“Understood. I'll send O'Halloran and Brunswick.” He didn't care who Chris sent, just that it was taken care of and whatever evidence could be found was gathered.
“Do it. I need to find Cassie.” He had to find her. He couldn't live without her, couldn't stand the thought of her being hurt and held captive. He swallowed a groan. He had to stay focused.
“Where are you gonna start?”
“Security cameras,” he answered, although he didn't know what he'd see. A supposed dead man or two? “Did you learn anything on your field trip?”
“Rossi and Stanza are most definitely dead. Doctor Stewart thought we were crazy for asking, and we're on the way back.” He made a disgusted sound. “We wasted a trip, wasted time, and we're no closer to figuring this out than we were hours ago.”
Maybe not, but they knew it was someone who knew exactly how to scare Cassie shitless, who knew what buttons to push. “Give the phone to Tiffany,” he ordered. There was a rustle of movement before she came on the line, “Dylan?”
“Was there anyone who worked the Stanza and Rossi cases? Who might have a grudge against Cassidy we missed?”
“Worked the cases? You mean like a cop?”
“Shit, I don't know. A cop, a firefighter, a paralegal. Anyone.”
“I'll check, but I didn't look at the investigative teams.” She sighed. “I'm so sorry about Cassidy.” Her tone was conciliatory, and his heart dropped.
“She's gone, but she's not dead,” he responded vehemently. “She's not dead.”
“I didn't say...” she trailed off. “As soon as I have wi-fi I will check and recheck. We don't have much time.”
She didn't need to remind him. “Hurry.”
~*~
He found the security office easily enough, even through his haze of failure and fury. The mid-sixties, overweight guard made him think of mall cops, and he supposed that's essentially what he was. “Did you see anythin' strange this mornin' outside the bathroom on the ICU floor?” He didn't bother introducing or explaining himself, and thankfully the man didn't question him.
“No, not really.” Faded blue eyes swept his body. “Should I have?”
“Cassidy Everett was attacked and taken from that bathroom not fifteen minutes ago.”
“Damn,” the old guard remarked. “Let's take a look.” He keyed in a command and Dylan waited, noting the other screens showed little. It was just Friday morning; nurses, doctors and orderlies going about their daily work, none of them aware his world had just fallen apart. With his gut twisting he watched Cassie turn the corner into the bathroom, her purse clutched tightly in her right hand.
After the door closed he held his breath, unable to keep from imagining what had happened to her in the following minutes. The fucker must've been waiting for her, as no one entered the room behind her. God, if only he'd followed her. He shook the feeling away. Drowning in his shortcomings wouldn't help Cassie. He watched the door for what seemed like an eternity before it finally opened to reveal someone who looked like a janitor pushing a large garbage can. Dressed in coveralls, he was stooped over as if trying to hide his height, a ball cap on his head, his face turned away from the camera.
“Who is that?” he asked, sure the old man wouldn't know. He was looking at the man who had beaten his Cassie, the man he would kill before the day was out. He'd taken many lives in the last decade, but this one would be the only one taken in anger, the only one with a personal reason behind it. He clenched his fists. He wanted to beat him to a pulp, shed his blood all over a floor, leave him unconscious, stuff him into a garbage can. He willed himself to breathe. Thinking like that wouldn't help.
“He ain't one of ours, that's for sure,” the guard said. “I don't mean to sound racist or nothin', but all our janitors are Mexicans, I mean, Hispanic.”
He barely thanked the man before running out of the room. He knew who he was looking at, and he hoped he knew where he was. Hang on Cassie, I'm coming for you.
~*~
Chris was scrawling on the white board, his mind turning over all the information they had when he was pulled from his thoughts by Tiffany yelling, “I need to see the footage.” He turned to look at her at that same time Brandon barked, “What'd you find?”
She shook her head, her hair flying and more disheveled than the last time Chris had glanced her way. “I'm not sure, but I don't like it,” she answered warily. “I really, really don't like it.”
Brandon made his way to stand behind her to lay a hand on her shoulder, the usually cocky smirk gone from his face. “What?”
