by Laura Kaye
Finally, a man wearing a brown sport coat with jeans came in, a badge clipped to his hip. “Emilie Garza?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“I’m Frank Jeffers.” He slapped a file to the desk, dropped into the chair Vaughn had used, and settled his gaze on the bloody jeans. “Officer Vaughn tells me you have information relating to one of my cases involving Manny Garza.”
She swallowed hard. “Uh, I guess I might.”
His gaze swung to her face and narrowed. He wasn’t an unattractive man, but as she met his gaze, the word beady came immediately to mind. Distrust rolled off him, although she supposed that wasn’t unusual given his line of work. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”
For a moment, Emilie struggled to determine what the relevant beginning actually was. Finally, she recounted his deteriorating condition, refusal to accept or seek help, his paranoia and belief that someone was after him, and the incidents at her house this week.
“Your brother is wanted for questioning in conjunction with a series of murders in the city. Can you verify his whereabouts on Tuesday afternoon and last night?” he asked.
Emilie gasped. “Murders?” As in, plural?
“That’s right,” Jeffers said, his face a practiced blank.
Thinking back over the week, Emilie shook her head. “I don’t know where he was either of those times. I saw him on Monday afternoon and Wednesday night. He slept over my house on Wednesday and left Thursday morning when I did for work.”
Jeffers pulled a small notebook from an inside jacket pocket. “Why did he stay at your house?”
“I don’t know. It’s not unusual. I divorced a few months ago and occasionally Manny would come stay with me.” She shrugged. “It was hard being alone at first. But he’s been acting odd lately, so I haven’t been pushing because it agitates him.”
After that, Jeffers asked her a series of questions to which she didn’t have the answers: names and contact information of business associates and friends in Baltimore, known hangouts in the city, and whether he had a girlfriend. Apparently, the police had been to his house already and hadn’t found him there. The more they talked, the more Emilie realized how superficially she knew her brother these days. Sadness created a weight on her chest. The only new information Emilie could provide the detective was Manny’s cell phone number.
Jeffers fished in his sports coat and withdrew a business card. “Call me if you think of anything else or if you see him. He’ll be transported to an ER first, of course, but we will need him for questioning, too.”
Emilie nodded and accepted the card. “Of course.”
Jeffers escorted her from the cubicle back out the hallway to the public lobby. He gave her a nod and then disappeared fast, like he was happy to be rid of her. Her emotions talking, no doubt.
Because the deed was done. She’d just taken steps to have her brother picked up and involuntarily committed. On one level, it didn’t matter to the sadness and guilt clawing through her insides that the police had already been looking for him, because Manny would eventually learn what she’d done.
And Emilie didn’t know if he would ever forgive her.
Chapter 13
It had been another banner night of no sleep, so Marz was up well before he needed to be for the team’s meeting at oh-eight-hundred. He checked on the key search and found it at forty percent. Progress, for sure. Didn’t feel like it, though.
He made his way to the Rixeys’ apartment and was happy to find Jeremy and Charlie up and fixing breakfast in the kitchen. “Oh, good. I’m not the only one rattling around already,” Marz said.
“I don’t rattle. I rock and roll,” Jeremy said, turning so that Marz got a look at the writing on the guy’s navy blue shirt. HEAD Foundation. Please give generously.
Marz laughed. Jeremy Rixey was good people. “Does that T-shirt work?”
Jeremy grinned and waggled his eyebrows, highlighting the piercing at the end of his right eyebrow. “Sometimes.”
Charlie was shaking his head as he buttered some toast, but his quiet laughter proved that he enjoyed Jer’s humor, too.
“And what’s yours say today, Charlie?” Marz asked.
An unusually open smile on his face, he turned, butter knife still in hand. “I can actually live with this one,” he said. “But I had to dig for it.”
“I forgot I had that one,” Jeremy said, pouring milk into his cereal. “Nick got it for me when he made it into the Special Forces.”
The brown shirt had a picture of Mr. T from the old TV show The A-Team. Underneath it were the words, Mr. T Shirt.
