by CJ Lyons
But, if she needed to play it safe, if that’s where they had to start, he could go along with her. For now. “No strings. But I’m here if you need me—”
She rolled her eyes and broke away from him, going back into the bar. He followed, glad she couldn’t see his grin. She was sick, maybe dying, but somehow he felt—no, he knew—that everything would be all right. Rossi was the smartest person he knew. No way in hell would this fatal insomnia shit be the end of her. What kind of name was that for a disease, anyway?
Rossi was going to be fine. He’d make certain of it.
At their booth across the bar, Price and Voorsanger were deep in conversation, Price now leaning forward on his elbows, head beside Voorsanger’s as they stared at Voorsanger’s phone.
“What’s the deal with Price?” Ryder asked, itching for an excuse to arrest the man. No way was he happy about Rossi hanging out with a guy connected to the Russians.
“We all want to find Esme. Why not work together?”
She made it sound so damn easy. He gestured for her to slide into the booth before him, putting her as far from Price as possible and keeping his gun hand free. Across the room, the band began setting up while a steady stream of customers entered, swirling between the dance floor and the bar. Thankfully, their booth was as far from the stage as you could get, so they could talk in relative privacy without shouting.
“You two come up with a plan?” he asked Voorsanger.
“Daniel Kingston is in the ICU at Good Samaritan. Apparently, he has end-stage cancer and has been keeping it a secret to protect his company’s stock value. His assistant said he’s in critical condition.”
Ryder slumped back, hitting his head against the wall of the booth. “Well, hell, there goes the one guy who might have the answers we need.”
“It was already a dead end. Daniel would never rat on his son,” Price argued. “Leo’s the one trying to kill Esme.”
“You have proof? What makes you so certain it’s not your pal, Tyree Willard?” Ryder shot back.
Price rolled his eyes. “Sure, blame the black guy. Because there’s just been so very many black psycho-crazy stalker rapist serial killers… oh, wait, no, that’s the white man’s turf, isn’t it?”
“Hush,” Rossi said, her tone reminding Ryder of his sister, the kindergarten teacher. “We all know it’s Leo. Even if we can’t prove it,” she added when Voorsanger opened his mouth to protest. “What’s important is stopping him before he can find Esme or hurt anyone else. He’s probably at the hospital with his father.” She slid Voorsanger’s phone from him. “Let me call the ICU and check.”
“We did find out more about Leo’s background,” Voorsanger said as Rossi turned away from them and plugged one ear with her finger. The band began playing a rousing jig or reel or some kind of foot-stomping, hand-clapping dance that had the crowd gyrating. Voorsanger paused for a moment, his gaze landing on the musicians, looking wistful. Then he shook himself. “He has a degree in biochemistry and almost finished a research fellowship in pharmaceuticals before he left the NIH.”
Ryder wondered if there was a way he could check Leo’s alibi for the times the women were taken without alerting the soon-to-be-most-powerful man in the city that he was under suspicion. He grabbed his own phone and began searching. The only time they knew for certain was when Allie was grabbed four days ago.
Rossi gave Voorsanger back his phone. “Leo’s not there. Daniel Kingston is in a coma. Stroke. They’re not sure if he’ll survive the night.”
For some reason, Price straightened at that, rocking the table and staring at Rossi like they shared a secret. Ryder frowned. No way in hell was she going off with Price, not again.
“One small wrinkle in your theory.” He turned his phone to show them the photo of Leo with the Narcis Pharmaceutical board of directors. “According to this, Leo was in Ireland on Monday.”
“That’s when Allie was taken,” Rossi said.
“He could have hired someone to grab her,” Voorsanger said. “Have her waiting for him when he got back into town.”
“Or maybe it’s not him. Maybe someone else raped and overdosed Allie. And the others. Could even be trying to frame Kingston by using his ring to brand the victims.”
Price bristled at that. “No. It’s Leo. Has to be.”
“We need to focus. What’s our priority here?” Ryder asked, wanting a plan of action. He was tired of dead ends.
