Wicked Release (8 page)

Fucking hell.
He needed to patch this up, smooth things over with her. If she was determined to stay in Portland, they needed to find a way to coexist. But for now? For now he had to let her go.

Sam heard Dr. Adams's voice from around the corner. He pressed harder against the wall, peeking out around the corner as Lulu and the doctor walked to the elevator together. “I hope you don't mind that I have to be on call tonight.”

She shook her head, her brown hair brushing against her bare shoulders. “I don't mind. Will you be able to stay the whole night?”

Dr. Adams checked his pager before clipping it to his belt. “As long as I'm not called back in.” With one hand, Dr. Adams slung the overnight bag over his shoulder while the other gently brushed Lulu's jaw. He gave a quick look around before he kissed her, curving his hand around the back of her neck. The elevator dinged.

“You go down first and I'll meet you at the hotel in a few minutes.”
Shit,
thought Sam. He had almost liked Dr. Adams. Unfortunately it seemed that everyone had a damned skeleton in the closet.

Lulu nodded and stepped on the elevator. Sam waited for the door to close before stepping out and moving beside Dr. Adams. “Looks like your night's gonna be more exciting than mine,” Sam said as the doctor's face went whiter than a sheet out of the dryer.

“Detective,” he said, his eyes shifting between Sam and the closed elevator. “I'm not sure what you mean. I'll be working tonight, um, on call—”

“Save it, I've seen pictures of your wife and that woman you were kissing is definitely not Mrs. Doctor Adams.”

The old man stuttered, gesturing nervously toward the elevator. “M-Michelle is no one. She's just a friend. An old friend—”

Michelle? Interesting.
“She didn't look so old to me. Look,” Sam said, “It's not my place to tell your wife about your . . . indiscretions with the lovely Michelle.”

Dr. Adams lifted his brow in question. “What do you want in return?”

“Sign off on my active duty.”

His response was met with a gruff, dry laugh. “I told you—I can't put you on active duty. I'll sign off on a partial return. But it'll have to be against my advisement. I could be sued for malpractice.”

“Partial duty. With no mention of your advisement. You know the force wouldn't accept me if it was against your orders. And I want it in writing, now . . . before either of us leaves.”

There was a coldness in his gaze, a firmness to his mouth, as the doctor snatched a prescription pad from inside his bag. He scribbled a note and signed the bottom. “You're a piece of work.” Ice dripped from his voice and Sam couldn't help but notice the immense shift of Dr. Adams's personality. He turned from warm grandfather to cold and hard with anger glittering in his eyes.

You too, asshole,
Sam thought. Dr. Adams finished signing his name with an aggressive slap of pen to paper. “Here,” he said, shoving the note into Sam's hands. “No pain medicine while you're working. If you get nosebleeds, dizziness, or a migraine, come see me immediately. And I expect you to keep your CAT scan appointment for tomorrow. I want to make sure that swelling is indeed going down.”

“You're the boss, Doc.” Sam saluted him with two fingers and as the elevators opened, he stepped on, pausing to pivot back to face Dr. Adams. “Be careful with her. With Michelle . . . She's a sweet girl—and young.”

“She's not
that
sweet.”

Sam shook his head. “And you say
I'm
the piece of work? If that's true, then you're the damned
Mona Lisa.
” He slammed his hand against the closing elevator doors, to keep them open. “I mean it. Don't hurt her.” He liked Lulu—or Michelle, it seemed. She'd been a huge help to Sam at the masquerade, helping him discover Elliot Warner. She was nice and it seemed like she was in desperate need for someone to look out for her best interests. He didn't quite know what her arrangement with Phantom was—but he knew dominant personalities. And they didn't usually care for sharing their submissives. That girl had better be careful.

14

J
ess hugged her arms to her body and somehow fought the anger and tears that rose from deep inside her the entire walk back to her house. How was it that Sam could always knock her walls down? No matter how much time she spent building them, he always found a way to power through with one simple kiss.

She glanced at her sister's iPad sitting on her bedside table. She had over an hour to get ready for the dinner at Elliot's house tonight. Maybe a little reading would calm her nerves. Help her with what she could expect out of a night spent with “Master.”

Jess grabbed the iPad, settling back on the bed and swiping open Cass's e-mail account. Scrolling to the bottom, she found some of the earlier e-mails between Cass and Elliot. One particular e-mail with the subject line
Indulgence
caught her eye and she tapped it open.

Because he could,
Jess thought. Because he wanted to maintain the control, the power. And it was the best way he knew how. Jess squeezed her eyes shut and tossed her sister's iPad onto the table beside her.

