ITP
Everything to Lose
Copyright © 2016, 2019 by Danielle Girard. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions
Third Edition: June 2019
Cover and Formatting: Damonza
ISBN-10: 0996308989
ISBN-13: 978-0996308984
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
The Rookie Club Cast, in order of appearance:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
Author's Note
About the Author
The Rookie Club Cast, in order of appearance:
Jamie Vail, Sex Crimes Inspector (Featured in Dead Center; also in One Clean Shot, Dark Passage, and Grave Danger)
Alexander Kovalevich, Sex Crimes Inspector
Sydney Blanchard, Senior Criminalist, Crime Scene Unit (Also in Dead Center, One Clean Shot, and Grave Danger)
Roger Sampers, Head Criminalist, Crime Scene Unit (Also in Dead Center, One Clean Shot, and Grave Danger)
Annabelle Schwartzman, Medical Examiner (Featured in the Dr. Schwartzman Series: Exhume, Excise, Expose, and Expire)
Hailey Wyatt, Homicide Inspector (Featured in One Clean Shot; also in Dead Center, Dark Passage, and Grave Danger)
Hal Harris, Homicide Inspector, partner to Hailey Wyatt (Also in Dead Center, One Clean Shot, Dark Passage, Grave Danger, and the Dr. Schwartzman Series)
Chapter 1
It was the way he held her hand. His long fingers wrapped around her hand and held firm like he was saving her. His skin was warm and dry. Boys her age never had dry hands. He thought about what she’d said before answering, considered exactly what she was asking. He was calm, sometimes so serious. A grown-up. She studied him standing in the doorway.
It was the way he laughed. Not some hysterical cackle like guys at school, and not the I’m-too-cool-to-laugh that others put on. Though serious, he laughed softly, more with his eyes than his mouth.
Such a silly schoolgirl crush thing to say, but she swore his eyes changed colors. They might be the exact color of toffee, or they could deepen to the shade of black coffee. They could change in an instant. “On a dime,” as her father liked to say when he was lecturing her about how lucky she was and how much she had been given, and how easily it might all go away if she made one wrong decision.
It was also that she knew he was the wrong decision, at least to everyone but her. He was not the one she was supposed to choose. Not one of the boys she’d always known, whose parents knew her parents, whose mothers were on the opera board with hers and only worked outside the home to raise money for the “underprivileged.” Not one of the boys in designer jeans and shirts that were washed by someone who worked for them. In fact, not like most of the boys at City Academy.
He had lived on the street. He had been given nothing. His father had been in jail. Yet he was the one who asked the tough questions. What would she do? How would she be someone who counted? Challenging her to move beyond her comfort zone. And he talked about the chances of survival for someone like him, the slimmer chances of not repeating the patterns set by his father.
It was the way he stood at the door, giving her plenty of time to speak up, to say she didn’t want to, that it was too much. They could go back to the way they’d been. To talking and holding hands if she wanted. But she didn’t. As he closed the door, she scanned the mattress that lay on the floor. Covered in faded green sheets, a gray comforter. A single pillow lay at the top, propped against the bare white wall. One pillow, while her bed was a mountain of them. Why did anyone need all those pillows?
They had never come here before. This had been her request, but he’d tidied up for her. Although she didn’t know if he’d moved things elsewhere, or if this was everything he had. The room was almost bare—no dresser and no closet. His clothes were stacked in three piles along one wall, two pairs of shoes lined neatly alongside. Books were stacked on the small table he used as a desk. Candles provided soft light, giving the room the smallest bit of ambience. The air smelled of ocean and coconut.
“We don’t have to do this,” he said again when they reached the mattress.
It was that he didn’t apologize for the room or try to play off the way he lived. He was the first person she’d ever known who was truly real.
She took his hand, felt the tremor of energy as they touched. “I want to.”
He waited a beat, watching her, scanning her face.
“Really.”
Only then did he reach up to unzip her jacket, moving slowly, reassuring her that he would stop any time, for any reason. But she didn’t. She wanted this. They both did. She was awkward. He was kind and careful.
It was that he didn’t tell her he loved her just because they’d had sex. Afterward, he lay beside her, running his finger along the profile of her hip. She’d thought his naked form would make her uncomfortable; instead, she felt calm.
She wasn’t a stupid high school girl at City Academy. She wasn’t Gavin and Sondra Borden’s daughter. She was just Charlotte. Charlotte naked in bed with a man.
It was how he was afterward. As he convinced her that she had to go home before her parents started worrying. She’d texted to say she was staying late to work on a school project. He wasn’t into rebellion. He didn’t need to make a point. Better to play by her parents’ rules, he said, than to risk not being able to see her again. It was that he wanted to see her again.
