by Pat Warren
Jones started the engine, slipped into gear. “Oh, and Luke, get a shave and haircut.”
Luke waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah.”
It was easy to read the shock followed by cold fury in Sergeant McCarthy’s gray eyes as he looked up from reading the warrant for his arrest that had been handed him. “Phil, what the hell is this?”
Seated at Captain Marino’s desk, Phil couldn’t quite meet Mac’s eyes. “Accessory to murder, like it says.”
“Whose murder?” Mac demanded.
Remington didn’t want to do this, not to an officer in Central where they’d served together for over twenty years. They were more than coworkers; they were friends. He wished Marino hadn’t chosen this week to have his damn prostate out, putting Phil in charge as second-in-command. “There was a witness to the shooting of reporter Don Simon. We have a sworn statement that you were present. The county attorney feels he’s got a case.”
“A witness!” Mac’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s this witness?”
Phil knew by the silence outside the open door of the glassed-in office that all the cops were listening, most looking stunned. “You know I can’t discuss the case further. I advise you to call your attorney, Mac. Your first appearance before the judge is tomorrow morning at eight-thirty.”
Mac turned to see two officers step in, moving to his side, waiting to escort him out. One held a pair of handcuffs. He swung back to the lieutenant. “Do something, Phil. We’re friends, for God’s sake.” He stroked his mustache nervously, hating the tremor in his voice.
Remington dropped his gaze. “I can’t, Mac.” He picked up the Miranda and read the sergeant his rights.
Humiliation had Mac curling his fists. “More heads are going to roll before this is over. Mark my words. I’m not going down alone.”
That was exactly what Phil was afraid of. Why couldn’t Mac see that his hands were tied on this? Silently, he nodded to one of the blues who quickly threw on the cuffs and led Mac away. Rules were rules, and if he didn’t follow them, if he made exceptions for a friend, word would get back to the captain eventually. And he’d lose the respect of his fellow officers. Leaning back in his chair, Phil scrubbed a trembling hand over his face. He was a man not easily ruffled, but today’s events had shaken him.
He was still stunned over an incident earlier. Out of the blue, a deputy from the U.S. Marshals Office had arrived with three warrants in the murder of the Phoenix Gazette reporter. The ones for Sam Russo, a man with known mob connections, and his henchman, Ozzie Swain, had been no surprise. The shocker had been the order to arrest Mac.
The feds were closemouthed as usual, but already rumors were running rampant. No one as yet really knew who this mystery witness was. Phil had his own suspicions, and they had him tense. It was hard to remain untainted when one cop in a precinct was arrested. Usually it was only the tip of the iceberg.
And he had other problems.
The young detective from Mt. Shadows Precinct on the east side, Andy Russell, had everyone up in arms over the Ryan girl’s Volkswagen, dragging in the mechanic who was ready to swear there’d been tampering, accusing someone in Central of changing his report. The receipt had been initialed by Mac. Phoenix General Hospital had released a statement that the Hartley girl had died of internal injuries. Phil had thought that was the end of that. Terry’s father, John Ryan, did not.
John was like a thorn in Phil’s side, giving voice to countless ungrounded suspicions, replaying possible scenarios, throwing out veiled barbs. Repeatedly, he’d come to the station insisting on an investigation, demanding answers.
Phil didn’t have any.
He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the desk. He hated to see Mac led off in cuffs, but there was nothing he could do about it. All he wanted at this point was to keep up with the work in the captain’s absence, to keep a low profile. The things that were wrong with the department, such as what Mac allegedly was involved in, had happened before he took over for Marino. He wouldn’t get the blame. If anyone would, it’d be the captain. The buck always stopped at the top.
When Marino retired next year and promotions would be considered, Phil’s record would still be clean. Of course, he’d have to be careful, not make enemies, not step on any toes. Maybe he’d be wise to have a chat with Mac after his hearing, calm him down, tell him to stay cool.
After all, it wasn’t over until it was over.
