the side view mirror on the drive to FBI Headquarters and we hadn’t been followed. That meant someone at the FBI had told Ski Mask and his silent partner that we’d been there. But not why we’d been there. Couldn’t have been Special Agent in Charge Richmond. Ski Mask had asked me what Richmond had told me. He also asked why I’d been there. Brianne and I had repeatedly asked both SAC Richmond and Special Agent Singh to talk to the agent who had spoken with Jim Colton on the phone before he died. That knocked out Singh, too.
Which left Agent Blanton, the guy who led us into Richmond’s office, and a few agents who came and went while Brianne and I waited in the lobby. Blanton seemed more like an ass sniffer than someone in league with the men who put Miranda in the hospital and tried to kill me. That left all the agents who walked by who I didn’t even pay attention to.
And Miranda.
How had she tracked me to the auto body shop? Thank God she did, but I’d made sure I wasn’t followed. The only way she could have tailed me was by hiding a GPS tracker on my car and following the little red ball on a tablet or smart phone. Didn’t happen. I never left her alone near my car. In fact, the only time she was out of my sight had been when I went outside and bluffed her into promising me she wouldn’t follow me. That only lasted about ten seconds.
Shit. When I came back in, Miranda was walking away from the counter. Where I’d written the time and address of my meeting with Fake Agent Mallon on a notepad. I’m worrying about GPS trackers and Miranda probably just pocketed the notepad page under the one I’d written on. She just had to do the pencil trick over the indentation of my writing when she had a minute to herself. She didn’t have to follow me. She knew where I’d be. Who was the rookie now?
I pulled out my phone and called Brianne. It had been almost a half hour since the first call.
“What’s going on?” A wisp of panic in her voice.
“Where are you?”
“The Marriott on La Jolla Village Drive.”
Only a few minutes away. Good. “What room?”
“Room 715. What’s going on?”
“Somebody ambushed me tonight and they wanted to know why we went to the FBI. I don’t want to take any chances in case they decide to look for you.” I didn’t want to tell her the thugs had asked me what she knew. Not when she was all alone.
“Did you call the police?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
I didn’t have a good answer to that question yet. Not even for myself. Instinct and experience were guiding me now. Okay for me, but probably not for Brianne. “We’ll talk about it when I get to the hotel.”
“When?”
“I’m not sure yet.” I couldn’t leave the hospital not knowing Miranda’s condition.
“Where are you?”
“The hospital.”
“Are you okay?” The concern in her voice touched me.
“Yes. I’ll explain when I get there. Don’t open the door for anybody. Just me. Check the peephole.”
“Okay. Hurry.”
I hung up in time to greet the doctor who’d walked over to me from behind the curtain that led to the examination rooms. Actually, more curtained-off enclosures than rooms. I remembered. I’d been to this very emergency room less than a year ago. Another instance when I’d relied on instinct and experience. Maybe it was time to listen to something else.
“I’m Doctor Patel.” Young, dark, and thin. He had an understandable Indian accent.
“Are you the person who brought in Miss Jennings?”
“Miranda?”
“Yes.” They must have found a wallet on her. “Your name, sir?”
“John.” For now. “Has she regained consciousness?”
“What is your relationship to Miss Jennings?” Matter of fact. Clinical, not accusatory.
“I just met her. How is she doing? Is she awake?”
“She has not yet regained consciousness. Can you explain how she incurred her injuries?”
Just the bruise on her kidney and the bump on her head. “No. I found her on the street. She looked like she’d been attacked. She was bleeding from her scalp and her eye was swollen shut. She fainted right in front of me,
and I couldn’t catch her before her head hit the ground. Is she going to be okay?”
“She has an epidural hematoma, which is a concern.”
“What’s that?”
“In layman’s terms it’s bleeding on the brain.”
Shit.
“From the fall onto the ground?” If only I’d been quicker.
“No. That caused a minor hematoma at the base of the skull. The epidural hematoma is between the skull and the frontal lobe. It’s a very serious injury. And you are not aware how she incurred these injuries?” He looked down at my hands, no doubt looking for bruised knuckles.
“No. Like I said, she must have been attacked.”
