Last Call (2 page)

Only, it was
all
personal.

There was some sort of departmental code
against screwing the wheels off your partner, but he worked deep
undercover without a shield. Sidestepping rules was in his job
description, though he wasn't without conscience. He knew he'd hurt
her in the end.

Damned fool.

He'd been worried about her heart, never once
thinking he'd end her career.

Nick was kidding himself thinking he could
come back to his old life. Hell, he didn't even know who he was
anymore. He'd spent so many years playing a role he'd lost himself
along the way. The one beacon in his dark night was Rhys, and he'd
yet to forgive himself for what he'd done to her. Guilt had nearly
cost him his own career — an end he saw fitting if he was one for
giving up.

And that, he was not.

Still, though he'd only seen Rhys
that morning in a glance through the plate glass window of a
downtown coffee shop, the ache of being so close was physical.
Knowing she'd been in the bar while he was gone — at
their
table — tore him
up.

Which was about as cliché as a guy could get,
but he wasn't out for originality.

He wanted to forget.

"Speak of the devil. That's her, ain't
it?"

Nick's attention shot from the maimed,
carefully-lacquered countertop.

Bart had his back turned, giving Nick a good
view of the bartender's thick neck rolls. Arm extended, remote in
hand, Bart pumped buttons until noise filled the room.

"…Rhys Clark, twenty-nine…"

The television — Nick craned to see around
Bart just as he stepped to the side — revealed a head shot of Rhys
on the screen.

Right over the headline.

Murdered
.

Chapter Two

Nick sat on a throwaway sofa in his low-rent
apartment. A familiar sickness twisted his chest, suffocating him.
The unease took his breath — just as it had the night he shot Rhys
— and lingered, toxic and dark. But it didn't choke him
out.

Though murders were quick to make the news,
identities were not. And for the name of an undercover cop to be
released almost immediately could only mean one thing: something
wasn't right.

He toyed with his phone, dialing
the same seven numbers over and over and hitting delete instead of
send. Would Cutter be willing to talk? After Rhys had been shot,
Nick had done a hell of a job slamming
that
door and burning the bridge that
went with it. But he trusted no one else. Cutter had been Nick's
only department contact when he went undercover, and even though
they'd only exchanged coded pleasantries, those tenuous threads of
communication had kept Nick alive.

Rhys, too.

It's not right.

Nick forced himself to sit back and
tried to ignore the way the shadows from the broken blinds crept
unevenly over the dingy walls. His means weren't as limited as
first impressions suggested, but staying under the radar didn't
usually equate luxury. A decent place would want a credit check
whereas anonymity came cheap.
But cheap
came at a price
, he thought, watching the
long tail of what he assumed was a rat as it twitched in the
crevice between the stove and cabinet.

Nick had questions and he was willing to bet
Cutter could get answers. But Rhys… he wasn't ready to say it
aloud.

And he wasn't ready to let go,
either.

He'd
seen
Rhys. The media reported she'd
been jogging after dark when she was mugged, and a punk kid had
already confessed to the murder. Nick didn't buy it. Though the
low-slung clouds had choked the light from the sky much earlier
that day than most, even bending the line between day and night
didn't make sense of how quickly the story hit the air. Whatever
happened to withholding the victim's name until relatives were
notified? Last he knew Rhys's parents were foreign missionaries
living without electricity, much less cell service. And since when
did punk kids make fast confessions? Even when things happened
quickly, no PD he'd ever worked with had been eager to serve full
details to the media. From the looks of things a liaison had stood
on the front steps and offered a press conference.

Was it denial launching an inner protest or
something more? Nick had one shot of finding out. Tucking his pride
between his legs, he dialed the last number he had for
Cutter.

Six numbers in, the phone rang in his hand,
the caller ID blank. Curious, he took the call. "Hel—"

"I've got information about your girlfriend,"
said a man. "Meet me at the wharf in an hour. Alone."

Nick opened his mouth to speak but the line
was already dead. Stunned, he sank into the sofa cushions. He'd
been back in town less than a week. Very few people knew he'd
returned, but that wasn't what left him reeling.

It was a throwaway phone. No one had the
number — not even his new slum lord.

Yet someone knew.

Someone knew
too much
.

Hesitation buried, Nick dialed Cutter. With
any luck, the number was still active.

"Bob's Moving and Storage."

Nick's shoulders loosened with
relief at the sound of Cutter's voice. He thought fast, taking the
cue. "I need a truck on the nineteenth," he said.
Nineteen
. The first of
three numbers he once used to identify himself. "It'll take four
guys about three hours. You got anything?"

The blip of silence that followed was the
closest thing Cutter had ever given to showing surprise. "Might,"
he said slowly. "What's the address?"

"Clark Street." Not the most original of ploys
to use Rhys's last name, but Nick was off the force. He had neither
precedent nor basis for cold-calling a former contact. With no
business on the table, he couldn't afford to be too
cryptic.

Cutter swore. "Bad neighborhood. Don't know if
I can get a man in there, but I'll see what I can do. How can I get
back in touch with you?"

Nick gave him the number. He was just about to
hang up when another thought occurred. "Hey, know anything about
the real estate down by the wharf?"

"That's a big area. You want to narrow that
down a little?"

If only he could. "Any vacancies?"

"I ain't no real estate agent, buddy. Just
avoid the south end. There was a fire down there not too long ago.
The vandals moved in after the salvage crews cleared
out."

"Thanks, man."

"Yeah. I'll be in touch about that
job."

