Dead to Rights

by Ellie Thornton

  Patrick grinned. “It’ll be a birthday we’ll never forget.”

  “True.”

  Patrick led his friend upstairs, stopping before the dark upper landing to listen. Down the hall and on his right, a door stood slightly ajar—swooshing of water told him exactly what room that was. Light streamed into the hallway, illuminating the closed door across the hall and little flecks of dust floated in the air.

  “I’ve never participated at this end of criminal activity before,” Zak said in a low voice. “It’s exciting.”

  “It’s only illegal if we get caught before we find the evidence we’re looking for,” Patrick said.

  “Patrick,” Striker called from the bathroom. “Are you coming? The water’s tantalizing.”

  Zak pointed at the open door and gave him the side-eye before mouthing, “Is that the Assistant DA from that article?”

  Patrick nodded and rolled his eyes at the same time. “I’ll be right there; save me a spot.”

  She giggled.

  Elizabeth darted through the closed door across the hall, the light shining through her, making her appear nearly translucent. She flickered again, quick as a blink, only this time he hadn’t. He’d seen it. She’d absolutely, one hundred percent flickered. His stomach tied in knots like a freeway interchange.

  She pointed over her shoulder and whispered, “It’s in here.”

  He rushed to her side, smiling, Zak in tow. “Why are you whispering? No one can hear you.”

  “Oh, hush.” She pointed. “Get in there.”

  The door creaked as he opened it, and the three of them froze to listen. Water stirred, and Striker started to hum a random tune. With speed, he pushed the door open wide enough to get through. He and Zak squeezed in. Elizabeth simply went through the wall again and pointed to the far corner.

  Passing a sleigh bed, they dropped to their knees in front of the painting. Zak pulled out his flashlight and held it on the picture.

  “Is this the one you sold?” Patrick was usually pretty good at spotting fakes, but he was too hyped up, and this was too important to mess up. Zak was the real expert, and on top of that, he’d seen the real painting before.

  “This is it. I know it is,” Zak said.

  Elizabeth hunched over him, her proximity sending funny and strong prickles down the right side of him.

  Zak put a hand in Patrick’s face as his eyes roamed over the painting, examining each and every brushstroke, of which there were many. He pulled a tiny magnifying glass from his pocket and held it over the signature. A smile crossed his face. “It’s the genuine article.”

  The room filled with light, followed by the quick swipe of metal over metal. “Don’t move,” Striker said. “Or I’ll shoot to kill.”

  Patrick raised his hands, and the three of them turned around.

  When Elizabeth’s gaze fell on Striker, standing before them in a robe that clung to her wet body and holding a 9mm extended in front of her, it all came flooding back. Everything that had happened the night she’d been shot.

  After hearing five gunshots and being unable to get through to her team on the radio, she’d headed toward the sound of the shots. Being careful to keep her steps light, she’d made her way through stacks of wooden crates and around several I-beams in the room. The first thing she’d seen was the painting, its presence in this place so strange it’d caught her attention. Then she’d seen the bodies, and a table full of weapons.

  She’d moved closer, and someone in a hood appeared from behind a crate, aiming a gun at her. They’d made eye contact, and Elizabeth had lowered the end of her gun a mere fraction at the realization of who it was. She’d thought it was a mistake until Striker had grimaced and fired. After that, Elizabeth remembered nothing until she woke up a spirit in front of Patrick’s apartment.

  “Patrick. I remember everything. She shot me!” Anger surged through her, hot, biting, and as definite as the bullet that had ended her life.

  Striker pointed her gun at Zak in a quick little jerk. “Who’s this?”

  “Zak Semenov.” Zak extended his hand to her.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Was I talking to you?”

  Patrick rolled back on his heels. “Still think she’s good-looking?”

  Zak glanced up and shook his head.

  “She’s a murderer.” Red flashed before Elizabeth’s eyes, and she struck out, but her hand went right through Striker. She stared at her palms and scrunched her brow. Why wasn’t it working? She was mad, madder than she’d been since she could remember. That should be enough. It’d been enough every other time she’d been able to move things.

  Striker stepped through her and Elizabeth’s body stung from head to toe. “The FBI set this up, did they?” Striker asked.

