by Cera Daniels
"I'd like you to be my 'plus one'." He waited for her stunned nod, then added, "Please wear something blue."
Reeling both from his invitation and from her readiness to accept it, she shoved the door closed. Amanda watched until his taillights were out of sight. Even her lungs weren't sure what to do. Quick breaths, deep breaths, no breathing at all. His date. When had she become such a sucker for that boyish charm? And now she had to find a dress—with a day to spare. She shook her head and her gaze landed on the cruiser. Fashion emergency later. Right now, some cop was drinking his or her brains out in Soulless. Amanda turned and headed into the bar.
Patronized by martini-addicted, high-end clientele, Klasson Hill district's top grossing bar was a cop favorite. Quirky, curving fishtanks separated the booths, neon tubes of blue light split the top half of the walls from the bottom, and rock music pounded into the deep mahogany of a dance floor usually thick with bodies. Nice enough a place to kick back without worry of a brawl, but for her off duty comrades the free shots and pints for law enforcement officers were more the draw than atmosphere.
Amanda spotted one of the organized crime detectives—Hunter—hunched over a row of shot glasses six deep on the bar. In the barstool beside him, Lieutenant Dale, looking halfway to plastered.
Her gut clenched fast and hard. She both didn't want to see him and wanted to tell him off as publicly as he'd humiliated her.
How had Ryan known Dale was here?
The bartender acknowledged her and Hunter swiveled, then waved her over.
"We're celebrating the end, Werner. Pull up a stool and stay awhile," he said, swinging a shot into the air. It sloshed, clear liquid dribbling over his fingers.
"Are you celebrating for the entire precinct?" How long had the two of them been here to get this toasted?
"Get lost, Werner." Dale's hard words belied a very sober frown and negative jerk of his head.
He resumed the dazed posture and scooped up a shot glass of his own, tipping it back with relish. Understanding dawned in an instant. Her lieutenant wasn't drunk. But Hunter was, which meant Dale had been loosening him up for an impromptu interrogation. Crude.
Desperate.
He had the wrong man.
Pale blue eyes and blond hair would have stood out in the night, and with a short, compact frame, Hunter wasn't big enough to be Klepto. Amanda had to stop this and tell Dale about her findings before he turned suspicion of a traitor in their midst into a witch hunt.
"How about I call a couple of cabs instead?" she suggested.
Hunter polished off his vodka and leered at her with a sloppy grin. "I'll go home if you join me, gorgeous."
Right. The minute the electric-powered vehicle pulled up, she'd dump him in to sleep this idiocy off.
Dale's shoulders hitched.
Amanda bit back a retort and headed for the phone booth with Dale's narrow-eyed glare nailing the spot between her shoulderblades. So she ruined his operation. He'd stripped her badge in front of her entire team, the CSU on site, and three different news crews—he could deal. When the cab pulled up, Hunter didn't have time to protest. His drunken reflexes were too slow to catch the door. Amanda ducked back into the bar to be hauled into one of Soulless's rentable banquet rooms by an angry, frustrated lieutenant.
His mustache quivered. "I needed him, Werner."
"We needed to talk." She perched on the edge of the long table and crossed her arms. Dale's bones were stark against the weary lines of his face. Despite her own frustration, Amanda felt her forehead scrunch with concern. "You haven't been sleeping."
"There is a serial killer on the loose."
A killer he'd had contact with, but hadn't told the team about. Theresa's warnings rattled through her anew. How deep was he?
"No sleep means mistakes, Lieutenant," she said. "Going after Hunter like this—"
"I have my reasons."
"Yeah, I bet. I saw the ballistics report." She narrowed her eyes, challenged him to deny it.
A glint of . . . satisfaction?
Her instincts blazed.
"No way." She sat straighter. "You sent Charlie."
"Did he tell you otherwise?" He rubbed the coarse stubble on his chin and frowned. "The department had taps on some of the lines. It's tricky to tell who's on the right side of this. I know it means little right now, Detective,"—and he held up a hand to stop her from denying the title—"but I wanted you to be clear, and I needed someone on the outside, someone free and clear of red tape who I could trust."
