"Got it." Cooper nodded at him, glanced at Cilla. "Good luck with your case, whatever it is. Take it easy, Donovan. Marini."
Brendan waited until they were gone, then said, "Franny needs to go out. Want to take a walk with me?"
"Yeah. Let's get out of here."
* * *
The sun beat down on Cilla's back as she walked beside Brendan toward a local park, loosening her muscles and banishing the residual cold that had crept over her while she watched James' interrogation. Thank God he was out of Livvy's life. Cilla would make it a point to do thorough background checks on every single guy Livvy dated from now on.
If her sister found out, there would be a fight. A big one. Olivia would insist she could take care of herself. But Dugger was proof she couldn't. So it was up to Cilla to protect her sister.
Franny walked at Brendan's other side, sticking close, even when they passed another person walking a dog.
A woman walked toward them with a dog on a leash and smiled at them. Cilla realized how they must look. Like a couple. Taking their dog to the park.
A warm flutter in her chest made her catch her breath. A couple. With a dog.
Is that what she wanted? She'd told herself she was happy with her career, happy the way she was. But deep down? Yeah. She wanted someone in her life. Someone to come home to at night. Someone to share her burdens with. Someone who could share his burdens with her.
Just not a cop.
The rule she lived by. She glanced at Brendan, saw him patting Franny's head. Murmuring to her.
It was a good rule. Right?
The woman with the dog passed them, and Franny wagged her tail. The other woman yanked her leash as her dog lunged at Franny. The woman grimaced at them in apology. Franny didn't budge from Brendan's side.
"She's well behaved," Cilla said.
"Lizzie trained her really well." Brendan grinned. He set his hand on the dog's head for a moment. "When you meet her, get her to tell you how Franny saved my brother Mac's life. Lizzie's too, for that matter."
When she met his brother and his fiancée.
He spoke like it was a matter of when, not if. Like there was no question she'd be spending time with his family.
Butterflies swooped in her stomach. That implied she and Brendan would be...something, even after the case was closed.
Did she want that? To get involved with Brendan outside the job? Meet his brothers and sister and parents?
Last week, she wouldn't have had to think about it. The answer would have been a quick no. Not interested. When she joined the force, she'd made a conscious decision never to get involved with a fellow cop.
Now, though?
She glanced up at Brendan. They'd reached the park, and the dog plopped her butt on the ground and stared at Brendan, quivering with excitement. Brendan pulled a bright yellow tennis ball out of is pocket, then heaved it as far as he could. Franny raced after it, a streak of black and white against the green grass.
She leaped into the air to make a twisting, acrobatic catch, then galloped back toward Brendan. He laughed as he watched her, the wind lifting his wavy black hair. She wanted to smooth it down. Run her fingers through its silky weight, explore the shape of his skull.
She wanted to kiss him again. Do more than kiss him.
"Isn't she great?" Grinning, he glanced at Cilla as he took the ball from the dog and threw it again. Then shoved his hands into his pockets and watched Franny run.
Yeah, she was attracted to Brendan. More than attracted. Intrigued. Fascinated. There were depths to him that she wanted to explore. But changing the rules she'd made for herself would be scary.
She could be setting herself up for the same heartbreak that had nearly destroyed her aunt. Setting herself up for nights of crying herself to sleep and days of regret.
She could also be opening herself to something fantastic.
She took a deep, shuddering breath. They were working together. She didn't want to add the emotions of attachment and sex into the mix of their job. It was too much to think about. Too complicated.
It could be life-changing.
A nightmare or a dream come true.
She glanced up at him. "Brendan," she began, unsure of what she was going to say.
At the same time, he threw the ball for Franny and said, "Thank God we had the excuse of walking Franny so we could get out of the station," he said, watching her. "I didn't want to discuss this around anyone else."
"You think it's a cop. Romano." Cold dread washed over her, and she pushed all thoughts about her and Brendan out of her head. They had to focus on this case. Everything else came second.
"Don't you?"
