by Kylie Brant
“Gran died when I was eight,” Jolie replied tightly. And she was grateful for the time she’d spent with the older woman, who’d given her the only real home she’d ever had. But she’d learned to cook at her fifth—or was it sixth?—foster home. Of all the lessons learned while she was passed from one foster family to another like unwanted baggage, cooking had been by far the most useful.
They ate in silence then. Jolie finished first and got up to rinse her plate and put it in the dishwasher. She made no move to collect Trixie’s. One of the ground rules she’d set before allowing her mother to move in with her was that she pick up after herself, at least as long as she was able to.
The cancer that was ravaging Trixie’s body was just finishing the job her high-risk lifestyle had started thirty years earlier. A lifetime ago, before Jolie had been old enough to truly understand who and what her mother was, the thought of living with her—like a real family—had been a little girl’s fantasy. This was the reality. She’d learned the hard way that dreams were just that. Life was far from perfect. Far from easy.
She checked the clock, nearly groaned when she saw that it was past one-thirty. If she went to bed now she’d be lucky to get five hours’ sleep before reporting for duty tomorrow. “I’m going to turn in.”
“Wait a minute. I’ve been sitting here alone all day. The least you can do is talk to me.” Trixie wiped her mouth on the napkin Jolie had given her, then tossed it on her now-empty plate.
Guilt warring with exhaustion, Jolie hesitated. Unless Trixie chose to go out to eat or for a walk, there was absolutely nothing for her to do. Her fault, of course, since she’d traded the TV and stereo for ready cash, but still…In that position Jolie knew she’d go stark raving mad inside a week.
“I could pick up some more magazines for you tomorrow.” She sank down on the arm of the sofa, surveying her mother. “Did you finish the ones I brought home before?”
Trixie waved a hand. “I ain’t never been much for reading. I think what I need is to get out more. Get some fresh air. That’s what Dr. Baxter said, remember?”
The man Trixie had earlier denounced as a quack. Instantly wary, Jolie said noncommittally, “I remember.”
“What I’ve been thinking about is going to the beach.” She lit another cigarette and crossed one skeletally thin leg over the other, causing her too short skirt to ride up past the point of modesty, if Trixie had ever possessed any. “The sound of the ocean. The fresh breeze coming in off the sea. ’Member when I used to take you to the beach when you was little?”
“No.” Jolie refused to join in the pretense. The only places she’d ever gone with Trixie had been to dive taverns and dilapidated apartments occupied by dealers who sold whatever it was Trixie was using at the time.
But that wasn’t quite right. There had been that little field trip to the police station when Trixie had been slapped with her third soliciting charge, while Jolie had been stashed in the backseat of a car parked nearby.
“Well, I did,” Trixie snapped. “All the time. Now, I know you gotta work. But I was thinking about it since this friend of mine, Claudia—I don’t think you ever met her—I ran into her the other day. Asked me if I wanted to take a trip along the Coastal Highway and I thought, ‘Why not?’ I might as well enjoy the time I got left, right?”
Jolie didn’t answer. She was waiting for the shakedown. Trixie had it mastered to an art form.
The older woman finished her cigarette and immediately lit another. “’Course, I wouldn’t feel right going along and not paying for nothing. There’s gas money and I’d need a little for meals. Couple nights in a motel.” She snuck a peek at Jolie through the haze of smoke. “Wouldn’t be too much. A couple hundred dollars would do it, probably. I could be back Sunday.”
“No.” Jolie got up and headed toward her room.
“You’re a selfish bitch, you know that?” Trixie’s voice went from pleasant to ugly with a speed a starlet would envy. There was a loud crash. Jolie said a silent goodbye to the woman’s plate. “Who are you to tell me I can’t have a little fun, huh? You got the money. I know you do.”
