Nowhere Safe

CHAPTER 22





Vicious pounding in her temple brought Trish slowly back to consciousness. Something wet and cool was draped over her throbbing forehead. Icy cold pressed against her aching head. Noises filtered in and out between painful stabs.

Voices murmured. “Trish. Come on, honey, wake up.”

Honey?

Zane was here. Oh, thank goodness.

“Trish, open your eyes,” a low, concerned male voice coached.

Like a good girl, she obeyed, but Zane wasn’t the one urging her to rejoin the living. Worried cobalt-blue eyes stared down into hers. They belonged to Josh, not Zane. But she wasn’t complaining. His palm was on her face. His thumb stroked her cheek. Comforting her.

She tried to lift her head a fraction. Pain lashed through her skull. Trish groaned and raised a hand to her head.

“Whoa.” Josh intercepted her fingers, pulling her hand down and gently pushing her back onto soft cushions. “I’ve got an ice pack on your head. Just lie still.”

Ice pack and a major headache. What had hit her? A train.

“Is Miss Jackson awake?”

Trish flinched at the loud voice.

Josh cut a feral look at someone behind her. “No,” he said softly. “Keep your voice down.”

She seconded that motion.

“Josh, whaz going on?” she mumbled.

He shifted his concerned gaze back to her and spoke softly. “Someone hit you. Did you see anyone?”

Before she could answer, the voice from behind her was lower, but still severe. “I need to ask her some questions.”

A dangerous glint slashed across Josh’s face.

Until now, Trish had thought he was too nice to be a DEA–or an FBI–agent, but she’d seen the same fierce reaction in Zane when someone crossed him. A look that promised painful retaliation.

Some loudmouth had just pushed Josh too far.

“Don’t move,” Josh whispered. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

“’Kay.”

He made some adjustment with the icepack and patted her hand. She felt the cushions underneath her shift as he stood. She was on somebody’s sofa. He walked out of her line of sight and she focused on a picture on the wall, trying to recognize the image.

Or, whose wall the painting hung on. Late renaissance period. Well preserved...

Oh, God, this place smelled disgusting.

A terse conversation rumbled behind her. She didn’t catch any distinct words, just extremely angry tones of at least three or more men. They snarled at low volume for over a minute.

When everything quieted, Josh was back. A surprising relief filled her at the return of his touch. Why was he here? She wanted to ask, but didn’t have the energy to care, just glad for his warm touch.

“Where am I?” Trish asked.

“You’re at Big Charlie’s warehouse.”

She squinted in concentration. Big Charlie’s? Oh, yeah. She had a meeting with Big Charlie. She came in the back door, called out, no answer. Then went to the office and found...

“Oh, my God.” She clenched his hand for support. “Josh, Charlie is hurt. I called 9-1-1–”

“Shhh. I know.” He cupped her cheek again, his fingers splayed across her face. His gentleness silenced her until she flashed back on the blood dripping from Big Charlie’s mouth. The puddle of it on the floor. Was that the sickening odor she smelled?

“Is he going to be okay?” she asked. “I couldn’t find his pulse. He had a knife...” Her heart pounded and her head thumped with each beat.

Josh hesitated before answering. “He’s dead.”

“Oh, God.” She started panting and swallowed against the bile threatening to race up her throat again. “I need to sit up.” At his frown, she insisted, “Please, help me up or I’m going to throw up.” Might anyhow.

He removed the ice pack and slipped an arm behind her, raising her to a sitting position slowly. Then he shifted her legs around until her feet were on the floor. She squeezed her eyes tight to stave off the flood of tears threatening at the rim of her lashes.

Josh settled next to her, his arm curved around her shoulders. He held the icepack gently against her head.

Trish breathed a couple of shallow breaths and opened her eyes. She found the source of the other voices.

A team of police officers–one or two might be detectives–and two paramedics were congregated between the door to the warehouse and the lump at Big Charlie’s desk that was covered by a white sheet. Blood had congealed on the floor, giving off the smell of death.

She wrapped her arm around her middle, fought to keep her revolting stomach from adding one more humiliating misery to her day. The police wouldn’t appreciate her contaminating their crime scene.

Josh cupped her chin and inched her face around to his. “Don’t look.”

“Why aren’t they taking him away?”

“They need a special gurney to handle the weight.”

“Oh.” She focused on Josh’s face. “The detectives want to talk to me, I guess. I’ll answer their questions now,” she whispered. She would not fall apart in front of an audience.

Josh studied her as if he debated on allowing her to speak to anyone. He didn’t have a choice and they both knew it. A man had died. The police would want answers.

Trish didn’t have any.

Josh tipped his chin up at the detective who must have read the motion as the invitation he’d been waiting for.

How had Josh held the detective off until now?

The man who stepped forward first introduced himself as Detective Vickers. He knelt down, eye level with Trish. “Miss Jackson,” he began. He made an obvious effort to keep his voice at a low decibel, though the sound came out rough as rusty cans dragged against pavement. “What happened?”

