Hot

by Julia Harper

  “He’s probably leaving the area,” John said, tight and hard.

  “Yeah, and you getting shot won’t stop him.”

  John grimaced, still watching outside.

  Sirens began wailing, growing rapidly closer.

  The policeman straightened from where he was checking one of the women lunchers and moved cautiously to the windows. He kept well to the side. “Any more shots?”

  John shook his head. “No. The last one was when I reached Ms. Hastings.” He seemed to come to a decision. “Watch my back.”

  Then he was out the door again.

  Turner stared down at her hands. She had bloodstains on her palms. She flexed her hand, feeling the tackiness of the blood. If she hadn’t asked Victoria to meet her, Victoria would never have been hurt. Victoria would probably be eating right now, maybe meeting someone for lunch.

  John came back through the doors. He was followed by a group of police officers and EMTs. He was talking to them, maybe explaining something or giving them orders, but Turner couldn’t make out the words. And she didn’t care, anyway. He wasn’t shot like Victoria. That was all that mattered to her.

  Then John was squatting in front of her. He looked in her face and frowned. “I need a paramedic over here.”

  “I’m okay,” Turner muttered, but he ignored her.

  A young woman rushed over and began taking her blood pressure.

  “I’m okay,” Turner said again, this time to the paramedic.

  The woman had flat cheekbones with acne scars. She smiled professionally. “Just checking. Doesn’t hurt to check, does it?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  John strode over to talk some more with the police, but he glanced her way every couple of seconds. He still frowned at her. Victoria was wheeled out the doors on a gurney, an EMT running beside holding an IV. Turner caught only a glimpse of her, but the other woman’s eyes remained closed and her face gleamed with sweat.

  “Is she going to be okay?” Turner asked the paramedic.

  “Your friend? The bullet went straight through and we’re dealing with the bleeding. She should be fine.”

  More people came into the lobby. These were in civilian dress, but they had the bearing of law enforcement. One slight young man bent his head close to John and showed him a crumpled piece of paper. John nodded as the young man talked.

  “Here.” The policewoman thrust a bottle of orange juice into Turner’s hands. Where had she gotten it? “Drink some of this. It’ll make you feel better.”

  “Thank you.” She hated orange juice, but Turner carefully unscrewed the cap and took a sip.

  The paramedic smiled and began putting things back in her box. John looked at Turner and his frown deepened. He cut off whatever the young man was saying and handed him a set of keys. He grabbed a paper bag from another officer, then strode toward Turner.

  “She okay?” he asked the paramedic.

  “Yes. A little shaky, but that’s mostly emotional,” the woman replied as if Turner weren’t there. “Make sure she finishes that orange juice.”

  “Gotcha.” John nodded. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” The paramedic smiled quickly and moved off to help with the two women lunchers.

  “Put this on.” John took a denim jumper dress out of the bag. It looked like something a kindergarten teacher would wear.

  Turner gazed at it stupidly. Where in the world had he gotten it? John said something under his breath and stood in front of her, partially shielding her from the rest of the room. He took out a long-sleeved white T-shirt and only then did she remember that she was wearing just her bra. He put the white T-shirt on her and then stuffed her into the denim jumper. Turner lifted her arms passively, like a child being dressed by its mother. The dress was several sizes too big, but it covered everything, including the baggy shorts she still wore. The final touch was a big straw hat John jammed down low on her head.

  “Let’s get out of here.” He took her arm in a firm grip and helped her stand. She was surprised at how wobbly her legs were.

  They walked past the knots of police officers and emergency personnel and through the tinted glass doors. Outside, the sun still shone brightly as if nothing had happened. Except that in the middle of the courtyard there was a smear of blood.

  Chapter Forty-one

  T urner looked like she’d aged twenty years in the last hour. Like she’d never smile again in this lifetime. John swore under his breath. He would’ve given his right hand to go back an hour in time and erase the whole awful sequence of events.

