Читать книгу Bear Claw Lawman - Jessica Andersen - Страница 10

Chapter Three

Nick paused on the landing and stuck his head through the stairwell door for a quick survey of the fourth floor, one level below the victim’s apartment. A couple of doors down, a uniformed officer paused midknock, then relaxed. “Oh. Hey, Nick.”

“Hey, Doanes. Give me some good news.”

But, like his buddies door-to-dooring it on the second and third floors, the cop shook his head. “Sorry, man. I got nothing. Lots of empty apartments, and the few people who’ve answered didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything, and mostly don’t even know the people on their own floor, never mind one up. Merry said she was going to track down the super, though. Maybe she’s got something better.”

“I already talked to her. The super didn’t recognize the vic’s picture, said the apartment belongs to a woman, gave up her name and contact info. Merry got the renter on her cell phone—she was evasive, but eventually fessed up that she’s out of the city on a training assignment, and advertised online for a sublet to offset the bills. Dennison said he’d only be here for a couple of weeks, but he paid her for a whole month. In cash.”

“He was moving around, keeping a low profile like the others,” Doanes observed.

“Seems like it.” Question was, why? And why had he stayed in Bear Claw? What were the Investor and the other remaining members of the militia looking for? And why was the head honcho suddenly taking out his own people? What was going on here?

It felt as if they were chasing their own tails like a bunch of bomb dogs with C-4 strapped to their butts. Shaking his head, Nick continued, “Anyway, looks like the lady who rents the place is a dead end. She dealt with Dennison on the phone, never met him in person, didn’t care what he was doing in town as long as he paid in full.” He paused. “Are the CSIs still up there?”

Doanes shook his head. “I think they’re done. I saw Gigi leaving a little while ago.”

“Thanks.” Nick waved him off. “Catch you later.”

It shouldn’t have mattered to him whether or not the analysts had finished up their preliminary run, just like it shouldn’t have mattered that Jenn had been assigned to the scene. They had crossed paths plenty since the breakup, and had kept it friendly and polite. There shouldn’t be any problem there. Hell, there wasn’t any problem there.

Still, he breathed a little easier as he headed up the next flight of stairs, knowing he’d have the quiet solitude he needed to put himself into the head of Chuckie Dennison—a victim who had also been a killer in his own right. Nick wouldn’t ever know the dead man personally, but for a few minutes—or longer, if necessary—he would do his damnedest to become him, standing in his space, seeing the things he’d thought were important, the things he hadn’t.

Dennison had been a fugitive from both the law and his former boss…but he’d stayed in the city. What was keeping him here? And then the torture. What had the Investor wanted from his former lieutenant? Information, obviously, but what kind? What was the endgame here?

Nick probably wouldn’t get the answers today, of course, but he would absorb everything he could of Dennison’s space, his life, his death. And maybe—if he was damn lucky—get a flash of the kind that sometimes hit him, the sort of lightbulb gotcha that sent him in a new direction, or back down an old one, until he hit pay dirt. All because he’d stood there for ten minutes or an hour, absorbing every detail of a stranger’s life and trying to figure out what made him tick.

The members of his sprawling, affectionate and high-drama family called it method acting and were as proud of his skills as they were baffled by his choices. His bosses were just glad he could do it, and used him as often as they could. And he was okay with that. More than okay with it. He came, he saw, he blended, he helped catch the bad guy and then he moved on again. That was his life, his skill set, and if it meant he’d put some other things on hold, better that than repeating past mistakes.

Now, as he pushed through the door to the fifth floor, he did his damnedest to put himself into the mind of a former member of the Ghost Militia, an ex-con who’d done a stint for aggravated assault and attempted murder, and who had been on the run, aware that the Investor was tracking down his former lieutenants and tearing them open to see what secrets he could find.

The hallway was identical to those on the other floors, with white walls, a red carpet that was starting to go threadbare pink along the traffic pattern and numbered doors leading off on either side. The one difference was that the door on the far end was marked as a crime scene.

