by R. T. Wolfe
"Freeze!"
Duncan glanced over his shoulder. His eyes grew large as he noticed the security guard pulling his gun. Everyone put their hands in the air, everyone except Nickie, that is. She pulled her badge from her belt and held it up. "Detective Savage, your captain knows I'm—"
"I know who you are." He didn't appear pleased. "Are you hurt, Detective?"
Nothing like a gun to sober up a group of young men.
"I'm fine."
"Would you like to press charges?" he added.
She raised a brow at the sight of the one holding his strained arm, two others sporting swollen eyes. Straightening her blouse, she smiled and shook her head. Stepping to the one who started the mess, she placed herself inches from his nose. "Stay out of trouble tonight. I know where you're staying."
At the look on the security officer's face, Duncan didn't think they would be staying here.
He and Nickie rode alone in the elevator to the sky loft suite. He didn't ask if she was okay or offer any conversation. He knew from experience she would want independence and confidence at that moment. What he did notice was that her hands had stopped shaking. His Nickie was one complicated mess of a woman. And he was in love with her. Flexing his hand, he surveyed his bloodied knuckles. Damn.
As he opened the suite door, he placed his hand on her lower back, gesturing for her to enter first. They'd packed in haste, but neither would go anywhere overnight without their crutches. His crutch was his painting supplies. Hers was her cello. They'd spent many nights over the past several months painting and playing. Her cello was the one thing that could drown out the lifetime of images, sounds and smells that clouded his mind... ones that weren't conducive to coherent thought, let alone painting. Images from his childhood. Ones from his stint in the Middle East.
Her eyes moved first to the small studio he set up near the windows. He'd been working on a Christmas gift for his aunt and uncle. At the rate he was going, he might be able to give it to them a month early. He'd taken her cello out of the case and stood it next to his easel.
Finally. A tiny smile beckoned the corners of her mouth. "Before I discovered your secret, I thought you were as crooked as the night is dark. Aren't you glad I don't believe in hunches? It's a wonder we ended up together here the first time, let alone again tonight."
He moved his hand from her lower back to around her waist.
She turned to face him now and stared into his eyes. The steel gray color warmed as he watched.
He traced a thumb along the spot under her high cheekbone. Her eyes were wet, but he knew she wouldn't let the tears escape. The only time she cried was in her sleep.
At his touch, her lids dropped. She turned her face into the palm of his hand. "I didn't remember the house they took me to."
Had she thought she might? Apparently.
The bell on the elevator rang as they stood in the doorway. He turned his head. She didn't. Right on time.
"I ordered food. I imagine the captain and FBI ordered pizza delivery and that you didn't eat a bite."
She smiled, stepped into the room and tossed her jacket on the couch.
Chapter 3
Nickie worked in her incredibly small office at her splintered desk. Crumpled papers lay scattered around the wastebasket. Empty soda bottles were left on top of file cabinets. It was good to be home.
She finished her official report on the Vegas case days ago. Now, she worked on the unofficial ones. She downloaded the pictures she'd taken and sorted through her notes.
The bracelet. She had no memory of it, just a burning sense of familiarity. Select, copy, new page, paste and print. She would keep a picture of the thing in front of her until it came to her.
Oh crap.
She stood and quickly removed the discarded shirt and stack of files she'd piled on her printer in time for the picture to emerge. Cutting it to size, she placed a piece of ringed tape on the back and stuck it to her desk lamp.
Her intercom light blinked. "Savage," she answered into the ancient system.
"Meet me in my office, Nick." It was her captain's voice. "Bring your coat."
She saved her private files to the cloud, tossed her reading glasses on her desk and shut down her computer. After adjusting her gun belt, she draped her brown leather jacket over her arm and headed out her door. The smell of burnt coffee and stale, empty donut boxes told her senses it was nearing lunchtime.
