“You did what?” Her tone was loud, and she cast a quick glance around the room. Several of the remaining inspectors were openly staring at them. Just get him out of here before he really starts running his mouth. “Get up, let’s go. People are staring.”
He stood and gave her a look that said after you and fell into step behind her, herding her toward the elevator. Once the doors slid shut, she turned on him. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
“I think I’m your partner. And I think you’re in trouble.”
She scoffed. “Trouble? Really? Jump to conclusions much?” She shoved her hands in her pockets and rocked back onto the heels of her boots.
“Okay then. Let me look at the file. What was his name? Michael O’Shea? If it doesn’t have his name on it, I’ll let it go.” He nodded and rolled his eyes when she didn’t move. “Right. Trouble. Capital T.”
“You’re wrong.” She couldn’t even look at him.
“I’m wrong? I might look like a mouth-breather, but I’m a fucking bloodhound when it comes to this shit. I know something is going on with you. You’ve been on edge for weeks now. At first I chalked it up to us working out the new-partner kinks. And then I thought maybe it was that shit with Sanford.” He leaned against the wall of the elevator and crossed his arms over his chest. “But that’s not it, either.” He jerked his head toward her bag. “Whatever’s going on, I’d bet my pension it’s got everything to do with that file full of nothing you shoved in your bag.”
“Why do you even care?” she said.
He looked at her like she’d slapped him in the face. “I don’t know what pisses me off more: the fact you’d have the balls to ask me that, or that you genuinely don’t know the answer.”
“What I do on my own time is my business, not yours.” God, she was such a bitch.
He opened his mouth like he was about to say something but clamped it shut and looked away from her. He worked his jaw, like he was chewing on a mouthful of words he wanted to spit out. Finally, he looked at her again. “You’re right. Your personal life isn’t any of my business. But if I were in trouble and pulling a sphinx? You’d ride me till I caved, and don’t try to tell me otherwise.”
“There is no trouble. The file means nothing. He means nothing.” She looked at him, that familiar tightening in her chest making it hard to look him in the eye.
“People don’t lie over nothing, and you know it.” He made it easy on her by averting his eyes for a moment but when he glanced back at her, he looked more hurt than angry.
She suppressed the urge to reach out and shake him until his teeth rattled. “You need to let it go, Strickland.” For your own safety. The military wasn’t usually in the business of scrubbing the records of its discharged soldiers. Whatever Michael O’Shea was into, it was dangerous. Too dangerous to let her partner get mixed up in it.
“Sorry. Not gonna happen.”
“I don’t need—”
“Yeah, I know. You don’t need me in your business. Well, tough shit because that’s exactly where I am.” He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “When things get crazy, I know I can count on you. You’ve got my back. You just won’t let me get yours. That doesn’t work for me.” She could tell it was something he’d wanted to say to her for a while. She looked away. She’d been about to say, I don’t need to worry about you too.
She lifted her shoulder in a half-assed shrug. “I’ve got some personal stuff going on right now. But it’s not something I want to talk about.” It’s not something I can talk about.
Strickland studied her face for a moment and relaxed. “That’s the first truthful thing you’ve said to me all day,” he said. He uncrossed his arms and nodded. “I can take a lot of shit, Vaughn. Being lied to isn’t one of them.”
When she made Homicide, Sabrina told herself it didn’t matter who they stuck her with. That she didn’t care. Suddenly, she realized she cared a great deal. Strickland was close to her age and still had the drive needed to solve cases. He cared—not only about the people they tried to help but about the people he worked with. She couldn’t have asked for a better partner, but she couldn’t change who she was, and telling him the truth about Michael was out of the question. She nodded and dropped her gaze. “I’m not good at relying on people.”
“I get that, but if this partnership is going to work, you’re gonna have to try,” he said.
“Okay,” she said, and his face lost its pissed-off look. For fifteen years, lies had been her stock and trade. She didn’t remember telling the truth being this hard.
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open on a deserted lobby. As soon as they reached the parking lot, he nipped her keys out of her hand. She let him open her door and check the back seat. “Wanna call the bomb squad?” she said.
“Nah, Sanford isn’t the bomb-making type,” he said, moving aside so she could slide behind the wheel. “See, quick and painless.” He shut her door and handed her the keys.
She started her jeep and shot him an evil grin. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Such a pain in my ass …” He propped his arms on her door and leaned his head through the open window. “Look, I’m not gonna push about this O’Shea guy—I think we’ve both had enough personal growth for one day.” He leaned his forehead against the outside of her car and looked down. “Just promise me if things get tight, you’ll let me in.” His tone was easy, but she knew he wasn’t going to let her leave until she gave her word.
She pressed in the clutch and threw it into Reverse. Letting him in would be a mistake. She had no idea who or what O’Shea had become. All she knew was just thinking about it scared the hell out of her. She’d already made the mistake of involving Nickels, and look where that got her. “If things get tight, there might not be room for you.”
“Then we’ll make room. Partners—remember?”
She nodded. “Partners. And for the record, Nickels and I are friends. Just friends.”