Already deep in Dennison’s head—I’m here, nobody followed me, gotta check the apartment first before I can relax, make sure I haven’t been made yet—Nick headed up the hall, senses attuned for the slightest warning of danger to his fugitive self.

Thud. The noise from behind the far door brought him up short and set off all sorts of warning bells—someone was in the apartment!

Where Dennison would’ve done a one-eighty and taken off, though, Nick powered straight ahead with his weapon appearing in his hand without him consciously reaching for it. It was probably one of the cops, he knew, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Especially not when the others were supposed to be canvassing.

He went quiet as he got close to the door, moving almost silently on his lug-soled boots and letting out a breath as there was another thudda-thudda-thud, then a scuffle.

Instincts on overdrive, he twisted the knob, booted open the door and flattened himself against the outside wall for a second. When there was no response, he went in low, leading with his gun. “Freeze! Police!”

In the next moment, two impressions seared his retinas and competed for priority in his head: Jenn lay on the floor, motionless beside a battered chair, near a dark pool of blood he hoped to hell wasn’t hers. And heavy footsteps coming from the back room said she wasn’t alone.

Jenn! The word shouted in his head but didn’t leave his lips. He reached her in two strides, went down on his knees before he knew it, and then had his hands on her for the first time in a month. Her pulse was fast, her breathing shallow, her eyes were closed, the side of her face already reddened and starting to swell. He didn’t see any fresh blood, and the spatter nearby was old and set, but that didn’t change the basic fact: someone had gone after her. And that someone was getting away.

He lunged to his feet, bellowing, “Stop! Police!”

Not that the guy stopped—they never did, and this one was already out the window. Nick knew it even as he cleared the door into the bedroom and heard the traffic, then the feet pounding down the fire escape. “Damn it!”

He stuck his head out, and just barely saw the guy from the back as he bolted around the corner onto the main road. But that was enough to relay the bad news—the guy had a pair of plastic boxes under one arm. He’d taken the evidence kits.

Cursing viciously, Nick holstered his weapon, went for his phone and called it in. But even with “white guy, six-something, dark pants and a suit jacket, carrying a couple of evidence kits” as a description, he didn’t hold out much hope.

Given the head start, though, there was no point in Nick giving chase. Especially not when there was a vic who need medical attention.

Not a vic. Jenn. He had to think of her that way, though. It was the only way he could keep himself steady as he returned to Dennison’s living room, went down beside her once more. He didn’t move her, didn’t dare do anything more than take her hand in his.

She was still unconscious, which wasn’t good. And her left eye was nearly swollen shut, red and puffy. She’d taken a hell of a hit. Maybe more than one.

Anger was a sharp, ugly beast inside him, hammering against his ribs and snarling to be let free. He kept his control, though—that was what made him one of the best at what he did. But he sure as hell didn’t feel like one of the best as he leaned over her. He felt damned helpless, and that was a new feeling.

“There’s an ambulance on the way,” he said, forcing his voice level. “They’ll take care of you, get you back on your feet.”

She would hate this, he knew. She would hate knowing that she’d been out of it, that she’d been the focus of an “officer down” call, taking attention away from the manhunt that even now was forming up down below. And most of all, she would hate knowing he’d been the one to wait with her.

Despite her professionalism, he knew the sharp edges were there, knew she couldn’t possibly be as cool toward him as she came across. There had to be some heat beneath that mask, some anger over the way he’d ended things so abruptly when there’d been the potential for them to keep seeing each other, keep going with the crazy heat they’d made together.

Or maybe that was just him. Maybe she really was that cool, and he was the only one who still took a second some mornings to realize that she wasn’t beside him, wouldn’t ever be there again. “Come on, come on,” he muttered, reaching for his phone. “Where the hell—”

Boot steps thudded in the hallway and Tucker straight-armed the door, face thunderous. “What the hell happened?” He missed a step at the sight of Jenn, down and out of it. He grabbed his radio and snapped, “Where the hell is that ambulance?”

“Three minutes out,” came the muffled response from Dispatch.

