Rio left Fuentes’s office on a burst of static. The captain must have already turned the scanner back on. No doubt he’d gone back to picking the dead leaves off his plants too. Rio mentally shrugged as he crossed the bull pen. To each their own. At least the captain was concerned enough about his city to keep tabs on it citizens through the scanner.

He’d crossed half the distance to his desk when Fuentes called his name from behind. Halting, he turned, backtracking when his CO beckoned him forward. As soon as Rio joined him again, Fuentes shut the office door.

“What did you say the daughter’s name was?”

He had to mean Rebecca, she was the only daughter they’d been discussing. Rio cocked his head and frowned. “Rebecca Blaine?”

“That’s what I thought.” Fuentes raised his voice, competing with the sudden blast of voices, names and codes erupting from the scanner. He walked behind his desk and turned the volume down. “There’s been a hit and run on Aero Drive. The eight thousand block. A Rebecca Blaine was mentioned.”

Rio froze, his blood, heart and respiration sluggish with shock. “Vehicle or pedestrian?” He forced the question out his tight throat.

“Vehicle.” Fuentes turned away from the bookcase, scanned his face and frowned.

What did he see?

Rio shook his head, breaking the spell. There shouldn’t be anything for the Captain to see. Rebecca meant nothing to him. She hadn’t for years. His concern for her was no stronger than it would be for any civilian who’d come to him for help.

“Go find out what’s going on,” Fuentes ordered, pulling back his desk chair and taking a seat. “Make sure this hit and run has nothing to do with her mother’s death.”

“Any details?” Rio asked as casually as he could manage, ignoring the raw, sledgehammer strike of his heart. “Who caught the incident?”

She’s just a case, damnit. Nothing but a case. This reaction makes no fucking sense.

“No details yet. The call just came through. Herrera and Simmons have been dispatched, as has an ambulance,” Fuentes said absently, picking up a pen and pulling a batch of papers closer. “Check it out.”

“Yes, sir.” His blood suddenly sprinting through his veins, Rio turned back to the door.

If an ambulance had been called, someone was hurt. Was Rebecca the victim of the H&R? Was she hurt?

The thought of her in pain. Maybe even dying. It ripped at him. Which shocked the holy hell out of him. Until today, he hadn’t seen her in twelve years, hadn’t thought of her in months. She meant nothing to him beyond an uncomfortable memory.

Back at his desk, he took a couple of deep, deliberate breaths and tried to reconcile his reaction.

She’s a case. That’s all. Just a case.

But his rapid pulse and unsteady breathing told him otherwise.

He might not know exactly what she meant to him now. But his overblown reaction had proven one thing. She wasn’t merely a case.

Pulling Becca’s intake form closer, he found the contact number she’d listed, but his call just rang and rang and went to voicemail. He left a message. After a few minutes of waiting, he called again. Another voicemail.

Looked like he wouldn’t know the circumstances of the H&R, or how she was involved until the patrol officers arrived on scene and assessed the situation. In the meantime, sitting here waiting for news to roll in was about as appetizing as waiting to get tased during a taser display. Might as well head out to the accident scene and track the details down for himself.

The eight thousand block of Aero Drive was a solid twenty-minute drive in rush hour traffic. He made it in ten thanks to the flashers and siren.

He flipped the emergency beacons off as he closed on the two black and whites already on scene. The broad shouldered, black haired form of Tomas Herrera was on the sidewalk, notebook open, pen in hand, as he patiently listened to a white haired, grandfatherly type. Behind and to the right of Herrera, a medium height, dark haired woman spoke with Simmons.

Becca.

He scanned her intently as his vehicle crawled past. She looked okay. No blood. She was standing square, not favoring either leg. Nor was she cradling either arm. He glanced up the street and then looked in his rearview mirror. No ambulance either.

The muscles of his chest loosened. For the first time in forever he managed a deep, natural breath. Hell, judging by her behavior, she must not have been directly involved in this incident, otherwise she’d be crying hysterically. He compulsively scanned her again and his whole body relaxed.

She was fine.

He couldn’t say the same for a couple of the parked cars. He glanced over the mangled metal and broken glass as he cruised past. What a fucking mess. After pulling alongside the curb several spaces behind the mangled cars, he exited the cruiser.

Simmons had finished his interview with Becca and moved onto the next witness. A few feet behind him Becca stood alone, her dark gaze locked on Rio’s face. Judging by her frown and the lift to her chin, she wasn’t happy to see him. Her irritation at his arrival hit him like fingernails down a chalkboard.

