Life&Limb (PASS Series Book 2)

by Freya Barker

  I need a lawyer.

  The moment the door opens, I’m on my feet. Bergland walks in with Detective Craig.

  “Sit down, Ms. Smith,” the officer says.

  “I’d like to make a phone call.”

  “Sit down,” he barks.

  Shocked at his ferocity, I sit my butt down.

  “We’re simply here to ask you some questions, Ms. Smith,” Craig says in a disarming voice. I guess he’s supposed to be the designated good cop versus Bergland’s bad version.

  “Where were you tonight?”

  “I’d like to call my lawyer.”

  “Only people who have something to hide need a lawyer,” Bergland snaps.

  “You haven’t even Mirandized me.”

  “No need for that, we’re simply on a fact-finding mission at this point,” Craig assures me. “I understand you knew Rupert Lezlo?”

  I can’t help the tears filling my eyes, despite efforts to keep them at bay. I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

  “We would like to notify the family, do you know if he has any?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Ms. Smith, we understand you had an altercation with Mr. Lezlo in your office the other day. Can you tell us about that?”

  An altercation?

  The need to defend myself is too great, and I blurt out, “That’s not what happened.”

  “Maybe you can help us understand what happened?” Craig prods, and I almost fall for it.

  “No. That’s privileged information.”

  “Don’t bother,” Bergland interjects, looking at Craig. “We already know she’s guilty. We’ve got plenty of evidence.”

  My mouth opens to ask what they think they have in evidence, when I see the calculating gleam in Bergland’s eyes.

  “I’d like to call my lawyer,” I repeat instead.

  “Told you it was a waste of time,” the officer directs at Craig, clearly upset.

  Craig turns to me.

  “Ms. Smith, I wanted to give you an opportunity to tell your side of the story. Perhaps Rupert attacked you and you had no other recourse than to defend yourself? Perhaps you blacked out? If there’s anything that could help you, I strongly suggest you share it with us.”

  It’s a game. They’re trying to scare me into saying something that might incriminate me further by keeping me off-balance.

  “I’d like to have my lawyer present.”

  “Quite a coincidence that this is the second resident of your shelter who ends up dead holding your business card.”

  “Could I please have my phone so I can call my lawyer? I believe you’re violating my rights by ignoring my repeated requests to have my lawyer present.”

  “Let’s go,” the detective says to his partner, getting up.

  I’m relieved to see them go, but it takes a long time before Officer Bergland is back with my phone. Instead of handing it to me, he slips it in his pocket and motions for me to get up and turn around.

  “Place your hands behind your back.”

  “What about my call?” I try, but he grabs both arms and twists them behind my back, grabbing onto my hands. I feel the cold steel of the handcuffs snap around first one and then the other wrist.

  “You’re under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Rupert Lezlo.”

  I’m so stunned; I barely register when he reads me my rights.

  “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning.” Then he pulls my phone from his pocket and holds it in front of my face to unlock. “Phone number?”

  “Sorry?”

  “What’s the phone number?”

  I rattle off the first number that comes to mind. He dials, hits speakerphone and continues to hold it up in front of me. I try to ignore his glare as I listen to it ring.

  “Dimas?” I ask when a woman answers.

  “This is Bree. Willa?”

  “Is Dimas there? I need to talk to him; I’m at the police station.”

  “Hang on, let me get him.”

  When I hear his voice I almost lose it, but manage to explain the situation in as few words as possible before Bergland ends the call mid-sentence.

  I don’t resist when he grabs my wrists and propels me in front of him toward a holding cell in the back of the station. I’m still numb with disbelief when I’m left sitting on a bench, staring through bars at the door Bergland just disappeared behind.

  My mind is trying to make sense of everything that happened in the past hours: the barn, the fighting, Brantley Parker’s face, Dimas, Rupert dead, and my arrest. It’s too much, my thoughts are jumping all over the place until I finally give up, curling on my side on the hard concrete bench and closing my eyes.

  I’m not sure how long it’s been when the door opens and Hank walks up to the other side of the bars.

  “Willa?”

  “Please help me,” I manage, making my way over to him. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

  “We’ll figure it out,” he says, and I believe him.

  Dimas

  Hank hustles us out to the parking lot, out of earshot.

  “What evidence?” Bree asks.

  “A letter opener from her desk was used to kill the victim. It was left in his chest. They also found blood in her office, the dining room, and the kitchen of the shelter.”

  “It wasn’t her,” I insist.

  “I believe you. Heck, I believe her, but—”

  I shake my head. “You don’t get it. I know for a fact it couldn’t have been her, because I saw her tonight.” Hank looks at me curiously and I explain. “We were looking into that fight ring you and I talked about. Last night there was one in Loma and Willa showed up.”

  “So that’s where you got the face. Yeah, she told me she was there, but she never mentioned seeing you. Wonder why that is?” he adds with a grin.

  Goddamn, Willa must think I need protecting. If I wasn’t still so pissed at her for going there by herself in the first place, it might warm my heart.