Sara Baines had often been labeled a tough, efficient, no-nonsense woman, in both her career as an RN and in law enforcement. She knew she could not help her patient subjects by being overly sympathetic. Her work called for her to be an odd mixture of detached and caring.
Yet, owing to a strong nurturing streak, her heart went out to the young woman in the bed struggling to recover from a great many recent traumas. Her facial surgery done several days ago was healing well, probably because Terry Ryan was young and had been healthy before her accident. She was sleeping now, the medication Sara had given her after changing her bandages allowing her to rest.
Sara checked her patient’s pulse, then quietly left the room. She found George Everly playing solitaire at the kitchen table, his jacket hanging on the chairback, his gun holster strapped on in plain view. Sara walked to the counter and poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot. “Want some?” she asked him.
“No, thanks. I can’t handle too much of that stuff.”
George looked every day of his fifty years, Sara thought, mostly because he’d inherited a tendency toward baldness and a short stature that made him look beefy rather than solid. He’d been trained years ago and had been quite the boy wonder in his youth, or so she’d heard. Sara found him dull and uninteresting, but no one had promised her excitement on the job.
“She asleep?” George asked.
“Yes. It’s the best thing for her, of course. But, you know, even asleep and medicated, she moans and she thrashes, like she’s reliving the terrible things that have happened to her.”
George placed a black jack on a red queen, freeing a space. “Probably is, poor kid. I’ve got a daughter about her age. What’d the doc say about her face?” The doctor from the private hospital had stopped by daily per Jones’s instructions to check on the patient under federal guard. George hadn’t been in the bedroom during his visits.
Sara sipped her coffee. “He said she’d probably need more surgery later. Her kind of injury has to be repaired in stages. In the long run, provided she doesn’t develop an infection, she’ll do okay.” She’d watched the doctor change the bandages, seen the swelling and the redness, and knew it would be some time before all that disappeared. “I wouldn’t want to hand her a mirror when she’s awake just yet though. Or tell her she’ll face the knife again.” The present condition of Terry’s hair alone, growing back in blond tufts from when her head had been shaved, would surely make her cry, the nurse thought, to say nothing of the condition of her face.
Sitting down at the table, Sara saw George contemplate the cards spread before him. He appeared to be stuck. She waited several seconds, then could stand it no longer. “The six of hearts at the end. Move it to the seven of clubs.”
George made a face. “Oh, yeah.”
She glanced at the wall clock. “What time did Luke say he’d be here?”
George looked at her from beneath shaggy brows. “Couple of days, Jones said. But you know Luke. He’s not one to give anyone his schedule.” He went back to his game. “Don’t worry. He’ll be here when he’s good and ready.”
Sara had to agree. Luke Tanner definitely marched to his own drummer. She’d worked with him on several cases. The man was unflappable, with nerves of steel and a hard face that revealed nothing. Perfect for his line of work.
A bit difficult to live with, though. And live with him in somewhat close quarters as they watched over Terry Ryan was what she’d have to do, for a while yet anyhow. Sara and Luke Tanner were both the same age and at five-ten, Sara was only a couple of inches shorter th
an Luke. But there their similarities ended. Beneath her professional demeanor, Sara had a soft heart. She doubted if Tanner even had a heart.
George folded his game. “Want to play double? I’ve got another deck of cards.”
“No, thanks.” Boredom was the worst part of this job. “I think I’ll make a pot roast. Maybe I can convince Terry to eat some when she wakes up.” Sara glanced out at the bright San Diego afternoon before finishing her coffee and rising to check the contents of the refrigerator.
At that moment at Arizona State Prison in Florence, Sam Russo walked into the visitor’s room, sat down in the second cubicle, and picked up the phone. On the other side of the thick glass, his brother, Nick, already had the phone to his ear. “About time you got here,” Sam said, his deep voice low.
“I’ve been busy, checking out stuff, like you said.” Nick leaned forward, noticing that his hands were sweaty on the receiver. Damn but even visiting prison made him nervous. Just turned forty, he was movie-star handsome, with curly black hair and a muscular build he owed to gym workouts and daily runs. His clothes cost plenty but leaned toward the flashy, a fact that didn’t seem to keep women from throwing themselves at him. Nick had never married, valuing his freedom too much. The one person he owed his complete allegiance to was his older brother, Sam.
