Borrowing Trouble (28 page)

No question, he could improve things at Breyer Hotels. And working for Nate and Sam would be easy peasy. They were great bosses. He got the electric broom out of the hall closet, plugged it in, and ran it through the living room. Over the whir, he heard a faint noise, like something scraping against the hardwood floor, coming from next door. Turning off the vacuum, he thought Sloane must be home. But her police rig wasn't in the driveway. He put his ear against the wall and listened. Nothing. It had probably been the broom cord slapping against the floor.

About to turn on the vacuum again, he heard something else. This time it sounded like a thumping coming from the back of the duplex. He went to the kitchen, looked out the rear window, and saw a shadow. It appeared that a person was coming around the side. Brady grabbed a cast-iron skillet on his way out and crept along the living room wall. He'd gotten as far as the front door when someone knocked.

“Ah, Jesus,” he said aloud as he peeked outside. The psyching himself out had to stop. Brady put down the pan and opened the door. “Hey, Skeeter.”

He'd never actually met the kid, but had seen him and his Camaro around town a few times. “Where's your car?”

“I hiked up from the train yard. I knocked on Officer McBride's back door, but I don't think she's home.”

That must've been what Brady heard. “What do you got there?”

Skeeter turned red and handed Brady a box of drugstore chocolates. “It's a finder's fee for helping me get the job at the Gas and Go.”

Between bringing her flowers and candy, Brady thought the kid might be harboring a crush on Sloane. “You want me to give them to her for you? I'll see her tonight.” Brady made sure to say it in a way that Skeeter understood that he and Sloane were together. Petty, since the boy couldn't be more than twenty. Twenty-one at the most.

“Yeah, I don't want the critters to get it.”

“No problem.”

Skeeter started to walk away but stopped. “What happened to her back window?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The pane is gone.” Not when Brady had done his routine check less than an hour ago. “If she's getting a new one, she shouldn't leave it open like that. Raccoons will get in and tear the place apart.”

“Come in the house!” he told Skeeter, and grabbed his cell off the entry table where he'd left it when he first came in. “Call 9-1-1.”

Brady picked up the skillet, went outside, and silently made his way to the rear of the duplex. Sonofabitch! Sure enough, the pane above Sloane's kitchen door was missing. Someone had used a glass cutter to pop it out. Brady didn't have time to check the door because he saw movement behind a copse of trees a few feet from the house. Crouching down, he used the propane tank enclosure for cover, and like a ghost made his way toward the grove. Slowly and as quietly as possible, Brady inched closer, desperately trying to stay out of sight. He used to hike with a former Green Beret who could sneak up on a person without so much as a faint rustle. What he wouldn't do for those skills right now.

He heard voices. They were too low to make out, but for a second Brady thought he'd been discovered. That's when he saw a gun trained on Skeeter.

I told you to stay in the house. Dammit, dammit, dammit!
Brady continued toward the trees, skulking through the bushes. The armed person faced Skeeter with his back hidden from Brady's view by a giant redwood. At least Skeeter acted as a diversion as Brady tried to get closer without being detected.

He continued to hear hushed voices, but still couldn't tell what was being said. If only he could create another distraction, just enough of one that he could get to Skeeter without being detected. He considered throwing a rock down the ravine, but worried that the sudden movement could trip someone with a hair trigger. Almost there, he took a couple of deep breaths, wondering if Skeeter had at least called 9-1-1 before stupidly wandering into the line of fire. Idiot kid. But if anything happened to the boy, it would be Brady's fault. He'd always known that this would end badly.

At the grove now, he maneuvered himself behind the thick trunk of a tree, waiting for his moment. Because he knew he'd only have one. He saw the muzzle of the gun but couldn't see who held it. Brady didn't need to. In his gut he knew.

He could see Skeeter. The fear in the boy's eyes reminded Brady of a feral cat calculating a way to escape danger. He wished he could signal to him some way; get him to draw the shooter out where Brady had a clear shot. But it was too risky. So he stood stock-still, ready to pounce.

Sirens rent the silence and the gun holder spooked, lunging for Skeeter. Brady didn't think or breathe or even flinch. Lifting the skillet high, he ran closer and slammed it over the assailant's head. It wasn't until the shooter crumpled to the ground that Brady realized he hadn't hit Sandra.

