Maybe It's You

by Candace Calvert

  “Explosion? Oh no.” Zoey’s eyes went wide. “It’s them. They did it.”

  “What are you talking about? Who?”

  “Those g-gangsters,” she said, her chin trembling. She looked toward Sloane’s place. “They’re after the money.”

  What?

  “What money?” Sloane asked, tugging at her sleeve.

  “In your house.”

  “Look at me.” She grasped Zoey’s shoulders. “I don’t have any money.”

  “You do. A lot of it.” The girl’s voice had risen two octaves in her panic. “I brought it here. In a white Uber van. Stack even got me a stupid uniform so I’d look like a delivery person. It was our last job. That’s what I was trying to tell you. I had to take the Russian money to your place. Hidden inside a box.”

  No.

  “The cereal company carton?” Sloane demanded, nearly shaking the girl. The faded box Jerry had brought to her door. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Stack had one of the Lucky Charms boxes. He said it was stuff he’d never unpacked after moving a couple of years back. He got the idea to use it after I told him I’d seen all those boxes at your place.”

  “I said I was expecting another one,” Sloane remembered, her own panic setting in. Nine hundred thousand dollars of mob money . . . in my pantry?

  “Stack thought you’d go along with it, I guess. He thought he could talk you into running away with him. He even kept that diamond ring. I think he was going to give it back to you. But they caught up to him.” Zoey’s gaze darted to the burning house. “And now they’ve set another fire.”

  “Hold on,” Sloane told her, still reeling. “This doesn’t make sense. Why would the Russians set fire to Celeste’s house?”

  “I don’t know.” Zoey shivered. “All I know is Stack was planning to come over here to get that money. Maybe they found out?”

  An engine roared to life from the direction of Sloane’s cottage. A dark sedan shot backward, tripping the security lights, then roared again and ripped across the lawn in a reckless U-turn before peeling down the driveway and toward the street.

  Sloane stared.

  “See?” Zoey clutched at her arm. “Stack. He got the money.”

  Sloane gritted her teeth. “I’m sure going to find out.”

  She jogged to the cottage with Zoey close behind, all the while struggling to make sense of how this fit together. Paul running the scheme to put Zoey and Sloane together, his desperate need to vanish last night, and now the fire at Celeste’s? She gulped in a breath as they reached the porch, telling herself she shouldn’t care if she ever understood this crazy mess. She should be relieved that it was over. The filthy money was gone. Paul was gone.

  Except he wasn’t.

  Sloane froze in the foyer, her heart in her throat.

  Paul lay facedown near the pantry doors in a pool of blood.

  34

  “QUICK, HELP ME TURN HIM OVER. C’mon, get down here.” Sloane tugged at Zoey’s arm, pulling her to the hardwood floor and onto her knees; the girl immediately slid in the blood and shrank back. Sloane snatched her arm again. “Stop that and grab hold. Please. It’s the only way we can help him.”

  Hang on, Paul. . . .

  Their combined efforts succeeded in rolling him onto his back in a deadweight heap.

  Ah . . . no, no . . . This is so bad.

  His face was a bloodless white, eyes half-closed, lips gone slack and gray. A trickle of frothy blood glistened at the corner of Paul’s mouth. In the center of his faded-blue Hawaiian shirt—his lucky shirt—was a frighteningly huge bloodstain, like a macabre blossom among the festive flowers. Bullet wound. Had to be.

  Hemopneumothorax, great vessel injury, cardiac tamponade . . . This was so much worse than bad.

  “He’s dead,” Zoey groaned, fingers pressed to her lips. “He is, isn’t he?”

  “Call 911,” Sloane ordered for the second time that night, then leaned low in an attempt to hear or see any spontaneous effort at breathing. Nothing. She slid her fingers against Paul’s pale neck, going by rote and by protocol. But she knew there would be no pulse. She’d begun to tremble. “Call it, Zoey—here.” She slid her cell phone across the floor toward the girl, grimacing as it encountered blood and stuck to the floor. “Tell them it looks like a GSW, gunshot wound. To the chest. No breathing, no pulse.”

