Jack had exhaled deeply when Lacey headed down the hall to her room. Any more time alone with her and he’d have her in that little bed with her feet over her shoulders. The crying on his chest had nearly undone him. After he’d calmed her down while mentally reciting every baseball statistic he could remember, she left the kitchen for bed and he hit the fridge, searching for a beer.
He downed the entire beer and stared unseeing at her empty chair. Then opened another beer.
“She’s really great.”
Jack jerked at the voice. He hadn’t heard Alex come back in the room. He relaxed and slammed the second beer. “I know.”
Alex eyed the two empty beer bottles as he crossed the room to open his freezer. “Try this instead.” He set a bottle of Grey Goose and two tall glasses on the table and sat down, pouring a drink for both of them.
“Is it that obvious?”
“You’ve got it bad. Written all over your damned pretty face.”
“She thinks you don’t like her.” Jack downed the vodka.
Alex said nothing.
“I told her you were the strong silent type and not to take it personally. Conversing with women isn’t your strong point.”
Alex still said nothing as he polished off his drink and poured them each another. Jack joined him in companionable silence as he thought about the woman down the hall.
What was he going to do about Lacey? The air sizzled when they were together. When she was near, the hair on his knuckles grew and he fought an overpowering impulse to kick the ass of any man who looked at her.
Not a good sign.
He’d never felt this way about a woman.
Had he morphed into a one-woman man? ’Cause that was the direction his thoughts went every time he was with her. Where was fun Jack? The guy who enjoyed a multitude of first dates and rarely asked for a second.
Now he was tripping over his feet to place himself between a woman and a possible serial killer. Definite brain cell deterioration. The man had killed three men in the last few days, and made it crystal clear that Lacey was in his sights.
Maybe Jack just felt sorry for her.
Yeah. And Osama bin Laden hadn’t been a terrorist.
A subconscious attempt at redeeming himself? Save this woman, erase the memory of the woman he didn’t save? He stared down at his drink, wishing he could pickle his brain in the alcohol. Then maybe he’d forget.
“Weird to see you gooey-eyed over a female. Not the Jack I know.” Alex finished another drink. “You tell her why you’re no longer a cop?” Alex had an uncanny knack for reading his mind.
“No.”
“Wasn’t your fault, man. You gotta get past it.”
Easier said than done. Jack pressed his eyes with the heels of his hands but the ghosts still came.
He’d been on the force only two years when it’d happened. Calvin Trenton had been assigned to partner him as a rookie. The man had bitched and moaned in Jack’s ear, then proceeded to train him to be the best cop he could be.
Jack had admired Cal. The man had a gift with words. He could talk a drunk driver into believing he was doing the cops a favor to let them drive him downtown. Domestic disputes turned into gales of laughter, and scared toddlers clung to his hand. He always knew exactly what to say to put someone at ease.
It’d been a domestic dispute that blew Jack’s life to pieces. The apartment complex had been familiar. Jack and Cal had responded numerous times to the place. But that day, the arguing couple was new to them. Neighbors had called the police, complaining of screaming and fighting.
The couple was Hispanic. Maybe there was a language problem somewhere but Jack and Cal had sworn the couple understood them just fine that awful day.
She was upset. Rosalinda Quintero was twenty-two and hugely pregnant. Bruises of many shades on her face and arms had told Jack that someone close to her liked to hit. And he didn’t think it was her two-year-old daughter. He and Cal had separated the couple outside the apartment. Jack talking to the woman, and Cal working his magic on the husband, Javier.
Javier was shorter than his wife. Small and wiry, with a thin mustache that made him look about nineteen. But the cocky look in his eye had said he believed he was a big man.
Rosalinda admitted Javier had hit her before, but that wasn’t the problem at the moment. It was him “sitting on his lazy ass” watching TV while the toddler screamed and she made dinner. Javier had exploded when she’d hollered at him to take care of their daughter so she could get dinner on the table. The argument had taken root from there. Sprouting into money complaints, dirty shoes on clean floors, and on and on and on.
Rosalinda’s voice grew louder as she complained to Jack. He noticed Javier shooting dirty looks their way as Cal tried to talk some sense into the man. Rosalinda began shouting her grievances at her husband. Jack tried to back her into the apartment to put some more space between the two. Cal’s voice was low and cajoling, trying to lighten the situation, but Javier wasn’t going for it.