“Get it here in one.” Keeping the radio clutched, Tucker rounded on Nick. “Tell me.” He sounded almost as mad as Nick felt. Almost.

“I came in as the dipwad was going out the window,” Nick growled, and gave him a quick summary, along with his too-vague description of Jenn’s attacker.

Tucker shook his head grimly. “This is bad.”

“It gets worse. He got the evidence cases.”

“He…” The detective broke into a string of curses, then headed for the hallway, already barking into his radio. “Anything on the guy Lang saw? Business suit, two plastic cases. Anything?”

His voice faded as he stalked down the hallway, giving orders and making threats that anyone who’d known him for more than five seconds knew was more a sign of how worried he was than anything. Tucker was no pushover, but he was a fair leader, and he cared deeply about all of his people. More, the crime scene analysts had a special place in his heart, given that his wife, the mother of his daughter, was one of them.

Nick didn’t know what it meant to feel like that, to love like that. But he knew he was on the verge of losing it over Jenn.

In the distance, a siren throbbed faintly. Finally!

Tightening his fingers on hers, he leaned in. “They’re almost here. Any minute now.”

Her lashes fluttered.

“Jenn!” His muted shout sounded very loud in the room—in the freaking murder scene, the one he’d been coming to re-create in his mind, only to wind up coming way too close to reenacting it in an entirely more gruesome fashion. There was nothing of Dennison in him now as he brushed a few strands of hair from her forehead. “That’s it,” he said, though she hadn’t moved again. “Come on, baby. You can do it.”

The “baby” just slipped out. But even as it resonated too deeply inside him, her fingers moved against his, her eyelids fluttered again and she inhaled a deep breath—a real one this time, not one of the shallow, shocky sips she’d been taking ever since his arrival.

And then, finally, she opened her eyes and looked up at him.

* * *

W ARMTH RUSHED THROUGH Jenn at the sight of Nick’s face so close to hers, and the knowledge that he’d been watching her sleep, and that whatever he’d been thinking, it had put deep, intense emotions in his eyes, making him look so fierce he was almost frightening.

Almost.

“Nick,” she said softly, reaching for him. “What—”

She gasped when the move sent a slash of pain through her head, followed by a roll of nausea.

“Stay still.” He gripped her hand. “You were attacked, knocked out. The paramedics are on their way up.”

“Para…oh.” She closed her eyes as her brain caught back up with her, and the scenery she had glimpsed behind Nick’s head connected to her recent reality—or at least as much as it could when that reality was a jumble.

She was at a crime scene; there had been another torture-murder. She knew that much, though only as words, like Dispatch was reporting directly inside her head. In terms of really seeing things, really having the memories, the last thing she remembered was—ow! She moved to grab her head, then groaned when the motion made things worse. Grayness washed her vision and things went swimmy around her.

“Jenn!” Nick said urgently. “Come on, stay with me.”

“You didn’t want me to—” She had enough presence of mind to shut that off, clamping her lips together while she rode out a surge of nausea. Her mind raced, bringing more stabs of pain in her head and behind her eyeballs, but memories started coming back, too.

She remembered walking up the stairs to the fifth floor, coming in to find Gigi already working.

“Gigi!” Her eyes flew open and she tried to shove up off the floor, fighting through the pain and the too-bright glare of the winter sunlight and apartment fluorescents. “Where’s Gigi? She was here!”

“Chill!” Nick gripped her shoulders, holding her down. “It’s okay. You’re okay. She’s okay. She left on another call. You were here alone.” He paused. “You don’t remember her leaving?”

“I…” The fear had leveled off when she learned that Gigi was okay, but now it came back full force, roaring through her, sweeping through a jumble of memories. She remembered Gigi photographing the scene, the two of them talking about Nick. And after that…

What happened after that?

“Okay. It’s okay. Don’t stress about it. Just relax.” But there was something in his eyes that she didn’t like—it was too much like the looks she had gotten back in her old life, after Terry died and things started coming to light. It said, There’s more, and it’s bad.

