Avenged

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Avenged Page 12

by Janice Cantore


  Carly took a deep breath, willing her anger to calm so she could think clearly. But it chafed that Barton was able to irritate her like this. “Miss Masters—”

  “Ms.”

  “Ms. Masters. You’re not supposed to be here either. I believe hospital policy bars reporters from intensive care.”

  The facilitator, a middle-aged, heavyset woman, piped up as she stood. “They wanted me to let them in to see the young man who was shot in the head. I was trying to tell them the same thing. I cannot let them in.”

  Carly didn’t miss the threatening look Barton shot the woman. But the facilitator stood her ground. “My supervisor is on the way up.”

  “Look, I am a credentialed member of the press. I have a right to access. That boy in there might have a story to tell. What are you trying to hide?” Masters stamped her foot for emphasis.

  Carly sighed and ignored the question she knew was meant to bait her. “Your access is not my problem. You need to take that up with hospital administration. And I doubt anyone is in the office this time of night.” She directed her attention back to Barton. “You’re not press. What’s your interest here?” She pulled out her handheld radio and keyed the mike, asking for Jacobs.

  Barton cursed, clearly livid. “I don’t have to tell you jack. But maybe I’m a friend of the kid’s mother. What about that?”

  “Captain, I have Dean Barton and Ginny Masters up here. Do you know if ATF wants to talk to Barton?”

  “Your frame-up didn’t work,” Barton sneered while Carly waited for an answer. He grabbed Masters’s hand. “I was with my lady all night, not setting up a bomb.”

  The radio cackled, and Jacobs told her the investigation was ongoing, but she could let Barton go.

  Carly refused to look away from Barton, irritated that she couldn’t arrest him, and doubted that he was a friend of Hector’s mother. She started to speak, but before she could answer him, the facilitator said evenly, “You all need to come back during normal visiting hours if you have permission to visit the boy.”

  The woman was so brave now, Carly could have hugged her. But the tension in the room thickened, and she wondered how far Barton would push her. Just then the elevator opened and two more hospital security people stepped off. Carly recognized the older one as a graveyard supervisor. He’d helped her break up a fight in the ER once.

  “Officer Edwards, thanks for coming to help,” the supervisor said, interpreting her presence as being there by request, “but we have everything under control. I’m not sure how these people got up here, but I’ll be happy to escort them back to the lobby.”

  Masters sputtered, but the supervisor hit her with some legalese that a lawyer would’ve been proud of. Potter even stopped taking pictures. Carly made note of the fact that Barton kept silent. Finally, after losing her fight with the supervisor, Masters turned to the tattooed parolee.

  “Come on, Dean. We can find our own way downstairs.” She jabbed the elevator call button with a wicked fingernail.

  “That may be,” the supervisor replied calmly, “but it’s our job to show you out.”

  Carly stepped aside for Barton to get on the elevator. She held his dark eyes as he shot her a hate stare to end all hate stares.

  “This ain’t over,” he muttered as he walked past.

  19

  CARLY SAID NOTHING as Ginny Masters, Dean Barton, and Duncan Potter entered the elevator and the doors closed.

  “You came in at the right time,” the facilitator said, sounding relieved as she sat at her desk again.

  “What were they saying when I walked in?”

  “The man—boy, he sure gave me the creeps—he was trying to tell me that they just wanted a minute to see the boy and that no one would know. I tried to explain about policy, but neither of them cared. Then you walked in.” She straightened her shirt and closed a book that was open on her desk. “Are you here about that kid?”

  Carly nodded. “I’ll probably be sitting with him for the rest of the night. We’ll be watching him 24-7 for now.”

  “Good,” she said. “Glad to know you’ll be around.” She hit the buzzer to open the door to the intensive care ward.

  Once inside, Carly blew out a breath, wondering what on earth Barton or Masters would want with Crusher and what unholy alliance the reporter had formed with him. She lowered the volume on her police radio, respectful of the quiet atmosphere in ICU.

