Fractured (3 page)

She shrugged. He was right. She didn't have any place to stay.

If this had happened to him, he'd have half a dozen relatives he could bunk with. All she had was her cousin, his wife and their one-year-old child downstairs, but now even they were missing. With a lot of effort, she willed herself from spiraling down that path again.

“I'll go to a hotel.” She needed some time to think this through.

“I'll stay on the couch at my place. You can take the bed.”

She pushed him toward the back door. He didn't budge. “I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself. I'll drop you off by your car and figure out something.”

“I know you can take care of yourself, but I'll worry about you. You shouldn't be alone tonight.” He shrugged. “I promise you won't even know I'm there.”

“Right.” She didn't have the stamina to win this round. “I'll bring my stuff and shower at your place.” She shuddered at the idea of sleeping in her room again. Right now, the vision of her father's twisted, lifeless body was too much to block from her mind.

But why? For most of her life she'd blocked any inkling of a memory about him. Now was not the time to try to manufacture some kind of warm fuzzy view of her father.

* * *

It took about fifteen minutes to get to Landry's. Because it was an old building, the studio apartment he lived in was enormous. While there wasn't a bedroom, the alcove where the bed was situated kept it separate from the rest of the place and afforded at least a semblance of privacy.

“Turn on the TV and see if they say anything about my father's escape from Stateville.” While she had some curiosity about how her father had done it, she had more pressing needs to attend to. She felt unclean and wanted nothing more than to rid her body and mind of the stench of murder.

After shutting the door to the bathroom and turning on the water in the shower, she drew the handkerchief out of her pocket and held it to her face. Long ago the smell of her grandfather's cologne had disappeared from the fabric, but she conjured up the memory nonetheless. She missed him more than ever. A lone tear traveled down the length of her cheek before she wiped it away with the back of her hand and stepped under the shower.

The warmth of the water felt good on her skin. She rinsed the blood from her hair, wincing when the water hit the open wound at the back of her head. After twenty minutes her body was a bright shade of pink, obscuring the normally olive undertones of her skin.

The pain in her chest had finally diminished to a tolerable level. Sucking in a deep breath still caused her to wince, but maybe she hadn't cracked a rib after all.

She stared into the foggy mirror and combed through her long black hair. In a matter of minutes, riotous curls that she'd long ago stopped trying to tame would cover her head, reminding her once again of her parental legacy. Despite any wishes she had to the contrary, the physical similarities between her and her father were unmistakable. Their complexions were the same. They both had small frames and a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of their petite noses. Dark eyes surrounded by long lashes gave prominence to otherwise ordinary features.

Unwilling to ponder her physical characteristics any longer, she dressed in her Chicago PD sweats, tucked the handkerchief into her pocket and walked into the living room. Landry was sitting on the couch nursing a beer.

“Anything?” She didn't need to elaborate further.

He shook his head, a puzzled look on his face. “Not a word.”

“Maybe it's not him.” She chewed on her lip. “Even if it's the middle of the night, don't you think that's a little strange? They should be warning people of the potential danger.” Somehow it would've felt a whole lot better if the dead guy in her apartment had been some random criminal off the street. She didn't want to rehash memories of her father.

“Does seem a little odd, but maybe if it was only him and now that they know he's dead, there's no need to get people all riled up for nothing.” He pointed to the two shot glasses he had lined up on the coffee table, along with a bottle. “Sit. You need a little something.”

Somehow she managed to smile despite the fact she didn't want to be near him, or anyone, tonight. Solitude was her best friend. Unlike those who craved the company of others, she preferred to sift through the problems in her life alone. Knowing Landry, he'd try to get her to talk. Then he'd want to stick his nose into her business. She wasn't about to let that happen.

“That's the Irishman in you. Everything is solved by a good strong drink.”

“Isn't it?” He handed her the shot glass. After throwing back his, he urged her to do the same.

Even though it was against her better judgment, she gulped down the shot and felt the warmth kick in immediately. Her body did an involuntary shudder as the liquid set her insides on fire.

He poured another. She greedily gulped it down. When he started to pour a third, she held out her hand. On top of everything else, the last thing she needed was to get drunk, especially with Landry in such close proximity and her feeling the way she did. She might do something incredibly stupid.

“Two's my limit. If I'm going to get grilled tomorrow, I don't need a hangover, too.”

“You never did tell me what you were doing.” While he didn't say the “R” word—Ramirez—she knew that's what he was thinking.