“That’s too bad. Nick’s a great guy.” He stepped back so she could leave. She pulled out of the station lot and turned right, toward home, then took a glance in her rearview mirror. She wasn’t at all surprised to see a truck pull away from curb and force itself into traffic.
She was being followed.
16
Taco night was in full swing at Casa Vaughn when Sabrina arrived. Val liked to match music to food, so tonight’s selection, old-school Vicente Fernandez, blasted through the open windows of the house. Grateful Val and the kids liked their music loud, Sabrina killed the headlights before she pulled into the drive and quietly shut her car door. She’d hoped to stay below the radar until she could get rid of her unwanted guest, but he had different ideas.
“Alone at last,” Sanford yelled at her from the street. He vaulted the pretty picket fence and crossed her lawn in broad, uneven steps. He was drunk. Perfect. Just friggin’ perfect.
“Why are you here, Sanford?” She watched him advance, closing the space between them to just a few feet.
“Why am I here? I don’t have a job, I’m living on a barstool, my wife took out a restraining order against me, and you’re at least partly to blame. So you tell me, where else would I fucking be?” He leaned into her space and jabbed her in the chest with his finger.
What was it with this ass-clown and the poking?
She took a deep, slow breath and a step back. “Don’t touch me.” Drunk or sober, Sanford was an asshole, but at least he had slightly better judgment when he was sober. She shifted her body into a defensive stance, ready for a fight.
He smiled. “Whaddya gonna do,” he sneered and closed the gap between them. “Shoot me?” He drilled his pointer into the center of her chest again.
Okay, asshole. Game on.
She snatched his finger off her chest and bent it back until she heard the pop. Sanford howled and swung wildly with his free arm. She blocked the blow with her forearm and gave him a hard crack in the nose with her elbow. Stunned, he tried
to stumble back, but the grip she had on his finger kept him tethered. She delivered a face-crushing headbutt that drew blood, and he swung again, this time clipping her in the side of the head. Pain shot through her temple, but it was fleeting.
He caught her in the ribs with a ham-handed jab that stole her breath. She used the grip she had on his finger like a rudder and shoved him backward, jerking him to the side before she let go. The force, and the fact he smelled like he was sweating pure booze, sent him stumbling away from her. She used the time and space that created to shed her jacket.
As soon as it hit the ground, Sanford zeroed in on her SIG. He stood a few feet away, cradling his abused finger, dripping blood all over her cobblestone walkway. Instead of giving him second thoughts, the sight of her gun seemed to give him hope.
“Now we’re talkin’.” The relief in his voice was obvious.
Holy Hell. He really wants me to shoot him. “Don’t do it, San-ford,” she said. He ignored her warning and started toward her. She closed her hands into fists, raised and ready for round two.
“Is there a problem?”
She shot her gaze to the right to find Michael O’Shea standing on the sidewalk just a few yards away.
Sanford turned toward him and glared through the blood. “Mind your own business, asshole.”
Michael appraised Sanford with cool amusement. “When I see a drunk guy harassing a woman in her own front yard, I tend to see that as my business.” He spoke calmly, but she saw it—the shifting of body weight, the cool amusement turned to cold calculation in his eyes. It told her if she didn’t intervene, Sanford would get exactly what he was looking for.
“Who the hell are you?” Sanford said.
“Just a guy, out for a walk, who happened across a situation he feels uncomfortable with ignoring,” he said, welcoming Sanford’s full attention.
She took a few steps back, widening the distance between her and Sanford, before she unholstered her SIG and aimed it downward. “Sanford, give me your car keys.”
“What?” He rounded on her belligerently, saw the gun held at her side.
“I said give me your goddamn car keys.”
Without a word, he fished them from his pocket and held them aloft. “What if I don’t?” He gave them a little shake before closing them into his fist. “What if I just charge you, see who comes up the winner?”
“Take one step in my direction, I’ll put a bullet in your knee. It won’t kill you, but you’ll have to hang up your tutu and kiss your dance dreams goodbye.” She gave O’Shea a quick glance. “That goes double for you, Mr. Can’t-Mind-My-Own-Business.”
“Smart-mouthed bitch … one of these days, you’re gonna get what’s comin’ to you.” He tossed the keys at her feet, and she stepped on them. He snarled and started toward her. She aimed her gun directly at his knee. The movement stopped him cold.
“Yeah, one of these days … but not today.” She waved him off. “There’s a bus bench in front of the park. Go sit on it, I’ll call you a cab. Your truck will be at the station tomorrow. You can pick it up there,” she said to Sanford.
“I’m not taking a fuck—”
“Yes, you are. You’re too drunk to drive. Leave. Now, before I put one in your leg for bringing this shit to my house. And don’t ever come here again. If you do, I will kill you,” she said.
He smiled. “Good to know,” he said and took a few steps toward the street. He passed through the gate, eyeing Michael the entire time. Michael leaned against the fence, hands stuffed into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie, watching him walk away.
Sanford stopped just past the gate and turned toward Michael. “What are you looking at?”
Michael chuckled then shrugged. “I don’t know … you’ve got”—he took a hand out of his pocket and waved it at Sanford—“something on your face.”