“You okay?” he asked Skeeter.

“What the hell is going on?” The kid was shaken.

“I'm not entirely sure.” Brady looked up from the body to see Sloane running at him with Rhys and Jake taking up the rear.

“What happened?” she yelled, skidding to a halt when she saw the man on the ground, his gun a few feet away. Brady still clutched the skillet. “My God, it's Roger Buck.”

She knelt down and checked his pulse. “He's still alive,” she told Rhys, and pulled her radio from her belt to call for an ambulance.

Rhys put on gloves, pried the cast-iron pan from Brady's hand, and said, “You're out of this, McBride. Jake, bag the weapon.”

Sloane threw her arms around Brady. “Are you all right?”

“Yup.” Brady stared down at Buck. “I thought he was Sandra.”

Sloane put her finger on Brady's lips. “Don't talk without a lawyer.”

Rhys rolled his eyes and read Brady his rights.

“What the hell do I need a lawyer for? He tried to break into Sloane's apartment and held a gun on Skeeter.” Brady watched Jake seal the gun in a plastic bag.

An ambulance stopped at the top of the driveway and two paramedics came down carrying a gurney. Jake went with Buck and the medics and Brady and Skeeter went with Rhys to the police station, where they each gave statements. Sloane was not allowed to be present, since her being romantically involved with Brady and a former colleague of Buck's amounted to a double conflict of interest.

Brady told Rhys everything, including about the missing pane from Sloane's kitchen door, how Skeeter had likely interrupted Buck before he'd had a chance to go into the apartment. After Skeeter gave his statement, both were told they could go home. Sloane was waiting for him outside the conference room.

Rhys took one look at her and said, “That must have been Buck you saw last month. He came to case your place, I'm sure of it now. And I'm kicking myself for not having done more. If Brady hadn't been home, if Skeeter hadn't come when he had . . . God knows what you would've walked into. Dammit, Sloane, I screwed up.”

“No you didn't. I wasn't sure it was even him. And then the harassing messages stopped. How could anyone have known?”

“I'll tell you this: He's not walking away. I'm gonna have his badge and anyone else's involved in harassing you. Come here.” Sloane obeyed the command and Rhys wrapped her in a hug. “I'm sorry I let you down.”

“No, LAPD let me down. I know you have my back, and Brady . . . he saved the day.”

“He sure the hell did.” Rhys shook his head. “And with a fry pan, no less.”

“W
hat are you doing?” Lina lounged in Griffin's bed, watching him empty the dresser in his room.

“Making space for you to put your stuff. There's also plenty of room in the closet.” Together, they couldn't fill the giant walk-in unless Lina owned a department store.

“Griff, it's bad enough that my family thinks I was in my Reno apartment last night. It's a small town. I don't want to be caught in a lie.”

“I don't want you to lie, I want you to move in. Officially. You already said that keeping the Reno place was a waste of money.”

“Griffin, slow down. All of a sudden you seem like you're in such a rush. Is there something you're not telling me?”

“Of course not. It's just that we can finally be a real couple now.”

“We can be a real couple without me moving in.” She got out of bed and Griff watched her walk to the bathroom. Lina took his breath away. A few minutes later she came out, wearing his robe. The thing swallowed her. “I'll stay when I can. But it seems a little soon to be moving in.”

“Lina, do you love me?”

She blinked at him in surprise. “I've loved you since the first day I met you. What kind of question is that?”

“I don't know. You just don't seem as committed to this as I do.”

“When I was committed to it, you weren't. In fact, I overwhelmed you with my commitment.” She laughed. “I don't want to do that again.”

He pulled her into his arms, tugged open her belt, and let his hands roam over her body. “You won't. I'm all the way in this time.”

She tilted her head back as he fondled her breasts. “Mmm.”

“I love you.” He slid the robe off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor and walked her backwards to the bed. “I've always loved you. But now the time is right.”

“Because you say it is?” she teased.

Griffin stopped touching her. “Because you're truly a grown-up now. You have to admit, Lina, you weren't back then.”

She went down on the bed and took him with her. “I've done some maturing.”

He let his gaze sweep over her. “Yes, you have.”

She started to say something and he covered her mouth with his lips. “No more talking.”

He caressed every inch of her with his hands and lips. She pushed his shorts down. They bunched around his feet and he kicked them off.