She stared at the dog, wishing everything could be as simple and straightforward as tossing a ball to a dog. You threw it, the dog retrieved it. It should be the same with the cops. They were the good guys. They protected the citizens. Caught the bad guys.
The cops weren't supposed to be bad guys.
"We have to consider it," she finally said. "Seems pretty coincidental, him showing up at the pub."
"I hate the idea as much as you," Brendan said quietly. "But it kind of makes sense. There hasn't been a whisper on the street about who's selling this drug. Even after all those men died. All the vice guys have checked with their snitches. No one knows a thing." He shook his head. "That's not typical. Someone always knows. Or at least has a pretty good idea."
"Yeah." Cilla kicked at a stone in the grass, watched it bounce away. "I've been playing the same reel in my head. Romano would know how to do this. How to distribute the drug, how to keep the reins in his own hands. Most of all, how to keep it a secret."
"Maybe it's complete BS, but we've got nothing so far. We need to pursue this."
"Agreed." Brendan looked at her, and his eyes reflected anger. Sorrow. Determination. The same things she knew he'd see in her eyes.
"So where do we start?"
"We've got a few days before we have to go back to the pub," he said, throwing the ball again. He followed the dog with his gaze as he spoke. "Maybe we should do some clubbing. Go to the places where men have died. See if Romano's there."
"Or anyone else we recognize. We can't assume it's Romano. It could be another cop."
"Can't hurt. Maybe even pay a visit to the pub during the week." She rolled her shoulders. "Have a beer and hang out together. Make sure everyone sees us, knows we're a couple. Look for our regulars. Keep an eye on them."
"Yeah, let's do that, too." He threw the ball again. This time, after catching it, Franny laid in the grass, panting, the ball between her front feet. "Franny, come," he called. The dog stood up, picked up the ball, and trotted to them.
"She's had enough," Brendan said, taking the ball. "Let's go back. Maybe work somewhere besides the station."
"Sounds good."
They were half-way back when her phone rang. Her captain. Cilla pressed the button. "Marini."
"We've got a hostage situation. Where are you, Marini?"
"I'm at the nineteenth. Working on something with Donovan."
"Get moving and I'll text you the address. It's a bad one."
Chapter 14
Cilla's hand tightened on her phone. "A domestic?"
"Yeah." He hesitated. "Three kids in the house."
Oh, God. Bile rose in her throat. Her heart jack-hammered in her chest. This was getting back on the horse with a vengeance. "Okay." Thank God her voice sounded steady. Calm. "You getting all the information together?"
"You know it. Throw the gumball on that red car of yours and light it up. You've got the magic touch with domestics."
I wasn't magic on the last domestic. She clenched her teeth. Three people had died. One of them a four-year-old girl.
"Right. I'll be there as soon as possible." Cilla slid her phone into her pocket and began to jog toward the station. "That was my captain," she said over her shoulder. "There's a hostage situation. I need to go."
Brendan trotted alongside her,
snapping his fingers at Franny, who stayed beside him. "Want me to drive you there?"
She glanced at him. "Probably not a good idea. It could be hours, and you'd be stuck there." Her heart hitched a little. "But thanks for the offer."
"Where is it?"
"Edison Park." They reached the building and she yanked open the door, then ran up the stairs for her bag.
She grabbed it from Brendan's desk and turned to go, but Brendan was blocking her way. "We all know how domestics can be. You sure you don't need a ride?" he asked, his voice low. "Might be easier to focus if you didn't have to pay attention to traffic."
She shoved her hands through her hair. She'd never had a partner during a hostage call. But a ride might be nice. She could use the time to prepare. "If you didn't have Franny, I might say yes. But it wouldn't be fair to keep her in a car for what could be hours." She allowed herself to touch his arm. "If I get another one while we're still partners? I'll take you up on it."
She wanted to reach up and kiss him. Instead, she slung the bag over her shoulder and slid around him.
"I'll call you later," he said.
She waved as she ran out the door.