Javier cursed long and hard at his wife. Jack had grown pretty good with Spanish in the last two years. but puta was the only word he recognized: whore.
Rosalinda’s face reddened. She slid one hand under her pregnant belly for support and shook her fist at him with the other as she volleyed back her husband’s taunts. Jack nervously watched her bulging stomach, petrified she’d go into labor on the spot.
Neighbors stepped out of their apartments to stare. A couple of the women yelled their support for Rosalinda, pissing Javier off even more. Men shifted from foot to foot, eying the tense scene, occasionally putting in their two cents. The generalized murmur of Spanish and English grew louder. Jack caught Cal’s eye: The situation was escalating and he feared a mob mentality was about to take over.
“I want everyone else back in their apartments! This is between the Quinteros. The rest of you need to leave.” The crowd did not appreciate Cal’s directions.
“He hits her! She’s pregnant and he hits her!” A teenage girl with Jennifer Lopez beauty spoke up and the rest of the women nodded fervently.
“Shut the fuck up!” An older Hispanic male in baggy jeans backhanded the girl, drawing irate shouts from all the women and some of the men. Small groups surged forward, stepping too close for Jack’s comfort. He tried again to steer Rosalinda back into the apartment.
She pushed past him to yell fresh insults at the man who’d slapped the girl. Jack turned a panicked glance Cal’s way and saw him speaking into his radio while trying to hold the husband at bay. Thank God. They desperately needed backup. He spotted three young Latinos with cunning expressions inching closer to Cal and Javier.
Before Jack could warn Cal, two graying abuelas stepped in front of the three men and chewed them up one side and down the other in rapid Spanish. Guilt and embarrassment filled the young men’s faces as they backed off and blended into the crowd. The groups of women cheered for the old women and the men ominously muttered some more.
Cal steered Javier in the direction of the squad car to get the man away from the crowds. Beside Jack, Rosalinda gasped as she saw her husband and Cal move toward the car. She gave Jack a shove. The heavily pregnant woman darted down the concrete steps with amazing agility and fought her way through the crowds. Jack dashed after her.
Jack had thought she was screaming for Cal to let Javier go. From Jack’s position directly behind her, all he could hear was Rosalinda’s shrill voice in a blur of Spanish. Then he saw the anger on her husband’s face and Jack caught enough words to understand Rosalinda hoped Javier got screwed in prison. Jack hadn’t believed the man’s face could get any redder until Rosalinda shouted that she could now be with her baby’s father.
Silence fell. Shock struck the crowd silent. The only sounds were whimpers from Rosalinda’s two-year-old.
Those two seconds of silence were as loud to Jack as the roar of the gunshot a second later. Javier pulled a pistol from the back of his jeans under his shirt, aimed at his wife’s belly, and smiled.
The crowd roared as the shot knocked Rosalinda to the ground. People rushed at Rosalinda to help and another group rushed at Javier to take him down. Before he was tackled, Javier let his gun arm fall limply to his side. He raised his head to meet Jack’s eyes over the crowd. No regret showed in the cocky brown eyes.
The bullet passed through Rosalinda and buried itself in Jack’s thigh. He’d already kneeled to help the bleeding woman when he noticed blinding pain in his leg. Sitting back hard, he stared at the blood on his pants, confused that Rosalinda’s blood was causing pain in his leg.
At Alex’s table, Jack wrapped both hands around his stiff drink, and blocked the facial expression of the dying woman from his mind. He’d blown it that day and Rosalinda had died.
He and Cal had been cleared after an investigation. The situation had simply gotten out of hand too rapidly. Javier now sat in prison and his daughter lived with her grandmother. Her unborn sister hadn’t made it.
If only Jack had moved faster.
Alex filled his glass again and clanked it against Jack’s in a cheerless toast.
“I’ve got something.”
Mason glanced up from a series of photos of the Richard Buck murder. Ray looked like he’d hit the Powerball jackpot. Twice. Mason had been trying to get a lead on where the fishing lures could’ve come from, but every phone call was turning cold. It looked like Buck had made the lures.
“What?” Mason was tired, annoyed, and a headache pounded above his eyes.
Ray’s eyes glowed. “A religious commune. Well, it sounds more like a cult. Linda DeCosta currently lives on the commune way out in the boonies in Southeast Oregon. Some sort of fanatic place where each man has five wives and twenty kids.”