The common area was deserted other than a few rookies on the phone, pecking at keyboards. Rows of dented metal desks grouped in twos clustered in the center as she passed the office of another Northridge detective. Eddy Lynx lifted his brows, likely due to the direction she was headed. Without him. Shrugging, she turned the corner and stood at her boss's door. The engraved metal plate read Captain Dave Nolan.
Images of her previous captain came to mind. Scumbag piece of shit. She'd respected him. And she was a damned good judge of character, especially male character. How could she have been so wrong? Her burning question now was, how she could have missed that Duncan suspected him before she did? After her day at Vegas Metro, the sky loft suite didn't seem like the right time to drill him about it. Soon, though.
The blinds to the captain's office were up, and the door was open. Always a good sign. She knocked anyway.
"Sir?"
He hated that title and turned his eyes to her. Forcing back a smile, she sunk into one of his padded guest chairs and tucked a leg beneath her.
"A shooting victim showed up in the ER. He's not talking. I want you to see if you can use your powers of persuasion."
She nodded and checked her pocket for her keys.
"How are things with Lynx?"
Eddy. Metaphorical heavy sigh. The man with the occasional lame excuse so he could get close to her. Periodic jabs toward her regarding Duncan. One roll in the hay and she had to be the grown-up about it. "Things, sir?"
The heavy sigh from her captain was not metaphorical. "Don't call me that, and you know what I mean."
She let her smile out this time. Dave Nolan treated her with a comfortable mixture of boss, partner and friend with a touch of father figure. The latter was important for a girl in her shoes. "It's all good. I'm a big girl. You don't have to keep waiting to call him in before you have a chance to ask me that."
It was the captain's turn to shrug, and at six-foot-four, pushing two-fifty, it was an awkward sight. He pressed a button on the interdepartmental intercom system. "Lynx. Get in here."
She had gotten the polite invitation, she mused.
* * *
Duncan drove his new Audi R8 to just outside Northridge. He pulled onto Highway 2 and drove the short trip to the smooth asphalt that climbed and wound to the topmost spot in a forty-acre property. His forty-acre property.
At the end of the road, the asphalt widened into a circle drive. Three pickups, a classic muscle car and one box truck parked irregularly inside the circle. On the side of one of the pickups, he read, "Don's Electrical." The doors in the back of the box truck were open. Inside, he spotted stacks of drywall.
Granite steps led to a porch lined with cylindrical pillars. Cedar siding covered the outside except for the brick he had installed in the front. The windows were framed with tumbled edge bricks, soldiered on the tops and bottoms. Add architectural roofing shingles and the look was complete.
Other than the landscaping, the house seemed finished from the outside. He liked big. Three stories plus a fully finished basement that would house his pool, gym and theater. With room for a possible shooting range. It all counted as big enough for his needs.
His brother's Jeep sat parked at the bottom of the steps that led to the massive oak door. He supposed it made sense for the general contractor to be here, but Duncan assumed Andy had other things to do. He also supposed it made sense Andy could check on the progress of the house any time he wanted since he lived down the hill. And since he was charging Duncan an arm and a leg.
The noise reverberated in h
is head before he opened the door. He winced at the sounds as he entered. Drills, air compression hoses and a large boom box blaring AC/DC. The sounds of nail guns beckoned him back to his days in the Middle East. A flashback scratched the back of his mind. He fought it, as he'd been taught to do.
Drywallers walked on stilts. The ease at which they maneuvered the two-story scaffolding was uncomfortable to watch. Climbing the stairs, he responded to single nods of greeting. A man holding a clipboard turned down the music. Duncan had homeowner written all over him.
He found himself on the third floor, the only spot he truly cared about. It had to be perfect. The lighting, the space for his supplies, the placement of the substantial cherry wood desk his uncle made for him.
"Boss." His brother came out of the master bath and greeted him.
"You'd better call me 'boss' for what I'm paying you." They gave each other a one-armed hug and smack on the back. "It looks good."
"What are you doing here?"