She chewed on her lip, struggling to recall exactly what had occurred. “I had an appointment with Charlie, and he couldn’t meet until after hours so I got here around six thirty. He’d told me the loading dock door would be unlocked and it was. I saw the lights on in this office–”

“Did you see anyone in here?” the detective interjected.

“No. The blinds were drawn. I called out and knocked on the door, but nobody answered. I figured he was on the phone so I opened the door and saw–” Oh, God, would she ever forget the blood? Charlie’s still form? She’d known he was dead, but couldn’t accept it. Stuck on that image, she lost her line of thought and her eyes glazed over.

Then she realized Josh was rubbing her arm with his free hand, soothing her.

“Take it easy, Trish.” He had her tucked up against his chest. His heat cloaked her raw nerves like a gentle balm. She wanted to curl up in his arms and go to sleep, forget everything, drift into another world.

But life didn’t work that way. Someone had killed Big Charlie and had slammed her as well. The sooner the detective got information, the sooner they could go after the murderer. More than anything she was ready to get away from the wretched smell.

“Uh, I tried to check his throat for a pulse, but I couldn’t f-find one. I thought, maybe, I couldn’t feel one because he was so heavy.” Her voice trailed off again. She breathed hard and continued. “I dialed 9-1-1 and think I gave them an address before I was hit.”

“Did you see who hit you?” the detective asked.

“No.”

“Do you know who would want to kill Charlie?”

“No.”

“Who knew about this meeting?”

“No one ... well ...” She hesitated, and the detective’s body clenched. Crap. “I told Gunter–he owns Dynasty Treasures–but he was on his way to see Olivia Lackey to escort her to a function. He didn’t like Charlie, but he wouldn’t do this. Gunter wouldn’t hurt a fly. Right, Josh? You met him.” At no response, she shoved her gaze to Josh.

He worked his jaw a moment and said, “I don’t know, but we’ll find out.” Angling his head to Detective Vickers, Josh asked, “Any more questions?”

“Yes. Miss Jackson, what were you meeting Charlie about?”

About threatening me and Zane.

About stalking me and trying to steal my business.

Okay, neither of those were intelligent answers. She didn’t know that Big Charlie was the stalker. She needed something neutral, quick. Even Josh waited silently, reading too much with his intense gaze.

“Business.” Close to the truth. She held her breath.

“Can you elaborate?”

Why did this feel like an NCIS episode? She dug her nails into the sofa cushion and tried again, careful to stick close to the truth.

“Charlie made a couple of offers to buy my shop. I told him we’d discuss it.”

“So you were going to sell your shop?”

“No, just discuss it.”

The detective shifted back on his heels. He seemed neither satisfied nor convinced by that answer.

“Detective, Miss Jackson has been through a traumatic event,” Josh interrupted. “She’s told you what she knows. I’ve told you that the front door was locked when I arrived. Since you found it open, I would have to think the assailant killed Big Charlie, hit Miss Jackson and fled through the front door. Have you located what he used to hit her?”

“No, but we intend to continue searching.”

“I’d like to get Trish to the hospital,” Josh said.

“No!” Trish gritted her teeth as soon as the loud word popped out of her mouth.

“Yes, you are going to the hospital,” Josh argued in a hard voice.

“I want to go home.”

“You could have a concussion.”

Trish raised her hand to her head and this time carefully touched the goose-egg-sized lump. “I’ve always heard the lump means the swelling is going to the outside and not a concussion. Isn’t that so?” she said toward the paramedics who had stood throughout the exchange as silent spectators.

One of them answered, “We’re not authorized to make that diagnosis.”

“I’m going home.” She sent Josh a silent plea with her eyes. She did not want to go the hospital. They’d call Zane. He’d have to leave Angel.

Josh huffed out a sound of frustration. “Against my better judgment, I’ll take you home. But if you show any signs of a concussion or getting sick, you’re going to the hospital.”

The detective stood and moved over to the desk.

Someone from outside the office called out, “The coroner’s here.”

Uh-uh. She was not watching them load that body. “Josh?”

“We’re going.” He removed the ice pack and got to his feet.

She gripped the sofa on each side of her legs, prepared to push up, but his hands cupped her under the arms and lifted her until she could stand, then pulled her against his strong, solid body.

Taking deep breaths in and out to keep her stomach from erupting she asked the detective, “Am I free to go?”

“Not yet.”

She felt Josh tense and put her hand on his arm. “It’s okay. I want to do whatever I can to help them find the person responsible for this.” She raised her gaze to Detective Vickers. “What else do you want?”

“You said this is the first time you’ve been here, right?”

She stopped herself before nodding this time. “Yes.”

Vickers lifted a bag from the desk. “Can you tell me if this belonged to the victim or not?”

Trish stared at the bloody weapon.

“That looks like my letter opener.”