Everyone in the team knew how much Dresden gloried in good publicity.
“Since you’re so sure the center’s a disaster why did you invite her along to see it being a success?”
Quinn slanted a look in her direction and she could have sworn she saw a hint of color in those cut-glass cheeks.
“Or were you anticipating the afternoon wouldn’t be a success?” she guessed shrewdly. “You and Dresden both share the view that the drop in center serves as nothing more than a holding pen before these kids end up in jail, isn’t that right?”
Quinn’s hand jerked off her desk. He took a long quiet breath before speaking. “Is that your true opinion of me? Yes, I agree with Dresden that if you want to whip these kids into shape then you need to be tough on them instead of mollycoddling them, but you’re wrong to think I didn’t want it to succeed. Your failures reflect on all of us.”
“Wait, if Dresden doesn’t believe in what you’re aiming to accomplish with the center, why is she supporting it?” Reuben asked, his head swiveling between the two of them, trying to understand the undercurrents.
“Get real, Reuben!” Quinn snapped. “She’s taking advantage of the mayor’s financial support initiative that targets knife and gang crime, the two big catch cries at the moment,” Quinn answered. “In other words, she’ll be considered progressive and it’ll look good on her CV, especially if the center succeeds and crime statistics go down for the area. If it doesn’t succeed, well it wasn’t her idea in the first place.”
Bex bit her lip to stop its trembling. Quinn’s words left her feeling like she was naked, hanging from a limb. It was a sharp reminder that this wasn’t like the halfway house she’d set up in New York when her whole precinct had given its support. Here she was forced to battle the very people who gave lip service to supporting the initiative.
“It doesn’t matter about Dresden’s reasons if you can work it to your advantage, does it, Bex?” Reuben said gently.
“Damn straight, Reuben.” Bex hardened her resolve. If sheer will could accomplish it, then the center would be a success.
Chapter 20
Wednesday March 21
Reuben popped his head around her office door.
“You might want to check this out, Bex. Aislinn Scully on Trending News is running a story about black market organ donors. It’s already picking up social media traction and the comments are pretty feral, I’m afraid.”
Dread made her fingers leaden as she accessed the video footage, close cropped to a golden-haired Aislinn speaking directly to the camera.
“…year alone it was estimated by the NHS that more than four hundred and fifty people died while awaiting an organ transplant. That still leaves close to seven thousand people needing organ transplants to live a normal life.
“These statistics show the immense pressure out there to secure organs and it’s this pressure that has led to a black market for purchasing human body parts. The sad fact is that people are selling their blood, their kidneys, parts of their liver and other expendable organs for money.
“But we now have it on good authority that London hospitals are being warned by the police to verify the provenance of all organs received before using them. In this exclusive report by Trending News, we delve into the next chilling level, that of people being murdered for their organs.
“According to police statistics there are over two hundred and fifty thousand missing people reports in the UK every year. Where are these people? Almost half of them are aged between fifteen and twenty-one. Healthy young people provide the best organs for longevity. Does this mean our most vulnerable are being targeted for their healthy organs? When people are desperate they reach for desperate measures and there is nothing more wretched than taking someone’s life to ensure your own survival…”
It was a beat up story that had taken her warning to hospitals and turned it into genuine scaremongering. Bex pressed the mute button.
The online news report was open to comments, concentrated into a viral thread that teenagers were being harvested for organs for rich people. It was clogged with names of missing persons. Scanning the comments, Bex’s eyes froze. Someone had posted a photo of Yusef and Dresden taken by the local paper at the drop in center straight after the Saturday fight. The comment accompanying it sent a chill down her spine.
“Teens are disappearing from this police drop in center. How do we keep our kids safe if even the fuzz can’t protect them?”
Bex stifled a groan, already anticipating Dresden’s phone call. She treated bad publicity like the plague. When her phone beeped, she steeled herself to answer.
