Chapter Seven

Desmond could feel himself pulling away, leaving his body. As he drifted further away, he looked around him and was pleased to see that he had been right. There wasn’t just some empty maw of darkness. Not dark at all. Desmond could see his body down on the operating table, colleagues trying to pound and force life back into him.

His life was leaching away, but instead of feeling sad about that, Desmond felt just fine. There was a beautiful, golden light glowing just ahead of him and when he got there, he’d be with his boy again. And his wife. His pretty, pretty Anna—dear God, he’d missed her. But he was going to be with her again, and soon.

He liked knowing that he’d been right about what happened when the body died. A lot of his colleagues didn’t think there was anything after death, but Desmond had known otherwise.

Death was just another beginning, not an end. He rather wished he had the chance to tell them, but it was time for him to move on. Useless, old buddy, he thought fondly as he studied Jed Munroe’s haggard face above the blue, surgical mask. His long-time friend barked out an order for epi. They started another IV line and Desmond automatically flinched as he watched, even though he didn’t feel a thing.

Their voices came from far off. “Come on, you mean old sonovabitch! Don’t do this to Anne-Marie.” That was Dr. Munroe there, former classmate and another lifelong friend. The other soothing tones were from the anesthesiologist and the assisting M.D.

Drifting further and further away, the voices got fainter and fainter.

And then they were gone all altogether, and he was alone, drifting through the gray fog, drifting closer and closer to that warm, golden light. No. Not alone.

A familiar, beloved presence wrapped around him, and there was a voice he could hear only in his heart. But even as he drifted closer, something stopped him, an answer of sorts, to a question he didn’t recall asking.

Don’t do this to Annie.

 

 

It wasn’t easy being the one in the waiting room, Anne-Marie thought, staring at the clock as the second hand circled the face endlessly. Theoretically, she knew this, but this was the first time she had ever experienced it herself. Her father had been in surgery for nearly eight hours now.

“He can’t die, Jazz,” she whispered. She’d thought she was cried out, but as she spoke, the tears started again “He can’t. I’m not ready to let go of somebody else.”

He locked his arm around her neck, pressing a kiss to her wavy, black hair. “He’s going to be fine,” Jazz murmured.

More time passed as she pressed her face against his neck, taking comfort in his presence, in his strength. Anne-Marie shifted closer, rubbing her cheek against the smooth cotton of his T-shirt. Her mind bounced from one thought to the next, confusing, unconnected thoughts and disjointed phrases.

A phone started to ring, intruding on the silence she had cocooned herself in, and she turned her head toward it with a frown. It was then that she replayed the conversation they’d had with Tate just that morning. An anonymous phone call.

From the circle of his arms, she watched as the receptionist lifted the phone and spoke quietly into the receiver. “Somebody wants it to look as though you did this,” she said softly, anger starting to kindle inside.

“I’d have to agree,” somebody said from the doorway. Together, they looked toward Tate as he entered the waiting room. In his hand, he loosely held a plastic evidence bag. “It would appear that our culprit left this behind.” Dropping into a seat, he held up the bag to display the single hair in the bag.

“I’d lay money that it’s yours, cuz,” Tate mused, sliding his fingers up and down the seam of the bag. “If it wasn’t for your very tight alibi, I’d be taking you to the station for questioning. As it is, Anne-Marie coming down your stairs this morning saved your butt.”

With a frown, Jazz reached out, taking the evidence bag and holding it aloft. “The haircut,” he murmured quietly, running his free hand through his recently shorn hair.

“At the salon in town? Mama mentioned seeing you there,” Tate mused, taking the bag back. “That seems the most likely possibility. Which means the majority of the possible suspects are little, blue-haired ladies, Mama, and Laura.”

“And Maribeth. She works there,” Anne-Marie said quietly.

Jazz snorted in contempt. “She doesn’t have the kind of brains to pull something like this. Cold-blooded enough, definitely. But having the smarts to do it? No way.”