But if Elliot thought she was anything like Cass—willing to be tied up around a man she barely knew . . . well, he had a lot to learn about her.

Swiping her phone, she checked for any missed calls or messages. Nothing. Again. Not from Sam. Not from Matt. No cases had come in since Dr. Brown's murder last week and Jess couldn't help but feel a little resentful. Were they just ignoring her? Or purposely not calling her for the cases because she and Sam had broken up?

Ridiculous,
she thought, and threw open her suitcase. Rummaging around, she held a couple of pieces of clothing up to her body before tossing them to the side. She had nothing suitable to wear. Without knowing how fancy this evening was going to be, it was difficult to choose an outfit . . . but either way, she decided to bring only three dresses with her to Portland from her home in Brooklyn. Two of which she had worn for her sister's wake and funeral. Jess balled up the soft, black dresses and threw them into the dirty laundry pile. She might as well throw them directly into the garbage. There was no way she could stand to wear them again. She had never again worn the dress she had on at her parents' funeral, either.

She ventured into Cass's closet. There were rows of hangers lined with gorgeous designer outfits that contrasted the simple, tailored work clothes hanging next to them. Givenchy dresses. Prada boots. Manolos. She'd never once seen her sister in an outfit from anywhere other than Ann Taylor. Who was this woman? This version of Cassandra that Jess had never known. Her hand trailed the exquisite design of a Miu Miu fitted leather pencil skirt and sheer lace wrap top. It was perfect. Just fancy enough to fit in with whatever designer suit Elliot would most certainly be wearing.

Jess pulled the skirt off the hanger and held it up to her body. She and her sister were nearly the same size . . . except Cass was a couple of inches taller. Just as Jess was getting ready to pull her jeans down, she paused. That same paranoid feeling of someone watching flooded back to her. The photographs left on her car flashed in her mind and she suddenly felt sick to her stomach. Fear slammed into her body, crashing over her like an icy wave.

Rushing to the windows, she peeked out. No one was there. There were only a few parked cars in the street below and a couple of people passing by on their way home from work. Jess tugged the curtains closed, making sure the edges were pulled taut to the end of the window frames. Not even a sliver of windowpane could be seen. She would staple the curtains to the walls if she needed to. Even with the curtains pulled tight, she grabbed the pile of clothes and shut herself in the bathroom to change where there were no windows at all.

Nearly an hour later, Jess was dressed in her sister's designer clothes, wearing the Jimmy Choos Dane had given her for the masquerade. Her hair was knotted in a sleek French twist and her makeup was sultry, but still subtle. She wasn't exactly sure why she was trying so hard with Elliot. What was this desire to impress him? To please him? It was the same part of her that got a thrill when she would both obey and disobey Sam.

It was seven o'clock sharp. Jess paused in the foyer, grabbing her camera off the front table. Her camera bag didn't exactly go with her outfit and yet, she felt naked without it—and she'd been without it far too often these days. After locking the door behind her, Jess walked down the stoop, scanning the street in front of her house. A black sedan was parked right outside and she walked over, reaching for the door as the window slid down.

“Well, didn't you fall out of the pretty tree tonight?”

Startled, she pulled back from the car, confused for all of a second.
Matt?
What the hell was he doing here? She inwardly rolled her eyes . . .
Sam
. He probably sent his buddy to keep tabs on her. “And hit every damn branch on the way down.” She finished his statement with a wink. Bending into the open window, she draped her arms inside the car. “So, you're my ride tonight?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “No, but holy shit, Jessie. I
could
be your ride! Where you off to?”

“I have a dinner thing. What are you doing here then if you're not my ride?” She gave him a pointed look, glancing at him through her inked eyelashes. “Sam sent you, didn't he?”

His expression softened. “I take it that means your dinner tonight isn't with Sam?”

“No. It's not.”

Regret seemed to wash over him and his mouth twitched into a frown. “Sorry to hear that.”

“Matt—I'm gonna ask one last time. What are you doing here?”

“Things got busy at the precinct today—work is piling up without Sam around. And I realized a little late that I hadn't come by to look at your basement.”

“So . . . you were going to have a look around at seven p.m.?”

He hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “No. I mean, maybe. I was just gonna pop in and see how you were holding up. We've all just been sort of . . . keeping track of you. Making sure you're safe.” He paused, the hesitation in his voice mirroring the cringe Jess felt. “I have one guy stationed down near the tunnel you found until we can get it boarded up for you.”

“Matt, come on. I know the attack on Sam was alarming, but I don't think the house needs a twenty-four-seven watch on it—”

“Respectfully, Jessie, that's not for you to decide. Not when one of our own was attacked last weekend.”

