by Karen Rose
Another shot rang out, followed by a shrill scream, all while Meredith stared numbly at the gun in her hand. She hadn’t pulled the trigger. What the hell had just happened?
And then outside the café, the roar of an engine and the squeal of tires filled the air.
Around her, she heard the dull rumble of voices, many of them dialing 911. Shaking harder than the boy had, Meredith held on to the gun with one hand and fumbled in her purse with the other. She found her phone and dialed without even pausing to wonder why she’d chosen the number she had.
Mount Carmel, Ohio
Saturday, December 19, 4:03 p.m.
Still bent over, Adam stared at snow covering the mansion’s front yard while he brought his breathing under control. Panic attacks sucked ass. He was seriously considering calling his AA sponsor when a pair of huge feet in steel-toed boots shuffled into his field of vision. Schooling his features, Adam straightened and lifted his eyes to Diesel’s.
Diesel had also schooled his features, no surprise there. He gripped a Xerox-paper box that appeared to be at least twenty years old. “You okay?” he asked.
Adam nodded. “What’s in the box?”
“Menorah. First day of Hanukkah’s coming up.”
Adam forced himself to smile. “I didn’t think of that. Are any of the girls Jewish?”
“Dunno. But it seems like we should have one as long as we’ve got a tree. This one belonged to my mother. I was going to put it on the mantel inside.”
Adam’s smile became real. “That’s really nice, Diesel. I’m . . .” He pointed to the boxes of lights someone had stacked under one of the big oak trees. “I’m going to hang the lights out here. I could use the help.”
Diesel looked relieved. “I’ll put the menorah on the mantel and be right back out.”
“Thanks, man.” He started to step aside so that Diesel could get to the front walk, when Cyndi Lauper started singing “True Colors” from his phone and Adam froze. He hadn’t heard that ringtone since the day he’d installed it.
For Meredith. He snatched at the phone, his heart rocketing in his chest. “Hello?” he asked cautiously, because there was no freaking way Meredith would be calling him. Not unless something was wrong.
Something was wrong. In the background he heard screams and loud voices and sobs. “Meredith?” he said sharply, his imagination immediately filling in the blanks with terrifying images. “Are you there?”
Diesel went still, his eyes on Adam’s, but he said nothing. Just waited.
“Meredith?” Adam pressed, his panic returning. “Tell me you’re there.”
“Yes.” Her voice was thin and brittle. “I . . . Can you come, please? I need you.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” He tried to keep his voice calm, to tamp down the terror that had grabbed him by the throat. A strong hand gripped his upper arm, hard enough to hurt. Grounding him. Adam looked up at Diesel’s steady gaze gratefully, then pointed to the house. “Get Colby, please,” he said and Diesel took off at a run. “I’m here,” he said into the phone. “Tell me where you are, sweetheart.”
Meredith sobbed once, quickly swallowed. “At Buon Cibo.”
Right. He knew that. He’d heard Wendi say that days ago when he’d been fixing a leaky pipe in the kitchen. He dug his keys out of his pocket as Colby, Wendi, and Diesel came running, Stone following behind more slowly.
“I know the place,” Adam said, pushing through the old mansion’s wrought iron gate to his Jeep, the others following. “I’m almost in my Jeep. Tell me that you’re okay.”
Wendi’s hand covered her mouth, her face gone pale. Colby had his arm around her shoulders protectively.
“I’m . . .” Meredith’s swallow was audible. “I’m okay. Mallory’s okay. There was a shooting. A man is dead. I didn’t fire, I swear I didn’t.” Her voice broke at the end.
Adam clenched his eyes shut and made himself breathe. “She’s okay,” he told the others and climbed behind the wheel of his Jeep. “So is Mallory, but there was a shooting at the café where they were having supper. Buon Cibo.”
“We’ll follow behind you,” Colby said and urged Wendi back toward the house when she tried to run to Colby’s sedan. “You need a coat, Wen. I promise we’ll hurry.”