“Saving Esme,” Rossi said. Price nodded. Ryder glanced at Voorsanger, who was tapping his fingers in time with the beat of the music.
“Agreed,” Voorsanger said. “Saving the girl has to come first.”
“Okay,” Ryder said. “What’s our next step?”
Silence thudded through the space between them.
“We’re pretty sure Leo doesn’t have her already, right?” Voorsanger asked. “At least we hope not, because then she’d probably already be dead.”
The others nodded, Price staring deep into his empty whiskey glass. This was personal to him, Ryder realized. Maybe too personal. “So who grabbed her in the tunnels?”
“Someone who knows the tunnels and who would risk their life to save Esme. That’s gotta be Tyree,” Rossi said.
Price shook his head. “No. Tyree would have told me if he knew where she was.”
“Would he?” Rossi leaned forward to better meet Price’s gaze. “You said there was bad blood between you and Tyree, that he wanted you gone, didn’t want you to have anything to do with his family. He kept Jess from you all those years. Maybe he’s keeping Esme as well?”
That struck a chord. The muscles in Price’s neck knotted, although his face flattened into stone. The kind of blankness, no emotion, no remorse, that Ryder had seen in men right before they killed.
Ryder straightened, putting himself in the way of Price’s gaze. “Don’t even think it,” he muttered.
Price said nothing, his lips pressed into a tight line.
“You can’t go after Tyree,” Rossi said, the voice of reason. “If you kill him, we might never find Esme. He was willing to talk with me this morning. Let me try.”
All three men turned to stare at her.
“Do you think that’s wise?” Voorsanger asked, sounding more like a lawyer than ever.
Price gave a reluctant nod. “She’s right. Tyree’s all about protecting his turf, saving face. He can do that with the doc better than the cops or anyone else.”
Ryder didn’t like it, but he didn’t see another choice.
Rossi stirred beside Ryder, half-pushing up out of her seat. “Like I said, I should talk to him. Come on, we’re wasting time.”
Price set his whiskey down. “I can’t go near the Tower—unless you want Tyree in a killing mood.”
Fine with Ryder. “Wait here with the dog. That way, if we need backup, you won’t be far.”
“Why would Devon be our backup?” Rossi asked. “Won’t we just call the police once we have Esme safe?”
The men exchanged glances. Voorsanger took the lead and explained to Rossi about the missing evidence and the trail that led back to the police and perhaps even the DA being in Daniel’s pocket.
Ryder was glad he sat between Rossi and the exit. She didn’t take the news well.
“All those women, Allie—they’ll never get a chance at justice? We can’t ever lock up Leo Kingston, stop him from killing again?” Her voice was low but, all the more powerful, a shockwave of indignant fury. “Who did this? How?”
“I’m going to find out,” Voorsanger promised her, taking her hand in both of his. “Even if it means my career.”
“We can still stop Leo,” Ryder added, feeling more than a little jealous of the way Rossi looked at her ex. “We just have to catch him doing something illegal.”
“After we have Esme safe,” Price put in.
“Before anyone else gets hurt,” Rossi said. She nudged Ryder with her hip. “Sooner we get Esme back, sooner we can find a way to nail Leo.”
Voorsanger joined them and, to Ryder’s surprise, he laid both hands on Rossi’s shoulders, pulling her so close their foreheads almost touched. Blocking her from Ryder’s view as he whispered something to her. Something that made her nod her head and straighten her shoulders. An intimate exchange of encouragement.
They stepped apart, Rossi returning to Ryder’s side. And that pretty much said it all.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
As I left the pub with Ryder and Jacob, I felt a little bad about abandoning Devon. At least he had Ozzie for company. Although he seemed to fit in with the rest of the crowd just fine, I knew it was a show. He’d much prefer to be stalking the streets alone, searching for Esme.
A lot like Ryder that way. Men of action forced to slow down and behave in a civilized manner in order to fit in with society. Jacob was the opposite—he actually enjoyed people. Whether it was entertaining a crowd at the bar or finessing the power game that was a trial, he loved navigating nuances and unspoken undercurrents.
