Dead to Rights

by Ellie Thornton

  As much as Patrick craved being near her, he’d left her in the living room by herself last night and had gone to his room to sleep. He needed space. It’d about killed him to separate from her, knowing that soon she’d be gone for good. He was becoming too attached and starting to fear what would happen to him when she left. He was out of his drunken, self-pitying haze, and he couldn’t go back to that. Still, he’d needed to think.

  He had no intention of going back, but it hadn’t been his intention to go off the rails after Katelyn had died.

  “Sorry.” She held her legs still and lifted her thumb to chew on her nail.

  He chuckled. She was infuriating and lovely all at once. A combination that had evaded him since Katelyn’s death. All right, it wasn’t a mystery why he’d never seen it. He’d kept pretty well to himself, and when he’d been out doing his shows, the only women who’d hit on him had been less than thrilling—throwing themselves at him, not offering anything exceptional, interesting, or to be earned.

  He’d been spoiled from such a young age with Katelyn that he’d never been into easy women. Sure, he could appreciate an attractive woman—mostly from a distance. Katelyn and one other that had come as a surprise. The woman in question bounced her legs again.

  What really turned him on was a clever mind, quick wit, and a will made of iron. And the only two women he’d ever really been attracted to had those qualities in spades.

  “She’s a great attorney. She’s slated to be the next DA.” Elizabeth pushed a lock of hair behind her ears, but refused to look at him. She was nervous. “Who knows? She may already be on the fast track, depending on what’s happening with the Tourneau case. Just don’t be too argumentative, but don’t be too friendly either. She’ll see right through that.” She gestured wide with her hand.

  He leaned away from the motion. “Breathe.”

  “Why do you keep telling me to do that? I don’t have lungs.”

  Exasperating woman. “Maybe not, but your mind remembers what’s supposed to happen when you do it. Most calming techniques are more about the mind than anything else, and clearly yours is still intact. Would you just—”

  She made a show of breathing in deep and exhaling, lifting and lowering her shoulders for emphasis. “Happy?”

  “Keep going. Breathe in, one… two… breathe out, three… four… five.” He repeated this a couple more times until she stopped bouncing. “Everything is going to be fine.”

  “Patrick Daley?” a female voice called from the door behind the desk with The Weasel.

  Patrick and Elizabeth looked up at the same time.

  Stephanie Striker came waltzing out in a black pencil skirt and strappy red kitten heels—the look accentuated her long legs and tall frame. Her white blonde hair was curled in ringlets and hung from a ponytail over her shoulder.

  “Whoa?” Elizabeth blurted. “You two going on a date?”

  “I don’t know, am I?” He jumped to his feet and took Striker’s proffered hand with a grin. “Assistant DA Striker, I presume?”

  She smiled, her red lipstick making her teeth look pearly white, and making her look fierce.

  Patrick swallowed. This wasn’t the look someone chose for a meeting about a murder—this was the look you chose to make an impression.

  “Please, call me Stephanie.” She loosened her tight grip and signaled to her office. “This way, Mr. Daley.”

  “Patrick.”

  She quirked her lips up on one side and led the way. Elizabeth chased after them, taking two steps for every one of Striker’s.

  The Weasel glared as Patrick passed—he was jealous. That didn’t bode well. Patrick sighed and took his seat, preparing himself for what he was sure to come. Striker closed the door behind them and, instead of going around to her chair opposite his, sat in the one right next to him. Elizabeth had taken it and scurried up before Striker could sit on her.

  Patrick chuckled under his breath.

  Striker crossed her legs and rested her finely manicured hands on her knees. “I understand you’re a consultant with the FBI?”

  “More like I’m the consultant.” Patrick gave a quick side glance in Elizabeth’s direction as she took a seat on Striker’s desk, trying and failing to come off nonchalant, and grinned again. “Not to say they don’t consult with others. I’m just the best.”

  “Hubris?” Striker smiled.

  “Not at all.”