Colby’s voice seemed to calm her and Wendi sagged against him, nodding weakly.
“Call us if you need us!” Diesel yelled as Adam fired up his engine and drove away with a squeal of tires.
Adam raised his hand, then focused on Meredith. “Have you called 911?”
“Everyone did,” she said, breath hitching. “Other customers.”
“That’s good,” he said soothingly. “Where are you right now, honey?”
“In the café. Under the table.” Her breaths were fast and harsh. “I had my gun out, Adam. But I didn’t shoot him.”
Adam frowned, the scenario unclear. And . . . Wait. Meredith carried? He hadn’t even known she owned a gun. “All right. Who did shoot him?”
“I don’t know.” Another swallowed sob. “He was pointing his gun at me but I’d talked him down. He’d dropped it. And then . . .” She was crying and Adam’s hands tightened on the wheel in frustration that he couldn’t already be there.
I should have been there. For the millionth time he cursed his own weakness. If I hadn’t been so fucked up, I’d have been with her, where I belong. I’d have been there, and she’d be all right. “And then?” he asked softly.
“His head . . . it just exploded.” She gagged a little, then dragged in a deep breath. “I’m . . . Oh God. I’m covered in . . . God, Adam.”
“Got it,” Adam said quietly. She was covered in a dead man’s brains. He navigated the curvy back road as fast as he dared, then stepped on the gas when he hit the highway. “I’m on my way, Meredith. Put your weapon down on the floor. They’ll be able to tell it wasn’t fired, but you don’t want the police to have to disarm you. Did you put it down?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“That’s good,” he said smoothly. “Where is Mallory?”
“Sitting next to me.”
“Under the table?”
“Yeah. She pulled me down after the guy’s head—” Her voice broke again. “Adam, he was just a boy.”
Mallory had acted quickly, just not quickly enough to keep Meredith from being covered in a dead boy’s brains. “But she’s okay?”
“In shock, I think. The window’s broken.”
“In the café?”
“Yes. I didn’t know there was a second shot.”
Adam had to force his lungs to function. “What happened?”
“The first shot, it broke the window. The big window near where we were sitting. The second shot . . . it hit a man, a customer. Sitting behind me. He’s bleeding.” The whispered words were almost a whimper. “One of the other customers is doing first aid. I can’t. I’m . . . My hands are . . .”
“Got it,” he said again, unclenching his jaw. “They may want to swab your hands, so I’m sorry, but you can’t go wash them. Not just yet.”
“I know. He said he was sorry. The boy. He told me to get down, to run. Right before his head . . .” The sob took over and she didn’t say any more.
“Sweetheart,” Adam said helplessly, then hardened his tone a fraction. “Meredith.”
“Y-yes?”
His heart was pounding to beat all hell. “Are the cops there yet?”
Her sobbing grew muted, then she was back again. “Yes. They just got here.”
“Fine. That’s good. When they get to you, give them your phone. Better yet, put it on speaker. I want to talk to them first.”
Chapter Three
Cincinnati, Ohio
Saturday, December 19, 4:04 p.m.
Sonofamotherfuckingbitch. He slid behind the wheel, one hand slamming his car door clo
sed while the other crumpled the remnants of the removable vinyl decals that had covered the doors and the license plates of his SUV. Today he’d been a plumber. He pulled back into the heavy downtown traffic, then glanced in his rearview mirror a final time.
A crowd was already gathered around the restaurant and a cruiser passed him with its lights on. In minutes the police would have the area cordoned off with crime scene tape and they might even lock down the city. He was getting out, just in time.
There should have been so much chaos that getting away shouldn’t have even been an issue. Meredith Fallon and her young companion should have been dead. Dammit. This had been the perfect opportunity and now it was gone. He hadn’t trusted anyone with this kill, not even the two men he normally trusted with his life. It was too important.
This is my livelihood. Hell. This is my life.
