Cincinnati, Ohio,
Saturday 19 December, 4.04 P.M.
Sonofamotherfuckingbitch. He slid behind the wheel, one hand slamming his car door closed while the other crumpled the remnants of the removable vinyl decals that had covered the doors and the license plates of his SUV. Today he’d been a plumber. He pulled back into the heavy downtown traffic, then glanced in his rear-view mirror a final time.
A crowd was already gathered around the restaurant and a cruiser passed him with its lights on. In minutes the police would have the area cordoned off with crime scene tape and they might even lock down the city. He was getting out, just in time.
There should have been so much chaos that getting away shouldn’t have even been an issue. Meredith Fallon and her young companion should have been dead. Dammit. This had been the perfect opportunity and now it was gone. He hadn’t trusted anyone with this kill, not even the two men he normally trusted with his life. It was too important.
This is my livelihood. Hell. This is my life.
He’d waited and watched and had finally picked the perfect time and place . . . only to watch it all fall apart. Now both Fallon and the girl would be on guard. The cops would circle their wagons around them and he didn’t know when he’d get another chance.
Dammit. He’d really believed Andy would follow through, especially given the boy’s background. The kid had killed for Linnea before, after all.
Regardless, he hadn’t planned for there to be anything left for the police to investigate. The bomb concealed beneath Andy’s coat should have blown everything into smithereens. His uncle Mike had made two, side by side, as he always did. He’d tested one, as he always did, and it had detonated perfectly – as they always did.
He had no idea why the second bomb had not. He wouldn’t have to wait long to find out. CSU would figure it out and someone on the inside would give him the details.
‘You . . . You killed him.’ Linnea captured his attention from the back seat. Her body was rigid, the bruises extra dark on her face, which had grown dangerously pale.
‘He fucked up,’ he said simply. ‘He had to fire one shot. That’s all.’
‘He’s not a killer.’ Her emotionless words were delivered with no affect whatsoever. She was probably going into shock. Which wasn’t a big deal. She wasn’t going to live much longer anyway. As soon as he got out of the city, he’d put a bullet in her skull and dump her body where it wouldn’t be found until spring.
‘Yes, he was a killer. He didn’t kill today, but he was a killer.’
‘He was younger then. And scared.’ Her voice trembled. Broke. ‘It’s not the same.’
‘It’s exactly the same, but it doesn’t really matter, does it? Especially with him being dead,’ he added, fully intending the words to be as cruel as possible.
Her only reaction was to close her eyes. Two tears slipped down her cheeks. She looked like exactly what she was – a used-up whore who’d finally given up.
Still, he’d be careful. All he needed was for her to scratch his face or do something equally annoying that he’d have to explain away when he got home. He headed south, toward the river. He’d take care of Linnea and still make it home in time for dinner.
Cincinnati, Ohio,
Saturday 19 December, 4.20 P.M.
‘Get the hell out of my way,’ Adam muttered to the long line of cars in front of him. He’d made good time from Mariposa House until he’d hit downtown. Everyone was coming in to see fireworks and traffic was stalled.
He was tempted to use his emergency flashers to cut through the snarl of cars, but he wasn’t technically on duty – just on call – and Meredith was okay, physically, at least. The threat had been eliminated and the first responders were there, securing the scene.
She was physically okay. But her hands were covered by a young man’s brains and the very thought made his foot tap the accelerator in frustration.
Fuck it. He reached for the dash flasher switch, damning the consequences. The worst that could happen was a reprimand and that was unlikely. But his phone started playing Darth Vader’s theme and he checked his movement, reaching for his cell instead.
‘Hey, Loo.’ His lieutenant, Lynda Isenberg, had always had his back through good times and bad. His choice of ringtone was pure bullshit teasing on his part and she knew it. The list of people he trusted implicitly was very short and she was near the top.
‘Detective,’ she said curtly, which meant she had an audience. In the last year she’d taken to calling him by his first name. ‘Have you heard about the shooting on the square today?’ Her voice had the tinny quality of being on speaker, which meant she had an audience who was listening to every word.
Brass, probably, he thought. That meant this was bigger than ‘just a shooter,’ although it had never been a routine crime for him. That shooter had aimed at Meredith.
‘I heard it was at the Buon Cibo Café,’ Adam told her levelly.
‘You heard right. I need you to get to the scene,’ Isenberg said. ‘You’ll be joined by Special Agent Triplett. The two of you will co-lead this investigation.’
Permission granted. Adam flicked the flasher switch and cars began trying to pull over. Not easy with such gridlock, but a lane was slowly opening up.