“Oh, crap. Will Jonas say anything about finding me in the alley?” He didn't need to know the length of her obsession in order to set the record straight. And he didn't need to know about the call she'd received earlier that had led her to where she'd been. The fact that her father, or some nameless intruder, showed up at her doorstep at the same time couldn't have been a coincidence.

Most cops would be leery of that kind of thing—going off alone on what could be a wild goose chase or a set-up. But she wasn't like most cops. Then again, most cops were risk adverse due to training, fear and experience. She happened to be the opposite. Some people considered her a ‘loose cannon.' Landry accused her once, during one of their many arguments, of being on a suicide mission. She preferred to think of it as taking calculated risks in order to meet her objectives.

“If they ask him about it, of course he will.” He shook his head. “I don't get it. You were shot at. You can make excuses all you want, but you need to come clean, if not to me, at least to your sergeant and the lieutenant.”

“It's complicated.”

“Gee, let me see if I can guess. You were out chasing some crazy lead thinking you'd finally get to nab Ramirez.” He drew in a deep breath. “But somebody shot at you instead. Big surprise.”

“Gee, thanks for your support.”

“Taking chances doesn't make you a good cop. It makes you dead.” He stared at her for a few seconds without saying anything. “Getting shot at is serious, Isabella.” He wove his fingers through hers.

For once, she didn't try to pull away. Maybe it was the intensity of the evening that had her caving in so easily. Or maybe she was just bone weary. “They probably didn't know I was a cop.”

“Yeah, right.”

She was more than happy to sit and analyze what went wrong in private and on her own. No matter how dismal the outcome, she'd never been the type to share with others or ask for input. Getting shot at wasn't going to change that. “I've had a hell of a night. I've got to get some sleep.”

“You know the powers-that-be are going to talk to me tomorrow and nobody's going to believe that booty call crap.” He held up his hand. “Since I know you didn't kill your father, the only question I have is why are you working so hard to cover up what you were doing tonight?”

Landry stepped into the shower while Isabella slept. At least one of them was getting some shut-eye. His sleep had been fitful. But it had little to do with the too-small couch he'd slept on.

Isabella. Not only had she tumbled back into his life last night, he'd bet she was in a heap of trouble as well. It wasn't bad enough that her long-lost dad had gotten himself killed in her bedroom, but he knew she'd been out chasing leads hoping to score some information on the Ramirez case.

Six months ago she'd been confident she had found the hidey hole of a whole big stash of drugs. She'd told her sergeant and the lieutenant and they'd called in the big guns only to find the warehouse empty except for a bunch of cardboard boxes filled with books. Most police officers would have taken that kind of thing in stride—stuff like that happens all the time—informers get scared and things go south before a cop can make the bust.

But not her. Obsessed with reworking the whole thing, retracing clues, talking again to informants on the street, canvassing the neighborhood, determined to figure out where she went wrong, she'd driven herself like a madwoman, working sixteen-hour days, seven days a week.

When he'd called her on her irrational behavior she'd broken things off with him, saying she needed some space. But he knew better. Bone weary, she didn't want to lean on him, nor get used to the security he could offer. Instead, she threw herself even more into the case. As far as he knew, she'd made no progress.

Not that she'd tell him about it if she had. The woman had trust issues up the wazoo and a chip on her shoulder the size of a Cadillac. They'd been together off and on for three years, but she'd never been able to let him in. His only consolation was that more than anybody in her life, besides her grandfather, he'd come the closest.

Whatever happened last night, she'd keep the secret. The idea that her father showed up at the same time couldn't be some kind of weird coincidence. Somewhere there had to be a connection.

Landry came out of the shower to find her sitting up in bed. With hair that tumbled like a lion's mane around her petite face, she looked sexier than a woman had a right to look. “Hey, beautiful. It's nine o'clock. I'm sure they're waiting for us this morning. Ready to face the music?”

She tucked her hair behind her ears, although it did little good. Her hair, like her, could never be controlled. “I suppose they'll interview us separately?”

“Standard procedure.”

She seemed more than a little preoccupied or she wouldn't have asked such an obvious question. He couldn't help but wonder what ideas raced through her mind. And, more importantly, would she ever get to the point where she'd actually share her thoughts with him?

“Do you have any coffee?” She threw off the covers and slipped out of bed still wearing her CPD sweats. Certainly not the sexiest night-time wear on a woman, but somehow, with her, it worked.

“I made some while you were getting your beauty rest. I'll get you a cup.”