With a frown, Anne-Marie conceded he had a point. “Did Larry Muldoon have anything to do with this?” Anne-Marie asked, her brow puckering with worry.

“I doubt it,” Tate said, shaking his head. “This takes more cunning than he or Maribeth Park could ever hope to possess. More brains. You were an unexpected addition, one Jazz’s secret admirer couldn’t have planned on.” With a slight grin, Tate added, “I certainly never would have expected it.”

With a tired sigh, he rose, shoving his thick hair back from his forehead. “Jazz, have you got any idea who’d want you implicated for murder?”

Jazz held her securely against his side as a tiny whimper escaped her lips. He shot Tate a cold glare before pressing his lips to her temple. “Annie, he’s gonna be fine.” As he rocked her back and forth, he stared at Tate. “This isn’t a good time for this,” he said flatly. “It can wait until tomorrow.”

“Damnation, Anne-Marie,” Tate muttered, slapping his hat against his thigh. “I’m sorry. Punchy. Haven’t slept in nearly two days.”

She offered a trembling smile before turning to the man who held her securely against him. “Jazz—” Anne-Marie tried to push him away, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

“It can wait,” he repeated. “I’m not leaving here until we know if Doc Kincaid is going be okay. And I’m not discussing this here. So why don’t you go on home and get some sleep?”

With a slow nod, Tate replaced his hat on his head. “I’d like—” His words faded away as the door swung open a second time. Clad in baggy, blue scrubs, his eyes weary, Dr. Munroe entered.

Jeb Munroe studied the woman before him with tired eyes. This wasn’t a colleague before him now, but the daughter of a patient. Never mind the fact that she had studied under him before deciding to pursue pediatric medicine instead of surgical.

“Anne-Marie,” he greeted, holding out his hands.

She took them and held tight. “How’s my father?” she asked, her voice wavering.

“Hanging in,” he said, smiling at her. “We’re cautiously optimistic at this point. You know how important the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours are. But he is strong, he is healthy, and he’s got an angel on his side. Otherwise, he never would have survived this long.”

“How bad was the damage?”

“He has a long groove on his head, along the right side of his skull. My guess would be that he heard somebody coming up behind him and moved. The person shot again, this time in his chest. The bullet was lodged along his spine, but there’s minimal damage there.” He paused, sighing. “Normally, I don’t do this, but Annie, I’m going to sit down.”

Dropping his face into his hands, Jeb took a deep breath, fighting back the tears of relief that threatened to overflow. Friend or not, doctor or not, she was the family of a patient right now, first and foremost.

Oh, the hell with that, Jeb thought viciously. If physicians couldn’t be human in front of other physicians…

“Anne-Marie, your father is one hell of a strong man. We lost him, twice, on the table. And each time, I swear to God, I thought we’d lost him, and he came clawing back. I’ve seen my share of fighters on the table and I always figured your dad to be one, but I’ve never seen anything like it, Annie. It’s a bloody miracle. The surgeon in me knew he was gone that first time, but I just couldn’t give up. Then he came back.”

A sob caught in her throat as Anne-Marie’s knees gave way. Falling back against Jazz, she stared at Jeb with terrified eyes. “And now?” she asked, her voice breaking.

Raising his head, Jeb stared at her with eyes that still bore traces of baffled wonder. “He’s stable, Annie. I’ve never had a patient undergo a surgery like that, lose that patient twice, and then stabilize so quickly after surgery.”

“He’s going to be okay?” Jazz asked, rocking Anne-Marie, pressing a kiss to the top of her bent head.

“I think so. We’re not out of the woods yet. The problem was that the bullet tore through the left lobe of his lung, pierced the pericardial sac. He had a large amount of internal bleeding. He’s undergone several blood transfusions and will need more before this is through.”

As he spoke, Anne-Marie straightened, taking deep breaths until her racing heart calmed a bit. Clamping her hand tight around Jazz’s, she told Jeb, “We’re the same type. I’ll donate after I see him.”

“What type is he?” Jazz asked.

