“Number traced back to a burner phone. Best I can tell you, it was sold out of a bodega on the corner of Eddy and Taylor sometime early this morning.”
She knew the place. It was the store where Kenny Denton had graduated from armed robbery to murder. He’d killed the clerk over fifty-three dollars and a Mars bar, and due to Tenderloin’s backlog, she and Strickland caught the case. So far the owner, David Song, had been helpful in the investigation.
Song’s bodega had top-notch security cameras. His brother ran an electronics store four doors down. It was a long shot that she’d find anything useful on them, but it was worth a look. “Okay. Thanks, Anderson,” she said before hanging up.
“Inspector Vaughn!”
Her head snapped up at the sound of her name. Trujillo jogged toward her. “Here’s your camera. It’s got a nice zoom, so I was able to get some pretty tight shots,” he said, dropping the camera into her hand.
“Thanks, Trujillo. I appreciate it. If anything shakes out, I’ll give you a call.” She smiled a bit, remembering what it was like to be a rookie, looking for a leg up.
“Thanks, that’d be awesome,” he said, smiling at her before he aimed a fast glance over his shoulder. “Look, there’s this guy over there, looking for you—says he knows you.”
She rolled her eyes. “They all say they know me.”
Trujillo laughed. “Right, well this one says you missed an appointment or something. I don’t know—he’s been here for a while now. Red polo, tan Dockers.” He jerked his head toward the yellow barrier at the small cluster of diehards still hanging on. She took a step to the left so she could see around the uniform’s shoulder.
Kyle Weber was staring right at her.
“I know him. Thanks.” She forced her smile to stay put and stepped around him, heading straight for Weber. “What are you doing here?” she said once she got close enough to speak without yelling.
“You missed our appointment and you didn’t call,” he said, arms folded across his chest. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were avoiding me.”
Once she reached Weber, she walked the length of the yellow tape, drawing him away from the remaining crowd. “Sorry about that. People don’t seem to have the good sense to stop getting murdered,” she said, a sarcastic edge to her voice.
Weber held the tape up for her, and she stepped under it. “It’s been well over two months, Ms. Vaughn. I can’t, in good conscience, keep accepting Mr. Shaw’s money for treatment if you’re not going to participate in therapy,” he said. He’d been her physical therapist since she’d come home. Had helped her relearn to walk, and not once had he ever called her by her first name.
“I’ve been traded back to SWAT, which means I’m going to have to requalify. Believe me when I tell you, missing our appointment was not on purpose,” she said, starting the hike back to her car.
“This time,” Weber said, easily keeping pace with her. He was watching the way she moved and didn’t look too impressed with what he saw. “You’ve regressed in mobility.”
Like she hadn’t noticed … “I just jogged five flights of stairs—doesn’t that count for something?”
Weber caught his lower lip between his teeth, seemingly doing his best to hang onto his frustration. “Mr. Shaw made it perfectly clear that I was to alert him if you missed our appointment today,” he said, but she could tell calling Ben was the last thing he wanted to do.
“I know. Look, Kyle—I’m sorry. I really am. Name the time and place and I’ll be there. Just … don’t call Mr. Shaw.” They’d finally reached her car, and she pulled out her keys. Looking through the car window, she half expected to see another red envelope waiting for her on the front seat. It was empty.
Weber dug his hands into the pocket of his Dockers, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet. “Okay. Tomorrow morning. Nine a.m. at my office—if you’re not there by nine-oh-five, I’m making a call.”
Tomorrow is Saturday. The words formed on her tongue and she looked at him, ready to push them out, but she found him watching her, an expectant look on his face, daring her to protest. Sabrina jammed her car key into the lock. “I’ll be there.” She watched him back away a few steps before he turned and started back up the hill. The surrounding street was deserted, the news vans gone and reporters off in their prospective offices, writing copy and editing footage for their articles and broadcasts.
“Kyle,” she said, and he turned around, the late afternoon sun glinting off his dark brown hair, the overhanging trees throwing shadows across his face. “How did you know I was here?”
