Brian frowned. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”
“Nice to see you, too.”
“How’s the arm?” Sam asked.
Maddie bolted the door behind them. “Sore.” She led them into the kitchen, where Brooke was setting a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup on the table.
“Hey, the first string’s back,” she said.
“You don’t want any?” Maddie asked Brooke, noting the lone place setting.
“Sorry, I need to get home.” She glanced at the clock, and Maddie saw to her surprise that it was almost three.
“Thanks for the soup. And the ride.”
“Anytime.” Brooke grabbed her purse and nodded at Brian and Sam. “Don’t keep her up too late.”
When she was gone, Maddie sank into her chair, relieved to see Sam already helping himself to a soft drink. She was too tired to play hostess.
“We’ve had some developments we thought you’d want to know about.” Sam pulled out the chair beside her and sat down.
“First, before you say anything,” Maddie said, “there’s something I need to know.”
“Craig Rodgers,” Sam said. “I know what you’re going to ask, and he’s not in on it.”
Maddie’s shoulders slumped with relief. “Are you sure?”
“Not a hundred percent, but we think he’s clear.”
Brian crossed his arms. “We interrogated him at length.”
“We?”
“Sam and I. His alibi checks out.”
“But what about the phone call?”
“His cell phone was stolen yesterday morning,” Sam told her.
“From where?”
“Locker room of his gym,” Sam said. “And we checked out his story. He said he reported it to the front desk there right when it happened, and we were able to back that up. So yes, someone sent you that text message from his phone. But we don’t think it was him. Frankly, he was pretty distraught when he heard you’d been summoned to that scene by someone pretending to be him.”
Maddie wanted to believe them. She wanted to believe Craig, too. She’d known the man for years. But her confidence in everything, in everyone, had been shaken tonight.
Brian was watching her carefully, probably picking up on her skepticism. “He passed a polygraph.”
“You had him take a lie detector? Whose idea was that?”
“Mine,” Brian said. “He passed with flying colors. Someone called you to that crime scene, but we don’t believe it was him.”
Maddie took a deep breath. She looked down at her soup but no longer felt the slightest bit hungry.
Craig wasn’t in on her attack. And yet someone knew enough about her routine to summon her to a job and ambush her.
“Why don’t you get some of that soup in you?” Sam nudged the bowl toward her. “You can listen while we spell some of this out.”
Maddie picked up the spoon and forced down a few bites. It was hot and salty and familiar, and she felt better almost instantly. She waited for them to talk.
Brian remained standing, watching her intently. His protectiveness toward her practically oozed from his pores, and although she told herself he was just doing his job, deep down she knew that it was more than that. If he hadn’t gone searching for her, if he hadn’t found her in the middle of that storm and dragged her out from under that tree, she could have died, either from exposure or from being hunted down like a wounded animal. She shuddered at the memory.
“Okay, I’m listening.” She met Sam’s gaze. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“We believe you witnessed something.”
She waited.
“Whether you actually did or not, someone thinks you did, and that’s why you’ve become a target.”
Maddie swallowed. Target. She pictured someone watching her through a rifle scope. She pictured a blurry image of herself coming into focus—no different from a camera lens, really—as someone carefully composed the shot.
“What did I witness? Jolene’s kidnapping?”
“At first, that’s what we believed,” Sam said. “Or, better put, what we thought someone else believed. That you’d seen or photographed Jolene’s abduction. Now we’re not sure.”
“Now our focus is on your subsequent attack,” Brian said.
“You mean Volansky?”
“Him, and also the man driving the car. He saw you in that alley. You saw him, at least a glimpse. And although you didn’t realize it, you probably photographed him the day he staked out Jolene’s workplace.”
“Who is he?”
“That’s the thing,” Sam said. “We don’t know. He’s an unidentified accomplice of our primary suspect, Goran Mladovic. We think he’s crucial to Mladovic’s operation, or else he wouldn’t be going to all this trouble to silence you.”
Maddie looked at Brian. “Any ideas?”
“Nothing solid yet.”
She tamped down her irritation. “Okay, no more games. What is this ‘operation’? This criminal enterprise? I want to know what I’m up against here.” And what Jolene’s up against. The more Maddie learned about it, the more she felt the girl had never stood a chance.
“You’ve heard of pill mills?” Sam asked.
“I think so. That’s, what, a doctor’s office where they overprescribe drugs?”
Sam nodded. “Used to be they were storefronts. Pain-management clinics, they were called sometimes. Walk-ins welcome. Cash-only transactions. Armed guards stationed by the door.”
“And Mladovic is running one of these?”
“He was,” Brian said. “The DEA tried to bring him up on charges about five years ago, but he had a hotshot lawyer. They couldn’t make it stick. Best they could get was a slap on the wrist with the medical board.”
“He didn’t pop up on our radar again until a few years later, when a sixteen-year-old girl was wheeled into a San Antonio ER and died of a drug overdose. She’d just been to a pill party.” Sam paused. “Another teenager died at the same event.”
