Tasting Fire

by Kelsey Browning

  “Or as—” Emmy laughed and cut herself off as a thought flashed like lightning through her mind. If Cash needed to be reassured that she was all in this time, she could do that. She could woo him like he’d never been wooed before.

  “Or what?”

  She gave him a bright smile. “Or whatever else you want. As long as I get to sit at that table holding your hand, I’ll be happy.” She sighed. “But today, we need to figure out if someone’s decided I shouldn’t be in Steele Ridge, and if so, who that is.”

  “Holy… holy fuck.” Cash’s eyes went wide.

  “What?”

  “Who was the first person who didn’t want you in this town?”

  “You?”

  He frowned at her. “Can we forget that? I’m talking about your ex. Think about it. He obviously didn’t want you to take a job down here. You already believe he’s behind that trumped-up lawsuit.”

  “But… Throwing bricks and setting fires isn’t exactly Oliver’s style. Besides, he’s in Baltimore.”

  “Emmy, I checked out the dude. He has enough money to buy a shit-ton of bricks and hire people to toss them.”

  “That just doesn’t seem like something he would do.”

  “Desperation drives men to do dangerous things.”

  “If Oliver is responsible for any of this, it’s not because he’s not driven by desperation for me. More like sour grapes.”

  “Doesn’t make him any less guilty. Or any less of an asshole.” Cash turned back to slide the massive omelet onto a plate and turn off the gas burner.

  “But the swatting incident? How would that persuade me to come back to Baltimore?” Emmy stared at Cash’s kitchen wall, trying to put the pieces together. “How would he know something would go wrong on the call-out? That’s… that’s just crazy.”

  “All I know is that a kid is dead, and a whole lotta shit started going down right about the time you moved back to Steele Ridge. Remind me to nominate him for Asshole of the Year if we prove he’s setting you up.”

  “I’ll call his mother and see if I can track him down that way.” Emmy went to Cash’s bedroom and dialed.

  Five minutes later, she returned to the kitchen, her body numb with knowledge. Cash might very well be right about Oliver. And if he was, she would find a way to let Oliver’s snotty, skinny ass languish in jail for the rest of his blue-blooded life.

  “What?” Cash took her by the arms.

  “Apparently Oliver has been in Charlotte since less than a week after I moved back to Steele Ridge. He’s doing some type of doctor exchange program with a hospital down here.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Cash pulled her in for a rough kiss to the forehead, then slid the cooling omelet onto a paper plate. “That means we’re taking this to go.”

  * * *

  When it rained information, that shit poured in buckets. Before Cash could get a damn shirt on, Jonah called.

  “Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back with you on the Call of Duty thing,” Jonah said, his tone full of frustration, “but fuck me, those kids close ranks when they even get a whiff of an adult poking around.”

  Even though everything was one big mess right now, Cash laughed. “It’s hell getting old, ain’t it?”

  “Shut up,” he said. “I got the deets you need. I was able to trace our 911 caller to an IP addy and get you an address. Take this down.”

  Cash grabbed a pencil and some sticky notes from a kitchen drawer. “Shoot.”

  After Jonah rattled off a local address, he said, “You know this info should go straight to Maggie, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “So I can assume you’ll do the right thing here?”

  Cash smiled what he knew was a predatory smile and lied his face off. “Absolutely. Later, man.”

  “Emmy,” Cash yelled toward his bedroom where she was getting dressed. “We need to make one stop before we drive to Charlotte.”

  At the address Jonah had given him, they found a nondescript split-level home, probably built somewhere in the sixties or seventies. Yard was scraggly, but that was just spring growth inconsistency rather than a complete lack of care. The decades-old azaleas bloomed like fire along the perimeter of the home.

  “Jonah originally said this swatter could be anywhere. Do you think it’s weird that he or she is local?” he asked Emmy.

  “Not if this really was related to everything else that’s happened.”

  He had no idea what they might be stepping into, so he’d shrugged into a shoulder holster and his Springfield sat heavy against his side. “I want you to stay behind me.”

