Count to Ten

by Karen Rose

  “Only... by you.” Her elbow jabbed his ribs. “Dammit, Solliday, I can’t breathe.”

  You’re welcome, he thought sourly and lifted himself a fraction of an inch so she could breathe. “God.” She shuddered out the breath, greedily took in another. “You hit?”

  “No.” He sucked in a deep breath of his own. Now that it was over, his muscles didn’t seem capable of any movement at all. “I got a glimpse of his face. Looked like your Getts.”

  “I know. I saw him, fucking little bastard. Same MO that got him in this mess to start with. Drive-by shootings, killing innocent bystanders. You’d think the fucker would learn his lesson, but no. He’s still shooting up the damn neighborhood with no care for bystanders caught in the cross fire.” She was muttering as her breath hitched. “He’s already ditched the car by now. He always does.” Her body sagged beneath him and she rested her cheek against his forearm. “Dammit.” The last was a weary murmur, as if she hadn’t the energy for more.

  His own body slumped. Any of those bullets could have hit them. If he’d been a second later, she could have been dead. If her car had been any smaller, he could have been dead, too. That last shot had come way too close for comfort. He dropped his head and took another breath, this time smelling the lemon of her hair instead of burning rubber or gunpowder. Awareness was returning in degrees as the adrenaline began to ebb. Glass was everywhere around them. The sidewalk was hard against his elbows and his left knee would have a hell of a bruise by morning. But she was small beneath him, soft and round. And for the moment, leaning on him. It was a vulnerability he suspected she let few people see.

  That she let him see was... sweet. Thrilling. And combined with the feel of the soft curve of her rear end against him... undeniably arousing. Get up, Solliday, before you-—But it was too late. He grimaced as his body stirred and with an effort he pushed himself to his hands and knees, hoping he’d been fast enough, hoping she hadn’t noticed. Carefully he straightened, wincing as the discomfort in his knee took his mind off the ache elsewhere. He shook his shoulders free of pebbled glass, then bent his head and brushed more glass from his hair.

  She pulled herself up to sit against her car, every movement slow and tentative. It was the second time in as many days she’d taken a blow to her injured shoulder. He’d tried to take most of the brunt of the fall himself, but he’d obviously hurt her just the same.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  She drew a breath and took her radio from her belt. “I’m okay. Just knocked the wind out of me.” But she didn’t meet his eyes as she called for Dispatch and he wasn’t sure if she had noticed his physical response or if she was just embarrassed that he’d seen her as anything less than a superwoman.

  “This is Detective Mitchell, Homicide. We’ve had shots fired at 1342 Sedgewick Place from a moving car. Shooter and driver have escaped in a late-model Ford, brown.” She rattled off the license plate and he was amazed she’d had the presence of mind to notice. “You’ll probably find the car abandoned within a block radius. Send a CSU team. Tell responding units there are plainclothes officers on the scene.” She clipped her radio back on her belt.

  “What do you want to do?” he asked.

  Sirens were faint in the distance. “He’s gone,” she said.

  Reed pushed himself to his feet and bent his knee. “If he’s on foot, we can search,” he said, but she shook her head.

  “Let the uniforms search the area and I’ll call Spinnelli.”

  She looked up at him then, understanding in her eyes. “You couldn’t have done anything. You definitely shouldn’t chase him. You’re not a cop.”

  You’re welcome, he thought again, twice as irritated as before. He wasn’t a cop, but he was law enforcement. He carried a gun. Her attitude was so typical of cops, it made him pissed. But it wasn’t worth fighting that one tonight.

  She stood up, gingerly. “You’re angry,” she said and he gritted his teeth.

  “Getting shot at kind of makes me pissed,” he said sourly. He waited for her to say something else... like thank you, but when she didn’t, he frowned and moved past her.

  She stopped him, grabbing his arm. “Thank you, Reed. You saved my neck.”