  Patrick gave her an are-you-crazy stare. “Why would the FBI be interested in a fake painting?”

  Striker lifted her chin a little. “It’s not fake.”

  “Okay, whatever you say.” Patrick laced his tone with sarcasm.

  Elizabeth came to Striker’s side and swung at her once, then twice. Nothing happened. She stared at her hands, and they flickered. “Patrick? What’s happening to me?”

  They locked gazes. His eyes widened, and his Adam’s apple dropped. He clenched his jaw and turned on Striker, his gaze hardening in the fine lines around his beautiful eyes.

  Striker’s gaze darted to the painting and back. She took a step closer. “What makes you think it’s a fake?”

  Patrick lowered his hands, then pointed to Zak. “Mr. Semenov here authenticates paintings for a living, and he happened to sell the original of this piece to Krauss. He says it’s fake. But hey, you work in the prosecutor’s office, so you must know what you’re talking about.”

  Elizabeth snapped out of it. She was here for Patrick. She was supposed to protect him—and if she couldn’t get the gun away from Striker, she needed to at least be on guard. Especially if Patrick insisted on egging the woman on.

  Zak jerked his head toward Patrick, his eyes widening in panic. “Are you crazy? Now she’s going to shoot me.”

  “She was going to shoot you anyway.” Patrick nodded in Striker’s direction. “Ask her.”

  Zak looked at Striker.

  Striker nodded and stepped closer again. “He’s not wrong. Tell me what you know. When did you give him the painting?”

  Elizabeth moved next to Patrick, facing him. “The goal is to get out of here alive, remember?”

  Patrick winked at her.

  She frowned. What was he up to?

  Zak let out a heavy sigh and ran a hand over his hair. “A month ago. Krauss had me deliver it to an abandoned factory in the industrial part of Sacramento. He took the painting right out of my hands, and this isn’t it.”

  “What night?” Striker asked.

  Zak lifted his chin. “The same night that officer was shot.”

  A slow grin spread over Striker’s face, one that removed any suggestion of beauty. This woman was evil through and through. Elizabeth could feel it. Could feel the hate coming off her in waves.

  Striker laughed. “Then either this painting is real, or you gave him the fake one because I took this off his dead body right after I shot him.”

  Elizabeth’s gaze whipped to Patrick. Holy crap. Had he just done what she thought he did?

  Patrick’s lips quirked in the corner, almost imperceptibly. The smile didn’t reach his eyes. “And you shot that cop too.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “I did—I didn’t want to, but she saw me. And now there’s you—”

  Patrick pointed rapidly between himself and Zak. “Meaning you’re going to kill us too?”

  “Patrick, stop!” Elizabeth demanded.

  “Afraid so, handsome.” Striker moved closer, taking one hand off her gun to stroke his cheek. “And tonight could’ve gone so differently.”

  He reached for her hand on his face, and she tightened her grip on her gun.

  “Don’t,” Striker said.
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  He pushed her hand away. “You have it all figured out, do you?”

  “I told you I was good.” Striker stepped back again and pushed a wet lock of her blonde hair behind her ear.

  “And yet, you’ve underestimated me.” Patrick dropped his chin and said, “Fuzzy bunnies.”

  Striker screwed up her face in confusion, and Zak pulled back and glared at him.

  Elizabeth dropped her head to her hand. “Oh, jeez.”

  “Excuse me?” Striker gripped the sash on her wet robe, pulling on it to tighten it.

  He swallowed. “I said, ‘fuzzy bunnies.’”

  Striker tilted her head. “Oh good. Here I was thinking to kill you, and even your friend would be a blow to the dating pool—”

  Zak lifted his left hand. “Uh, I’m married.”

  “—but turns out you’re crazy.” She pulled the hammer back on her gun. “Come with me.” She stepped from the room and signaled for them to follow.

  They led the way out at her gunpoint and behest and toward the stairs.

  “Fuzzy bunnies, fuzzy bunnies, fuzzy bunnies,” Patrick continued in a near-frantic chant.

  Halfway down, the door burst open, a large piece of the doorframe flying out across the floor. Lee moved in; gun held high. “Drop it!”