  Lights were dim in ICU. The nurse at the main desk looked up, and Carly recognized her as a friend of Andi’s—Robin. When she saw Carly, Robin pointed to the room to the right of her station.

  Carly walked there and looked in on Crusher from the doorway. Tubes and wires were everywhere. His face looked swollen and puffy.

  Robin came to stand next to her. “He’s holding his own.”

  “Will he wake up?”

  “Well, he’s healing, his vitals are good, and the swelling has been controlled, so now it’s a matter of wait and see.” She shrugged. “Those two who come to visit him said they saw him react the last time they were here.”

  Carly remembered Londy telling her he thought Crusher had squeezed his hand.

  Robin continued. “They said he twitched when they reminded him his mother loved him. If he does wake up, we’ll have a better idea of how well he’ll recover.”

  Carly looked at Robin, whose expression was thoughtful.

  “He’s the same age as my son, and he has a lot going for him. The bullet did enter and exit, but the damage was minimal. And he’s young, strong, and help got to him quickly.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  Robin smiled. “Head injuries are difficult. Only time will tell. I heard that you did some first aid for him on scene. You probably saved his life.”

  Carly flushed. “It’s my job. Couldn’t let him bleed out at my feet.”

  “Not every cop would have done that for a gang member,” Robin said over her shoulder as she returned to her station.

  Carly pulled up a chair and took a seat outside the room. She thought about that night when she and Joe had rolled up to the shooting. Stopping the bleeding had seemed like a small thing considering Hector’s wound, and she admitted to herself that at the time she didn’t think he’d make it.

  “He’s come this far, Lord,” she prayed. “I have to believe you’ll bring him all the way back.”

  She’d been sitting for about an hour when she heard someone enter the ICU area. Sergeant Barrett walked toward her.

  “Barton give you much trouble?” Barrett asked as he shoved an unlit cigarette into his mouth.

  “No. I just hadn’t heard how his involvement in the bomb investigation had panned out.”

  “He’s still a suspect, but they have no hard evidence linking him—or anyone for that matter—to the bomb. ATF is all over it.” He pulled up a chair. “Apparently he has an alibi for when they think the bomb was set. Now that they’re certain the thieves who stole the C-4 are in Las Playas and ready to use the stuff, there are likely to be more ATF agents in town than cops soon.”

  “Have they figured any connection? I mean, it makes no sense for someone—even Dean Barton—to steal all that stuff just to blow up a coffee shop.”

  “Nick might know more about it than I do. He and Mickey were point men with the ATF. He’ll be up later.” He shook his head. “I hate it when a cop goes down. Seen it too many times in my career.”

  Carly nodded in agreement, so thankful that Nick was okay.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. “You don’t need to hang around,” Carly said finally, gesturing toward the door. “No one is going to get in here.”

  “I wanted to talk to you for a minute,” Barrett said, looking at the cubicle where Crusher lay.

  Carly shrugged and followed his gaze. The place was quiet but for the beeping of machines.

  Barrett faced her, elbows on his knees. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and played with it as if he had a pen in his hands, rolling it between his palms
.

  Carly wondered what he wanted. As the minutes ticked away, fear rose that he wanted to talk about Andrea. She prayed that wasn’t his concern.

  Finally he looked up—not at Carly, but toward the nurse’s station. “I’ve been wanting to ask you something. It’s a little personal, but I hope you’ll talk to me.”

  Carly sucked in a breath and braced herself. “Talk about what?”

  Sergeant Barrett seemed as uncomfortable as she’d ever seen him. She’d had a problem with him ever since his affair with her friend. She knew Barrett was married with five kids, and it made her angry that he treated his wife so shabbily. She’d confessed to Nick that when Joe had told her Barrett had been suitcased, she’d decided he’d gotten what he deserved.

  He studied his feet. “It’s just that I know what happened with you and Nick. I mean—” he sat up—“I know he cheated on you and you divorced him but then took him back even though you knew all about the affair. I just wondered . . . what did he do to convince you to take him back? It must have been difficult . . .”