He blew out the candles and reached for the door. He grabbed his baseball mitt off the floor and tucked the ball deep i
nto its pocket.
“You going to play some ball?”
“Thought I might toss it around a little. It’ll distract me when you’re gone.” He took her hand and, together, they crossed through the darkened main room. The smell of burnt food lingered along with something like sour milk. He didn’t live alone. Where were the others? The candles had been meant to mask the smell and the mixture was like something rotting on a beach. Anywhere else, she might have felt slightly sick.
Anywhere else, she might have walked out to the car by herself. As they crossed into the hallway, she was reminded of how different his world was. Along one wall were doors; on the other, a single dingy window that faced a patch of dirt in front of the building where, maybe once, there had been grass. The air was cold and the hallway dark but for a single bulb behind glass that was blackened with dust but miraculously unbroken. He led her down the corridor and into another hallway where the light hadn’t been so lucky. Slowly, the light behind them faded away until the light pollution from the city’s surrounding buildings and a few early stars cast shadows in the darkness. She stayed close to him as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. A door opened behind her and she turned back. Nothing there. She stumbled to catch up as they came around the corner. He gasped and shoved her forward.
She squinted in the darkness. His expression startled her. “What is it?”
Glass crashed. A grunt. Then he was no longer beside her.
She screamed and reached out, but he wasn’t there. She called his name. She huddled against the wall and fumbled in her purse for her phone. His hands were tight on her shoulders. No, not his hands. These hands gripped too tight. He twisted and she fought to break free. He launched her forward as she caught sight of dark brown, angry eyes. Familiar eyes. “What—”
The brown of his eyes flashed to black as he threw her from his grip. She reached out, hand caught in her purse strap. The stairs rushed toward her. Cement closed in. An explosion of blackness.
Chapter 2
It was almost 9:00 p.m. when Sex Crimes Inspector Jamie Vail snatched the phone off her desk. She caught it before the Dr. Dre ringtone could play all the way through. Every time it rang, she reminded herself to ask her son to change it to “Brave” or maybe “Roar.” Something empowering, and by a woman. Something that might make a victim feel a little stronger. Something more acceptable for a thirty-nine-year-old sex crimes inspector. “Vail,” she said.
“It’s Maxi.”
Maxi Thomas was the trauma nurse Jamie worked with most often at San Francisco General Hospital. For almost fifteen years, the two of them had worked side by side on some of Jamie’s worst rape cases. When Maxi called, it only meant one thing. “We’ve got another one.” Jamie grabbed her blazer off the back of her chair. She glanced at the paperwork scattered across her desk that she’d promised herself she’d clear today. “Where?”
“Sixteen years old. Came into General about 7:40. Her parents just arrived. I’ve talked to them, but they haven’t let me near her yet. Doctors are doing everything to protect the evidence. It should be intact.”
Intact meant that no one had washed the girl’s body yet. Probably because her condition wasn’t stable enough. “Who brought her to the hospital?” Jamie asked.
“Don’t know. Maybe a Good Samaritan who didn’t want to stick around. Or maybe the perp dropped her off.”
That would be a first. “I’m on my way.”
“I should warn you,” Maxi said, and Jamie recognized the tone.
Jamie forced herself to keep moving. “It’s bad?”
“She’s unconscious. Coma. They’re not sure she’ll make it.”
“Drugged?” Jamie asked.
“Head injury.”
“We looking for a beater?”
“Don’t think so,” Maxi said. “It might have been a fall. A little bruising on the wrists, so maybe a struggle.”
“Are we sure it’s a sex crime?” Jamie asked.
“The admitting doctor noted fluids. Tests came back positive for lycopodium.”
Lycopodium was one of the powder-like substances used by condom manufacturers to keep the rolled up latex from sticking to itself. “Which indicates she had sex,” Jamie said.
“Safe sex, no less,” Maxi added.
There was obviously more to the story. “But—”
Maxi sighed. “But according to her parents, she’s a virgin.”
“And, of course, every sixteen-year-old tells her parents about her sex life. What did the doctor find?”
“There are signs of trauma,” Maxi added. “Some tearing, bruises.”
“Could indicate assault but could mean it was her first time,” Jamie said.
“Right.”
It was Jamie’s turn to sigh. “But the parents want us to treat it as a possible assault.”
“They do,” Maxi confirmed. “And these are some particularly opinionated parents. With some serious pull.”