  Patrick grabbed Zak’s lapels and pulled him against the wall.

  Striker didn’t miss a beat, keeping her aim on them. “My finger’s on the trigger. You shoot me, and one of them could die.”

  “You’ll still be dead,” Lee said.

  “Whoa, whoa,” Patrick said. “Where’s the scenario where I don’t die?”

  Elizabeth glanced over the rail and then turned to Patrick. She flickered again. This was it. It was almost her time. She could feel it. Patrick held her gaze, his eyes wide. She closed hers and, doing as he’d instructed several times before, took a deep breath. She opened her eyes again. “Jump,” she said.

  “Jump?” he mouthed.

  “Jump.”

  Patrick looked at Zak, who glanced heavenward but nodded, and the two charged her. At their forward motion, she turned, barely seeing them leap the banister as she rushed Striker. And then a miracle happened. Elizabeth didn’t hit Striker—didn’t have to, because right before she reached her, Striker took a frantic step back, dropping her gun in the process.

  “Detective Shea?” Striker’s eyes went wide, and the report of a gun echoed through the room. Striker fell, clutching her hip. Seconds later, Lee was up the stairs, kicking the gun away.

  Elizabeth backed up, a rapid thudding in her chest so reminiscent of a heartbeat that it made her think, for a second, she might actually be alive. She glanced at her hands again, and once again flickered like a light bulb about to burn out.

  “Elizabeth!” Patrick’s voice reverberated from the hall downstairs.

  She rushed to the banister and peered over. Patrick and Zak lay tangled in a heap, Patrick’s head tilted up to look at her. “Patrick, are you all right?”

  “You’re still here.” He swallowed, and then repeated more to himself than to her, “You’re still here.” He dropped his head onto Zak’s back. Zak let out an exaggerated “Oof!”

  “Stephanie Striker,” Lee said. “You’re under arrest for the murders of Robert Tourneau, Paul Tourneau, James Wood, and Nathaniel Krauss, and for the attempted murder of Patrick Daley, Zak Semenov, and Detective Elizabeth Shea.”

  Elizabeth whirled around.

  “What did he say?” Patrick yelled from below. Thuds, bumps, and oofs quickly followed.

  Elizabeth blinked at Lee, and she whispered, “Attempted?”

  Seconds later, Patrick rushed up the stairs. “Did you say the ‘attempted murder’ of Elizabeth Shea?”

  Lee pulled Striker to her feet, and she groaned in the process. “It’s a flesh wound,” Lee said. His tone implied stop your whining.

  “I saw her,” Striker said. “She was here.”

  Patrick moved in on Lee, resting his hands on his shoulders. “Lee! Attempted murder? Elizabeth’s alive?”

  Lee furrowed his brow. “Technically.”

  Elizabeth grabbed her chest, the beat of her heart almost painful now. She dropped to the stairs.

  Lee continued, “She’s in a coma. But if her spirit is with you, then why wouldn’t she move on?”

  A smile spread over Patrick’s face. “She’s alive.” He faced her. “You’re not dead.”

  “Not yet,” Striker said, her voice warbling. “But she will be. After tonight, she’ll be gone for good.”

  Patrick shook her shoulders. “What did you do?”

  Lee grabbed his arm. “Let her go.”

  “What did you do?” Patrick barked.

  Striker released a hysterical laugh. “I finished what I started.”

  Elizabeth pulsed in and out. “Patrick?”

  Patrick released Striker and turned to her. She flickered again as he descended the steps to her, his face turning as white as a ghost, his expression beyond horrified, and then everything went the palest of blues.

  Chapter Twenty

  For the last month of her life, Elizabeth had wondered at the strange sensation of not having a body, but still being able to feel. It hadn’t made any sense to her until now. She’d still been connected to her body because her body had still been alive.

  She felt nothing now. Not her heart, not the motion of her lungs breathing in and out, and no connection to a body at all. It was only her mind, nothingness, and a pale blue. Everywhere.

  “Hello?” she called out, but there was no sound, no vibration of vocal cords, and no mouth. She was there but not.