“What’d you find out?” Sam asked, impatience making his words clipped.
“Hospital says the girl’s dead and…”
“Bullshit! Who else could be their special witness? Did you see the body?”
“No. Ozzie was working on it with his connections at the hospital, but he had to get out of town and lay low for now. He’s not going to do us any good if he’s in here with you.” Nick could see the sweat on Sam’s face, and it scared him. He’d always admired Sam’s cool attitude under pressure. He’d never seen his brother sweat. But then, he’d never seen his brother in prison before, either. His hands shook. He wished he had a cigarette.
“I say she’s alive. She’s got to be the one. Someone knows something, and I want you to find that someone.”
Nick swallowed hard, sending a glance toward the guard standing by the door at Sam’s back. “The cops are watching me, you know.”
“You know how to get around them. I taught you myself. Now get going. Check out the girl’s family, her friends, people she worked with, old boyfriends. Find out if there really is a body. You follow me?”
“Yeah.”
Sam Russo’s philosophy was simple: every man had his price. “You got money. Pay for information. Find that someone. You got to find the girl, dead or alive. Without her, they got nothing.”
Looking into Sam’s fiery eyes, Nick nodded. “I will.” He had to find her and spring Sam. His brother wasn’t handling prison well. Sam had practically raised Nick after their parents had died. He owed Sam, big-time. “You can count on me.”
“I am, little brother.” Sam dropped his voice even further. “And if you find her alive, you know what to do, right?”
For the first time, Nick smiled. “Yeah, I know what to do.”
It was a lovely day in San Diego, even though it was late afternoon and the end of October. Terry sat curled in a corner of the couch leaning her crossed arms on the back, looking out the third story window. It was the kind of day she’d like to have gone wandering down by the waterfront, to feed the gulls, do a little shopping, then stop at Anthony’s for lunch. Like she and Lynn used to do when they’d drive to California for weekends.
Terry swallowed around a huge lump in her throat and blinked back a fresh rush of tears. Her grief was like a prickly blanket she couldn’t shed. When would her emotions settle down? When would she be able to live with her losses?
She raised a hand to brush over her nubby hair. Her first day up since the facial surgery and she’d looked in the bathroom mirror. That had been a mistake. She looked like a damn scarecrow with frizz on her head and her face bandaged. The pain was still there, but she’d refused Sara’s offer of medication after dinner. She was sick and tired of being fuzzy-minded. It was better to be hurting some than be out of it all the time.
Terry glanced through the archway into the kitchen and saw that Sara was baking a pumpkin pie, which Terry had mentioned was her favorite. Sara was awfully nice and even George, sitting at the table playing his endless hands of solitaire, was kind to her. But she missed her family and her friends. She missed her life.
Turning back toward the window, she noticed a gauzy black witch figure hanging from one of the balconies across the way. Hard to believe it was almost Halloween, four weeks since the accident. She had no idea exactly where their motel was located, just that it was “somewhere in San Diego.” Federal agents liked to keep everyone in the dark. After trying to get information from them, Terry decided all of them, from Bob Jones to Sara and George, were obsessed with secrecy.
Just then, she felt more than heard something behind her and swung toward the door. She became peripherally aware of George suddenly in the archway, gun in hand, Sara right behind him. The man who stood in the doorway was tall and tan, wearing a navy three-piece suit, his hair clipped short. Terry blinked at Bob Jones, wondering why he’d entered so stealthily.
But no! Her frantic mind registered subtle differences. The man could have been a clone, but he was younger, leaner, harder. She saw no weapon in his hand, but nonetheless, she sank back into the couch, drawing her legs up close as a silent scream built in her throat.
“For Christ’s sake, Luke,” George said, returning his gun to his shoulder holster. “Did you have to scare us like that?”