“You smell good,” he whispered in her ear. “And taste good.”

“Am I allowed to talk now?” She let out a giggle when he swirled his tongue around her ear and nibbled on her lobe.

“Only sex talk.” He licked and laved his way down her body.

“Mmm. Lower,” she pleaded in a breathy voice that drove Griff wild.

He lifted up, cocked his brows, and went directly to the spot she begged for. She clutched his head, wound her fingers through his hair, arched her back, and screamed out his name when he brought her to orgasm. It hadn't taken long. She went off like an air-raid siren.

He moved over her, molding her breasts in his hands. God, how he'd missed these breasts. They were round and firm and larger than expected for such a petite woman. Her brown nipples puckered prettily and he whorled his tongue over each one while she moaned with pleasure.

He still couldn't believe she'd waited for him. Nearly two years of college and she hadn't been with a man. Not until last night, with him. In the beginning, when they'd first started seeing each other, it had been a constant fight. She'd wanted to make love with him and he'd wanted her to wait. After they'd broken up and she started seeing students her own age, Griffin had been convinced that she'd lose her virginity to one of them.

“You sore?” He wanted her again but was afraid it was too much so soon.

“No. Please.”

He touched her between her legs. “You sure?”

She ground into his hand just to let him know she meant business. Damn, he loved this woman. Griffin reached for a condom on the nightstand, rolled it on, and slid into her. Gazing down on her, he slowly took her up, loving her until they were both so close that he quickened the tempo. When she gave a little shudder and closed her eyes, he knew he'd hit the sweet spot.

She wrapped her legs around his waist and he plunged into her, deeper and faster. As she called out, he ravaged her mouth with hunger. He could feel her heat and her heart thudding. His own heart felt ready to burst. He pumped once, twice, three more times and let himself go. For a few seconds his mind and body went numb. He just lay like a human blanket over Lina. If he stayed pressed against her much longer, he'd be hard again in no time.

He rolled to his side and tugged her so that her head rested on his chest like a pillow. “You okay?”

“I don't believe I've ever been better.” She kissed his shoulder as the morning light filtered in between the blinds, making shadow lines on the wall.

He sifted his hand through her dark hair, rubbing a long lock between his fingers. “If you moved in we could do this every night.”

“And then I'd never get my studying done.” She turned, resting her forearms on his chest so she could look at him. “What if I kept the apartment in Reno and stayed with you when I'm in Nugget? That way when I need to knuckle down on my studies I'll stay there.”

If that's all he could get, he'd take it. “That would work.”

“Rhys won't like it.”

That was an understatement.

“I'll talk to him,” Griffin said. “Make sure he understands that we're serious. Because we are serious, right?”

“I've always been serious about you, Griffin. Always. But I'm only twenty. I need to finish school, and when I'm done I want to build bridges, make something of myself before I settle down.”

“That doesn't mean we can't be a couple. I'll go with you while you build bridges.”

Her lips curved up and she kissed him. “I'd like that.”

“I'll get another dresser then.” He cocked his head at the one he'd already emptied.

For three days straight, people had been calling the hotline with tips about John Doe. Ever since Sloane had done the
Today
show, the phone had been ringing off the hook. Yet nothing had panned out.

Sloane hadn't even gotten to meet Matt Lauer. Although the show had offered to fly her to New York, Sloane had opted to go to the NBC studio in Reno to do the live interview remotely. Easier, and after what had happened with Buck, she'd wanted to stay close to home for a while. For that reason the closest she'd gotten to Lauer was having his voice transmitted to her through a tiny bug in her ear.
Today
had sent a camera person to Nugget to film the bust and get B-roll footage of the station. Sloane's entire family had seen the show in Chicago and hadn't stopped razzing her about it.

Brady had been less enthusiastic, worrying that the publicity would bring more trouble to her door. At Brady's hand—or skillet—Buck had suffered a bad concussion. In the meantime, he'd been put on unpaid administrative leave from the department, pending an investigation. That was pretty much cop code for he was getting fired. Rhys had come through, raising holy hell with LAPD, threatening to go to the FBI and the press if the chief didn't take action against the men harassing Sloane.