Dr. Patel stared at me through poker eyes. Finally, “Please wait for the police. They’ll want to hear your story.”
I nodded. It was the same as saying “Okay” but at least I didn’t have to hear myself lie out loud.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I EXITED THE hospital parking lot just as the police cruiser entered. Another minute talking to the doctor and I’d now be talking to the police. LJPD. Scripps Hospital was in La Jolla. Even if the cops believed my story, their boss wouldn’t. And even if he did, it wouldn’t stop him from squeezing me in place of other crimes I’d committed. And he’d know I’d gone to the FBI, if he didn’t already. Moretti may have been the reason Jim Colton talked to the FBI in the first place. Things hadn’t turned out too well for him.
When Moretti had his say, they’d be just as bad for me.
The hotel where Brianne had a room was less than a mile away, down a couple city streets. My house, five miles in the other direction. Ski Mask had taken my gun after the silent partner had stuck a needle in my neck and drugged me. I had a backup at home. For the next time we met.
I got onto I-5 and headed south.
I took out my phone and pulled up the number I’d hoped never to call. Alan Rankin’s. He was an enemy. And a coconspirator. But none of that mattered right now. I tapped the number. No answer. I left a message that Miranda was seriously injured and under the care of Scripps Memorial Hospital.
My phone rang a minute later. I answered.
“What did you do to her, you son of a bitch?”
“I didn’t do anything to her. She saved my life. Get your wallet up to Scripps and take care of her.”
“Who hurt her?” I could almost hear his teeth clench.
“I don’t know. All I know is that they’re very dangerous. Even for you and your friends.”
“I need descriptions. Of their physical appearance, their vehicles, clothes. Everything you can remember.”
“They drugged and blindfolded me. And damn near drowned me. I don’t have any of that information.” Mostly true. I could have given some useful information, but I didn’t want Rankin and his killers blowing up my investigation. “If I need your help when I track them down, I’ll let you know.”
“Not good enough, Rick.”
“It’s all I got right now. Just make sure Miranda gets the care she needs.”
“You have this arrangement backwards, Cahill. You take orders from me. Not the other way around.”
“We don’t have an arrangement. Good-bye, Ran—”
“Moretti contact you?”
Out of the blue and too close to home.
“No. Why?” If I told him the truth it might be the last time I told anything to anyone.
“Just following up on our little chat the other night.”
Coincidence? Did he know Moretti had come by last night or was he just fishing? Either way, I definitely needed that backup gun.
“Just take care of Miranda.” I hung up.
I parked on the street below my house like I had earlier that day, in case Rankin’s men were watching my home. Or Moretti’s. Or Ski Mask. Midnight barked once from inside the house when I leapt over the fence into the backyard, then he recognized me. Even in the dark. He sniffed me all over when I came inside. A pup sniffing his father when he returned to the den. He must have smelled the salt water that I’d almost drowned in, the man in the mask who’d tried to kill me, Miranda who’d saved my life, and the fear that I’d felt while in that auto body warehouse.
I went upstairs with Midnight on my heels and, with the light off, peeked out the window of the guest room. I scanned the street to see if any of my enemies had the house staked out. I didn’t see any cars that didn’t belong, but I couldn’t see all the way down the street. That was fine. I wouldn’t be home for long.
I went into the closet in my bedroom and punched in the combination on the stand-up gun safe I kept there. The safe weighed over 250 pounds. It had taken all the friends I had to get the thing upstairs after I bought it. Both of them. I opened the safe door. Standing up on their butts was a Mossberg 590A1 Pump-Action Tactical Shotgun and Bushmaster XM-15 Semiautomatic Rifle. The top shelf held a case with a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum revolver. I grabbed the case, a box of magnum ammo and a shoulder holster, and started to shut the safe door. I stopped and pulled out the Mossberg and a box of shells. After tonight at the auto body shop, a single handgun didn’t seem like enough.
After I lost my job as a cop, I’d lost my interest in firearms, too. I got rid of anything that reminded me of being a police officer. Then my life changed and I needed a gun. It changed again and I needed more guns.
The Smith & Wesson was more accurate at distance than the short-barreled Ruger that Ski Mask had taken off me, but with a five-inch barrel it was bulky and hard to conceal. The Ruger had fit in my bomber jacket pocket and the UnderTech t-shirt. The Smith & Wesson was too big for those.
