Dead to Rights

by Ellie Thornton

  “Who are you again?” Sergeant Brown sat across his desk from Patrick, leaning back in his chair.

  “Patrick Daley.” Patrick continued to flip through the manifest of evidence collected from the building where she’d been shot. It was a matter of public record, so Brown had grudgingly given him a copy to peruse.

  “You said. But what is that to do with me?” Brown asked. “Who are you?”

  “Like I said, I’m friends with Detective Shea.” He turned a page. “Lot of guns, huh?”

  “Cartel, Patrick,” Elizabeth said, lacing it with as much sarcasm as she could.

  He smiled at her.

  “And what is it you do for a living?” Brown asked.

  Patrick glanced over the manifest. “A little of this and that. I’m currently on a leave of absence. Can I see the case file?”

  “No,” Brown said.

  The evidence manifest may be a public record but an ongoing case was not. “He can’t.”

  Brown leaned forward, resting his interlaced hands on his metal desk. “Why are you on leave?”

  “Personal reasons.” Patrick tapped his toe on the green linoleum floor.

  “How is it you know Detective Shea again?” The muscles in Brown’s jaw tightened, and his face went a little red.

  Elizabeth was used to her boss losing his temper, being gruff and overly grumpy in general, but there was more going on here. He was trying hard to keep his cool, and thankfully, succeeding so far. That, however, didn’t seem to be stopping him from treating this meeting like an interrogation. What on earth was going on here? Did Brown know Patrick? Maybe he’d seen his psychic act on TV? Most the cops she knew didn’t believe in psychics, Brown being one of them, which could explain his overall chilliness toward the man.

  Elizabeth’s nerves spiked. Patrick hadn’t said anything about his relationship with her when he’d first arrived. It didn’t bode well that Brown was going down this road. In fact, when they first arrived, Patrick had asked after her at the front desk and had been immediately led to Brown’s office. It hadn’t been a full minute before Brown had come barreling in. Why it hadn’t occurred to her to talk with Patrick about what they’d tell her coworkers, she didn’t know.

  “Make something up.” She couldn’t hit him, or move something and make him believe. Nor could she feed Patrick helpful information. Brown would never believe he was telling the truth. He would assume Patrick had done his research and this was all an elaborate hoax.

  Patrick interlaced his fingers and placed them on his knee, mirroring Brown, a gesture Elizabeth could see her boss didn’t fail to notice. “I didn’t say.”

  Brown narrowed his eyes, then forced a tight smile. “Care to enlighten me?”

  “Not really, no.”

  Elizabeth dropped her head to her hand. “Oh, for crying out loud.”

  Brown leaned back again. “Are you always this—”

  “Private? Yes.”

  “I was going to say secretive.”

  “He’s not going to tell you anything.” Elizabeth sighed and glanced over at Patrick. “We should go.”

  Patrick did one quick shake of his head. “I’ve been trying to find her brothers. It seems they’ve all gone missing. Do you know where they are?”

  Brown looked down. “I’m not their keeper. They probably went back to Boston to be with family while they process their grief.”

  “Process? Their grief?” Patrick tapped his finger to his lips.

  “Don’t take it personally, Patrick,” Elizabeth said, and hoped he’d listen, but that hope fled when he shot her a quick side glare. “He’s difficult—”

  “You’re lying,” Brown said.

  “What?” Elizabeth and Patrick said at the same time.

  “I know who you are, Patrick Daley, and you are not friends with Detective Shea. I know for certain she never met you.” Brown crossed his arms. “I’m not sure what your angle is, but I will discover it, and if I find you’ve had anything to do with what happened to her, any more than already, I’ll arrest you myself.”

  Patrick sat straight. “Any more than already? What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Get out of my office.” Brown jumped to his feet and pointed to his door.

  Patrick crossed his legs. “Not until you tell me what you know about Elizabeth’s brothers.”

  Elizabeth placed herself unwittingly between the two men. “Patrick, trust me, you do not want to get into a fight with him.” Brown had been a professional boxer when he was younger, and now, as a cop, he was often referred to as The Tank.

