Sacrificial Muse A NOVEL
Maegan Beaumont Midnight Ink
woodbury, minnesota
Sacrificial Muse © 2014 by Maegan Beaumont. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Edition First Printing, 2014 Published in association with MacGregor Literary, Inc. of Hillsboro, OR Book design by Bob Gaul Cover design by Kevin R. Brown Cover images: iStockphoto.com/22842448 and 21974570/©Naddiya iStockphoto.com/9478485/©Vrender iStockphoto.com/13766352/©Mafaldita Editing by Nicole Nugent Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Beaumont, Maegan, 1975– Sacrificial muse: a novel/Meagan Beaumont.—First Edition. pages cm.—(A Sabrina Vaughn novel; 2) ISBN 978-0-7387-3992-2 1. Policewomen—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title. PS3602.E2635S23 2014 813'.6—dc23 2014003333 Midnight Ink Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. 2143 Wooddale Drive Woodbury, MN 55125-2989 www.midnightinkbooks.com Printed in the United States of America
For Joe—I love you … I guess.
ON E
Good Shepherd Medical Center Marshall, Texas—October 2013 She wasn’t alone. Sabrina’s eyes snapped open, but she didn’t move. Her heart hammered against her rib cage so fast and hard, the thump of it echoed in her ears as she fought to keep her breathing deep and even. He was watching her … always watching her. No … it was another dream. Running in the woods—blood streaming down her thigh, Wade chasing her down, faster and faster … Wade. It’d been Wade who took her … hurt her. Her half-brother. She could still see him standing over her, laughing at her— You’re mine. No matter what you do, no matter who you try to become, you can’t change that … Punching her fists into the mattress, she pushed herself up until she was leaning against the headboard. Pain squeezed around the hole in her thigh, the pressure pulling at the stitches that kept it closed. 1
Another dream. She dropped a heavy hand on the wound in her leg and pushed. Pressure pinged off every bone and muscle, a dull throb buried beneath the hefty dose of painkillers they had her on. Bright red seeped through the white gauze—a small spot, spreading wider and wider with each pound of her heart. Watching it grow grounded her, brought her back. She was alive. Safe, and in the hospital. Wade was dead. She knew because she’d killed him— “You push much harder, you’re gonna re-open that wound for real.” Her head snapped up, eyes narrowing as she peered into the darkest corners of the room. A reporter. They’d come in droves—sneaking into her room dressed as orderlies and nurses. One even tried to pass herself off as her mother. A bit ironic considering the death of her mother was very much a part of the story they were all pursuing. The worst of them all was Jaxon Croft. He was relentless, pushing his way in at least once a day to hammer her with questions. Thinking of Croft, she felt an odd combination of relief and annoyance. “Get out of here, Croft, before I call for one of the burlier orderlies and have him toss your ass out the window.” “Who’s Croft?” The question, delivered from the shadows in a voice she didn’t recognize, caused her shoulders to tense and her palms to itch for the heft of one of her SIG P220s. Tommy had brought them back to her but, according to the charge nurse, allowing her to wear a shoulder holster was against hospital policy. She’d given them to Val for safekeeping—which did her absolutely no good right now. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t a reporter. She shot a quick look at the door. No way was she making a run for it, either. Not with the silver dollar–sized hole and half a bullets’ worth of shrapnel she was sporting in her leg. 2
She was trapped. “Can’t shoot me. Can’t run for it … maybe you could push your little call button and ask that cute blonde at the nurses’ station to bring me a pudding cup,” the voice said from the dark. Shapes began to pull themselves from the gloom. An empty chair in the corner. The rollaway table the nurses put her meals on. She didn’t see him until the second sweep. There—in the corner, leaning against the wall. Knee bent, foot kicked up and pressed flat. She could just make out the rounded toe of a lace-up boot. Staring hard, she saw the suggestion of an outline. Broad shoulders, dipped forward, hands dug into the front pockets of dark fatigues. Her hand found the light switch on the control panel next to the bed. Soft light drove the shadows back, revealing the stranger. Only he wasn’t a stranger. She’d seen him before. “I remember you. You’re Benjamin Shaw.” The kid who’d shown up with Michael’s friend, Lark, and taken him away. That’d been a week ago. Six days since she’d been running for her life, teetering on the brink of death. Seven days since Michael had kissed her and promised to come back. I’ll come back for you. I’ll find a way … And he had. Michael was the only reason she was alive. He’d saved her. “Where is he?” she said. Ben cocked his head, giving her a wry grin. “Gone.” She nodded like she understood, like she agreed, even though she didn’t understand or agree to any of it. “Gone where?” “This would be one of those if I tell you, I’ll have to kill you moments, Sabrina. He’s just gone, and your chances of seeing him again are between slim and none.” He used the flat of his foot to push himself away from the wall, coming at her in long-legged strides. “Truth be told, O’Shea is the least of your worries right 3
