Cliff's Edge

by LAURA HARNER

  “Jesus,” Cliff blurted. “Are you even old enough to drink?”

  “My mommy even let me stay up to watch the game with all the grown-ups last night,” Kam said. His grin said he appreciated rather than resented the comment. “I’m blessed with some good genes. This”—he pointed to his face—“allowed me to work undercover with youth gangs a helluva long time. I’m just a little too long in the tooth for that now, but I don’t mind. It gets pretty fucking old hanging out with a bunch of delinquent teenagers.”

  “Gangs, huh? Someone is finally admitting it’s a gang-involved crime now? I tried to tell that to Kingston last week.”

  “Have a seat, Master Chief,” Kam invited as he moved around the table to take a chair next to Cliff, so they could both sit with their backs to a wall.

  “Call me Cliff. No need for titles. I’m on terminal leave, waiting until my retirement becomes official at the end of the month.”

  Kam’s eyes narrowed and he looked Cliff full in the face. The younger man’s scrutiny made him hyper-aware of how he must look. With his salt-and-pepper hair, two-day beard, and bags under his eyes the size of plums from too little sleep followed by a five-hour drive, he probably looked a decade older than his forty years.

  “I’ll call you by your name if you like, but my dad retired from the Navy, and taught me a lot about respect. As he used to say before he passed, once a chief, always a chief. You made it to the top of the enlisted ranks, and as one of the elite, so don’t let this”—his gaze dropped to the books, then swept the outer office where most of the detectives had gone back to minding their own duties—“single incident diminish your accomplishments.”

  Definitely the good cop.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Cliff said, rather than responding to the pep-talk, as he sat and rested his forearms on the table. “So it’s confirmed? The shooting and robbery were gang-related?”

  “That’s the working theory. Look, let’s get this out of the way first. I’m familiar with the reports, I saw the crime scene photos, I know what Hard Labour was, and I don’t give a shit. Can we be clear on that, before we do anything else?”

  “If you say so. Where do you want me to start?”

  With an ill-disguised snort of amusement, Kam pointed to the book on the top. For the next thirty minutes, neither of them spoke as Cliff dutifully scanned each page of photos. The assortment of photos differed from the mug books Detective Kingston showed him the day following the shootings. Those had been younger men and many of the faces black. These books were primarily Hispanic, the men ranging in age from late teens to mid-thirties. Which was closer to the age he’d estimated the older man to be.

  On the bottom corner of the third page of his third book, he found a face that looked familiar. Mentally noting the location, he decided to finish the book, then return to the photo.

  “Spot something?” Kam asked. The man was a good observer.

  “Maybe.” He tapped his finger on the photo and turned the book toward Wagner. “This one looks…similar. Like your buddy over there pointed out”—he tilted his head in Kingston’s direction—“I wasn’t in a position to have an unobstructed view. It’s never going to be enough to hold up in court—”

  Detective Wagner’s face went blank as he stared through the office window. David Kingston leaned a hip against his desk, his gaze on the two of them, his mouth running to the apparent amusement of the two men standing next to him.

  Finally, Kam dragged his attention back to Cliff. “Detective Kingston’s not working this case anymore, I am. As for testifying? That’s too far down the road for either of us to worry about. Right now, we just want to find that first thread…the one loose end that will unravel the whole case. Know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I know. I wish I could tell you this”—he tapped the photo—“is it, but I don’t think so. The first man…the older one who was shouting orders…” He blew out a breath as just for a moment he relived the frustration of remaining handcuffed to a bed while Draco and Gentry were shot down less than twenty feet away. “This could be a relative of the older man. The face structure is similar, but this man is six-one according to the mug shot…the shooter was five-ten, tops.”

  “All right, do me a favor. Shake your head, close that book, and take the last one. Go ahead and look through all the photos, just like you’ve been doing. If you see someone you recognize, make a note. If you don’t see any familiar faces, let’s talk over another photo anyway.”

