Divide & Conquer

by Madeleine Urban

  “Aw hell,” Zane swore, standing up and stepping back carefully. His hands and arms were wet and sticky with juice, and he could feel it soaking through his T-shirt and cutoff sweatpants. He turned his head toward the door at the next knock, and then he thought he heard his name. After sparing a thought for the cruel humor of fate, Zane stripped off his T-shirt, using it to mop off his hands and arms as he walked tentatively to the door and cracked it open, immediately shivering in the February wind.

  “Zane? It’s Ryan. From Chiapparelli’s?”

  Zane blinked in surprise and opened the door a little more, though he kept himself behind it. All of a sudden he was very aware of how undressed he was, and it wasn’t just because of the cold morning breeze. “Ryan?”

  “Hi, I know it’s early, but I got to the restaurant to start prep work, and Leticia and I got to talking, and, well, because you don’t cook—or don’t cook a lot, anyway—we made you a care package. Since you’re stuck at home and probably aren’t up to dealing with hot pots and pans and knives.”

  It took Zane a few seconds to parse all that. “A care package?”

  “Yeah. Italian cold cuts, some fresh bread already sliced, a crock of minestrone, easy stuff. Oh, and cheesecake, of course.”

  Zane huffed a laugh, truly surprised. “Wow, uh, well. That’s great. Thanks.”

  He heard Ryan laugh quietly. “You’re blushing.”

  “Must be the cold,” Zane said quickly, dragging the sticky T-shirt over his chest and hiding bare-chested behind the door.

  “You could let me in and shut the door,” Ryan suggested, the repressed laughter all too clear in his voice. “That might help with the cold.”

  Zane squeezed his eyes shut and said a quick prayer. He really, truly, honestly had never given Ryan Morelli a single thought other than that he was a nice guy. Now Zane hoped he was right. “Ah, right, yeah, sorry.” He cleared his throat and stepped back, opening the door. Ryan thumped up the steps and walked past him, and Zane shut the door firmly before turning around to face blindly into the apartment.

  “I grabbed the mail off the steps too. I’ll just put this stuff away… ah, I see. Well, that explains it.”

  “Explains what?” Zane asked.

  “Why you’re blushing. There’s breakfast everywhere. Give me a sec and I’ll get it cleaned up.” Zane tried to object, but Ryan talked right over him. “It’s no problem. Actually, here—”

  Zane heard a rustle of fabric, then the sink switching on and off. He straightened as he heard Ryan approach. Then Ryan’s fingers touched the top of his hand, and Zane flinched in surprise. The touch disappeared, and Zane was again conscious of being half-dressed, his T-shirt crumpled in his hand. When Ryan spoke, he wasn’t even an arm’s length away.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Here, you can clean off,” he said, and he draped a damp dishtowel over Zane’s wrist.

  “Thanks,” Zane murmured.

  “No problem, Zane, really.” Footsteps moved back toward the kitchen, and Zane followed as he tried to wipe juice and pulp off his arms.

  “So, where’s your partner?”

  Zane paused in surprise. “What?”

  “Your partner? Ty, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh, yeah, Ty,” Zane said with a nod. “He’s at work.”

  “Leaving you all on your own?” Ryan’s tone conveyed a slight disapproval.

  Zane frowned. “No, he’s just checking in. Won’t be gone long.”

  “It was nice to meet him. You two must have different shifts since he’s never in the restaurant with you. And now you’re hurt and he still has to work. You must miss him.”

  Zane blinked several times as what the man was saying filtered in. “Ah, no, we work together, actually. He’s my partner at the Bureau.”

  “Really?” Zane could hear the surprise in Ryan’s voice. “Huh. I didn’t get that at all. You said ‘partner’, and I just assumed….”

  Zane tipped his head to one side, turning his face to where he thought Ryan stood. “Assumed what?” he asked carefully.

  “Sorry.” Now Ryan sounded embarrassed. “You make a handsome couple.”

  Zane was at a loss. Ryan had seen him and Ty at one dinner and had come to that conclusion? Then he laughed in more than slight amazement, and the words came out easy as could be. “No, you’re right. We are… together. Not just at work. ‘Partner’ just makes me think work first.”