  He looked down into her face, let himself shudder over the thought of how close they’d both come to being shot. Even though she was safe, her cheek was a mess, scraped and raw. Gently he cupped her chin, ran his thumb along her jaw, felt her flinch. He now understood she was more likely to flinch at tenderness than at real pain. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Just now or back at the newsroom.”

  Just as gently, she pulled away. “I know.” The sirens now screeched down her street. “The cavalry’s here.”

  Apartment windows had started to open and residents were cautiously poking their heads out now that it appeared to be safe. Two cruisers with flashing lights rolled to a stop in front of her car.

  “Goddammit,” she snarled and Reed’s head whipped as he checked the area. All he saw was broken glass and the beginning of a small crowd.

  “What?”

  She pointed at one of the cruisers. Just behind the right front tire was the remnants of Lauren’s plastic bowl, smashed to smithereens. “Now I’ll have to eat Pop-Tarts.”

  He couldn’t help it. He had to laugh.

  Wednesday, November 29, 6:00 A.M.

  He’d had a good night’s sleep and now his mind was working efficiently once more. He’d looked all over for Young, the next name on his mental list. There were four Youngs. One had known, but was merely a coward. His death would be less painful. Two knew and looked the other way. They would suffer. But one... he’d caused great pain. He’d killed Shane. He’ll wish he was dead a thousand times before I’m done. He’d been unsuccessful in locating any of the Youngs. Until now.

  How could he have missed it? The one he sought sold real estate. Realtors plastered their names everywhere—including on the high school alumni Web site. Tyler Young now lived in Indianapolis. Finding him would be easy. He would finish off the Doughertys tonight, then head south.

  But he still needed to find the other Youngs. If he had to, he’d go back. He didn’t want to. But he had to find the other Youngs. He’d faced down a lot of ghosts already. What was one more? But it wasn’t just any ghost. It was Shane’s. And his own.

  Wednesday, November 29, 7:25 A.M.

  Mia was waiting on the curb when Solliday pulled up in his SUV, her plastic garment bag slung over her shoulder. He leaned over to open her door. “You look like hell.”

  Folding the hanging bag, she tossed it in the back and swung up into the passenger seat with a wince. Her head ached, her shoulder burned and the whole right side of her body was sore, despite the way he’d tried to cushion their fall with his own body the night before. “Good morning to you, too, sunshine,” she muttered as she buckled up.

  “Did you get any sleep?”

  “Some.” Maybe an hour total, spread over four. She kept waking up, normal after an adrenaline rush like she’d experienced. But when she woke it wasn’t to the sound of shots and shattering glass, but to the memory of his body stretched over hers, hard and aroused. And when she woke, she reached for him. That was the worst part. “You?”

  “Some. Do you think we can be a little late for Spinnelli’s eight o’clock meeting?”

  She studied him warily. “Why?”

  He looked away, but not before she saw his cheeks redden and suddenly the cab was too warm. He was remembering last night, too. Which was why it was against regulations for partners to have any extracurricular involvement. Which was why it wouldn’t happen.

  “I watched the tape when I got home last night. In the home video the guy with the camera was shouting at somebody to get behind him, to stay away from the fire.”

  “Probably didn’t want whoever it was to block his shot,” she said sardonically. “So?”

  “So he called the person Jared. Maybe it was another nei
ghbor. Or his kid.”

  “Very cool,” she said slowly. “So we find out who Jared is, hopefully before the neighborhood’s left for work. I’ll call Marc, but he won’t be able to move the meeting too far. He called last night after you left. Wanted to be sure we were both still alive. He said there’s a press conference at ten. We’re expected to put in an appearance.”

  He made a disgusted face. “Why?”

  “Because we’re primary on the case. Spinnelli will field all the questions, but we’ll be there as the poster children of cross-agency cooperation. Relax. Your shoes are already shiny. I’ve got to change into my dress uniform and my shoes pinch.”

  He grimaced. “So we’re window dressing.”

  “More like bait.”

  His brows shot up. “Who will they let into the press conference?”

  Mia’s smile was sharp. “Spinnelli told them not to be too picky about credentials.”

