And he was still climbing.
Michael looked down, watched while she walked her fingertips along the slats of his ribs. She landed on one of the cracks and he hissed in a breath. Most times he was able to force himself to submit to the poking and prodding, but not today. “What happens in Pakistan, stays in Pakistan,” he said as he brushed her hands away from his chest.
She didn’t even crack a smile, just started spouting corporate policy. “Per FSS policy, all operatives are examined after an assignment, before they’re released on leave, and upon returning from leave—”
He tuned her out, just waited for her to shut up and get on with it. She finally stopped talking, traded her scanner for a camera, and started taking pictures. “Your partner provided medical care in the field?” she said after a few dozen photos.
He took another look at the door Ben had disappeared behind. “The kid’s pretty handy.”
She made a noise that sounded like an agreement and took a final round of pictures before stepping back. “You can get dressed now.”
“Is this the part where you give me cab money and tell me you’ll call me in the morning?” he said while yanking his pants back on.
She flashed him a cool, professional smile. “See you in thirty days, Mr. O’Shea,” she said as she headed for the door, letting it slam behind her when she left.
He couldn’t help but think of Sabrina. If he’d talked to her the way he did Shaw’s fem-bot, he’d have swallowed a couple teeth for his trouble. The thought made him smile, but it faded quickly.
He considered calling her—something he did at least a hundred times a day—but in the end, he left his phone where it was. He couldn’t call her. What was there to say? Sorry I left you to fight off your psychotic half-brother alone … Or how about, I’m sorry I got your grandmother killed. He knew what he wanted to say to her. He wanted to tell her he loved her. Make promises he couldn’t keep. Make plans they both knew would never take hold.
He’d been a selfish bastard most of his life. This was one thing he was going to do right. He was going to let Sabrina go. Even if it killed him.
He’d recently been thrown down a flight of stairs and bounced out of a second-story window—the only thing that kept him from serious injury was the dead guy he’d landed on top of.
And Livingston Shaw was concerned about his heart rate?
The door opened. Michael watched as his partner crossed the room into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Ben pulled out a beer and waved it in his direction. “Want one?”
“No.” He watched as Ben used the edge of the granite countertop to pop the cap off and took a long pull from the bottle of Stella. Most FSS operatives bunked down in the fifth-floor barracks while they were in rotation, but not Ben. FSS had headquarters in six different countries, and Benjamin Shaw had penthouse digs in each and every one of them. The perks of being the boss’s kid. As his partner, Michael was expected to stay with him. Eight months of partnership and he was still unable to figure out who was babysitting whom.
Ben threw himself into a chair and took another drink. “How’s your arm?”
Michael twisted his bicep around to get a good look at the stitches. “Fine.” He picked up his shirt and pulled it on, ignoring the snags and pulls of the fabric against the road rash on his back. “Who was on the phone?”
“Did you tell Nurse Ratched you got thrown out a window?” Ben asked. He was avoiding the question—classic behavior for his partner.
Michael crossed his arms over his chest and stared the kid down. “Who was on the phone?” he said again. The skin along the back of his neck went tight, like it did when he was on a job and shit was about to go sideways.
Ben just shrugged. “No one. Just one of my contacts in need of course correction,” Ben said before he smiled. “Sometimes blackmail and coercion aren’t enough to keep them in line.”
Michael was suddenly reminded of the debt he owed his partner. That it’d been Ben who made it possible for him to get back to Sabrina in time to save her. Without his partner’s intervention, she would’ve bled to death. Ben never threatened him, never even mentioned the fact that all it would take was one word from him to his father to end Sabrina’s life, but Michael knew he was capable of just about anything to get what he wanted.
Like father, like son.
“You got plans for your thirty?” Ben said, changing the subject. It was the same question he asked every time they cycled out of rotation and his answer never changed.
“Not a goddamn one.” He dropped his arms from his chest. Some FSS operatives had lives away from the death and violence they were paid to perpetrate for the highest bidder. Not Michael. He didn’t have anyone. Everyone he loved was either dead or better off without him.
“We could do Vegas again.” Ben waggled his eyebrows at him. “Ladies love the Hugh Hefner Sky Villa.”
Michael let out a short laugh. “Last time I checked, ladies didn’t take American Express.”
“They weren’t hookers—they were strippers. Huge difference,” Ben said in mock solemnity. “Seriously, what are you gonna do for an entire month without me? Stay here? Wait for our next assignment?”
A year ago he would’ve gone home to Jessup and stayed with Lucy. Worked on the classic car that’d been up on blocks since his father died. Eaten lemon pound cake until his stomach hurt and dream about the day he’d find the man who murdered Frankie.
That was all over now. Lucy was dead and so was the man who killed her and his sister both. The one place he wanted to go, the one person he wanted to be with, was Sabrina. There was no one else for him, and it was painfully obvious there never would be. She was the home he could never go back to.
Michael shrugged. “I’ll probably hop a flight to Miami—”
“Unless that sentence ends with and bang a bunch of hot chicks, I don’t want to hear it.” Ben polished off his beer and stood. “Last chance—I’ve got my Lear gassed up and waiting on the tarmac.”