Chuckling, Marz leaned on the granite island. “It’s your fault if I spontaneously say, ‘I pity the fool’”—he affected his best Mr. T voice—“for the rest of the day.”
Charlie swallowed a bite of toast. “I think Jeremy’s already said it three times this morning.”
Marz grabbed a bowl and poured Frosted Flakes and milk for himself. The three of them ate standing up as they chatted.
“So I was thinking,” Marz said to Jeremy around a bite of cereal. “I want you to do some ink for me.”
The guy’s face lit up like his T-shirt had just garnered him an offer. “Yeah? I’d be happy to. What did you have in mind?”
“I have some ideas on my laptop that I can show you. I want to start with one on the back of my calf. I want something where it looks like you’re seeing inside my leg and it’s metal and robotic inside. That sound like something you could do?” He’d been thinking about this one for a while, liking the idea of the human body as a well-oiled machine. It would be his first tat on skin beyond the parts of his body covered by shorts or a T-shirt. But he didn’t have the same rationale for keeping himself unmarked where others could see as he used to. This clusterfuck aside, there wouldn’t be any more SpecOps for him, would there?
Jeremy looked at him a moment and nodded. “I can definitely do that. Likely be a big piece, though. Sure that’s what you want to start out with?”
Marz smiled. “Not my first.”
Jeremy lowered the spoon that had been almost to his mouth, his gaze going to Marz’s bare, ink-free arms. . . . Currently, anyway. “Well, hell. Guess I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“No worries,” Marz said, shrugging. “I’ve got twenty-four, actually.”
Jeremy blinked. “Dude, you’ve been holding out on me,” he said, pointing his spoon at Marz. “I am definitely getting my hands on you, then. Show me your ideas and I can draw something up. I’m booked all of today and I know you have a thing tomorrow,” he said, making Marz’s gut tighten in anticipation of coming clean to Emilie. “I can check my schedule for Sunday, though.”
“That works,” he said.
Just then, Nick and Becca joined them, Eileen right on their heels. Becca filled the puppy’s dishes as Marz marveled at the size of Eileen’s paws. They seemed to grow more every time he saw the mutt. A few minutes later, everyone else made their way into the kitchen, fixed their coffee or breakfast, and took up positions around the island.
“We’re gonna need food again soon,” Becca said, emptying the box of Frosted Flakes into her bowl. “I can’t believe how fast we went through everything.”
“We’re growing boys,” Jeremy said, putting his arm around her shoulders.
“You’re all garbage disposals, I swear,” she said, chuckling and patting his stomach. Though, really, you couldn’t have this many guys living under one roof and not go through the chow. “You’re one of the worst and yet you’re so lean. It’s really not fair.”
Hugging her in against his side, Jeremy winked. “It takes a lot of calories to be this awesome, Becca.”
Nick gave Jeremy a playful shove as everyone chuckled. “Or to be such a big pain in the ass.” Nick kissed Becca’s cheek. “I’d like you to find a grocery delivery service. The way this situation is heating up, I want us out on the street as little as possible.” He scanned his gaze over the group. “That goes for ev
eryone.”
The words settled a seriousness over the room that hadn’t been there moments before, so Marz decided he might as well start talking shop. “I texted Emilie to let her know we need to talk. Will keep you posted.” Marz could feel the disapproval rolling off of Beckett, sitting at the end of the breakfast bar on the island. Now that he’d had a chance to cool off, Marz felt like royal shit for the things he’d said to the guy, but part of him was still hurting, too. Because it seemed like Beckett’s confidence in Marz had disappeared right along with Marz’s leg. And that sucked some major ass.
Nick nodded. “Where are we on the key search for the chip?”
“I reached out to a few guys on new equipment,” Charlie said. “Gonna take a day or two at best, which doesn’t speed things up much.”