“These kids had raided their parents’ medicine cabinets and set up a buffet of drugs,” Brian said. “It’s become a trend in affluent neighborhoods. They don’t know what they’re taking, and most of the time, they’re taking it with alcohol.”
Maddie hugged her arms around herself. “Two teens died at the same party? Was anyone arrested?”
“No, but we linked some of the drugs back to Mladovic. He’s popular with the country-club crowd, apparently.”
“We started looking at him more closely, and we learned that although he’s joined a new ‘legit’ medical practice and cleaned up his act some with regard to writing scripts, he’s still raising some red flags. We believe he may have started importing phony drugs from Mexico and selling them straight to the black market.”
“So now you’re talking smuggling?”
“He’s got a long roster of patients and their friends who are more than willing to pay top dollar for whatever they want,” Brian said.
Sam leaned closer. “And here’s where it gets dangerous.”
Maddie scoffed. “It’s not dangerous yet? Supplying children with a drug buffet?”
“He crossed one of the major cartels, the Saledos.”
“They’re brutal. And they have their hand in everything—drugs, human trafficking, firearms,” Brian said. “We even linked them to a terrorist organization a few summers ago. The head of this cartel is extremely violent. And he holds a grudge. No way Mladovic crossed him and managed to get away with it. When he found out about it, Saledo would have sought immediate and painful revenge.”
Maddie tensed. “Katya Mladovic. You think they murdered her?”
Brian watched her silently.
“He might have been sending a message,” Sam said. “ ‘The gloves are off. You work for us now.’ ”
“If he’s so harsh, why didn’t he just kill Mladovic?” Maddie asked.
“Why? He’d be losing potential customers for his product,” Brian said. “Better
to force his compliance, by killing his daughter, and then use him as a distribution center.”
“Plus, he’s got stateside connections,” Sam said. “More and more, the cartels have been looking for ways to circumvent the border. They actually grow some of their product on this side now.”
“And we think they might be making some of their knockoff prescriptions here, too.”
“You mean literal pill mills?”
“Exactly,” Sam said. “Take an abandoned factory or warehouse. Set up shop. Get the product directly into the hands of users through already established channels, such as a seemingly legitimate doctor who operates on a cash-only basis.”
Maddie’s gaze turned to Brian. “The tannery where we were the other night.”
He nodded.
“I knew something set your radar off in there. What was it?”
“The smell. And there was dust everywhere. I sent my shoes to the lab, and on the soles they found trace amounts of various chemicals.”
“Like what?”
“Sodium borate, for one,” Brian told her. “That was probably used in the tanning process. But they also found a substance called—are you ready for this?—ammonio methacrylate copolymer. It’s used as a coating for pills.”
“We found the same trace substances on the trash bag used to dispose of Heidi Beckles,” Sam said.
Maddie flinched. She hadn’t heard about a trash bag. “You think she was held in that building?”
“Probably Jolene, too,” Brian said. “But when she managed to make a cellular call from the warehouse, they realized it was blown as a safe location for anything, so they destroyed it. Burned up all the evidence—or tried to, at least.”
Sam’s phone buzzed, and he checked the screen. “I have to take this,” he said, stepping into the living room.
Maddie looked at Brian. “I still don’t understand why you don’t just arrest him. At least, tell me you have him under surveillance.”
“We do. But again, it comes down to evidence we can put in front of a judge. Right now, it’s all conjecture. We don’t have anything linking him to that warehouse, for example. It’s only a theory.”
Sam reappeared. “I’ve got to go in again. You staying or going?”
“Staying.”
Maddie looked at him.
“See you tomorrow, Maddie.” Sam nodded at her. “You take care of that arm.”
“Wait.” Maddie got to her feet and walked him to the door. “What’s tomorrow?”
“I pulled the graveyard shift.” He smiled and walked out, and Maddie stood by her threshold.
No fewer than three “unmarked” police units were parked in front of her house. The accountants were in one. Sam was getting into another. Which meant the black Taurus in her driveway must belong to Brian.
She closed the door and turned to face him. “You guys are very discreet, you know that?”
He slouched against the doorway to the dining room, watching her carefully. “We’re not trying to be.”
Maddie looked him over. His sleeves were rolled up, and she realized he’d found a fresh shirt somewhere. He must keep an entire suit stashed at the office for emergencies.
“What did Sam mean earlier?” she asked. “About the graveyard shift?”
“He’s on tomorrow night.”
“On?”
“Your security detail. Unless, that is, we get something better lined up before then.”
“They’re going to be here overnight?”
“Someone tried to kill you, Maddie.” His jaw clenched as he looked at her sling. “They almost succeeded.”
Maddie fumed. Part of it was fear. And her frayed nerves. But she didn’t like having things dictated to her, and she didn’t like evasiveness.
“What do you mean, ‘something better’?”
“We’re talking to the Marshals service. I’ll let you know.”
“You mean witness protection, where you uproot your life and go into hiding?”
Brian didn’t say anything.
“Forget it,” she snapped. “I’m not going.”
He watched her silently.