  “Well, good-looking man like that, I’d say you should think ‘together’ first and ‘work’ second.”

  Zane could hear the smile in Ryan’s words. “That’s good advice,” he agreed.

  “I know. Okay. All the cleanup’s done, food’s in the fridge. Is there anything else I can do to help?”

  Zane shook his head, still a little thrown. He’d have to remember to tell Ty about this. Maybe he’d drop his crusade against Chiapparelli’s. “Thank you for helping with the mess.”

  “No problem. When you need more food, just call, and somebody will bring another package over or Ty can pick it up.” Ryan moved past him, toward the front door.

  “Hopefully it won’t last that long,” Zane said as the door opened.

  “We’ll keep our fingers crossed. Oh, I put the mail on the end of the island there. Take care, Zane.”

  The door shut before Zane got out another reply. Bemused, he slid onto a bar stool, then curiously reached out to pat the top of the bar. He occasionally got junk mail and circulars left on the steps out front or half-jammed under his door, and that was what the crumpled stack felt like. A couple of envelopes, one with no stamp, some single-sheet pieces of paper folded in halves or thirds, some large sheets of glossy paper with perforations. Zane set the stack back down to look at—to have Ty look at—later.

  Right now he needed a shower or he’d smell like Florida’s Natural the rest of the day.

  “WHAT have you got?” Ty asked as he walked into the conference room where Scott Alston sat working over stacks of paper.

  “You’re not on this one, Grady,” Alston answered seriously. “Go home.”

  “I went home.”

  “Yes, but then you came back.”

  “Who won the pool?” Ty asked as he shrugged Zane’s leather jacket off.

  “Lassiter. Dammit,” Alston muttered. “I had you for four hours.”

  Ty snorted as he sat down across from the man to reach for the file he was working on. Alston pulled it away and taunted him with it, waving it just out of Ty’s reach.

  “You’re wearing each other’s clothes now?” Alston asked wryly.

  “Long story,” Ty muttered. He gestured for the folder.

  “No,” Alston told him firmly. “Boss’ orders, man.”

  “What?” Ty demanded.

  “They saw you on that newscast, they blew up your car, they blew up your partner. You cannot be involved in the investigation.”

  “Give me information or I start making a scene.”

  “Like that’s new,” Alston muttered as he held the file protectively to his chest and reached for a phone in the center of the conference table. He picked it up and pressed a button, then said in a deep, mockingly serious voice, “I need backup, Conference Room 4.”

  It wasn’t ten seconds later that Harry Lassiter and Fred Perrimore showed up at the door and looked in at Ty in amusement.

  “You need to go see McCoy,” Alston said neutrally.

  Ty pointed his finger at Alston and waved it threateningly. “Next time you get blown up, don’t come whining to me.”

  Alston smirked crookedly at him. “Game next week is at seven,” he reminded as Ty stalked out of the office. “Don’t forget you’ll need a ride!”

  “Kiss my ass, Alston,” Ty shot back over his shoulder as he made his way to the Special Agent in Charge’s office.

  “You might as well come in, Grady. My trouble meter started dinging the minute you stepped in the building,” Dan McCoy said before Ty had even darkened his threshold. He sat behind his desk
expectantly, smoothing his tie.

  Ty’s jaw tightened as he bit back the response that immediately came to mind. He breathed out slowly through his nose, then calmly asked, “How long am I being kept out of the loop on this case?”

  “As I said, we’re considering you a possible target,” McCoy said in his deep, gravelly voice, repeating what Alston had said. “You and Garrett were at both locations during the events. Now, I know it could just be coincidence,” he added, holding up a hand in a “wait” motion. “But until we know for sure, you’re grounded.”

  “I’m not asking to be part of the investigation,” Ty pointed out as he stepped into the office. “I just want to know what we’ve found. Do we have suspects? Has forensics gone over the components? Was it even the same signature?”

  “No, in process, and yes,” McCoy rattled back. “Look, Grady. There’s not much I can tell you. We’re pulling in every single person we can from both scenes to submit reports so we can try to rebuild what happened. But there’s precious little to work with right now. And two more banks were hit on the same days, so our agents are worn thin.”

