In Harm's Way (17 page)

Robin stood not four feet away. The now-useless weapon dropped from her right hand and bounced on the rug. Her eyes widened with horror as her gaze bounced between Kick and him.

Kick hurriedly wiped his weapon down with the tail of his shirt and lobbed the gun at Robin. Instinctively, she caught it to keep it from hitting her in the face. Gasping with panic, she attempted to maneuver it into firing position.

That was the last thing Mitch saw.

T
he police burst in, weapons drawn, shouting the same warning to freeze that Mitch had used earlier. When they yelled for her to drop the weapon, Robin opened her hand and let the gun fall to the carpet.

Kick Taylor rushed forward, shoved her to the floor and twisted her arms up behind her back. He handcuffed her wrists, all the while reading her her rights. His words barely registered. Sirens screamed, moving closer and closer.

The entire room seemed to be swarming with uniforms. The noise level grew as more arrived. Her head ached and her stomach roiled. Robin turned her face to her shoulder and tried to block everything out.

She was so horribly worried about Mitch she couldn't think. She groaned when Kick roughly yanked her to her feet.

One of the police officers was bending over Mitch, and two
more were busy checking the others who had been shot— Somers and his bodyguard.

“How's Winton doing?” Kick demanded loudly.

The policeman crouching beside Mitch moved aside as two ambulance attendants rushed in carrying a stretcher and their bags. The officer who had been examining Mitch frowned at Kick and shook his head. Did that mean Mitch was dying? Already dead?

“No!” Robin cried. She struggled to jerk out of Kick's grasp and go to Mitch.

“Oh, no, you don't!” Kick snarled, his strong fingers biting into the flesh of her arm. “You're going down for this as well as the murder of your husband!”

“What?” Robin had seen him shoot Mitch point-blank. No way was he getting away with it. “
You
shot him! He trusted you,” she said looking straight into his eyes. “Mitch is your partner. How could you have done that to him?”

“Shut up if you know what's good for you,” he snapped. His burning gaze slid away and his full lips tightened to a thin line. “Murderin' bitch,” he added.

“We'll take her in the cruiser, Sgt. Taylor,” one of the policemen assured Kick. “You better ride separately.” The cop must fear what Kick might do to her if he got her alone in his vehicle after she had supposedly shot his partner.

“Isn't that your truck parked down the drive?” the officer asked, waited for Kick's nod and continued, “Why don't you follow us?”

Reluctantly Kick nodded. “She's my collar. I don't want anybody else horning in on this. You got that?”

The officer grunted his assent and took hold of Robin's other elbow.

Kick definitely resisted letting go of her arm. Before he did, he administered a bruising squeeze. “You'd be wise to keep
your mouth shut,” he advised, his voice low and deadly, his teeth gritted. His glare was menacing, now devoid of the guilt she might have imagined scant moments ago.

The officer who took custody of Robin stood between her and the door until the medics carried Mitch outside. Kick followed them out and quickly disappeared into the darkness. Then she was propelled through the door and toward the waiting police vehicle.

Who would believe her if she told what really happened? She'd already been on her way in to answer one charge of murder when all this took place. The gun Kick had thrown at her, now bearing her prints, would match the bullet inside Mitch. No question she would be blamed.

Framed twice.
Not a very believable defense. If Mitch died, she almost didn't care what happened to her, but she knew she had to care. She might not be the only one inhabiting this body of hers.

Damned if Kick Taylor would get away with this. She owed it to Mitch to see that he didn't. And damned if his sweet family would be allowed to think she had shot their son.

She strained to see Mitch again, but the attendants were already loading the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. The officer guided her roughly to the police car.

Her only hope rested with Mitch. And she knew that if he did live,
his
only hope rested with
her.
If Mitch didn't die from the wounds, Kick could not afford to let him regain consciousness.

She looked over her shoulder at the ambulance bearing the man who had saved her life, the man who had held her in his arms and loved her, the man who had shared his family with her and who had made her laugh. “Don't die, please,” she whispered.

The police officer clamped one hand on her head and forced her inside the car.