Jolie turned, noting the shards of broken stoneware on the far side of the room before facing her mother. Trixie was breathing hard, her expression twisted in a snarl. “That’s right, I do. But I’m not giving it to you, because I know your idea of fun goes up your nose. I’ve told you before, I’ll give you a place to live. Feed you. Clothe you. Line up medical assistance. But I won’t help you kill yourself.” Her lips curved humorlessly. “You’ve always done an admirable job of that on your own.” She started for her bedroom, more in a hurry than ever to put an end to this day.
“That kid of yours is better off dead, with you as a mother.” Jolie froze, battling back the unexpected wave of agony that was never far away. After thrusting the verbal dagger, Trixie twisted it. “Lucky it never had to grow up and deal with you. You’re pure ice, through and through. Don’t give a damn about anyone but yourself.”
It took a moment for her lungs to ease. Another for the power of speech to return. Fighting to surface from the tide of anguish, Jolie shot the woman a look over her shoulder. “If that’s true, you must be really proud. I learned from a master, didn’t I?” Spine rigid, she turned and walked down the hall to her bedroom, closing the door behind her quietly.
* * *
“Fix him.”
At the order, the intern, Clark Howard, glanced up from his ministrations to the unconscious man. He didn’t like the hard, set expression on the second man’s face. He liked the gun pointing at his head even less.
“I’ve tried. But he’s lost too much blood. One of the bullets nicked his femoral artery. Infection has set in in the right leg. He needs to get to a hospital. It’s his only chance.” A very slim one, at this point.
“Wrong,” came the soft reply. “You’re his only chance. And he’s yours. Because if he dies, so do you.”
Twenty-four hours ago Clark might have believed that. But then twenty-four hours ago he’d believed he was doing the right thing by cutting his smoking break short outside the hospital to run to the stranger’s aid as he yelled for help from a nearby car.
But now he knew better. He’d been a sucker. He’d seen some of the newscasts about the bank robbery and he could guess who his patient was. Regardless of the outcome in this room, his own death had been certain even before he’d been yanked inside that car. Even before it had sped away.
“We got you everything you said.” The second man indicated the mound of medicine, bandages and surgical equipment. “You can do anything the hospital can.”
Clark swallowed a wave of frustration. “He needs IV fluids, heavy-duty antibiotics, a CT and possibly an amputation. I can’t do any of that.”
The man’s gaze shifted for a moment to the patient, and Clark thought he saw a flicker of indecision in his expression. Pressing the point, he rose and began talking rapidly. “Listen, you can drop us both off at the hospital. I’ll see him safely in. No one will have to know about you. About this.”
There was a moment, a brief instant when he thought he’d won a reprieve. When he believed the second man would do the right thing, the thing Clark had been begging him to do since he’d gotten pulled into that car.
Then the patient made a gurgling sound, and Clark froze for a moment before dropping to his knees beside him again to check for vitals. But the death rattle had heralded the patient’s demise, and, Clark realized, his own.
He administered CPR more as an avoidance than anything else. The man with the gun was still. So still. When the intern finally rocked back on his heels, sweating and afraid, he raised his gaze reluctantly and saw exactly what he’d expected.
“Wait.” He swallowed hard, hands out in supplication. “You have to realize—”
The shot to the middle of his forehead left his sentence unfinished.
The gunman kicked the intern’s body aside to kneel down next to that of his little brother, the brother
he’d been looking after one way or another all his life. Grief welled, was ruthlessly pushed aside. Grief solved nothing. Sorrow was weakness, and this wasn’t a time to be weak.
Fury flared then, and he fanned the embers, welcoming the hot lick of rage igniting nerve endings, firing a thirst for revenge.
The death of David John Marker wouldn’t go unavenged. He’d make sure they paid.
Every damn one of them.
CHAPTER 5
She could change jobs, change locations, but one constant remained. Monday mornings sucked. Nothing ever seemed to change that.
Jolie unlocked the gun safe, took out her holstered weapon and quickly strapped it on. She was running later than she’d like, mostly because the stress of a weekend spent with Trixie hadn’t been conducive to restful nights.