  Cliff was far too disciplined to visibly react to Kam’s words, but he understood the implication well enough. Kingston, or someone else Kam had seen when he’d stared out at the bullpen just now tweaked the detective’s radar. He clearly didn’t want it known if Cliff made an ID.

  An hour later, Cliff sat sipping from a large black coffee to-go from Cozy’s and watched Kam Wagner dodge cars as he crossed the street to join him.

  “Isn’t that called jaywalking?” he teased lightly.

  “That’s why I was running,” Kam said, a smile flittering over his handsome face for an instant.

  Already intrigued by the request to depart as normal, then circle around to move his Jeep from the street parking spot in front of the PD to a parking structure a few blocks away, his curiosity spiked further as Kam hustled him around the corner. They headed toward the back entrance of a single story brick building that might have housed a grocery store in the forties and fifties. The structure had been modified with a wide portico and double automated doors marked Emergency Personnel Only. New Horizons was painted onto the old brick wall to the left side of the door.

  The smell of disinfectant assaulted him as they came through the entrance. A single man in teal scrubs half-rose from the rolling chair behind the desk at the nurse’s station, his lips parted as if to say something. Kam held up his badge and kept moving, and the nurse fell back into his seat with a little wave. Obviously the detective was both recognized and knew exactly where he was headed.

  The interior was laid out like a ladder, with two long corridors running front to back and shorter connecting hallways running side to side. They passed several open doors, each revealing a standard hospital room, complete with two beds, curtains hanging from the ceiling, and patients staring at wall-mounted televisions. Taking a right turn, nothing changed much except the door at the end was closed and clearly marked a Do Not Enter zone. Numerous Day-Glo orange signed screamed this room contained an infectious patient. The two rooms on either side appeared empty, probably to reduce any risk of contamination.

  “Detective Wagner,” he said after rapping twice on the door. Without waiting for an invitation, he pushed on the handle and stepped inside.

  With more than a passing suspicion things were not what they seemed and completely drawn into the cloak-and-dagger atmosphere the detective created, Cliff followed him through the door.

  “About time you fucking got here.”

  The man on the bed was a shell of the man he’d met with the previous week. Draco Kincaid. A very much alive Draco Kincaid. Although from the array of machines surrounding the bed, it looked like it might have been touch and go for a while.

  “Nicely played Detective Wagner,” Cliff said.

  “Take a break,” Wagner said to the fresh-faced plainclothes officer who had been seated just inside the door to the room.

  As Cliff moved around the bed to an angle that allowed Draco to look at him without fighting the immobilizing neck brace or head restraints, Kam moved to stand next to the opposite side of the bed.

  “That’s close enough,” Wagner barked. Cliff glanced up and saw the detective was on full alert, as if he expected Cliff to make some sort of move against the club owner.

  “Get a grip, Wagner,” Draco said, his gaze flicking toward the right, then back left toward Cliff. “I told you Cliff was an innocent bystander.”

  “You also told me you don’t remember anything about the attack and you have no idea what anyone could have been looking for�
�pardon me if I call bullshit. Let’s cut to the chase. I got Kingston off the case. I brought Snyder here and kept it off the record—just like you requested. Now it’s time to tell me what’s going on.”

  Draco’s gaze fixed on Cliff’s, the plea obvious—but that didn’t mean Cliff had a clue what the other man needed. Asking questions of his own might give them all a few minutes to regroup.

  “I can see maybe there was a reason the cops on scene kept me in the back, so the EMTs could get you out. What about Gentry?”

  “He didn’t stand a chance. The sons a bitches nearly cut him in half,” Draco said. “And for the record…I still don’t know why the fuck they chose Hard Labour. You tell me they mentioned a disk, Kam, but I just don’t have those memories. I’m stuck in this fucking bed without even a clear look at the television to distract me. Don’t you think I’ve replayed the scene a million times already?”

  “So what disk, Draco? Even if you don’t remember what they said, tell me what was on it. Membership data? Why the fuck would anyone care?”