The door to the bar swung shut behind us, the air instantly lighter, more easy to fill my lungs with. Guess I fit into the same category as Ryder and Devon, only I long ago gave up trying to fit in with society—not even my family. Outsider, outcast, outlier, that’s me.
When Ryder had escorted me from my mother’s table and her ever-silent demand for contrition—although, after years of playing the game, I knew no matter how much I atoned for the sin of being the one who’d lived, she’d never grant me absolution—I remembered the ache of loss I’d felt earlier when I’d held Devon in the car. And it finally hit me. I wasn’t mourning the loss of a possible future family.
The grief that had felt like such a weight, anchoring itself deep in my soul, that grief was for the family I’d already lost. Twenty-two years ago when my father died.
And now I was dying. Probably. No. After the events of the last two days, I couldn’t deny that something was very, very wrong. I could fantasize about Louise being mistaken and a last-minute miraculous reprieve when the lab tests came back in a few weeks, but it was time to face reality. I was dying.
These next few weeks might be my last before degenerating into a helpless, bedridden, psychotic zombie.
Because that’s the fate fatal insomnia delivers. And why I couldn’t let Ryder play white knight—he had no earthly idea what was coming. First, insomnia. Then, delirium. Worse than dementia because you’re aware of what’s happening to you, even as you lose control of your body and your ability to separate reality from hallucination.
And finally your body fails, abandoning you in an eternal dreamless, sleepless wasteland, where you lie, catatonic, unable to care for yourself, totally dependent on those around you. Only then, after months of this awake-but-paralyzed state, only then does death finally hear your confession and grant you the grace of ending your miserable, pathetic life.
That’s what I faced. As much as I loved her, I imagined my mother would still think it not punishment enough.
Saving Esme might be the last thing I did that was truly my own, a choice made of free will, solely in my control, not driven by the demands of my disease.
One last chance to make a difference, save a life. No way in hell was I going to squander it.
“I’ll get the car,” Ryder said, leaving me with Jacob after giving Jacob an inscrutable glance. More of that silent man-talk, as if testosterone communicated better than words.
Too tired and depressed to care about Ryder’s frail male ego, I slumped against Jacob and let him hold me.
I turned to him, our bodies pressed together, raised my face. “I wasn’t a very good wife, was I?”
He ran his fingers through my hair. “No.”
“Such a mensch.” My fake Yiddish accent had him smiling again. “I can always trust you to be honest.”
“No.” He squeezed my shoulders, pulling me close. “You were a great wife. You took care of me. Now, let me take care of you. I know there’s something going on, Angie. For once, let someone take care of you.”
I took his hand in mine and squeezed. “I can’t. You can’t. It wouldn’t work.”
“That’s what you said about our marriage.”
“Honesty. That was the one thing we always had going for us.” I kissed him on the forehead, untwined my fingers from his, and pulled away, standing on my own once again.
Ryder pulled the car up to the curb and jumped out, holding his phone. “I’m texting you a few names of cops you can trust—men and women I trust with my life,” he told Jacob. “In case you need them.”
While we talked with Tyree, hopefully returning with Esme safe and sound, Jacob was going to the federal prosecutor in charge of investigating public corruption to tell him about the missing evidence and the search warrant the DA had quashed.
“Do you have to do this tonight?” I asked Jacob, suddenly realizing he might be risking more than his job. If Daniel Kingston was the money who bought the dirty cops and politicians, with him in a coma, they’d have no one to protect them. Desperate men used to wielding power and now cornered—it was a dangerous combination.
Jacob nodded and turned to walk down the block where his own car was parked. “I’ll call you when it’s done. Take care.”
Before I could reply, a sharp cracking noise split the night. At first, I thought it came from inside the bar, some strange new sound effect the band had added. Crazy what you think when people are shooting at you.
Last night, in the tunnels, I’d been on guard, anticipating danger, but here on the sidewalk in front of my family’s bar, in front of my home? It just didn’t compute. Not until Ryder tackled me, throwing me to the ground as more gunshots crackled above us.