Her apartment was close to the 16th, so it took only a few minutes to drive home. She parked the SUV and grabbed the keys to the Mustang. It was stupid and superstitious, but she always took it to hostage calls. The car was built for speed. And afterward, she opened all the windows and drove to one of the Lake Michigan beaches, blowing off the stink and tension from the job.
The address the captain had texted was less than fifteen minutes away.
Two blocks away, she spotted the blue lights flashing, reflecting off bungalows and two-flats on the quiet, tree-lined street. She slowed as she approached the first blue sawhorse, but the uniform stationed in front of it recognized her car and pulled it aside.
She had to park a half-block away, and as she hurried toward the scene, she scanned the neighborhood. The hostage negotiation van was parked in front of one of the bungalows. She spotted a sniper on the roof directly across the street. Another one on top of the house behind the bungalow.
Uniformed officers dressed in protective gear crouched behind squad cars and several unmarkeds parked at random angles on the street.
Nothing was random about a hostage negotiation, though. Everything was designed to keep the hostage-taker calm, keep the police officers unharmed and facilitate the safe release of the hostages.
She swung into the van and tossed her bag in the corner to find her captain sitting in front of the computer. "What's the situation?" she asked.
He spun the chair around and stood up, holding it out for her. "Hostage taker is Zeke Marshall. He's got wife Patty Marshall and kids Josh Graham eleven, Justin Graham nine, and Mattie Marshall three. 911 caller identified guns and knives in the house."
"The wife call it in?"
"No." Captain Francisco's mouth thinned. "One of the boys. Said the guy was hurting his mother."
She scanned the information on the screen in front of her. "The two boys are the HT's stepsons?"
"Yeah. Marshall got out of the army six months ago. Three tours in Afghanistan. No priors. Not even domestics. No one's talked to him yet. Waiting for you."
Pressure settled on Cilla's shoulders, pushing her into the chair in front of a headset. The computer behind it had a picture of Marshall in his dress uniform. Short, dark hair. Brown eyes. Tanned, serious face.
A former soldier. PTSD, probably. She closed her eyes, drained all the fear and nerves from her body, then took a few deep breaths. When her mind was clear of everything except Zeke Marshall and his family, she adjusted the headset and dialed the phone.
"Yeah?" A man's voice. Nervous.
"Zeke?" Cilla asked, her voice calm. Casual, as if they were having a friendly conversation.
"Yeah, this is Zeke." She heard him draw a shaky breath. "Who're you?"
"This is Cilla. I want to help you resolve this situation."
"There is no situation. I didn't call the police." His voice was rising. "I don't want them here. Tell them to go away and everything will be fine."
"I can't do that, Zeke. Someone called 911 and said there was a problem. That they were scared. So we have to figure out how to solve it."
"Nothing to solve," the man said. Cilla heard him swallow over the phone. "If everyone would just fucking leave me alone, we'd be fine." His voice rose until he was screaming into the phone.
"I want to help you make everything fine again, Zeke," Cilla said calmly. Sweat poured down her sides. "We want to help you. Can you work with us?"
"Work with you how?" His voice was still shaky, but at least he wasn't screaming.
"Are there weapons in the house?"
The line was silent. "Zeke?"
"Yeah," he finally said. "I have guns."
Guns. Plural. Cilla closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Anything else?"
"A knife."
"Can you put them on the porch for me, Zeke? Where they can't hurt anyone?"
"I'm not giving up my weapons."
No one ever wanted to give up his weapons. "My guys out here are nervous, Zeke. Knowing there are guns in the house makes them jumpy. They're trying to do their jobs, you know? Just like you did your job in Afghanistan. But they want to go home tonight. They don't want anyone to get hurt." Cilla pushed the mute button on the headset and drank a few gulps of water. Cleared her throat.
Unmuted the headset. "Can you do me a favor, Zeke? Put the guns and the knife outside? That would make me happy. It would make the guys out here happy, too."
The phone went dead. Sweat slid down her back as she watched the SWAT members edge a little closer to the house.