  Zoey averted her eyes and Sloane finished her assessment. She made the decision to do hands-only CPR; there was too much blood in his mouth and throat for rescue breaths to be effective. And Sloane needed to protect herself, too. Oh, Paul . . .

  “I saw medics next door,” Zoey said, nearly as pale as Paul as she swabbed the phone against her jacket. “I’ll run over there.”

  “No!” Sloane balanced on her knees, placing one hand atop the other on Paul’s sternum. “They’re basic EMTs. We need paramedics, a helicopter.” She rocked her weight onto Paul’s chest, feeling still-warm blood ooze between her fingers; there was a soft sucking sound as she finished the first compression. “Call 911. Tell them what I said. Gunshot wound to the chest, under CPR. Send the chopper and a trauma team.”

  “Okay. I’m doing it now.”

  “Good . . . Good girl,” Sloane said, her throat raw from battling emotion. “It’s going to be his only chance.”

  Zoey made the call, then turned back to Sloane. “Should I go get those firefighters now?”

  “Yes. We need all the help we can get. But don’t tell Celeste or the others if they’re still there. They don’t need this now.”

  “Okay. I’ll be back.”

  “Good.”

  Sloane listened to the girl’s footsteps as she hurried away, then resumed counting her cardiac compressions aloud. She performed on autopilot, counting as she compressed Paul’s breastbone, repeating the motion over and over to accomplish 100 per minute. She only looked at his face when she had to—clinically, to assess the effectiveness of her efforts—because it was too terrifying to see him like that. And it only proved what she’d known the instant they rolled him over: Paul Stryker needed far more than medics and a helicopter.

  Sloane closed her eyes.

  God, if you’re there . . . please give him a chance.

  Micah checked the intersection and accelerated through the yellow light, wishing he had the option of lights and siren. The length of time he’d been driving felt like hours; his heart hammered like he had hold of the bumper, pushing the SUV along. But he’d taken off from LA Hope only seven minutes ago and was grateful—thank you, Lord—he’d been so close when the back-to-back reports came in. He’d suited up for a crisis response, then decided to make himself available to Fiona as well, in the likely event of problems after the law enforcement press conference. What he never expected was to hear Sloane’s address over the police scanner. A fire at Celeste’s house and a shooting at Sloane’s?

  “Unidentified victim is male Caucasian, late thirties, gunshot wound to chest. Under CPR. LAPD and fire on scene. No other known victims; no information regarding assailant. Witnesses report seeing a dark-colored late-model sedan . . .”

  Witnesses. Was one of them Sloane? Was she there when the shots were fired? Had she been threatened . . . hurt?

  Guilt hit Micah like a fist in the gut; Sloane wouldn’t have been home if he hadn’t reacted the way he did to Coop’s story. If he hadn’t heard her side of that story through the filter of Stephen’s death.

  “I’m no different than the drunk who killed your cousin.”

  He hadn’t said a word to dispute it. He’d let her walk out of his place—his life?—judging her like she was a criminal too. He’d spent all those hours in training, assuring himself he was responding to a calling, and then turned a deaf ear when someone he really cared for was in trouble?

  Micah braked hard for a light, tires grabbing, then slammed his palm against the steering wheel. What good was he if he could rein in his compassion with the lame excuse of needing time to think? Did Sloane say that
when she risked her own safety to run to the aid of a would-be kidnap victim? Or when she confronted the SICU nurse over his treatment of that homeless man? Was “time to think” ever valid when it came to doing the right thing?

  He should pull over and turn around. He hadn’t been officially dispatched, and after the hostility he’d seen in Sloane’s eyes, he was probably the last person she would want to see right now. But he had to know she was all right.

  His phone signaled the tone he’d assigned to the crisis team. He glanced up at the light, still incessant LA red, and went against his usual practice to take a look at the text message. From crisis dispatch:

  Shooting at 2147-B Ernest Court. Guesthouse. Support for witnesses. Life Flight dispatched. *Be advised fire on same property, main house. LAFD on scene.*

  Micah took a slow breath, accelerating as the light turned green. It was official. He was the responder on scene. Whether Sloane liked it or not.