Disbelief escaped with a snort. "Trust? Charlie said you needed to make an example of me. You took my badge, lambasted me in front of the world, and you want me to believe you trust me?"
"This killer . . . this has to be an internal affair. I've been trying to narrow down the suspect pool, and by suspending you, a person the killer may have believed was untouchable, I hoped to force unease. Lack of sleep isn't the only thing that causes mistakes." He looked her straight in the eyes and held his palms up. "I'm sorry."
"You said some pretty shitty things." Every single one of which had hit home. Even now, knowing he'd orchestrated the suspension, the personal, sharp digs tore at her heart.
"Yes."
"But you'd do it again."
"Yes."
"Because you thought it'd make the killer more apt to screw up instead of more cautious." Did Dale realize how much his accusations had hurt? Did he care?
"Changing the status quo is always a calculated risk, but it had to be done." He paused. "Amanda, there's more."
"Do tell."
She was prepared for him to corroborate his wife's desperate phone call, even if he didn't know Theresa had sought her help. But Amanda wasn't prepared for the sheer breadth of violent promises: bombs, dirty cops, revealing financials, syndicate plants and supporters, ultimatums. The ominous "cleansing" scheduled for week's end went way beyond typical serial killer territory.
"You should have told me sooner."
"And put a bulls-eye on you? This zealot was in my house, with a gun to my wife's head when he attacked the precinct. If I'd told you then, if I'd told anyone, I would have lost her, Amanda. Do you have any idea what that's like? And now, it's too late." Dale shut his eyes and shook his head. "I know the risks better than anyone. I've lost too many, family, friends, men and women who serve next to me in the line of duty, because of that duty."
"We wear the badge to protect. There will always be criminals. There will always be risk in standing against the storm." Words he'd once spoken to her, she now echoed back softly. She wanted to rail against him, to claw and curse and spit, but sadness came off his frame in such a sweeping tide it was all she could do not to cry. "I'm not afraid of that risk."
He sent her a look stricken with grief. "I almost lost you once, too. Twice. When the file room caught—"
"Stop. You kept me on the bench, and instead of trusting me, instead of cluing me in when things went down, you locked me in a box to keep me 'safe'. You kept me in the dark on purpose. Then you threw me off the force." She lowered her arms to her sides and stepped toward him, anger bristling. "There's more than one way to lose someone, Sir."
Dale didn't speak as he paced the room, turning toward a darkened flat-panel TV that took up the far wall. He pressed a button on its face, clicked down to a news channel.
"You should go before someone sees us together." A quiet warning.
How closely was the zealot keeping tabs on him?
"There's just one more thing." Amanda walked to his side, watching—without really seeing—the larger than life reporter on the screen. "Why you? Theresa's protected now. If this zealot is someone on the force, he has to know he can't use her against you again, and he has to know you won't incite city-wide panic. So why is this nutjob calling you?"
"The profilers would say he wants me to stop him. But I don't—oh. No." He stopped mid-sentence, an alarmed crease to his brow.
Ryan had joined the broadcast, his skin a burnished tan u
nder the studio lights. His interview.
"'Those who seek to undo my work,'" Dale murmured. "The benefit dinner?"
Amanda shot him a look. "What about the benefit?"
The corners of her lieutenant's lips tugged even lower, and he pressed the volume button.
"—solidarity to the families of those officers fallen in the line of duty," Ryan said.
Dale lowered his chin to his chest. "The zealot said he wouldn't be undermined by money, Amanda."
No. Her internal organs gave a vicious, sickening wrench. "If those officers were murdered because he thought they were syndicate, then hosting this fundraiser—"
"—will look like a show of syndicate support. Mr. McLelas is high profile. Direct opposition to the zealot's game." Dale had come to the same grim conclusion.
The zealot had a new target.
When Amanda failed to reach him by phone and got a busy signal from his office, even the express rail couldn't get her in the grand, rotating door of McLelas Financial fast enough. Was he safe? Had the zealot attacked? She shifted from one foot to the other on the polished green and black swirls of granite and waited for a page to Ryan to go through. The well-mannered clerk behind the counter was unmoved by her urgency.
