“First we have to stop the bleeding.” He slid next to her and looped the belt around her bicep, tightening the tourniquet as she winced in pain. “Sorry.”
He then wrapped his arms around her carefully. Closing his eyes as he felt the familiar comfort of her melting into him, he murmured, “I’m so sorry, Sophie.” They held each other for several moments, and then he looked at his watch. “Where are those damn paramedics?”
Silent tears slid down her cheeks as she wondered if she’d ever get to experience this pleasure again. She had no energy left. “I missed this,” she murmured. “You smell so … good.” Her last word was barely a whisper.
“I don’t deserve you,” he said. “I brought danger to you and Kirsten tonight, and—” He glanced at Carlo’s lifeless form, “I just killed a man. I am Grant Barberi.”
Every fiber of her being wished to protest his words, but instead she slipped into a deep, peaceful blackness.
36. Restraint
A throbbing ache formed in his shoulders and radiated down the length of his arms, culminating in a tingling numbness in his manacled hands. Grant had been sitting in the apartment with his wrists cuffed behind his back for over an hour now.
His mind flashed repeatedly to the horror of feeling Sophie slump against him as he’d held her …
Realizing she was unconscious, Grant had shouted at Kirsten to tell them to hurry. Her voice rose with fear as she continued speaking to the 911 dispatcher. Fortunately, a banging on the door immediately followed his plea, and Kirsten let in two police officers.
One officer knelt by the handgun, carefully placing the weapon in an evidence bag, while the other moved toward the couple on the sofa. He was a barrel-chested, balding man with a fleshy face and beady black eyes, and over Sophie’s shoulder Grant read the name on his uniform tunic: Dirkson.
“Get away from her,” Officer Dirkson ordered.
Nodding, Grant fully intended to comply but found he could not let go of Sophie. This might be the last time he would ever hold her. He simply couldn’t detach himself.
“I said,” the officer snarled as he stepped forward and rested his right hand on the gun in his holster, “get away from her.”
Grant could not believe he was disobeying an officer of the law. “Not until the paramedics arrive, sir.”
“Hey, idiot!” yelled the other officer, now standing near Kirsten. “We won’t let the paramedics in here until we subdue you. Let go of her!”
Grant immediately released Sophie, resting her gently on the sofa cushions. Quickly Dirkson was on top of him, shoving him off the sofa and onto the floor, burying his face in the carpet.
Turning to stare at Carlo’s peaceful profile, Grant felt his arms wrenched behind him and the painfully familiar cool-metal sensation of handcuffs closing on his wrists.
“You’re the shooter, right?” Dirkson growled, clasping the cuffs tightly.
Grant closed his eyes, wishing to erase the vision of Carlo’s dead body. “Yes, sir,” he quietly confessed.
“Stay down then and don’t move, asshole,” Dirkson replied, roughly frisking the length of his body.
Grant heard the bustle of paramedics arriving. He listened to Kirsten insisting she was fine and begging the paramedic to join her colleagues attending to Sophie.
He heard snippets of conversation between the EMTs: “Vitals 130 over 70, pulse 68, sat 90 percent, one medial entrance wound above the left elbow … Get some O2 and an IV for her on the rig … Damn, BP’s dropping. Let’s get moving.”
He badly wanted to raise his head to look, but the big black boot of Officer Dirkson, perched right next to his nose, convinced him to stay still.
As Sophie rattled out of the apartment on a stretcher, Kirsten followed closely. “I’ll stay with her, Grant,” she called as she left. “She’s going to be okay!”
Grant gulped. She had to be okay. He could never live with himself if he’d caused the death of his Bonnie …
The pulsating ache of rigid restraint filled his mind once again as he stole a glance at the two officers babysitting him. He could tell they were pissed off that they had to wait so long in the apartment—waiting for what, Grant wasn’t sure. But nothing compared to the pain of worry and regret piercing his heart. He had waited interminably to hear news of Sophie’s recovery, and he could bear it no longer.
“Please, sir, can you get an update on Sophie Taylor?” he asked.
The two Chicago PD officers, standing fifteen feet away, paused their conversation long enough to send him hostile glares. Grant immediately regretted opening his big mouth.
Officer Dirkson strode across the room and towered over Grant.
“You want to find out if you murdered two people, not just one?” he glowered.
Grant said nothing.
“Even if that little se?orita makes it, which it don’t look so good for her, you’re still going away for life, con.”
The officer had searched Grant’s wallet and discovered his driver’s license with Registered Offender stamped on it. Grant being on parole did not exactly endear him to Officer Dirkson.
“I did not shoot her!” Grant insisted.
“Shut the fuck up, you murderer,” Dirkson sneered. He grinned wickedly before surprising Grant with a devastating punch to the midsection. Grant instantly doubled over, groaning from the blow.
“What’s going on here?” an irate voice demanded from the entryway. Through his pain, Grant located Detective Marilyn Fox standing with her hands on her hips, glaring at Officer Dirkson. Accompanying her was a man dressed in a business suit. “Why are you assaulting my suspect?”
“Who the hell are you?” Dirkson retorted, eyeing the petite woman suspiciously. “This is a crime scene. You can’t just walk in here—”
“Detective Marilyn Fox, Great Lakes PD,” she brusquely informed him, whipping out her badge.
“I’m Detective Bruce Hammond, Chicago PD,” the fortyish, brown-haired man added, also showing his badge. “And anyone could walk in here, you dipshit. Where’s the crime scene tape on the door?”
“You’re the detectives?” Dirkson avoided looking at Bruce and aimed his comments at Marilyn. “We were ordered to wait for you, sweet cheeks. What took you so damn long? Did you stop for a manicure on the way?”
Marilyn’s green eyes narrowed, then focused on his nametag. “Officer Dirkson, did you listen to one word I just said? I was coming from Lake County.” She enunciated the words carefully, as if explaining a concept to a child. “Detective Hammond was gracious enough to wait for me—naturally it took awhile to get here.”
“Yeah.” Dirkson grinned. “They probably couldn’t sacrifice their only detective for the whole day, huh? Let’s hope no crimes are committed in Disturbia while you’re downtown, darlin’. Your superior might not like that.”
Detective Hammond watched the exchange, a look of amusement on his face.
“Speaking of superiors, what’s your sergeant’s name, Officer?” Marilyn asked calmly.
“Why do you care?” Dirkson countered.
She smiled sweetly. “Because I’d like to report your misconduct to your supervisor, once I’m done here.”