She knew she wasn't about to win this argument. And she couldn't blame the Portland police for being extra vigilant on her behalf. With how shaky she'd been feeling in her own home lately, it was actually kind of reassuring. “Any leads yet?”

He shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. We've been grilling Zooey for two days. Sam seems to think it was a man who attacked him—”

“It
was
a man who attacked him. Zooey's the easy one to blame, but it wasn't her.”

“All evidence points to a woman being down there. A woman being our killer.”

“What? What evidence?”

“To begin with—the footprints are likely from a woman. High heels.”

Oh, these idiots.
She loved Matt, but there was a reason Sam was head detective, not him. “Matt, those are probably
my
footprints.”

“No, these are big feet. Likely, a size ten female footprint. The exact size of Zooey's shoes.”

“Really?”
Damn, the girl had big feet.

He nodded. “Not to mention, Zooey's prints were found on the doorknob down there. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.”

Jess gulped. “Someone's setting her up, Matt. They easily could lift her print and put it on a doorknob. And how hard is it to put on someone else's shoes and stomp around? Little Zooey could not have done the sort of damage that Sam is suffering from.” Not to mention Jess had seen a masked man running from the scene. She chewed her bottom lip in thought. “Were there other footprints down there as well?”

“No, just Zooey's.”

“There you go. I was in those tunnels, too. Where the hell were my footprints? Whoever set her up wiped the floors and then trudged Zooey's shoes through the tunnel.”

“Look—” he said, dropping his voice even though they were the only two people in the street. “I don't think you're wrong. Even with all the evidence pointing to Zooey, she had to at least have had an accomplice. But things just aren't adding up with your sister's death. The robbery-gone-bad angle is dissolving by the second, even if Zooey isn't our killer. And this crime of passion idea doesn't work either because it doesn't appear as though Cass had any sort of romance with Brown.” He sighed, stroking his goatee. “I shouldn't be talking about this with you. Anyway, that's why we're here watching. Hoping that the bastard returns to the scene of the crime.”

Yeah, right
. Whoever he was, he was too smart for that. He knew the tunnels had been compromised. He knew there was no coming back now. At least not in the way he usually did. Jess's spine stiffened. In fact . . . it was probable that they wouldn't want to host the parties at her house ever again, now that the access to the wharf was cut off.

“You know,” Matt said, his voice hard, “If Sam could just stay here with you for a few nights, then we wouldn't have to post officers outside your home. And he could feel like he was on active duty even though he shouldn't be. You could help make him rest and he could still feel relevant—”

“Good night, Matt.” Jess pushed off his window, backing away.

“Think about it!” he called after her as another black sedan pulled into her driveway. A man in a wrinkled suit rushed out, opening the back door for her.

“Ms. Walters,” he said, breathless. “I apologize for being late.”

She glanced at her phone, eyebrows furrowed. “You're literally three minutes late,” she said with a chuckle. “It's not a big deal.”

He offered her a gracious smile. “Mr. Warner doesn't stand for tardiness.”

“What's your name?”

“Lyle, ma'am.”

She slid inside, stopping the door before he shut it. “Well, Lyle, we'll just have to tell Elliot that
I
was the one running late. My hair just wasn't behaving,” she said with a wink.

Lyle smiled. “That's very gracious, Ms. Walters. Thank you, but I can't lie to Mr.—”

“You don't have to. I will.”

 

Lyle drove straight for the shore and pulled up to the Casco Bay ferry. With barely a pause, he pulled the car onto the boat and parked, shutting the engine off.

Jess blinked as Lyle opened the door for her. “You're welcome to wait in the car for the ride, ma'am. Or if you prefer to step out and enjoy the scenery, Mr. Warner left a bottle of champagne in the backseat for you. Either way, would you like for me to pour you a glass?”

“Elliot lives on one of the islands?”

“Yes, Ms. Walters. Peaks Island.”

“And he commutes every day?” She unbuckled and slid out of the backseat, grabbing her camera before shutting the door behind her. The air was crisp and salty and stars flickered in the night sky. Jess took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of the sea. The scent was fresh and delicious. So different from the smell of hot garbage she was used to experiencing outside her door in New York.

“Well, he has an apartment on the peninsula, but he only uses it on rare occasions.” Lyle grabbed the bottle of champagne and a glass. He held it up to her with a questioning tilt of his head.

Jess nodded and he popped the cork, pouring her a glass. “Mr. Warner doesn't take the ferry usually.”

Steadying the camera against the railing for a long exposure, she zoomed out in a wide shot of Portland's shore they were leaving behind.
Click
.