Robin knew she had to get protection for Mitch at the hospital. He would be surrounded by the E.R. staff initially. Then he would surely go straight to surgery. That meant at least several hours of safety, hours that Kick Taylor would not be allowed near him. After that, Mitch would be all too vulnerable. A few moments alone with his partner and he would never wake up.

She leaned as close to the metal divider screen as she could and spoke to the officers in front. “Please, I need to see Captain Hunford as soon as we arrive.”

“Yeah, right,” one of the men said with a short, bitter laugh. “I just bet he'll be delighted to hear that.”

Robin knew it was useless to relate Kick Taylor's guilt to these officers. She had seen the hatred in their eyes for a woman they believed had shot a fellow cop. But somehow she had to convince them to let her see Mitch's captain. Maybe she could instill enough doubt in his mind about Taylor to get a guard placed on Mitch.

She took a deep breath and tried again. “Look, I have information that will blow the lid off organized crime in Nashville. And I will not speak with anyone in authority except Captain Hunford. Tell him that.”

One of the men issued a string of disgusted curses, and she heard the muted phrase
cop-killer.

Robin sat back and tried to think of another tactic that might get her a few moments with the man in charge. She couldn't think of a thing. But then she recalled Mitch's interrogation when he had taken her in the night of James's murder. Captain Hunford had met them in the hallway afterward and he had come out of the room next door. Had he been watching? Surely to God, with the shooting of one of his detectives, he would be interested enough to observe Kick Taylor's questioning of her.

Two hours later Robin realized there might not be an im
mediate interrogation. Or any interrogation at all. She hadn't considered that possibility until now. Why would anyone bother to question her? They had evidence, probably enough to convict her.

Besides, it was the middle of the night. Sunday night. Hunford wouldn't be at work. Even if he decided to grant her a few minutes, it wouldn't be for hours yet. Not until morning.

She had gone quietly and submitted to every procedure so far without complaint. Three sets of fingerprints again. Local, state and FBI use, they'd explained. Three photos, front, side and at an angle. This was one time Robin was certain she didn't look up to par for a camera. Not that she cared.

She would be sitting in a cell in the county lock-up right this minute if it hadn't been so late at night when they had brought her in. They'd told her she would be kept in one of the holding cells here until morning when there would be a bail hearing. That cell was probably where the matron was leading her right now.

She had to do something. Time was growing short. There was no way to determine how long Mitch would be in surgery and when his partner might be allowed a short visit in the recovery room.

“You're allowed a phone call,” the matron told her, guiding her into a room similar to the one where Mitch had questioned her that first night. There was a gray metal table and two chairs, a phone and a dog-eared phone book with the cover missing.

The guard closed the door, unlocked Robin's handcuffs and stood sentinel. “Well? Make it snappy.”

Robin racked her brain for anyone who might be willing to help. She couldn't call Mitch's parents. They would be at the hospital by now and frantic about the survival of their son. A lawyer might help, but she didn't know anyone local.

Then a light dawned. Damien…Perry! Yes, that was his name. Mitch's friend, who would be able to suggest a lawyer.
If she could reach him, he might listen to her, or at least act on the possibility that she might be telling the truth. But Mitch had tried several times to call him about looking at the disk, and the man had not been at home.

She hurriedly paged through the phone book to the
P
s, relieved when she found the name. However, when she dialed the number and it rang four times, she only heard the answering machine. A deep voice with a slight British accent suggested pleasantly that she leave her number or try again later.

The prompting beep sounded and Robin blurted, “This is Robin Andrews. I've been arrested for shooting Mitch Winton, but I didn't. Mitch knows I didn't. The man who did is Kick Taylor and he can't possibly afford to let Mitch live. Get to the hospital right away and protect him. Please!” she begged. “Please be home. Please hurry! No one will listen to me! You've got to believe me! Help him!”

The matron had come forward and was prying the phone from her hands. “That's enough of that!” she snapped. “You want a lawyer or not?”