  He gripped Turner’s arm firmly and hustled her across the courtyard at almost a run. He felt exposed out here, even though he’d been assured the area was secured. The cops had found the shooter’s firing position, complete with cigarette butts and a computer-printout photo of Ms. Weidner, but he didn’t want to take any chances on the asshole returning.

  The Crown Vic was already at the curb when they reached it. The Madison detective got out looking irritated. “You didn’t tell me about the dog.”

  “Sorry,” John muttered. Squeaky had fallen off his radar. He bundled Turner into the passenger-side seat and walked around to the driver’s side. He caught the keys the detective tossed at him. “Thanks.”

  “Sure.” The man glanced at Turner curiously, then ran up the steps to the courtyard, back to where the excitement was.

  John got in the car, hit the locks, and pulled away from the curb. In the back, Squeaky whined and Turner put up a hand absentmindedly to pet him. Then she seemed to notice that her hand was streaked with blood. She pulled it back again and sat silently. She didn’t ask where he was taking her, didn’t say anything at all, in fact. He drove out of Madison and got on I-94 heading east. Once in a while he glanced at her, but each time she was either staring out the window or looking down at her hands, wiggling her fingers.

  It wasn’t until they’d reached the outskirts of Milwaukee over an hour later that she stirred. “Am I under arrest?”

  He frowned. “No.”

  “Why not?” She asked the question like she was inquiring whether it would rain later in the day.

  “Because.” Because he’d decided to play by his own rules now. To hell if that pissed off the brass.

  He could feel her looking at him as he drove. “It was my fault Victoria was shot. You should arrest me.”

  “No.” He signaled to pass a semi. “No, it wasn’t your fault that Ms. Weidner was wounded and no, I shouldn’t arrest you.”

  “But—”

  “Look, it was that motherfucker on the rooftop that shot Ms. Weidner, no one else.” He knew he was letting some of his own frustration and guilt overflow into his words, but he couldn’t stop it. “He’s the one who hurt her. Period. But if you want to talk blame and who’s at fault and shit like that, then you can start with me. I’m in charge of this case, and I knew that you had a hit man on your tail. I could’ve—hell, should’ve—stopped Ms. Weidner from meeting you in such a public place. But I didn’t, did I? And now she’s at the hospital.”

  Turner was silent for a minute, and he figured he’d shocked her with his blunt words.

  But then she gave a little sigh. “You swear a lot when you’re upset, don’t you?”

  He blinked. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

  “It isn’t your fault, either, John,” she said softly. “You had no way of knowing the hit man would be there.”

  That was debatable. As a professional, he should have anticipated the possibility. Should’ve made damn sure the area was safe. That slip-up would be added to the long list of things that would haunt him for the rest of his life. But he wasn’t going to argue this with Turner right now. He was just glad she was talking again.

  He glanced at her. “How are you doing?”

  She ignored his question and frowned. “How did he know who to shoot? I mean, I know this isn’t the best disguise, but from a distance—”

  John was already shaking his head. “The police
found a photo of Ms. Weidner on one of the nearby roofs.”

  Turner stared at him. “Victoria? He was after Victoria? I thought it was bad luck he’d hit her instead of me.”

  “No.” He didn’t like disabusing her, but she had to know. “I doubt he was after Ms. Weidner. We’re pretty certain you’re still the primary target.”

  “So it was a mistake that he hit her?”

  John shrugged. “Looks like it.”

  “Then why have a photo of Victoria?”

  “To identify you.”

  “When I walked up to her, he knew it was me. But how—” She waved that question aside. “You knew I was going to be there.”

  “Yeah, I did.” He glanced at her. “Ms. Weidner phoned us yesterday morning.”

  She grimaced. “I was afraid of that, but it was a risk I had to take.”

  He nodded. Turner was a frighteningly logical woman. And a driven one.

  She seemed to have lost interest in the shooter. Or perhaps it was just exhaustion from everything that had happened today. She glanced around the neighborhood he was driving through. “If you’re not arresting me, then where are you taking me?”

  He signaled for a turn. “Home.”

