Dead to Rights

by Ellie Thornton

  “That she was killed over a painting?” Zak shook his head.

  “That’s not what I said. She saw a painting—I’m curious if you know anything about it.”

  Zak scratched his chin, then turned to Patrick. “Where’s Elizabeth?”

  Patrick pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “There.”

  “Hi,” Elizabeth said.

  “She says hi,” Patrick repeated. “In the last month or a little more, did you sell a painting with a pond, bridge, and lily pads?”

  “Yes, a Monet.” Zak glanced in Elizabeth’s direction. “A replication of a Monet—”

  “She knows what you do,” Patrick said. She’d guessed it on the cab ride from Zak’s studio to The Big Head. “Don’t lie.”

  Zak lowered his voice. “She’s a cop. Why would you tell her that?”

  “She’s a ghost,” Patrick said. “Who’s she going to warn? The ghost patrol? Who’d you sell the painting to? And don’t act like you don’t know. When you were reading that article, you saw something that told you it was a painting you sold. And this is me you’re talking to, so save us all time and don’t deny it.”

  Zak stared at his hands. “If I tell you, he’ll have me killed.”

  “Joseph Krauss?” Elizabeth guessed.

  Patrick repeated the name and Zak’s face drained of color. “He had her killed, didn’t he?”

  Patrick glanced down, the word “killed” hitting him like a fist to the gut. “He was involved.”

  “How is the painting involved?” Zak crossed his arms.

  Patrick sighed. “She was doing a sting operation. They were going to arrest Krauss and all the heads of their cartel, but she was shot. Before that, she saw the painting. You dropped the painting off in the building where she was shot, didn’t you?”

  Zak nodded. “Yes, but how does knowing that and seeing the painting help her?”

  “I’ve been wondering that myself,” Elizabeth said.

  Patrick held a hand up. “Everyone in the room was dead, except the person who shot her. And there was no painting on the evidence manifest.”

  “Okay?” Zak asked.

  Elizabeth turned to him, eyes wide. “You’re a genius. Whoever has the painting killed me.”

  Patrick nodded, but was quickly starting to hate the words killed and died and dead. He couldn’t even enjoy her compliment. “That’s the idea. But first, we need to be sure the police don’t have the painting.”

  “Does this mean our double date is cancelled?” Zak leaned into the sofa.

  The double date. Was it really his birthday already?

  “Double date?” Elizabeth tried to keep her face expressionless.

  “Are you jealous?” He smirked.

  “No! Of course not.” She turned her back.

  “Are you two flirting?” Zak asked, a pained expression on his face.

  “Yes,” Patrick said at the same time Elizabeth said, “No.”

  Patrick laughed.

  “Great,” Zak said. “First time he’s flirted in years, and he might as well be doing it with air.”

  Elizabeth glanced at him over her shoulder and frowned.

  He grinned. “Worry about my flirting proclivities once we figure this all out, will you?” Right now, figuring this mess out had to be their number one priority.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Cops hustled around the bullpen of the 35th precinct, walking suspects to and from interrogation, working their individual cases, and shouting across the room to one another. After yesterday, Patrick found he was a little nervous to walk back into the lion’s den. He knew why Brown didn’t like him, but the rest of the detectives seemed to think poorly of him as well, and it wasn’t just because their superior officer didn’t like him. It had to be the psychic thing. Most cops frowned on or were suspicious of anyone claiming to be a psychic, and rightfully so.

  It’d been lucky he’d had his ID issued by the FBI, or he probably wouldn’t have gotten past the officer at the front desk.

  Detective Lee sat at his desk across the bullpen. The desk across from his sat empty—Elizabeth’s. Keeping his head high, Patrick meandered across the floor as though he belonged.

  “If anyone sees you, it’s not going to be pretty,” Elizabeth said. “These are tough men and after yesterday—”

  “Let me worry about that,” he said.

  “Just hurry.”