  His knock on the door was loud and should let anyone inside know from the get-go that he wasn’t to be fucked with. It wasn’t long until it creaked open and a middle-aged woman squinted at them with suspicion. “I already told you people that I don’t need any magazines and I’ve already found Jesus.”

  “Not here selling anything, ma’am,” Cash reassured her. “Do you happen to play video games?”

  That had her sinking into a hip-shot stance. “Do I look like I have time to sit down for hours getting sucked into some make-believe zombie apocalypse?”

  No, but she obviously knew enough about the theme of the games.

  Emmy stepped out from behind him and asked, “Then maybe someone else in your home?”

  “Why’re you asking?” Her tone was hard with suspicion.

  With a smile, Emmy said, “Actually, we’re with a group called Gaming Studs and are seeking out the best Call of Duty players all over the country. We’re putting together a big e-sports tournament in Raleigh—”

  “E-sports?”

  “It’s like Olympics for video games, Ma.” A kid—probably nineteen or twenty—swung the door open wider. He was at least a foot taller than his mother, but he wasn’t old enough to have conquered his acne or grow more than a scraggly patch of facial hair. “I play CoD.”

  “Great,” Emmy said a little too cheerfully. “We’d like to talk with you about the tournament.”

  The kid opened the door wider as if to invite them inside, but Cash waved him outside. “We don’t want to be a bother to your mom. Why don’t we sit out here and talk?” Yeah, it would be easier for the kid to rabbit, but damned if Cash wanted Emmy trapped inside with this guy.

  The mom stepped back and closed the front door. Emmy plopped her sweet ass down on the front steps and the kid followed suit. Cash hopped down so he could stand on the sidewalk and face them both.

  “So what kinda prize money are we talking?” the kid asked.

  The entitled insolence in the kid’s tone made Cash want to pick him up by the neck and shove him up against the house, but Emmy glanced up at Cash and gave a small shake of her head.

  “Actually… ah… sorry, we don’t have your name,” she said.

  “Windell. Windell Owens.”

  “Windell. Great. That’s very helpful. About the prize money—”

  “Tell us about streaming a CoD game on March twenty-fourth.”

  “Wha… Why?”

  It was time to cut the shit. If the kid tried to run, Cash would catch him. “Because we think you were the one who swatted Jesse Giddings.”

  As expected, Windell jumped to his feet, stumbling over his open-laced Vans in his haste to get away from the conversation. Cash caught him by the T-shirt collar and pulled the kid back to look directly into his eyes. They were boinging this way and that—like a Newton’s cradle that had been set off a little too hard.

  “Talk to us, dude,” Cash said. “It’s either that or I drag your 911-calling ass straight to the sheriff’s office.”

  “I… It was just a joke.”

  “Until someone died,” Emmy said softly.

  “What? Uh-uh,” Windell stammered as he tried to back away from Cash. “I was just supposed to…”

  “Supposed to what?” Cash asked, twisting the kid’s shirt a little tighter. “I guess you’re gonna say this was a one-time thing, that you’ve never done th
is before.”

  “How did you know?”

  “So this really was the first time you’ve ever swatted another player?” Emmy asked.

  “Yeah, yeah. I promise.”

  “Then why this time?”

  “The money,” he cried.

  “Windell, tell us everything,” Emmy said. “It’s the only thing that’s going to get you off the hook for manslaughter, maybe even murder.”

  “Murder? Murder, holy fuck.” He shot an abashed glance at Emmy. “Sorry about that, ma’am.”

  Cash relaxed his hold slightly. The expression of shock and fear on the kid’s face was real.

  “So I play a lot of FPS games. First-person shooter. I’m pretty good. Kinda made a name for myself.”

  Emmy had made a good call, dangling the tournament hook.

  “Not long ago, I got pinged through a message board on the dark web, someone offering cash for a good player to creep around on a CoD game. All I had to do was watch, wait to see which player was kicking ass, and then do a swat on him.”

  “Who offered you the money?”

  “Hell if I know.” Windell sent a pleading look toward Emmy. “He was coughing up a grand in Bitcoin. That’s a shit-ton of money for someone like me. He sent me half up front.”

