Completely Mine: Bliss Series, Book Four

by Hall, Deanndra

  “Yes, sir. No problem, sir.”

  “Okay, well, I think that’s all we need from you. Based on everything I now know and from meeting you, we’re going to be assigning Detective Littlemeier to a case of a fugitive from justice who’s been spotted in our area, one Sandria Pike. It’s our job to bring her in, and we will.” He stands and extends a hand. “We’ll be in touch.”

  “Yes, sir.” I shake his hand and Matt walks me to the door, but when I reach it, I turn. I know he can see the fear in my eyes. “Chief, if you guys don’t find her before they do …”

  He nods. “I know. And we’re going to do our very best. I promise.”

  “Thanks.” As I step out the door, something happens that I never expected. Matt claps a hand on my shoulder, so I turn to look at him.

  His eyes are soft and kind. “Hang in there, Brian. We’ll do everything we can to bring her back to you.”

  My composure is breaking down so fast that I can barely speak. “Thanks,” is all I manage to squeak out before I take off walking. I’ll walk three blocks and have the cab meet me there, but I have to clear my head. The lump in my throat is so hard that I can barely swallow, and there’s only one thing I want.

  I want her in my arms. Now. If these guys can do that, then I’ll step back and get out of the way.

  And it doesn’t take long. Two scenes are going on and at least two of the private rooms are in use that evening when Larry sits down at the bar. “Whatcha need?” I ask, trying to be as casual as possible.

  “Oh, I think a Scotch and soda sounds good.” I mix it and when I hand it to him, he whispers, “Monday. He’s moving.”

  I nod knowingly. “Well, tell him I wish him all the best on his move.”

  “I will. Thanks. He’ll appreciate it,” Larry says, then picks up his drink, raises it to me, and stalks off across the room toward a new submissive.

  Monday. They’re moving on this pretty quickly. And all I can do is wait.

  Chapter Twelve

  I beg Dave to come in for the weekend and run the club. We concoct a story about me having food poisoning. I’m not sick. I just can’t function. My arms and legs feel heavy, and my breathing seems labored. I know it’s anxiety, but I can’t shake it, and I’m almost beyond living.

  By Monday morning I’m a frantic, shaking mess. Halfway through the day, Dave brings pizza and stays. I know what he’s doing. He’s sitting with me so I’m not alone. This is what friends do, and he’ll never know how grateful I am for him. Of course, by five o’clock when he tells me I absolutely, positively cannot have any more coffee, I’m cussing him, but hey, I think anybody could understand that.

  At nine he says, “I’ve got to go home. Please, try to get some sleep. You’re so fucking strung out that you look like you’re coming down off a three-day bender.”

  “I can’t sleep. I can’t eat.” It’s true―I couldn’t even get a whole piece of pizza down. Dave ate the rest a piece at a time, one here, one there, and if Olivia knew he’d eaten the whole damn thing, she’d have a fit.

  By midnight, I know I’m not going to hear anything, so I drink half a bottle of gin and can’t sit up. At seven thirty in the morning, my phone starts ringing and brings me out of my self-induced stupor. “Hello?”

  “Brian? It’s Matt.”

  I sit up so fast I almost fall off the sofa. “Yeah. What’s happening?”

  “They told me I couldn’t get into lockup yesterday because they had some kind of audit going on. They’d better not be moving those files around or I’ll have somebody’s head by the time this is over. Anyway, I’m going back today and they’d better let me in or I’m going to the nearest federal judge to ask for a warrant.”

  “A warrant to go into a police department?”

  “Yep. It’s been done before. But it won’t come to that.”

  “Please, be careful. You’re my only hope.”

  “Oh, I’m not alone. The chief sent two other officers with me for protection under the guises of helping me look for the case files if they’ve been archived. They’ll have to take out all three of us.”

  “Please, call me when you know something?”

  “I will.”

  “Thanks, Matt.” The call ends and I sit there, every nerve in my body stretched tight as a drum head. I’m practically twitching. What am I supposed to do with myself?

