He already knew. She could see it on his face. “They think I killed Sanford.” She looked away. “And Kaitlyn Sawyer—Mathews is trying to pin that one on me too.”
He was quiet for a few seconds. “Maybe you should tell him about the box—that the real killer was here, that he left it for you.” He was trying to help, find a way to clear her.
She shook her head. “No. He knows O’Shea is involved, he’d just spin it into me trying to cover my tracks.”
“Okay.” He frowned, chewed on his bottom lip for a few seconds while he tried to figure a way out. Finally he just shrugged. “I guess we’re just gonna have to find this asshole and bring him in on our own.”
“We?” She shook her head, hitting the button to restart the elevator. “No. No way. Mathews made it clear—you and I are done. If he finds out we’ve had any contact whatsoever, he’ll bring accessory charges against you.”
“I don’t care.” He hit the Stop button again.
She looked at him. “I do. I care. I can’t let you do that for me.” He shook his head. “It’s not up to you.”
She let out a slow breath, felt tears prickle behind her eyes. He was wrong. It was up to her. “I’m … sorry for all the shit that came with being my partner.” She started the elevator again, stood in front of the button panel so he couldn’t reach it.
“You’re still my partner,” he said. She could tell by the stubborn set of his jaw that he wouldn’t let it go. He was that dog with a bone again. He’d snarl and snap at anyone who tried to deter him. Including Mathews. He’d lose everything because of her—toss it all away without thinking twice. She wasn’t the only one with an overactive sense of loyalty.
The elevator doors slid open. On impulse, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You’re the best partner I’ve ever had,” she said. It felt like goodbye.
“Bet you say that to all the guys.” “Such a pain in my ass …”
She stepped out of the elevator, and the door slid closed between them.
48
She was quick about getting her guns. On her way out, she dialed Michael’s number.
“Hey, look, I’m—”
“I know. I saw them take you in. Meet me in the parking lot, you can explain then,” he said.
She hurried across the lobby, almost made it out before someone shouted her name.
“Inspector Vaughn, wait up.”
She turned to see the uniform from the day before, watched him weave his way through the lobby.
“Hey, glad I caught you. You got a message about a half an hour ago. Not sure why it landed down here, but …” He held out a yellow square of paper, and she took it. Read it. He looked at her. “Is everything okay? It sounded pretty urgent—”
She turned and ran for the door, the yellow square of paper gripped tight in her fist.
Michael watched her cross the parking lot at a run. Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
She threw open the driver’s side door. “I’m driving,” she said before she all but shoved him out of the driver’s seat. She floored it, flying out of the station lot like the place was rigged to blow. He’d been about to ask her what the hell was going on. Instead, he read the slip of paper she’d handed him.
She took a hard right, weaved left to avoid an illegally parked delivery truck. “He killed Sanford. Cut him up and left him in his truck in an alley. They think we’re involved and that I somehow got you to kill him. They think the girl in the park was a dry run to see if I could get you out of police custody if things went south.” She hung a left on a yellow, gunning it through the turn. “I’m officially suspended and if I have any contact with Strickland, Mathews will hang an accessory charge around his neck. It won’t stick but it’ll be enough to ruin his career,” she said.
Michael read the message again.
Insp. S. Vaughn @ 32nd. Girl found in SF Gen prk lot. Name is Riley—critical condition.
He’d felt pressed for time. Like they needed to make a move, force something to happen. He made a mistake, told her that her family would be fine—that leaving them unprotected was a risk they had to take. Sabrina was going to lose her sister like he’d lost his. Six weeks ago he would have called that justice.
He looked at her. “I’m sorry.” The words felt small. He felt small saying them.
She wouldn’t look at him. “I guess this makes us even.”
The nurse escorted them down a hall, across a linoleum floor worn thin from the countless feet that had hurried across its surface over the years. “Paramedics found her dumped in the ambulance bay. No purse, no ID. She was in pretty bad shape. Broken arm, jaw, and ribs—inside was a mess. Punctured lung, ruptured spleen,” the nurse said.
Riley … how could she have let this happen? Her head was spinning. “But she’s going to make it, right? She’s going to be okay?” She remembered the fight for her life, all those years ago. It was brutal. Bright lights and frantic voices shouting out words she didn’t understand. Hands … so many hands as they rushed to save her, keep her here, when all she wanted to do was float away.
The nurse stopped, gave her a pained look. “I’m sorry, I thought someone had told you … she coded forty-five minutes ago, right after we made the call.”
Dead. Her baby sister was dead.
She hadn’t even known she was going down until she felt Michael’s arm slip around her waist. He held her up, and she let him. He kept walking, keeping her close to his side, pulling her down the hall.
“How did you know to call her at the station?” This came from Michael. She looked up at him, wanted to hate him, wanted to ask him if he was happy now that she was suffering. What she saw was enough to quell the words that bubbled on her lips. His face looked the same, that hard emotionless mask he always wore—but she could see the ripples beneath the surface. He was completely wrecked.
The nurse looked at her. “Your name and precinct were written on one arm, her name on the other,” she said.