  She nodded. “I believe you. The FBI is particular about who they consult with, plus I’ve read up on you. Apparently, you’ve helped to close every case you’ve worked on?”

  He smirked. “I fill a need.”

  “And that’s why you’re here, is it?” She smiled. “To fill a need?”

  He turned toward her and crossed his legs. “I suppose that depends on whether or not you can impress me.”

  She raised a brow. “In that case, I better try harder.”

  Elizabeth scoffed. “Of all the ridiculous …”

  Striker continued, “Drink? We have coffee, tea, water—”

  “Hot chocolate?”

  “A drink and an indulgence all in one—I’ll have one too.” She stood and went to her phone, making Elizabeth once again vacate her spot.

  “Yeesh.” Elizabeth came to stand behind him.

  “Thomas, could you get me two hot chocolates?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Weasel said.

  “Why are you asking for hot chocolate, anyway?” Elizabeth snipped. “Lee’s waiting outside for us, and if anyone sees him or you leaving with him—”

  Patrick shushed her with a finger to his lips as Striker turned back around. He relished the way Elizabeth’s lips pursed together, and her jaw clenched. She was adorable when she was angry. He’d have to remember that later.

  Striker leaned against the spot Elizabeth had just vacated. “I have a confession.” She rested her hands at either side of her hips and leaned forward slightly—enough to let her blouse drop a little and provide a peek-a-boo view.

  Elizabeth huffed beside him. He doubted she could see what he was seeing of Striker from her higher vantage point, but she didn’t like where this conversation was going.

  He couldn’t say he disagreed with her. “Oh?” he asked.

  “I looked you up yesterday.”

  Elizabeth threw her hands up. “So what? I’d have done the same thing. It’s always good to prepare before you meet someone.”

  “I’m sorry about your wife.” Striker strummed the fingers of her right hand against her desk.

  Patrick’s smile dropped a little. This kind of line was easier to buy from people who actually knew him and possibly cared, but this woman didn’t know the first thing about him. No, she was digging. “Thank you.”

  “How’d it happen? I didn’t see anything in my search.” She moved away from the desk and made her way back to the chair next to him.

  “Cancer.”

  “I can’t imagine how awful that must have been.” Striker tilted her head. She was trying to throw him off. Make him uncomfortable.

  “My wife isn’t the reason we’re having this meeting,” he said.

  “You want to know about the Tourneau Cartel case.” Striker clasped her hands together.

  He nodded once. “That is why they pay me the big bucks. You have to understand, Ms. Striker—”

  “Stephanie.”

  “Stephanie, I’m not here to help with this case; I’m here because the men I work for want to know if they should take it over.”

  In Patrick’s peripheral vision, Elizabeth fidgeted with her shirt and then her hair. “Don’t lay it on too thick—she’s used to that in this line of business.” She was speaking from experience.

  Not that it mattered. It may be the truth in most cases, but not here. This woman was all about business. It was easy to tell from her cold yet serviceable furniture, the awards she’d placed strategically behind her desk with all her law books to ensure anyone who came in would see them, and her lack of any kind of h
omey decoration. There was not a photo, painting, plant, or anything remotely telling of her personality. Anywhere.

  This was not the kind of woman who flirted on the job, yet here she was, batting her lashes as she flattered him.

  Striker leaned closer to him. “Tell me, Patrick. What is it you do for the FBI, exactly? I read online that you’re a psychic.”

  “I am.”

  She chuckled. “You don’t expect me to buy that, do you?”

  “Whether or not you do is your own business. My job isn’t to convince you but to assess the situation.”

  She leaned against the backrest of her chair; her arm draped over the side of it. “All right, fair enough. The case is in good hands now that we’ve taken it from the 35th Precinct.”

  Elizabeth took a step forward. “What’s that supposed to mean? Ask her what she means by that.”

  Patrick was careful to keep a neutral expression. “You don’t think they did a good job?”