“I only found one link between the Rossi and the Stanza cases,” she paused, “and this case.”
All eyes were on Tiffany as she dropped her gaze to her computer screen. “The only tie besides Cassidy herself is,” she paused again, her pale face losing what little color she had, her blue eyes dimming to almost gray. She swallowed hard before continuing. “The only link is Steve.”
Detective Steve Archer? “Where did you say he ran off to, anyway?” Chris asked.
“He was wrapping up the Brewer case,” Davis answered quickly. “He was called in.”
Chris had never seen the man anything but cocksure, but he seemed gobsmacked. “Why did he have to wrap that case up now?”
“Cavendish called him, he had to go.”
“You sure about that?” Jason put in from his desk across from them. “Call Cavendish, check it out.”
“Steve isn't dirty,” Davis protested. “He can't be.”
The officer's delicate features tightened as she turned her chair to face Davis. “He investigated the Rossi case and was on the team for the Stanza case. He was in the courtroom when Stanza threated Ms. Everett,” she stopped, wiped her palms over her jean clad thighs, “and he wasn't with us when she was attacked.”
“Circumstantial,” Davis snapped.
“Just call your CO and check,” Jason pressed. “If he is responsible, we have to track him down. If he's not, then we need to reevaluate our leads.”
Reluctantly Davis dialed Cavendish, his posture rigid as it rang. “Did you call Archer this morning?” he barked without any greeting at all.
Chris watched as Davis nodded, then dropped into the chair he'd vacated minutes before. He'd lowered his voice as he spoke to his Captain, not allowing anyone else in the room to listen in. Davis didn't want to be overheard and wasn't happy with what was being said, his spine under enough tension Chris was afraid it would snap in two. When Davis tucked the phone back into his jacket pocket, he ignored everyone in the room except Tiffany. “How could you?” he growled, coming out of his chair and advancing toward her.
Her brows knitted together. “How could I what? I didn't do anything to Ms. Everett.”
“You were fucking Steve, you should've known.” His hazel eyes were blazing, and Chris was afraid he'd have to jump between the two of them. Instead Tiffany shot from her own chair to stand toe-to-toe with the detective. “The only person I've been sleeping with it you, you asshole,” she bit out, “and I won't be doing that anymore.”
Jason cleared his throat. “This is all very interesting, but I don't give two shits about who's sleeping with who. What do we know about Archer?”
Davis's fists were clenched, his back straight, his jaw tense. He looked like he was about to explode, but answered all the same. “Nothing happened with the Brewer case. Archer is MIA, and Morgan here is likely onto something.” He slammed a fist into the nearest desk. “Why the fuck would he do this?”
“I don't care about the why now,” Chris put in, “what I want to know is where he would've taken her.” The sooner they could get to her, the easier it'd be to keep Dylan from killing Archer. He wouldn't be able to stand trial dead, and Chris was willing to bet Archer's list of crimes encompassed more than just those against Cassidy Everett. If Dylan got there first, it'd just be a clean-up mission.
“Doesn't he own a house in Sheridan?” Tiffany asked.
Davis was pacing now. �
�He lived there before his divorce. Run a search, Tiffany.”
For long moments, the only sound in the room was the clacking of nails against the keyboard and Tiffany's quiet curses when she ran into a problem. “He bought the property under an assumed name, but I'm certain this is it,” she told them before rattling off the address.
“Are there any other addresses?” Jason asked. “We can't afford another unnecessary trip.”
More clacking and typing and Chris absently held his breath. “There's a property without any buildings listed, but it's outside of Aylesford.”
“Monroe and I will head to Sheridan, you and Delmonico go to the country,” Davis directed. “I'll place a call to McNamara so he's apprised of the situation.” He blew out a long breath. “En route, you need to figure out why Archer snapped.”
“Just like that?” Tiffany spat.
“You have insight,” Davis insisted.
“I never slept with the man!” She stood again, crossed to Davis. “I know there are stories about me, but none of them—not a single one—are true. I haven't slept with anyone except for you.” She marched off to stand next to Chris. “Let's go.”
