Every Dark Corner (The Cincinnati Series Book 3)

by Karen Rose

  ‘No,’ he’d roared, his temper loose, ‘I was not aware that it had only been ten minutes because I don’t have a fucking phone! I just want a fucking newspaper! Is that so difficult?’

  She’d shut the door to his room with the first bellow, folding her arms to glare nastily. ‘Are you aware that this is an intensive care unit? Are you that selfish? Or maybe you’re mentally disturbed and I should call for security? We’ll happily calm you down.’

  Fucking witch, he thought, then felt really bad for shouting. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. I was wrong to yell.’ He remembered what Kate had said to Novak that morning when chiding him for the same thing. He gave her his best smile, the one that had caused his foster mother to forgive him time and time again. ‘I’ll use my inside voice from now on.’

  The nurse had accepted his apology begrudgingly. ‘You still can’t have a newspaper or a tablet or a phone, or even two cans tied together with string. You’re in ICU.’

  He sighed. ‘Can you at least get me out of here? Please?’

  ‘Gladly. I will make it a priority.’

  And she had. He was now in a regular room at least, but he’d had no contact with the world outside the hospital since Kate had left hours before, and he was losing his fucking mind.

  A new nurse entered the room, but he was afraid to ask her for a tablet. By now he’d figured out that the more he asked, the longer they were going to make him wait. So he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, stifling the urge to ask again. He’d waited until the new nurse had finished changing the IV bag and had left before opening his eyes and cranking the bed up forty degrees. She’d left him at an angle that wasn’t good for anything but staring at the ceiling. At least now he could see the TV. Which was fucking useless.

  He switched the TV channels like a squirrel on crack, spending a second on each one. Which was a fucking second too much. The TV news was worse than useless. No wonder the country was going to fucking hell in a hand basket. People thought the pablum served up on the ‘news’ stations was actually news.

  No, he did not want to know about the latest sexcapades of whatever Hollywood couple was the latest ridiculous thing. He did not care about cute babies or paternity tests. He did not want to buy jewelry or even see highlights from last night’s baseball game. He paused an extra second on a home improvement show before moving on. That might be worth another look later.

  He’d need to find somewhere to live now that he was no longer under, and anything he could afford would probably need fixing.

  But he wasn’t even sure where he’d end up within the Bureau. He could be transferred anywhere, but he wanted to stay here. For a little while, anyway. At least until he’d finished the job he’d started.

  Wherever he landed, he wanted to put down some roots for the first time in forever. He wanted a house. Nothing huge or fancy. Somewhere he could have a vegetable garden and a dog. A really big dog. A smile curved his lips at the thought of it, because he hadn’t had a pet in forever either. He might even grow some roses. Mama Davenport had grown roses, all different colors. He’d built her a trellis, and how she’d smiled at him …

  His throat thickened at the memory. She was gone now. Long gone. God, he missed her, but a part of him was relieved that she hadn’t lived long enough to see him now. To see the hard man he’d become. He chuffed a laugh that sounded far too unsteady for a decorated soldier. She’d have taken a slice outta his hide if she’d heard the way he’d spoken to the nurse in ICU.

  That had been her totally empty threat. I’ll take a slice outta your hide, boy! But a gentler woman he’d never known. She’d no sooner have laid a hand on him in anger . . .

  He drew a deep, deep breath and let it out slowly, his eyes stinging. I’ll make you proud, Mama D. He’d said the words to her as he’d waited on that train platform, the tie of his new uniform snug around his throat. God, he’d been young. But her words . . .

  Decker hadn’t allowed himself to think of them in far too long. You already make me proud, Decker McGee. Every day you lived with us, you’ve made me proud. She’d leaned up on her toes to press her finger to his lips, cutting off his denial. I was proud when you were Decker McGee. You changing your name to Davenport don’t do anything but make me love you more. She’d never said that she loved him, not until that moment as he’d waited for his train. But he’d known. Every day he’d lived under her roof, he’d known. Be safe, Second Lieutenant Griffin Davenport. And come home to us, boy, all in one piece. She’d dragged him down to press a hard kiss to his cheek. You come home to us, y’hear?