  “He’s hoping the arsonist shows up.”

  “He’s certainly not doing it for the exposure. Spinnelli hates wearing his dress blues even more than I do.”

  “Suddenly I feel a smile coming on.”

  She chuckled. “Drive, Solliday. I’ve got calls to make.”

  Wednesday, November 29, 7:25 A.M.

  Tania Sladerman staggered down the stairs to her apartment, exhausted from the double shift. She knew the manager at the Beacon Inn wouldn’t even thank her for covering, but at least the overtime pay would help cover next semester’s tuition.

  She missed twice before shoving the key into her dead bolt. Then jerked upright when a hand grabbed her hair and yanked back her head. A knife. To my throat.

  A scream broke free, but his other hand clamped her mouth, muffling it. “Don’t say a word,” he breathed. “Or I’ll slit your fucking throat.”

  Wednesday, November 29, 7:55 A.M.

  “This was easier than I thought,” Reed said as they walked up to Jared’s father’s house. The kids at the bus stop had given up their comrade without blinking an eye.

  “It’s always easier to ask kids. They don’t worry about selling their video to the highest bidder.” Mia rapped on the door and waited, her head tilted in apparent repose, but Reed knew better. She’d been livid when she found out who Jared’s father was. The door opened and Mr. Wright’s eyes widened.

  Mia’s smile was not pleasant. “I hope you remember me, Mr. Wright. Or perhaps Oliver Stone would be more appropriate? I hear you’re in the filmmaking business.”

  Wright’s eyes hardened. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Illegal, no. Immoral, plenty. She was your neighbor and you profited from her death. You stood there with tears in your eyes. Were those for the camera, too?”

  “I told you what you wanted to know. Besides, it was my son that took the video. Duane. He’s in high school. It was...homework.”

  Mitchell’s mouth twisted. “You can call it what you like while you’re handing it over.”

  Wright’s mouth dropped open. “You can’t do that. It’s private property.”

  “It’s evidence. There are a few ways to do this. You can wait here while I call in for a warrant. Or”—she held up a finger when Wright would have protested—“you can go to your office and then I can show up with a warrant in an hour or two once everyone is at their desk. I’ve got to go to a press conference this morning, so I’ll still be in full uniform, escorting you to the door. Or, you can give me the video now and go on with your day.”

  Wright’s jaw tightened. “Are you threatening me, Detective?”

  Reed vividly remembered the scene with Wheaton the night before. This was the same song, second verse. And the more he’d thought about Wheaton, the more he realized Mia had been right. He had usurped her authority. It wasn’t the way partners behaved.

  “Yeah, she is. Which is it going to be, Mr. Wright? Door number one, two, or three? And I wouldn’t think of trying to destroy the videos because then I think she’d make sure she hauled you downtown and the charge would have more teeth. Like obstruction.”

  Mia nodded. “Sounds good, Lieutenant. Obstruction it would be.”

  “Wait here.” He slammed the door in their faces.

  Mia looked up, her eyes once again full of respect. “Well, done, Monty Hall.”

  The door opened and she turned her attention back to Wright, who slapped a videocassette into Reed’s hand, barely waiting for Mitchell to write him out a receipt before slamming the door so hard the house shook.

  “Thank you for doing your civic duty with such a -cheerful spirit,” she murmured. “Let’s get this back to the office and see if we can figure out who our mystery lady is.”

  Reed followed her back to his SUV. She frowned at him. “Are you okay, Solliday?”

  Reed nodded, grateful he’d regained some of the moisture in his mouth. Because the moment she’d looked up, so serious, his mouth had gone completely, utterly, bone dry. He clenched his jaw as they headed back to the city. This was damn inconvenient and a totally bad idea. She was a totally bad idea. But the images that had taunted him during the night returned and with them a yearning that left him breathless.

  It was Lauren’s fault, he decided. She’d put the idea in his mind that he needed someone. That he’d be alone. Of how long it had been since he’d had a relationship. It was just bad luck that fate had paired him with a woman -detective at the same time. He damned Lauren and damned fate. And wondered how Mia felt about strings.