That Jefferson Triplett would be his partner was a bit of a surprise. Not an unpleasant one, of course. Adam liked Trip. The rookie was young, but had seemed to be good at his job every time their paths had crossed.
‘Is Zimmerman there?’ he asked, inching his Jeep forward. The special agent in charge of the local FBI field office often loaned his staff to Isenberg’s Major Case Enforcement Squad, the FBI/CPD joint task force that was Isenberg’s baby.
‘He is,’ Zimmerman said. ‘Hello, Detective Kimble.’
‘Sir,’ Adam said politely. ‘What’s the situation? Why is the FBI working this one?’
‘Because,’ Isenberg said, ‘the would-be shooter, who ended up being the victim, was wearing a bomb.’
Adam sucked in a shocked breath. Holy shit. A bomb. In a crowded restaurant on a street filled with holiday shoppers. ‘Why? Where?’
‘“Why” is what we need you to find out,’ Isenberg said, ‘and “where” is the vest he wore under his parka. He pulled the zipper of his coat seconds before he was shot from someone outside on the street. The first cop on the scene noticed the explosives.’
Adam recalled Meredith’s shaken words. He told me to get down, to run. Right before the young man’s head exploded. ‘He wanted Meredith to know. He told her to run.’
‘You’ve heard more than we have,’ Isenberg said dryly. ‘Deacon and Scarlett have recused themselves as lead because of their friendship with Dr Fallon, but said they’d be able to support you. You’re next in line for a new case. Should I recuse you as well?’
‘No,’ Adam said, hoping he hadn’t snapped it out too fast. ‘I’m . . . entanglement-free.’ For now. He’d keep it that way if it meant keeping the case. He didn’t trust Meredith’s safety to anyone else. ‘Has the restaurant been evacuated?’
‘Yes, to the hotel across the street.’ Isenberg sighed. ‘We have a lot of very traumatized witnesses. It was . . . intense. Which I’m sure you’ve also heard.’
‘Meredith told me,’ Adam said honestly. ‘She was as close to hysterical as I’ve ever heard her.’
‘Why did she call you, Detective?’ Zimmerman asked mildly.
Adam could picture the older man’s face, his brow wrinkled in concern because he knew the answer to his question already. ‘I don’t know. Maybe because my name starts with A and I was the first cop in her contact list?’
Isenberg’s snort held disbelief, but her words carried quiet promise. ‘I’ll remove you in a heartbeat, Adam. You got me? Do not become . . . entangled.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ He could picture her face too, unsmiling, framed with gray hair she kept as short as his own, her sharp eyes narrowed. ‘I’m nearly there.’ He winced a little, knowing in his heart that the statement could be correctly interpreted more than one way. Yeah, he was nearly at the scene, but he was also very nearly entangled. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes,’ Zimmerman said. ‘Agent Triplett is lead on anything having to do with the bomb itself. He has extensive experience with incendiary devices.’
Adam blinked. ‘Trip? Where did he get bomb experience?’ Arriving at the scene, he parked his Jeep behind the line of cruisers and ambulances. Trapping his cell between his ear and shoulder, he opened his back hatch and quickly suited up, shrugging into his bulletproof vest. ‘He didn’t serve in the military, did he? He’s barely out of college.’
‘Don’t let his age discount his expertise,’ Zimmerman advised. ‘He’s one of the best bomb disposal techs I’ve ever known. Our hazardous device team is already on the scene with Agent Triplett. They know to expect you.’
‘Be careful, Adam,’ Isenberg said quietly. ‘The shooter outside clearly intended to kill a lot of people. We don’t know who was the actual target today or why. The young man stopped at Dr Fallon’s table, but he could have been instructed to pick someone at random. Based on the explosives visible in the vest, he could easily have taken out the entire café.’
Adam nodded grimly. ‘He failed, so he may try again. Got it. I’ll update you ASAP.’ He ended the call and finished securing his bulletproof vest. Grabbing his tactical helmet and a gym bag packed with a suit jacket, a button-up shirt, and a tie, he holstered his service weapon in the vest then slammed the Jeep’s hatch closed. He glanced at the hotel across the street. Meredith was probably inside. Hopefully CSU had taken whatever evidence they’d needed from her hands so she could wash them.
He hoped that soap and water would be enough for her to feel clean.
Soap and water had never done the trick for him. He wore the blood of too many victims on his hands, and no matter how many times he’d washed them, he never truly felt clean. He didn’t want that for Meredith.
Two cops were positioned at the hotel entrance and he could see two more inside the lobby as he jogged up the line of cruisers to find Trip.
Meredith would have to wait a little longer.