  And then she’d turned tail and run with a speed surprising for a woman of sixty-five, leaving him standing on the platform alone with Old Griff. The burly man had simply sighed big. What she said, Decker. What she said. Then he’d shaken Decker’s hand, pulled him into a hard embrace and whispered gruffly, You always have a home with us. Don’t ever forget it.

  Decker’s hand shook as he scrubbed the wetness from his face. He grabbed the TV remote and began changing channels with all the focused intensity he’d used in preparing for a battle. Because . . . yeah. The feelings weren’t that different.

  He’d come back to the home show later. When his heart didn’t feel like it had just been crushed in his chest.

  An image on the TV screen caught his eye a few seconds too late, yanking his mind back from its wandering. He surfed backward until he found the channel, then squinted up at the screen, grateful for the distraction.

  He knew those people. The man and the woman. Both had dark hair, both were tall. They’d been there that night. At the traffickers’ compound. When he’d been shot.

  But their names hovered frustratingly out of reach.

  The channel was a local 24-hour news station and it was now the top of the hour, so he was finally getting real news. The pair were being followed down a city street by a reporter with a mike, her questions peppering the screen with closed captions. He turned up the volume in time to hear the reporter call, ‘Mr O’Bannion! Marcus!’

  Marcus O’Bannion. Media guy. He ran a newspaper, the Ledger. He’d exposed Woody McCord. The traffickers had hated this man. Decker considered that one of the most glowing endorsements imaginable.

  The woman was . . . well, very pretty. Not as pretty as a certain redhead, but still striking. Red. Her name was something red. ‘Scarlett,’ he said aloud, pleased with himself. Last name was religious. Priest, Vicar . . . ‘Bishop,’ he said with a nod.

  ‘Mr O’Bannion! Detective Bishop!’ The reporter had started chasing them because the pair did not appear to be slowing down. Then Bishop tugged on O’Bannion’s sleeve, leaning in to tell him something when his steps faltered. She grabbed O’Bannion’s hand, threaded their fingers together, then they turned as a unit.

  ‘Yes?’ O’Bannion said quietly.

  ‘Is this your first day back after the shooting?’ the reporter asked, a tad breathless.

  Decker frowned, the questions piling in his mind faster than they piled up on the screen. Shooting? Where? When? Who got shot?

  Oh. Right. It came flooding back to him. One of the traffickers had walked into the Ledger’s office and started firing. They’d lost several people. God.

  O’Bannion looked . . . exhausted. Heartsore. I get that, Decker thought.

  Bishop looked . . . Decker’s lips curved at the belligerent tilt of the detective’s chin, the fire in her eyes. She looked like a lioness, like she’d claw anyone who dared hurt the man at her side. I want that, came the sudden thought. I want someone to look at me that way.

  No. After being alone for so damn long, he knew that he’d long ago bypassed ‘want’. It was a deep-seated need. A hunger, even. He was almost afraid to admit to it. It was this huge thing that had started to consume him in his last days undercover. Perhaps it was being forced to keep such close quarters with the kind of depravity
that was commonplace among the traffickers. He’d needed something to counteract it. Or at least something strong enough to keep it away from his soul, because he’d felt like he was slowly corroding. If he hadn’t gotten out when he did . . . He’d been afraid that nothing would be left of the man he’d been.

  The real Griffin Davenport, who’d taken him in and given him a home, had been a damn good man. Honorable. Hard-working. Kind. Not the sort of man to shout at a nurse in an intensive care unit, for sure. Decker had tried to be like him every day of his military career. And during his three years under.

  At the end, remembering the real Griffin Davenport had been the one thing that had kept Decker sane. He hoped he had gotten out in time, that there was enough of Griffin left inside his soul to allow Decker to have a life. To share a life with someone else.

  To deserve to have someone look at him the way Bishop was looking at O’Bannion.

