Line of Duty

by V. K. Powell

  She stopped near the doorway of another consulting room and peered inside. Dylan was slumped forward in a chair with her hands clasped between her knees. Her long chestnut hair hung around her pale face like a veil.

  “Mind if I join you?” Dylan didn’t respond. Didn’t seem to notice her. After the way she’d behaved earlier, she should probably keep walking, but she’d promised to apologize, again. “Dylan?”

  “Yeah?” She didn’t look up.

  “Dylan, are you okay?”

  “Of course.”

  When Dylan finally looked at Finley, her eyes were dark with the kind of pain that came from the soul. She’d seen it in her father. Finley was no good with emotions because she couldn’t fix them. She should leave, but instead she sat down across from Dylan. “You’re not okay. Should I get Ben?”

  “No, she’s got enough on her hands. I’ll be fine. Just leave me alone.”

  “I can’t.” Finley placed her hands cautiously over Dylan’s, expecting her to pull away. When she didn’t, Finley felt surprisingly calm and concerned—not at all the customary arousal of touching a beautiful woman.

  “There’s nothing you can do. Please, go be with your coworkers. They need you.”

  “Dylan, let me—”

  “What’s going on?” A tall nurse with short curly red hair stood at the door, her gaze honed in on their joined hands. “Dylan, are you all right?”

  Finley released her grasp and stood. “She’s upset.”

  “I’ve got this, Officer. Thanks.”

  Finley started to leave but stopped in the doorway and watched as Dylan ran into the nurse’s arms. The trust and comfort they shared was obvious. When the nurse hugged Dylan, Finley wished it could’ve been her.

  “I can only imagine the memories this shooting has dredged up for you,” the nurse said.

  “They’re never far from the surface, but today I saw firsthand what my sisters face and what it must’ve been like for…” She glanced toward Finley and stopped.

  “I’m sorry,” Finley said. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Are you sure I can’t help?”

  “You’ll only make things worse,” the nurse said as she closed the door in Finley’s face.

  Chapter Six

  Finley stopped by McDonald’s for Robin’s favorite fish sandwich before arriving at her house just after midnight. He’d fallen asleep on the sofa, refusing to be alone in a bedroom. She glanced down at his ten-year-old frame dwarfed under the heavy black-and-white Sherpa blanket, relieved his face was finally free of worry and fear. Could she have done something more? She didn’t know about parenting, but everybody needed food, sleep, and a safe place. She prayed it was enough.

  She tucked the blanket tighter around Robin and pulled up the BOLO for the second shooter, Jeremy Spencer, on her phone. The resemblance to his brother, Josh, Shea’s father, was obvious. She’d never forget either of them—the curve of their noses, the high foreheads, black hair, and the hate in their eyes as they’d fired bullets into the crowd and her best friend. She tiptoed into the kitchen and dialed her cell. “What’s going on out there, Sarge?” she whispered.

  “Nothing new on the other suspect yet, Fin.”

  “I should be searching with you guys, but—”

  “You’re doing Hank more of a service by taking care of his boy. You’ll be back with us soon enough. I’ll keep you updated. Get some rest while you can.”

  Finley hung up and paced the living room, circling in front of the fireplace, through the open kitchen and dining room and back, glancing at Robin with each pass. His sandy blond hair stuck out from under the cover, and he looked peaceful snuggled in the blanket. She was anything but. Being here set her teeth on edge. Too many bad memories threatening to overwhelm—mother slamming out the front door for the last time; father in the worn brown recliner in the corner drowning his pain in a bottle of booze; and her, huddled in her bedroom trying to muffle his agonized sobs.

  She forced herself to think about something else. Dylan. Why had she been so upset about the station shooting? She’d probably seen more injured people than Finley ever would, but she’d been physically and emotionally shaken. The redheaded nurse who held and comforted her obviously knew the reason. Maybe one day Finley would have a chance to ask Dylan.

  “Forget about Dylan.” Dylan Carlyle, of the police-royalty Carlyles, would never be interested in her, especially not after how they’d met.

