Colton's Amnesia Target (The Coltons of Kansas)

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Colton's Amnesia Target (The Coltons of Kansas) Page 9

by Kimberly van Meter - A Sinclair Homecoming (The Sinclairs of Alaska)


  “Needed a few days off to decompress,” he lied. “The stress was getting to me. It was either take a few days or start drinking my breakfast. I figured I’ve earned a few days of R and R but I’m sorry for worrying everyone.”

  “You take a few personal days? Who is this pod person? Clint Broderick doesn’t take vacation days unless ordered to because he’s banked up too many,” Locke refuted with a chuckle. “Seriously, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Went rock climbing two days ago,” he said, amending, “Well, indoor rock climbing but it counts. It was hard as hell and my fingers are still jacked up. Not sure I’ll take it up as a hobby.”

  “Rock climbing? Little early for a midlife crisis, don’t you think?” Locke teased. “You should stick to golf, even though a five-year-old could beat your swing.”

  So he golfed? Golf sounded boring. Hit a ball and chase it. Over and over. It was aggravated walking. But he played it up to Locke. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. So, everything good while I’ve been gone?”

  “See, there’s the guy I know and love—can’t keep business off the brain,” Locke said. “Yeah, of course. I’ve always told you that the world wouldn’t stop spinning just because you weren’t there to micromanage it.”

  Micromanage? “I’m a changed man,” he told Locke. “I’ve had...an epiphany.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I know I was a workaholic and a bit of a control freak,” he said, taking an educated guess at his own habits, “but you know, life is short and you can’t take it with you. I’m going to start spending more time making memories that matter.”

  “Are you joining a cult? Oh, God, you joined a cult, didn’t you? Please tell me you didn’t pledge your assets—our assets—in your initiation?”

  “What the hell is wrong with you? I said I wanted to create memories and you think I’ve joined a cult?”

  “Hey, if you were on this end, listening to Clint Broderick wax philosophically about stuff he generally didn’t care about until now, you’d start to freak out, too.”

  Clint was beginning to realize maybe it wasn’t far-fetched to theorize that whoever had tried to kill him probably worked for him.

  Jesus, talk about a rude awakening.

  “So, when are you wrapping up your little impromptu ‘Finding Clint’ tour and returning to Chicago?”

  “Not sure. I still have some things to do here in Braxville.”

  “I don’t understand how you managed to find your zen in a small nothing town in Kansas. As far as anyone is concerned, the only thing you can find in Braxville is tumbleweeds.”

  He chuckled. Locke had a good sense of humor. “Actually, Braxville is kinda nice. The small-town atmosphere is a nice change from Chicago.”

  “I’ll bet you can’t get a decent deep-dish there,” challenged Locke, and to that Clint couldn’t argue.

  “The pizza situation here is marginal at best but I did have an incredible burger the other night and that made my taste buds happy.”

  “You, the foodie? I don’t believe it. You’re impossibly picky. You made the chef at Harold’s want to quit.”

  Clint didn’t remember the chef or Harold’s but he played it off. “Well, if you’re going to call yourself a chef, you better be prepared to accept criticism.”

  “The man fed heads of state but apparently your palate was more sophisticated,” Locke returned dryly. “Anyway, kudos to the burger man for managing to please Clint Broderick.”

  Ouch, there it was again, proof that maybe he’d been an insufferable ass before getting the stuffing knocked out of him.

  He shifted, discomfited. Maybe getting assaulted would turn out to be a blessing in disguise?

  Never in a million years would he ever have imagined thinking or saying anything like that statement.

  But here we are.

  “Okay, I gotta run. This is my new number. Lost my old phone. Call me if there are any issues you can’t handle.”

  “Enjoy your tumbleweeds and five-star burgers.”

  “Will do.”

  And Clint clicked off. So, Locke sounded like a decent guy—the opposite of himself apparently. Maybe that was their dynamic. Locke was the good cop, Clint was the bad.

  Their dynamic must’ve been successful. If he wasn’t that same guy anymore, would their dynamic still work?