  Lee stared intently at his computer and didn’t look up as Patrick pulled Elizabeth’s chair out and sat. Patrick kept his gaze on him and waited. Lee kept busy on his work—either ignoring him or so caught up he was completely oblivious. Patrick guessed the latter.

  Elizabeth stood by his side, surveying the room, her posture taut. Patrick thought she looked like she was about to take down a suspect—then immediately regretted he’d never get to see her in action. She’d probably been a great detective.

  Patrick cleared his throat.

  Lee glanced up and went back to his computer, then whipped his gaze back to him.

  “Hi.” Patrick waved.

  The muscles in Lee’s jaw clenched. He slid his rolling chair closer to his desk and to Patrick in the process. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m on your side.” Patrick raised his hands palms out. “I want to help.”

  “You can’t be here.” Lee glanced toward Brown’s office door.

  “We need to talk,” Patrick said. “Please.”

  Lee clenched his jaw and then gave one quick nod.

  Elizabeth followed behind Patrick as Lee led him in the direction of Interrogation Room Three. Out of the three rooms on this floor, it was the least trafficked. Lee opened the door and held it for Patrick to pass first. She rushed through before the door closed.

  Both men pulled one of the metal chairs out from the table and sat. Lee placed his hands on the table, clenched into fists. Patrick leaned back and crossed his legs. Neither spoke—just appraised one another.

  She stood at the head of the table, glancing from one to the other. “You can’t just jump in with him like you did with Zak. He requires more finesse.”

  Patrick’s gaze went to her face briefly and then dropped back to Lee. To her, the message was clear. He wanted her to butt out, and probably wanted to remind her she’d told him all this on the way here. But Lee was her partner, her friend, and she was nervous. As much as she’d come to like Patrick the last few days, he didn’t know Lee.

  “Ease him in,” she said.

  Lee’s dark gaze never left Patrick’s face, his stoic expression giving nothing away.

  Patrick started in. “Are you a superstitious man, Detective Lee?”

  Lee leaned back in his chair and rested one of his fists on his leg. “Did you come here to ask me that?”

  Patrick grinned. “Are you?”

  “He is,” Elizabeth said, “but he’d never admit it.”

  Once, almost two years ago, they’d investigated a girl who’d claimed to be a witch. Lee hadn’t wanted to go into her home, had constantly been looking over his shoulder, and had refused to give her his full name when she’d asked for it. Elizabeth didn’t think he’d ever been so glad to get off a case as he’d been on that one.

  “No,” Lee said.

  “Are you religious?” Patrick asked.

  “Are you?” Lee returned, calm as ever.

  Patrick shook his head. “No, but of late, I’m starting to rethink some of my preconceived notions.”

  Elizabeth stared at him, a happy little flutter forming in her chest.

  “Why’s that?” Lee asked.

  Patrick grinned. “I met a girl.”

  “Good for you.” Lee stood and headed for the door. “You should go talk to her. I don’t have time for this.”

  Elizabeth groaned. What had she been thinking? She’d known this wasn’t going to work.

  “I met Elizabeth,” Patrick said.

  “Patrick!” she hissed.

  Lee froze at the door, his hand hovering over
the knob. He turned to Patrick. “You don’t know Elizabeth. The night she—” Lee cleared his throat. “She’d never heard of you.”

  Patrick turned in his chair to face him. “I met her after that.”

  Lee crossed his arms; the muscles bulged against his sleeves. “Is that right?”

  Patrick nodded. “I met her last week.”

  Lee breathed out long and in deep. “Mr. Daley, the Feds may believe in your psychic abilities, but I don’t. And I don’t have time for this.”

  “I’ll prove it,” Patrick said. “You can talk to her.”

  Lee dropped his arms and took a step toward the table. “Let me talk to her? Like you let that woman at your show talk to her mom?”

  Patrick lowered his gaze almost imperceptibly. “No, not like that. That wasn’t real. I’m not a real psychic.”

  Elizabeth whipped her gaze to Patrick. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m a fraud,” he continued.

  “Patrick, he’ll never believe you now, and he’ll probably arrest you.” Elizabeth threw her hands in the air. “For crying out loud.”