  “He?” Emmy asked Windell, hopping up and trying to sidle in between Cash and the kid. Cash blocked her with his shoulder. “You know it was a man?”

  “Nah. I just assumed.”

  “This person happen to mention someone named Emerson McKay?” Cash asked him.

  “Never heard of him. Really, I didn’t have any idea anyone would be hurt.”

  Emmy sighed and said to Cash, “I believe him.”

  “He broke the law.”

  Holding up his hands in surrender, Windell tried to draw back at Cash’s aggressive tone. “This is the only time I’ve done anything like that. Promise.”

  Cash sincerely doubted that, based on the kid’s screen name, Play4MONEY. He pulled him in close, almost nose to nose. Windell Owens would not forget today. Ever.

  “The kid you swatted was fifteen years old. He was shot during that SWAT call. And he died later that night. Do you understand what I’m saying? You could very well be charged as an accessory if not for straight-up murder.” Finally Cash released him, and the kid’s collar was a mangled mess.

  Windell hunched his shoulders and seemed to shrink half a foot. “Will I be arrested?”

  “You can definitely expect a visit from the sheriff. Tell her everything, the whole truth, and I might put in a word for you.” Pointing a finger in the kid’s face made Cash feel like he was a grumpy old man of ninety, but this was serious shit.

  Hand up scout style, Windell said, “You have my word. I will tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

  Emmy patted the kid on the arm. “Thanks for being honest, Windell.”

  “Any time. Uh… I mean not any time because I won’t ever…”

  Cash put a hand on Emmy’s lower back to lead her to the truck. Before they made it to the end of sidewalk, Windell called out, “So does this mean the tournament is off?”

  27

  Cash didn’t feel as if their chit-chat with Windell Owens had netted them much and his mood must’ve reflected it, because Emmy stayed quiet as they drove toward Charlotte. Finally, she said, “Oliver isn’t a gamer. He wouldn’t know an FPS from the FBI.”

  “You don’t want him to be behind all this.”

  “Of course, I don’t.”

  “Because you still have feelings for him?”

  “No, because I’m proud enough not to relish the thought of having dated a man who’s capable of all this. If the fire was arson, that’s attempted murder. If I slept in the same bed with a murderer… How do you think that makes me feel?”

  Probably as disgusted and angry as Cash did. He took Emmy’s hand and squeezed it. “Point made.”

  The hospital where Amory was working was downtown, and Charlotte traffic was a snarl of four-by-fours, SUVs, and family sedans all the way. They finally turned into the underground parking garage three and a half hours after leaving Steele Ridge. Then they had to circle three levels deep to find a space for his truck.

  He’d been white-knuckling the steering wheel the entire drive, and not because he was stressed about the traffic. But because he doubted his ability to keep both fists out of Amory’s pretty boy face.

  “Maybe I should go in by myself,” Emmy suggested.

  “I’m doing my best not to lose my shit here, Em. Don’t wave a red flag like that in front of my face.”

  “I’m not trying to antagonize you. But Oliver might be more forthcoming if I—”

  He didn’t even wait to hear the rest of her reasoning. Just stepped out of the truck, went around, and opened her door. Waited silently for her to join him.

  When they stopped at the first-floor nurses’ station, a frazzled young woman in Looney Tunes scrubs absently told them Dr. Amory could be found on the sixth level.

  Emmy was a lot more patient than Cash was. She waited at the upstairs desk for close to five minutes before someone finally stopped moving long enough to ask her if she needed help. She flashed a smile and said, “I’m Dr. Emerson McKay, a former colleague of Dr. Amory’s. I heard he was in town and wanted to surprise him. Can you tell me where I can find him?”

  “Probably in one of the empty isolation rooms. The doctors don’t know that we know they go in there and take naps.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Down that way. Second hallway to your left, last door on your right.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “Not so fast.” Cash caught Emmy’s arm as she headed in the direction she’d been given. “He could be dangerous. And what if he tries to bolt?”