“Wynter, what the hell is going on? Have you viewed the so-called news report from that poxy doxy Aislinn Scully? And seen the comments?! Reading between the lines, social media now has your drop in center corralling teenagers so they can be harvested for organs! How did the Youth Crimes Team, and more specifically my name, get dragged into this?”
Bex crossed her fingers.
“Strictly speaking, this case belongs to Bridesmead CID and we’re just providing the legwork to chase down some evidence in a case where we suspect one missing teenager was murdered and her liver used for an organ transplant. Whether the recipient was aware of this or not, is still under investigation.”
“Tell Mackinley I want a full report on my desk within the hour.” Dresden’s voice dripped icicles. “And I mean a complete report, including the reason why I was kept out of the loop. My job is not to run around putting out the fires you start, Wynter. In a nutshell, fix the situation or close the center. It’s your choice.”
Discouraged, Bex dialed Josh’s number to warn him about the story and find out if the center had been affected.
“A couple of the lads are here. Scottie’s been parring his mum and she told him to get out, so he’s lobbed up here with his mates,” Josh told her. “But yeah, the boys have been talking about the news. And, Boss, there’s something else that happened.”
Bex could tell by the lowering of his voice that it wasn’t going to be good news.
“Go ahead, Josh, I’m ready.”
“Someone’s egged the outside wall and scrawled a messed up message.”
Bex winced. “Sorry to hear that, Josh. I’ll pop over and help you clean up. What did the message say?”
“It says, ‘keep your kids away if you don’t want them killed for their organs.’”
Chapter 21
Wednesday March 21
The sulfuric smell of rotten eggs lingered in her nostrils even after Bex returned to Bridesmead CID. The skin on her hands was rubbed raw from scrubbing at the outside walls. Despite a harsh wind that had hounded them, she and Josh had cleaned the lurid yellow yolks from the walls. She had left Josh with instructions to get someone in in the morning to erase the graffiti. She had to get rid of that message before Dresden blew another fuse.
The office space was empty. The cleaners had already been through the premises and turned off the lights. Bex switched them back on and made her way to the tiny cubicle she called an office. Glumly, she dropped into her chair. Her phone buzzed and she checked the caller ID. It was Walt, but she snubbed it. She didn’t have the strength to pretend to be happy.
She heard the outside office door click open and stiffened.
“Anyone here?” Cole’s voice called.
Bex ignored him.
“If no one’s here I’m going to turn off the lights.”
“I’m still working. Leave the lights on,” she said, her voice little more than a resigned murmur.
When she heard his footsteps, her shoulders tensed. Sure enough, he poked his head around the doorjamb.
“Hiding out from the media? You created quite a brouhaha with your warning to the hospitals, didn’t you?”
“If you’ve come to gloat and tell me ‘I told you so’, consider it said.”
A sour taste filled her mouth as the bitter words tumbled out. In the quiet of the empty office her beeping phone
sounded overly loud.
“No, that would be ungentlemanly of me. Why don’t we chalk that one up to my vast number of years of experience over you? I’m here to tell you Dresden wants to see you tomorrow. No doubt to tear strips off you in person and tell you what a right shambles you’ve made of this case. At least that’s my best guess going on how she treated me.”
Her phone chirruped again. She fished it out of her pocket and switched it off.
“Tell me, why does your phone keep demanding your attention, yet you keep ignoring it? If you’re being hounded by the media, you need to let public relations know and they’ll get the bloodhounds to back off. The press shouldn’t be bothering you personally.”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
Bex swallowed a heavy sigh, afraid to open a floodgate of emotions. Tears burned the back of her throat. Damn it, stop feeling sorry for yourself! She hadn’t told her team members, but she found herself confessing to Cole, “It’s my birthday and with the time difference between New York and London this is a convenient time to be called from across the Atlantic.”
Cole’s eyes softened as he considered her words and the emotion she wasn’t totally able to hide.
“Don’t you know office policy on birthdays?” he said breezily.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s obligatory to buy a sponge cake or two from Dill’s and bring it into the office for morning tea.” He squinted at her, the laughter lines crinkling around his eyes. “Don’t tell me you were trying to get out of your obligations by keeping this news to yourself!”