“What is it?” she demanded, grabbing on to his wrists and digging in, her heart suddenly pounding even harder. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He hesitated, then said, “The bastard got your evidence kits.”

“No!” Horror lashed through her. Shame. Guilt. The cases held everything from the scene. If it was all gone… She surged against him. “Let me up! I need to—”

“You need to stay the hell down!” he said fiercely, leaning in so their faces were very close and she could feel the heat of his body, his grip. But then a sudden clamor erupted at the door and two paramedics came in, puffing from the climb. At the interruption, Nick’s expression flattened and he straightened away from her. “You need to let these guys have a look at you.”

She tried to wave them off. “I’m fine.” Which would’ve sounded more convincing if her voice hadn’t broken. But she wasn’t fine. She was down and hurting. And, worse, she had lost crucial evidence in the Death Stare case…otherwise, why else would the killer come back for it?

The killer, she thought, and closed her eyes as it started to penetrate. She’d been attacked, knocked out. Logic said that was what’d happened, but when she tried to remember, all she could picture was her and Gigi gossiping about Nick. Who was here, hovering over her with a gruff protectiveness he’d never shown while they were together, probably because she had been careful to never let him see her be anything but breezy and self-reliant. Now, she was anything but. She wanted to cling, wanted to cry. She had been attacked, knocked out, robbed.

Why couldn’t she remember any of it?

The paramedics dumped their gear and moved in, asking questions and starting to tug at her clothes.

She tried to fend them off. “I don’t—”

“Just let them have a look at you,” Nick said. “You were unconscious for a good five minutes, and there’s blood.” She would’ve kept arguing, would’ve kept trying to brush them off when they tried to look in her eyes and feel the growing lump on her skull. But then he leaned in closer and said, “Please.”

She stilled, caught in his eyes and the low-voiced request. Had he ever asked her for anything before? She didn’t think so, and the impact was palpable. He was still holding her hand, she realized. He followed her eyes to where their fingers were twined together, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he tightened his grip.

Warmth kindled, making her want to lean into him, lean on him. Her head hurt; her eye and the whole side of her face hurt. More, her heart ached at knowing she had lost the evidence. Maybe even the key to the whole case.

Damn it. She needed to let go for a few minutes, needed to know she could trust someone else to handle things, needed… She needed exactly what he was offering right now, she realized with a sudden cold-water dose of reality. Which meant it wasn’t real; it was just a means to an end, just like all the other roles she’d seen him play over the past month.

Stiffening, she pulled away, even though it took effort. “Whatever it takes to get the job done, right?”

He frowned. “What?”

“Never mind.” Going numb now, she submitted to the paramedics, no longer trying to fight them off as they asked her to follow a pen with her eyes and answer stupid-simple questions about what day it was and who was the President.

Nick stood, moved to the back of the room and took a good look around. Moments later, he and Tucker had their heads together and were conferring in low tones, with lots of looks in her direction. She was so busy trying to focus on them that it took her too long to notice that the paramedic working on a small scalp laceration—which had started bleeding when she began to move around—was tossing bloody gauze into the spatter pattern from the murder vic.

“The scene,” she protested, reaching for his arm. “Please!”

“Forget the scene,” Tucker said, more to the paramedic than to her. “A living victim gets priority.”

It was protocol, and normally she agreed wholeheartedly—the emergency responders needed to do their jobs without worrying about evidence. But she wasn’t critical—a headache and some memory gaps weren’t going to kill her—and this was the Death Stare case. “Not here. Not now. Not with me.”

His expression darkened. “Stow it. You’re damn lucky to be alive, you know. If Nick hadn’t come in when he did, the bastard could have—” He broke off, cursing under his breath as he turned away to take a long look out the window.

Nick, though, didn’t seem to have nearly as much of a problem with the prospect. He stared at her, expression unreadable and nothing like the gentleness that had been on his face when she was first waking up.