“I’ve got work to do. I’m not just going to change my identity and move away because you guys can’t manage to get your case together and come up with an arrest warrant.”
He didn’t react, and her temper festered.
“And you can’t stay here tonight,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Brian.” She lifted her uninjured arm in exasperation. “It’s after three in the morning. I’m going to bed.”
“So go to bed. I’ll take the couch.”
“Brian . . . get real.”
“What?”
“You know damn well what.”
“You think this is about sex?” He looked insulted. “You do, don’t you? You could have been killed tonight. I’ll take the goddamn floor if I have to, but you’re not staying here alone.”
“I’m not alone! I’ve got two FBI agents out on my curb. I’ve got my pistol. I’ve got my alarm system.”
“That’s right. And you’ve got me.”
I don’t want you! She almost yelled it, but he would have known she was lying.
She did want him. She wanted his arms around her and his fingers intertwined with hers, as they’d been the entire ambulance ride, when she’d gripped his hand and refused to let go of him. She wanted his body, warm and solid in her bed. She wanted his Glock on her nightstand to make her feel safe. And the fact that she wanted all those things made her furious with herself. She wasn’t needy. She was strong and resilient and independent.
But not tonight. Tonight she felt like a quivering bundle of nerves, and if he so much as touched her, she was afraid she’d dissolve into tears. And all that talk about not wanting any complications in her life would fly straight out the window.
Obviously taking her silence for assent, he sank into an armchair and started taking off his shoes.
“Brian, I’m serious. You can’t stay here.”
He sighed. “You think I’m trying to hit on you, and I’m not. I’m not even thinking about sex.”
She tipped her head to the side.
“Okay, that’s a lie. Now I am. But—”
“Stop. Just stop.” She held up her hand. “This isn’t a good idea. For you to be here.” She watched his gaze drop to her mouth, confirming what she already knew, which was that she couldn’t be around him for an extended period of time. “I don’t need you here.”
Something flashed in his eyes: hurt. But it was quickly replaced by anger. “Don’t push me, Maddie. It’s been a shit day.”
“You’re telling me that? I got shot tonight, thank you very much. And I have to be at work in a few hours.”
He looked startled. “You’re seriously going to work tomorrow?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Why the hell would you?”
“Because it’s my job. I’ve got evidence to send out. I’ve got prosecutors breathing down my neck who have trials to prepare for.”
“Can’t you take a day off?”
“No, as a matter of fact. I’ve got responsibilities, deadlines. You think you’re the only one who has a job that matters?”
“Fine.” He tossed his watch onto the table. “Work it is, then. But your car’s not back yet, so looks like I’m driving.”
Scott pulled off the highway and parked his truck on the shoulder. He surveyed the area, glancing behind him at the ridge about a quarter-mile back, which ran parallel to the road. He’d just hiked to the top of it and taken a look around. It was a good place to set up and wait. According to the police report he’d read early that morning, that was exactly what had happened. Someone had staged an accident at the juncture of two rural highways, called Maddie to the scene, and then lain in wait for her.
Anger tightened Scott’s gut as he got out of the truck. He glanced around, noting the orange spray-paint marks denoting the place where her car had been before it
was towed away.
Word of Maddie’s attack had spread through the law-enforcement community like wildfire. Cops, paramedics, and firefighters—basically, most of the area’s first responders—had heard about the incident before they’d finished their morning coffee.
People were bothered by the attack on a visceral level. Scott understood why. Anyone who made a habit of showing up at crime scenes, often at night and alone, to sort through the aftermath of violent events harbored a secret fear of what had happened to Maddie.
The incident went beyond the day-to-day hazards of the job. Most people accepted those dangers before they scribbled their names into a scene log for the first time. Crime scenes were messy. Unpredictable. Often, the people who’d committed the crimes were still around when first responders arrived. They could be high, drunk, crazy—take your pick. And they were known to turn on police like rabid animals.
But what happened to Maddie was different. It was an ambush. And hearing about it rekindled a deep-rooted fear that every first responder had and no one wanted to talk about. Everyone dreaded the prospect of being summoned to a scene to help a victim and then becoming one.
Scott glanced up the roadway but saw no orange paint marks for the other two vehicles, because those vehicles, according to the report, were “unconfirmed.” Maddie claimed to have seen a black tow truck and a white hatchback at the scene of her shooting, but when FBI agents and sheriff’s deputies arrived, they’d seen only Maddie’s Prius and her abandoned equipment.
Scott glanced around. The air smelled of cedar and rain. The ground was still damp from last night’s storm. He hiked up the road about fifty feet, carefully scouring the area to his right. The buzz of tires on asphalt had him turning around, and he wasn’t surprised to see an FBI sedan pulling to a stop behind his truck. Beckman got out and slammed the door.
“Looks like you’re doing the same thing I am.” The agent walked over. Scott noted the crisp dress shirt and tie and was glad he worked for a private lab that didn’t require him to wear a noose around his neck unless he had to appear in court.
Beckman stopped beside the orange markers and frowned down at the pavement. He glanced at Scott. “No bullets recovered.”
“That’s what the report said.”
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