My Lear. Michael shook his head and laughed. “Not interested,” he said.
“Alright … I’ll wait as long as it takes me to shower and pack my toothbrush,” Ben said, heading toward his room. “But after that, you’re on your own.”
FIFTEEN
Sabrina cleaned off her desk while Strickland examined the card. He didn’t look it, but her partner was as sharp as they came. If there was something to see that she missed, he’d find it.
“This was in the bag Mathews gave you yesterday?” he said, turning the envelope over in his hands to pull out the card.
“Yeah.” She picked up a styrofoam box that smelled like barbeque and tossed it in the trash. “I don’t have any proof, but I’m almost positive it’s from the same guy who called me yesterday.”
“No postmark … whoever it was must’ve dropped it off,” Strickland said.
She nodded. “I get bags a few times a week, so it must’ve been within the last couple of days. I’m hoping the kid at the info desk will remember something.” If he ever shows up for work.
“You dust it for prints?” He flipped the card open and studied the word inside. She’d already told him what it was and what it meant, but he kept looking at it.
“No. It’s been handled by a half a dozen people … besides, I’m sure he wore gloves,” she said, tossing a coffee cup in after the box.
“Yeah, they all wear gloves these days—thank you CSI: Miami,” Strickland said, slipping the card back into its sleeve. “And Croft just happened to be there—ready to offer up a translation, huh?”
She stopped cleaning and looked up. “You think he sent it?”
Strickland shrugged. “Possible. Could be trying to yank your chain. Shake a story loose. He’s been after you for the past eight months with nothing to show for it. Maybe he’s tired of waiting.”
She laughed. “Nothing t
o show for it? Is that what you call the couple dozen stories he’s ran on me? The trips to Jessup? Poking around in my old life?”
“Not that it did him any good.” Strickland shrugged. “It’s not like anyone who knew anything would talk to him.”
He was right. Tommy, her high-school boyfriend, had assaulted Croft when he showed up in the small, east Texas town she once lived in, looking for an interview. When the cops showed up, it’d been Croft who’d been arrested for creating a public disturbance. He’d spent the night in a holding cell. Jed Carson, Jessup’s chief of police, had given him a ride to the airport with a polite yet firm warning to stay out of Jessup.
“So, the note, the flowers … you think it’s all Croft, trying to get a story?” she said, hoping that the more she said it, the easier it would be to believe. It wasn’t working.
“Makes sense, right?” Strickland flicked the card onto his desk, where it landed on top of a half-eaten bag of Fritos. “He’s a permanent fixture around here. He could’ve easily slipped the card behind the desk.”
“I don’t know, Strick. I talked to this guy—he didn’t sound like Croft. He sounded—”
“Crazy? I’m sure that was the point.” Strickland chuckled.
A scowl settled onto her face. “No, not crazy. Serious. He sounded serious.”
“When it comes to you, Croft is all kinds of serious,” he said. “Besides, didn’t you say he disguised his voice? The only reason someone would do that is if they were afraid you’d recognize it.”
“Yeah … maybe,” she said, shuffling papers into a pile. The one on top had Strickland’s shoeprint on it. She took a closer look at it, and felt her gut drop to her boots. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” She flashed the paper at Strickland, and he winced at the shoeprint.
“Sorry, but that’s what you get for—”
“No. Not that. I forgot about the UA Mathews ordered me to drop.” She sank into her chair and scrubbed a hand over her face. “I was supposed to have it done by end of shift yesterday.”
“It’s just after seven,” Strickland said, glancing at his watch. “Mathews doesn’t get in for another hour. If you hurry, you can get there and back before he shows.”
She didn’t have time for Mathews’s bullshit drug test. She needed to be here to catch Anderson so she could get to the bottom of this whole crazy mess, because despite Strickland’s belief that it was just Croft messing with her, she was unconvinced. Regardless, she stood and shrugged into her coat. If Mathews had his way, she’d be out on her ass, and if the conversation with Ben this morning was any indication, he wasn’t in the mood to pull said ass out of the fire. She was on her own this time. “I was supposed to have it done yesterday—unless you have a time machine in your pocket, I’m screwed,” she said.
Strickland kicked his feet back up on her desk and smiled. “Just get going—I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
SIXTEEN
Twenty minutes later, Sabrina signed into the walk-in clinic SFPD contracted to collect their UAs. The receptionist recognized her immediately and smiled, taking the draw order smudged with Strickland’s shoeprint that she slid across the counter. “Good morning, Inspector,” she said before answering the phone.
Sabrina flashed her a small smile and took a seat in the waiting area. Looking around the crowded room, her optimism took a nose dive. There were at least ten people ahead of her. No way was she getting back to the station before Mathews showed up. She reached for her cell and started to text Strickland to give him an update.
“Sabrina Vaughn.”
Her head jerked up at the sound of her name. A male tech in a white lab coat stood in the doorway leading to the exam rooms, staring right at her. She knew him. His name was Bradley.
“Come on back,” Bradley said, cocking his head toward the hallway behind him. He held a clipboard, a clear plastic cup resting on top.