She couldn't be too late. The interview was long over by now, and Ryan had to be back in the safety of these walls. Forcing a long inhale of the calming vanilla potpourri that filled a decorative bowl on the counter, Amanda reminded herself the killer hunted by night.
The clerk hung up his phone and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Detective. He's out of the office. But you can wait with his personal assistant, if you'd like."
She chewed on her bottom lip. Out of the office? Was the man ever in the office? There had to be a way to reach him. "Where is the security office? His bodyguard?" His brother. Amanda snapped her fingers. "Zach. Where can I find Zach McLelas?"
"Behind you." A low baritone like the sultry strings of a blues guitar welled over her.
Amanda shot a look over her shoulder into a pair of narrowed, bronze-touched eyes. Muscles and arrogance filled out a sleek, all-black suit with pearl buttons and a blindingly white tie. Her eyebrows lifted. The suit looked as though it would have a stroke if it encountered a wrinkle.
Skepticism curved her lips. "You're Ryan's bodyguard?"
"More or less." Zach, the hero behind the mic.
"Then I owe you my life."
A twitch of a smile that he dropped behind a cold, guarded expression. "This way, Detective."
Amanda thanked the clerk and followed Zach to the near wall, her boots clapping on the posh floor. He stepped past a host of decorative greenery and pushed on the paneling, opening a hidden door beyond. At the end of a short hallway, they stopped in front of a rickety-looking, unpolished elevator. The contraption was so out of place from the rest of the building, she wrinkled her nose.
"Security floor is four down. Would you rather take the stairs?" Zach pushed and held the call button, then pushed it twice more before standing to one side to angle a look at her.
He must have caught part of her disgusted reflection in the grimy doors. "It reminds me of our precinct elevator. Not very reliable."
The elevator dinged.
"Don't judge all elevators by a single disappointment." He turned his head and she swore she caught a flash of teeth in clouded metal before the doors were swallowed into the wall. "Given the opportunity, they might surprise you."
She shook her head and stepped into a large, elegant ride with lush, pearl carpet, decorative molding along the ceiling, soft lighting, and a wall treatment expensive enough to rival someone's formal dining room. The exterior hadn't provided a single hint to what lay beyond. That, she realized, was the point. It must have been their private elevator. Probably Zach's extended hold of the call button was a fingerprint scanner.
"It's the Taj Mahal of the elevator world." She glanced up at the ceiling again. "Although I think it could use a ridiculously fancy chandelier."
"Chandeliers rattle. But Ryan's considering a divan." Zach's frown betrayed no teasing or flirtatious edge, but his eyes lit with the same delicious brand of mischief as his brother's. "I'll never be able to use it again if he defiles—"
"Thanks. I think I got the picture." A new picture, too. Last night's wild dreams hadn't featured sex in an elevator. With Ryan.
"—my sweet ride with cushions," he continued, ignoring her interruption. "If I may ask, what picture were you getting?"
Her cheeks went up in smoke. Amanda was pretty sure her ears had gone crimson.
Innocent thoughts. Think innocent thoughts.
Zach nodded at the classy dial above the door as it stopped almost all the way to the left. The doors parted, but he stood motionless for a beat.
"Okay, you've got me down here. Where is he?" Amanda asked, willing him to move on. "Where's Ryan?"
"Stuck fielding questions." Zach preceded her down a longer, bright hallway bustling with men and women who wore jeans and collared shirts. Nothing as imposing as his attire.
Security feeds from the entire building filtered into top-end monitor arrays stacked around each technician's station, the effect severe but impressive. Respectful nods delivered over coffee mugs dug at Amanda's intuition. Zach was more than Ryan's bodyguard. Down here, he was the boss.
His fingers twitched on an overt thumb scanner next to a heavy wooden door marked "Chief" and he stepped aside to let her pass. Monitors and speakers and control panels brimmed around Zach's desk, suspended from the ceiling, the wall, and perched on the workstation surface. Beyond the mainstay of his domain sat a couch, a fridge, and televisions tuned to various news broadcasts. The door to a bathroom stood open in the corner, but the far wall was sheer white, completely blank. Pills clattered and Amanda turned to see Zach shove aside twin bottles of extra strength painkiller before sitting on the edge of his desk with a steaming mug in his hand.