  I play solitaire on my computer, of course. It’s just mindless enough that I don’t have to concentrate on it, but it does calm me down. Of course, the usually-two-minute game takes me forty-five due to my stress-shortened attention span, but who gives a shit? At some point, I notice that the sun is directly overhead, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not going anywhere.

  When the sun turns into a fiery ball that fills my view through the glass doors to the balcony, I open the curtains and then the glass panels and let the air and light in. Cirilla would love sitting here with me, watching this. She’d probably have a glass of wine, and I’d have a beer. Her hair would be up in a ponytail, and I’d take it down and finger comb it before wrapping an arm around her and pulling her up against me. We’d sit there on the balcony’s outdoor sofa, watching the sunset and talking about the next day, and the next, and the next. I swear to god, if I get her back, I’m buying her whatever kind of house she wants and we’re moving. We get to start over.

  I’m ruminating on those horrible clothes she always wears in public when my phone rings and I see Matt’s number pop up. When I answer, the first thing out of my mouth is, “Please tell me you have something.”

  “We do, and we’ve had to call the FBI in to extract us. They should be here any minute, but we’ve barricaded ourselves in the records archive. We realized things were escalating when somebody inside the department took a photo of one of my colleagues, and I’m guessing they’re sending it to the congressman’s henchmen. But I’ve got it, Brian. I plugged the thumb drive into my micro tablet and the video footage is there. It’s been sent to my superiors in Seattle, along with pics of the gas receipt and other documents that will be pertinent to exonerating her.”

  “Oh god. Thank you, Matt. Keep your head down. We’re almost out of the woods.”

  “You’re not. This thing is twenty-four hours from breaking to the public, and we know there are at least two of his guys out there. When the FBI gets here, escorts us out, and starts kicking ass and taking names, the congressman is going to get very, very antsy. And antsy people make terrible decisions. We’ve got officers all over the place around your apartment building because we’re expecting all hell to break loose. Hunker down and lay low. It’ll all be over soon.”

  “Will do. Let me know when you’re out.” I never meant for any of them to get hurt, but I guess I knew all along there was a chance. Now we wait. My hands are shaking. My head is pounding. I’m terrified something is going to go wrong, but I also know that Chief Tabors and the detective division are sifting through the evidence Matt sent. It’s been effectively taken out of the hands of the D.C. department and it’s in Seattle’s possession now.

  I pour myself another drink and, for reasons I don’t understand, I go to the safe, pull out my Glock 26, and sit down in the living room. The TV is on, but I don’t care about it, so I turn down the volume and let my head fall back onto the top of the sofa’s back.

  Maybe I fell asleep because of the whiskey―I don’t know. But the next thing I know, somebody is banging on my com button downstairs, banging like crazy. Oh, shit. It’s those damn thugs again, I just know it. I run to it and when it stops buzzing over and over, I finally say, “Yes?”

  “Brian?”

  Oh my god. It’s her. I can’t believe I’m hearing her voice. “Baby, is that you?”

  “Brian, they’re following me. They found me yesterday and I can’t shake them. Please, let me in?”

  “Get in the building,” I order, hitting the button so she can open the door. “Set the elevator to come up, but don’t take it. Use the stairs. Check through the window on the
door of every landing. When you get up here, set off the fire alarm and I’ll open the door. Hurry!”

  She doesn’t answer, so I know she’s already on the move. I hear the buzzer sound again, and I know it’s them. They’re checking to see if I’m here, and I don’t know whether to answer it and tell them I know who they are, or to ignore it and see if they go away. I finally opt to answer it and say, “Yeah?”

  “Open the damn door, Zimmer. We know she’s in there.”

  “Fuck off, dickwad. You’ll have to come through me to get to her.”

  “No problem. Shoot the fucking door, Watson,” I hear the voice say just as the com goes dead. My brain is screaming, God, Cirilla, get up here! If she doesn’t hurry, they’ll beat her by using the elevator. Thirty-two fucking floors. There’s no way she can do it. I told her wrong, and I’m going to get her killed. And then I remember.

  I’ve got a key to the elevator.