Anderson Township, Ohio,
Saturday 19 December, 4.30 P.M.
He’s going to kill me. There was no question in Linnea Holmes’s mind. He’d killed Andy like he was . . . nothing. Andy was not nothing. He’d been . . . everything.
I’m so sorry. She wanted to scream her apology to the darkening sky, but she didn’t. Because she wanted the bastard who’d killed Andy to believe he’d broken her. That she wouldn’t fight. But she would fight. She wasn’t going to let him kill her.
Through a hole in the pocket of her coat, she fingered the switchblade she’d hidden in the lining. Andy had given her the switchblade so that she could protect herself. She didn’t know where he’d gotten it from. She figured he’d either won it in a poker game or had stolen it. She hadn’t cared, but Andy had. He hated having to cheat and steal.
That was why Andy had pointedly shown her the receipt when he’d bought her the coat when the weather turned cold in November, long before he’d bought one for himself.
He always took care of me first. Always. That he’d died believing the worst of her . . .
But the worst was also the truth. Mostly. Yes, she’d whored herself out. But not for the reason he thought. She wasn’t sure she ever could have told him the real reason.
Tears stung her eyes. And now I’ll never know.
She owed Andy Gold everything. I’m not going to let him down again. She steeled her spine. Revenge will happen, she promised herself. Promised Andy.
The SUV finally stopped. They’d been driving east for twenty minutes, leaving the city behind for the countryside. She’d never been this far out in the country before. Overgrown with trees and vines, it was like no one had touched the land in years.
She’d kept her head bowed so that he’d continue to think she was in shock, but she’d been carefully observing their route so that she could find her way out. She tightened her grip on the switchblade. She’d either get away, or she’d be dead.
She lifted her chin, widening her eyes. Pretended to be surprised. ‘Where are we?’
He didn’t answer, just got out of the SUV. Leaving the motor running and his door open, he walked around to her side, drawing a gun from a shoulder holster.
This is it. She whispered a prayer in her mind and hoped that God would hear her.
Gripping his gun in his right hand, he reached for the collar of her coat with his left, his body bracing to yank her out of the car. And then to shoot me and leave me here.
I don’t think so. Linnea gritted her teeth. Not today.
She whipped the blade from her pocket, holding it the way Andy had taught her to, releasing the blade she sharpened religiously, just as she’d promised Andy she would. As if your life depends on it, Andy had urged when he’d given it to her. Today it would.
She struck out, catching his right forearm as she swung her legs from the car and jerked her knee up into his groin. He bent over on a shocked gasp and she met his head halfway, butting her skull against his so hard she had to blink away stars.
‘Fucking bitch,’ he snarled, tightening his grip on her collar – and on his gun. Dammit. She hadn’t cut him deep enough in his gun arm. He hadn’t dropped it. Panic nearly froze her, but she pushed it away.
Again. Do it again. And again. Until he stops. Or you’re dead.
She struck again, plunging the knife hard up into the underside of his arm. With a furious cry he released her, stumbling back a step. Ignoring the searing pain from the injuries she’d sustained in last night’s beating, she used both feet to shove him away, using his own momentum, then shoved the SUV door, hitting him again.
A shot cracked the air, but it hadn’t hit her, so she leapt from the SUV and ran to the driver’s side, not looking back. Don’t look back. Don’t look. Just drive. She yanked at the gearshift and floored it, not stopping to close his door or hers.
For a split second she saw him in her side mirror, making a desperate grab for the back door as the tires squealed, slipping on the snowy road. Then the tires gained traction and the SUV lurched forward, fishtailing.
She saw him fall to his knees, aiming his gun at the vehicle, and she ducked down as far as she dared. More shots cracked the air, so fast she lost count. One hit the back window, making her flinch, and then . . . nothing. No breaking glass.
She glanced into the rear-view to see a small dent in the back window, but no webbing, no fracture. She felt the hysterical laugh bubbling up and was powerless to stop it.
Bulletproof. He had bulletproof glass in his SUV. And it had worked against him.
Finally, something worked against him.
She raced to the end of the road, relieved when it connected to a larger one. She turned sharply onto the two-lane highway, the centrifugal force causing the back door to slam shut. Good. She hadn’t planned for that to happen, but she’d take it.
She tapped the accelerator hard enough to make the driver’s door swing close enough that she could reach it. She pulled it closed, then floored the accelerator again.
Where am I? She knew she was east of the city, but she didn’t know anyone out here. She didn’t have a phone. She glanced at the charging cord hanging from the USB port in the stereo. No phone was attached, so he probably had it in his pocket.