“Yes!” Robin cried. “I do! Let me call a lawyer. Anyone who can do something.” She would dial the first lawyer in the book and demand that he inform Captain Hunford immediately that Mitch was in danger. “Oh, please,” Robin pleaded, crying openly, not caring that her control had snapped. “I know you don't believe me, but please get someone to watch over him! Taylor will kill him if you don't!”

Anger at her helplessness drove her to rail at the guard. “If you ignore me, he could die! You want that on your conscience? On your record?” She read the woman's name tag. “Are you in this, too, Officer Aiken? How many of you on this force are working for Somers? How many dirty cops do you have in this town?”

The female officer was frowning at her as if she had lost
her mind. She wrestled Robin's wrist into one of the cuffs and snapped the other onto the leg of the heavy table. Then she left.

Robin slumped over the table, resting her forehead on her free arm, and struggled to regain her composure. She had to calm down and think of something else.
Someone
else who might do what needed doing. But who?

It seemed she languished there for an eternity, but she knew time was skewed and it was probably less than half an hour. They had taken her watch, and no clock was visible. She jerked her head up as the door opened. A rush of cold air whooshed in.

Along with Kick Taylor.

He looked grim and more than a little worried.

Robin strained at the cuff holding her arm. “You low-life bastard,” she hissed.

“Want to kill me, too?” he asked softly.

“You leave Mitch alone,” she warned. “Haven't you done enough? How can you live with yourself?”

“Looks like you've snapped. Two murders too much for you?”

“You shot him!” Robin accused. Though it didn't seem likely, she hoped to God someone was observing the way they did on the cop shows she watched on television. She prayed for it. “You shot Mitch Winton, and he saw you do it.
I
saw you do it. I'll scream it to everyone who will listen. You shot him and threw the empty gun at me knowing I would catch it without thinking,” she accused.

“Ranting this way is pointless,” he muttered.

“You were working for Somers. You knew about the disk and you stole my computer thinking the information was on it. You killed my husband. How much did Somers pay you?”

He had his back to the observation glass as he leaned his hands against the table across from her. “You better lawyer
up, Ms. Andrews. You might even get bail.” He mouthed the next words, “I hope you
do.
” His gaze burned into hers. “Where is it, Robin?”

She didn't have to ask what he wanted. “Go to hell,” she rasped, her voice hoarse now. “That disk is gone and the information's in my head where you will
never
get to it.”

Taylor pushed away from the table and headed for the door. “They'll take you to a holding cell now. Rot there for all I care.”

“That will take a while,” she snapped. “And the more people I see, the more I'll acquaint with the facts. I told the officers who brought me in. I told Officer Aiken and I told Damien Perry. If you kill Mitch Winton now, someone will be looking into his cause of death very carefully, Taylor. If you go near him, they'll know you were responsible.”

He turned, his manner too confident, too cocky and too relieved. “What makes you think he's still alive?”

Grief swept over her in a crushing wave. She could barely breathe. Her entire body felt boneless and her mind blank except for the overwhelming realization that it was too late. Too late for Mitch and too late for her.

 

Robin waited, knowing she had done all she could do. Mitch must be dead. Why else would Kick Taylor have come here instead of going to the hospital to await the chance to kill him? Still, she couldn't make herself accept that he was gone. Surely she would feel it inside her if that large a part of her world was gone forever.

The metal of the handcuff lay cold against the skin of her wrist. She sat up at the sound of the doorknob turning.

“Ms. Andrews.” The voice was gravelly. The presence of the man she saw, a godsend.

“Captain Hunford!” Forbidding as he looked, Robin could have hugged him.

“I was informed you wanted to see me,” he said. “Something about organized crime, I believe.”

“Is Mitch dead?” she demanded, trying to search his eyes for the truth.

But he avoided looking directly at her as he ambled toward one of the chairs opposite her and sat down wearily. “Let's hear what you have to say.”

“Is he
dead?
” she repeated, desperate to know.

He looked at her then, his gaze assessing her. “Not yet.”

Robin exhaled sharply and pressed her hand against her mouth to stifle a sob of profound relief.