  Draco gave a humorless laugh that turned into a cough. By the time he caught his breath his eyes had gone glassy. “No one should care, but people would. We’ve had more than a few people considered celebrities visit on occasion. But, Kam, you gotta believe me, I just didn’t have a disk like that. I give you my word this doesn’t have anything to do with our few remaining members. I told you I was phasing that out—my club was closing.”

  “Then tell me what it does have to do with and what was on the disk.”

  “If they took the disk I kept in the safe, then they’ll be pretty fucking unhappy, because it’s a copy of my tax filings from my accountant. I’ve told you the name of every person I can remember, but I was getting ready to sell the building and shut the club down—there was no reason to hang on to old data. Sorry, Kam, I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s all you’re going to get.”

  “Then why the fuck did you tell me to bring Cliff here? You said you’d tell me everything if I got Cliff.”

  Draco’s face relaxed infinitesimally, as if he was carefully wiping away any lingering clues to his thoughts. Which meant whatever came next would probably be a lie. “I thought maybe if I saw the last person I spoke with, maybe more memories would come back—but there’s just nothing there, Kam. Not one fucking thing—” He stopped speaking, his mouth hanging open for half a second.

  “What is it? Did you think of something else?”

  Draco’s eyes canted right as he strained to make eye contact with Wagner. “The money?”

  “The operating cash,” the detective prompted. He moved closer to the bed, practically hovering over Kincaid’s prone body. “You said there would have been seventy-five hundred in operating cash for the next day’s till. Not paltry, but it seems a little low for robbery-homicide.”

  “Yes,” Draco’s voice was fading, and each word seemed an effort. His complexion had faded from pale to gray and his eyelids drooped. “Not that. Kept cash. Hundred. Grand.” He drew in a raspy breath.

  A knock at the door stopped the conversation. Without waiting for an invitation to enter, a Hispanic woman dressed in SpongeBob SquarePants scrubs pushed her way inside, followed closely by the man who’d been guarding Draco when they’d arrived.

  “That’s enough for today, Detective,” the nurse said as she assumed Kam’s spot at the head of the bed. She placed a tray with two syringes on the rolling table and started making adjustments to the IV, obviously preparing to administer some pain relief.

  Leaving Wagner to follow the movements of the nurse, Cliff watched Draco’s face. Their gazes locked briefly before the other man closed his lids, his mouth pinched at the corner before turning down into a frown.

  “Hang on, Nurse. A hundred K?” Kam asked, his voice rising in obvious surprise.

  “Yes. In bundled hundreds.”

  “Jesus. Why the fuck didn’t you say so…”

  “Out,” the nurse ordered.

  “Wait a second, Becky,” Draco half moaned. “Cliff, need a favor. When the cops are done with my place—need you to close up shop. Post signs. Get cleaning service—”

  “Don’t worry about a thing, Draco. I happen to have some free time on my hands.”

  “Stay there if you want—apartment’s upstairs.”

  “Enough, already,” the nurse said, nailing them all with a say-one-more-word-and-you-die look.

  Not often one to miss the obvious, Cliff didn’t give anyone a chance to stop him, just leaned down to give Draco a good-bye hug, managing to place his ear over the other man’s mouth and used his forearms to shield them from prying eyes.

  The whisper was soft, but clear. “When Rhino gets CONUS…need him.”

  A few minutes later they were pushing their way out the back door into the bright afternoon sunlight of a perfect San Diego afternoon. Only the day didn’t taste quite as good as it should have.

  “What’s wrong with him? What’s the prognosis?” he asked Kam.

  “There’s a bullet lodged near his spine. The doctors gave him no chance for survival when they brought him in. I understand they’ve revised their estimate after he regained consciousness and chewed all their asses.”

  Cliff snorted. “Is he gonna walk again?”

  “Doubtful. He’s not out of the woods yet. I hear they may need to do surgery again once the swelling goes down. They don’t know if they’ll be able to remove the bullet or stabilize it, but the damage to his spinal column is devastating. If he survives, the main question is whether he’ll be a para or quadriplegic.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Exactly. So now, you want to tell me why he wants you to go to his place?”