“My name … my name was written on her arm? I don’t understand, I thought she was asking for me. Someone said—”
The nurse shook her head. “She didn’t ask for anything. Like I said, she was in bad shape. Your name on one arm, her name on the other,” she said, stopping in front of a curtained alcove, gave them both a look. Her eyes settled on the SFPD splashed across Michael’s chest in bright yellow. “Something else you’ll want to take a look at on her back.” She pulled it open. “I’ll give you a minute.”
Looking at the body laid out on a stretcher, she resisted the urge to turn her face into Michael’s shoulder. She pulled away from him, moved forward on her own.
She was an open wound from head to foot, bruised and ripped, torn and gouged—every inch of skin bore an injury, one bleeding into the next. Her head, hair dirty and matted with blood, rested on a pillow. Her once pretty face battered and swollen. She shot a look at Michael.
This wasn’t Riley.
Relief made her lightheaded. Her knees gave out and she sank into the hard metal chair, took a few uneven breaths that made her dizzy. “It’s not her.”
Without a word he moved forward, rolled her carefully to expose her back so they could see what had been carved into it. The slashes were messy with blood, but she could just make out the familiar words.
OLLY OLLY OXEN FREE
She stood, stared hard at the words that glared up at her. He was calling her home, like a child calling out after a game of hide-and-seek. Come on out. He’d always liked to play games.
The thought propelled her forward. She wasn’t even aware she’d left or that she was walking until she heard Michael’s footfalls step in time with hers. She looked over. He was right beside her. She reached for his hand and gripped it tight but kept walking.
49
Sabrina dropped him off in front of the Brewster place and drove home. There was an unmarked unit parked across the street from her house. She pulled into the drive and killed the engine before letting
herself in through the back door. Through the kitchen window she could see Michael vaulting the fence that separated her property from Miss Ettie’s.
She’d explained the situation to him on the way home, told him that he was wanted for questioning and that her house would be under surveillance. Mathews would have badges sit on her place until he showed up, so it was best if he didn’t. He agreed to stay out of sight but flat-out refused to leave her alone.
They were leaving for Jessup in the morning. Until then, they had to stay out of sight. It was just a matter of time before Mathews found out about the girl in the hospital and that Sabrina was connected to yet another death—another dead body tossed at her feet.
She made sure all the downstairs curtains were closed before letting him in. He dropped what looked like a large briefcase with a numbered keypad into a chair and turned to look at her.
“Flight leaves for DFW at four tomorrow morning. You’re gonna have to get someone to overnight our weapons to Tom. We’ll pick them up there.” He looked uncomfortable with the prospect of being unarmed, even for a few hours. She knew the feeling.
She had to call Nickels. He’d been furious with her the last time she saw him, but she didn’t have a choice. Besides Strickland, he was the only one she trusted.
She dialed the number and he picked up on the fifth ring, like he was going to let it go to voicemail but decided at the last minute to answer instead.
“Hello.” He still sounded pissed. She could hear the faint pop of the gun range. He was at the station.
She swallowed hard. The words refused to come. “What do you want, Vaughn.”
She cleared her throat. “I didn’t kill Sanford, and I didn’t get anyone to do it either.” It was important to her that he believed that.
Nickels breathed out a quiet sigh. “I know. But I also know there’s more to that guy you had me look into than you said.”
Michael … he was talking about Michael. She looked up to find him watching her. She turned her back on him, shamed by what she was about to say, not wanting him to hear her say it. “I need help.” The words burned her throat.
Nickels sighed again, this one sounded relieved. “I’ll round up the team. We can be there in—”
“No. No team. Just you.”
Another long pause. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
The doorbell rang forty-five minutes later. Sabrina opened the front door to find Nickels standing on her front porch.
“You’ve got a fan club,” he said, tossing a look over his shoulder. She stepped out onto the porch and looked. The unmarked sitting across the street from her house hadn’t moved. She gave a brisk wave and smiled in its direction. She looked at Nickels.
“I know—Pierce and Lawrence. I already took them some coffee and gave them my itinerary for the evening.” He laughed as intended but it bled into an awkward silence. She moved aside, letting him in before shutting the door.
“Strickland caught me before I left. He asked me to bring this to you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a flashdrive. She took it, knew what it was without having to ask. It was a copy of the Kaitlyn Sawyer file. He must’ve downloaded it before being taken off the case. This alone could get him fired. She looked up at Nickels, and he shrugged. “Yeah, I looked at it—pretty gruesome shit. You want to tell me what it has to do with you?”
Telling Nickels the truth was the last thing she wanted to do, but she was out of options. She’d need his help to see this thing through, and she’d have to trust him to get it. She took him outside, onto the back deck, away from Michael. Somehow, keeping the two of them separate seemed like a good idea.
“This is you?” Nickels looked at the picture she’d showed him. His eyes bounced back to her face, searching for similarities, some kind of continuity that connected her to the girl in the picture. He was looking for an identifiable marker—something that would make her insane story believable. He could look for the rest of his life; he wasn’t going to find what he was looking for in her face.