  Then full awareness hit her—those Carlyles. The Carlyle building was named for Dylan’s grandfather and father, Garrett and Bryce Carlyle, who had both been killed in the line of duty. Every year during National Police Week, Finley heard their names. When she visited the station’s community room, she saw the plaques dedicated to them. No wonder Dylan had been upset. She must think Finley horribly dense and insensitive. And she’d be right. Emotional situations were messy, defied logic and easy solutions. Finley avoided them whenever possible.

  Robin tossed fitfully in his sleep, and Finley eased onto the end of the sofa and lifted his feet onto her lap. “You’re all right, buddy. I’ve got you.” She rubbed his legs gently until he quieted and then rested her head back against the sofa and closed her eyes.

  * * *

  Dylan cranked Abba’s “Dancing Queen” up on her iPhone and twirled around the cottage while she dressed the next morning, hoping it would improve her mood. The extreme highs and lows, followed by melancholy, of the attack at Fairview Station had robbed her of sleep. She felt sluggish and distracted as she thought about her siblings. Her sisters and brother had chosen challenging and dangerous jobs, just like her father and grandfather. Maybe the whole family were adrenaline junkies. She got her rush after the carnage, piecing people back together, but it still provided the need for immediate, focused effort.

  “Dylan, honey?” G-ma’s voice barely pierced the music through her earbuds.

  She tapped her phone and everything went eerily quiet. “Yes?”

  “May I come in?” G-ma stood tentatively in the doorway, dressed in a pair of coveralls with butterfly designs, and her gray windblown hair stuck out at odd angles.

  “G-ma, you never have to ask.” She stepped into her grandmother’s arms and held on. “How did you know I needed to see you right now?”

  G-ma returned the hug and guided her to the sofa. “Because I know my girls. Music therapy isn’t working this morning, is it?” She eased Dylan back to arm’s length and made eye contact, and Dylan shook her head. “So, how’re you holding up?”

  Dylan’s eyes filled with tears at the concern in G-ma’s voice and she let them fall. She couldn’t hide anything from G-ma anyway. “Yesterday was too close to home. I saw firsthand what my siblings face on the job, and it rattled me. I’m sure everybody feels the same, maybe for different reasons, but the whole family was in danger this time. We could’ve been wiped out, along with everyone else there, if those guys were better shots and had automatic weapons.”

  “And?” G-ma probed deeper.

  “It reminded us all of things we’d rather forget. G-pa killed by a gunman when a domestic went horribly wrong, and Papa ambushed by an armed burglar.” She brushed her cheeks and sniffed back another burst of tears.

  “Yes, police officers and firefighters have dangerous jobs, but public service is what we do. And we always get through the challenges, good and bad. We’re Carlyles.” G-ma glanced around the room, her green eyes searching for the same thing every time she visited—her son’s Lucite encased police badge.

  “I haven’t unpacked it since I moved into the cottage, but I want to display it in my home, someday.”

  “When you’re ready, honey.”

  “It’s been eighteen years since Papa died, G-ma. Will I ever be ready? He was my father.” She sucked in a sharp breath as the selfishness of her grief registered. “And your son. I’m sorry, G-ma. I can’t imagine what it’s like for you, losing your husband and only son.”

  G-ma kissed her cheek. “It’s hard on the whole fam
ily, honey. This thing at the station has rattled us all, but we’ll be okay as long as we have each other. Do you want to spend a couple of nights at the house with us? Your mama and I love girls’ nights.”

  “I’ll think about it. I’m off today, but when I start back to work, I’ll be fine. Not so much time to think. Ben and Jazz have already texted, and Mama came by earlier. Everybody’s looking after me, as usual.” She loved that her family was so protective, most of the time, but she’d asked for the cottage out back so she could take care of herself and establish more independence, while weaning off slowly. She still needed her family and would never break from them completely.

  G-ma stood and hugged Dylan again. “If you need to talk, you know where we are. I love you, baby. See you at brunch.”

  “I’m going in to check on Hank, the injured officer, but I’ll be back.” Tears stung Dylan’s eyes again as G-ma headed for the door. “Thanks, G-ma. I love you.”