Internal affairs had launched a full-blown inquiry. So far, it looked as if Roger Buck, distraught over his partner's suicide, had been the main instigator. The original posse of trouble makers had let their anger go after Sloane left the department. But Roger had held on to his grudge like it was life support. He'd told Jake, who'd known the detective since his days at LAPD, that he'd only meant to vandalize her apartment. “Put a little fear into the bitch,” is what he'd said.

Sloane hoped Buck got the help he needed. As for Brady, these last few days he'd seemed to be somewhere else entirely. Quiet, distant, and broody. She suspected that he was waiting for the other shoe to drop with Sandra or preparing to bolt—from her, from Nugget, from anything that held roots. The thought of him leaving ripped her heart out. She'd tried to talk to him about it, but he wasn't receptive to conversation.

“Sloane, you've got a call on line two,” Connie called across the room.

“Who is it?”

“Someone who saw
Today
and claims to have information.” Connie rolled her eyes.

They'd gotten a lot of nuts, as was common in high-profile cases. People claiming to be psychic, people wanting a substantial reward for information, people saying they have known John Doe in a past life. You name it, they got it. Every once in a while a legit tip came in. But nothing that had led to anything substantive. Sloane was starting to come to terms with the possibility that they might never solve the case.

“This is Officer McBride.” She waited for the person on the other end to respond. “Hello.”

“I think the man you found may be my son.” There was something in the woman's voice, a tremor of such utter despair, that Sloane sat up straighter.

“Why is that, ma'am?”

“I have a photo. Is there a number or an email address I can send it to?”

Sloane gave the department's email address and waited while the caller sent the photo. A short time later an email appeared, and Sloane clicked on the attachment. The picture, a young man maybe nineteen or twenty, bore a close resemblance to the bust.

“This is your son?”

“Yes. He disappeared four years ago.”

They hadn't gone back that far in NamUs because the forensic folks speculated that he'd died in November. Those were some well-preserved bones if he'd actually been lying in the outdoors for that long.

“From where, ma'am?”

“We're from Pennsylvania, but Kevin was attending the San Francisco Conservatory of Music. He was there less than a year when we stopped hearing from him. The school told us he'd stopped attending classes after six months.”

“Did you file a missing persons report?”

“With the San Francisco Police Department. When they discovered that he'd terminated the rental agreement on his apartment and friends told investigators that he'd left to travel, they stopped looking for him. He was an adult, Officer McBride.”

“And during those four years you never heard from him?”

“My son suffered from debilitating depression. He was better when he took his medication. Without it, he was erratic. We just prayed that he was okay and would eventually contact us again.”

Wanting to check Kevin's missing person report, Sloane got his full name, date of birth, and social security number. She had his mother's contact information from the email, but double-checked it with her. “Mrs. Fagan, did Kevin have a dentist we can contact?”

“Both his dental records and DNA are with your state's Department of Justice.” She'd started to cry, clearly understanding the implications of what Sloane was asking. They would use Kevin's dental records and DNA to match the teeth and DNA they'd extracted from John Doe's skull. “For a long time I worried that this day would come. Having a child with a mental illness . . . it's difficult, to say the least. Although the San Francisco police stopped looking for him, they submitted his information to the Missing and Unidentified Persons Unit at our request. It's all right there, Officer McBride.”

“Mrs. Fagan, do you know why your son would've come to Nugget?”

“I didn't even know of the town's existence until I saw you on television. My husband and I have only been to California three times—the first time to bring Kevin to school, the other two to search for him.”

“I understand,” Sloane said. This had to be sheer hell for her. “You said your son went to a music school. What instrument did he play?” She hadn't mentioned to Matt Lauer the forensic findings that John Doe had likely played a woodwind instrument.

“He could play everything. By the time he was ten, his instructors told us we had a virtuoso on our hands. But Kevin's main instrument was the clarinet.”

From everything Mrs. Fagan had told Sloane, it sounded like Kevin could very well be their John Doe. It still, however, didn't answer how he'd died. But as soon as Sloane could confirm his identity, she'd get to work on the next piece of the puzzle.

“Officer McBride, if it is our son, we'd like to come there and see to the transfer of the remains ourselves. We want Kevin home.”

The coroner would handle that, and Sloane didn't know if for health reasons it was even allowed for a private party to transport bones across country. She would check to see if they could make arrangements with a mortuary, but at this point they were jumping the gun.