  “Lord, no. Look at the facts.” She ticked them off with her fingers. “They botched their sting, got there in time to see the heads of the cartel bleed out from gunshot wounds given by an assailant that slipped through their fingers, one of their detectives was shot, and the cartel went into a full-on civil-war mode. I’m amazed any of them still have jobs.”

  “Hang on, now!” Elizabeth rested her hands on her hips. “There were extenuating circumstances.”

  “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?” He held his grin.

  Striker lowered her chin a little. “You either have it, or you don’t. They were way out of their league with this one.”

  “But you aren’t?”

  The Weasel came in with the drinks being careful to hand Striker hers first. The smile on his face when he handed Patrick his was enough to convince Patrick not to drink it. As the man made his way from the office, Patrick set his cup on the glass table between the two chairs where they sat.

  “No case is ever out of my league,” Striker said.

  Patrick uncrossed his legs. “So your thought process is we should leave the case with you?”

  “No one knows this case better than me. In fact, we’re making a pickup tomorrow morning.”

  “What pickup?”

  She nodded. “The shooter.”

  “What?” Elizabeth stepped closer to the woman.

  Patrick scooted forward in his seat. “You know who it is?”

  “My C.I. contacted me this morning; he’s a hundred percent sure,” Striker said.

  “Who?” Patrick and Elizabeth said together.

  She shook her head. “As much as I would love to tell you, Patrick, you know I can’t. It would put my guy in danger. It has to stay between the officers on the case and me. You understand.”

  “I’d like to talk to your C.I., ensure he’s telling the truth,” Patrick said.

  “No can do. He speaks to no one but me. He trusts no one but me. He’s a private person.” She took a swig from her hot chocolate and then set the cup next to his. “So you see, we have it under control. Tomorrow we make the arrest, and tonight…” She leaned forward and touched his knee with the tips of her fingers. “…tonight we celebrate.”

  A harried intake of breath came from beside him. Patrick held Striker’s gaze, regardless. “Is that an invitation?”

  “Absolutely. I’m in a good mood and would love the company of a charming man.” She winked.

  “Ugh,” Elizabeth said. “She doesn’t even know you. Your charm is not what she’s after. Let’s get out of here. This is pointless.”

  Patrick ignored the cold freeze slowly zipping through his veins and leaned forward. “When and where?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Elizabeth fumed as Striker wrote her address and phone number on a sticky note and handed it to Patrick. He kissed the paper and stuck it in his pocket.

  “I’ll see you at eight o’clock.” He winked, then sauntered out of her office.

  Elizabeth rushed past him. At the elevators, she jabbed at the down button, only to have her hand go through the panel. Patrick said nothing as he approached and pushed it for her. The flirty smile he’d been wearing was gone, replaced by a tight jaw and pinched brow. What was he doing, accepting her invitation? Was he mad?

  In the elevator, she stood behind him with her arms crossed and her toe tapping. Not that it made any noise, but she felt better for doing it.

  When the number pinged on the third floor, she couldn’t hold it in any longer. She had to say something before they reached Lee and it became even more awkward than it already was.

  She moved in front of him and pointed up. “What was that? You didn’t even bother to ask about the painting. Wasn’t that the whole reason we were there? I mean, I thought that was the reason, but apparently, it was so you could get yourself a date.” She hadn’t meant to sound so upset, but her words became more acidic as she spoke.

  Patrick clenched his jaw and narrowed his gaze. She didn’t like this look on him—this anger. It didn’t suit him, and it kind of freaked her out. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The door pinged open on the main floor. Lee stood in the lobby and headed their way.

  “Then why don’t you enlighten me?”

  He rushed from the elevator and her and right past Lee.

  “What happened?” Lee asked.

  Patrick spun on his heel, and in a harsh tone he kept low, he said, “That woman is a stone-cold killer. She shot those men, she shot Elizabeth, and I’d bet good money our missing painting is at her house.”

  Lee pulled it together faster than she did and asked, “How do you know that?”