  “That’s why you’ll be standing by the door.”

  “I don’t like it,” he grumbled.

  “Objection recorded and filed.”

  And when they strolled through a vestibule and into a patient room, three white-coated doctors were kicked back in rolling desk chairs, their feet up on a bed. Two were snoring and Amory was doing some creepy mumbling and heavy breathing in his sleep. These fuckers wouldn’t make it five minutes in the back of an ambulance.

  Emmy shook one of them awake and said, “Dr. Smith, they’ve been paging you to pediatrics.”

  The man snuffled, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and stared at Emmy’s chest. “Huh?”

  “You’re needed in the pediatric wing.”

  “But I’m—”

  “Now,” Emmy said in such a don’t-fuck-with-me voice that Cash wanted to smile.

  Dr. Smith hurried by Cash, and Emmy moved on to the next one. “Dr. Cartwell, the nurses are looking for you.”

  “Dammit, I just fell asleep.”

  Cash waved him out of the room, then stepped in front of the door to make certain no one else got in. Or out.

  Emmy did make him smile when she braced a foot against Amory’s chair and shoved it several feet across the room, careening into a wall. “Oliver, wake up.”

  Admirably, the douche face went from heavy breathing to alert instantly. “Yes?” When he focused and realized it was Emmy standing over him, he put on what Cash thought of as his Sitting Shithead pose. Chin up, eyebrows arched, chest out. “Emerson, this is a—”

  “Save it,” she told him. “And don’t bother to get up. I want to know why you took this exchange position. That’s a very odd thing for a hospital chief of staff to do.”

  “BaltGen was becoming a little stale. I thought if I—”

  “You know,” she said, “I should probably kick myself for not realizing what a fucking liar you are.”

  His mouth pulled into an I-smell-working-class-shit sneer. “I see your language has devolved to Southern classlessness.”

  Cash wanted to pop the fucker for that alone. Why did people think just because Southerners talked slow that they were dumb?

  “You came to
North Carolina not long after I did. I told you it was over, but that’s not the way things work in your world, is it? If you can’t command the situation, have the last snobby word, then you’ll work out a way to take back control. Tell me the truth about the lawsuit and who encouraged the Hernandez family to file that, Oliver.”

  “I have no idea what—”

  She got in his face, just pushed right in and growled like a feral animal. Cash was depraved enough to admit, it turned him on. More than a little.

  Amory tried to scrabble back, pushing his chair with his feet like Fred Flintstone, but Emmy kept coming, stalking him as he wheeled himself around the room. “Then you might touch on the brick thrown through my apartment building’s window and the fire that gutted a historic building in Steele Ridge.”

  “Fire? Why would I—”

  Cash interrupted the asshole. “Maybe so you could scare Emmy into running back to BaltGen.”

  “Why are you still in North Carolina, Oliver?” Emmy demanded, “and what were you really doing at the hospital in Steele Ridge?”

  “That podunk hospital. I was there trying to talk the ER director into firing you.”

  “My God, Oliver, what else could you have done to ruin me? Apparently, you’ve tried a little of everything. Starting rumors that I killed a child, the op-ed piece—”

  “Fine,” he snapped. “I admit the lawsuit was my idea. I thought if you had to pay—”

  “For my own malpractice attorney, that I would come running back to you and your shit-piles of cash?”

  “You’ve turned low-class.”

  “No,” she retorted. “I’ve relearned how to be myself. The real Emerson McKay.”

  Something flickered out in the arrogant prick’s eyes. Some realization that no matter what he did—how many strings he pulled or situations he manipulated—that Emmy was done with him. “And as far as a brick through a window, surely you know I wouldn’t be as crass as that.”

  “No sense of style or class in throwing a brick.”

  “You haven’t denied setting the fire,” Cash said quietly. “Emmy could’ve been killed.”

  Amory sat up straight and reached toward Emmy. Cash lunged forward and put a quick stop to that by bending back the guy’s hand until he dropped his arm. “Are you saying you’ve been put in danger in these other situations?” he asked Emmy. “I would never actually—”