“At about forty percent when I looked this morning,” Marz said, feeling the weight of everyone’s expectations on his shoulders. He didn’t mind bearing it—he’d never mind bearing it for these guys—but it still left him anxious to show results. Not only did they need to know what information the chip held before they took on Seneka, but because it had been created by their colonel, it potentially promised to answer a whole host of questions. About why he’d thrown away his honor—and theirs. About what exactly he’d been involved with and with whom. And how it had landed on them, killing their friends and ruining their careers.
If the chip didn’t shed light on some of those questions? No. Not an option. Marz would figure it out one way or the other. Just like he always did. “I gotta head downstairs and open up,” Jeremy said, placing his bowl in the sink. “Grab me if you need me.” He clapped Nick on the back.
“Yep,” Nick said, giving his brother a nod.
When Jeremy left, Beckett clasped his hands on the granite and cleared his throat. The blue in his shirt made the blue of his eyes stark and bright. “Now that Jeremy’s gone, I wanted to raise something,” he said, surveying them all before staring at Nick. “Just thought I should bounce it off you before worrying him with it.”
Nick’s eyebrow arched. “Let’s hear it.” Marz eyeballed Beckett and braced for some bad news. Guy didn’t talk a lot, in part because he was the type who thought through everything he said long before he said it. Which meant, when Beckett Murda had something to say, it was inevitably important and useful.
“I got to thinking. We’re being hunted. Seneka may be involved, and they might’ve been involved with Merritt’s dirty work in Afghanistan. Right?”
Everyone agreed, and Marz wondered where he was going with this.
Beckett met Marz’s gaze. “Even if Seneka is behind Garza’s killings, they know they’re not the ones who blew up Confessions or ambushed the Churchmen’s gun deal. Seneka has to be wondering who did. Which means both Church and Seneka would be looking for us.”
Nick frowned, and ice slowly poured into Marz’s chest. At some point, the people looking for them would find them, wouldn’t they? The writing was on the wall for someone smart and informed enough to read it. His gaze scanned over Becca, Sara, and Jenna, standing near their guys and silently eating breakfast as they listened. He hated that things couldn’t be more settled for the three women—they’d all been through enough.
“Yeah,” Nick said.
Beckett turned his palms up. “I’m just playing this out here. Okay?” Nods all around. “We know Merritt was somehow involved with whoever or whatever WCE is.”
A few months ago, Charlie had started receiving statements from a bank account in Singapore that had his father’s name and Charlie’s address. The bank had refused to provide Charlie access to the funds despite the death certificate he’d produced to prove his father had died. He could only see the account balance as well as the fact that there’d mostly been one depositor—something or someone with the initials WCE.
“So that makes me wonder if Seneka would’ve been involved with WCE, too.” Beckett pointed at Charlie. “Charlie got nabbed after Church found out he was looking for WCE. And then Charlie got rescued—by someone who was also not Seneka.”
Marz nodded, impressed as always with the way Beckett put things together. “Which would have to make Seneka wonder if it was the same person who rescued Charlie and kaboomed Confessions.”
Beckett pointed at him, his eyes narrowed. “Exactly.”
“Okay, granted,” Nick said. “But where are you going with this?”
“Hang with me a second. If—and I realize this is a big if—Seneka asked themselves who is the one person, or one group, that potentially connected all those things together—”
“They’d come back to Merritt,” Marz said.
“Yes. And if they were wearing their thinking caps, they’d come to us. The survivors of Merritt’s ambush. The people who’d have the most to gain by saving Charlie—since he clearly found information proving Merritt wasn’t on the up and up. Which backs the story we told.”
“Or tried to tell,” Easy said in a deadly quiet voice from his seat at the other end of the bar. They’d been roundly shut down by the army JAGs investigating the ambush and the team’s conduct. The brass had finally given them a choice—freedom and keep their mouths shut or an all-expenses-paid vacation to picturesque Fort Leavenworth. The five of them had debated it, but decided to live to fight another day. They’d choked down the nondisclosure agreement, upon which their freedom hinged, and were sent home courtesy of an other-than-honorable discharge that sullied their previously stellar records and reputations.
“I follow all of that,” Nick said. “But what does it have to do with Jeremy?”