  I snatch it from the hook in the laundry room and dash out the front door. According to the light above the elevator, they’re on the twenty-eighth floor. When I slip the key into the round lock, it doesn’t want to turn, but I give it a good twist and it snaps right around. Of course, I know they’ll shoot the doors to get them open, so I can’t stand there, but I do. Just as I turn to go back to the apartment, I hear a bang and turn around.

  The stairwell door opens and Cirilla pitches through it, gasping for breath. I don’t say anything, just snatch her up into my arms and run. And when I get to the apartment door, I step through, dump her in the floor, and reach outside to the red panel.

  The alarm is loud, very, very loud, so loud that I know they can hear it out on the street. And the sprinkler system comes on. I also realize something else―once the elevator gets to the designated floor, it will probably disable the car. That’s what these systems do. They don’t want elevators used in the event of a fire, so the doors open at the designated floor and the car shuts down. Once they get up here, they won’t be able to leave.

  But help won’t be able to get up in the elevator. We’re screwed.

  I lock the doorknob, the deadbolt, put the chain on, stick a chair under the knob, and look for something heavy to push up against it. “Brian!”

  “Babe, we can reunite later. Right now, get in the bedroom and get behind the bed. GO!” I yell at her, and she scrambles to her feet and takes off. I can hear banging out in the hallway, and I know they’re shooting up the elevator doors. With the alarm sounding, help will come, but I don’t think it’ll get here in time. I grab her bedroom door, twist the button to lock it, and yank it closed. Once I’m in my bedroom, I shut and lock the door, push the dresser across in front of it, grab my pistol, and sit down behind the bed beside Cirilla. “Brian, I’m scared,” she says and presses herself up against me.

  I just wrap my free arm around her and kiss the top of her head. “I’ll do everything I can to protect you, baby. Just stay down.” The banging sounds stop, and I know they’ve managed to get the doors open. We’re doomed.

  First it’s banging. Then it’s gunfire. They’re trying to get in our door, and I don’t know anything else I can do. “Bathroom!” I hiss to her. “Go! Go!” When she crawls to it, she turns to look at me and I say, “Shut the door!”

  “But come with me!”

  “No. Go! Don’t argue with me! Just DO IT!” I can hear wood splintering. I can also hear something else.

  Sirens. All kinds of sirens. Then shouting. “Zimmer! We know you’re in there, Zimmer! Turn her over and you walk away!”

  Like I don’t know better than that. They must think I’m a real idiot. They don’t know where we are, but it won’t take them long to figure it out, and the dresser will buy me a little time. Then I hear something that shocks the shit out of me.

  It’s a fucking helicopter. And then I remember.

  There’s a heliport on the top of our building.

  Sweet mother of god, the cavalry’s coming. Please, please, please, let that be a S.W.A.T. team. That’s what it’s going to take to save us. I can feel the vibration from the helicopter sending waves of motion through the apartment walls and ceiling. Those idiots have got to know they’re done, but I can still hear them, and I realize they’ve just breached the front door. Before I can even move, there are slugs coming through the bedroom door and into the dresser, and I drop to the floor and flatten myself out. There’s nothing more I can do.

  There’s this terrific sound of glass crashing, and more gunfire, plus a lot of voices. A lot of voices. I hear one of them say, “Clear each room. They’re in here somewhere.”

  Seconds later, there’s a voice at the bedroom door. “Mr. Zimmer? Are you in there? Mr. Zimmer, it’s the police. Open up, Mr. Zimmer.”

  But when I try to get up, I can’t. There’s a pain in my arm that’s almost unbearable, and that’s when I see the blood. It’s all over my arm, on the floor, everywhere. “I can’t! I’m hit!”

  The bathroom door flies open and two terrified blue eyes stare down into mine. “Baby! You’re shot! Oh, god, help us!”

  “Ma’am, can you open the door?” one of them asks.

  She disappears, there’s a dragging sound, and then more eyes looking down at me. “Mr. Zimmer, where are you hurt?” a guy dressed in black combat gear asks me.

  “I think it’s my arm,” I whisper, and I feel incredibly weak.