  “Solliday, your face is...pasty. If you need to throw up, let me drive.”

  Grimly he laughed. Mia Mitchell did have a way of articulating the obvious. “I’m fine. Besides, your feet won’t reach the pedals.”

  She made a sarcastic face. “Smart-ass. Just drive, -Solliday.”

  Wednesday, November 29, 10:10 A.M.

  Mia scanned the crowd who sat impatiently waiting for -Spinnelli to appear. It was cold outside but Spinnelli had wanted to maximize access. There were reporters in the crowd, but also a half dozen cops in plain clothes. -Spinnelli had set up surveillance in advance and there were several cameras recording the event from several angles. Holly Wheaton sat in the front row, her eyes shooting daggers, although they seemed to be aimed at Solliday. Mia glanced up at him, standing beside her, his feet spread, his arms folded over his chest. He looked like a bodyguard.

  “Wheaton looks like she wants to do you some serious harm,” she murmured.

  “She said some things after you left. I suggested she might... reconsider.”

  Something in her warmed. “You took up for me?”

  His mouth curved inside his goatee. “Something like that.”

  “Okay. Thanks, I guess.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Mia rocked slightly on her sore feet as she studied faces. “See anybody you know?”

  “No known firebugs, if that’s what you mean. But check out the back. Ten o’clock.”

  Mia had to bite back a scowl. “One blond bitch with a braid,” she muttered. “I’m still pissed that she printed Penny Hill’s name before we could inform the family.”

  “But she did give you DuPree. You said she was on your Christmas list forever.”

  “I lied,” she muttered and heard his deep chuckle. The warmth inside her spread, soothed, even though she wanted no part of it.

  Spinnelli walked up to the podium. The crowd sat up straighter. “We’ve had reports in the press of a string of fires and homicides. We’re here today to set the record straight. We’ve had two fires in the last week, presumably set by the same -arsonist. At each fire site, one body was discovered. We’re treating each death as a homicide. At this time we are pursuing a -number of leads. Leading the investigation are Detective -Mitchell, -Homicide, and Lieutenant Solliday from the OFI. Both are decorated, seasoned professionals with many years’ experience between them. They have the full support and resources of both departments at their disposal. I’ll take a few questions now.”

  A Trib reporter sto
od. “Can you confirm the first victim was the child of a cop?”

  “This is true. The deceased is Caitlin Burnette, a -nineteen-year-old college student. We ask that you respect her family in this time of mourning. Next?”

  Holly Wheaton rose gracefully and Mia gritted her teeth. “The second victim was a social worker. It’s hard not to make a connection between the two. A cop’s daughter and a social worker. Are we talking about someone with a mission of revenge?”

  “At this time, the motive behind these homicides is not known. Next?”

  “Smooth,” Solliday murmured.

  “That’s why he wears the stripes.” Mia kept her eyes trained on the crowd as the reporters asked the same questions a dozen different ways. Spinnelli stayed calm and unruffled. He was extending the exposure, she knew. -Giving them time to study the crowd, to look for any suspicious behavior. But nothing jumped out. Nothing looked—

  She went completely still. Beside her, Solliday tensed.

  “What?” he demanded in a low whisper.

  Mia swallowed hard, unable to break eye contact with the blonde across the crowd just as she’d been unable to look away when their eyes had met over her half brother’s gravestone. The woman just looked at her, her expression unreadable.

  “Who do you see?” he asked. “Is it the woman from the video?”

  Mia managed to shake her head. “No.”

  He pushed out a frustrated breath. “Then who?” he hissed between his teeth.

  The woman touched her fingertips to her temple in a small salute and slipped away. “I don’t know,” Mia said. “Cover me.” She stepped behind Solliday’s body, grateful for his size as she slipped to the sidelines, her radio in her hand. “This is Mitchell. There’s a woman walking west. Five-six, shoulder-length blond hair, dark suit. Stop her.”