“I didn’t realize it was an official policy. I must’ve missed it in the handbook.”
“Well, I promise not to tell if you buy me a drink. We’ll keep it on the QT.” He tapped the side of his nose in a conspiratorial manner.
Bex folded her arms and considered his proposal. To be honest after the day she’d had she could use a drink. Or two.
“You’re a riot, Cole. But if it’ll keep you quiet we’ll go to the Sail and Ale for a pint.” Bex proudly displayed her grasp of British English.
“Sail and Ale? Oh, no, my girl, you don’t get off that easy.” Cole checked his watch. “Nine p.m. Perfect timing. Hipolito’s Tapas Bar has just opened. You buy the drinks and I’ll buy you dinner.”
“What? Don’t be crazy, Cole!”
“I’ve been called worse,” he said with a smirk. “If it makes you feel better I promise we’ll talk about strategies to disarm Dresden and convince her this case isn’t a wild goose chase.”
He picked her jacket up from the back of her chair and helped her into it. The touch of his hands on her shoulders was intensely masculine. His scent, mossy and clean, rolled over her. Her heart fluttered, but she quenched it. Unsettled by his proximity, she shifted backwards. She hoped Cole hadn’t noticed her reaction.
“We’ll go in my car. It’s parked downstairs.”
Bex discovered that Cole’s car was a shiny red 1964 Lotus Elan coupé with its factory hard top up.
“It’s a left hand drive,” Bex noted with surprise. “Makes it a perfect car for me to drive,” she teased.
“You’ll have to buy me enough drinks to put me under the table before that happens,” he retorted with good humor.
Cole unlocked the door for her and she slid into the passenger seat.
“It’s not the type of car I imagined you driving.”
“Nobody does. I don’t often bring it to work. But when I saw the sun this morning I felt like driving here with the top down. I suppose you’d call this my mid-life crisis. Silly really, I should’ve invested in real estate. Still it’s such a classic it hasn’t depreciated.”
Despite the gray streaks in his dense mane, his clean-shaven face revealed few wrinkles.
“You don’t look old enough to have had a mid-life crisis.”
“It’s not a matter of age. It was more a matter of re-evaluating my life after I almost put an innocent man behind bars for a crime he never committed. Something like that takes the shine off being God’s right hand man, which is what I always considered myself as a police officer.”
For a fleeting moment his face looked crushed by grief. Bex stayed silent, but Cole betrayed no further details.
“It sounds like you didn’t though. And that’s a good thing, right?” she offered, tempted to lay a comforting hand on his.
“More a matter of chance and luck, I’d say. Sorry, I don’t normally treat guests like father confessors. Let’s move on.” He twitched his shoulders as though shaking off unwanted feelings. “How old are you today?”
“Twenty-eight.”
Cole winced. “Ouch, to be that young again.”
“Age doesn’t matter. Some pack more into a year than others do a decade.”
“Well, I certainly can’t claim my thirty-eight years have bestowed much wisdom on me.”
When he rolled the Lotus to a smooth stop, Bex checked their surroundings and decided they were in lively entertainment precinct. A trendy-looking wine bar sat on one corner while several smaller bars and restaurants faced them across the street.
“Hipolito’s is more on the homespun side,” Cole explained, leading her down some steps into a basement where they were greeted with dim lighting and red velvet booths occupied by intense, brooding executive types in deep conversations.
Behind a marble topped bar at the front, Cole hailed their host. Swarthy-skinned and lean-hipped, Hipolito cast a long, shady look in her direction as he mixed a cocktail.
“Welcome,” he said, making the word sound exotic.
“Don’t let the fake accent fool you,” Cole said. “Hipolito was born in Tooting but he plays up his looks for the customers.”
“Ah, don’t give my secrets away!” Hipolito gave her a lazy wink. “What’ll you have to start with?”