In a way, she was grateful, because the irritation she wanted to aim at him helped her steel herself against the picture Tucker had painted in her aching head. She hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t really questioned why or how Nick had gotten there. Now, though, she was forced to admit she was damned lucky to be alive. It wasn’t like the Investor made a habit of leaving witnesses. Exactly the opposite, in fact.

Nick had interrupted him before he could finish the job. He had saved her life.

What was she supposed to do with that?

“Yes, I am lucky,” she admitted, struggling to keep her voice from wavering. “I’m grateful Nick got here when he did, believe me. More grateful than I can

really say right now. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m not seriously injured.”

“You were unconscious for way too long,” Nick said flatly, “and you’re still out of it.”

“I’m fine.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Describe the attack.”

She glared at him, but the reality was that she wasn’t frustrated with him anymore—she was mad at herself. Why couldn’t she remember what happened?

“You want the scene preserved? Then get out of here,” Nick said with maddening logic. “Let the paramedics take you to the hospital for stitches and make sure that hard head of yours is fully intact.” To Tucker, he said, “We’ll want guards on her, starting now.”

“Who did you have in mind?” The question seemed more pointed than it should’ve been, though Jenn couldn’t be sure. Things were getting fuzzy all of a sudden, like a gray mist closing in on her.

“Send a couple of uniforms with her,” Nick said flatly. “And have Alyssa or one of the others meet her there. I don’t want… Hell, she should have a friendly face waiting.”

Jenn didn’t know why he sounded angry but couldn’t worry about it just then, as the paramedics transferred her to the waiting stretcher. She moaned as the world around her began a big, sickening spin.

Nick took a couple of steps toward them. “Damn it, don’t—”

“It’s okay.” She waved him off, gritting her teeth and forcing herself to cling to consciousness and not give in to the nausea. “I’m…I’m fine.” Or she would be fine once she got out of here, got someplace dark and quiet, where she could be alone and process everything that had happened—and chill out enough to remember the rest. The memories had to be in there, they had to be.

She didn’t know whether she had seen the Investor himself or one of his underlings, but it was an important break, a crucial turn in the case…if only she could remember what her attacker had looked like, what he had said. Had he asked her about the evidence? He must’ve come back for something specific, but what?

“Go on,” Tucker said to the paramedics. To her, he added, “I’ll have Alyssa meet you there. Gigi, too, if she’s free.”

“Thanks,” she said softly. But it was Nick she reached out toward, though she didn’t make contact. “Thank you for chasing him off. Lucky break or not, I owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me a damn thing.” His expression was unreadable, his body utterly still. “I should’ve gone after him, should’ve caught him.”

“I should be able to remember what he looks like. We don’t always get what we want.”

And he was exhibit A on that little fact of life, wasn’t he? Because even with her woozy and concussed—or maybe because of those things—she was very aware of the imprint his body had left on hers, and the way her clothes now smelled slightly of him, a mix of new leather and his own uniquely masculine scent. She wanted to inhale him, remember him. But he wasn’t the one she was supposed to be remembering, was he?

He had been the one to point out the memory gap to Tucker, but now he softened a little, saying gruffly, “Give it time. It’ll come back.”

* * *

B UT J ENN ’ S MEMORY OF THE attack didn’t come back. It didn’t magically return that afternoon as she submitted to a battery of tests and grudgingly agreed to spend the night for observation, all too aware that there was a uniformed officer at the door. And it didn’t come back later that night when she lay in the not-very-dark room, staring at the shadowy pieces of hospital equipment and trying to force the memories to return.

She remembered coming into the apartment and seeing the blood, the ropes, the chair, Gigi…then nothing. It wasn’t even that she was fuzzy on the details, or her mind had been frozen in fear. She just didn’t remember. Her world skipped from telling Gigi there wasn’t anything between her and Nick anymore, and then waking up practically in his arms.

Unfortunately, every time she got to that part, she remembered all too well other times that she’d woken up in his arms. Then, when she deliberately steered her mind away from that, she skipped back to the attack, and how she owed him her life. If he hadn’t walked into Dennison’s apartment when he did, she’d probably be dead now. And that was a hell of a thought. As was knowing that she’d probably seen the Investor’s face, making her a valuable witness…and possibly, as far as the killer was concerned, a loose end.