  “Elizabeth’s brothers and their whereabouts are none of your concern.” Brown went to the door and opened it.

  A slow smile spread over Patrick’s face. “You know where they are, don’t you?”

  “Get out.” Brown pointed out the door.

  Patrick stood. “You have them in protective custody, don’t you?”

  Elizabeth stared at Patrick, wide-eyed. That made sense, especially if whoever had shot her was still out there. She’d been letting her fear for her brothers impair her logic. She’d seen this happen to families of victims many times over the years and should’ve known better.

  Brown’s jaw dropped for a second before he snapped it shut. “How—”

  Patrick moved closer to Brown. “How’d I know that? You have a terrible poker face. Though I suspect you must be a good cop or you wouldn’t be in the position you’re in.”

  Elizabeth reached out to Patrick, her fingers hovering an inch above his arm. Why she kept trying to touch him, and why he kept trying to touch her, she wasn’t sure. She was sure she never wanted to touch people so much before she lost her body. “This isn’t going to work, Patrick; it’s only going to make him mad.”

  “You’re walking a thin line here.” Brown fisted his hand.

  “It seems so, but that’s what I don’t understand. You are getting way more worked up over this than you should, unless…” Patrick glanced at the ring on Brown’s left hand; the hand clenched so tight it turned a bright red, making the gold ring there stand out by contrast. He made eye contact. “You’re in love with her.”

  Elizabeth stepped back. Before she could think, Brown hauled off and punched Patrick in the nose. He grabbed him by the lapels and shoved him from his office. Several detectives came running and held him back.

  Patrick hunched over, holding his nose. “Ow!”

  Elizabeth bent over to get a better look at him. “Are you okay?”

  He looked up, his gaze full of consternation. “He hit me.” He pointed at Brown with his free hand.

  “Let me go.” Brown struggled in the grasp of two detectives and signaled to Daley. “Get this two-bit showman out of my precinct. Now.”

  Daley stood and glared at him. “Two-bit? Who do you think you’re talking to?”

  “Stop.” Elizabeth shook her head. “The man just hit you, and you’re offended by that?”

  Patrick lifted three fingers. “I’m at least a three-bit. And I was good enough to figure out your dirty secret. Does your wife—”

  Brown lunged, and then Lee was there, placing himself between the two. Elizabeth’s heart stopped. He was here. He was all right. And alive. Thank goodness!

  “I’ve got him, Sarge.” Lee placed a hand on Brown’s chest, then took a quick step back, toward Patrick. He grabbed Patrick’s shoulders, turning him, and led him out of the bullpen. “You trying to get yourself thrown in jail?”

  “Who are you?” Patrick didn’t fight Lee, only held his reddening nose.

  “He’s my partner.” Elizabeth chased after them.

  Patrick’s gaze shot from her to Lee. “You’re Elizabeth’s partner.”

  They pushed past the front desk and into the lobby at a breakneck speed that had Elizabeth running to keep up. Lee stared at Patrick but said nothing.

  She knew that look. As subtle as it was, it was his surprised face.

  Once outside, Lee led Patrick with a firm grip on his arm, aw
ay from the doors to a grassy area at the side of the parking lot. He then turned on him, releasing his arm in the process. “I don’t know why you came here, but this is not a good place for you, Mr. Daley.”

  Patrick rubbed his arm. “How is it that I’m so well-known around here?”

  “You work with the FBI—”

  Elizabeth whipped her head to Patrick. “You do?” He’d failed to mention that when he’d been talking to that Rafferty fellow earlier. She’d thought he was a friend that happened to be a Fed.

  “—and Brown thinks you’re here to snoop on a case for them.”

  Patrick grinned. “Which case?”

  “Like you don’t know. Tell your supervisors that, yes, Detective Shea’s case is still open, and no, there’s nothing you could do to help.” Lee clenched his jaw. There was something else he wasn’t telling them. Something important about her case.

  Patrick studied Lee, and Elizabeth worried what might leave his mouth this time.

  “She wasn’t just your partner.” Patrick ran his thumb over the side of his index finger. “She was your friend.”