  This can’t be it. This can’t be Heaven. There has to be more.

  But she felt no panic. Even her emotions were different. She wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t confused, or even nervous. Her mind simply warred with what she’d always been taught of the afterlife and what she now experienced. Maybe this is it.

  But what is ‘it’? a woman asked, though Elizabeth wasn’t sure how she knew it was a woman; she’d heard no voice, only received the thought in her mind.

  Heaven, Elizabeth replied.

  Before her appeared an image rising from the lightest of cerulean: a woman with caramel-colored hair that hung long and curly over her robed body, if that’s what it could be called. It wasn’t corporeal, yet it was still very real. She moved in close, her smile contagious and made her jade-colored eyes twinkle. Elizabeth smiled in return, then glanced down as an image of her former self appeared. She too was clothed in white.

  The woman took her hands. Thank you.

  Elizabeth blinked. For what?

  For helping my husband. And for caring for him.

  Elizabeth dropped her jaw. You’re Katelyn.

  Katelyn nodded. It’s time. You’ll only have seconds, so you must act quickly.

  What do you mean?

  Katelyn reached up, and her long, slender fingers stroked the side of Elizabeth’s face.

  A yanking sensation started from Elizabeth’s core, barely noticeable at first, and then it hit her like a Mack truck going a hundred down a steep incline. And she felt it—felt the push and pull as she was yanked in every which direction.

  Elizabeth’s eyes flew open, and she cringed in pain. Her entire body ached, her head throbbed, and the light overhead was way too bright—way too white. She inhaled sharply and glanced around. Tiled ceiling, linoleum floor, an IV stand with a drip attached to her arm, and a heart monitor beeping incessantly to her right.

  Beep. Beep. Beep!

  She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying hard to relieve the pressure building there. If only the beeping would stop. She peered around again. Her door opened, and a fuzzy image of someone in scrubs squeezed through, closing the door behind them.

  Lilies, sunflowers, roses, tulips, and mixed bouquets of brightly colored flowers in pinks, yellows, oranges, and purples filled the room, crowding in and perfuming the air with their overly sweet scents. Why were there so man
y flowers? A massive glass vase of pink roses sat on the table next to her bed, with a card in it. She honed in on it until her eyes focused. The card was signed “Love, the Browns,” but not in Brown’s handwriting. Brown’s wife’s.

  The person in scrubs stopped next to her. “Lucky me,” Scrub Guy said. “You’re awake.”

  She blinked at him. Who are you?

  He didn’t respond. He held an empty syringe and pulled the tube back, filling it with air.

  Now, Elizabeth. Katelyn’s voice rang out clear and with force.

  Scrubs lowered the needle to her IV.

  Elizabeth flinched, grabbed Brown’s vase, and brought it crashing down on Scrubs’s head. His face blurred in and out of view, and his beady black eyes rolled back as he fell.

  Shaking her head to clear it, Elizabeth ripped the IV from her arm, and with more effort than she thought herself capable, she swung her legs out of bed and dropped to the floor next to her assailant. With all the strength left in her, she rolled him over. Yanking the IV stand down with a loud crash, she used the tubes to bind his arms behind his back—not tight enough.

  His eyes blinked open, and he groaned.

  “Help!” she called, but the words came out strangled.

  He fought against the binding, and she crawled away over the shards of glass and toward the door. A piece jammed into her hand, her vision blurred, and behind her, Scrubs was now on his knees.

  She reached the door and pulled it open with her good hand, while she cradled the other to her chest.

  An officer in uniform lay on his side on the carpeted floor in front of her, eyes closed, blood dripping down the side of his face. His piece rested under the hip he lay on.

  “Officer,” she choked out. “Officer?”

  She crawled to the cop, her vision blurring in and out. He didn’t move. Grabbing his wrist, she felt for a pulse. It was there but thready.

  A slur of curse words flew toward her from the room. She rolled the officer and fell on him in the process. Pushing herself up with her wounded hand, she reached for his gun. She undid the snap that held his gun in his holster.

  Scrubs grabbed hold of her legs and yanked her back. Bile stirred in her stomach, making its way up her throat, as he flipped her over and grabbed her throat.