“All I know is he found you. And the desk clerk swears he changed all the paperwork and never told a soul.”
What he said got hung up somewhere between her head and her heart. Brit believed the desk clerk, but he didn’t believe her. Her need for his touch vanished. “Then he had to have followed me.” The hurt echoed in her tone, but she didn’t care.
“Not when I was there. And if he’d followed you the first night why did he wait a few days later to come after you?”
“I don’t know. But I didn’t talk to Stan. And I think I’ve already told you that. And yet you don’t believe me, although you were going to make love to me. How could you do that?”
Guilt and then honesty flashed in his eyes. “I want to believe you. I want to believe you so bad it’s eating me up inside.”
“But you don’t trust me.” His distrust hurt, hurt more than she wanted to admit. She stared at the ceiling, because looking at him stung too much. Silence thickened the darkness. She tried to decide what she needed to do. Would Brit take her to another hotel? She needed to get away. She needed to think.
“I’m a cop, Cali. I get paid to be suspicious. I see the worst in people. It’s not you. It’s me.”
A distant and familiar chirping filled the air.
He sat up and pushed a hand through his hair again. “Damn, that’s my cell phone.” He’d barely got to his feet when his home phone started to ring.
“Friggin’ hell,” he muttered.
Both phones stopped making noise. She saw him bury his face into his hands.
Then, she heard the footsteps from the hall. She’d forgotten about Susan being here. A knock echoed.
“Uh, Brit. Are you in there?”
Cali wanted to bury herself under the covers, feeling like a teen being caught in bed with a guy.
“Yeah.” His tone sounded so tight it might break.
“It’s John. He says he really needs to talk to you.”
“John who?”
“Quarles. Your partner,” she answered with sarcasm.
He frowned.
“I’ll pick up in here.” He walked around the bed and reached for the phone. His gaze met hers and before he reached for the phone, he whispered, “I’m so damn sorry.”
She cut her gaze away. Sorry for what? For not believing her. For doubting her and still planning on having sex with her? For his sister catching them?
He snatched up the phone. She snatched up what little dignity she had left. Which wasn’t much.
“What is it?” he asked.
She listened, but pretended not to.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “I’ll meet you at the hospital,” he said and hung up. He glanced back at her. “I’ve got to go. There’s been another cop shooting.”
~
Brit found Quarles pacing in the surgery waiting room at the hospital. “What do we know?” Brit demanded.
Quarles motioned for him to follow him outside the room. As he turned to leave, Brit noted a pregnant woman sitting in a corner. Silent tears fell onto her pale cheeks while her hands splayed across her round stomach as if to protect the life within her. Several uniformed troopers surrounded her. The wife. Pain filled Brit’s chest. He hurt first for her, then for Keith’s wife, Laura. He still hadn’t returned her call.
He clenched his fists, the need for revenge singeing his heart.
Each of Brit’s footfalls fell harder than the last, and his chest clenched tighter. “They can’t hear us now,” he snapped. “What do we have?”
Quarles turned around. “One shot to the chest.”
“One. Chest,” Brit repeated.
“I know. It’s not the same MO. I’m not sure it’s connected. He was making a routine stop. Something went bad.”
“Did he call in a license number?”
“There wasn’t a tag, which is why he pulled the car over.”
“Do we have anything?” Brit closed his hand so tightly his nails cut into his palms.
“Yeah.” Quarles pulled out a small tablet from his front pocket. “His call in stated it was a 2003 Honda Civic, silver.”
The information stirred up another piece of data from Brit’s brain. “Civic, silver,” he repeated, trying to connect the dots of what he heard to what he knew. Then the dots merged. “Damn.”
“What?” Quarles asked.
“One of Stan Humphrey’s band buddies, the drummer with his throat sliced, he had a silver Civic. His car never turned up.”
“You think Humphrey is behind this shooting?”
“Do we know the type of gun that was used yet?”
“No.”
“Where did the shooting take place?”
“Around Main and I-45.”
Brit’s brain juggled that information until something else hit. “Didn’t someone in the band rent a house around there?”
“Yeah,” Quarles said. “But I checked and the landlord said they moved out three weeks ago. Left the place in shambles.”
Brit combed a hand through his hair. “Which would mean the landlord hasn’t rented it. And maybe Stan is hanging out there.”
Quarles squared his shoulders. “Let’s go.”