He smiled at her again and shrugged. “I saw you on TV,” he said before turning and heading back the way they’d come.
THIRTY
When Sabrina made it back to the station, she was relieved to find Mathews’s office door closed. If Croft had made good on his threat, Mathews would’ve pounced on her the minute she stepped off the elevator. He was nothing if not predictable.
She’d called David Song, the bodega owner, on her way back and asked for the security footage from that morning. Like she knew he would, he assumed it had to do with the Denton case; she hadn’t said anything to disabuse him of the notion. The fewer questions he asked, the better. She’d given him her personal email address, and he said he’d send her the footage as soon as he could. She wanted to rush him but was afraid that doing so would raise more questions than she wanted to answer. She’d have to wait it out.
No one paid much attention to her as she finished loading up the box still parked on her desk. The roses were still there. If she’d known who was next in line, she’d have walked them over and dumped them off, just so she wouldn’t have to look at them anymore.
She supposed, technically, they’d be considered evidence now, which meant she should hand them off to Strickland. It was his case now. Let him and Evans worry about it. Even as she thought it, she knew she couldn’t do it. She could push all the blame on Croft she wanted—saying the words didn’t change facts. What’d happened to Bethany Edwards was her fault, which meant it was up to her to find the man who killed her.
She sat down, perched on the edge of her seat, and glanced at her watch—it was almost five o’clock and still no sign of Strickland. She’d give him another half hour and then cut out. He’d be pissed but waiting would drive her crazy.
Short trip … you been crazy since the first time I slipped that knife into your belly, ain’t that right, Melissa?
She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, trying to clear her head. When she opened, her focus settled instantly on the flowers on her desk.
Gotta hand it to him—takes a special kinda crazy to do that to a girl. I did it for the fun of it, but this guy … he takes the job of killin’ pretty serious. All that work. All that time and attention to detail, and he didn’t even take a taste … borrring.
He hadn’t raped Bethany Edwards. How did she know that?
Because I just told you he didn’t, darlin’.
“Shut up,” she said out loud, the guy across from her gave her a look. Ignoring him, she closed her eyes again, bringing her memory of the crime scene into sharp focus. She forced her mind’s eye to look at the body, searching for a reason she would be so sure … no bruising on the thighs or pelvic area. No outward trauma to the genital area. It wasn’t conclusive, but they were signs that pointed to the fact that Bethany Edwards hadn’t been raped. She felt a small measure of relief that the girl had been spared that.
At least not while she was alive. Maybe he’s like me, darlin’. Maybe he don’t care if they’re alive when he’s—
“When were you gonna tell me?”
Sabrina’s eyes popped open to see Strickland standing in front of his desk, Evans in the background, moving toward his own. She didn’t have to see the look on his face to know he’d told Strickland everything.
She glanced awa
y, trying to ignore the way he was looking at her. Like she’d disappointed him. Again. “I don’t know. Now, I guess,” she said with a shrug.
“So that’s it? You throw your shit in a box—nice workin’ with you, see ya around?” he said. She expected him to be angry. The fact that he sounded hurt was something she’d never considered.
“It’s temporary,” she said off-handedly. “Just until they can find and train some new recruits. A few months, tops.”
He came around and sat on the edge of her desk. The anger on his face melted away into that concerned expression he always gave her when he thought she wasn’t looking. “How am I supposed to work this case without you?” he said, but she understood what he was really asking. How was he supposed to follow a trail of evidence that would lead straight to her without exposing her involvement?
She looked over at Evans. He was pretending to do paperwork, but she knew better. He was doing his level best to eavesdrop on their conversation. As soon as he got his hands on the fact that Bethany Edwards’s killer had communicated with her and she failed to report it, she was done. It would be Mathews’s coup de grâce, and there was no stopping it. The only thing she could do now was shelter Strickland from the fallout. “You’ll do fine,” she said, fishing her digital camera out of her pocket and handing it over. “Just follow the evidence. Wherever it leads.”