He’d spent the better part of fifteen minutes worrying himself into a stupor over her welfare and she didn’t want him around?

Too fucking bad.

“Addario.” Herrera stepped away from the wan-faced teenager he’d been talking to and greeted Rio in a rumbling baritone, his dark eyes shrewd as he scanned Rio’s face. “What brings you here?”

What the hell. Tomas would figure it out the moment he took Becca aside. “One of your witnesses. I have some questions for her concerning another case.” Rio stopped beside the blue-suited officer and half turned to scan the shredded hatchback. “Anyone get a plate?”

“It came back stolen. Which witness?”

“Rebecca Blaine. She came into the station earlier with questions about her mother’s suicide.”

The reason for her visit wasn’t a secret either. Too many people had handled the request as it made its way up the chain. No way to keep it private now.

“No shit?” Something shifted in the guy’s dark eyes, as though Rio’s explanation had clicked. “Would her questions make anyone nervous?”

Ah hell…

Rio tensed. Tilting his head, he narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Because witnesses say the truck targeted her. It idled along the curb while she was in her car. Didn’t pull out until she stepped into the road. They say it crossed into the oncoming lane on a direct bead with her changing trajectory. The truck—” he dropped his gaze to consult his notes—“a white, Ford F250, hit the first parked car seconds after she ducked behind it.” He nodded toward the mangled mass of metal sealing the two cars together. “The impact shoved the Honda into the Buick. If it had taken her a second or two longer to make the sidewalk, she’d be as mangled as those two cars.”

An arctic vortex penetrated Rio, freezing him from the inside out. He slowly turned his head, studying the two cars Herrera had indicated. The space between the two was non-existent. Hell, the two vehicles looked like they’d been welded together. The ice sank deeper, the chill penetrating down to the soles of his feet.

She was damn lucky to be standing there, glaring at him. If she’d been between those cars when the truck had struck…hell, she was damn lucky to be alive.

He forced his voice to steadiness and turned back to Herrera. “Did you get a description of the driver?”

“Sure. A navy-blue hoodie.” Frustration flashed across Herrera’s square, deeply tanned face. “It covered his hair and most of his face. Hell, nobody can say for sure that the driver was even a he.”

Great. Just fucking great.

Rio released a tight breath. “You said the plates came back stolen?”

If someone wanted to commit murder with an automobile, they’d need a vehicle that couldn’t be traced back to them. A stolen truck would make a perfect weapon.

“The owner reported it stolen today, noonish.”

Not long after she’d left the police station.

Shit…

Yeah, it was possible that someone had gone after her.

What the hell was going on?

First the missing cage evidence, then the missing autopsy reports and now this? No question there was something rotten going on, and Becca was right in the middle of it.

Rio shifted slightly, studying her. Her composure was off considering the circumstances. Someone might have tried to kill her, and she wasn’t hysterically venting? Instead, she stood there calmly, even tranquil—except for the irritated glitter that lit her dark eyes whenever she looked at him.

Where was the drama? The angst? The hysteria? Three things she’d excelled at back in the day.

“Did you mention your suspicions to her?” Rio shot Herrera a quick glance.

Tomas shook his head. “Haven’t talked to her. Sims had that pleasure.”

Maybe she didn’t realize someone had tried to kill her. That would explain her calmness.

“Do you think this incident has anything to do with her mother’s death?” Herrera asked. His brown eyes distant as though he was thinking.

“I don’t know…but I intend to find out.” Rio’s tone was a grim promise. “Keep me in the loop on this, okay?”

Tomas simply nodded.

He glanced at the skid marks blackening the cement. The angle and acceleration of the tire tracks would pin down whether the truck had been accelerating, thus targeting her. Hell, maybe the driver had simply been some kid out for a joy ride who’d lost control of the vehicle. In the meantime, it wouldn’t hurt Becca to hire a couple of bodyguards. With a final look at the crushed cars, he turned toward the woman who’d occupied his thoughts far too much over the past few hours—fuck, make that years.

She watched him approach with a neutral expression and stiff shoulders. It wasn’t until he was almost upon her that he noticed her abraded palms.

“You’re hurt.” The realization sharpened his tone, which she apparently took as an accusation since she scowled back at him.

“Nothing that won’t heal,” she told him, her neutral tone at odds with the animosity glittering in her dark gaze. “What are you doing here?”

He could sense her antipathy toward him. Well, tough shit. She’d asked him to check into her mother’s death. He had. She could damn well put up with his presence long enough to answer some follow up questions.

“I need to talk to you.” He glanced around the scene. Another batch of black and whites had arrived. “In private.”