Which meant he was calling for help right now. Shit. She’d need to ditch the SUV quickly. He had . . . staff. Devoted staff. Linnea had no idea what he’d done to earn such loyalty, but his thugs obeyed his every command. She winced, her body protesting her sudden activity back there. His thugs especially obeyed the commands that allowed them to torture anyone smaller than they were. Which was pretty much everyone.
She wore bruises all over her body. Inside and out.
It wasn’t the first time she’d been forced to ‘entertain’ one of his ‘associates.’ But last night’s thug had been particularly brutal. He’d wanted her to scream, and she had. He’d counted on Andy agreeing to anything to make her torture stop, and he had. But not really.
She’d known Andy wouldn’t be able to kill. She’d seen the grim line of his jaw, the sorrow in his eyes. Andy had known he would die today, but true to character, he hadn’t let anyone else get hurt. That was just who he was.
Grief pierced her heart. Who he’d been. Goddammit. He was gone. Forever. He, who deserved to have every happily-ever-after in the world. Now he never would.
Linnea’s eyes filled and she brushed the damned tears away impatiently. She didn’t have time to grieve. She didn’t deserve to grieve. Not until Andy got justice.
You should call the police. Tell them what you know.
She huffed bitterly. Like they’d believe me? A whore?
Besides, a call to the cops could get her arrested. And she wouldn’t last a single night inside. He had his fingers in the jail too.
For now, the only people who knew she was involved in this morning’s shooting were him and his staff. For now, she could hide. And wait for her chance to kill him herself.
Then she’d go to the cops. Then she’d take whatever she had coming. Because then Andy would be able to rest in peace. And so will I.
Cincinnati, Ohio,
Saturday 19 December, 4.30 P.M.
‘Just a little more, Dr Fallon.’ Special Agent Quincy Taylor’s hands were gentle, his voice incredibly kind as he knelt on one knee in front of her. ‘I’m finished scraping under the nails of your right hand. I’ll finish your left and then you can wash up.’
Meredith flinched. Wash up? Like she’d gotten her hands dirty tending her garden or painting a bedroom wall? One washed up from activities like those. But not from this.
Agent Taylor had cleaned the bulk of the mess from her hands when he’d arrived, only minutes after the first cops, then he’d asked her to wait while he attended to the scene.
And then they’d been evacuated – an utter nightmare. At least Kendra Cullen had been on patrol duty in the square. Mallory knew Wendi’s sister and trusted her. That Mallory was safe and being cared for was one thing Meredith didn’t need to worry about.
Because there was still a bomb in Buon Cibo. The boy had been wired to blow them all sky-high. The look on his face when he’d told her to run . . . Meredith’s heart hurt. He’d been so damn frightened.
And still he’d told her to run. And then . . . In her mind she heard the shot, felt the . . .
No. Not going there. Not again. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, willing herself not to look at her hands. Not to gag. Again. It hadn’t been pretty the first time.
She’d thrown up hard after ending her call to Adam and she’d been glad he hadn’t been there to see that. But she needed him now.
The hotel’s revolving door swished, indicating someone had either entered or exited. She’d lifted her eyes to that doorway each time she heard the sound, hoping to see Adam’s face. Not caring if he wanted her or not. Not caring why he’d held himself so rigidly distant. Not caring if she looked pathetically needy.
She was pathetically needy. This time she told herself to keep her eyes closed, that it wouldn’t be him, but her eyes were rebellious and looked anyway.
And then everything seemed to settle. He’s here. He came. Just like he’d promised.
Adam came through the revolving door looking around the crowded lobby and . . . found her. His body stilled and his shoulders sagged. He carefully sized her up, then lifted one gloved finger, wordlessly asking her to wait.
She’d waited for Adam for months. ‘What’s a few more minutes?’ she muttered.
‘I’m done,’ Agent Taylor announced.
‘Thank God.’ She lifted her eyes to find Adam again. He was talking to Agent Triplett and both men were looking at her, but she couldn’t tell what they were saying.
Agent Taylor looked over his shoulder, then back at Meredith. ‘They’re the lead investigators. That’s why he didn’t come straight over. He’s got to attend to the scene first.’
Meredith’s cheeks heated. ‘Whatever.’ Great. She sounded like her adolescent clients. She straightened primly. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Agent Taylor.’
Agent Taylor’s grin turned a little cheeky. He was really cute in a nerdy, young kind of way. ‘Call me Quincy, if you want to,’ he said and pulled a box of antiseptic wipes from his kit. ‘Let me get your hands clean, so that you can do whatever when he comes over.’
‘Get them clean so I can hide behind them.’ She swallowed a groan. ‘I know I’m not that obvious. Am I?’