“O positive,” Anne-Marie and Dr. Munroe replied at the same time.

“Me, too. I’ll donate, if you think he would allow it,” Jazz offered, his voice hesitant, his eyes uncertain.

She offered a teary smile and said, “I’d say it’s only fair. He always said you and Alex cost him a lot of blood, sweat and tears. You’ve already given him sweat and tears, waiting here with me.” Forcing herself to take a deep breath, she looked back at the surgeon. “You lost him twice on the table, Jeb. How can he be stable?”

“Because your dad’s the luckiest son of a bitch this side of heaven,” Jeb replied, only half joking. “Your daddy and I had an angel with us in that operating room, Annie. That’s the only thing I can tell you.”

 

 

Tate settled in at his desk, rubbing his hands across tired eyes. Across from him sat Jazz, his face haggard and exhausted. “How’s Doc Kincaid?” he asked, picking up his pen and twisting it absently between his fingers.

“Stable. That’s all they’ll say right now. He’s stable. He’s healthy, he’s strong.” He blew out a frustrated breath and said, “Anne-Marie is taking this whole thing too calmly, if you ask me. Shoot, she’s had to grab hold of me a couple times to keep me from strangling that damned surgeon.”

“The not knowing is one of the worst parts,” Tate agreed, pressing pen to pad and doodling absently. “What we have here, Jazz, is a big-ass problem. Somebody went and leaked it already that you were supposedly spotted at the scene of the crime, and that Anne-Marie is your alibi. A particular woman, who shall remain nameless, has suggested that this is a scam you two cooked up for his life insurance money.”

Snorting, Jazz shifted in his chair. “Anne-Marie’s mama left her a trust fund. She doesn’t need a life insurance policy.”

“Nobody’s paying much mind to the rumor, except to laugh at it. Nobody believes Anne to be capable of something like that.” He rocked the chair back on the hind legs and studied the dog-eared picture of him, Jazz, and Jasper Sr. at the lake, a gap-toothed Jazz proudly displaying a scrawny bass. Tate figured he’d been all of four years old when that picture was taken, the summer that Jasper Sr. died. “But it still creates a problem.”

“I’m real sorry about that, Tate. I hate that I’m making your job more difficult.”

Tate hurled a brief four-letter word at him as he dropped his feet back to the floor. “Help me out here and tell me who you think is responsible for this.”

“I have no idea. If not Muldoon, then your guess is as good as mine.” He remembered the eerie feeling in the salon a few weeks back when he and Mariah had had their hair cut. But he said nothing. Tate would just laugh if he went and tried to point a finger at little, old blue-haired ladies.

“Nothing? Nobody? No guys who might hate you for sleeping with their girlfriend back in high school? No girls you dumped and humiliated?”

“I usually waited until after they broke up with the boyfriend. As for the girlfriends, hell, I never had a real one. Well, except for Sandy. I was with her most of senior year and all that summer, but she couldn’t do this. I know she couldn’t. But she was the only one I actually stayed with for any length of time. I didn’t like the idea of just seeing one girl then.”

“I suppose that would cramp your style a bit,” Tate said with a tired grin. “But just because you didn’t think it was serious, that doesn’t mean some girl didn’t think otherwise.” As he considered the possibility, his grin faded.

“Ain’t that your job to figure out?”

“I’m going be working in the dark on this, Jazz,” he responded testily. “Pretty much solo. Larry doesn’t have too many friends, but too many remember his family. They haven’t got it in their heads yet that Larry was the cowardly one of the bunch, the stupid one. Too many people here still act like toadies of his. If somebody overhears something, it may wind up back at Larry’s desk. I don’t want that.”

He shoved the chair back from the desk and rose. “So if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate any information you can give me.” He threw his pen down on the battered desk surface before dragging a hand through his already tumbled hair.

Jazz dug the heels of his hands against his tired eyes. “Tate, I’m sorry. It’s been a really shitty couple of days, you know that?” Slouching low in the chair, he wished it were Saturday night again and he was in bed with Anne-Marie wrapped around him.