  Carly relaxed immediately. She had no problem talking about the reconciliation. It was a huge blessing, the biggest in her life to date. “Yeah, it was difficult, but Nick and I are Christians now. We’re different people. I forgave him because I believed him when he told me he was sorry and it would not happen again.”

  “Him going to church—that changed your mind?”

  “It wasn’t just church. I could tell that he’d really changed. I changed as well. And I knew he regretted what happened with the other woman.”

  Now Barrett met her eyes. “My wife wants a divorce. She kicked me out—I’m sure you’ve heard—and I probably deserve it.” He rolled his shoulders as if he had a stiff neck. “But I miss my kids. I hate how they look at me . . .” His voice broke.

  Carly turned away, hoping he wouldn’t start crying. She couldn’t dredge up much sympathy. She’d been in his wife’s shoes. When she had found out about Nick’s affair, she thought she’d die.

  After a minute Barrett composed himself. “I see Mickey and think that could happen to me. I don’t want a cloud hanging over my marriage or my kids.” He cursed. “I don’t know if I can change her mind, but I’ve got to try. I haven’t been to church since I was a kid. Would it be okay if I came to your church?”

  “Of course.” Carly resisted the urge to pat his shoulder. “You’d be welcome at church. In fact, why don’t you talk to the pastor, Jonah Rawlings? He’s a great guy; you’ll like him.”

  “Did he help you forgive Nick?”

  “By the time I talked to Jonah, I had already forgiven Nick. What he helped me with was the spiritual change in my own heart and life.”

  Barrett shrugged. “I’m willing to try anything.”

  Carly told him where she and Nick went and gave him the service times. While she was happy to hear that he seemed completely sincere, she was relieved to see him go. After praying for Sergeant Barrett, she leaned back to think about her own problems and dilemmas, thankful that none were as serious or painful as Barrett’s at the moment.

  20

  IT WAS A COUPLE of hours before Nick could join Carly in ICU. By then, Mickey had been moved to an ICU cubicle down the hall. Fernando, Mickey’s academy classmate and close friend, was with Ann outside the room. The doctor said that while the surgery had gone well, Mickey was still critical, and he wanted him monitored in ICU. But the doctor did believe that the worst was over.

  When Nick walked into ICU with a drink carrier, Carly felt her heart race. He knew her too well and gave her a smile that said, “I’m fine; don’t worry” before he dropped off two coffees to Fernando and Ann. He came back her way with two coffees and a bag of what Carly hoped was something sweet. She hadn’t eaten dinner, and her stomach was reminding her of that. But she also needed something more than food.

  “I need a hug,” she said when he returned. It hadn’t escaped her notice that he’d changed. The bloody jeans were gone, and in their place were clean, black tactical pants.

  “Me too.” He held his arms open and Carly fell into them. It wasn’t a real hug since they were separated by Kevlar vests and a myriad of traditional police accoutrements, but it did Carly a world of good.

  After a minute, he said, “Why don’t we sit, drink our coffee, and I’ll tell you what happened.”

  They walked to the small waiting room across from the nurses’ station and sat. Nick opened the bag and pulled out two pieces of Mexican sweet bread. Carly sighed with contentment. There was a place on the west side that started baking sweet bread early, to put on a fleet of food trucks for their breakfast business. It was now almost 5 a.m., and the bread was still warm.

  “Oooh,” Carly moaned, “you read my mind.”

  “I know my wife. A sugar high after stress is the prescription.”

  She smiled and, with her mouth full, indicated that he needed to tell her the details.

  “Things were going good, quiet. Mickey and I ran into Londy doing his thing with a group of Ninjas.” He sipped his coffee. “That guy is bold. He was preaching the gospel to all these kids who just saw their homeboy put in the ground. I was moved. Then, without warning, someone yells, ‘Drive-by!’” He shook his head. “You know how that goes.”

  Carly did. In a group on the street, it would create chaos.

  “I saw the car out of the corner of my eye and turned to Victor—he was in the group—but he was already running. Then I heard the shots—five or six—and the next thing I knew, Londy fell into me and we both hit the ground.” He sucked in a breath. “The car went past, and when I got up, I saw Mickey. He pushed Londy into me and probably saved both our lives.”