Quincy bristled in mock offense. ‘I’m a trained observer, Dr Fallon. I have degrees in psychology, chemistry, and forensic anthropology.’ He chatted as he cleaned her hands with gentle efficiency. ‘And I’m trained in deception detection. Not that I needed it,’ he added, grinning again. ‘If you meant not to be obvious, you should work on that. Just a little.’
She ignored his final words. ‘You can’t have all those degrees. You’re too young.’
His brows lifted above the rims of his black horn-rimmed glasses. ‘I’m thirty-four.’
Two years younger than me. I guess I just feel older. ‘That is so not fair,’ she grumbled, making him chuckle.
‘I might have agreed with you when I was twenty-five and looked seventeen,’ he said, inspecting her clean skin. ‘You don’t have any open cuts, so that’s good news, at least.’ He gathered the discarded wipes into an evidence bag before rising to his feet with a fluidity that seemed equally unfair because Meredith felt creaky. ‘I’ve got to get back to the scene.’ He gave her his card. ‘Let me know if you need anything. I mean that.’
‘But—’ She grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. ‘The bomb. Have they defused it?’
Quincy pointed to Agent Triplett, then patted her hand. ‘If that big guy over there is here, the bomb is defused and on its way somewhere secure. He’s the team’s bomb expert.’
Forcing her fingers to let go, Meredith considered the enormous man standing next to Adam. She knew Jeff Triplett personally because he’d recently joined their circle of friends. He was a really nice guy. Smart, funny, and a great dancer. But here, on the job, he was an imposing figure, arms crossed over his broad chest and his bald head a gleaming dark umber under the lobby’s bright lights. Trip dwarfed Adam, who was no slouch at six-two.
‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘You’d think Trip’s fingers would be too big to deal with those little wires.’
‘You’d be wrong,’ Quincy said seriously.
‘Okay, fine, but he is young.’
Quincy smiled down at her. ‘Yeah, he’s disgustingly young.’ His smile faded. ‘I’m glad for him, you know? He’s not all hard and jaded like the rest of us. Yet, anyway.’
Meredith narrowed her eyes at him, hearing a vulnerability in his voice that pushed her warning buttons. ‘Are you all right, Quincy?’
He looked a little startled, but nodded. ‘I almost forgot you’re a psychologist. I guess I’m as all right as any of us,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Seen too much. Too many nightmares. Today is just one more. You know the drill.’
‘I worry about you guys,’ Meredith said, thinking of the anguish Adam had gone through nearly a year ago, when he’d reached out to her for comfort. And then again, four months before, when he’d sat at her table and colored with her. He’d used an entire colored pencil on one picture, every bit of it red. Too many of the cops she knew suffered from PTSD, but too few sought the help they so desperately needed. ‘I’d be happy to—’
‘I’ve got to be going,’ Quincy interrupted. Then, with a tight smile, he was gone.
Meredith stared after him, not realizing she’d stood up, hands on her hips, until she felt a blast of warmth at her elbow. She looked left, then abruptly up, catching her breath. ‘Adam.’ Her heart began to thunder. Adam Kimble was, under any circumstance, the most beautiful man she’d ever known. ‘Hi.’
But it was like he hadn’t heard her. He was scowling. ‘What did he do to you?’
Meredith blinked rapidly. ‘Please?’ She followed Adam’s glance to the revolving door. The forensic investigator had pushed through and now stood outside, shrugging into his winter coat. ‘You mean Quincy?’
Adam’s dark brows lifted sarcastically. ‘Quincy?’
She cocked her jaw in irritation. Oh, for God’s sake. Was he angry? Possibly. Jealous? Unlikely. Still, this was macho posturing if ever she’d seen it. Which, of course, she had. Many times. ‘Agent Taylor? You know,’ she added sweetly, ‘the nice guy on your team?’
Adam’s mouth thinned and she cursed herself for thinking even that was sexy. ‘He put his hands on you.’ He all but growled the words.
Her temper bubbled. ‘He was cleaning brains off my hands. He made sure I was all right, because I was a mess. His behavior was fine. Whatever your problem is, stop it.’
His swallow was audible. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured, his tone low and . . . intimate, shivering over her skin. ‘I’ve been half out of my mind, worrying about you, but I have to stay professional or Isenberg will take me off the case. I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘Are you all right? I should have asked that first.’
She started to say that she was all right, then opened her eyes and saw his gaze fixed on her face. The lie slid away. ‘No.’ Her voice broke. ‘I’m not. I’m not all right,’ she whispered. ‘I saw a boy die today, and I’m not all right.’