Luke Tanner’s cool gray eyes took in the room, the girl with the bandaged face and the two agents by the kitchen. Slowly, he raised his hand and held up a small pick. “I got in with just this. No dead bolt. The chain wasn’t even on. I thought this place was supposed to be secure.”
George’s face turned red. “It’s broad daylight and we’re both here.”
Luke nodded toward the couch where Terry sat, trying to calm her breathing. “And if I’d been the wrong person, she’d be gone by now.” He set down the case he’d been carrying. He’d inspected the grounds before entering, checking everything out thoroughly. He couldn’t believe George Everly thought the place safe. “Get her packed up. This place is too accessible. Outdoor walkways all around, too easily scaled walls and cheap windows, to say nothing of flimsy locks.” He didn’t add that an agent who was more than a little careless hadn’t helped the situation, but he thought George got the picture.
“I’m not sure Terry should be moved,” Sara interjected, coming forward. “Her doctor comes over daily.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Luke said brusquely, settling the matter. “We leave in thirty minutes. Get her ready.” He turned to the door.
Annoyed, Sara’s mouth was a thin line. “Wouldn’t you like to at least be introduced?” she asked him, barely suppressing a trace of sarcasm.
Luke’s eyes were calm and as cool as the ocean on a winter day. “What I’d like is everyone’s cooperation. Sorry we can’t take the time for social amenities just now. George, step outside with me, please. Sara, I’ll be back as soon as I make a couple of calls.”
Awkwardly, George indicated the wall phone in the kitchen. “You can call from here.”
Luke glanced at the older man. “You’re absolutely certain that line is secure?” When George dropped his gaze instead of answering, Luke turned the knob. “I’ll be back in twenty-nine minutes.” He waited while George preceded him outside, then closed the door firmly.
Terry unclenched her hands and released a shaky breath. “Who in hell was that?” she asked.
Sara made a disgruntled sound. She respected Luke Tanner, but she didn’t always approve of his methods. However, if ever she had to go into the witness protection program, he’d be the one she’d want in charge of keeping her safe. “That, honey, is the new federal agent assigned to safeguard you.”
Lord help us all, she finished silently.
CHAPTER FIVE
She was sweating, anxious, frightened. Her heart was pounding and she could taste her own fear. She smelled gas fumes, felt a searing heat. The sound of metal ripping, crashing, burning invaded her ears, followed by a piercing scream. Was it her own? Then she was being wrenched forward, tossed in the air, landing hard. Sirens were screaming and she was wrapped in a blanket of red-hot pain.
With a start, Terry awoke, jerking upright, trying to escape the images behind her closed eyelids. The seat belt she was wearing stopped her progress, yanking her back, causing her to bump her head on the window. “Shit!” she muttered, gingerly touching the spot. That was all she needed, another bruise.
Still disoriented, she blinked, looking around, absorbing the eerie sensations of darkness and movement. Memory drifted back slowly. She was on the back couch seat of the gray van with tinted windows that was hurtling through the night toward what Senior Deputy Luke Tanner considered to be a safe house. A fortress complete with barred windows, barbed wire fencing, and two snarling dogs in all probability, she thought crossly.
Over her protests, Sara had given Terry her pain medication before they’d set out just as the sun dipped behind the shoreline. She’d struggled to stay awake, but the pill had tugged her under and she still felt groggy.
She saw that Luke was in the single seat behind the wheel, driving the way she’d imagined he would, with steely control. On the bench seat in front of her, Sara was asleep, snoring softly. Terry thought that she was certainly entitled, for in the week or so they’d been together, she’d scarcely seen the woman close her eyes.
Bending to retrieve the bottled water she’d tucked under the seat, Terry moved too swiftly and felt a sharp pain race along her shoulder. A groan she couldn’t prevent escaped from her.
“Are you all right?” Luke’s deep voice asked.
Terry glanced up at the rearview mirror and met his steady gaze. In the dim dash light, she saw that his eyes were the color of the old pewter candlesticks her mother had on the mantel. The look lasted mere seconds, but she felt the impact throughout her system.