  He supposed he’d just have to play it by ear.

  Chapter 13

  Jordana was at her desk while Clint did some business around town when Reese popped in, dropping a blue file on top of the papers she was reading. “What’s this?” she asked, opening the folder.

  “Information on Broadlocke Enterprises.” He gestured for her to start reading. “The business owned by your roomie and his partner, Alex Locke.”

  “Yeah? Is there something amiss?”

  “Well, just that someone has been siphoning cash off the top for years.”

  “Who?”

  “That is a bit trickier. I don’t know. Whoever is doing it is pretty sneaky about it. Almost didn’t catch it. I happened to call in a favor with a forensic accountant who works for a law firm in Wichita and they pointed out the discrepancy in the books.”

  “So whoever attacked Clint could’ve been the one cooking the books.”

  “Or Clint could be the one and someone found out.”

  She frowned. “That makes zero sense. Why would someone try to kill Clint if he was the one stealing from his own company?”

  “Maybe it was his business partner who tried to off him, pissed off because he was stealing.”

  “Stop saying that Clint had something to do with the books,” she said, irritated.

  “What if he did? We don’t know this guy from Adam. Need I remind you, he’s a stranger with one helluva weird situation. Who gets amnesia? Is it even real? I heard somewhere that true amnesia is so rare it’s practically almost fiction.”

  She dead-stared Reese. He was getting on her nerves. “You’re acting like a jealous boyfriend. Dr. Cervantes diagnosed him with amnesia because he treated his head injury. I didn’t make up his diagnosis and Clint certainly didn’t. Is that what this is about? What is your deal?”

  Reese immediately went on the defensive. “I’m just saying, you’re putting a lot of faith in a guy you don’t know. Seems unprofessional at best and dangerous at worst. I’m trying to look out for you.”

  She couldn’t exactly admit that her feelings were personal. Sleeping with Clint may have been a bad idea, especially now with this new information. But her instincts said Clint wasn’t the one behind the embezzling and Reese was grasping at straws trying to find a way to paint Clint in a bad light. “Look, it makes more sense that someone connected to the business is behind the embezzling. A disgruntled employee? Maybe even his partner. What do you know about Locke?”

  “Common garden variety upwardly mobile white male,” Reese answered with a shrug. “On paper, pretty boring. Competent but nothing particularly extraordinary jumps out at me.”

  “And you think he doesn’t have motive?” Jordana asked, exasperated. “You and I both know that anyone closest to the victim falls under suspicion first.”

  “Yeah, well, I can’t exactly check his alibi when you’ve told me to keep the details of Broderick’s attack under wraps.” He affected a mock questioning tone, saying, “Sir, can you tell me where you were the night your business partner may or may not have been attacked on Range Road in Braxville, Kansas? Why do I ask? No reason.”

  She knew the right thing to do would be to question Locke but Clint didn’t want his partner to know the details of his injury. Ordinarily, business concerns would take a back seat to her investigation but she justified honoring his request by saying that they were waiting to see if Clint’s memory returned before questioning Locke.

  It was flimsy at best and she was embarrassed
.

  Worse still, Reese knew she was handling Clint’s case with kid gloves. “All right, let’s question Locke,” she said with a sigh. “We need to get some movement on this case.”

  “Finally!” Reese dropped into his seat, ready to rock and roll. “Now we’re cooking with gas.”

  But she stopped Reese just as he scooped up the phone. “Can you wait until tomorrow? I want to give Clint a heads-up that it’s going to happen.”

  Reese frowned. “Why?”

  “As a courtesy.”

  “He could be a suspect,” he returned, exasperated.

  “C’mon now. Get real.”

  “No, in the embezzling,” Reese answered, equally irritated.

  “Yeah, well, we’re not investigating that part. We’re investigating his assault. Stay on task, okay?”

  “Stay on task?” he repeated, incredulous. “I’m not the one stalling and making all kinds of excuses not to follow the usual protocol.”