  Dylan dressed in a pair of jeans and a blue checked blouse and drove to the hospital. On the way, she wondered if a few nights with her mother and grandmother might be exactly what she needed. She parked and headed for Hank Hinson’s room so she could update Ben and Jazz, the second reason for their early texts.

  Two officers were posted across from each other in the hallway of the ICU floor, one to monitor people going in Hank’s room and as a sign of respect, and another across the hall to keep the suspect in his room since he was technically under arrest. She stopped by the nurses’ station and got updates on both patients before heading to Hank’s room first. According to the overnight staff, surgery to mend Hank’s femoral artery had been successful, he’d rested during the night, and was progressing well. Dylan peeped into the dimly lit room, and Hank’s eyes were closed, so she tiptoed in for a visual check and to listen to his breathing and check the monitors for herself. She sent a quick text to her sisters and started across the hall.

  When she entered the shooter’s room, the privacy curtain was drawn and she heard angry whispering. “Where is your damn brother, Spencer? Tell me.”

  Dylan pulled back the curtain, and Finley Masters straightened beside the bed. The curtain stirred the air around them, and Dylan caught a whiff of Finley’s tantalizing cologne and pulled it deeply into her lungs. Finley’s jeans and flannel shirt looked fresh, but her eyes were bloodshot and shuttered as she clutched the bedrail. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to get information.”

  “You shouldn’t be here.” The neurologist had induced a coma to facilitate healing, and Spencer needed rest to recover. “You can’t question him, even if you were on the case, which I’m pretty sure you’re not, at least not officially.”

  Finley moved closer. “What’s with you? Yesterday you chose to help this would-be cop killer over one of our own, and today you won’t let me do my job.”

  Dylan waved toward the unconscious man on the bed. “Hello. He’s in a coma.” Cops were relentless predators when one of their own was hurt, stopping at nothing until they caught the suspects. But they also made mistakes from being tired, pushing too hard, and bypassing laws and protocols in the name of closure and not-so-subtle revenge for a fellow officer.

  Finley looked between Dylan and Spencer, her brows crunching closer together. “I thought he was sleeping or medicated. But I’m not really trying to interview him, just find out where his brother is. I couldn’t take a formal statement in his current condition anyway. It would be illegal and never hold up in court. A coma, huh?”

  “Slowing brain function allows time to heal, reduces swelling, and lowers but doesn’t cut off blood flow to damaged areas.” Dylan nodded toward the door. “You’re not allowed in here, and questioning is totally off limits until his condition improves. Understood?” They stepped outside, and Dylan glared at the officer guarding the door. “No other visitors, police or otherwise, unless cleared by his doctor.”

  The officer nodded sheepishly at Dylan. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “My fault entirely,” Finley said with a heavy sigh. She looked like she was about to collapse.

  Dylan steered her to a chair near the nurses’ station and squatted beside her. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

  “Not much. Robin had nightmares and woke up a lot. He needs his mother, or somebody better at parenting than I am. The wildfires in California delayed Becky’s flight, so who knows when she’ll get here.” Finley swept a hand through her blond hair and then tugged on the chain at her neck.

  “And you want to go back to work and search for the other suspect,” Dylan said.

  “Yeah, I want to be out there. Hank was my training coach and now he’s my best friend. I have to catch this guy, but my primary responsibility right now is to his son.”

  Dylan felt a wave of admiration for Finley. She was desperate for the hunt, but she put loyalty and duty to family first, an endearing quality Dylan hadn’t expected. “Good for you. And where is Robin now?”

  “Asleep in the waiting room at the end of the hall. He wanted to be near his dad. A nice older lady waiting for her husband to come out of surgery is watching him while I—”

  “Yeah, I got that part. If his mother doesn’t make it home tonight, let him sleep in his own bed, if you have access. It might help.”

  “Good idea. Thanks.” Finley lowered her head but looked up at Dylan through thick lashes. “I really want to interview this guy. When he wakes up, maybe you could let me know?”

  “That’s not my call, Finley. I’m not his doctor. And you’re not on the case, are you?” Police procedure didn’t allow best friends to investigate each other’s cases, nevertheless they still worked them—just without authorization. Dylan was certain Finley wouldn’t stop.