He drew his pistol and scoured the street, keeping the car’s engine block between us and the shooter, as he searched for where the shots came from. I tried to raise my head to see Jacob and to help Ryder, but he pinned me down, my body pressed flat against the curb, my face hanging over the gutter.
The sounds weren’t at all like what you see in the movies. More of a pop than a boom. Thuds and pings as bullets hit wooden walls and metal cars. Broken glass of a shop window smashed. The sledgehammer crack of concrete splintering.
And then the sound I’d been dreading. A man yelling in pain.
<<<>>>
Despite the noise of the crowd and the band, the sound of gunfire blazed through Devon’s awareness like a jolt of lightning. He rushed to the door, the dog at his side, easing it open to assess the situation before committing.
No one else inside the bar seemed to notice anything wrong. Figures, bunch of white folk too busy gyrating, thinking they were dancing. Although, he did like the music.
He gazed into the darkness beyond the bar’s door. Ryder had taken shelter behind a car, Angela at his feet, his body protecting her. Two parking spaces down, Jacob Voorsanger staggered against the brick wall of the building beside the bar, blood streaking down one side of his camel-colored wool coat. The lawyer clutched at his left arm, trying to reach Angela. The plate glass window behind him shattered, glass flying everywhere, and he dove to the sidewalk.
Devon spotted the muzzle flash at the alley entrance across from the bar. The shooter was firing shots in pairs or threesomes, definitely not a full auto, probably a pistol. Lousy aim. So far all he’d hit was a few parked cars, a storefront window, and maybe Jacob.
Why would anyone be trying to kill Jacob? If it was because of the evidence tampering he’d discovered, surely whoever was behind it had law enforcement connections and would have been a better shot?
Ryder raised his own weapon, training it on the alley, also tuned in to the muzzle flash. He fired three rounds before their unknown assailant returned fire, this time zeroing in on Ryder’s position, forcing him back behind cover.
&n
bsp; Devon ran back inside the bar to the emergency exit near where they’d been sitting earlier. The door was propped open by a stray brick, a pile of cigarette butts on the ground nearby. Trash cans and dumpsters littered the narrow alley. Devon navigated them, the dog on his heels, emerging a few doors down, diagonally across from the alley where the shooter was. He was out of the shooter’s sight line, safe to cross the street and sprint between two storefronts to circle back behind the shooter.
Ryder spotted Devon and jumped up to provide cover fire, keeping the shooter occupied while Devon made his move. Just as he crossed the street, he saw Angela crawling over the sidewalk to Jacob.
Thankfully, the shooter was aiming at Ryder, ignoring Angela and Jacob. Devon pushed his speed, hoping he’d have time to circle behind the gunman before he shot anyone else. To his surprise, as he hit the opposite curb, a blur of fur sped past him, heading directly into the alley where the shooter was.
“Ozzie, no!” Angela cried out.
Damn dog, now there was no chance at surprise. Ryder knew it as well, circling out from behind the car and advancing as Devon changed his trajectory to race toward the alley, following Ozzie. No more shots came from the alley, but a man’s shouted curses carried through the night.
Devon reached the mouth of the alley in time to see Tyree Willard, gun fallen to the ground, as he struggled to get Ozzie off him. The dog had driven Tyree into the side of a dumpster and had his jaws clamped around Tyree’s wrist.
“Get this damned mutt off me!” Tyree shouted, pummeling Ozzie’s body with his free hand.
Ryder arrived, gun aimed at Tyree. “Good dog,” he told Ozzie as he kicked Tyree’s pistol farther away. Then he quickly searched Tyree, removing a knife and another gun, while Devon circled behind the two men and grabbed Ozzie’s collar. The dog shook his head as if angry, but finally released his hold on Tyree.
“Look, it’s not what you think,” Tyree said as Ryder pulled his arms behind him and put him in handcuffs. His wrist had teeth marks but not much blood. Devon had the feeling the dog had taken it easy on him—or maybe, given the gang leader’s steroid-induced bulk, Ozzie couldn’t get a good grip. Either way, Tyree would live.