He’d waited and watched and had finally picked the perfect time and place . . . only to watch it all fall apart. Now both Fallon and the girl would be on guard. The cops would circle their wagons around them and he didn’t know when he’d get another chance.
Dammit. He’d really believed Andy would follow through, especially given the boy’s background. The kid had killed for Linnea before, after all.
Regardless, he hadn’t planned for there to be anything left for the police to investigate. The bomb concealed beneath Andy’s coat should have blown everything to smithereens. His uncle Mike had made two, side by side, as he always did. He’d tested one, as he always did, and it had detonated perfectly—as they always did.
He had no idea why the second bomb had not. He wouldn’t have to wait long to find out. CSU would figure it out and someone on the inside would give him the details.
“You . . . you killed him.” Linnea captured his attention from the backseat. Her body was rigid, the bruises extra dark on her face, which had grown dangerously pale.
“He fucked up,” he said simply. “He had to fire one shot. That’s all.”
“He’s not a killer.” Her emotionless words were delivered with no affect whatsoever. She was probably going into shock. Which wasn’t a big deal. She wasn’t going to live much longer, anyway. As soon as he got out of the city, he’d put a bullet in her skull and dump her body where it wouldn’t be found until spring.
“Yes, he was a killer. He didn’t kill today, but he was a killer.”
“He was younger then. And scared.” Her voice trembled. Broke. “It’s not the same.”
“It’s exactly the same, but it doesn’t really matter, does it? Especially with him being dead,” he added, fully intending the words to be as cruel as possible.
Her only reaction was to close her eyes. Two tears slipped down her cheeks. She looked like exactly what she was—a used-up whore who’d finally given up.
Still, he’d be careful. All he needed was for her to scratch his face or do something equally annoying that he’d have to explain away when he got home. He headed south, toward the river. He’d take care of Linnea and still make it home in time for dinner.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Saturday, December 19, 4:20 p.m.
“Get the hell out of my way,” Adam muttered to the long line of cars in front of him. He’d made good time from Mariposa House until he’d hit downtown. Everyone was coming in to see the fireworks and traffic was stalled.
He was tempted to use his emergency flashers to cut through the snarl of cars, but he wasn’t technically on duty—just on call—and Meredith was okay, physically, at least. The threat had been eliminated and the first responders were there, securing the scene.
She was physically okay. But her hands were covered in a young man’s brains and the very thought made his foot tap the accelerator in frustration.
Fuck it. He reached for the dash flasher switch, damning the consequences. The worst that could happen was a reprimand and that was unlikely. But his phone started playing Darth Vader’s theme and he checked his movement, reaching for his cell instead.
“Hey, Loo.” His lieutenant, Lynda Isenberg, had always had his back through good times and bad. His choice of ringtone was pure bullshit teasing on his part and she knew it. The list of people he trusted implicitly was very short and she was near the top.
“Detective,” she said curtly, which meant she had an audience. In the last year she’d taken to calling him by his first name. “Have you heard about the shooting on the square today?” Her voice had the tinny quality of being on speaker, which meant she had an audience who was listening to every word.
Brass, probably, he thought. That meant this was bigger than “just a shooter,” although it had never been a routine crime for him. That shooter had aimed at Meredith.
“I heard it was at the Buon Cibo Café,” Adam told her levelly.
“You heard right. I need you to get to the scene,” Isenberg said. “You’ll be joined by Special Agent Triplett. The two of you will co-lead this investigation.”
Permission granted. Adam flicked the flasher switch and cars began trying to pull over. Not easy with such gridlock, but a lane was slowly opening up.
That Jefferson Triplett would be his partner was a bit of a surprise. Not an unpleasant one, of course. Adam liked Trip. The rookie was young, but had seemed to be good at his job every time their paths had crossed.
“Is Zimmerman there?” he asked, inching his Jeep forward. The special agent in charge of the local FBI field office often loaned his staff to Isenberg’s Major Case Enforcement Squad, the FBI/CPD joint task force that was Isenberg’s baby.