Sabrina stood and pocketed her phone, taking a quick glance around. Everyone was looking at her, most of them shooting her dirty looks for jumping the line.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said as soon as the door was shut. Sometimes people gave officers preferential treatment. Some cops liked it, took advantage of it, even. It just made her feel uncomfortable. She had a feeling this preferential treatment had more to do with the fact that she was dating Liam Henry than the fact that she was a cop. Bradley and Liam had met in college and, according to Liam, they’d been friends ever since.
“It’s the least I could do after last month,” he said, moving down the hall forcing her to follow. “You have no idea how long Liam and I have wanted to organize a police department blood drive.”
“You two did all the work—all I did was get the okay for you guys to park your mobile unit in the station lot for a few hours.”
“Which we wouldn’t have been able to do without your help, so … thank you,” he said.
She tilted her head to the side. “Whatever you say, but this makes us even, okay?”
Bradley smiled at her. “You might not feel so generous after I get done with you.”
“Excuse me?” Her hand twitched toward the butt of her SIG. An involuntary response that he caught immediately.
His eyes followed her hand’s progression, and he responded with a nervous chuckle. “Mathews ordered blood and hair samples on top of the UA this time. Sorry,” he said, flashing her the paperwork on his clipboard. There, under the dirty smudges left by Strickland’s shoe, was the order. All three collection boxes were checked. Mathews was swinging for the fences.
She forced herself to relax. “Of course he did.”
“You were supposed to be here by five o’clock yesterday.” He glanced up at her before he signed and dated it. He handed her the paper back along with the cup. “I’ll wait out here. You know the drill. Don’t flush the toilet or run the water,” he said. She’d heard it before and nodded, ducking into the bathroom and shutting the door before she looked at the paper he’d handed back to her. Relief flooded through her; he’d back-dated it for yesterday.
She tucked the paper away and broke the seal on the sample cup. It’d been embarrassing the first couple of times she did it. Peeing into a cup with your name, rank, and serial number on it was a humbling experience, but by now it was regular business. She filled the cup and tightened the lid before pulling her pants back up and opening the door. Bradley was leaning against the wall across the hall, just where she left him.
“Thank you.” She smiled at him and placed the cup on top of the clipboard.
“For what?” he said, pretending as if he had no idea that he’d probably saved her job. He led her to another room, this one with a long counter laden with sample tubes and medical supplies, and let her wash her hands before directing her to the room’s only chair. “Have a seat and roll up your left sleeve, please.” Leaning into her for a second, he adjusted the narrow tabletop attached to her chair. She laid her arm on the table and he leaned into her again, this time to tie a tourniquet around her lower bicep. “Make a fist,” he said, running a thumb over the vein that popped out.
She looked down as he swiped an alcohol pad across the crook of her elbow. The needle came next. He was good, slipping the sharp under her skin and into her vein with only the slightest of stings. Sabrina watched her blood flow into the collection tube for a moment before glancing up to find him watching her. She looked away as he pulled it from the needle before quickly attaching another. “That’s a lot of blood,” she said, suddenly uncomfortably aware that the two of them were alone and he had a needle jammed into her arm.
He pulled off the tube and attached another. “I don’t write the orders, Inspector—I just fill ’em.” He cracked a smile and popped off the tube before easing the needle from her vein, pressing a cotton ball to the small hole the needle made in her skin. “Hold this,” he said, and she used her fingers to hold the cotton in pl
ace while he wound a length of medical tape around her arm to keep it from moving. “Leave it on for a while, okay?”
A sudden flash—sitting at her mother’s kitchen table. The bristling of goose bumps across her skin just seconds before Kelly jabbed the syringe into her neck, shooting her full of something that turned her legs to water. Her mother had been the one to drug her and hand her over to Wade. Her own mother—
“You okay?” Bradley’s face was close, his thumbs pressing the tape across the crook of her elbow. “You don’t look good.”
She pulled her arm from his grasp and nodded. “Yeah. I hate needles,” she said. “Can we wrap this up? I’ve gotta get back to the station.”
“Sure.” He stood and placed the vials of blood into the rack on the counter. The hair samples came next—ten of them, each taken at the root and placed in bags with her name printed across them. “Okay, done,” he said finally, sealing the last bag with a red sticker. “Sorry it took so long.”
Standing, she rolled her sleeve down but didn’t button the cuff. “No problem,” she said, heading for the door, and he followed her. She walked down the hall as fast as she could without running. She reached the door to the lobby before allowing herself to look back.
Bradley stood in the doorway where she’d left him, watching her leave, the vials of her blood clutched in this hand.
SEVENTEEN
By the time Sabrina got back to the station, it was nearly eight o’clock and Mathews’s car was already in the lot.
She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that his office door was firmly closed and there were no lights on. She checked the file holder mounted to the wall beside the door—her report was still there. Wherever Mathews was, he hadn’t made it to his office yet.
She placed the UA paperwork in the file holder and walked away before someone spotted her hovering around Mathews’s door. She wouldn’t be fired today. At her desk, Sabrina took two celebratory ibuprofen and washed them down with a bottle of water she dug out of her desk drawer. Strickland was nowhere to be found.
Sacrificial Muse (A Sabrina Vaughn Novel) Page 7