  Lee glanced away. “You should leave. I called a cab—it’ll be here any minute.”

  “How’d you know I needed a cab?” Patrick furrowed his brow but was amused.

  “I saw you arrive.” Lee pushed past, his shoulder bumping Patrick’s as he went.

  Patrick turned. “She’s glad you’re alive.”

  Lee stopped in his tracks and stared over his shoulder. “You don’t know her. You don’t know me. Don’t act like you do.”

  “Leave it, Patrick.” Elizabeth sidled closer to him. “He won’t believe you. He’s too practical.”

  Patrick tossed her a quick glance before making eye contact with Lee. “Do I need to know her to observe the loyalty she inspires? It’s clear she was important to you, and I can’t see that being true unless the feeling was mutual. She was a good partner. She’s glad you’re okay.”

  Lee turned and marched back into the station.

  A heady silence followed.

  “You convince people you see their dead family members for a living?” Elizabeth asked.

  “It’s been a while.” Patrick rolled back on his heels.

  “And they believe you?”

  “I’m rusty.”

  “Huh,” she said.

  Patrick turned to her, hunching a little to look her in the eye. “We need to talk.”

  The look in his eyes made her panic. They did need to talk. Her brothers were in protective custody, Lee was hiding something big from them, and her killer was still out there. She knew what her unfinished business was now.

  She had to solve her murder.

  Chapter Eleven

  Patrick sat cross-legged on his couch as Elizabeth paced a gutter in his hardwood floor. She was gesturing wildly as she spoke, her hands flying. Patrick had to fight to keep from smiling. She was something else when she got all fired up like this. The last time he’d been around a woman with this much passion was a little over two years ago with his wife at her deathbed.

  He’d been sitting in the chair next to her bed in his dad’s mansion near Lake Tahoe. They’d given up finding a cure and were trying their best to make her comfortable. He remembered her fidgeting against the stack of pillows behind her, while he stared at his hands, feeling for the first time, and not the last time, dead inside.

  The chemo had weakened her immune system to the point that she was contracting illnesses like the circus attracted patsies. She’d patted his check and told him to stop feeling sorry for himself; she was the one dying, not him. She’d burst into a fit of laughter that turned into a fit of coughing.

  Patrick pushed the upsetting thought from his mind and focused on the woman in front of him.

  Elizabeth tossed her bangs off her forehead, then slowed her pace. “All this time, I’d thought I was still here because I needed to make sure my brothers were taken care of, but it’s more than that. They’re in danger. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t be in protective custody.”

  He’d originally thought she’d be more resistant to his surety that her brothers were in protective custody, but she’d taken to the idea immediately. It was the only explanation for why they couldn’t find them anywhere and why Elizabeth’s boss, a man who had some deep-seated feelings for her, would be so cavalier about her family’s disappearance.

  “I have to help them. I have to figure out who killed me and stop him from killing anyone else.” She turned on him, pointing a dainty finger in his face. “And you have to help me.”

  He reached out to her; it was becoming something of a habit. She smirked and lifted an eyebrow. He shrugged, then patted the couch next to him. “Have a seat.”

  She crossed her arms and swiveled her hips, but then took a large step forward, followed by a quick one, and sat inches from where his hand rested. “What?”

  He drummed his fingers on the smooth leather cushion near her hip. “All right. I’ll help you, but before I do, I need to know everything you do. What’s the last thing you remember before you… before you became a ghost?”

  Why couldn’t he say “before you died”? Heat flushed through his veins, and he glanced over his shoulder toward the thermostat. It was still set at seventy-two degrees. He turned his gaze to the window. Low clouds hung in the sky. It wasn’t hot. Why was he so warm? He unbuttoned the top button on his shirt and swallowed.