I took off my jacket and put on the leather shoulder holster, which had straps that went over both shoulders like the skeleton of a vest. The holster sleeve that held the gun dangled down about eight inches below my left armpit. The right side had a pouch full of extra bullets. I pulled the .357 out of its case and checked the six-shot cylinder. Full. I slid the gun into the holster, put my jacket back on, and zipped it up. There was a slight bulge from the handle of the .357, but probably only noticeable to those who knew what to look for.
I tossed an extra change of clothes, the box of shotgun shells and .357 Magnums into a backpack, grabbed the Mossberg, and went downstairs. Midnight went to the sliding glass door, and I let him outside. He read me better than any dog I’d ever owned and must have sensed he’d be spending the night alone. He went out to empty his bladder and bowels.
It was too late to call my next-door neighbor, so I texted her to ask if Micalah could come over and feed Midnight before school in the morning, in case I didn’t make it back before then.
I let Midnight back inside, exited with my mini arsenal, and descended the hill below my house to my car. I tossed the backpack in the trunk and put the shotgun in a rack I’d mounted on the inside of the lid back when I went a little gun crazy. I only used it when I went to an outdoor shooting range, which wasn’t very often. Ammunition was expensive.
And right now, I might need all the ammo I had for moving targets.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I PARKED IN the multi-level garage attached to the Marriott, grabbed the backpack, and entered the hotel. The lobby had a high ceiling and was grand in a modern sort of way. I went up the elevator to Brianne’s room and knocked on her door. A bark from inside. George, her Boxer. I’d forgotten about him. I stood back to give her a good view through the peephole. The door opened within five seconds.
I walked inside and George sniffed me and wagged his tail. Brianne shooed him away and hugged me. Longer and tighter than a normal greeting. The backpack I wore forced her to hug me around the neck. Intimate. There had been no hugs when I left her house this morning. Just a brusque good-bye with an admonition that all further communication should be through email. Danger can do that. Break down superficial walls and get to life’s essence. I felt guilty about it. She’d made a reasoned judgment about me earlier and now fear and survival had taken the place of reason. I was the beneficiary
, but at least the danger hadn’t come from my preexisting demons.
“You’re carrying a gun?” Brianne stepped back and looked at the bulge in my coat. Years of living with a soldier-turned-cop. Her eyes went wider than normal. “Please tell me what’s going on.”
She grabbed my wrist and walked me away from the door over to the bed and sat down. George followed and jumped onto the bed and laid down next to his mama. I took off my backpack, put it on a mini desk, and sat down in the desk chair opposite the bed and spun it around.
“We struck a nerve with someone by going to the FBI today. And whoever it is struck back.” I told her about the call from “Special Agent Mallon” and my interrogation at the auto body shop.
“That’s horrible.” Her eyes, soft blue pools. “I’m so sorry.”
“Some good came of it. I’m sure these men killed Jim and I think I know how they incapacitated him before they stuck a noose around his neck.”
“My God.” She put her hand to her cheek. “How?”
“One of them snuck up behind me when I arrived at the body shop and stuck a needle in my neck. Whatever was in that needle knocked me unconscious in just a few seconds. I don’t know how long I was under, but I don’t think it was very long. They did the same thing before they tried to drown me. They must use some fast-acting drug that is hard to detect or leaves your system quickly. I think we need to have another autopsy performed. Looking for this drug and needle marks around the hairline at the back of the neck.”
“That’s impossible. Jim’s parents, Cash, and I all agreed it was time to lay Jim to rest after the autopsy. We had him cremated per his wishes.”
“Shit.” Almost dying and Miranda fighting for her life was a lot to barter against new evidence that couldn’t be verified. “We still need to take a look at the autopsy reports. Maybe there’s something in them that we missed which hints at the drug and needle marks. But whatever we find or don’t find, the needle in the neck tells us something else. Jim was murdered by someone he knew. He let his murderers in the house, and they got close enough to stick a needle in his neck without leaving any bruises, abrasions, or defensive wounds. A stranger couldn’t get that close without a fight.”