“Why?” She didn’t budge.

He blew out a frustrated breath and glared down at her. Nothing was ever easy with the damn woman. “Because I did some digging into you mom’s case, as you asked, and I have some follow up questions.”

“O…kay.” She eyed him suspiciously. “About what?”

He wasn’t going to discuss anything more within earshot of SDPD’s finest, not with the Captain’s order to keep his mouth shut about the missing evidence still ringing in his ears.

“In private.”

Her eyes narrowed. Cocking her head, she studied his face intently. “Why not right here, right now?”

“Because right here, right now, is not private.” He turned and headed back to his vehicle. The interior of his car was about as private as it was going to get. He’d taken a step or two before he realized she wasn’t following.

Halting, he closed his eyes and counted to five. Clearly, the woman was determined to be a pain in the ass. Once his frustration was under wraps, he turned back to Becca’s inflexible figure, which was doing a fine job of mimicking a statue.

“If you want an update on your mom’s case, you need to come with me,” he told her.

Her chin shot up an inch or two. “I’ve hired a private investigator. I don’t need your help.”

Wasn’t that just fucking peachy? She didn’t need him anymore. After he’d spent all morning entrenching himself in her mess. His teeth clicked together hard enough to ache.

“You’re mistaken if you think you have a choice.” When she still didn’t move he infused steel into his voice. “You’d rather I arrest you, cuff you and drag you to my car?”

Rather than dissolving into tears, or a screaming tantrum, she squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye.

“Fine.” Her voice remained level. She put her wrists together and raised them. “Go ahead. Cuff me. Arrest me. I’m sure the city will be thrilled with the wrongful arrest suit I’ll file against you.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

He blew out an irritated breath and raised his palms in a you got me gesture. “Look…” He dropped his voice and stepped closer. “Certain issues have come to light regarding your mom’s case. Issues that can’t be discussed in public. All I’m asking for is a few minutes of your time.”

Her gaze skittered away from his, but at least she seemed to be thinking his words over. “A few minutes…in your car.”

It wasn’t a question.

He frowned. “The doors will be unlocked. You can leave whenever you want.”

Was that her issue? Being alone in the vehicle with him? Hell, he could remember plenty of times in the past when she couldn’t wait to climb into his car. He cut off that train of thought as heated, sultry memories stirred.

“Okay, since you asked so nicely.” The very lack of inflection in her voice made the sarcasm more biting. But at least she finally started moving.

Rio matched his steps to hers. She was walking stiffly, more shuffle than stride. He fought back the rising concern. “What’s wrong?”

“My knees are sore.” She shrugged. “Nothing a hot bath won’t cure.”

He glanced down, for the first time noticing the scuffed-up knees of her gray slacks. Judging by the condition of her palms and pants, she must have landed on the sidewalk on her hands and knees. He reduced his stride.

She slowed as well, offering him an appreciative smile. “Thanks.”

The weirdest feeling swept over him, the same one that had hit him when he’d watched her through the one-way glass at the station. A familiar unfamiliarity. She was…yet wasn’t… the girl he’d loved sixteen years ago.

Her reactions simply didn’t fit with his memories. His Becca would have been playing for his sympathy. Not ignoring, even downplaying her wounds.

When they reached his vehicle, he opened the passenger door and waited for her to climb inside, then closed it behind her and walked around the hood.

She waited for him to settle behind the wheel—barely—before firing her first question. “What’s going on? You said the ultrasound wasn’t enough to reopen mom’s case.” She paused, studying his face. “You found out she was pregnant, didn’t you?”

“No. I don’t have additional details. I have questions.”

“Really?” She drew back, her eyebrows rising. “If you don’t have more information on Mom’s death, why are you asking questions? What turned it back into a case?”

Fuck. He cast about for a red-herring that would ring true enough to satisfy her. It was her scraped palms that gave him the excuse he was looking for.

“The fact someone tried to run you over.”

Maybe the shock of hearing someone had tried to kill her would interfere with her common sense. If she mulled it over rationally, she’d know his assertion was pure bullshit.

She frowned at his claim. But then she cocked her head, her face going still, her eyes distant. She was thinking it over.

Damn.

“Noooo…” she drew the word out slowly, cautiously, as though she were testing it. But the eyes that met his were clear and certain. “You can’t know for certain the driver was after me. He could have been drunk. He could have fallen asleep at the wheel.” She paused to scan his face. “There’s more to your sudden interest than what happened here.”

When he didn’t respond, she shrugged, her hand going to the door handle. “Fine. It doesn’t matter. Detective Wilbanks will find out what you’re hiding.”