Strickland stared at her for a second, mouth practically hanging open. Her message had been received, loud and clear. “You’re really doing this, aren’t you?” he said, dropping his voice to a hushed tone.
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Strickland the truth. That leaving Homicide hadn’t been her choice, but Evans was right. If he knew she was being forced out, Strickland would lay waste to everything in his path—including his own career. “Yes.”
“We could’ve talked about it—before you made up your mind,” he said stubbornly.
“Why? So you could try to talk me out of it?” she shot back.
“I don’t know.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Maybe … I just want you to talk to me.”
She forced as much anger into her voice as she could. “Cut the dramatics. I need a change, Strickland. Stop making this about you.”
“Wow … there you go again, pulling away from everyone and everything.” He shook his head in disgust. “You won’t be satisfied until you’re completely and utterly alone, will you?”
Tell him, Melissa. Tell him you’ll never be alone … not as long as I’m with you.
Wade’s voice whispered inside her head, so low and soft it was as if he were sitting right next to her. She took a deep breath, using the few moments it afforded her to steady herself.
It was time to go.
“I started the reports; they’re saved to your computer.” Standing, she hefted her bag to her shoulder and let her glance slide over him to rest on the vase of roses still sitting on her desk. The right thing to do would be to hand them over.
I wouldn’t if I was you, darlin’. You’re gonna need those …
Sabrina reached out and snagged the vase, tucking it into her box of crap. “Try to keep it clean. I don’t want to come back to a family of rats nesting in my desk,” she said, but the truth was she wasn’t coming back. And they both knew it.
THIRTY-ONE
“You aren’t going to Vegas, are you?”
Michael looked away from the Lear’s window and across the aisle to find Ben watching him. As soon as he’d hung up with Tom, he shot Ben a text: wait for me.
He’d managed to catch up with his partner in the parking garage. Ben leaned over and opened the passenger door of his black-on-black Camaro with a grin. “Can’t live without me.”
Michael tossed his duffle into the back seat and slid into the smooth leather seat before shutting the door. “I’m a glutton for punishment.”
Sabrina was in trouble. Real trouble if Jaxon Croft managed to connect her to him. The smartest thing to do was stay away from her, let Croft dig until the hole was deep enough—and then snap his neck and bury him in it. He knew that … so what the hell was he doing? Why had even the slightest hint of trouble for her sent him running to play white knight? Because he was the reason she was in danger. Because he’d left her to face the firing squad alone once before and he wasn’t going to do it again.
Because he loved her.
The kid was still looking at him. “What?” Michael said, glancing back at the window.
Ben heaved a sigh and flipped the page of the magazine in his lap. “I mean, I know that’s where the plane is going, but I keep getting the feeling that if I go to the bathroom, I’m gonna come back to find the cabin door standing wide open and one of the chutes missing.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t have the gear for a HALO dive.” His plan had been to give Ben the slip and use one of his off-the-books IDs to rent a car and drive to San Francisco. The way his partner was looking at him, it was doubtful he’d be able to shake him.
“You going to see her?” Ben said, still flipping through his magazine.
Michael shrugged. “There’s some stuff I need to take care of. No big deal.”
“Well, that was awfully evasive of you, Mikey.” Ben rolled his eyes, tossing the magazine into the seat across from him. “Especially since I don’t give a shit either way.”
He cut the kid a look. “It has nothing to do with Sabrina.”
Ben wasn’t buying it. “Then what’s the point?”
“I have a friend there I check up on once in a while,” he said, standing up. They were ten hours into a fifteen-hour flight and he needed to get some sleep. He wasn’t going to be able to do it sitting next to Chatty Cathy.
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. The old lady who owns the boarding house—what’s her name? Edna? Edith?” Ben said, stretching his legs out in front of him.