“Yes!” Mason punched a fist in the air and half of his headache dissolved.
“What about her son?”
Ray shook his head. “Nothing on the brother. I only managed to find her through a disgruntled ex-wife of the man Linda’s living with now. The pissed-off ex-wife is working with the police down there, trying to put together a case against the leader of the commune. He arranges marriages. I guess some of the brides are as young as fourteen.” Ray’s nose wrinkled in disgust.
“That’s fucking sick.” Every step in this case was getting creepier. “Who the hell would marry a fourteen-year-old and fifty-something Linda DeCosta?”
“She’s not married. She’s a housekeeper or nanny or something. Guess even whacked out polygamists have standards.”
“We’ve gotta get down there.” Mason felt energized. Finally a solid lead that could get them somewhere. He stood, stacking his photos and slamming files.
“I dropped a hint to Brody.”
Mason froze midshuffle. “What the fuck’d you say?” What was Lusco thinking? “Didn’t your mother breastfeed you long enough, Ray? What’s wrong with your brain?”
“Brody’s in Mount Junction. The commune’s pretty close to that town. That reporter is sharp and has more contacts than J. Edgar Hoover. I thought he could check things out in case we’re wasting our time.” Ray forced his eyes to meet Mason’s angry ones, daring him to argue. “Our killer’s in Portland, not Southeast Oregon.”
Silently Mason ran through Ray’s logic. He was right, but his methods weren’t right. He was going to get both of them fired. “Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Find someone local to officially check her out.”
“Already done. Closest state patrol office is a hundred miles away, and they’re tied up with a couple of missing hunters in Burns. Takes precedent over questioning a witness. Malheur County sheriff’s department said they’d try to get to it in a day or two, but this commune is too far out and they’re understaffed.” Ray gave an understanding grimace. “That’s when I called Brody.”
“I want him to check in every two hours.”
“I told him every hour. He doesn’t need motivation to do this right. Brody’s emotionally tied tighter than anyone else in this case. He’s half-crazy with concern for Dr. Campbell. I’m glad he’s out of Portland and out of the line of fire.”
Mason disagreed with Ray’s statement. He could think of one man tied tighter.
Jack closed the door to the bedroom Alex had loaned him and stumbled into the attached bathroom. Some protector he was. Getting drunk with a buddy when Cal’s killer was searching for the defenseless woman in the next room. Actually, defenseless wasn’t how he thought of Lacey. She was tough and smart. He knew she carried pepper spray and watched her surroundings with a sharp eye.
There wasn’t another place in the world where he’d let himself fall so low, but in Alex’s home he knew he could let his guard down. Alex would always have his back. He’d drag Jack up from the floor a time or two when the past got too close. Then he’d pound responsibility back into Jack’s spine, and he’d be able to hold his head up. Alex’s home had been an oasis he’d escaped to several times since the shooting. He’d brought Lacey here because he had no doubts she’d be safe.
He swayed slightly from the alcohol, leaned his hands on the counter, and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Lacey didn’t need him. He just liked to think she did. She only needed a shoulder to cry on every now and then. She could have done just as well with her cats for comfort. Great. He’d reduced his bodyguard role to a purring foot warmer.
Someone was feeling very sorry for himself.
This always happened when he thought about the shooting. He’d feel like a sham. Being a cop was one thing he’d truly wanted to do. He wanted to be part of that line that stood between the public and the scum. But he’d failed. And couldn’t handle the consequences.
He’d lost his edge that day. He couldn’t face another uncertain situation and that was what a cop’s life was. Every simple encounter could turn deadly. A traffic stop. A shoplifting. A domestic dispute. Stupidly, neither he nor Cal had checked the young man for weapons, and someone died from that mistake. Jack couldn’t get over it and had left the force.
Now here he stood, a drunken idiot, believing he could protect a woman from a killer. He’d finally stumbled across a woman who spun his wheels, and he didn’t believe he was good enough for her.
He reached to turn on the faucet, but knocked a hairbrush on the floor instead. He bent over to pick it up, got dizzy, and pitched head first into the shower door. “Fuck!” He grabbed at his forehead and sat on the floor, silently begging the room to stop spinning.
The bathroom door to the other connecting bedroom slid open an inch.
“Jack?”