now. You’re in some deep shit, chica,” he said, sitting on the edge of her bed. His eyes, as calm and clear as lake water, pinned her with a look that told her he knew everything. He knew that when she was seventeen, her mother’s boyfriend had tried to rape her and she’d killed him by taking his head off with a baseball bat. Knew that only a few days ago, her half-brother, Wade, had used that same bat to kill a San Francisco police officer before leaving it at the crime scene, implicating her in both murders. The bat was in police custody. Her prints were all over it. It was only a matter of time before she was arrested and charged. She’d survived. Twice. Stopped a serial killer. And was staring down the barrel of a double homicide charge. It was a toss-up between life in prison and the needle. She wasn’t sure which she preferred at this point. “I can take care of myself,” she said, even though she was pretty sure there was no way to pull herself clear of the mess she was in. Ben’s smile widened to a grin, but the warmth of it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I don’t doubt, under normal circumstances, that you’re a force to be reckoned with, but as it stands, you are truly and deeply fucked,” he said. His tone, so sure and confident, set her teeth on edge as much as it scared the shit out of her. “Get out,” she said, anger and fear stiffening the back of her neck. “Right now, before I figure out a way to kill you.” Now he laughed at her, not really helping his cause. “You really aren’t listening to me, are you? You’re in trouble. Not convicted for murder kind of trouble. I’m talking snatched out of this bed and disappeared forever kind of trouble.” He shook his head. “My father doesn’t like loose ends, and that’s what you are: a loose end. The only reason you’re still flapping in the breeze is because he
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doesn’t know about you. Yet. But he will—it’s only a matter of time, and after that, my hands will be tied.” “Why would your father care about me? I’m nobody. I don’t know anything—about him or whatever it is you people do.” “You know just enough about us people to make you dangerous. As for who you are … you’re the woman Michael loves. That makes you more valuable than you can imagine.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand. I—” “Ever heard of El Cartero?” The question came out of nowhere, threw her off balance. “What? El Cartero? Yeah, we get FBI’s most-wanted updates at the station—killer for hire, operates mainly out of South America. No one knows who he is, but he’s suspected to be an American … ” Her voice trailed off as understanding took root. She shook her head even harder than before. “No. No. I don’t believe you.” But even as she said it, she knew Ben was telling her the truth. Ben’s father, Livingston Shaw, was Michael’s boss. The man who’d had him implanted with some sort of tracking device that kept tabs on his every move. But it had an additional function. It was there to kill him if he got to be more trouble than he was worth. She’d asked Michael why Livingston Shaw would do such a thing, and he’d told her. Because I’m one of the bad guys, Sabrina. Michael was El Cartero. The thought squeezed every bit of air from her lungs, built pressure behind her eyes. He’d tried to tell her— warn her—and she hadn’t listened. In that moment, she hadn’t cared. She stared down at the hands clasped together in her lap, watched them shake. “I need you to leave.” She looked up at Ben. “Please.” “Fear of being killed will only keep Michael in his place for so long. Sooner or later, he’s going to get tired of my father pulling his 5
strings. Michael’ll go after him, and when that happens, my father’ll kill him—and Michael won’t care. But if my father has you, he can make Michael do anything he wants, for as long as he wants,” Ben said in a level tone that scared her. “Get. Out.” She reached over and began to lower the railing on the bed, intent on throwing him out of her room if that’s what it took to make him leave. Ben reached out and clamped a hand around her wrist, giving his head a small shake. “Or maybe you are listening but just don’t care,” he said, leaning forward to peer into her eyes. “I can save you … almost like none of this ever happened. I can give you your life back, but you have to want to be saved, Sabrina.” He stared at her hard. “It won’t work unless you want it to.” You have to want to be saved … She was tired. Tired of all of it—the killing and the certainty that no matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried to alleviate the guilt she carried, it would never be enough. She didn’t want to be saved—she didn’t deserve it. Not when so many women had died. Then other images fought their way to the front of her mind. Her best friend, Valerie. Riley and Jason, her siblings. Her partner, Strickland … Michael. It wasn’t just her that Livingston Shaw would come for. No matter what she wanted, she needed to protect the ones she loved. She nodded her head. “Yes … okay.” He sat back, looking relieved. “You’re gonna have to trust me. Do whatever I tell you to without question. Can you do that?” he said, doubt creeping into his voice. “Yes,” she said, sounding much more confident than she felt. Ben stood, his eyes dropping down to her thigh. Reaching over, he plucked her hand off her leg and held it. She’d been pushing on 6
her wound again, without even knowing it. The hand that held hers was scarred—the thin layer of skin that covered the back of it puckered into a circular mass of shiny white tissue. It was an old bullet wound; she’d seen enough of them to know. Before she could ask what’d happened, he dropped her hand and shoved his into the pockets of his fatigues. “Good, you can start by knocking that shit off. You won; Wade lost. Nothing that happened in between is your fault, so stop punishing yourself.” He turned toward the door, pulling it open before he spoke again. “He’s a wreck,” he said, tossing her a look over his shoulder. “Worried. Blaming himself for leaving you alone. But he loves you enough to stay away from you. I’ll be in touch.” He was talking about Michael … “Did he send you here?” Ben scoffed and shook his head. “Are you kidding me? If he knew I’d even thought of coming here, he’d have garroted me in my sleep. He’s a bit overprotective when it comes to you.” “Then why are you helping me?” He smiled. “So when I need your help and ask for it, you’ll be more inclined to give it to me.” Ben turned and walked out without a backward glance, the door whispering closed behind him. Sabrina reached over and clicked off the light, but she didn’t lay back down. She sat where she was and stared at the door he’d left through, long after he was gone.
7
T WO
San Francisco, California—Eight months later It felt like home. Every time she squeezed the trigger, the pressure building inside her eased off until there was nothing left but a steady flow of calm. That’s the way it always was. She wasn’t sure what it said about her, but she’d decided long ago she didn’t care. Hips shifted, legs parted, and feet planted firmly, Sabrina lifted her arms, her beloved SIG held in a two-fisted grip, finger resting lightly on the trigger. She squeezed eight times in rapid succession, placing each bullet center mass until the paper silhouette had a hole in its chest big enough to put her fist through. Ejecting the magazine, she got busy reloading. It was just after noon—she had another thirty minutes before every stall in the station shooting range was filled. She’d go back upstairs before then, not really wanting to put up with the stares and whispers her presence garnered. 8
Her return to work as a SFPD homicide inspector a few months ago had proved a bit more controversial than she hoped for. Being dubbed “The One That Got Away” by an enterprising reporter at some obscure news rag had turned her life upside down. And Jaxon Croft had spent the last eight months building his career by spilling it all: what’d happened to her as a young girl, the fact that the man who raped and tortured her for months had, in fact, been her half-brother. Recounting her involvement in Sanford’s death. The bodies found in the woods that had been Wade’s killing field. Croft never blamed her, never said it was her fault— but he didn’t have to. He just milked her story for all it was worth, rung her dry, and still wanted more. He was relentless in his pursuit of what he thought would be the cherry on top of his career sundae: an exclusive from her, recounting what had happened between her and Wade in the woods. Every time he asked, she told him no. Because of him, every badge in the house knew who she was—and who she used to be. Had known before she even submitted her reinstatement paperwork. Half of them thought she wasn’t fit to serve and the other half thought she was a liar and a murderer. No, Jaxon Croft wasn’t getting what he wanted from her. Not ever. She felt a light tap on her shoulder. Expecting her partner, Sabrina turned, but it wasn’t Christopher Strickland. Feeling her face split in a rare grin, she holstered her weapon and pulled the molded plugs out of her ears before slipping her eye protection upward to rest on the top of her head. “Shit, Vaughn, remind me not to piss you off,” Devon Nickels said, leaning against the stall entrance with a smile on his face. She’d been back on the job for a little over two months now and hadn’t seen much of her former SWAT teammate. Seeing him now, she 9
