~
Two hours later, Cali walked into her classroom. “It won’t be blinking. It won’t be blinking,” she repeated and let her eyes move to the answering machine on her desk. The blinking light made her breath hitch. What had Mom said? “Ask Brit about reading his files and don’t, do not tell him about the phone calls until after lunch! Cali, it’s really important,” her mom kept saying.
Cali leaned against the desk as she recalled the image that had ended the dream. An image of Brit falling to the ground, the front of his shirt soaked in blood. Then she saw Nolan, Stan’s friend, holding a gun.
“Don’t tell him about the phone calls until after lunch.”
Her hands shook. It wasn’t true. She glanced again at the blinking light. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t going to be a message from Stan, she told herself. It wasn’t.
Forcing air into her lungs, she pushed the play button.
The voice filled the line. “Cali, it’s Stan.”
“No!” Dropping in her chair, she gripped the edge of the desk, as Stan’s voice pleaded for her to help him. The second message was from him as well, only this time he left a number.
Cali tried to rationalize it, looking at it from Dr. Roberts’ viewpoint. She had been worried Stan might call. Hadn’t she? And then seeing all those photos in Brit’s file, and knowing someone was out there killing cops, made her realize how dangerous his job could be. So maybe she was just hypothesizing. They were just dreams. Oh, jeepers. She didn’t believe in ghosts. She didn’t believe her mother was really trying to communicate with her, did she?
Of course, she didn’t. And Brit needed to know Stan had called. She had to tell him. Yes. She had to.
She found Brit’s card in her purse, picked up the phone, and punched in the number. The ring echoed in her ear. She slammed the phone down. Okay. Maybe she did believe in ghosts.
“Oh, hell.” She needed to think for a second. Clear her head and then call him.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“You’d better stop it before Adams figures it out,” Quarles said as he walked into Brit’s office.
“What?” Brit glanced up from cleaning his cluttered desk. Unlike any other morning, today, he didn’t mind the broom closet of an office.
“You were humming.”
Brit attempted to bite back his smile. “A man can’t hum?”
“Not with that chicken-shit grin on his face. The evidence is overwhelming. You got laid last night.”
Brit leaned back in his chair, not about to kiss and tell, but he wouldn’t deny it either. “I woke up in a good mood.”
The humor in Quarles’ eyes faded into something serious. “I warned you about getting in too deep.”
“Too deep in what?” Adams asked.
Brit and Quarles both stiffened at the sight of the man looming in the doorway. “What’s up?” Brit asked.
“The hospital called. You can talk to Garland at nine.” He tossed some papers on Brit’s desk. “The hotel charge will be posted on Miss McKay’s Internet bill by three. I’ve asked Duke and Mark to back you two up tonight. We’ll set you up in two unmarked cars. I figure someone will need to be inside the room, too. You two don’t mind pulling a double, do you?”
Brit sat forward, his chair squeaking. “Wouldn’t miss it. I want this guy caught.” Out of Cali life’s forever.
“I’m in.” Quarles butted up against Brit’s desk.
“Good,” Adams said. “Oh, you were right. Humphrey’s gun is a match for the one that shot Garland. He might not be the guy who took out Keith and Anderson, but he shot an officer. I want him behind bars or six feet under and don’t care which. But I’m not losing another officer. So wear your vests.”
Adams tucked his hand into his belt. “If I find out one of you didn’t, I’m going to kick ass.” He walked out.
Quarles waited a few minutes then turned to Brit. “Wear your vest,” he said, tucking his hand into his belt. “Or I’m going to kick ass.” Quarles’ voice was a dead ringer for Adams’.
Brit laughed. “I didn’t know you did impersonations.”
“Yeah. You ought to hear me do you.”
“Funny,” Brit said, his good mood unbreakable.
A tap on the open door brought Brit’s gaze up. His smile, and his mood, shattered when he saw Laura, Keith’s wife, standing there.
“Laura?” Brit stood. A rain of guilt pelted him. Guilt for not calling her. Guilt for not finding Keith’s murderer. Guilt for being alive when his partner and best friend wasn’t. Guilt for being happy about being alive.
“Hi.” Her smile wasn’t as bright as Brit remembered it. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d run by.”
Brit looked at his new partner. “John Quarles, this is Laura. Keith’s wife.”