  ‘Yes,’ O’Bannion was saying. ‘This is the first official day back for many of us. For many of us, the media is our life. We understand that you’re going to poke and prod and put us – our grief – on display. I suppose that’s only fair, because we make our living doing the same thing. But many of our employees aren’t accustomed to the intrusion of cameras. I ask that you leave them alone to grieve in peace. I’ll be happy to give interviews if you’ll respect the privacy of my people. For now, I have to get to work. Thank you.’

  He pushed through his office door, but Bishop lingered a moment to give the reporter the eye, ensuring that the woman did not follow them. The reporter turned to face the camera, spouting her wrap-up. The next story was about the body of a student discovered on the campus of King’s College, dead of an apparent overdose. Her friends had gathered in shock to say what a great person she’d been. What fun she’d been.

  Decker muted the TV, rolling his eyes. Stupid, stupid kids. Throwing their lives away like that. For ‘fun’. They’d been having fun while he’d been in Afghanistan, dodging bullets. He had very little sympathy for them. If they didn’t use the drugs, there’d be no market for them and guys like the traffickers wouldn’t be in business.

  They wouldn’t have expanded their business to traffic humans. Children, for God’s sake.

  He began channel-surfing again, but nothing was on. Not even the home improvement show now. He eyed the phone on the little table, wondering how much Kate had been able to discover about McCord’s nameless partner.

  Even if she hadn’t found anything yet, maybe she could bring him something that he could use to get online. Gritting his teeth, he stretched out his arm, anticipating pain, pleasantly surprised when it wasn’t that bad. He’d make the call, leave her a voicemail if she didn’t answer, then he was getting his ass out of bed.

  The doc had said he needed to walk. That the sooner he was fit, the sooner he could walk out the door. The doc had also said it would be a week. Fuck that. And fuck a month to get back to work. In the desert, they got shot, they got patched up, and they got sent back into the fray.

  Other men might need a week to get out of here. Decker was planning to do it in four days. Tops. And that was if he lasted that long without killing someone out of sheer bored frustration.

  He dialed Kate’s number from memory expecting her voicemail, but she answered. And his twitchy body seemed to settle as soon as he heard her voice.

  ‘Coppola,’ she said.

  ‘Da . . .’ His own name stuck in his throat and he cleared it. ‘Davenport.’

  ‘Decker.’ He could hear her smile and he had to smile back even though she couldn’t see him. ‘He speaks!’ she added, teasingly. ‘When did you get the tube out?’

  ‘Hours ago. They were supposed to call you.’

  ‘Huh. I didn’t miss any calls from the hospital, so they didn’t. That’s rude. Although maybe they got busy, but still. Are you up to visitors?’

  ‘Depends,’ he croaked. ‘Hold a sec.’ He tossed back a few ice chips and cleared his throat again. ‘Damn tube was like broken glass coming out. Which visitors?’

  ‘Well, me and my partner for one.’

  Decker grimaced. ‘Novak’s coming?’

  She chuckled. ‘No. My new partner is Luther Troy. I told you that this morning, but you might not remember. We’re actually just about to get into the elevator in the hospital lobby.’

  ‘Oh.’ He was torn between excitement and disappointment. She’s on her way up. But not alone. And he was too late to ask her to bring him a gadget. ‘I’d hoped I’d caught you before you left the office. I need a laptop or phone or tablet or something that connects to the Net.’

  ‘I brought you my old tablet. It might run a little slower than the new ones, but it works.’

  Relief mixed with something else. Something more. ‘Thanks. They moved me. I’m on the fourth floor. Four-twenty-six.’

  ‘Got it. I’ll lose the signal in the elevator, so I gotta go.’

  He hung up, relaxed into the pillow, and closed his eyes, sudden fatigue hitting him like a rogue wave, dragging him under. Shit. So much for taking his first lap around the hospital floor. He couldn’t even keep his eyes open. Can’t fall asleep. Kate’s coming.

  Cincinnati, Ohio,

  Thursday 13 August, 12.00 P.M.