Sanford used the back of his hand to wipe away some of the blood. He smiled and took a half-step in Michael’s direction. Sabrina intervened before he had a chance to respond.
“You,” she jabbed her finger at Sanford, “get the hell out of here.” She turned to Michael. “And you—shut the hell up.”
“This isn’t over.” Sanford turned his back on her and started walking.
“Yeah, that’s what you keep telling me. See you later.” The tension leaked from her system with every step he took, but she didn’t holster her gun.
With little more than a glance in his direction, she bent down and collected Sanford’s keys before making her way toward the front porch. She took a seat on the top step and stared across her yard at the man by the fence.
Michael looked at her for a few moments before he pushed the gate open and crossed the lawn to retrieve her jacket. Bringing it to her, he held it out, but she refused to accept it. She preferred to keep both hands wrapped around the gun dangling between her knees. Waiting another beat, he tossed the jacket on the porch.
“You broke his finger.” The thought seemed to amuse him. “No, I didn’t. I dislocated it.”
He laughed. “You can put that away now,” he said, nodding toward the SIG.
“I like it just where it is.” Her eyes locked on his face. “What are you doing here, O’Shea?”
He flashed her a killer smile. She tightened her grip on her SIG and waited for him to start spitting lies.
“Melissa—”
Her spine snapped tight, encased in ice. “Don’t call me that.” “Okay, Sabrina … I wanted to apologize for this morning. Lucy knew I was going to be in the area, and she asked me to look in on you. I really didn’t think you’d recognize me.” The explanation sounded completely reasonable, and it would have been enough to placate her if it were true.
“Liar.”
The smile didn’t fade; it blinked out like a switch had been flipped. In its place was a carefully guarded expression that gave away nothing.
“He killed my sister,” he said quietly. The words carried the force of a wrecking ball. They hit her square in the chest, nearly knocking her over.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Liar.” He threw her word back at her with vicious smile. It held for a moment before his face gave way under the weight of his grief. He looked away from her for a moment, seemed to be wavering, choosing his words, before he turned back to look at her. “I need your help.”
She stood and reholstered her gun at her side. “No.”
He made a noise that sounded like a strangled laugh and nodded his head. “You don’t even know what I want.”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea, but it really doesn’t matter. The answer stands.” She turned to leave. What he wanted from her was obvious. It would be what she’d want from him if she were in his place: he wanted her to go back to Jessup with him so he could bait the hook.
Not gonna happen.
“Let me ask you something … do you feel even a tiny bit guilty you’re alive? I mean, don’t you feel like all those dead girls are at least partially your fault?”
“What?” she said. His words rooted her in place. She turned to stare at him while the porch steps rolled beneath her feet like the deck of a ship. She turned around to face him. “What girls?”
“Really? You thought he stopped with you? Guys like that don’t do what he did to you and then just stop.” His tone was hard. Cold.
She shook her head, still unwilling to believe. “No. I would’ve heard—”
“He likes waitresses. Young ones with blue eyes. Spreads it around—Texas, Oklahoma, Louisiana, Arkansas. Sticks to small towns with podunk sheriffs who couldn’t find their asses with both hands and a map. He’s disciplined. Careful. He only takes one a year. Guess when?” he said.
His words sucked the air out of her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. October first. Today. He was hunting today.
“He takes them and—poof—they’re gone, never seen again. Frankie was number fourteen last year. My guess? He’s looking for number fifteen—if he doesn’t have her already
.”
Liar. He’s a liar. He’d say anything to get her to do what he wanted. “How do you know? If the police can’t put it together, how did you figure it out?”
“I have unlimited resources, and I’m highly motivated.” His answer reminded her she had no idea who or what he was. Not anymore. She turned her back on him, surprised she found her way up the last of the steps without stumbling. She turned to give him another look. “Stay away from me. Stay away from my family.”
“I’m not going anywhere. You’re going to help me.” He bared his teeth in another vicious smile. “One way or another.” He backed away from her until he was standing in the glow of the streetlamp. The sullen young boy she remembered was gone. In his place was a hardened man who would not take no for an answer.
“Oh, and a word of advice? Stop digging into my background. You’re going to get your boyfriend killed. I’m staying at the Brewster place. You want to know something, just ask.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“No. I’m warning you.”
“Don’t come back here.” She wanted to run. Instead, she crossed the porch slowly and pushed through the door. She closed it with a quiet click and engaged every lock in an impressive row of chains and deadbolts.
I’m staying at the Brewster place. You want to know something, just ask …
The Brewster place was a B&B, one street over—directly behind her house. She looked out the foyer window. He was gone.
17
Sabrina did her best to bury it. The fear, the worry—she tossed it in a hole she’d dug in the back of her mind and did her best to cover it up. But it was still there.
Her life was unraveling.
Valerie made dinner while she helped the twins with homework. Afterward they played Scrabble. For just a few hours, she’d tried to pretend everything was fine. She’d laughed and joked, teased and played—but every time she looked at Riley, she imagined her trapped in the dark, with nothing but the sound of her own screams and the smell of blood to reassure her she was still alive. That she hadn’t died and gone to hell.
The Sabrina Vaughn series Set 1 Page 9