  He pulled up the familiar driveway five minutes later and went directly to the guesthouse, despite ongoing fire containment work at the main house. The looky-loos—and they’d better not include Coop, if he knew what was good for him—were much thicker at Sloane’s place. Probably because the helicopter had landed in the empty lot next to it, rotors still turning, cockpit and interior lit.

  Micah reached for his bag, mouthing a prayer. “Help me offer comfort and hope to these survivors. . . .”

  Same prayer, same request for different people in different circumstances. And this time it could be Sloane.

  He hustled through the crowd to the front door. It was open, and law enforcement had already strung yellow crime tape. He reached for his ID badge as he approached an officer.

  “Crisis response team,” he began. “I’m—”

  “Prescott,” the older man said, recognizing Micah. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

  “Ah . . . right,” Micah agreed, remembering him as the PD officer who’d been on scene when Jane Doe was found. Micah corrected himself: Oksana Durov. She’d been identified today. She was still incapable of voicing a single word but had become a prime witness against the traffickers. Probably the same organization responsible for the motel fire.

  “We got a surprise find here,” the officer said, glancing into the house. “The shooting victim is the Sacramento money runner the Feds are hunting.”

  What?

  “Stryker?” Micah braced his palm on the doorframe.

  “Yep. Got corroboration from one witness. The other one’s been doing CPR. Wouldn’t let the EMTs take over. Said she was waiting for the trauma team. She’s an ER nurse from Hope hospital. This is her house.”

  I know. “I’d like to go in. If it’s possible.”

  “Let me confirm.” The officer spoke into his radio. “Flight physician has taken over. We’re preserving the scene for the evidence team; deputies will tell you where you can be. Go round to the back.”

  “Right.”

  When Micah was let inside the back door, he saw Sloane immediately. She was sitting on a kitchen chair pulled into the short hallway leading from the bedroom and bath to the front of the house, with an officer at her side. Maybe only fifteen yards from where Micah stood now. Micah’s heart turned over. She looked pale, shell-shocked, and was staring down at her still-bloody hands.

  “They’re transporting the victim?” Micah asked the officer stationed at the door. “Now that Life Flight’s here?”

  “Pronounced him dead right there.” The officer shook his head. “Our nurse wouldn’t quit until the doc showed her the head wound. Two in the chest, one to the back of the head, execution-style.”

  Micah grimaced.

  A second man, wearing a suit, was talking with Sloane. “Is she being questioned?”

  “Initial statements, I’d suspect. Several neighbors confirmed the story that the nurse and the girl were helping the fire victims next door when a car went speeding away from the guesthouse. Then, allegedly, they walk in and find the guy on the floor. The nurse starts CPR. The other witness calls 911.”

  “Who was the other witness?”

  “A young woman. Nineteen, she said, but I doubt it.”

  Micah had to ask. “So why was this guy here, in the house?”

  “Can’t really say more,” the officer advised. “Sort of a ‘tangled web,’ as my wife likes to say. The Feds are all over this one.”

  Micah nodded, thinking that was exactly how his brain felt. Tangled, confused. He glanced down the hallway again, knowing he couldn’t even imagine all that Sloane had endured. “The fire. Anyone injured there?”

  “Don’t think so.” The officer’s brows rose. “Pretty good diversion tactic, maybe?”

  For a professional hit.

  Micah had no clue how to deal with this—except as a crisis responder. It wasn’t his job to investigate or judge or fix, even if all he wanted right now was to wrap Sloane in his arms and protect her. He took a slow breath. “I can’t go in there, talk with her?”

  “Not yet. She may end up down at the station. The girl too.”

  “Not as suspects?”

  “Doesn’t look like it, but can’t rule anything out.”

  Micah wasn’t going to start down that path.

  “Okay then,” he said, pulling a crisis team card from his bag. He jotted a few words on the back. “I’m going to see how things are going next door and maybe talk with those neighbors.” He handed the card to the officer. “Give this to the nurse, Sloane Ferrell?”