Wilbanks? Fuuuck.

Rio grimaced, and shoved his fingers through his hair. “Sherman Wilbanks?”

He swore beneath his breath at her nod. Wilbanks was hands down the best private eye in the state, hell—maybe even the country. He’d been legendary back when he’d been lead detective in SDPD’s violent crimes division.

Wilbanks would find out about the missing evidence. Hell, he probably had more contacts in the department than Rio had. As Wilbanks’s client, Becca was bound to find out about the missing evidence and reports too.

Blowing out an annoyed breath, he pinned her with a forbidding stare.

“This needs to stay between us, got it?” Beyond raising an eyebrow, she didn’t respond, just stared back. Another annoyed breath and he forced the admission out. “I pulled your mom’s file. But there’s not much in it. Some of the evidence was misfiled. We’re tracking it down, but this means I need to start from scratch. Treat your mom’s suicide as though the case just landed on my desk.”

A frown wrinkled her forehead. “How much missing evidence are you talking about?”

“Enough to make it difficult to determine whether your mother was pregnant.”

She frowned harder. “An autopsy was done, wasn’t it? Wouldn’t that tell you whether she was pregnant.”

Damnit. She was Johnny on the fucking spot. He framed his response with care. “I wasn’t able to locate the autopsy reports.”

Leaning against the backrest of her seat, she scratched at her hairline. “And you don’t find that suspicious?”

He did, as a matter of fact, damn suspicious. But he kept the admission to himself.

After a few seconds, she gave a small nod. “What do you want to know?”

Well look at that. They were finally making progress. He grabbed his notepad and pen from the console between them. “Did your mom have any family? Sisters? Brothers? Parents?”

They hadn’t talked about family in those short intense weeks. Or, at least, not about the family on her mother’s side. There had been plenty of bitching about her half-siblings and step mom.

She shook her head, looking pensive. “She was an only child, from a long line of only children. Her parents died before I was born.”

Okay. That avenue was a dead end. “What about friends? Anyone she was close to? Someone she might have confided in if she was pregnant?”

Becca nodded, her face thoughtful. “There were a couple of women from church she was tight with. Annie Lebronc and Martha Hugley. Father Garcia would know if they’re still alive.”

Good to know. Rio jotted the names down on his notepad. “Which church did Father Garcia serve?”

“Our Lady of the Rosary, out on Columbia street.” Becca turned her head, gazing out the window. “Mother was a regular there.”

“Was that how your father and mother met? Through church?”

Aaron Hart had been a church regular too. But he’d gone to St. Josephs, same as Rio’s grandmother.

“No. They met through Harold.” Becca turned back to face him.

That made sense. Harold Hopewell had been known for his generosity. As the mayor of San Diego, Aaron had been constantly looking for donations to a wide variety of causes. The two men must have crossed paths often.

“How about co-workers? Was there anyone at Harold’s estate she might have confided in?”

Becca squinted slightly, and cocked her head, a distant look in her eyes. “Maybe Hilde Birkeland? She was the groundskeeper’s wife. Mom used to spend a lot of time with her.” She paused to shake her head. “She was ancient even back then. I’m not sure she’s still alive.”

“How do you spell that?” Rio jotted the name down as Becca spelled it out.

He hesitated over the next question. But it needed to be asked and answered. “Who found your mom’s body?”

She twitched before going still. The life leached from her eyes until they were blank as glass. “I did. But I don’t remember much from that day.”

Rio froze. Becca had found her mother’s body? Walked in on it hanging in the middle of the foyer. Jesus…she’d been what? Thirteen? Fourteen? Christ, that must have hit hard.

Nobody…not Adam, not his grandmother, not even Becca herself, had mentioned this to him. Why? Hell, that kind of emotional trauma explained her behavior back then. Classic symptoms of post-traumatic stress.

Jesus.

He rubbed his throbbing chest.

“Okay.” His voice was quiet, gentle. “Who else was there.”

While he needed a visual of the suicide scene, he sure as hell didn’t need to drag her through that memory again. He’d track down the first responders as soon as he got back to the station, but it would be helpful to have a description of the scene prior to the emergency services arriving. Although sixteen years was a hell of a long time when it came to remembering details.

“Hilde and Mathias came,” Becca said vaguely, her voice so flat it sounded robotic.

“Mathias?” Rio asked, fighting the impulse to reach across the console and gather her in his arms.

“Birkeland. The groundskeeper. Hilde’s husband.”

“Right.” Rio added the last name to his list and snapped the notebook shut. He hesitated, but the question just wouldn’t be held back. “Why didn’t you tell me that you were the one who found your mother?”