“He is,” Zimmerman said. “Hello, Detective Kimble.”
“Sir,” Adam said politely. “What’s the situation? Why is the FBI working this one?”
“Because,” Isenberg said, “the would-be shooter, who ended up being the victim, was wearing a bomb.”
Adam sucked in a shocked breath. Holy shit. A bomb. In a crowded restaurant on a street filled with holiday shoppers. “Why? Where?”
“Why is what we need you to find out,” Isenberg said, “and where is the vest he wore under his parka. He pulled the zipper of his coat seconds before he was shot by someone outside on the street. The first cop on the scene noticed the explosives.”
Adam recalled Meredith’s shaken words. He told me to get down, to run. Right before the young man’s head exploded. “He wanted Meredith to know. He told her to run.”
“You’ve heard more than we have,” Isenberg said dryly. “Deacon and Scarlett have recused themselves as lead because of their friendship with Dr. Fallon, but said they’d be able to support you. You’re next in line for a new case. Should I recuse you as well?”
“No,” Adam said, hoping he hadn’t snapped it out too fast. “I’m . . . entanglement free.” For now. He’d keep it that way if it meant keeping the case. He didn’t trust Meredith’s safety to anyone else. “Has the restaurant been evacuated?”
“Yes, to the hotel across the street.” Isenberg sighed. “We have a lot of very traumatized witnesses. It was . . . intense. Which I’m sure you’ve also heard.”
“Meredith told me,” Adam said honestly. “She was as close to hysterical as I’ve ever heard her.”
“Why did she call you, Detective?” Zimmerman asked mildly.
Adam could picture the older man’s face, his brow wrinkled in concern because he knew the answer to his question already. “I don’t know. Maybe because my name starts with ‘A’ and I was the first cop in her contact list?”
Isenberg’s snort held disbelief, but her words carried quiet promise. “I’ll remove you in a heartbeat, Adam. You got me? Do not become . . . entangled.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He could picture her face, too, unsmiling, framed with gray hair she kept as short as his own, her sharp eyes narrowed. “I’m nearly there.” He winced a little, knowing in his heart that the statement could be correctly interpreted more than one way. Yeah, h
e was nearly at the scene, but he was also very nearly entangled. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” Zimmerman said. “Agent Triplett is lead on anything having to do with the bomb itself. He has extensive experience with incendiary devices.”
Adam blinked. “Trip? Where did he get bomb experience?” Arriving at the scene, he parked his Jeep behind the line of cruisers and ambulances. Trapping his cell between his ear and shoulder, he opened his back hatch and quickly suited up, shrugging into his bulletproof vest. “He didn’t serve in the military, did he? He’s barely out of college.”
“Don’t let his age discount his expertise,” Zimmerman advised. “He’s one of the best bomb disposal techs I’ve ever known. Our hazardous device team is already on the scene with Agent Triplett. They know to expect you.”
“Be careful, Adam,” Isenberg said quietly. “The shooter outside clearly intended to kill a lot of people. We don’t know who was the actual target today or why. The young man stopped at Dr. Fallon’s table, but he could have been instructed to pick someone at random. Based on the explosives visible in the vest, he could easily have taken out the entire café.”
Adam nodded grimly. “He failed, so he may try again. Got it. I’ll update you ASAP.” He ended the call and finished securing his bulletproof vest. Grabbing his tactical helmet and a gym bag packed with a suit jacket, button-up shirt, and tie, he holstered his service weapon in the vest, then slammed the Jeep’s hatch closed.
He glanced at the hotel across the street. Meredith was probably inside. Hopefully CSU had taken whatever evidence they’d needed from her hands so she could wash them.
He hoped that soap and water would be enough for her to feel clean.
Soap and water had never done the trick for him. He wore the blood of too many victims on his hands, and no matter how many times he’d washed them, he never truly felt clean. He didn’t want that for Meredith.
Two cops were positioned at the hotel entrance and he could see two more inside the lobby as he jogged up the line of cruisers to find Trip.