  “Stubborn woman thinks she needs to cover for me,” I conclude.

  “Holy shit,” Bree exclaims, throwing up her hands in exasperation. “Don’t put this just on her. Both of you two seriously need to try communicating.”

  “We did. I told her I was busy and she said she had stuff to do.”

  “That’s not communicating, that’s blowing each other off.”

  “As enlightening as this conversation is,” Hank interjects, with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “I have an impromptu breakfast meeting with our Mesa County District Attorney.”

  “How’d you get that set up so fast?” I ask.

  “I didn’t. Our DA is a creature of habit and he owes me a favor.”

  “Wait,” I call after him when he starts walking to his car. “What about Willa?”

  “She’ll walk. Cops were so eager to get at her; they completely bypassed proper police procedure. I’ll call you.”

  I watch him get in his car and drive off before I turn to Bree.

  “How’s your head?” she wants to know.

  “It’s fine.” I automatically bring my hand to my face, where I can feel the swelling under my fingers.

  “Good enough to drop me at home? We can’t do anything here, it’s almost six, and I want to shower and get to the office to meet up with Radar and Jake. We never had a chance to debrief last night.”

  “I’ll drive you home but I’m coming straight back here. I don’t want to go too far.”

  We start walking to my truck when Bree bumps her shoulder into my arm. She holds out the keys and I snatch them from her hand, unlocking the doors.

  “You’ve got it bad,” she teases.

  “Whatever,” I brush her off and get in behind the wheel.

  “It’s cute,” she persists when I drive off the parking lot. “I mean, it’s a new look for you. Never thought
I’d—”

  “Unless you want me to start harassing you the next time I catch you staring at my brother funny, I’d stop if I were you.”

  “I don’t look at Yanis funny,” she snaps.

  I give her a side-eye.

  “He may be blind, honey, but the rest of us aren’t.”

  She presses her lips together, folds her arms over her chest and stares out the side window.

  Shit.

  I’d promised myself, a long time ago, I wasn’t going to insert myself in whatever is or is not happening between my brother and Bree, and I shouldn’t have said anything now. Sure, she’d been riling me up, but that was no excuse.

  I reach over and put a hand on her leg.

  “That wasn’t cool. I was outta line and I’m sorry.”

  “Not like you were lying,” she mutters.

  I hate the flat tone of her voice. I’ve avoided it so far, but maybe it’s time I smack my brother upside the head, shake him awake.

  I want to apologize again when I pull up outside her building, but she doesn’t give me the chance.

  “Give me a call when you hear from Hank?” she asks, as she gets out of the truck.

  “I will. Look—”

  I try but she cuts me off, “Talk to you later,” and slams the door shut.

  I fucked up.

  It’s almost eight when the door swings open and Hank walks in, an older portly man following behind him.

  I jump to my feet to intercept them.

  “Give us twenty minutes, Mazur,” he says, as the other man keeps walking past him. “I’ll bring her to you.”

  It’s actually forty-five, very long fucking minutes, but relief floods me when Hank walks toward me, a rough-looking Willa by his side.

  I reach her in two strides and pull her into my arms, feeling her body sag against me. My eyes meet Hank’s over her head.

  “Let’s walk outside,” he suggests.

  I press a kiss to her head before dropping one arm, keeping the other firmly around her waist as we follow Hank to the parking lot. She leans heavily against my side, and I have a feeling she’s at the end of her rope. She hasn’t said a word yet.

  “My truck.”

  Hank glances back, takes one look at Willa and changes direction to where my vehicle is parked. I unlock the doors and help Willa in the passenger seat, leaving the door open.

  “What happened?”

  “DA decided the officers jumped the gun on Willa’s arrest. They’re currently being instructed on proper police procedure, and on why this case is going to be handled by someone else. He’s also looking into the validity of the charges against Brad Carey.”

  “Good. Brad’s been in too long already. And for your information, I’ve never liked Bergland, he’s an asshole,” I share.

  “There’s something else you need to know. Willa mentioned she recognized someone last night.”

  I turn to Willa, whose eyes are on me.

  “Brantley Parker,” she says, the weight of the world in her voice. “He’s the physician in charge of the veterans’ outpatient program at the VA hospital where I used to work.”

  “Did he see you?” I ask immediately and she nods. “That’s not good, sweetheart.”

  “I know,” she whispers, staring down at her hands.

  “We’ll fix it, though.”

  “Won’t bring Rupert back,” she says without looking up.

  Fuck. She cared about the victim.

  “Okay.” I turn to Hank. “I’m getting her home and then I’ll call the team. We’ll make sure she’s covered at all times.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’m gonna head back in to see what’s happening for Brad, but I’ll be in touch.” Then he turns to Willa. “I’ll call you when I hear something, and don’t hesitate to get in touch with me for anything. Get some rest.”

  I close her door and round the hood, getting in behind the wheel. When I see she hasn’t buckled in yet, I reach over and do it for her.

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  “I’m tired.”

  “I bet. I’ll get you home in no time.”

  “How badly does that hurt?”