“Help me out, Jazz.”

“I can’t. I can’t. I have no idea who could have done it, besides your number one deputy, that is.” Throwing his arm over his eyes, he blocked out the light, aching for his bed. “Quite a few people here hated me, Tate. You know that. After Dad died and Mom married Beau, they forgot about Dad, and the fact that he was a good man. I became Beau’s brat, and I was a mean bastard anyway.”

He echoed Tate’s muttered curse silently, forcing his eyes back open before he fell asleep. “If Anne-Marie hadn’t been with me, I’d be locked up right now, wouldn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“So there’s a possibility that whoever did this may retaliate,” Jazz murmured, sitting up straighter. His sleep-deprived brain cleared immediately.

“I’ve already thought of that. There’s a state boy at the hospital with her.” He fingered a tiny scar at the apex of his brow. Doc Kincaid had patched that up when he’d just been a boy; never mind that Doc Kincaid practiced a specialty. He’s always been willing to help out anybody and everybody. Which made this mess that much harder to understand. “The doc’s got quite a few friends around here. And in Frankfort. When I requested a couple of state troopers, they didn’t even hesitate.”

Jazz breathed a sigh of relief, even as he mentally kicked himself. He should have thought of that before now. What would he have done if something happened to her? Even as the tension eased from his spine, it returned, doubled in intensity. “I’ve got to get back to Anne, Tate.”

Tate turned around, his mouth open to snarl at Jazz to sit back down. But the odd strained look around his eyes had Tate groaning and pointing to the door. “Get the hell out. Call me if anything comes into that empty head of yours,” he snapped, but the door was already closing behind Jazz.

 

 

“We’ll be fine, Jasper. Now you go on,” Mabel ordered. “Miss Anne needs somebody there with her.”

He held Mariah against him, smoothing her silky, corkscrew curls and brushing a kiss across her brow. “Honey, I love you. I’ll be back in a few days,” he whispered. “Now you be good.”

“I will, Daddy. Kiss Dr. Anne-Marie for me.” She squeezed his neck tightly and then whispered, “I’ll talk to Jesus tonight and tell him to help Dr. Anne-Marie’s daddy.”

He sighed, breathed in the scent of baby lotion and bubble bath one last time before he placed her in Mabel’s large, capable arms. “Give Anne my love, Jasper. And my prayers for both her and her daddy.”

Minutes later, he was speeding down the highway that led to Lexington. The thirty-minute drive seemed to take hours as he wove in and out of the midday traffic. He kept his hand ready on the cell phone at his side and gripped it while he alternated between praying and swearing. The wind whipped his short hair around his face as he remembered the night he had spent with Anne-Marie wrapped around him, her silky hair caressing his shoulders, her small delicate body relaxed against his in sleep.

“God, I love her,” he whispered, his whole body aching with the intensity of it. He hadn’t let himself picture the worst, but now, he couldn’t control it.

If Doc Kincaid died, it would shatter Anne-Marie. She had already lost so much, her mother to leukemia, her brother to a drunken fool’s mistakes, and now maybe her father. And that was on Jazz’s shoulders as well.

Whoever had crept into the Kincaid house in the dead of the night, whoever had put the gun to his head and fired, had done it to punish Jazz.

Hands clenching the steering wheel, knuckles white with rage, Jazz swore he’d make the bastard pay. Oh, yeah. He’d hurt Jazz all right, and nothing could have been more effective.

The phone ringing jerked him out of his reverie. He snatched it up, flicked the talk button and held the phone to his ear, pulling to the side of the road so he’d be able to hear. Emergency flashers on, his head fell back against the headrest as Anne-Marie spoke softly in his ear.

That low, soft, southern drawl caressed his ears, soothed the ache inside him. Anne-Marie told him Desmond was doing better than they could have even hoped for, surprising all the doctors and nurses.

“He opened his eyes and smiled at me, Jazz. I think he’s gonna be fine.”