While the plastic surgeon hadn’t done exactly what she’d asked, he’d made sure there was no trace of Melissa Walker left on her face.
She took the photo out of his hand and slipped it into her back pocket before lifting his hand to her cheek, guiding his fingertips over her face, letting him feel the screws and plates beneath the muscles and skin. After that he seemed ready to believe anything.
She started at the beginning and took him through it all. He stared at her while she talked. He obviously wanted to ask her things but didn’t know where to begin. He glanced over his shoulder, through the open door at Michael.
“Where does he fit into all this?” Nickels said, looking back at her.
“The man who took me killed his sister last year. He came here to ask for my help in catching him.” It was the condensed version, but Nickels was a cop—he knew what it meant. “Bait.” He sounded angry.
“It’s my choice, Nick,” she said quietly. She looked over her shoulder. Michael was staring at his laptop, poring over the flashdrive she’d given him.
Nickels stood and faced the yard, leaning against the porch railing. The set of his shoulders told her more than enough about his state of mind.
She sighed, reached out to place a hand on his shoulder. “Look, Nick—you don’t have to worry, I can take care—”
He turned on her. “If you finish that sentence, I’m gonna pick up that fucking chair and throw it through a window.” His voice was raised. She looked at Michael again. He was still sitting in the living room, only now he was blatantly staring at them through the open door of the deck, making no attempt to hide the fact that he was listening to their conversation.
Nickels followed her line of vision, settling his gaze on Michael. By the set of his shoulders, the tight clench of his jaw, and the way the two of them were staring holes into each other, she could see things were seconds away from getting ugly.
“Hey, want a beer?” she said to Nickels, trying to distract him. He looked at her. “Sure.”
“Stay out here—away from him, okay?” she said, backing away from him toward the door that led to the kitchen.
Nickels nodded, but she wasn’t convinced.
50
The cop wouldn’t stop staring. Michael kept working, comparing the file Strickland had copied for Sabrina on the Sawyer girl against the file he already had on the rest of the victims.
The cop was still staring. He tried to ignore it but failed miserably. “Can I help you with something?” he said without looking up. He could feel the cop’s eyes drilling into the top of his head.
“No.” Nickels moved through the doorway and into the living room.
“Where’d she go?” Again he didn’t look up. Leaving the two of them alone was a bad idea.
“To get me a beer.” Nickels leaned against the chair across from him. He’d have to be deaf to miss the possessive tone the cop threw at him.
He just laughed … Yeah, this is really bad idea.
“Sabrina told me you served in the Army,” Nickels said.
He gave up, closed his laptop, and sat back in his chair. “That’s right.”
Nickels looked down at him, arms crossed over his chest. “Where?”
He smiled. “What? Your buddy at Fort Meade couldn’t hook you up with the 411?” It had taken Lark all of ten seconds to find the name, rank, and serial number of the enlisted that Nickels used to run a trace on him; it had taken less than thirty more to make it clear that doing so was unwise. His smile widened at the wary look Nickels gave him. “Friends are wonderful things, aren’t they?”
Nickels recovered quickly, cocked his head to the side, and smirked. “I’d never consider dragging a friend into a situation that could get her killed.”
Michael stood, jammed his hands into his front pockets and shook his head. “She’s not my friend. And, let’s be honest—she’s not your friend either. You want to fuck her. There’s a difference.”
Nickels dropped his arms and took a step forward. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, welcoming the advance. Sabrina came out of nowhere, beer in one hand, glass of wine in the other. She stepped between them, facing Nickels.
“Come on,” she said to Nickels, nudging him backward. She threw an exasperated look at him over her shoulder. Michael shrugged, curbed the urge to say he started it. She herded Nickels all the way to the doorway before he said anything.
“First SFOD-D.”
Nickels shot him a look over Sabrina’s shoulder as she pushed him out onto the deck. He didn’t ask him to repeat what he’d said. Nickels had heard and understood him just fine.
“I told you to wait out here,” Sabrina said, shoving a beer bottle into his hand. Nickels just glared at her for a second before he tipped it back, taking a long drink.
“Do you have any idea who—what—that guy is?” Nickels looked over his shoulder, into the living room where Michael still stood, watching him.
She shut the door on Michael and shrugged. “No. And I’m not interested in finding out.”
“First SFOD-D. First Special Forces Operational Detachment Delta.” He set the beer down, braced his hands on the porch railing. “These guys are scary, Sabrina. Mission-driven all the way.” He leaned forward. “If your safety, your survival, isn’t the mission, he’ll sacrifice you in an instant to obtain his objective.” He looked at her. “I don’t want you going anywhere with him.”
She stood next to him, elbows resting on the railing, staring into the glass of wine in her hand. “My eyes are wide open, Nick. I have no disillusions—he’s made no promises.” She looked up at him. “I’m going. I have to.”
He looked at her. “Then I’m going with you.”
“No. I need you to stay here. Look after Val and the kids.” He shook his head. “No way. Get Strickland to—”
The Sabrina Vaughn series Set 1 Page 20