  I glance over at her and see she’s taking in the state of my face.

  “Not gonna lie, it’s sore. I got KO’d by the Bone Crusher.”

  “Oh no, should you be operating a vehicle?”

  “I’m fine now. My team insisted I get checked out, so we stopped at the ER on the way home. That’s why Bree was at my place. She was making sure I didn’t croak during the night,” I quickly add, in case she got the wrong idea.

  “Guess we should talk about last night,” she says, but I can tell it’s the last thing she wants to do.

  “We should, but first you need some rest.”

  “Okay.”

  The rest of the drive to her place is quiet and when I pull into the driveway behind her RAV and look over, she’s asleep in her seat. When I get out and round the truck to her door, she’s blinking her eyes against sleep. I open the door and help her out.

  If I were in better shape, I’d pick her up, but I feel every fucking muscle in my body. We stumble to the front door together.

  “Where are your keys, sweetheart?”

  “My pocket,” she mumbles, trying to reach them.

  “I’ve got it.”

  I manage to fish her keychain from her jeans and get the door open. We don’t stop walking until we get to her bedroom and she falls on the bed. I struggle to get her shoes and jeans off and pull the covers up over her. She doesn’t even lift her head.

  But when I start moving to the door she calls my name.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you leaving?”

  “No, sweetheart. I’m just gonna lock up. I’ll be right back.”

  I quietly close the door and walk into her kitchen, pulling out my phone.

  “Is she out?” Bree wants to know.

  “Yes, we just got home. She’s done for and needs a few hours of sleep.”

  “Are you coming in?”

  “No, that’s why I’m calling. I think it’s time to fill Yanis in.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, we need to come up with a plan to keep Willa safe.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Willa

  “Why are we here?”

  I stare at the sign on the decrepit building he parked in front of Center Shot Gun Range.

  It had been the first question Dimas asked yesterday, after I’d woken up disoriented in the middle of the day: if I owned a gun, which I confirmed.

  My first concern at the time had been the fact I wasn’t at work, but he assured me Jake had filled Rosie in and I wasn’t expected. I can’t say I was happy that decision was made without me, but seeing as I’d already slept the bulk of my day away, there wasn’t much I could do about it.

  Then he’d taken me to the PASS office, where I was asked a million questions about Brantley Parker and was told—not asked, but told—I needed security. I’d balked, but only until Bree calmly pointed out that Brantley wasn’t their only concern; someone had murdered Rupert and gone through a lot of trouble to pin it on me. That reminder scared me into agreeing to the security they offered.

  What it means is that Dimas is my shadow, which I didn’t mind at all last night when he was doing magical things with his fingers and mouth. Having him attached to the hip while I went in for the group today was not so much fun, nor was being hustled out of the shelter after. I wasn’t allowed in my office, which was sealed by the police for further investigation. Rosie was able to tell me they said they’d be done over the weekend and I should have access by Monday.

  Group was a somber affair. Rupert had been well-loved, both here at the shelter and outside on the streets, apparently. Everyone seemed to have a story to share and mine weren’t the only tears shed.

  I was looking forward to crawling into bed at home to escape from the emotional and mental drain of the past few days. S
o I’m a bit out of sorts to have been dragged to some gun range on the outskirts of the city.

  Dimas twists in his seat to face me and reaches for the glove box where, to my annoyance, he apparently stored my gun when it’s supposed to be on the closet shelf in my bedroom.

  “A gun for protection is useless unless you keep it within reach,” he educates, only annoying me more. “I want to make sure you know how to use it.”

  I roll my eyes, but get out of the truck anyway. Despite my irritation with Dimas, I won’t say no to an opportunity to fire off a few rounds. It’s been a while.

  Judging from the backslaps exchanged with the old guy behind the counter, Dimas is well-known around here.

  “Rocket, meet Willa.”

  The old man gives me no more than a cursory nod and—clearly categorized as arm candy—dismisses me as he leads the way out the back door.

  The weather is nice so I’m glad to see the outdoor range. Rocket points out a lane for us to use.

  “Need ammo?” he asks Dimas.

  “Box of 9 mm.”

  The 9 mm Smith & Wesson M&P Compact had been a gift from my father on my twenty-first birthday. My sister got the same thing. Despite being firmly stuck in the fifties’ role division, he felt it important Connie and I were able to protect ourselves. At least until we had a man to do the protecting for us.

  He had me go through a gun safety training that included a few hours at a gun range. After that he took me to a range a few times, but when I started shooting better than he did, he stopped taking me. I haven’t been since. That was eighteen years ago. I clean the gun maybe once a year—usually before Christmas so when my father asks if I have, I can tell him yes—but it hasn’t been fired in all that time.

  Dimas dismantles my gun as if he does little else every day and mumbles his approval before putting it together again. Rocket comes walking back with a box of ammo and sets it and a stack of paper targets down on the stand.

  “Call me if you need anything else,” he mutters, before ambling off inside.

  “He’s a ray of sunshine,” I observe wryly, grabbing the ear protectors from their hook.