She didn't say much while she changed into jeans and a sweater, but based on the way she worried that handkerchief in her fingers, he could tell she was nervous. Ten minutes later, they got into her car and silently made the fifteen-minute trip to the station.

* * *

“Due to the circumstances, I'm handling this investigation, not your sergeant. I'll keep him advised of what's going on.” Lieutenant Thomas held up his hands. “I'm not going to discuss right now what you were doing alone in that alley when Jonas and Landry picked you up. I'm not even going to ask you if it had anything to do with Ramirez or where your partner was. For now let's concentrate on the matter at hand.” He drew in a breath. “We've got confirmation on the fingerprints. Sorry, Isabella, but it's definitely your father. You understand I'm going to have to put you on paid leave for a couple of days while we straighten this out.”

A kind of sadness swirled around her gut and settled inside while tears fought to bleed out. Six years old and waiting, waiting, waiting. But he never came…

Isabella straightened in her seat. Focus. “How did he get out?” Her voice sounded tentative as she struggled with emotions she didn't understand. She cleared her throat. “Why didn't they broadcast a warning on TV?” The question had been burning inside her all night, along with other even more pressing issues.

Like Landry. Somehow she'd managed to tangle him up in her mess with no easy way of extricating him. She couldn't force him away with the investigation looming over their heads, especially because he clearly wasn't going to go away willingly, even if she wanted him to. Which she did. Didn't she?

Geez, what was up with him anyway? Most men ran fast and hard away from her.

She blew out a breath and tried to focus on what the lieutenant was saying.

“…checking into that. There's been some stonewalling at Stateville.”

The impact of his words finally registered. “Why?” Even if her father had been in court to testify and had escaped, there'd be a police BOLO out on him. They also would have broadcast the information to the general public.

Her father was a murderer. Stateville housed the incorrigible, the dregs of society. And damn it, her father had been one of them—the king screw-up of her whole screwed-up family.

“Maybe they didn't know he'd escaped, so it's an embarrassment.”

“It's a maximum security prison, with bed checks and regular head counts. How could they not know he'd escaped?”

Why did the lieutenant keep looking into the two-way mirror? Using the interview room would be standard procedure. But in a straightforward case there wouldn't be any need for a higher-up or a State's Attorney to be on the other side observing.

So why did his eyes keep straying in that direction? And why did the hairs on her arms suddenly stand at attention?

“We're still trying to figure that out.” He glanced down at his notes just as the door opened.

Isabella had never seen the man who walked inside, but he had Fed written all over him. Unsmiling, he sat across from her, somehow still managing to keep his posture ramrod straight. Sometimes she wondered if Feds had steel poles implanted into their spines to keep their carriage stiff just so they could give off that ‘I'm hot stuff' vibe.

He held out his hand. “FBI Special Agent Malone. I'm here to ask you a few questions about your father, Tyrone Samuels.”

“What do the Feds have to do with this? And why wasn't there a BOLO out on him?” Right now she couldn't think of a single reason why Feds would be involved in her dad's case. They were like mice. Where there was one, there were another couple waiting in the wings.

“Don't need to answer your questions right now.” He looked cocky and confident when he responded, like all Feds did when they had the upper hand.

And being pissy about it. Then again, from her experience, that was pretty much the norm. The Feds were territorial about their information and their cases. They never gave an inch unless they absolutely had to.

“Why?” She let the question simmer in the air, hoping against hope it would rattle his cage.

A typical FBI clone, he wore a dark suit, dark tie, white shirt. His short hair sported some grey at the temples. She'd guess his age to be around forty-five or fifty.

“For reasons you'll figure out in a little bit.”

Typical runaround. “Right.” She slunk back in the chair and gave him the stink eye. Immature? Yes. But it was the only thing she could do at the moment. Dislike clogged her throat. No way she'd win this war of wills, but she'd try to make it as uncomfortable as possible for this knucklehead in the meantime. She folded her arms across her chest and tried not to wince at the soreness across her chest. “Ask away.”

“When was the last time you spoke to your father?” He had that cool, confident air about him as if nothing short of a bomb exploding on the seat next to him would ruffle his feathers.

She couldn't read his expression and wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. “I was six when he went to prison. You do the math.”

“You never visited him?”

She gave him her best ‘you've got to be kidding me' look. “Don't try to tell me you haven't looked at the visiting records. When I say I haven't seen or talked to him since he went into Stateville, I'm telling you the truth.” She placed her fingertip on her lip and chewed on the end. “Which reminds me, could you tell me again how he got out? Stateville isn't talking.”