It was impossible to keep the woman amused given that all her favorite pastimes were illegal or immoral. By Sunday Jolie had felt like she was dealing with a badly behaved hyperactive three-year-old. In a fit of desperation, she’d gone shopping for another TV. The puzzled salesperson had assured her that it could be chained to the wall, much like they were in motels. The service would cost her another couple hundred dollars, but hopefully it would stop her mother from letting one of her low-life friends into the apartment to help himself to Jolie’s things in exchange for favors she didn’t even want to consider.
She grabbed her purse and stepped over to take another look at the calendar. Trixie’s next visit with the oncologist was Friday, and she made a mental note to tell her lieutenant she’d be taking a few hours off. Her mother couldn’t be trusted to relay the doctor’s advice, or even to keep the appointment on her own.
The knock at the front door had her jerking around, startled. The TV wasn’t due to be delivered until tomorrow, and it was too early for visitors, not that she’d had any since she moved back. She was reluctant to explain Trixie to any of her friends. It struck her then that the only “guests” entertained in the apartment since she’d acquired it were the ones Trixie had invited to carry off Jolie’s electronics. The irony didn’t escape her.
The knocking was repeated, louder this time. She strode to the door, not anxious for Trixie to awaken. But when she checked the peephole, her legs went to water.
She slapped one hand on the doorjamb for support. Dace filled the small opening. Big. Unsmiling. Larger than life. Much as he’d filled her life, once upon a time.
Jolie slammed the figurative door on that memory and opened the literal one before her.
“What do you want?”
His brows skimmed upward. “Still a morning person, I see.”
She took a breath, strove for an impassive mask to match his. “I’m running a little late. You can talk on the way to my car.” Without waiting for a response, she stepped out, pulling the door shut behind her.
But Dace stood in place eyeing the condominium complex, with its ill-kept shrubs and peeling paint. “You need to talk to the landlord about your maintenance agreement. Seems like he’s falling down on the job a bit.”
The daylight did the place no favors. She didn’t bother to tell him the inside was only slightly better than the exterior. Or that she had lived in far worse in her life. “I’ll do that.”
He slipped his hands in the pockets of his dark trousers as he strolled along with her. He was wearing a matching black shirt, muted tie and shoulder harness. He must have left his jacket in his vehicle. There was a fresh nick on his chin, courtesy of his morning shave. Noticing it had a ball of nerves tightening in her stomach.
“Why are you here?”
“You didn’t answer your cell.”
She looked at him blankly. The cell was in her glove box, along with her wallet. So far the precautions had kept them out of Trixie’s clutches. “And you called my cell because…”
“Not me. Lewis. The feds have called a meeting for this morning. He was in a hurry, so when he told me he couldn’t reach you I said I’d swing by. He gave me the address and…” He shrugged, the familiar gesture striking a chord in her.
His explanation didn’t make sense. “He has my landline number. Why didn’t he try that?”
“Said it wasn’t working.”
She frowned, halting to look back at her apartment door. That was odd. The phone had worked fine yesterday, when she’d called the electronics store to see when they were open. Then she’d been gone a couple hours to buy the TV….
She closed her eyes, a grim sense of certainty filling her. Maybe there was a malfunction. That was possible.
It was also possible that Trixie had gotten her hands on a little cash in Jolie’s absence yesterday by pawning the telephone/answering machine to her friends. And Jolie had been stressed enough that she hadn’t even missed it.
She checked her watch, debating whether she had time to go back inside to check. “What time is the meeting?”
“Eight. We just have time to make it.”
Annoyed, she turned her back on the apartment and resumed walking. “Have there been developments in the investigation?” If so, it would be unusual for the feds to share them with the locals. She had figured that the debriefing the previous week would be their last direct involvement in the case.
“Lewis wouldn’t say. But I heard something that I think explains the urgency.” He stopped, turning to face her. Jolie was struck by his grim expression. “Ava Carter was shot as she was going into a grocery store Saturday afternoon.”
Her throat abruptly dried. “Did she…Was she…”
“She’s alive and her condition has stabilized. No word on the shooter. But that, coupled with Lewis’s call this morning makes me think the feds want to discuss whether it could possibly be connected to the case.”