Jamie pushed through the department’s door and headed for the stairwell. Since she’d stopped smoking, the stairs were her best ally in the never-ending war with her size six pants. If she could afford a new wardrobe of size eights, it would be enough to surrender. “What kind of pull?” Jamie asked.
“The attending got a call from the mayor, requesting tightened security.”
“The mayor’s office called?”
“Not the office, Jamie. The mayor. No press, no outsiders. He also spoke to the head of security. All the video surveillance has been sent to you guys. They think they caught the guy on film.”
“Well, that’s good news.” Jamie jogged down the stairs. “Who are the parents?”
“Gavin and Sondra Borden.”
“I should know them?”
“If you read the society papers you would. Her grandfather was the first black attorney in San Francisco. Gavin Borden joined the family practice. They have two daughters. Charlotte, our victim, is a junior at City Academy.”
Jamie’s heart skipped a beat.
“That’s where Zephenaya goes, right?” Maxi asked.
“Yeah.” Her son was at City Academy on a scholarship. “I’ve never heard the name though. Z’s a freshman, so junior girls are out of his league.”
Maxi chuckled.
“I’m on my way.”
Jamie reached the station’s main floor, out of breath. Panting from the trip down the stairs. That was pathetic. She emerged into the hallway. Nodded to one of the crime scene techs she knew and a patrol officer who had helped her make an arrest a few weeks back. She caught the eye of an assistant district attorney she didn’t want to talk to and ducked her head.
She was about to cross through the department’s rear doors when her phone buzzed on her hip. She pulled it from the holster. “Vich,” she said. “You get a call from the lab? SF General sent over some surveillance footage.”
Vich was the nickname given to Alexander Kovalevich when he’d been in the police academy thirty years ago. A Boston transfer, Vich had joined SFPD sex crimes about four months ago. After the fallout from her divorce, Jamie had largely worked alone. Mostly because she was too surly for anyone to stand. At least until Vich.
“I got it all right,” he confirmed.
“I’m heading over to the hospital to try to get the parents to agree to a rape kit.”
“You need to see this first,” he told her.
Jamie groaned, thinking about climbing the stairs again. Swearing off the elevator was plain stupid.
“We got the perp dropping her off,” Vich said. “I’m in the lab with Blanchard.” With his Boston accent, he pronounced Sydney’s last name “Blanchud.”
At least the lab was only one flight away instead of three. She tried to do it without panting. Only partially successful, she found Vich leaning against a table. Behind him, the lab’s fuming chamber was humming. It looked like they were trying to pull fingerprints off a broken wine glass. At the other end of the table sat the evidence drying cabinet, not currently in use
.
Sydney Blanchard stood over the shoulder of a lab tech who was frantically typing on a keyboard. “There,” she said, and the tech froze the image on the computer screen.
It was a grainy shot of a man holding a woman in his arms. The victim’s feet were closest to the camera, making it hard to tell much about her. Jamie studied his face, the way his head was turned. Something about his stance was familiar. She scanned her memory for the suspects she’d interviewed over the years. Hundreds of them. Maybe a thousand by now. “We can’t ID him from that,” Jamie said.
“Can you enhance it?” Sydney asked the tech.
The tech was already running commands. Slowly, the image crystallized. The screen went black. “It will reload and hopefully be something we can use.”
The image built one tiny layer of pixels every few seconds. Jamie resisted the urge to sit down. The ping of a text message.
DA wld b grt for Z. Not nearly as homogenous as CA. +C’s a grt town. A frsh start.
Leave it to Tony to send a text in all sorts of outdated shorthand and type out the word “homogenous.” No way he was taking Zephenaya when he moved to Cincinnati for his new teaching job. She didn’t care if the school in Ohio, Davidson Academy, was a better school or more diverse. Staying with her was best for her son. And best for her. She tried not to think too hard on whether she was confusing the two things.
On the computer screen, the top of the photo had appeared. In it was the dark sky in the background and the shape of cars in the parking lot. “We don’t get a shot of his car?”
Sydney shook her head. “The camera only picks him up a few steps before this. Right here is the only time he looks in the direction of the camera.”
Her phone buzzed again. U know this = wht he needs.
Tony wasn’t wrong about that. Something was going on with Z. He’d been caught smoking, was suspended for cheating on a biology test. Not to mention that City Academy was determining whether he would receive a scholarship for his sophomore year.
Sending him off to Ohio was too extreme.
On the screen, the suspect was revealed in thin lines, top to bottom. First, the very top of his head formed. His hair was cut short. Next was a prominent forehead then the furrow in his brow. The screen froze, the clock icon spinning. “It’s thinking,” the tech said.
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