“Thank God,” Jazz muttered, pressing his fingers against the sockets of his tired eyes. “Thank you, God.” He waited until the lump in his throat eased a bit before he asked, “How are you feeling, Annie?”

“Tired. Exhausted.” As she leaned back from the bed, her voice took on an edge. “And madder than hell. Who did this, Jazz?”

She rose from the chair, paced to the window of the private room, staring out at the horizon. “Who did this, and why?”

“I don’t know the who yet, but I will. And as for the why…” His voice trailed off as he wondered what he should say, how he should say it.

Anne-Marie hadn’t forgotten the plastic evidence bag Tate had showed them. “It was yours, wasn’t it?” she asked quietly. Leaning her head against the cool pane of glass, she listened to the steady beeping from the machines behind her that assisted her father in breathing while his body healed.

“Technically, I don’t know for sure. But my gut says yes.”

“Then there is just one more thing this person will have to pay for,” she promised quietly. “One more thing, on top of this.”

Anne-Marie turned, propping the phone on her shoulder and crossing her arms around herself for warmth. The smells of ammonia, disinfectant and death lingered in the air. Nothing could remove the taint left by death.

She said, “I’ve always believed that what goes around comes around. I prefer to wait for that sort of justice. I’m usually too lazy to expend the effort that hatred requires. But what I wouldn’t give for five minutes alone with whoever did this.”

 

 

A doctor could no doubt dream up incredible ways of making the human body suffer an undetermined amount of time. As Anne-Marie sat watching her father sleep, waiting for Jazz, she imagined a few, wishing she was cold-blooded enough to actually see a few of the ideas through.

Such as tying the bastard to a bed and opening up one vein at a time. Disembowelment. Shattering each bone in his feet, one by one, and then working her way upward. She choked on a sob.

“Oh, God,” she whispered. “He can’t die.”

Strong arms encircled her, lifted her, and then she was laying against Jazz’s chest, crying her heart out in silence. Jazz…he was back. The pent-up emotion escaped once more and she sobbed in his arms, choking on her tears as she tried to keep quiet. She wept until her throat ached, until her whole body ached, wept until she could weep no more. Her hands reflexively gripped and released Jazz’s shirt as she cried out her misery, cursed out her rage, and eventually calmed enough to rest against him.

“I think I needed that,” she said, her voice rough.

“Any time, darlin’,” Jazz offered, pressing his lips to her temple. He reveled in the softness of her, the strength, the miracle of holding her in his arms. Oddly enough, her storm of tears had comforted him as much as it had her.

“I’m glad you came back home, Jazz,” she said, raising her head to look at him, her eyes red and swollen, face pale from stress and exhaustion.

“If I hadn’t come back, this wouldn’t have happened,” Jazz told her, brushing her hair back from her tear-stained face. Nobody had ever looked more beautiful, he knew, and nobody ever would.

She shook her head. “Don’t blame yourself, Jazz. Whoever did this is the one responsible, not you.” She turned her head, resting it against his shoulder as she stared at the figure in the bed. So still, so quiet, he barely resembled the indomitable, formidable, lovable Desmond Kincaid. “He wouldn’t want that and we both know it.”

Wrapping both arms around her, he held her against him, his chin resting on the top of her raven hair. The beeps and hum of machinery were the only sounds as they kept vigil. It wasn’t until the sun was dropping toward the horizon that she spoke again.

“Who could have done this, Jazz?”

“I don’t know, Anne-Marie. I don’t know.”

“He went to a lot of trouble to set it up. The phone call, that hair. Could it have been a cop, do you think?”

“It wasn’t a cop,” Jazz said, unwrapping her arms from his neck. Pressing a kiss to each palm before he released her hands, he turned away. “Somebody who knows how the game is played, yes. But it wasn’t a cop.”

“How do you know?”