"You're sure he's at the news station? Safe?" she asked.
He frowned. "Safe as one can be when pummeled by microphones and cameras. He should be wrapping up."
A weight she didn't want to examine too closely lifted from her lungs, but "should" wasn't good enough. "Call him. Please."
"Why?" His stance was relaxed, his fist wrapped around a steaming mug, but suspicious eyes searched her face. "I won't interrupt him for personal—"
"He's in danger."
His eyes sharpened in an instant. "You believe this, because?"
She took in a counted breath of coffee and spice. "I'm sure you've seen the news reports about the recent murders."
"Some of them cops." Zach set his cup behind him, then rubbed his hands on his knees as he stood. "You mentioned danger. Are you saying this killer is after my brother?"
"I believe he's IDed Ryan as a syndicate supporter."
He gave a slow blink. "Where would he get that idea?"
Amanda bit her lip. Dale had given her leave to release information pertinent to Ryan's safety. His open book policy didn't extend to the anti-corruption zealot's phone calls. "McLelas Financial is holding a benefit dinner for my—the 16th precinct."
He nodded.
"The murdered officers have been identified as syndicate plants." At Zach's suddenly rigid posture, Amanda knew he'd made the same mental connections as her and Dale. "We have reason to believe his M.O. is escalating to target supporters as well. Ryan's been all over the media today."
"This asshole won't get anywhere near my brother," Zach said, already tapping on a control panel. The white wall glowed with faint blue gridlines before dissolving into a map of the city.
She shook her head. How could he know that without playing bodyguard in person? "You can't guarantee that from behind a desk. You aren't even certain where he is."
He smiled, a fierce baring of teeth clenched tight. Three pulsing dots appeared on the map projection, deep shades of red, green, and gray. A prickle of ice spread down Amanda's spine. The imagery reminded her a little too much of Ne
ws 9's serial murder infographic. The image shifted, rotated, and zoomed on the rich maroon. Partial blueprints of a building were fuzzy behind the marker.
"Ryan is in the parking lot at News 9." The dot moved. "On his way back."
So they wore tracking devices. Quirky, handy, and a little jarring. She was glad for the visual confirmation, but what must it be like for them, for Ryan, so high profile they didn't have even an illusion of privacy? "His earpiece?"
A rough curve of Zach's lips. "They report X, Y, and Z coordinates. Here and through my own earpiece if necessary. I'm able to find my brothers at all times, Detective."
She watched the dot fly across Zach's map and a tiny smile escaped. Ryan was speeding. "That's nice. How do you know where the killer is so you can keep the little dots from taking bullets?"
He sent her a look of frosty arrogance over his shoulder.
She held his gaze. "As long as this psycho's out there, someone needs to be by your brother's side."
"You and every other woman in the city want that job."
"Let me be clear." Amanda marched into his personal space. "I am not here for a booty call. I am here to keep Ryan alive. Get your head out of your ass and call him. Now."
He turned his back on her protest. Before she could make a move to snag his earpiece, Zach's shoulders hunched and he spoke, his voice low. "Your girlfriend is pushy. Not her. The cop. Well, park and get down here, then."
Not her? Amanda didn't have time to be jealous. A flash of red in one of the screens above the desk showed Ryan's beast of a pickup truck, pulling in to a garage. Safe. Desire came on the whispering heels of relief when he hopped down from the seat, molten male heat in a business suit, a man whose status, charm, and sex appeal made women fight over the last magazine on the rack.
He was so much more than a glossy photo.
Zach stomped to her side, and a sharp, disapproving glance cut from her face to the security feed. "He'll be down in a minute."
Ryan jerked his chin up at the camera. His chocolate-dark eyes were turbulent, the wealth of hair slung down his back disheveled, and the break in his perfect composure tugged ever harder at Amanda's heart.