  “I’m asking for one day,” Jordana said, gritting her teeth. “Not a month.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were letting your personal feelings get in the way of your judgment,” he muttered, clearly not on board with her suggestion. “I don’t understand why you’re going soft on this Clint guy. You let him move into your place and now you’re giving him undue courtesy. Is he blackmailing you or something?”

  “Do you really think I’d let someone blackmail me?” she asked. “No. I just feel bad for the guy. He’s a victim, try to remember that. Think of it this way—what if he’d been a woman assaulted on Range Road and I offered her the same deal while she recovered? Would you be all up in my business, accusing me?”

  “A woman is different,” Reese answered with a shrug, not caring that he sounded sexist as hell.

  “So because it’s a man, I can’t control myself?” she asked, getting hot under the collar. “Seriously, you can shove your sexist BS up your ass, and while you’re at it, stop worrying about my personal life and what I choose to do with it.”

  “If the situation were reversed and I was the one offering up my place to a female victim, would you be good with it?” he countered.

  Jordana hated that he made a fair point and she didn’t have an equally strong counterpoint. She grabbed her stuff. “I’m taking a half day,” she muttered, needing some fresh air and to get away from Reese.

  Jordana exited the building, still fuming. Reese had never been such a jerk before. She gave him some latitude because he’d lost a partner and that made him a little overprotective but she was fully capable of taking care of herself. She didn’t appreciate being coddled or managed and Reese had put it upon himself to do both.

  Everything about this case had flipped her on her head and she was done feeling out of control.

  She saw Clint coming toward her, two shopping bags in hand, ready to meet her at the car parked alongside the main road.

  In slow motion, she noticed Miss Ruthie Garrett—a little old lady that should’ve had her license revoked years ago—career toward Jordana’s car in her beat-up Buick like a drunken sailor on leave, neatly clipping the driver’s side door before tootling off as if nothing had happened.

  Jordana opened her mouth to shout at Ruthie but seconds later a loud explosion threw her to the ground as her car burst into flames.

  * * *

  Clint’s ears were ringing. It took a moment to realize he was lying on the ground, smoke all around, shouts and sirens finally piercing the fog in his brain. That can’t be good, he thought muzzily as he climbed to his feet. The scene was something of a gangster movie, except this wasn’t 1930s Chicago but a small town in the middle of nowhere Kansas.

  And Jordana’s car had blown up.

  Dropping the bags, he half ran, half stumbled to where Jordana was lying on the ground, unconscious from the blast. She’d been closer to the explosion and the blast wave had knocked her back a few feet.

  “I need an ambulance,” he shouted, gently cradling Jordana’s head where a giant gash seeped gobs of blood onto his hands. “Goddamn it, I need a doctor! Somebody call 911!”

  Jordana’s partner, Reese Carpenter, skidded to a stop and helped Clint carry Jordana to the sidewalk and out of the street. “What happened?” Reese asked, waving over the paramedics. “Did you see anything?”

  “No, man, she was walking to the car and then this other car, a freaking boat, came out of nowhere and sideswiped Jordana’s car and seconds later it was in flames.”

  “Goddamn Ruthie Garrett,” Reese cursed under his breath. “The woman needs to get off the road but her damn family has a lot of money and somehow she gets to keep her license.”

  “If this isn’t enough proof that she’s a menace, I don’t know what is. I thought cars only blew up in the movies. Was it the gas line or something?”

  “I’m not a mechanic,” Reese snapped, moving so the paramedics could load Jordana onto the stretcher just as her eyelids start to flutter open. Reese pushed Clint out of the way, saying, “Jordana, can you hear me? You’re going to the hospital. You’ve got a head injury and they need to check it out.”

  Clint knew Reese wasn’t deliberately trying to be obnoxious, but he felt a little territorial at the most inappropriate moment. He forced himself to take a step back and let Reese handle things.

  But then just as the paramedic was about to shut the doors, he popped his head out to ask, “You Clint? She’s asking for you. Hop up, you can ride with her.”