  Kate pocketed her phone and frowned. ‘The nurses in ICU were supposed to call me as soon as he got his breathing tube out. He’s on four.’

  Troy pushed the correct button. ‘They probably got busy, like you said.’

  ‘I know, but . . .’ She glared at him when his lips twitched. ‘What?’

  ‘You must have been hell on wheels in the army. The look on your face, well, it promises swift and painful retribution. I wouldn’t want to cross you.’

  He’d said it lightly, his go-to tone for constructive criticism. Kate consciously wiped the scowl from her face. ‘Better?’

  ‘Much. What did you do in the army?’

  ‘I was an MP.’

  ‘Why am I not surprised?’ he said dryly. ‘I bet there are dozens of military men and women who still cry in their sleep when you visit their nightmares.’

  She smiled ruefully. ‘More like hundreds. Sorry. I hate hospitals. Lots of shitty memories. I’m mostly okay once I get to the person’s room, but walking through the corridors gives me hives.’ She’d kept her cool while sitting with Decker by knitting.

  ‘Because of your husband,’ Troy said quietly. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’

  Her eyes widened in shock, both that he knew about Johnnie and that he’d bring it up. ‘You had to dig for that.’

  He shrugged almost apologetically. ‘I like to know who I’m dealing with. What your vulnerabilities are.’ His mouth twisted bitterly. ‘I’ve been burned in the past. And your family doesn’t exactly wave the rainbow flag.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘Tolerance is not in their vocabulary, but hate sure is.’

  Troy shook his head. ‘How did you avoid getting tarred with that brush?’

  ‘I moved out and away,’ she said wryly, and found herself probing her front tooth with the tip of her tongue once again. ‘Almost twenty years ago. Never went back. How about you? Did your family accept you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said with a small smile. ‘Except for one brother, but the rest of them are great.’

  They both got quiet after that, an awkward quiet that was broken by the buzzing of both of their cell phones at the same time. Grateful for the distraction, Kate pulled hers from her pocket.

  And stared at the screen in disbelief. No way. No fucking way.

  ‘Goddammit,’ she hissed, then glanced up to find Troy looking both horrified and furious as well. ‘How could that possibly happen?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said flatly. ‘Let’s call him and find out.’ The elevator doors opened and they both sped to a family waiting room. ‘I
’ll call you on your phone, then patch Zimmerman in. That way we can both hear without using the speakerphone.’

  He was already dialing, connecting the three of them up as he and Kate moved to the window of the thankfully empty waiting room. ‘Kate’s on the line with me,’ Troy said when their boss answered. ‘What the fuck, Z?’

  ‘I told you,’ Zimmerman said, his own fury apparent in the way his voice shook. ‘Someone got to Alice Newman. She’s dead.’

  Cincinnati, Ohio,

  Thursday 13 August, 12.00 P.M.

  The ringing of his cell phone cut through the sound of the shower. Luckily he was just finishing up – removing the remnants of his Professor face took a while sometimes. The August heat made it necessary to use a stronger prosthetic glue, otherwise his disguise might peel off. Which would be very bad indeed.

  He turned off the water and picked up the ringing phone, vowing that if this call from the prison didn’t give him better news than the call he’d received from the hospital, he was going fucking ballistic. Excuses. Griffin Davenport still breathed because his person inside the hospital kept making excuses. Now the man was awake. And soon he’d be talking. He’d already passed CDs to the Feds. At least his person inside had been connected enough to know that much. God only knew what was on the CDs, but since Davenport had been spying on Alice’s people for three fucking years, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to assume they contained information that Alice would not like others to know.

  He wasn’t terribly worried about his own exposure. He hadn’t dealt directly with Alice since McCord got himself caught. Fucking idiot. But if whatever those CDs contained was enough to pressure her into working a deal with the prosecution?

  She’ll give me up in a heartbeat. Less than a heartbeat. So Alice had to go.

  Toweling off his freshly shaved head, he hit ACCEPT. ‘Yeah?’ he answered brusquely.