  He felt her look at him as he pulled into the apartment complex parking lot. He parked the Crown Vic, got out, walked around to her side, and opened the door.

  She looked up at him. “I suppose this is normal for the FBI? Taking suspects to their homes?”

  “Funny. You know it isn’t.” He shut the car door behind her and let out Squeaky.

  She watched the dog water a tree sapling. “Do they allow dogs here?”

  He whistled for Squeaky and grabbed his collar when the dog bounded up. “They do now. Does he have a leash?”

  “No. I haven’t had time to get one.”

  “Need to get the dog a leash,” John muttered as he hauled Squeaky up the walk.

  He let them in the outer door and led the way up the stairs. Turner was silent beside him. When they got to his apartment door, he had to juggle Squeaky before he could get the key out and unlock it. He went in first and let go of Squeaky’s collar so he could do a quick walk-through.

  Turner was staring at the hall table when he got back to the entryway. She glanced at him curiously. “Do you always search your apartment when you get home?”

  “Uh, no.” He locked the door behind her and gestured for her to precede him into the apartment. “Do you want something to drink?” He tried to think if he had anything to drink.

  “No, thanks. Actually,” she was staring down at her hands again, “could I use your shower?”

  “Sure.” Jesus. When was the last time he’d cleaned the bath? He hoped there weren’t any hairs in the drain. “It’s over here.”

  He gathered some clean towels—thank God he’d done the laundry—and showed her the bathroom. She smiled and shut the door in his face.

  John went back to the living room and found that Squeaky had made himself at home on his couch. He frowned down at the dog. “We need to talk about this.”

  Squeaky replied by lifting his front leg and rolling over to expose his stomach.

  “Nice, but I still want you off.” John gently shoved the dog.

  Squeaky sighed and lumbered off the couch. He did a circle on the carpet and lay down right in the middle of the traffic path. John squinted at the animal but decided to leave him. He had a feeling he could spend the rest of the day chasing the dog from place to place, and he had more important things to do. He took out his cell and first called the Madison detective who’d brought the Crown Vic around for him. He listened to the report of the investigation with one ear. The other was tuned to the faint sounds coming from the bath. She’d started the shower.

  His second call was to Torelli.

  “Hello?” the younger man answered the phone.

  “We’ve got a leak.” John didn’t bother identifying himself.

  “What?”

  He told Torelli about the shooting that morning in short, succinct sentences.

  “Shit,” Torelli muttered, and it occurred to John that he’d never heard the younger man swear before.

  “Someone had to’ve leaked the meet information,” John said. “This guy knew the time and who Turner was meeting. He had a photo of Ms. Weidner.”

  “I’m not the leak.”

  John’s eyebrows shot up. It surprised him that Torelli thought he was accusing him. Now he suddenly wondered. “Yeah?”

  “Come on, Mac. You can’t seriously think I would jeopardize an investigation by letting information like that out.”

  John was silent. He walked over to the bathroom door, listening to the sounds inside. Was Turner—?

  “I can’t believe this!” the younger man burst out.

  She was crying. He could hear the sobs faintly over the sound of the shower. Shit. He ought to leave her alone. Turner was a very private person, and she would no doubt be embarrassed that he knew she was weeping.

  “You’ve had it in for me since the Bertram case. Just because I took some concerns of mine—”

  “Look, Torelli, I’ve got to go.” John hung up on him in mid-speech.

  The cell began ringing again immediately, but he tossed it on the couch. Whether or not Turner would be unhappy to see him, he couldn’t stand out here and listen to her cry alone.

  He opened the bathroom door.

  Chapter Forty-two

  T he blood wouldn’t come off.

  Turner stood under the hot spray from the shower and scrubbed at her hands like a demented Lady Macbeth. She had crusted, now-black blood under two fingernails, and it just would not wash away. She didn’t realize she was sobbing until John pulled back the shower curtain and grabbed her arms.

  “Stop it,” he said. “You’re hurting yourself.”

  “I can’t get it off,” she replied. And despite the fact that her words were obscure, he understood her.