  “Fraud?” Lee repeated.

  Patrick nodded. “Yes.”

  Elizabeth dropped her head to her hands. “You’re supposed to be good at this. How have you managed to stay in business all this time?”

  “Relax, woman.” Patrick glanced at her.

  “Don’t ‘relax, woman’ me.” She signaled to Lee. “We need his help, and you just ruined our chances.”

  Patrick signaled to Lee. “He’s still here, isn’t he?”

  Lee’s gaze narrowed. “I suppose that’s her you’re talking to?”

  Patrick signaled to her with his hand flat and pointed in her direction. “And arguing with me. She thinks for a successful fraud, I stink at it.”

  “Mr. Daley,” Lee said. “I’m not going to ask you again. Leave, or I’ll arrest you.” He headed for the door again.

  “I told you!” Elizabeth said.

  Patrick looked at her. “Tell me something about him only you would know.”

  Panic welled inside her. “He has a scar on his left butt cheek.”

  Patrick turned to Lee. “You have a scar on your left—” Patrick shook his head and faced her. “Wait, how do you know that?”

  Lee turned around again. “What?”

  “I was there when he was shot,” Elizabeth said.

  “She was there when you were shot,” Patrick said.

  “Everyone in the station knows that,” Lee said, but they seemed to have his full attention now.

  She bit her thumbnail. “Right. After he was released from the hospital, the guys were making fun of him for getting shot there, and he mooned them all. Thankfully I wasn’t there for it, but someone took a picture and his scar and butt cheeks were taped all over the bullpen for weeks. I know more about that man’s butt than I ever wanted to.”

  Patrick closed his eyes for a second. “I need something only you would know.”

  “He hates witches.”

  Patrick pursed his lips. “You hate witches?”

  Lee crossed his arms. “Who doesn’t?”

  Patrick rolled his hand around as if asking for more.

  Elizabeth paced the floor—she knew him better than just about anyone. There had to be something. Lee’s gaze darted between Patrick and where Patrick was looking at her. He made no move to leave, his mouth hung open.

  She wasn’t sure it was because he believed what was happening, but they were giving show enough. Maybe he was deciding whether Patrick was on drugs. On drugs… on drugs!

  She stopped in her tracks and turned to Daley. “The first time we found a dead body, it was of a teen girl—Karen Lewis—she’d overdosed.” It was after her case the two of them started getting close. It’d also been the first time they’d ever hugged.

  Patrick repeated her words, and Lee’s eyes widened.

  “For months after we closed that case, Lee dreamed about a white dragon and the number four. He thought it was bad luck and one of us was going to get killed. He saw the number four everywhere—apparently, in Chinese, it sounds like their word for ‘death.’ He never told anyone that but me.”

  Patrick told Lee what she’d said, then added, “That’s an interesting dream. Isn’t white symbolic of death in Chinese culture?”

  “Yes. The white dragon is symbolic of death and rebirth. It was an omen.” Lee sat. “She is here, isn’t she?”

  Patrick nodded. “She is.”

  Lee scrubbed a hand over his face and cussed under his breath.

  A lump formed in Elizabeth’s throat. He believed. “My brothers,” she choked out. “Ask him about my brothers.”

  Patrick leaned on the table. “She wants to know about her brothers.”

  “They’re safe—in protective custody.” Lee glanced around.

  Patrick pointed to where she stood.

  Lee faced her. “I don’t know what you remember or know from that night. The Tourneau brothers, Wood, and Krauss are all dead, along with a few of their lackeys. They were gunned down.”

  Patrick glanced at her.

  Elizabeth nodded, remembering the bodies she’d seen and now, suddenly, their faces. It had been those men.

  “She knows,” Patrick said.

  “After that night, several of the lesser members tried to take over,” Lee continued. “We don’t know who shot those men or you, but thought it’d be safer to get your brothers out of here until the civil war ends. They’ve rounded up most of the remaining influencers. That’s all I know. We don’t have the case anymore.”