Nick waited for Cutter to disconnect, then
tossed his phone on the gargantuan wooden spool he'd found along
with the sofa in the alley, cussing when the device slid across the
rough surface and fell through a hole in the top. He'd only been
back in town a few days but it was past time to buy furniture.
Funny how the petty crap seemed to matter at the worst of times.
Distraction was both the first and last thing he needed.

Kinda like Rhys.

Frowning, Nick dug from his duffle
a pair of black jeans and a charcoal sweatshirt and changed into
the darker clothing, pulling the sweatshirt over his long-sleeved
tee. He glanced at his coat with its flashes of safety-reflective
neon and elected to leave it behind. Then he wondered where Rhys
was —
how
she was
— and if she was cold or hurt. His mind immediately went back to
the night he shot her and his own familiar cycle of pain began
again. Would he see Rhys? His heart accelerated with the thought.
With a shiver that had nothing to do with the drafts gusting
through the cheap window casements, he retrieved his phone and
silenced the ringer. Then he left the bleak, cold apartment for the
bitter night.

For once, his timing was impeccable; he met
the curb as the bus did. Ill at ease the over bright lights making
everyone inside visible, he paid his fare and took a seat up front
near the exit. He kept his head tucked to lessen the extent of
which he was on parade for the whole damn city. Using a hand to
veil his face, he watched the scenery through the window in a
near-futile attempt to reacquaint himself with a section of town
he'd wisely avoided when he lived in the vicinity. It wasn't the
kind of place an undercover cop would risk exposure. The irony was,
as a result, it was exactly the kind of place one would go to
disappear… and — if outed as law enforcement — where one just
might.

After a thirty minute cross-town trip, the bus
finally pulled up to Nick's stop. He stepped down, pausing on the
damp, wind-whipped corner to search the skyline for his bearings in
the dark, unfamiliar territory. Few streetlights dotted the
industrial scene. Long metal buildings made up the bulk of the
landscape, each one separated from the next by an expanse of pitted
concrete. In the distance, water sloshed against pilings, meshing
with the sound of rain. The desolation was chilling, but it was the
caller's words that really got under his skin.

I've got information about your
girlfriend
.

Cutter had warned Nick about the south end, so
he headed that way first. The burned-out buildings weren't hard to
find with their busted glass and the lingering scent of soot. The
fire must have been recent.

To his left, a massive loading door hung so
far off its tracks just ducking under it gave Nick a good shot of
adrenaline with the fear the door would fall on him. He cleared the
threat, real or imagined, without incident then stopped and waited
for his eyes to adjust. Without blips in the long shadows, the
warehouse appeared empty, so he took his chances in the pitch black
along the walls and hoped he wouldn't trip.

A few steps in, a shuffle echoed from across
the vast space.

Nick froze. Rain drummed distantly against
metal — the only intrusion in the thick silence. He fervently
wished for night vision, surveillance, or any of the other gadgetry
upon which he'd so often relied. For all he knew, he was flipping
out over a rat. But the area was also on the outskirts of gang
territory. Nick might well be walking to his death.

The thought joined a number of others nagging
at him, not one of which sat well.

Tension prickled his skin as he closed in on
the warehouse's far corner without incident — the quiet scuffle
against the concrete floor led the way, luring him in. Through the
darkness, a form began taking shape.

A body.

No
. Nick
shook it off. His imagination was working overtime.

Only it wasn't.

The details came to him slowly. A halo of
blonde hair, somehow luminous in the absence of light. Slender
curves. Mile-long legs.

Rhys
.

Nick's gut twisted. Mere hours earlier, her
case had been open and shut. When closed up in a neat little
package, people didn't get dumped in a warehouse — at least not
after the fact. He knelt by the body and felt for a pulse. Her skin
was terrifyingly cold, but her heartbeat was strong. Trembling with
disbelief, Nick stood and fumbled for his phone.

The distinct click of a gun cocking stopped
him. The barrel bore into the back of his skull, prompting him to
hold his hands out to the sides. If Rhys had a chance, he wouldn't
be the one to get in the way of it. Not this time.

"You listen good," said a now-familiar voice.
It was the man Nick was there to meet, but the realization offered
no solace. "Here's the official story, Detective Massey. She's
dead. Just like the TV said. You follow me?"

Nick nodded, his attention riveted on the
nearly imperceptible rise and fall of Rhys's chest as he fought for
something — anything — that might identify the man. Then it hit
him.

Detective
.

Someone knew more than Nick wanted to let
on.

The gun's pressure increased. "You're about to
enter a little impromptu witness protection program. Keep her
hidden and you might live."

"Is she hurt?"

"No, she's
dead
. And if anyone thinks otherwise,
I'll kill you." He punctuated the threat by with a solid stab of
the gun against the base of Nick's skull. "Are we in agreement,
Detective?"

"Yes. How—"

"No questions. The boss will be in touch." The
gun's pressure faded. Footsteps retreated.

Nick didn't turn around. He didn't want to
risk a second confrontation with the gunman, and Nick couldn't see
anything in the dark anyway. Holding his breath, he knelt beside
Rhys. She wasn't wearing enough for the weather. Her shirt was
tugged to one side, allowing him a glimpse of the bandage at her
shoulder — the same one he'd shot. He winced.

"Rhys?
Rhys
!" His urgency funneled into a
hoarse whisper.

Her eyes fluttered open, then widened.
"Nick?"

He swallowed and leaned close, cradling her
head. "Yeah, it's me. How are you feeling?" The words felt like the
lamest line ever.