  “Will do.”

  “Thanks.”

  Micah glanced down the hallway, and Sloane’s eyes met his. She stared at him for a few seconds, then looked away.

  35

  “I WISH I COULD TALK you into coming home with me.”

  Harper leaned forward on the bed and snugged the motel room blanket around Sloane’s shoulders. It was thin, a graying pink, and smelled of lavender potpourri stirred with a cigarette. It did nothing to stop the chill that had reached Sloane’s bones. Harper brought soup—oxtail from a Chinese kitchen on the corner—complete with a plastic ladle spoon; she’d apologized, saying it was the closest she could find to chicken soup on short notice. Sloane had forced herself to eat a few bites, mostly to reassure her worried friend.

  “I think you scrubbed half your skin off in that shower.” Harper looked at Sloane the way Sloane must have looked at Marty in his shelter cage. Her nose wrinkled. “I hope you wore flip-flops in there. This room is more than iffy.”

  Sloane’s shrug freed more potpourri scent. “Three stars.”

  “They bribed somebody at Yelp.”

  Sloane tried to smile but couldn’t.

  She wondered what Harper would say if she knew this room was paid for by organized crime. Zoey must have tucked the envelope of money into Sloane’s pocket at some point during all the chaos. She hadn’t found it until she returned to her Volvo after the police interviews. Ten crisp hundred-dollar bills to repay the money Zoey had taken from the rooster canister. A thousand dollars given to Zoey by “Stack,” undoubtedly part of the stolen money he’d had squirreled away while he was in Mexico. Gambling money, drug money, trafficking money . . . blood money? Sloane would never know for sure. She only knew the mobsters forced Paul to take them to get it back, then brutally executed him. Her stomach twisted at the thought of him bleeding to death on her floor.

  She didn’t want anything to do with that envelope of money, but her cottage was a crime scene and she’d needed a place to sleep; without credit and ATM cards, she had no access to enough cash until Monday. So she took on one more shame and let dubious money rent this room. She shivered.

  “You okay?” Harper halted her effort to smooth the jacket she was sitting on to avoid bedspread cooties. “Are you injured?”

  My head, my heart . . . my soul? And what little pride she’d had left. Micah had been there. At the cottage.

  “I’m fine.” Sloane shook her head. “The police didn’t hit me with rubber hoses, Har
per. They just asked questions. There was coffee and toaster strudel.”

  Harper’s magazine-ad eyes studied hers. Truth seeking.

  “Okay, it was awful being there,” Sloane admitted. “And considering what I expect is on the TV news right now . . .” She blinked to halt tears. She had no right to cry. If she did, she might not be able to stop. “I’m surprised you’d be here.”

  “Try and stop me.” Harper reached for Sloane’s hand. “You did try. And you failed. If I’d been able to get a message to you earlier about my guest room, I wouldn’t have taken no for an answer. I’ve never let anyone I cared about deal with something like this alone.”

  “You know people who had something like this?”

  “No. You’re the first.” Harper’s expression sobered. “Have they found your cat?”

  “Not yet.”

  Marty had disappeared. There had been smoke, sirens, gunshots, and strangers tramping through the house. The door was open much of that time. It would have been a miracle if he hadn’t run off. But still, Sloane had searched under the beds, in the closets, and everywhere she could think of until the police insisted she go to the station for the interviews. One of the evidence technicians was a cat lover and promised she’d watch for him. Sloane left the travel carrier in the kitchen next to Marty’s food bowl. “I walked the neighborhood after I got back from the station but . . .”

  It had been a nightmare. There wasn’t any sign of Marty, and the neighbors had been too wary to even talk with Sloane, as if their homes would be the next to catch a firebomb. Then a TV reporter spotted her. “Jerry’s planning to go over and search around the house a few times tonight. As close as the CSI folks will let him get. Marty has his collar and tags and a microchip. That’s good, I guess.”

  Harper nodded. “And how is Zoey?”

  “She’s in a safe house tonight. After that, I’m not sure. She wants to go home. But at some point she’ll probably have to at least give a deposition.”