Davis blinked and shook his head as if he'd been hit. “I meant you were good at profiling.”
“You did not,” she said quietly and walked out the door.
Instead of getting in the middle, Chris followed the small, curvy officer. They had to find Archer and Cassidy, had to save the day. They didn't have time for lover's quarrels or whatever the hell was going on with Tiffany Morgan and Brandon Davis. “So, where are we headed?”
She gave him directions and they sped toward what he hoped was the end of this nightmare day.
~*~
Cassidy felt like she'd been hit by a truck. Every single part of her ached, her head was throbbing, and she was nauseous from pain. She was also inside what looked to be a cargo crate. Nothing about this was good, and she had no way of getting out. Her heart beat erratically in her chest, and she lost her breath. She was alone in a metal box, the man who had blown up her house and car nowhere to be seen. Was she just inside a bomb now, waiting until she turned into pink mist? She swallowed back the sob that wanted to tear from her throat. Think, Everett. She wouldn't be here if she hadn't tried to run from Dylan, if she'd admitted her feelings, if she hadn't had some harebrained idea that leaving him would protect him. The only place on the planet he'd let her go alone was a public restroom and not only had she known that, her attacker had, too.
The man who had beaten the shit out of her was tall, taller than Dylan, so there was no way is was Philip Stanza or Nicholas Rossi, both men of relatively average height. She racked her brain. Who would want to kill her, to terrorize her, who was taller than Dylan's six and half feet? The only person she knew who was that tall was Steve Archer, but he was a detective.
Her mind spun with the possibilities. Why would Steve terrorize her, beat her, imprison her? They hadn't worked together much in the last five years, although he had lead the investigation into the Rossi cartel. She thunked her head against the cold metal wall behind her. She and Archer had nearly come to blows over Rossi's supposed right-hand man. The evidence just wasn't there, but Steve had pushed to prosecute. She clenched her teeth against shooting pain in her ribs as she remembered.
“If you can't win, you won't even bother? Is that what you're saying?” Steve Archer's broad chest was heaving, his dark eyes almost black.
“If we can't win, we can't win. We won't go forward with a case with evidence this shaky—if we did, any new evidence wouldn't make a difference down the road. You're just going to have to stick with Rossi.”
“He's trafficking women, and you don't care!” he accused.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I care enough not to bring a case we can't win to a jury. Nail him on something that will stick.”
“Dammit, Everett, I gave you all that,” he growled.
Why couldn't he see how much she wanted to help? Didn't he know how much she'd like to round up all the members of Rossi's cartel, lock them up, and throw away the key? But a case she couldn't win would just offer them validation. “No, you didn't. And if this evidence can't convince me, how can you think it would hold up against a jury?” She pinched the bridge of her nose, closed her eyes. “Even if I thought the evidence was valid, even if I wanted to pursue this, I can't. It's Simmons' call, and he's decided we're not prosecuting.”
She almost felt threatened by the detective towering over her, but stood her ground when he called her every name in the book before stomping out of her office.
Everything clicked into place. Steve Archer had been dead-set on prosecuting, and had held her and then Commonwealth's Attorney Robert Simmons responsible when the conviction of Rossi hadn't stopped the criminal activity in Tyler. Three girls had disappeared from the high school a few weeks later, and they believed the cartel had relocated in Maryland afterward. Losing those girls, sure they had been essentially sold into slavery made her sick, and even though she knew the evidence brought to her by Archer wouldn't have helped, wouldn't have locked anyone away, she'd hated herself for weeks.
She wrapped her arms around her middle, held back a wave of nausea. What had caused Archer to snap, to kill Robert, to use Stanza's crimes to terrorize her? Why did she find herself imprisoned now, years after the Rossi trial and the attempted round up of the cartel? She took a deep breath and shoved the thought away, the pain in her ribs startling. Why wouldn't help her now. She had no phone, no door, no way out, and no way of getting help. Please find me, Dylan.