realized just how much she missed him. Thanks to Jaxon Croft, everyone thought that she and Nick were involved. Being seen together was something neither one of them could afford. And she’d rather eat glass than give Croft one more word to print about her. Sabrina looked at the target and the piles of shredded paper littering the range floor. She was working on her seventh silhouette. “It’s like therapy. With bullets,” she said, giving Nickels a smart-ass smirk that caused him to bust out laughing. “Anyone I know?” he said, nudging her shoe with the toe of his own lace-up boot. He was dressed in black from head to foot. From the looks of him, her former team had just rolled in. Judging by the exhaustion dug into his face, the job had been a long one. She looked over her shoulder at the shredded silhouette still hanging on the clip. She had a lot of fantasy targets to choose from these days. “Numbers one through four were Captain Mathews,” she said, shooting him humorless grin. “I’m working on my Jaxon Croft issues now.” The name flattened Nickels’s mouth into a thin, hard line. “In that case, can I take a few dozen shots?” “Strickland wants to bribe parking enforcement to boot his car,” she said, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m down for that. How about we get him picked up for soliciting while we’re at it? Maybe plant drugs in his car … add a couple unresolved felonies to his record?” he said, a wicked grin creeping into his whiskey-colored eyes. For a second she wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. “Ha, ha.” Taking a glance at her watch, she saw she didn’t have time for another round. She finished reloading her magazine and slapped it into the grip of her SIG before holstering it. She dropped her ear buds and safety glasses into her duffle and turned toward him 10
again, leaning her hips against the low counter that held her gear. “Remind me to keep you and Strickland far, far away from each other.” “Hey, Vaughn—you still down here?” Speak of the devil. She moved to skirt past Nickels, but he wasn’t budging. “Move,” she practically mouthed the word, cranking her head around his shoulder. She always took the stall farthest from the entrance. No way could Strickland see her or who she was with. And she wanted to keep it that way. Partnering with her had cost Strickland; the last thing she wanted was for him to think she wasn’t doing everything she could to keep the damage she’d caused to a minimum. “Yup. Just finished—be up in a few.” She doubled up her fist and socked Nickels in the bicep. “Oww,” Nickels mouthed back, catching her fist and holding it before she could do it again. “Right. Okay … well, Mathews is looking for you, and your Kung Pao is getting cold. Again,” Strickland said, closer than before but still not close enough to see inside the stall. She leaned back against the counter again. “Alright. Thanks.” “Hey, Nick,” Strickland said, just to let her know it was stupid of her to think she could hide anything from him. Ever. Nickels smirked down at her, still holding her hand. “Hey, Strickland—you got a few minutes? I was thinking of going over to parking enforcement. See if I can talk someone into laying down a boot on our favorite reporter.” Strickland laughed from the doorway. “I’m ready when you are,” he said, his laughter trailing down the hallway as he made his way back up the stairs. She pulled her fist out of Nickels’s grasp and picked up her duffle. “Not. Funny.” She shoved her way past him. “A little funny,” he said, catching her hand again. 11
She kept her eyes straight ahead, felt the gentle pull of his fingers around hers … and thought of Michael. His hands on her face. The way his body had swayed into hers. The firm pressure of his mouth on hers. I’ll come back for you. I promise I’ll find a way … She could wait a lifetime, but Ben had made it clear to her the night he’d offered to make it all go away: Michael wasn’t coming back. The unforeseeable problem Croft had become notwithstanding, Ben had delivered. He’d gotten her badge back. Somehow gotten her cleared of the charges that’d piled up against her. But he couldn’t make her forget. That part she had to do on her own. She shot Nickels a look over her shoulder. “You know I’m seeing someone,” she said for no particular reason. He grinned at her, but she could tell it cost him. “Who? The doctor?” “Yeah, the doctor.” His name was Liam. He’d been the attending for the murder victim in a case she and Strickland were working. She’d questioned him, and he’d followed it up by asking her out. Nickels’s grin lost some of its shine, his grip tightening a bit around her fingers. “Is it serious?” She just shrugged. So far they’d been out for two coffees, lunch, and a Giants game. He was pressing her for dinner, but she wasn’t ready. She wasn’t sure she ever would be. “It was good seeing you again, Nick.” She gave his hand a quick squeeze before pulling away to head upstairs. “Don’t be a stranger.”