So it was no real surprise that she tossed and turned as if it was an Olympic sport and she was going for the gold, until the painkillers and her body’s need to heal overrode her churning thoughts and she finally conked out.

She slept poorly and woke near dawn, but felt a heck of a lot better than she had. She could see out of her right eye and move without wanting to whimper or throw up, and that was a huge relief. Still, a few hours later when Tucker, Nick, Gigi and Maya all filed in past the uniformed guard, she could only shake her head, answering the question before it was asked. “No, I haven’t remembered anything new. I’m sorry.” Then, seeing their expressions—different mixes of anger and sympathy—she added, “And don’t look at me like that. I’m fine. The doctors said so.”

She didn’t look fine, though. She’d seen herself in the mirror, bruised and battered, with a bandage at her hairline where they’d glued the gash shut rather than stitching it. And she’d seen Nick’s wince when he’d first looked at her…and then looked away.

“Don’t push yourself,” Maya advised. “Post-concussion syndrome is nothing to mess around with. You might feel okay now, but if you overdo it you could set yourself back, or worse.” Trim and petite in dark wool pants and a soft, creamy sweater, the exotic brunette could’ve been a model. She wasn’t, though; she was the Bear Claw P.D.’s resident psych expert. Which made her Jenn’s next best hope.

“Help me,” she said, reaching out to her coworker from where she sat on the edge of the bed, wearing the yoga pants and hooded sweatshirt Gigi had brought from her apartment. “I don’t care what it takes. Drugs, hypnosis, I’ll do anything.”

“You can do yourself a favor by not rushing things,” Maya said. “We can try hypnosis later. For now, just relax.”

“How can I?” She gestured to the window. The view of the parking lot wasn’t terribly scenic, but beyond the cars rose the skyline of Bear Claw City, and beyond that the mountains. “He’s out there killing people. I need to do whatever I can to help bring him down.”

“Trust me, it’s not worth killing yourself over this one case,” Nick said bluntly. He didn’t say especially when it’s not even your hometown. She’d bet he was thinking it, though, given that he’d said similar things when they’d been together, as if to remind her that he was just passing through.

Should’ve listened. Now, though, she narrowed her eyes in his direction. “This is the case for Bear Claw, Detective. Hopefully there won’t be another one like it here, ever. And I’m not trying to grandstand, here, I’m just trying to be part of the team.”

His expression flattened. “You’ve earned your place. You don’t need to keep earning it.”

That hit close enough to make her wince, especially when he wasn’t one of the ones who would be reviewing her probation…but Tucker was. “I’m not trying to impress anyone. I’m just trying to do my job.”

“Which doesn’t include you needing to solve the case single-handedly.”

Jenn was sucking in a breath to retort when Tucker said mildly, “She’s not trying to fling herself into the middle of a firefight, Lang, so dial it down.” He cut a look at Jenn. “Both of you, take a breath and keep the personal stuff out of this, okay?” His tone was mild, but there was an undercurrent of steel, a subtle reminder that he was the boss here.

“But I wasn’t…” She subsided, though, because Tucker had a point—she might’ve had the same debate with him or another of her teammates, but there wouldn’t have been the same sort of emotion behind it: frustration, annoyance and the need to prove herself, not to her bosses, but to Nick.

Except that she was over him, damn it.

Letting out a sigh, she shook her head. “Sorry. You’re right. I’ll chill.” And not just because her head was suddenly throbbing once more, her face gone sore and tender. “But I’m not backing off. I want to get these memories back and help get this guy, and his drugs, off the streets of my new city.”

Besides, closing the case would mean that Nick would leave Bear Claw for good and she could get her mind back where it belonged—on the job, and eventually on finding a nice, uncomplicated guy for a nice, uncomplicated relationship with no manipulation, no heartbreak and no nasty surprises when she least expected them.