The ground shook and the blaring whistle of a train jerked her from sleep. The train was so close it sounded like it was bearing down on her prison, and she braced herself in the corner so she wouldn't bang her throbbing head. Idly she wondered where she was being shipped, and if she would live to see it. With no water, she wouldn't survive longer than three days. She kicked at the wall, the sound ringing in her ears. She wouldn't let this be the way her life would end, dehydrating in a box headed for God knew where. She kicked again, and again, and again. If she was at a station waiting to be loaded on a train, there had to be people around somewhere, someone who would hear her. She kept kicking, rattling her teeth, jarring her bones, and praying she wasn't alone.
Chapter Eleven
“He's your partner, how did you not see he was crazy?” Jason Monroe asked Brandon as he drove the two of them toward Sheridan.
Good question. If he had noticed something, he would've done something. Maybe. “He never acted crazy.”
“They rarely do.” Monroe glanced his way briefly. “How long have you been partners?”
“Less than a year. His old partner was killed by a drug dealer during a bust.” As soon as he said it, he wondered the same thing he was sure the other detective was as well. “I don't know if that's just what we were all led to believe or if it's true. I don't know anything anymore. I thought Tiffany was sleeping her way through the department, I thought I had a solid partner, I thought a lot of things.”
Monroe was quiet, the only sound in the car the tapping of his thumbs against the steering wheel. “No one knows what someone else is capable of,” he said after a few miles.
How true that was. He'd never thought himself capable of framing an innocent woman, yet that's exactly what he'd done not long ago. Usually he just tipped the scales in his favor, he didn't deliberately implicate someone who wasn't guilty. He wiped a hand down his face. All his crimes paled in comparison to Steve's murder, arson, attempted murder, and now whatever he'd done with Cassidy Everett. She might not be his favorite person in the world, but even so he hoped she was still in this world.
They found the house in Sheridan easily enough. It looked like it hadn't been occupied for a long time, the grass overgrown, the windows smeared with dirt. “He's not here,” he said before they'd parked in the cracked driveway.
Monroe's eyes narrowed as he took in the peeling paint of the beige house. “The man had m
illions of dollars when he retired, yet he owns this dump and became a cop in Tyler? It doesn't make sense.”
“He said he joined the force to give back. Said he earned so much money playing a game, he needed to feel like a contributing member of society.” He'd asked when Archer had been assigned as his partner, his own questions similar to the Aylesford hotshot detective's. “I laughed at the time, but he never gave me any reason to disbelieve him.”
“But, now you're wondering,” Monroe stated.
Instead of agreeing openly, he just made an affirmative noise. “We gonna stand out here all day, or go in?” Monroe's mouth tightened at his question and he almost laughed. His partner was accused of multiple felonies, yet he was ready to laugh at the expression of a man he didn't even like all that much? He needed coffee and sleep. He shook his head. Not happening.
“Lead the way.”
The door opened without much provocation, the lock cheap and well used. The house smelled of mildew, the furniture covered in a thick coating of dust. “It's a dead end. There's nothing here.”
They went through to insure all the rooms were clear, and aside from the dirt and debris strewn about, there was nothing to note. Before he had pulled his phone off his belt, Monroe had his in hand, Delmonico on the other end.
“What did they find?” he asked from across the room.
The conversation was brief, Monroe sliding his phone back into his pocket less than a minute after placing the call. “They've spotted Archer's car and a trailer on the property.”
“Let's roll.”
~*~
Dylan let out a string of curses as he passed an old lady meandering down the road. He pressed the gas a little further to the floor, ignoring the horns as he wove through traffic, every second precious. He swore again. Steve fucking Archer. He was supposed to be a cop, yet he had beaten and kidnapped Cassie, terrorized her with bombs and fires, undermined him with headlines from his past? He cursed himself for allowing her more than ten minutes in the bathroom. Archer had assumed Dylan would let her go alone, and had waited for her. He flexed his right hand, testing himself. He'd only been out of the sling for three days. Three days ago he'd made love to Cassie in the seat next to him, the day she had admitted she'd felt love. God, if he lost her now, he didn't know what he would do.
Fight For Me Page 11