  Carly reached out and gripped his hand. “Thank God.”

  For a minute they sat, holding hands and letting it sink in.

  “But there is some good news in all this,” Nick said.

  “What?”

  “Not only do we have the kid who shot Mickey in custody; he’s talking. And sitting in jail has loosened Trey’s tongue. He told the jailer he wanted to talk to me after he heard about this latest incident. We were right.”

  “Right about what?”

  “Someone is trying to start a gang war, and it’s not Oceans First.”

  She took another bite of her sweet bread and washed it down with coffee. After she swallowed, she asked, “Did Trey tell you who is trying to start the gang war?”

  Nick shook his head. “All he knows is that he was approached by a guy who told him that he had guns for the Ninjas, guns that would help him even the score after the shooting of his three homeys.”

  “The guns in the stolen car he was driving?”

  “Yep. Trey says this guy set him up with the car and the guns. Told him they were untraceable. Not surprisingly, the guy who gave the Garnet kid the gun said almost the exact same thing.”

  Carly sat back and thought about this. “Same guy?”

  “Most likely.”

  “Did he offer Trey money for actually hitting someone as well?”

  “That’s where it gets hinky. Trey’s benefactor didn’t charge him or offer him anything. Said he just wanted to see scores settled and thought it was cowardly the way the three Ninjas were shot. When I asked Trey why he trusted this guy he’d never met before, he said that at the time he was mad and wanted revenge.”

  “So he took the guns and was all set to do business?”

  Nick nodded. “He couldn’t tell me why the Playboyz would start a war in the first place. They had no beef. And when he realized he was the one we caught driving the stolen car with all of those guns, and he was the only one being charged, and that more people were getting shot, he couldn’t be helpful enough.” Nick finished the last bit of his sweet bread and wiped his mouth.

  Carly sipped her coffee and thought about what Nick had said and the implications. “And it’s the same supplier in both cases?”

  “Descriptions are similar. We arranged for a sketch artist from the
sheriff’s department to come in tomorrow—or today, I guess—and talk to Trey. But from what both gangbangers have said so far, you may know the guy.”

  “What?” She frowned. “It’s a local guy?”

  “Not sure how local, but the guy Trey described is nearly what you said Victor described. He has a scarred face, lots of prison tattoos, and a scratchy voice.”

  Carly’s coffee stopped halfway to her mouth and her eyes widened. “You’re kidding? Dean Barton?”

  He nodded. “Tell me about your confrontation outside ICU earlier.”

  She filled him in. “I would have held on to him because of the bomb in the coffee shop.”

  “He was questioned and cleared for the time being regarding that, when Masters vouched for him. But everything is pointing to him being the gun fairy. What a coincidence that he’d be trying to get in to see Crusher. I haven’t seen the guy, but Trey’s description sounds an awful lot like yours.”

  “Add this to what Victor said. Maybe the boy was spot-on about the guys Crusher was selling for being the shooters. But . . .”

  “Why?” Nick asked the $64,000 question.

  “Yeah, these guys are here causing trouble, but why?” She pulled a small notebook and pen out of her pocket and began to write. “Look what we have so far. Three kids shot made to look like a gang shooting and start a war. Gang leader given guns to keep war going.” She wrote down those details, making them points one and two.

  “Next, a bomb planted at Half Baked—appears unrelated, but explosives were stolen when the guns were stolen.” This was number three.

  “Shooting tonight,” Nick injected, “but not certain how that fits because Londy was the money target, and he’s not a gang member anymore.”

  “He was a Ninja and Ninjas were the first victims.” Carly chewed on the end of her pen. “Except for the bomb.” She looked at Nick, eyes wide. “Maybe the bomb was meant for Londy. He works at the coffee shop. Maybe this war is against the Ninjas, some kind of revenge for something that happened in the past.”

  “But how would Dean Barton fit in that scenario? He’s from Arizona.”

 

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