A raw, haunted look settled into her eyes. She opened her mouth, leaning toward him slightly, only to pull back. He could almost see the walls come crashing down. Her face went flat, her eyes blank.

“Because there was nothing to tell. I don’t remember anything.” Her hand flew to the door handle and tightened.

Yeah…right.

But he let it go. The time for such questions had come and gone years ago.

He raised his voice as she opened the car door. “I wasn’t kidding about that truck. There’s a good chance it was aiming for you.”

She frowned. “There’s no possible way you can know that for sure. The officer I spoke with said there are no cameras on this street. You won’t be able to watch a replay.”

“The skid marks will tell us whether the driver was accelerating.” He shrugged at the questioning look on her face. “A distracted driver doesn’t accelerate, neither does someone who falls asleep at the wheel.” He studied her face. That blank, empty expression was gone.

Thank Christ.

“You need to think about hiring a bodyguard.” If she could afford to hire Wilbanks, who was far from cheap, she could afford a bodyguard. “At least until we get the results back from the skid marks.”

She grimaced, chewing at her bottom lip, clearly not thrilled with the suggestion. “How long will it take for the result to come back on the tire tracks?”

“A couple days.” If he rode the crime scene guys’ asses morning and night. “I have some buddies on leave. They owe me a favor.”

A big favor, but not having to worry about Becca while he worked this case would square things up.

“On leave,” Becca repeated, her expression cooling. “They’re friends from your old team?”

“Yeah,” he said slowly, watching her expression chill even further. What the fuck was she reacting to now? “From ST7. They’re trained for this kind of situation. You’ll be safe with Tag and Tram.”

“No thank you.” Her tone was polite, but the shove she gave the door to open it, carried far too much force.”

“This isn’t a damn game.” His voice sharpened with frustration.

“I’m aware.” She swung her right leg out and turned her head to look at him. “I’m not ignoring your advice. I’ll talk to detective Wilbanks. If he agrees with your assessment, I’m sure he’ll have someone he can recommend.”

Rio’s lips tightened. She didn’t trust his recommendations? What the fuck was that about? As she climbed out of the car, he remembered the ultrasound she’d found in her mother’s journal. It was a long shot, but maybe he could track down the clinic associated with the film. Hospital records would tell them whether Rachel Blaine had been pregnant.

“Becca.” He leaned across the console and looked up, trying to catch her attention.

She ducked her head and shoulders back into the passenger seat space in response.

Crack.

The passenger window behind Rio shattered, spewing glass everywhere. Dozens of stinging nettles descended on him.

With a startled scream, Becca ducked, covering her head with her arms.

Shot. Up high. To the right.

Adrenaline surged. Sharpened his senses. His heart and respiration took off like jackrabbits.

Fuck… someone had shot at them.

Crack.

Another shot.

Fuck…fuck…fuck.

He lunged across the passenger seat, knocking the cruiser computer to the floor. Latching onto Becca’s arm, he yanked her back into the car.

“Keep down. Legs inside. Grab the door,” he snapped, his voice cool and crisp, his heart galloping like a wild mustang beneath a helicopter.

He slammed the gear shift into reverse, twisted the wheel, checked his rearview mirror and hit the accelerator, rocketing backwards. The shooter was in front, up high. He needed to put some distance between the bastard and Becca.

Crack…crack

The passenger window next to Becca shattered.

Rio’s heart shot into his throat.

“Becca?” he roared, chancing a quick glance in her direction.

“I’m okay,” she yelled back, her voice shaky and weak. She was hunkered down in her seat, well below the dashboard. She’d pulled her legs inside, but the door still stood wide open.

No matter. The shooter was too far in front now to target her through the open door.

He roared past Herrera and Simmons, who were driving the sidewalk stragglers to safety. As the officers followed their charges into an overhanging archway and took position on either side of the entry, Rio reached for his radio.

“Shots fired. Officers under fire. Eight thousand block, Aero Drive,” he said into the radio, still accelerating bat fuck crazy backwards.

A second of silence, followed by a flurry of staticky questions. Herrera’s calm voice joined in, updating the dispatcher.

A car turned onto the street behind him.

“Hang on,” he said grimly as he slammed on the brakes and cranked the wheel. The cruiser spun in a one-eighty. He hit the accelerator again.

He needed to contact Fuentes. Update him about this new development. But first order of business was getting his charge to safety and a couple of watchdogs to babysit her while he checked out the crime scene.

Because there was no doubt about it now. Someone was trying to kill her.