  “Not officially, but the captain said I could ask questions and nose around. We both want the same thing, Dylan, to do our jobs, be the best. Am I right?”

  “Is that a trick question? My job requires that I consider the patient’s health first and foremost, even if justice takes a back seat.” Finley wouldn’t trick her into giving an inch so she could take a mile. Other officers had tried to play her, but she knew their tricks.

  Dylan wondered if Finley was mounting another argument as she rubbed the back of her neck and stretched her shoulders, but Dylan spoke first. “Why don’t you go home and rest? You look exhausted.”

  “I won’t rest until Becky gets here. I need to explain what happened and make sure she and Robin are okay. Maybe after…after we catch the other guy.”

  “Fine, then we better get some coffee in you if you insist on staying upright.”

  Before Finley could respond, Robin ran down the hallway yelling. “Daddy. Daddy.”

  Finley jumped up and sprinted toward him, falling to her knees and sliding to a stop in front of him. “What’s wrong, buddy? Are you okay?”

  “I dreamed…my…daddy was…dead. Is he dead, Fin?” Robin asked through tears. He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of the Carolina sweatshirt he’d worn yesterday.

  “No, pal. He’s just sleeping.”

  Dylan watched the exchange with awe and disbelief. Was this the same woman who’d been so casual about having sex in an on-call room two days ago? The same woman who’d put herself in harm’s way for her friend and his son? Beneath her cavalier persona and bravado, Finley Masters actually cared. Her concern for Robin was palpable, and it stole Dylan’s breath.

  “Are you sure?” Robin sucked back a sniffle.

  “Totally, dude. I looked in on him a few minutes ago.” Finley’s voice dropped to a gentle whisper and she slowly rubbed Robin’s back.

  “Can I see him?”

  When Finley glanced up at her, Dylan offered them her hands. “Why don’t we check on your dad, Robin?” Both of them squeezed Dylan’s hands as they walked, and her heart ached for their pain. Finley could be frustrating and reckless, but right now she and Robin were like lost children who needed comfort and reassurance, and Dylan couldn’t deny them.

  She reluct
antly released Finley’s hand, pushed open the door, and waved them both inside Hank’s room. The dim light meant to facilitate sleep made Hank’s color seem too pale and unhealthy, so Dylan upped the level as Finley and Robin got closer to the bed.

  Robin sniffled. “He looks…so white. Like a ghost.”

  Finley knelt beside Robin, took his hand, and placed it on top of Hank’s. “He lost a lot of blood, but he’s still very much alive and warm. Feel.”

  “Yeah,” Robin said uncertainly. “But what are all those tubes and wires for?”

  To the ten-year-old, the ICU probably seemed like a terrifying place. Dylan stepped closer to the bed. “These,” she pointed to the tubes from the IV bag, “are replacing the fluids your father lost so he can get stronger. The wires are connected to a heart monitor. If anything is off, a very loud alarm will sound, and the nurse will be here immediately to check on him. All this stuff just looks scary, but it’s really helping him. He’s doing very well, Robin.”

  “Okay. Can I kiss him?”

  “Of course, you can, buddy,” Finley said. She picked Robin up under the arms and held him closer to Hank so he could kiss his father’s cheek.

  “I love you, Daddy,” Robin whispered.

  Dylan moved toward the door to give Robin and Finley privacy and lowered the lights again. While she waited, she made a split-second decision, and when they joined her, she asked, “Do you guys want to come to brunch with me?” Finley studied her hard for several seconds, as if trying to decide if she was serious.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Finley said. “Isn’t Sunday mealtime like a big deal at your house? I’d hate to intrude.”

  “So, you’ve heard about the famous Carlyle family brunches.” She grinned and stooped to Robin’s level. “You met my niece and nephew at the fair yesterday. Remember? They have a cool gaming system.”

  Robin’s eyes brightened and he pulled on Finley’s arm. “Can we, Fin? Please?”

  Finley glanced between the two of them. Was she just worried about imposing on a family tradition? No doubt Robin would have fun and be distracted from the trauma of yesterday for a while, but what about Finley? Was she thinking the same thing Dylan was—how she’d explain bringing Finley home for brunch? Would the family assume she and Finley were an item?