  “I have no fucking clue. I mean other than the obvious.”

  “Obvious?”

  “Yeah. You have him in isolation—I’m assuming I’m the only person who knows he’s still alive?”

  Kam jerked his head in agreement.

  “Okay, so his business is basically done, but given its location in the old warehouse district, that building has got to be worth a hell of a lot of money these days…”

  “Millions,” Kam agreed.

  “So all he really wants is someone taking care of his investment until he’s able to do it himself. I assume you know the man is a former SEAL…”

  “I do my homework.”

  “Then you know we’re all brothers. Draco and I might not know each other well, but he’s in trouble…and he’d know, without being told, what it cost me to get caught in his club”—Cliff gazed back at the rehab center—“under those circumstances while thugs committed murder in the other room. This is probably his way of making things better for both of us.”

  “I’ll let you know when you’re cleared to enter the club. It should be another couple of days. Then I think maybe you and I should see if anyone is watching…”

  “Gonna make me a target, Wagner?”

  “If I have to. Unless you want to tell me what Draco…and now you…are hiding…”

  “Looking forward to it,” Cliff said. Then, humming the theme song to the Roadrunner cartoon, he sauntered away.

  Chapter Eight

  Ryan glanced at the clock for the third time in fifteen minutes and wondered where in the hell Cliff was. Then he wondered what in the hell he was doing. Damn Tyler Hardin for putting ideas in his head anyway.

  Moving to the kitchen, Ryan turned the oven down to warm, per Ty’s directions, assured even if nothing else about this night went as planned, at least the roasted chicken and potato casserole would come out right. The table was set, the sheets were clean, and the nightstands stocked with plenty of lube and even condoms if Cliff deemed them necessary. And…if everything went tits up, there was a whole season of Sons of Anarchy on Netflix to look forward to.

  Just the thought of sinking into Cliff’s tight ass had Ryan’s cock filling. Jesus. It wasn’t like he hadn’t jacked off half a dozen times the last two days. Who knew there was so much
free gay porn on the Internet?

  The familiar growl of an engine drew his gaze to the window just as headlights flickered against the glass. Unease mingled with excitement as Ryan once again weighed his options. Grab Cliff by the shirtfront and kiss the shit out of him the minute he walked through the door…or dinner and talk, then kiss him? For someone trained to improvise under life or death circumstances, this dilemma was kicking his ass.

  “Hey,” Cliff said, stepping through the door. Although his tone was casual, the tightness of his square jaw spoke volumes about his best friend’s level of tension. Hell, Cliff had probably spent the whole return trip from San Diego worrying how Ryan would greet him after the other night. If only he knew…

  “Smells good in here. Did you cook dinner?” Cliff asked as he crossed to his bedroom door and tossed his overnight bag inside.

  Deciding to go with the flow, Ryan nodded. “Sort of. Ty gave me a head start. All I had to do was stick it in the oven. He said you went to San Diego…” Awkward much?

  Cliff looked down at him for a long moment, his steel gray eyes narrowed, the lines fanning away from his normal smiling expression. “Yeah…uh, Rhino? Are we okay? Did I fuck things up between us the other night?”

  That was his Cliff—never met a problem he wouldn’t tackle head on. He smiled and stepped closer. “It didn’t mess anything up for me, Snides. How about for you? You left pretty quick yesterday morning…”

  He placed a hand on Cliff’s heavily muscled forearm.

  “Uh…yeah. I had a meeting set up with the new detective assigned to the case. We didn’t exactly get around to talking about that with the Super Bowl and—”

  Ryan traced his fingers over Cliff’s bicep, the heated skin sending shots of electricity through his fingertips. “Go on…”

  “I…uhm…” Cliff’s gaze lingered on Ryan’s fingers. “My uh…paperwork. Had to finish—Ryan?” Their gazes locked. Cliff’s eyes widened and his tongue skated over his lower lip.