Beckett tilted his head and gave the guy an expression that was almost sympathetic.
Oh, shit. Marz’s brain got there a moment before the words left Beckett’s mouth.
“Jeremy’s a Rixey,” Beckett said. “These assholes know our names. Hell, it was only the five of us who survived. If they put two and two and two together and get six, all they have to do is search for each of us.”
Marz could see it the second Nick got it. If anyone involved in the conspiracy that had taken them down bothered to look, they’d find that Nick Rixey and his brother owned a business and lived in Baltimore.
“Searching for Rixey would reveal I live in Baltimore, and it would bring them here, to Hard Ink,” Nick said, voice like sandpaper. “Which means Jeremy’s in danger.” Nick shook his head. “Which means we’re all in danger.”
“If they do the math,” Shane said, holding up a hand. “I’m not trying to downplay this, because I think Beckett’s onto something we need to keep in mind. But, clearly, they’re in damage-control mode right now.”
“Which for the moment is keeping them focused on Church,” Easy said. “Or at least seems to be.” Shane nodded.
Beckett looked at Nick again. “I wanted to talk to you about this before saying anything to Jeremy. I don’t want to alarm him when there are a whole lot of ifs in the calculus I just ran. But I’m wondering what he’d think of closing up the shop ’til this is over. Minimize chances for noncoms to get involved or talk to the wrong person about who and what they’ve seen. And I’m also wondering what we might do to camouflage ourselves a bit here,” he said.
Marz scrubbed his hands over his face. Beckett was right both ways—both that it was a longshot that their enemies would work through all the steps that would lead to them, and that it was enough of a possibility to take precautions.
Nick braced his hands on the counter, his head hanging heavily on his neck. “That shop’s his livelihood. As well as the livelihood of several other people. Fuck,” he said.
“It was just a thought—”
“And a good one,” Nick said with a troubled sigh. Finally, he looked at Beckett again. “I’ll talk to him. I’d rather it not be a group thing at first.” Marz didn’t blame him. Let the guy have the privacy of his reaction, whatever it might be. “I can’t guarantee what he’s going to say, though.”
Beckett nodded. “Fair enough.”
A bu
zzing sounded from Nick’s pocket, and he dug out his cell and placed it to his ear. “Hey, Miguel.” Pause. Nick’s eyebrows cranked down as he listened and nodded to whatever Miguel was saying.
What a godsend Miguel was. Retired BPD, a PI with lots of friends in all the right places around town, and a good man. He’d proved himself a friend to them all, time and again, over the past few weeks.
“This just gets more and more interesting, doesn’t it?” Nick said, and then he signed off.
“What now?” Marz asked, wondering if the police had learned more about Garza and the shootings. On the one hand, it would be useful for the cops to get Garza off the streets before he killed anyone else or learned about the missing stash in his sister’s basement. On the other, if he got captured, there went their chance to interrogate him themselves.
Nick scanned the group until his gaze landed on Marz. “Not sure what to make of this, but Emilie Garza just left the central district police station. She filed an emergency psychiatric evaluation petition today. Against her brother.”
EMILIE WAS GOING to have to tell her mother what she’d done. If she let that wait until tomorrow and her mother found out at the party, it would be so much worse. And—Oh, God—Emilie wasn’t sure whether to hope the police did or didn’t find Manny before her party. Either way could prove a disaster. If they did, her mother would be crushed by his absence—and at the reason for it. If they didn’t and Manny showed . . . well, who knew what he might do.
Her cell phone rang from where it sat in the center console cup holder. Derek. Conflict fluttered through Emilie’s belly. She wasn’t sure she was in the right place to talk to him right now, but she also hated to ignore him. She thought about the text he’d sent this morning. What could he want to talk to her about?
Deciding to at least let him know she was in the middle of something, she picked up the call through her Bluetooth. “Hi, Derek,” she said as she adjusted the hook of the earpiece. A siren wailed from somewhere behind her. She looked in her rearview mirror to find a police car pulling in right on her rear bumper.