"I live here. Or will again soon. When will she be ready?" Duncan asked.
Andy shook his head. "You're just like all of my customers. Impatient and have no clue how much goes into making a quality home."
"Lighten up, little brother. As long as I've found you here, I need to ask about some other work we have to do."
Andy squinted at him analytically. He turned his head away slightly, keeping his eyes on Duncan. Shaking his head, he answered, "I can clear my schedule for a few hours. A few hours."
"It's more than a brother could ask for," Duncan responded. He pulled favors from Andy sparingly. Andy knew it. And Duncan could always count on his brother.
"You come out for dinner. Tonight. That's the deal. Rose has been after me for weeks, and Abigail gets feisty when you're gone for too long."
Duncan checked his watch. He nodded. "I'll see if I can scrounge up a sexy blonde cop to join me."
* * *
Eddy Lynx was a good detective and easy on the eyes if Nickie had to say. But she would never get used to his nonstop conversation. He liked to think aloud. She felt like a heel that it made her squirm.
At least she was the one driving. The ride to the small hospital at the far west side of town seemed much longer than it was. She could smell his cologne. It was a pleasant smell, but it was that musky something that was made to attract females. She wasn't a deer. It was strong enough she would have cracked her window if it weren't just before Thanksgiving in upstate New York.
"Shot in the shoulder. Close range. Preliminary findings from the ER state the wound wasn't fresh. Not a kill shot. Unless the dude had terrible aim."
The captain had already said all of this.
"Married. Two kids in grade school. Pretty young to have two kids in grade school."
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Relief. Caller ID said it was the captain.
"Savage."
"Are you at the hospital yet?"
"We're en route."
"There's been another shooting. Another shoulder entry. Exited the back this time. A woman. Parking lot of her gym. I'm texting you the name and MO."
"I'll keep in touch." She almost hung up.
"Nick?"
"I'm still here."
"They found the shell. The gun is likely a Smith and Wesson M&P .45 ACP. You got your gun on you?"
She wasn't sure why—she knew her gun was clasped in her holster—but she put the phone between her ear and her shoulder anyway, placing her hand on the butt. "I've got my gun." She disconnected.
"Was that Pretty Boy? Did you forget to tell him where you're going?"
Ignoring the jab, she handed her phone to him.
"Read the incoming text, Lynx. Take notes."
* * *
Andy made Duncan drive all the way to the Binghamton internet café. Always the cautious one. They had a system. Had it since they were in high school and first hacked into the Northridge Public School database. They'd deleted their unexcused absences. They justified the breach because they hadn't changed any grades. The twisted minds of teenage boys.
The café was ancient with tall, circular metal tables scattered irregularly. Two matching metal bar stools covered in cheap vinyl were fastened to either side of each table. It smelled of coffee, fruit smoothies and cleaning fluids, and it seemed as if they kept it at a frigid sixty-eight degrees.
Duncan had the memory and the creativity. He remembered passwords and patterns and was able to decode secure sites. Andy was the builder. He was responsible for constructing the safe path of execution so no entrails were left behind. Traceless. After they were in, they had only to wait for someone to log in and key in an ID and password.
The Northridge Police Department system was becoming a regular stop for them. Today, they perused the Vegas files with the FBI on the next burner. That would be a... challenge. They'd hacked into government departments before, foreign and domestic. It was never easy, and he wouldn't want it to be. This way was much more fun.
Again, only under the muse of scruples. It was like an oxymoron.
Duncan had two main objectives. The first was the Asian man whose face popped up into Nickie's past and present. In his dreams. He was there the night of the sting in Vegas months ago. The man had said her name. Duncan couldn't hear over the screams and commotion, but he didn't need to know how to read lips to understand what he said. How did he know her name? That question he needed answered.
Duncan scanned the sketch he'd drawn of the man through the Vegas system. He hoped to get a bite. A name. Anything.
Nothing.