Everything inside her rejected the idea. “You’ve got a suspicious mind. More likely they’ve got a preliminary profile from their agency shrink and want to run it by us.”
“Yeah, because they hold our opinion in such high esteem.” She shot him an amused glance. She’d always enjoyed his sardonic outlook, since she wasn’t exactly a Pollyanna herself. They’d connected first through the job they shared, with passion following quickly. And then…She swallowed hard, forcing her gaze to the parking lot ahead of them. Sammy had forged a bond between them that couldn’t be broken, couldn’t be outdistanced. Even now his ghost loomed, silent and somehow reproachful.
“You’re going to have a heckuva time backing your car out.” Dace squinted at her dated sedan. He’d tried to get her to trade it when they’d been together, but she’d refused. She had no interest in cars, and as long as hers still ran and parts weren’t falling off, it was good enough.
She followed his gaze across the parking lot and irritation rose. “Some drunk with a depth-perception problem must have decided to take his space and part of mine, too.” A nondescript white sedan hugged her car on the passenger side, the door handles nearly touching. How was she ever going to get out of the space without hooking its mirror with her own?
Surveying the position of the vehicles, she decided she could pull straight ahead over the curb without touching the other vehicle, if she was extremely careful. Her Monday-morning mood went from peevish to surly. She was tempted to hunt down the driver and kick his ass, whether it made her late to work or not.
“Listen to me, Jolie.”
The quiet urgency in Dace’s voice managed to distract her from her violent thoughts. “You can think I’m paranoid, fine, but when I say go, you’re going to turn and run like hell. Ready?”
She scowled at him, at a loss. “Why should I…”
His hand gripped her elbow tightly. “Go!” He abruptly turned, yanking her with him and half dragging her across the lot back in the direction they’d come. “Stay down!” he yelled, running in a crouch, never loosening his grasp.
She ran. She didn’t have a choice. In a heartbeat, the focus of her ire switched from the driver of the sedan to the man beside her. “You idiot, what are you—”
The
explosion drowned out her protest, the impact knocking them off their feet and propelling them through the air. When they landed, amid a shower of debris, Jolie’s head bounced hard against something solid. Then everything went black.
* * *
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Adam Marker listened to the barely controlled anger in the caller’s voice as he flipped through the news stations with the remote. “Any update on Conrad’s status? I can’t find a thing on TV yet.” Damn reporters were always sticking their noses in everywhere, except when you actually needed them.
“Marker, listen to me. You’re out of control. You’re going to bring this whole thing down on all of us. You start trying to assassinate police officers, and the world begins crashing in pretty damn quick.”
“The update, Gee.” The caller went silent at the use of the hated nickname. “That was your job. Is Conrad dead?”
A long hesitation. Then, “No. My source at the hospital says she hasn’t regained consciousness yet. Recker walked away with only a few scratches.”
Fury flared, a lit match to a gasoline-soaked fuse. The remote sailed across the room, shattering the television screen. “Sonuvabitch!” It had seemed like fate to see Recker pull up outside Conrad’s apartment this morning. David would have called it a two-fer. Two dead cops with one explosion.
But neither had died. He’d planned so carefully. A car bomb activated by the car’s ignition could be detonated too soon by a remote starting device. And he’d been afraid a cop would be cautious enough to check the chassis for IEDs.
But he hadn’t been smart enough. Rage hazed his vision. Another failure, like Carter, who had escaped death only because she’d stopped her approach to the grocery store to dig for her cell phone in her purse.
Lucky. All three of them. And why did they deserve luck when it had deserted his brother?
“I know you’re devastated over David’s death.” The low soothing tone came from the cell Marker had almost forgotten he was holding. “You want revenge. That’s understandable. You can still have it. But not now. Not with every law enforcement agency in the area hunting for us. Get out of the state. Lie low a while. Start planning our next job. That’s what you do best, remember? The planning.”