  She pursed her lips and stared off into space. “I remember Brown going over the briefing of the Tourneau Cartel Case. We had a sting. I was frustrated about something, but I can’t remember what. We’d found a place where the heads of the cartel were going to meet. We were all given assignments—Lee and I were to enter through an emergency exit on the second floor of a run-down old factory while the other teams took entrances on the ground level and bird’s-eye views from nearby buildings.” She paused, pursing her lips as she thought. “We went in through a window and…”

  “Yes?” If only he could hypnotize her; they would have everything. But Patrick wasn’t sure how he’d do that if he couldn’t touch her. Touch was an important part of the process; it allowed him to trigger the hypnotic state and retrieve the memories buried deep in the psyche—something as small as a pat on the shoulder, holding hands, or brushing back a lock of hair could do all that. Not that he’d ever brushed back a lock of hair before. Elizabeth happened to have a lock hanging in her face. Regardless, touch clearly wasn’t an option here. He’d have to do the best he could.

  “I don’t… remember.”

  He turned to her, moving his knee onto the couch and his arm onto the backrest. “The memory’s there—sometimes coming at it from a different direction can help. Take a deep breath.”

  “I can’t breathe,” she said with a hint of petulance in her tone. “Dead.”

  “Do it.”

  She made a show of breathing in deep, lifting her shoulders and puffing out her chest, but rolled her eyes in the process. “Now what?”

  “For starters, a little less sarcasm would be nice.”

  She scrunched her nose. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Now close your eyes and concentrate.”

  Her eyes shut, her long dark lashes fanning out over the tops of her cheeks.

  “What do you see?”

  She threw her hands up. “A hall?”

  “Good. What do you smell? Hear?”

  She sniffed. “It’s musty and dank and…” She smiled. “Roasted duck.”

  “What?”

  “Lee had roasted duck for dinner before the sting. It was faint but still there.”

  He quirked his lips up.

  She was silent for a moment. “Lee is with me. We’re at a T in the hallway. He goes right, and I go straight.”

  “What happens next?”

  “I try to connect with Brown and the team. I don’t remember why, but there’s radio silence. I enter a room at the end of the hall… there’s a bright light, and then nothing.” Sh
e opened her eyes and faced him.

  “That’s it? Nothing else? You’re sure?”

  She glanced up and to her left. “That’s it.”

  “No footsteps, or voices? No cologne or perfume? A rotting rat in a corner? What did the room look like? Was it empty? Was it dirty? Were there exposed beams or boards on the floor?”

  “I don’t know—I can’t remember.”

  He nodded. “Okay. Good enough.”

  “Good enough?” She threw her hands up. “I gave you nothing. Wait, that’s not true—I gave you ‘we went through a window’ and ‘roast duck.’”

  He shrugged, tilting his head first one direction and then the other. “Nonsense, it was very helpful. And I wouldn’t be surprised if more came to you later.” Victims of serious traumas with memory loss would often get their memories back in a slow trickle. He’d witnessed this on many occasions while working with the Feds.

  She scoffed. “How was that helpful?”

  “When you saw the bright light, could you smell roast duck?”

  She screwed up her face. “What?” She looked down and sniffed again. “No. Why?”

  “Lee wasn’t with you when this went down—he’s in the clear.”

  She sat straight. “He was never in question!”

  He waved her off. “If you’d smelled roast duck, he would be. Also, you were cut off from everyone else, which was either a coincidence or on purpose. I don’t believe in coincidences, so—”

  “You think someone intentionally had me killed? That I wasn’t just in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

  He tapped his finger to his lip. “Possibly, but I don’t think so. It seems more likely everyone was cut off from everyone else. Either way, it suggests an inside job. Someone who knew where you were going and had knowledge of how to use the radios.”

  “That’s any number of people,” she said.

  “True.” That kind of operation would be heavily worked—with lots of people involved, and not just the officers who were part of the sting. He’d have to think of a way to narrow that down. “What can you tell me about the Tourneau Cartel?”

  “They sell guns on the black market; have been working the circuit in Sacramento for the last fifteen years. The cartel itself is behind the deaths of at least a couple dozen people that we know of, including an undercover cop, but we’ve never been able to tie anything to the top tier. It’s always the grunt men who take the fall. They’re dangerous and cunning. The cartel heads—made up of the Tourneau brothers, Rob and Paul; Nathaniel Krauss; and James Wood—haven’t so much as been in the same room together since the nineties that we know of. That was why we had the sting going—they were all going to be there together.”