  “Two more banks?” Ty asked, pulling up short. “That’s not weird at all.”

  “Yes, thank you, Kojak, we’ve already connected the dots on that one.”

  “If the bombs are being set solely as distractions so banks can be robbed, then why am I being considered a target?” Ty posed.

  “Because you’re you—you’re always a target.”

  “That seems unreasonable,” Ty muttered disconsolately. “Look, you’ve got to be stretched to the limit on this.”

  “We are.”

  “All the more reason to let me do something.”

  “The last time you worked a bomb, you ended up blowing something kind of important up. And the last bank robbery you worked, you didn’t have any gray hair,” McCoy told him.

  Ty frowned and looked up as if he could see his own hair. “I have gray hair?”

  McCoy laughed at him.

  Ty growled in frustration and looked away. Either this was a friend being blunt, or it was his superior being evasive. Either way, he wasn’t going to get any information. He sighed. “Fine,” he agreed grudgingly. He’d find another way to get some information. Instead he moved on to the other reason he’d come in. “I need to find a rookie that was at the second scene. He drove me to the hospital, then ran off with Garrett’s keys.”

  McCoy frowned. “What rookie?”

  “He looked about fifteen. I can’t remember his name,” Ty admitted as he closed his eyes and tried to visualize the name on the windbreaker the kid had been wearing. “Reece, maybe? Reeves?” he tried.

  “Reeves?” Alston asked from behind him.

  “Sounds right,” Ty told him with a shrug as he turned to look back at him. Apparently he and the others had followed Ty to McCoy’s office to watch any fireworks that ensued.

  “Ty,” Alston said with a frown. “Special Agent Lydia Reeves was inside the building when the bomb went off. She was carried out right before Garrett, hurt pretty bad. She’s still in the ICU at UMMC.”

  Ty stared at him, not quite comprehending what he’d said at first. Then the implications came tumbling down on him so hard he almost physically staggered.

  “They’d have a spotter,” he said softly. “They’d set the bomb and find some way to watch the response.”

  “Bomber picked up her windbreaker to get closer?” Alston ventured with a frown. “Wait, did you say he kept Garrett’s keys? Where is Garrett now?”

  Ty was already pushing past him and sprinting for the stairwell.

  “Behind you!” Alston shouted, and Ty knew the man was calling in backup to meet them at Zane’s apartment. He took out his own phone and hit the speed dial as he raced down the stairs for the parking deck and the hated Valkyrie.

  The phone rang and rang with no answer, and Zane’s voice mail picked up, his recorded voice serious and to the point before the beep. Ty cursed as the beep sounded and snapped the phone shut. It wasn’t like someone would have to attack Zane to hurt him. All they’d have to do was knock on the door, quietly place a bomb in the house, since Zane couldn’t see it to know it was there, and the job was done. A neighbor with chicken soup. A deliveryman with flowers. Zane would never be the wiser.

  Ty shoved through the stairwell door and darted across the parking deck. He knew he should wait for Alston and a car and backup, but he also knew deep down he could get there a hell of a lot faster on the stupid freaking motorcycle.

  ZANE leaned forward against the wall, weight on his forearms and head down as the hot water pounded down on his neck and shoulders, splattering down over his back. He tipped his head from side to side, sighing as he felt the muscles relaxing. He’d gotten rid of the scent of orange juice and the sticky pulp residue, but he was nowhere near brainstorming through all the possible fallout scenarios of telling Ty that Ryan had brought him that care package.

  Stewing over it wasn’t helping his headache; it was a bad one today. The doctor had said he’d have them. Zane just hadn’t expected them to get worse. He groaned and turned around so the water streamed down his back.

  Then there was a sound under the noise of the water running, something slamming in the outer room. Zane’s head snapped up. It hadn’t been two hours for it to be Ty. Maybe one, but certainly not two. He frowned and cocked his head to listen. Another sound followed the first, a door being kicked open and banging against a wall.

  Zane’s hand curled into a fist. Here he was, wet, naked, unarmed, blind… and he could be in real trouble. His knives and gun were on the dresser in the bedroom. He couldn’t do anything but wait.