“Ettie.” His voice sounded strangled, like someone had a forearm pressed against his throat. He’d never mentioned Miss Ettie or his visits to her to anyone. He’d learned his lesson with Lark—no matter how much they insisted to the contrary, people were rarely as trustworthy as they claimed to be. “How—”
Ben looked up and smiled. “Your secret is safe with me. I think it’s cute you’ve got a soft spot for little old ladies. Dumb, but cute.”
Michael lifted the Kimber on his hip from its holster and held it at his side. “You having me followed?” Even as he asked, he knew he hadn’t. He’d have picked up on it long before now.
Ben held up his hands but didn’t look alarmed. “Seriously? Do I look stupid?”
“Then how?”
“Look, I get it. After what Lark did, I can understand why you’d have trust issues, but I haven’t told anyone about her and I’m not going to,” he said. “Especially my father.”
His grip tightened around the butt of his gun at the mention of his former partner. He hadn’t heard from or seen Lark since they’d parted ways in Texas eight months ago. From what he heard, Lark had been reassigned to head Shaw’s private security detail. A cushy job that kept him well protected. He still didn’t understand why his old partner hadn’t told Shaw about Sabrina … but then, knowledge of her existence was a powerful bargaining chip. It would be just like Lark to keep it to himself until he needed it.
“You really need to answer my question, kid,” he said. “How do you know about her?”
Ben’s mouth twisted into a smirk. “How is one question I rarely answer. And don’t call me kid.”
“Okay … how about why? Why would you purposely keep something like that from your father?” He still couldn’t figure the kid out.
The smile on Ben’s face turned cold, the chill of it reached his eyes, turning them to ice. “Because he’s not the only one who’s invested in you, Michael. I have plans for you, and they don’t involve getting you blown the fuck up o
ver your penchant for playing Boy Scout.”
There it was. Another reminder of just how much he owed Benjamin Shaw. “You ever gonna tell me what those plans are?”
“Yeah—when I’m goddamn good and ready to,” Ben said, that smirk of his held firmly in place. Resting his hands on his stomach, he closed his eyes, seemingly unconcerned that his partner still held a gun on him.
Michael studied Ben for a few moments. He looked completely relaxed, but the tense bunch of his shoulders said otherwise. He holstered his gun and walked toward the back of the plane. Stretching out on the soft leather couch, he closed his eyes and willed himself to relax. Five hours of sleep would be a godsend.
“You really think you’d have been able to shoot me?” Ben said. From the sound of his voice, he hadn’t moved from his seat.
Michael’s mouth quirked into a rueful half-smile, but he didn’t answer. If he had to ask, then his partner didn’t know him half as well as he thought he did.
THIRTY-TWO
Sabrina drove home, the bouquet of roses riding shotgun. She took Broadway to Van Ness, keeping one eye on the rearview mirror. If Croft was following her, he brought his A game because she couldn’t spot him.
She glanced at the flowers sitting in the box beside her. She had little hope of finding the shop they were bought and delivered from but she couldn’t shake the feeling they were key to her investigation. On impulse, she took a right on Market, heading for Church Street and the only flower shop she knew of.
She parallel parked in front of an ivy-covered, red brick building. A green and white striped awning stretched over the narrow sidewalk, shading buckets and baskets of fresh flowers in front of the open shop door. Climbing out of her car, roses in tow, Sabrina stopped long enough to feed a few coins into the meter before heading in.
“Hey, Nolan,” she called out as she entered, her gaze settling on the man beyond the front counter.
Nolan’s head popped up from the elaborate spray of protea and birds of paradise he was working on. “Inspector, please tell me you’re not here for a pickup,” he said as soon as he saw her, wiping his hands on his apron with an exasperated sigh. “I’ve got five anniversaries, a dinner party, two funerals, and a sick delivery driver, so—oh, my … ” He stopped in the middle of his downward spiral, eyes riveted to the vase she was carrying. “Someone’s either in serious trouble or seriously in love … where’d you get them?”
Sacrificial Muse (A Sabrina Vaughn Novel) Page 12