  “I’ll do it.” He took the washcloth she’d been using away from her.

  Standing there in the shower fully clothed, he washed her hands. She watched his face. His hands were gentle on hers, but his expression was grim, his eyes shadowed. He resoaped the washcloth and washed her hands again.

  “Okay?” He looked at her, waiting for her approval. His white oxford shirt clung to his body, soaked.

  Turner knew that if she said the blood was still there, he’d wash her hands again. And again. He’d wash as many times as it took to absolve her of the blood. Her throat swelled with emotion. Had anyone in her life ever taken care of her so tenderly? He seemed to know what to do for her even when she couldn’t figure it out herself. She felt a twinge of guilt. She didn’t deserve this care. She hadn’t earned it. But he was waiting for her reply, so she nodded, mute, to his question.

  John’s face relaxed a little. “Good.”

  He stripped off his shirt and tossed it to the bottom of the tub. Then he picked up the washcloth again.

  Turner was suddenly shy, standing there, fully nude before him while he still wore his khaki pants. “You don’t have to—”

  “I know,” he cut her off. “Please?”

  The lines around his mouth were so deep, grooved by bad memories. As if he’d been through an awful experience. And he had. The shooting had happened to him, as well. He’d probably seen the whole horrible incident and not been able to do a thing about it. For a man like John, that would have been like hell.

  “Yes.” She nodded her assent and then closed her eyes because she couldn’t bear to watch as he touched her body.

  She felt the cloth return to her hands, this time softly. It rubbed in gentle circles over her right palm, sensitive from the previous abrasion. She inhaled, imagining that she felt each loop of the washcloth. Concentrating on that feeling and nothing else. The cloth smoothed up her arm in ovals. Then it left her. John took her arm to guide it under the spray of water, lukewarm now. She felt the water hit her, little pinpoint strikes, and run off. She i
magined the fear and guilt trickling from her with the water, swirling in the tub and vanishing down the drain.

  John took her left hand and repeated the process with that arm. Then the washcloth moved to her neck. He stroked it down her throat, and she tilted her head back to give him access. He washed her shoulders and breasts and then her belly, circling softly around her navel. She sucked in her breath, her lower stomach trembling. He rinsed her body in long sweeps of spray. She realized that he must have detached the showerhead because she didn’t move. She merely stood in the tub, a passive mannequin, letting him wash away her sins. A mannequin had no feelings, neither guilt nor rage nor fear. Not even love. Right now it was good to set all those emotions aside, feel nothing, and let him take care of her.

  He worked his way down her hips and legs and she never opened her eyes. He washed the bottoms of her feet and between her toes and then rinsed them. She felt him move behind her. Then his hand was in her hair. He guided her head back and slicked down her hair with the water, using his fingers to work shampoo into her hair. Turner smiled then. His shampoo was a cheap brand and smelled like strawberries, a childhood scent. He rinsed her hair thoroughly and she prepared herself to return to the present. To open her eyes and step out of the shower and resume her adult responsibilities.

  “Wait,” he whispered. “I’m not done.”

  His fingers touched her face.

  She drew in a silent breath. She felt the brush of his fingertips on her lips, the most sensitive skin on her body. Goose bumps rose over her arms and she knew her nipples had spiked. He stroked around her mouth, firmly yet lightly, massaging, washing her face with only water and his fingers. He worked his way up her cheekbones and then stroked down again over the bridge of her nose. He delicately outlined each nostril. He brushed his fingertips lightly over her closed eyelids. Her eyelids fluttered at the unfamiliar contact and he did it again, his touch oddly soothing. He finished by framing her face with his hands. He rubbed his thumbs back and forth over her forehead, as if he were erasing the ghastly memories.

  Then his hands fell away.

  She remained standing, her eyes closed as if she were in a trance. She’d never been touched so intimately, with such a sense of possession. The thought flitted through her mind that she ought to be afraid. Were it anyone but John, she would be. But he seemed to have a right to do what he had done. To touch her as he liked. They’d entered a stage of intimacy that she’d never reached before with anyone else.