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THREE
Sabrina dropped into her chair and kicked her feet up on her desk, her boot nudging the white paper takeout box that held her lunch. Next to it was a clear glass vase filled with roses. Red roses—nine of them. Always nine, with a red bow tucked in among the green. No card. Every day at noon, the uniform riding the info desk in the lobby brought them up to her. Every day for two months, she left her desk so she didn’t have to see them coming at her across the bullpen. Glancing in the direction of Mathews’s office, she used the heel of her boot to kick the carton of Chinese off her desk and into the trash. The last thing she needed was to throw a bunch of Chinatown’s finest on top of the churning ball of anxiety she was carrying around. She pretended to ignore the flowers. One of the guys would come by and take them home to his wife or girlfriend; they had some sort of system worked out. She didn’t care. Didn’t want them. “You need to eat something,” Strickland said without looking up from the hunt-and-peck routine he was pulling on his computer keyboard. 13
“I’m not hungry, Mom.” Leaning back, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a few crumpled bills. Pulling a ten from the wad, she balled it up and tossed it at him. “For the Kung Pao,” she said when it bounced off his shoulder and landed on his desk. “Mathews is still looking for you,” he said. “I know.” Between Nickels throwing his game into high-gear and Mathews looking for his daily pound of flesh, all she wanted to do was go home. Now Strickland looked at her, the frown on his face drawing his features tight. He opened his desk drawer and swept the crumpled bill into it before pulling out a few cellophane packets. “I got a bead on Kenny Denton. Eat these and then go give Mathews his fix of Vaughn-bashing so we can question him.” He tossed the packets at her. Saltines. “You found Denton? Where?” she said, picking up the crackers. Ripping one of the packages open, she shoved them into her mouth and chewed. Anything to settle her stomach before she had to face Mathews. Now Strickland cracked a grin, turning his computer screen in her direction. On it was a mug shot of Denton. “He’s in Tenderloin lockup.” Strickland leaned back in his chair. “Dumb shit knocks over a dozen bodegas, offs a clerk, and then gets picked up on a domestic for pounding on his baby mama. Allegedly.” The Tenderloin district was one of San Francisco’s toughest neighborhoods. It was no surprise Denton was picked up there. “Well, shit—Mathews can wait.” Sabrina stood. “Let’s get down—” Her desk phone rang, squelching her escape plans. She sat back down, catching her lower lip between her teeth. The crackers she just ate hardened in her gut like a lump of cement.