  “We have to get a search warrant.” Patrick was still refusing to look at her. “Can we do that?”

  Elizabeth stepped forward. “On what premise? Your word? That’s not how this works.”

  Lee stepped closer to him, keeping his voice down. “No judge would give us a search warrant on an Assistant DA without substantial evidence. Do you have evidence?”

  Patrick breathed out and looked down. “She invited me to her home tonight. If I saw the painting, could verify it was the real one, would that be enough to get a search warrant?”

  “You’re sure your friend delivered it to the same building on the same day the shooting happened?” Lee asked.

  Patrick nodded.

  Elizabeth wasn’t entirely convinced. “Zak wasn’t positive, remember? He had to check his records. If he’s one day off, it would be a foot in the door Striker needs for reasonable doubt. She could say she’d acquired it the day before. If she still has it. Without my testimony the painting was there the night I was shot, you’d all be up the river without a paddle.”

  “What’s your plan?” Lee asked.

  Patrick glanced around and stared at something in the distance. Elizabeth followed his gaze to a security guard who was watching them.

  Patrick faced Lee, still avoiding her gaze. “I’m going to her house, I’m going to find that painting, and you’re going to arrest her.”

  “Okay,” Lee said.

  Patrick breathed out. “Okay?”

  “If Elizabeth trusts you, then so do I.” Lee rested his hands on his hips. “I’m going to have to figure out a way to get Brown to agree to this, which might be a trick. He’s still pissed at you for not showing that night, but I think I can—”

  “Wait, what?” Elizabeth stepped forward.

  Patrick lifted a hand. “He’s mad at me for not showing? What do you mean?”

  “You don’t know?” Lee pinched his brow together. “The Feds called us the day of the sting and said they were sending you to help consult.”

  Patrick took a step back, eyes wide, mouth agape.

  “Didn’t you wonder why Brown disliked you so much?” Lee asked. “There were a lot of factors at play that night that we didn’t have control over—you were just one. We can’t find the mole and Brown’s been building to a boiling point. You showing up like you did and loo
king into the case you ‘didn’t bother showing up for in the first place’—his words, not mine—was enough to push him over the edge.”

  Elizabeth sucked in a breath.

  Patrick faced her, making eye contact for the first time since they came out of the elevator.

  Lee continued, “You gave a face to his anger, even if it is misplaced.”

  “Is that why?” Patrick asked. “Is that why you’re here?”

  It made sense. And until this point, nothing had. “We were supposed to meet—that’s why I’m attached to you. I’m here for you,” she said.

  “Elizabeth.” Patrick stepped forward and paused abruptly. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. If I’d just—”

  She shook her head. “Stop that. It’s not your fault. Even if you had shown, there’s not one chance in a million Brown would’ve let you in that building. The outcome would’ve been the same.”

  “You don’t know that,” he said.

  But she did. As smart and clever as he was, she still would’ve gone in that building, she and Lee still would’ve split at the T-bend in the hall, and she still would’ve been shot. That’s all there was to it. But suddenly being here, being with him, made sense. Her life was forfeit, but he still had a chance. Before she’d met him, he’d been rapidly spiraling toward life in prison, or potentially death. Her life had been about justice, about helping those in need, and in death she was being given a chance to save someone again.

  “This whole time, we’ve thought you were supposed to help me, but we’ve had it wrong,” she said. “I’m supposed to help you. You’re my unfinished business, Patrick.” And as she said it, the truthfulness of it made her heart soar.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Back in Patrick’s apartment, Elizabeth stood behind him as he stared out the same window they’d been looking out the night before. His hands were in his pants pockets, pushing his suit coat back on either side. He hadn’t said a word to her since they’d gotten back.

  She tried again. She had to. If he was going into an impossible situation that would get him arrested or hurt, she had to stop him. Not that she thought Striker had shot her, or that the woman had any intention of shooting him. Her intentions seemed to be a little less illegal and a lot naughtier.