  Elizabeth sucked in a breath. That’s what Lee had been keeping from Patrick yesterday.

  “What happened?” Patrick asked.

  Lee shook his head. “Assistant DA Striker recommended it be reassigned to another precinct because of how close all of us are to the case. I don’t blame her—we’re all pretty sure this was an inside job, so it made sense to transfer it. We don’t know who’s dirty.”

  “Why do you think it was an inside job?” Patrick laced his hands together.

  “Whoever killed those men was able to do so and get out before we got there—that wasn’t luck,” Lee said.

  “I agree,” Patrick said.

  “What do you need from me?” Lee asked.

  “Elizabeth saw a painting before she was…” Patrick fidgeted in his seat. “Do you know what happened to it?”

  “A painting?” Lee furrowed his brow. “I never saw a painting, but I was more focused on Shea and getting her to the hospital. Have you looked at the evidence manifest?”

  “Yesterday, before your boss kicked me out,” Patrick said. “It wasn’t on there. Can we ask the team that has the case?”

  “We don’t know who has it,” Lee said. “But I know who does know. Striker. This is supposed to be a career-making case for her. If anyone knows what’s going on, or about a painting, it’ll be her. She’ll be hard to get to, though. She’s been refusing to talk to anyone from our precinct.”

  Elizabeth turned to Patrick and made eye contact, his blue-green gaze boring into her. “We’ve got to talk to her.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Patrick said. “I have contacts. We will.”

  They were getting close now. Soon they’d know what happened to the painting, and after that, they’d find who’d killed her. And she equally wanted and feared it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A weasel of a little man sat at the reception desk in front of Stephanie Striker’s office door. His suit coat hung loosely on his shoulders, and his nose was too pert for a man’s. Patrick stopped at the desk.

  The Weasel peered up at him and straightened his little spine as he stuck his chin in the air. “Can I help you?”

  “Patrick Daley to see Stephanie Striker.”

  The Weasel turned his attention to his keyboard and tapped each key slowly and with only his index fingers—making no acknowledgment of what Patrick said.

  Elizabeth shoved her ha
nds in her front jean pockets. “Isn’t he a bundle of joy?”

  Patrick grinned.

  “Ah, here you are,” Weasel said, his voice, unfortunately stuffy-sounding, making the rodent in him even more pronounced. “Take a seat; she’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Patrick didn’t bother responding, only headed to a chair across from the desk. The Weasel whined about something under his breath, but Patrick only heard “ungrateful.” It took all his self-control not to hypnotize him into a better personality. He didn’t think Elizabeth would approve, or that it would make the kind of impression on Striker he was going for.

  From what Elizabeth had told him yesterday after seeing Lee, Striker was harder than ring toss at the circus. And from what he’d seen in her picture, he believed it. It probably wasn’t going to help that Patrick had talked William into lying for him and telling her the Feds were taking over the case and wanted to set up a meeting with her.

  She’d had to clear a spot to get him in today. If the reception from her weasel was anything to go by, the rescheduling hadn’t been easy. Still, they’d gotten in and only a day later from when William had called. Patrick had been grateful for that, simply because Elizabeth was on edge.

  She sat in a chair next to him, her hands laced in front of her and her legs bouncing in place. He reached over to rest his hand on her leg, then remembered he couldn’t touch her. He lifted his hand and squeezed it into a fist before straightening his fingers.

  His inability to touch her was becoming increasingly difficult, especially when he could feel her so strongly beside him, sending tingles through his entire body. Even feet away, he could feel her now. Albeit less pronounced but still. Her there-ness was getting stronger.

  He turned to her. “Relax—it’s going to be fine. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Right,” she said. The bouncing continued.

  He rolled his eyes. “I am good at it.”

  She nodded. “I believe you.”

  “Then stop bouncing your legs. You’re driving me crazy.” And not just because it was obnoxious, or because of the tingles, but because if he were any more aware of her and her constant presence and proximity, and unable to touch her, he was sure he would lose his mind. It was torture. Pure and simple.