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“It’s been doing that all morning,” Strickland said, giving it a glance. It kept ringing, insisting that she pay attention to it. Homicide was a noisy place, phones ringing, people talking over each other, but the persistent ringing cut through it all, drawing looks from the surrounding desks. Finally, she answered it. “Vaughn, Homicide.” As usual, nothing but silence on the other end. Thanks to Croft, her story had gone national. Since returning to work, every freak in the country with access to a phone called her at least twice a day. “This is Vaughn,” she said. She’d count to five and hang up like always, and whoever it was would pass the harassment baton off to the next crazy in line. That’s how it worked. One … two … thr— “Red is your favorite color, isn’t it?” She shot a look at the vase sitting on her desk. “What?” “It hurts that you give them away. I’ve chosen them especially for you.” She stood, bouncing her eyes around the room. “Who is this?” “There’s nine of you … but not for long,” he said before hanging up. Sabrina dropped the receiver back in its cradle, continuing to look around the room. More than a few faces stared back. She made eye contact with every last one of them. If the person who called was another Homicide cop, just pulling her leg, none of them showed it. “Who was that?” Strickland said. She shook her head. “I don’t know. I guess one of my regulars finally found his balls and decided to say something.” “Male? Female?” he said, curious. “Male. I think.”
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“You think?” Strickland arched an eyebrow at her. “What does that mean?” She ran a rough hand through her hair. “It means I’m not sure. He—they were using one of those voice disguiser cell phone apps.” “Well, what’d he say?” He was no longer curious. Now he sounded concerned. She looked around and gave him an almost imperceptible headshake. “Later, okay?” She flicked her eyes around the room, hoping he’d understand. He did. “Alright. Go see what Mathews wants so we can question Denton before his baby mama bails him out.” She picked up the other package of saltines and ripped it open. “I know what he wants,” she said around a mouthful of cracker. Mathews knew her temper was only rivaled by her penchant for smart-ass remarks. If he could rile one, he’d get the other … and a reason to toss her out on her ass. “Remember to keep your mouth shut,” Strickland said. He knew her too well. She clicked the heels of her boots together and snapped off a salute. “Sir yes sir!” “I’m being serious,” he shot back. “Just assume the position so we can get on with our day.” “Okay, okay … ” She squared her shoulders. “If I’m not back in five, pull the fire alarm,” she joked, even though her stomach lurched around the crackers she’d eaten. The seemingly neverending stream of phone calls. Croft and the rest of the media hounds following her everywhere. The fan mail and flowers that arrived at her desk daily. Her daily dose of Mathews … She was beginning to think that coming back to work had been a mistake. 16
F OU R
Sabrina knocked on the door and waited for Mathews to bark at her to come in. Pushing the door open, she saw two things: her boss glaring at her from behind his desk and the large black garbage bag sitting next to it. Seeing that bag, knowing what was inside it, made her want to turn and run out of the room. Instead, she planted her feet shoulder-width apart and clasped her hands behind her back. “You wanted to see me, sir?” Mathews saw her look at the bag and snorted at her deliberate lack of reaction. “How’s the leg holding up?” he said, like he gave a shit. Her leg—the puckered scar that marred the top of her thigh— ached like a bitch. Always did. Probably always would. “It’s doing well, sir. Thanks for asking.” “Sure you don’t want to sit down?” Mathews said, tipping his chin toward a pair of chairs across his desktop. She almost laughed at the studied concern that oozed between each word but managed to keep it in. “No thanks. I’d rather stand.” 17
“Suit yourself,” he said, picking up a piece of paper from his desk. “You’ve been called in for a random UA. You have until five p.m. to drop it. Failure to do so will count as an automatic dirty and you’ll be suspended from duty. ” Mathews held the paper out but didn’t extend his arm to her, forcing her to step closer to take it from him. This was the seventh “random” drug test she’d been given since returning to work, but she said nothing. It was the lesser of two evils. If she seemed at all out of step with her duties as Homicide inspector, she’d be taken off active duty. If she pretended everything was fine, Mathews made her submit to drug tests to ensure that she wasn’t taking painkillers while on duty. Either way, he seemed hell-bent on getting her tossed off the job. Thanks to Ben, she was pretty sure she could set Mathews’s desk on fire without fear of repercussion, but she just folded the piece of yellow paper into a neat square and tucked it into her back pocket. The test would prove useless, just like the other six. She never took anything stronger than aspirin. “Yes sir,” she said. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” He scowled at her. “Yeah, you can get this bag of shit out of my office,” he said, jabbing the pen he had clenched in his fist at the garbage bag. She let her eyes fall to the bag. Its black glossy sides bulged with what was only a few days’ worth of letters and packages—all for her. Dozens of them, every day—delivered to the station. They’d started pouring in a few days after Croft had announced in his newspaper that she’d been cleared to return to work. Thanks to him, she was famous. She hefted the bag onto her shoulder. Pain, aspirin be damned, shot from her scar in every direction, zinging over muscle and bone. Please don’t give out, please don’t give out … Pivoting on her 18
good leg, she headed for the door. She managed to pull the door open before Mathews spoke again. “I don’t know how you did it. Who you fucked or who you killed, but I can promise you, Vaughn—your free ride isn’t gonna last forever. I worked IA for twelve years before taking the Homicide captain’s desk, so I recognize connections when I see them. Whoever’s helping you, I’ll find my way around ’em and, when I do—you’re gone,” he said, the threat delivered so low she almost didn’t catch it over the busy noise of the Homicide bullpen. Free ride? She almost laughed again. Nothing about her life had ever been free or easy, but these last few months, knowing Ben Shaw was carrying around an IOU with her name on it took the term I owe ya one to a whole different level. “Yeah? Let me know how that works out for you,” Sabrina said, regretting her words as soon as she said them. So much for keeping her mouth shut. Mathews’s face contorted and he rose from his seat, leaning across his desk. She didn’t wait to see or hear the rest of it, just turned away and pulled the door open wide enough to fit the garbage bag hefted onto her shoulder through the opening. He was saying something to her now, his voice raised, but she kept going, shutting the door on his tirade. She made it halfway across the bullpen, every step feeling like a saw blade against her thighbone. The weight of the sack pushed her into the ground, making each step harder than the last. Mathews’s door flew open. “I want every one of those letters and packages opened and cataloged, Vaughn,” he shouted at her, causing every head to turn in her direction. “I expect a full report on my desk first thing tomorrow morning.” He glared at her, daring her to refuse. Heat rushed up the back of her neck, flooding her cheeks, creating a high-pitched hum between her ears. She turned and opened 19
her mouth to tell him to fuck off, but caught sight of Strickland from the corner of her eye and clamped her mouth shut. He stood and intervened. “Sir, Tenderloin’s got Denton in lockup. Vaughn—” “Will stay here and get started on that report. You’re free to question your suspect. Take Evans with you.” Mathews smirked at her for a few seconds before retreating into his office, slamming the door shut. “Looks like someone’s getting a dictionary for Christmas.” Strickland yanked his jacket on, shooting her a frustrated scowl. “It’s either that or a tattoo that says keep your mouth shut across your goddamn forehead.” Sabrina dropped the bag on the floor next to her desk and sat down. Denton was her lead, and Mathews knew it. This perp represented almost two months’ worth of legwork and investigating. Handing him over to another inspector was her boss’s way of punishing her. Just like making her sift through her daily bagful of crazy in front of the whole squad room was his way of humiliating her. She looked up at Strickland and his face instantly softened. “Hey, look—I’m sorry I—” She was practically vibrating with rage and humiliation. The pressure it created in her chest squeezed her ribs like a thick leather band. Her eyes began to burn, but seeing that look on Strickland’s face—the one that made her feel like a puppy that’d pissed on the carpet but was too helpless to punish—dried them instantly. “Don’t look at me like that and don’t you dare apologize. I fucked up. I get what’s coming.” “Alright.” He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “You want me to bring you something back? A sandwich or something?” Strickland said, letting his gaze drift down to her leg. Now 20
he looked worried again. Yeah, like a ham and cheese on rye was going to cool the hot poker that felt like it was jammed into her thigh. He’d been doing it a lot lately—pulling the Mother Hen routine. It made her feel weak, which pissed her off. Sabrina dragged the bag closer and pulled the knot from the top, revealing what looked like a bottomless pit filled to the top with letters and packages. She sighed. “Yeah. Bring me Denton’s head in a bag. And an extra large coffee from that shop across the street from the Tenderloin station—this is gonna be a long night.”
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