“The lady’s buying so two of your best pink gin and tonics and keep them coming,” Cole ordered before Bex protested she didn’t enjoy gin.
With a hand on her back, Cole guided her to an empty booth and handed her a menu. His eyes, intelligent and thoughtful, searched hers across the tabletop. Uncomfortable, Bex dropped her gaze to the menu.
“Contrary to Hipolito’s fakery, he’s hired some genuine Spanish cooks and their tapas menu is sublime. If you’re not sure what to order try the gin-cured salmon. If the G and Ts don’t get you sloshed the salmon’s guaranteed to!”
When Hipolito came to take their order, Bex deliberately disregarded Cole’s suggestion and ordered braised baby squid paella with sourdough bread rubbed in garlic.
“You’re going to regret that when you taste mine,” Cole taunted. “What do you think of your G and T?”
“It would be better made with American gin,” Bex said tartly.
“Oho, those are fighting words. What can you offer the lady, Hipolito?”
“I’ll make you a G and T with Aviation Gin,” he said. “Very dry and not so dominated by the juniper flavors. Good choice, senorita.”
Their server brought their next round of drinks with their dinner.
Cole sipped. “Well, I have to concede, that’s a pretty phenomenal G and T. Drink up. Let’s have another round.”
“Not for me,” Bex said. “Gin is not really my drink of choice.”
“What is?”
“Careful, Cole, or I might think you’re trying to get me drunk. Or do you intend to live it up big since I’m buying the drinks?”
“Oh, the latter. Live it up on somebody else’s pound, that’s my motto. So if gin’s not your drink what poison do you prefer? Hipolito’s got one of the best stocked bars in London, why else would I come here?”
“Does he have Wild Turkey? Master’s Keep, preferably.”
Cole whistled. “You still paying?”
Hipolito brought over two glasses filled with amber fluid.
Bex held up a finger. “First, take a little sip. Hold it in your mouth and swish it around. In Kentucky they call t
hat the Kentucky chew.”
Her father-in-law, Neil, had taught her that. He had grown up in blue grass country before moving to New York when times got hard and his family had sold their farm. Bex had always been fascinated by stories from his youth. The man was, after all, eighty-five and had lived a memorable life.
“That’s the best way to get the full taste of the bourbon. Let it roll over your tongue so you taste the beginning, the middle and the finish,” she repeated Neil’s commands.
They were silent for a few minutes as they sipped. Bex didn’t want to spoil the taste by eating, but she was ravenous. It was ten o’clock and she hadn’t eaten since having a quick sandwich at lunch
“Not bad,” Cole conceded, watching Bex devour her food. “Bourbon’s a bit too malty and sweet for my taste. If you want real whiskey you can’t go past a good Scotch.”
Bex raised an eyebrow. “Scotch? Is that because of your heritage?”
“The heritage is Scottish, if you please. The only things Scotch are eggs and whiskey. But yes, my gran taught me to drink when I was fifteen or sixteen. She said it was a good skill for a man to be able to hold his booze.” He gestured and in a few minutes Hipolito joined them.
“What’s your best Scotch?” Cole asked.
“I have a Glen Grant eighteen year old.”
Cole nodded. “Perfect. A good single malt scotch to match against your American rubbish. Take a sip of this so you know what a real whiskey should taste like. And let’s have a look at the dessert menu.”
Chapter 22
Wednesday March 21
In the men’s room, Cole splashed cold water over his face, slapping his cheeks. When he stared at his reflection in the mirror, all he could see were Bex’s shimmery, sorrow-filled eyes. Like Lara’s eyes the day she had cradled their baby in her arms for the last time.
The water ran slick and icy over his skin and dripped into the basin. He squeezed his eyelids tight to block out his vision. Why had he blurted out his shameful truth to Bex in the ride to the tapas bar? His jaw clenched. He knew the answer lay in her eyes that spoke to his heart and tugged at the grief and guilt he’d buried along with his wife.
Bex Wynter Box Set 2 Page 12