  He didn’t have to wait long. After another tense moment, the door to the bathroom burst open, banging against the sink as someone took two heavy steps into the room.

  “Zane?” Ty called out over the rush of the water.

  Zane let out a shaky breath, and his shoulders thumped back against the tile wall. “Yeah?”

  Ty cursed softly as another voice from somewhere in the apartment called out, “Clear!” followed by a reply of the same.

  “What?” Zane asked, confused. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Why the fuck aren’t you answering your phone?” Ty demanded. The shower curtain was noisily yanked back, and cold air assaulted him.

  “I’m in the fucking shower,” Zane snapped. “What’s going on?”

  Ty reached past him and turned off the water. Once it stopped running, Zane could hear the sound of several more people milling about outside the bathroom. “Get dressed,” Ty muttered, sounding angry and stressed and not the least bit apologetic.

  Then he was gone, and the bathroom door clicked shut.

  Zane growled as he carefully got out of the shower and set one hand on the counter. He didn’t have any clothes in here. With an aggravated huff, he grabbed one of the extra-large bath sheets and wrapped it around his waist, tucking in the end. “He’d better have a good reason for this,” Zane said under his breath as he slicked one hand through his wet hair, leaving it to drip onto his shoulders, and he opened the door.

  He could hear voices in the kitchen and living room. A lot of voices. At least four, not including Ty’s. “Jesus Christ, Grady, where’d you learn to ride a motorcycle like that?” a male voice was saying breathlessly as Zane made his way down the hallway.

  “West Virginia,” Ty muttered in response.

  “I didn’t think they had sidewalks in West Virginia.” Zane recognized Alston’s voice now, tinged with amusement. “You sure as hell were riding on one.”

  Zane stopped in the doorway to the living room, one hand holding onto the towel, and immediately shuddered. Two open doors made for a frigid February crosswind through his apartment. “And again I say, what the hell is going on?”

  Ty cleared his throat somewhere to Zane’s right, in the kitchen. “Remember the kid who has your keys?” he asked Zane.

  Zane turned his head blindly towa
rd Ty. “Yeah?” he ventured.

  “Turns out he ain’t a Fed,” Ty muttered. “Freddy, call a locksmith, will you?” he added as he turned away from Zane and spoke to someone else in the room. Zane recognized Perrimore’s bass tones making the phone call as directed.

  Frowning a little, Zane connected that piece of information with the men in the room, and he shook his head. “I never knew I had so many friends.”

  “You don’t,” someone called back wryly. Lassiter. Smart-ass. Great. The whole team was here. Although he hadn’t heard Clancy yet.

  “Guys, close the doors. It’s freezing.”

  There she was. Great. Zane suppressed a grimace, and then the back door shut, cutting off the wind.

  “I want new locks on the doors in the next hour. Sweep the place for devices: bugs, bombs, everything.” Ty’s voice had carried over the chatter that broke out. “I want the file on the investigation, and I want every suspect name you’ve got,” Ty said in a lower voice, obviously speaking to someone in particular.

  “You know I can’t do that, Ty,” Alston answered seriously.

  “You owe me, Scott,” Ty whispered.

  There was silence in response. Finally, Alston murmured something, and Ty thanked him sincerely. Then Zane heard footsteps stop in front of him.

  “We’re going to my place,” Ty announced without preamble. “’Til we know it’s safe.”

  AFTER bumping into something hard for about the fifth time, Zane sighed and tried to visualize the first level of Ty’s house again. It wasn’t that complex a layout, being a long, narrow shape, but Zane would have to “learn” his way around, counting steps like he had at his own apartment. And that was frustrating.

  He heard something thump upstairs and relaxed. Ty was up there instead of watching Zane embarrass himself. At least there was that.

  Zane reached out to touch what was in front of him. It was an end table that stood by the arm of the couch against the wall of the narrow living room. He took a moment to orient himself, and then he turned left and took three steps, which—in theory—should put him close to the overstuffed chair he sat in a lot of the time while over here. When he reached out, his fingers jabbed into the soft fabric, and he cursed under his breath. He was closer than he’d expected. He made an adjustment to the mental map, but before he could strike out in another direction, he thought he heard something odd too close to him, and he stayed in place, trying to identify the noise.