All he had was the memory of a face, some unconfirmed sightings and a hunch. He wouldn't approach Nickie with this information and bring the nightmares of her past back because of a hunch.
Objective number two was the Vegas reports. They found files on the abandoned house in Vegas Metro's, Nickie's and the FBI's databases. The files included pictures of a basement that resembled a concentration camp. A bracelet. A sparse home. Cigarette rolling papers. He zoomed in on the bracelet and the rolling papers. The bracelet was a man's, showy. The rolling papers deluxe, Bistro Club.
Nickie's reports were like everything she did. Thorough, simple and to the point. Facts only. She never needed flashy but had no trouble using flashy if it suited her. She was smart, resilient and a survivor.
He found something. The feds had left a separate file attached to the Vegas case. Apart from Nickie's. Andy saw it as he did. Together, they read page after page. The feds had searched Nickie's past. Not only the details about her cop life. They searched her childhood. They searched her missing year.
Through a red haze, he copied everything onto a flash drive.
In his peripheral vision, Andy moved in to get a better look. His eyes grew large as he turned his head toward Duncan, then back to the screen.
One of the files had been deleted.
* * *
Nickie entered emergency room fourteen with Eddy close behind. Chris Hendrix lay in his hospital bed with a damned lot of bandages for a shoulder gunshot wound.
"Detectives Savage and Lynx, Mr. Hendrix." She held out her badge. "We'd like to have a few words with you."
The room would be small for a single, and yet an empty bed stood waiting for a roommate. There were no flowers, no cards. The TV wasn't on.
His eyes said he would have shrugged if it wouldn't hurt like hell.
"We're here to help find who did this to you."
"Don't need your help."
"Funny coming from the guy in the hospital bed. What happened?"
He glanced down and to the right. "I fell on a doorknob."
She nodded at his sarcasm. "So, that's how this is gonna be. You okay with being shot at?"
His voice rose this time. "It was an accident."
"Was your wife's shooting an accident?"
Eyes as round as saucers turned in slow motion toward her. That was more like it.
"Lucy? Is she okay?"
"Nice name. Your wife. She was shot
in the shoulder. Such a coincidence for a falling-on-a-doorknob accident."
"Is she okay?" He was getting louder but didn't lift from the bed.
"She's conscious. Went clear through, which might be better than what you've got going on there." She gestured to the bandages. "You look like you're wrapped up for football in forty-below wind chill in the dead of winter."
"I let it fester. Should have come in earlier. It happens."
"I have to disagree with you there, Hendrix. Getting shot doesn't just happen."
"When can I see her?"
"I've been told she's en route. I'll put in a good word for you to have that happen if you help us out."
She watched as Hendrix's chest rose and fell deeply. "I... can't. We can take care of this."
"How? How are you going to take care of this?"
"I don't know," he yelled, then winced.
"You happen to have two of Northridge, New York's finest right here in your hospital room. Use us. We're good."
Arrogant, he shook his head three times slowly.
She tucked her hand inside her jacket and pulled out her phone. Pointing it toward his face, she took his picture. "In that case, we'll try the misses." She ignored Hendrix's protests as she left the room.
"I think I'll stick around in case Mr. Stay-Out-Of-My-Business decides to go on a search and find for his woman."
Eddy was like that. He never was much into macho shit and didn't need to be the center of attention.
"Good idea," she agreed. "I'll be close."
She found Mrs. Hendrix as the nurses prepped her for surgery.
"You can't come in here," one of them said.
Nickie held up her badge. "I'll be just a minute. She's not the only one with a hole in the shoulder."
Not without a roll of the eyes, the nurse conceded. "She's next in line for the OR and she's loopy."
"Mrs. Hendrix." Nickie leaned over and spoke loudly. "I'm Detective Savage. Are you aware your husband is here, also with a gunshot wound to his shoulder?"
The drugs may have made her loopy, but they didn't take away the fear. The woman stared at Nickie and nodded.