  And he didn’t have to be asked twice. He ignored the look of suspicion clearly stamped on Reese’s face and climbed aboard, going straight to Jordana. He didn’t care what it looked like; he needed to be with her.

  The double doors closed and Clint gently grasped her hand. She squinted against the pain. “Hurts,” she admitted as the paramedic prepared an IV line. “What happened?”

  “I don’t really know. Some old lady in a giant Buick hit the car and then it blew up. You’re lucky you weren’t closer when it blew, otherwise...” He didn’t even want to finish his sentence. Clint looked to the paramedic, needing reassurance. “She going to be okay?”

  “Head wounds bleed like the dickens but her vitals are good. She’ll need a CT scan to be sure there’s no bleeding on the brain.”

  “I doubt it’s that bad,” she said, her voice a weak croak. “I don’t need—”

  “Will you let the doctors do their thing? You were just nearly blown to smithereens and I need someone to tell me you’re going to be okay.”

  Maybe it was the shake in his voice or the fear in his gaze but Jordana quieted and gave a small nod of understanding. “Maybe it’s not a terrible idea to get checked.”

  He knew she was doing it for his benefit but he didn’t care. Whatever it took to get her to the doctor and treated was fine by him.

  “I’ll buy you a new car,” he promised, kissing her hand. “One that’s supersafe and not prone to blowing up.”

  Was that even a thing? How would he know?

  “State of the art, the safest on the market,” he said, kissing her hand again. “I swear to God, the safest I can find, and if I don’t find one that is deemed safe enough, I’ll hire engineers to build me something.”

  She had the wherewithal to chuckle because he was being ridiculous but it was good to see her smile through the pain. “It was probably just a fluke. I was planning to buy a new car, anyway.”

  Logic told him yes, it was likely a fluke but a tiny, scared voice whispered the possibility that someone had meant that fiery end for him, and Jordana was simply collateral damage.

  He wasn’t sure he could live with the possibility that something he was tangled up in had endangered Jordana.

  First things first: fix his girl.

  Then, like it or not, it was time to go home.

  He couldn’t afford to walk around in the da
rk anymore.

  Chapter 14

  “That’s one hard head you have there,” Dr. Cervantes said with a smile. “But one completely normal brain scan. You conked your noggin and you’re bound to have a nasty headache but otherwise you’re good to go home.”

  Jordana smiled with relief. She hated hospitals. Clint exhaled, looking as if he’d been holding his breath the entire time. She was tired and her head was throbbing but she wanted to go home.

  She didn’t want to think about anything aside from a soft pillow and falling asleep in Clint’s arms. Tomorrow would come soon enough and all the trouble that came with it. For one, she had to talk to Reese. She’d jumped on him when he’d called her out for doing things that were out of character. He was a good detective and a great partner. He didn’t deserve her guilty conscience.

  She’d have to come clean and let the chips fall where they may.

  Clint hadn’t left her side. Tears crowded her sinuses for no good reason. The head injury was making her loopy. Dr. Cervantes signed her discharge paperwork and she was dressed and ready to leave when Reese appeared.

  Clint shared a look with Jordana and she gave him a subtle hint to give them a minute.

  Once Clint left the room, Jordana was surprised when Reese folded her into a grateful hug. “Jordana, I thought you were going to die in the street. Puts things in perspective real fast.”

  She felt awful for Reese. Seeing her like that must’ve triggered some really bad memories of his last partner. She pulled away to regard him with a solemn apology. “I’m sorry I was so awful to you. You were right. Your instincts were right. I am sleeping with Clint and I’ve lost some objectivity. I didn’t mean for it to happen but it did and I don’t regret it. I only regret not being honest with you.”

  Reese took a minute to absorb what she’d said and then nodded, accepting her apology and her confession. “You’re a good detective, too. If you think he’s a good guy, I’m sure you’re not wrong. I just want you to be safe.”

  “I know you do. I’m sorry I put you through needless worry. I appreciate that you’ve got my back. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you with the truth from the start.”

 

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