Suddenly the front door opened. A hand appeared, shoving several guns and a knife across the porch. Cilla had no illusions that he'd given up all of his weapons, but it was a start. She collapsed back into her chair. Dialed the phone again. "Thank you, Zeke," she said when he picked up. "That was great. I really appreciate that favor. So do the rest of the guys."
"I wouldn't want Mattie to get hold of a gun," he finally said.
"Of course you wouldn't. That's smart thinking. We want to keep Mattie safe. Keep Patty and Josh and Justin safe, too. And you. We want to keep you safe, Zeke."
He breathed into the phone, unspeaking. But at least he hadn't hung up. "So what can we do for you, Zeke? What do you need?"
"I want everyone to go away."
"If you want us to leave, you need to send Patty, Josh, Justin and Mattie outside. Once they're outside, we can leave."
That was a lie, of course. But she'd say anything to keep the dialog going. Say anything to keep this family safe and unharmed.
"They're staying right here," Zeke said immediately. "As soon as I send them out, you're gonna storm the house and kill me."
"No, we're not," Cilla said calmly. She glanced toward the house, where SWAT members were crouched in the bushes lining the front of the bungalow. "That's what happens in movies. This is real life, Zeke. Nobody needs to die. Help me here, will you? Help me help you."
"No one can help me."
The despair in his voice made Cilla take a deep, calming breath. The last HT, the one who'd killed his wife and daughter before taking his own life, had sounded despairing, too. "You're wrong, Zeke."
Cilla knew sympathy had crept into her voice. She hoped Zeke heard it. "Tell me how we can help you. All you have to do is ask. Reach out and take it."
* * *
An hour later, Cilla gulped some water for her parched throat as the SWAT commander stepped into the van. Zeke had hung up the phone a few minutes ago. "The sniper has him in his sights," the commander said. "He's holding the little girl."
"Like a human shield?" Cilla asked, her stomach churning. She thought she'd made progress with Zeke Marshall. Connected to him. They were waiting for a pizza delivery right now.
"No. He doesn't think so. The kid started to cry, so the HT picked her up. The kid
has her head on her shoulder. She's sucking her thumb."
"Okay," Cilla murmured. The little girl wasn't afraid of her father. Cilla could use that.
The back of her shirt was soaking wet. Dark spots of moisture covered the front, too. The interior of the van was sweltering hot. She hadn't wanted a fan, afraid it would make it harder to hear tiny sounds from inside the house.
"Pizza's here," a cop called from outside the van.
Cilla picked up the phone and called again. "Hey, Zeke," she said when the HT picked up. "I've got your pizzas. How about we leave them at the front door?"
"You gonna shoot me when I open the door to get them?"
"Of course not." She glanced at the commander, and he shook his head. "We'll put the pizzas by the door. You get 'em, eat 'em, then we'll talk some more."
"All right." Zeke sounded tired, and Cilla closed her eyes. Maybe they'd still be able to avert a tragedy. Maybe after they all ate, she could convince him to let his wife and kids go.
One of the SWAT guys set the pizzas on the porch, then backed down the steps. Other team members stood behind him, their guns focused on the front door.
It opened slowly, and Cilla watched all the cops tense. Lift their arms higher as they pointed their rifles. One of the boys reached out and tugged on the boxes until they bumped over the door jamb. Then the door closed behind him.
The men pointing the guns stayed that way for an excruciatingly long minute, then they retreated. Cilla's stomach jumped and her head pounded. She hadn't eaten anything since that cup of coffee at her sister's and another two cups since she got here.
Someone shoved a piece of paper on the desk in front of her. Zeke had been treated in a VA hospital. Traumatic brain injury from a roadside bomb. He'd been released six months ago.
Cilla closed her eyes. God. This poor guy.
In spite of the heat, she shivered. Why hadn't Zeke gotten the help he so clearly needed? Was it that warrior mentality, thinking he could conquer everything on his own? Was it the safety net for ex-military that was full of holes? Was Zeke's PTSD making him see the enemy everywhere, even in people trying to help him?
Cover Me Page 13