“Gut instinct,” he said, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “For one, a cop would have made certain…” His voice trailed off as he looked at Desmond. He was hooked up to machines to breathe, monitors of every kind imaginable, tubes going this way and that, but none of that mattered. Because he was alive, and therefore a loose end. An officer of the law wouldn’t have left loose ends, at least, not a smart one.

Anne-Marie paled as she realized what Jazz was thinking. “Is he safe, do you think?” And then she shook her head. “Of course, he isn’t safe. That’s why there is a state trooper outside the door. Why no phone calls are patched through to me. He’s being watched, isn’t he?”

“Tate arranged it. But it’s fairly routine. The only difference is that with your dad, there is no shortage of off-duty volunteers.”

“But…”

“Tate selected the three himself. I trust his judgment. I—” the door swung open and Jazz smiled. “Well, speak of the devil.”

Tate nodded to Anne-Marie, tipping his hat her way before approaching the bed. “How is he?”

“Stable,” Anne-Marie said, her voice soft. “He made it through the golden hours. He’s gonna be fine. Just fine.” Her drawl deepened as she spoke, a sign of how distressed she was. “He has to be.”

Tate averted his eyes as Jazz wrapped his arms around Anne-Marie, murmuring into her hair. Idly, he studied the cards adorning the walls, since flowers weren’t allowed for patients under intensive care, private room or not. He hummed under his breath, checked his watch, until out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Anne-Marie pull away, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Your daddy is a strong man, a good man. He will be fine,” Tate said. Resting a hand on her shoulder, he met Jazz’s eyes. “You look beat, old man.”

“Not looking too hot yourself, cuz,” he drawled. “Is this interrupting your sleep?”

Tate smiled tiredly. “You could say that. Every woman in town, and half the men, are half-hysterical right now, thinking that they will be murdered in their beds. And Mom is a basket case. You know how much she admires your daddy, Anne,” he said, shoving a hand through his hair.

Tate really did look exhausted. His normally spotless clothes were creased and wrinkled, limp from the heat, and his face was pale, eyes strained. “Jazz, if you have a moment, I need to speak with you.”

Jazz nodded and lowered his head once to more to Anne-Marie. Tate left, the door closing softly behind him.

Out in the hall, leaning against the tile wall, he closed his eyes. Marlie. No. He didn’t care what in the hell anybody had to say, Marlie Muldoon couldn’t hurt a fly. They were the same age, had gone to school together. Marlie was Beau and Larry’s youngest sister, a late-life surprise that had nearly killed her mama when her daddy had learned she was pregnant. He’d beat her so hard, it was amazing the pregnant woman had lived through it.

He had used that girl as a whipping post all her life, until he had died some years back, leaving her to support herself and her mother. Beau and Larry hadn’t helped, nor had anybody else. Marlie had to do it on her own.

She was stronger than anybody thought, Tate knew. There was pure steel under that soft voice and silky, pale skin. But there was also a good heart. Marlie couldn’t have put a gun to Desmond’s head to save her own life.

When the door swung open, Tate looked up at Jazz and snapped, “I hate anonymous tips, y’know that?” Whirling away from the wall, he stomped toward the stairwell. “I hate them.”

Falling in step behind him, Jazz asked, “Any particular tip you are talking about? Or did you drive thirty miles just to let me know not to leave you anonymous tips?”

“Somebody left a message on my voice mail, for crying out loud. Said they’d seen Marlie Muldoon near Doc Kincaid’s quite a bit recently.”

Jazz scoffed, shaking his head. “No way. Not Marlene. That girl wouldn’t hurt a soul.”

“I know that,” Tate said. “But somebody wants her to take the fall for this, since you have an alibi. It was a .38 used to shoot Doc Kincaid. Marlie owns a .38, but apparently, it’s gone missing. She doesn’t recollect the last time she saw it.”

“Lemme guess; the gun turned up at Doc Kincaid’s?”

“No. It’s not on the property, at least not anywhere we’ve searched. And we’ve been pretty thorough.” Cursing roundly, Tate leaned against the cool, concrete wall in the stairwell. “We’re going to have to question her.”