  “Somebody turn that fucking sprinkler system off!” he yells back over his shoulder. “Mr. Zimmer, we’ve got help on the way. Ma’am, hold that towel right here and apply pressure. EMTs are on their way.” With that, he hops up and leaves the room. I can hear them talking out in the living room, but they sound far, far away.

  Cirilla’s sobbing. “Oh, babe, I’m so sorry! This is all my fault!” I try to tell her it’s not her fault, it’s those assholes who were shooting at us, but I can’t get my mouth to work. The room must be filled with cicadas, because there’s a loud, crazy buzzing sound drowning out everything else. All I want is to get some dry clothes, sit down on the sofa with her, and …

  * * *

  “Mr. Zimmer? Mr. Zimmer? Can you hear me, sir? He’s lost a lot of blood. Type and crossmatch, and hang a bag of Ringer’s. Mr. Zimmer?”

  My mouth is dry as the desert. “What?”

  “He’s coming around. Mr. Zimmer, do you know where you are? Open your eyes and tell me where you are.”

  I force them open and all I see is white. I remember their words swirling around me. Ringer’s. Type and crossmatch. Lost a lot of blood. “Hospital?” I ask, thinking that’s probably right.

  “Yes, sir. You’re at Mercy General. You’ve been shot in the left shoulder, but you’re going to be fine. We’ll be taking you to surgery in just a few minutes.”

  “Cirilla? Where’s Cirilla?”

  “Get her in here,” I hear the voice say. “Right now.”

  “Cirilla? Where’s Cirilla? I need to see her. Please! Right now! Is she okay? Oh, god, please, tell me she’s okay!” I’m babbling and crying and I can’t stop. Did they kill her? I can’t remember.

  “Hey.” A soft hand strokes my forehead and I open my eyes to find her staring back at me. “You’re okay, baby. It’s all fine, and I’m fine. You protected me from them. You’re my hero. And look!” she says, then points to the wall. There’s a newscast on, and she starts fiddling with something at the side of my bed until I can hear the volume going up and the female reporter talking.

  “… after eight years. A joint effort between the Seattle Police Department and the FBI uncovered buried evidence that exonerated the primary suspect in the case, Sandria Pike. Today, arrest warrants were issued for Congressman Mark Hubley, several key detectives on the original case, and a man police say carried out the murder of Hubley’s wife, Maryann Hubley, and planted evidence in Pike’s vehicle. More at eleven.”

  It’s over. The whole world knows. She’s free to do whatever she wants. And I hope that includes staying with me. Maybe she’ll want to go back to her old life in
D.C. or wherever she’s originally from. “Cirilla?”

  “Yes, babe,” she says and bends down over me to kiss me.

  “You can do whatever you want.”

  “Yes. I can. And I have you to thank for that.”

  “Do you want to stay with me?” I ask, terrified of what she might say.

  She straightens, glares down at me, and plants her hands on her hips. “Brian Zimmer, how dare you ask me that! Does this mean nothing to you!” she barks, then holds up her left hand.

  And there it is―the ring. I knew it. I knew she had to be wearing it when I couldn’t find it in her room. “It means everything to me―you mean everything to me. Just making sure it means something to you, Sandria Pike, because I gave that ring to Cirilla Gates.”

  “Do you mind if Cirilla Franklin has it? Because I think that’s what I want to change my name to. You know, start fresh and not have people looking at me like I’m a bad person because I got blamed for something I didn’t do.”

  “I don’t care if you call yourself Bitchy McBitcherson, as long as you’re eventually Bitchy McBitcherson Zimmer.”

  “Kinda like the sound of that!” she says, laughing. I try to laugh, but I can’t. I’m feeling a little weaker.

  “I’m …What’s …”

  “They’ve given you some medication in your IV, babe. You’re going to sleep and when you wake up, that bullet will be out of your shoulder and you’ll be on the road to recovery. Now behave yourself, Sir.” I close my eyes and all the sounds get farther away, but in my mind, I can still hear her voice, and it’s beautiful.

  * * *

  “Look. He’s coming around. Hey, knucklehead!” That’s gotta be Dave.

  “Hey yourself. Come to make fun of the cripple?” I ask before I even open my eyes.