“I'm not at liberty to say. But let me show you something.” He stopped any protest she might have with an upraised hand. Opening a briefcase, he pulled out a DVD and popped it into the machine in the room. “I might be wrong, but that looks a lot like you going in to see him a couple of months ago. In fact, we have the same identical footage that shows you were there on a regular basis for the last six months. Does that change your story?” Before she could respond, he huffed out a breath, the first real sign she was getting to him. “I already ran it against your work record. You were off duty during all these times.”

“Pause that thing.” Something foreign and scary slithered up her spine. She glanced at the picture in which she saw herself, except it wasn't her. She had this irrational urge to touch the screen as if that might conjure up the truth somehow. She'd done a lot of crazy things, but visiting her father and then lying about it wasn't even on the radar screen of possibilities. “Can you blow that up?”

“We can't do that with this machine. Are you denying it was you?”

“Of course it wasn't me. I told you the last time I saw him was when I was six. Besides, I'm a police officer. I know they videotape visits at Stateville.” Why would anybody want to set her up? And for what? Helping him escape? Is that why they weren't talking? They thought she was an accomplice to this? “I assume this person signed in as me.”

“Not exactly. But you—I mean she used a fake name and address that led us to a vacant lot in Oak Park. And let's face it, even your own mother would believe that's you on the tape.”

“Anybody can get fake IDs these days. You've got to know that.” How or why would this work in anyone's interest? She'd never stepped over the line. Ever. Sure she'd skated into the grey sometimes, but it was always about getting the bad guy behind bars, not getting them out.

Malone shrugged. For the first time since she'd laid eyes on him he loosened up ever so slightly. “Hey, he was your father. It seems natural that you might want to reconnect with him. I get that. There's no crime in seeing your long-lost father, considering the circumstances.”

She ground her teeth. This guy was giving her the combo special—good cop, bad cop rolled into one.

“And I told you I never went there. Don't you get it? Cheesh. I thought you Feds were the smart ones.” She shook her head. “I never went to see him. I don't know how or why somebody would impersonate me like that. But I'm telling you right now, that wasn't me.” She tried to reign in her temper. Losing it now would do her no good. It would only get her on the wrong side of the FBI. And while a part of her could take pride in that kind of accomplishment, she didn't need the drama in her life right now. “Even if it was me, you've got to know I had nothing to do with breaking him out of prison.”

He didn't say anything, only nodded. Why not go after her with the big guns? Why was he doing this song and dance, if he wasn't intent in getting her on the hook for the escape? Something wasn't adding up. But she wouldn't get anything out of him.

“Listen, Detective Sanchez, I'm going to be straight with you. I believe, for whatever reason, you murdered your father. It might have been self-defense. It might have been in cold blood. It might have been some kind of mercy killing. I don't much care. All you need to do is tell me what you know.”

“Are you crazy?” Unable to sit any longer, she shot to her feet, nearly knocking over the chair in the process. “How many times do I have to tell you? I haven't talked to my father in twenty five years. I guess I could have shot him without saying a word, but that seems more than a little pointless.” She took several deep breaths in an attempt to lower her raging blood pressure. Once she was more in control, she sat back down. “What you should be focusing on is why anybody would bother to set me up?”

“Thanks for telling me how to do my job, but I have my own plan of action.” He had a smug condescending look on his face.

“Good. I was worried you might be one of those ‘fly by the seat of your pants' kind of guys. It always helps to have a plan when you're setting somebody up.”

She got up and bolted out of the room. Thank God nobody stopped her. She wasn't sure she'd be able to control herself.

* * *

Landry knew with one look that something bad happened inside that room. Isabella hadn't glanced in his direction, just slammed the door and stalked through the station. Despite her short legs and his long ones, he didn't catch up to her until she'd stomped her way toward the door.

He grasped her arm. She turned to glare at him before shaking him off. But he wasn't about to let her go that easily. “What happened in there?”

“Getting set up and accused of murder at the same time gets me good and angry. Is that all right with you?”

She hadn't even tried to keep her voice down, so the whole station had gone quiet at her proclamation. She seemed oblivious. Either that, or she didn't care.

“Was there a Fed guy in there?” Although he knew from experience it was pointless, he tried to settle her down.

“Yep, that smug…” She stopped for a second, tapping her toe on the sidewalk outside the station. The frustration seemed to be rolling off her in waves.

“He's yanking your chain, trying to see if you'll confess to anything.”