Jazz stared at him for a minute before turning away. “Marlie and I have never had any trouble, Tate. The only thing that connected us was Beau, and he’s long gone.”

“That’s true. But it’s also true that your mama killed Beau. Some folks may see fit to believe that she’d do this for revenge.”

“You don’t buy that.”

“No. I don’t. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m going to have to question her and spend time clearing her, when I could be looking for the bastard that did this.”

Tate turned his hat in his hands idly, shaping the brim, releasing it. His voice was mild, his gestures and stance relaxed, but when he raised his head, the fury he felt inside simmered just below the surface. “And it’s not going to change the fact that there is a lunatic out there focusing on people I care about.”

Resting back against the wall, Jazz studied the gray, concrete ceiling over his head. “I don’t know who could be responsible, Tate. I’ve thought it out and tried my damnedest. But I keep coming up blank.”

“You don’t think it’s Muldoon?”

A sneer curled Jazz’s mouth and he glared at Tate. “Gimme a break. He was the only person I could think of right off the bat. But hell, he’s not the only person who hates me. That chickenshit ain’t got the guts. Of course, shooting somebody in the back would be just like him. But I doubt he could handle the blood.”

The corner of Tate’s mouth curved up and he agreed, “There is that.” Still turning his hat round in his hands, he focused his eyes on the stairs in front of him. “The thing is, these days, too many people have too much information about how the law works. They know about planting evidence, disposing of the weapon, disposing of clothes and so on. That’s going make things more complicated than they already are.”

Wishing vainly he hadn’t given up smoking, Jazz dug into his jeans in search of gum. “Well, hell. I may as well go ahead and complicate things even more. I’m worried the lovely, young Dr. Kincaid may start nosing around.”

“Talk some sense into her, then,” Tate snapped. “Can’t you talk some sense into her?”

“Well, I could try. But that isn’t how her mind works. If you go telling her not to do something, then she’ll do it just to be ornery.”

“Shit,” Tate muttered. Shoving off the wall, he started to pace the narrow stairwell. “That’s the last thing I need, her poking her pretty little nose into things. It’s a damned mess already.”

Raising his shoulders in a careless shrug, Jazz said, “I didn’t say she was going to sneak out of the hospital tonight to go play Nancy Drew. But I suggest you offer her some answers real quick, otherwise she may decide to try to figure this out on her lonesome.”

“If it was that easy, don’t you think I’d have closed the book on this already?”

Jazz shrugged, popping a flattened stick of gum in his mouth. The artificial flavor of cinnamon did nothing to relieve his need for nicotine, or the tension settling in his neck. “I’m just sharing this with you, Tate. She’s going to get antsy real quick, once he is out of danger.”

“Your girlfriend wants to play Nancy Drew and you stand there blowing bubbles and smiling. You plan on being a Hardy Boy next?” Tate asked sarcastically. “Have you considered that Anne-Marie may be a target, since she screwed up the original plan? Or don’t you have a thought in that thick head of yours?”

“I thought of it,” Jazz said, straightening and meeting Tate’s stare eye to eye. “And I decided I wasn’t going to let her out of my sight. If she decides she wants to start nosing around, I’ll be right on her back. Nobody is going to touch her, Tate. They’ll have to go through me first.”

“A bullet can go through both of you!”

“What do you want me to do? Lock her up? Why don’t you do that, then? Lock her up for wanting to know who did this,” Jazz growled, glaring at the face that was so similar to his. “She’s already lost her brother and her mom, Tate. Find who did this so she doesn’t lose her father.”

Whirling away, Tate swore roughly. “I don’t need this. I’ve got an attempted murder on my hands, damn it.”

“Then don’t you think you should be working on it instead of trying to boss me around? That’s a waste of time anyway, and you know it.”

Glaring at him, Tate slammed his much-abused hat on his head, shot him an obscene gesture, and then took the stairs at a lope. “Be where I can reach you tonight, Jazz. We got more to talk about.”