Fish Out of Water (33 page)

There was something very
wrong
with this woman. Something
amok.
But Jackson was out of pain and—

“Ellery…,” he mumbled. “Don’t let him get shot.”

She stood over his bed and smoothed back his hair, much like her son had. “Sweet,” she said, as though he’d argued with her. “My family doesn’t much
do
sweetness. I think this is a good trait in someone marrying in.”

“You’re evil,” he said. “Pure Satan.” And then he giggled, because hey! Who
didn’t
need six or eight doses of morphine at the same time? “No bullets for Ellery.”

“Darling,” she purred, “why should you get all the fun?”

“Wha’s your name?” It seemed like he needed a better one than Satan.

“Taylor,” she told him, raising a sculpted eyebrow.

“Imma call you Moostifer. Boosimer.
Lucy in the Satan tree with diamonds
!”

She laughed then, and her image went all red with little horns and a pointed tail and a goatee.

Then it split into a thousand different pictures of Ellery’s mother, Lucy Satan, laughing her ass off.

And
then
he fell asleep.

When he woke up, evening was lowering. Lucy Satan was stretched out daintily, dozing on a cot, her ankles crossed above her unshod feet and three or four pillows under her head.

Alex was fixing Jackson’s medication.

“Whoo boy,” Alex said, seeing him waking up. “Someone sure did want you out of it. I don’t even think you can
reach
the button.”

“It’s
her
,” Jackson said sourly. “Lucy Satan. She’s evil.”

“Mrs. Cramer? She’s an
angel
!” Alex laughed at him. “She ordered a little catered lunch in here, invited me and Dave and any friends. Called in Jade and your neighbor guy who calls me Light Loafers and then tells me I’m doing a damned fine job and he doesn’t want anyone else working on you but me and Dave.”

Jackson grimaced. “That’s Mike. He’s, uh—”

“A good guy without a computer. I get it,” Alex said dryly. “So, you’re awake. How’s your shoulder feeling?”

“I have a shoulder?” As far as Jackson knew, he didn’t have toes either.

“That’s what we want to hear,” Alex laughed. He sobered quickly, though. “Jackson, man, what in the hell are you doing in here?”

Jackson sighed. “Worrying,” he said at last.

“About your friend? The one who was here all last night?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, don’t. He called his mother there about an hour ago. They talked for a long time, and when he was done,
that’s
when she asked for a cot. I guess it’s about ten o’clock in Boston, so maybe she was wiped out.”

Or maybe she wasn’t worrying anymore.

Well, there you go. Lucy Satan had a heart.

Jackson’s shoulder gave a throb, and he blamed her. “She’s evil,” he told Alex seriously. “And I
hate
getting shot.”

“Well, next time, duck faster.”

Duck faster. That was funny. He laughed himself to sleep.

When he woke up again, Ellery was there. He was covered in scratches and wearing a pair of Jackson’s sweats and an old, well-laundered academy T-shirt. Jackson’s clothes. Jackson’s shoulder gave a throb, and he forced himself to ignore it.

This was a story he needed to hear.

ELLERY CALLED
Kryzynski on his way home, and the nice policeman offered to meet him in front of the capitol building at a quarter to ten.

Ellery told him to wait until ten fifteen, past the rose gardens, where the topiaries cast the most shade.

He needed time to change, for one, and the less time before the meeting, the more time he didn’t have to worry about getting shot.

He wondered if Jackson had Kevlar he could wear. Probably—not that it had helped him in his own home—but Ellery wasn’t going to ask for it now. If he couldn’t walk into the state capitol without Kevlar, he really needed to find himself another job.

In another country.

He got home, changed into his olive suit and good wingtips, and then parked in the paid garage and walked down L Street to the capitol block. He remembered the conversation he and Jackson had two days before, and for some reason, that made it worse. Jackson, who didn’t believe in marriage and would probably have applauded the Kevlar, had been shot in his own kitchen.

Jackson, who seemed to be paying for the sins of every corrupt cop in Sacramento, had gone down getting Ellery out of the way because
Ellery
didn’t know enough to get down in a firefight.

Ellery had a continuous loop in his mind of Jackson’s two expressions: terrified, in flight, tackling Ellery and getting thrown across the hallway… and soft. Shy. Telling Ellery his sex secrets, teasing Ellery gently about his own.

As he walked briskly, he found his chest getting tight, breath harsh and panting in his ears.

God
dammit
,
he was angry.

“Hey, Counselor,” Sean Kryzynski said, catching him in the shadows by the southwest entrance. He was wearing a sport coat and jeans, much like Jackson did for work, and Ellery had to swallow against how much he wanted Jackson there for backup instead.

“Officer,” he said, nodding. “You wearing your Kevlar?”

Kryzynski looked at him sharply. “You expecting this to be—”

“Fuck!”

Ellery heard the backfire first and pulled Sean into the shade between two trees. “Did you hear that?” he asked, not sure if it was his heart beating fast or his active imagination.

“Yeah, that Durango had a—” Sean stared at him, apparently remembering Ellery’s statement from the day before. “Holy shit.”

Ellery spotted the black Dodge heading for the parking garage and gave thanks. “Ten minutes to the meeting,” he said, looking at his watch. “Ready to sprint in your dress shoes, Officer? Because if we don’t get to Chisholm first, Bridger might just win a free pass.”

“Can he do that?” Kryzynski asked. “I mean, we have evidence on him. We have the photos, we’ve subpoenaed his phone records, and….” Kryzynski looked around as though they were standing in the precinct house and not in a secluded, shaded area surrounded by topiary. “And that blue wall you were bitching about isn’t as strong as you think it is. People found out that Jackson got shot again, and I’ve gotten a lot of meaningful looks and promises to talk later. What went on with your—partner? Colleague—?”

“Boyfriend,” Ellery said shortly, because he’d said it the day before, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to make that fly now.

“
That
is a damned shame,” Kryzynski muttered.

Ellery looked him up and down and rolled his eyes. “You need ten years and a fuckton of bullet scars to compete, junior,” he said, not even surprised that Kryzynski was gay.

“I’ll work on the years, but I’m not crazy about the mileage. Anyway, Miles is dead. Nobody’s forgotten that. And there’s only a few quiet whispers about going after Kaden Cameron—and that is damned strange. No. There are enough clean cops downtown who do
not
want to see your guy go under that I’m starting to wonder how he got blindsided in the first place.”

“Bill Chisholm,” Ellery said grimly. “That’s all you need to know.”

“And he’s our saving grace?”

Ellery closed his eyes and thought about his mother, thought about Jade and Kaden and Jackson, and about everything he believed about family. “He will be, if only we can tell him the truth. Come on.”

“Act casual?”

Ellery shot him a look Jackson would have been proud of. “You can act however you want. Just watch my fucking back.”

They walked briskly, like they had business, and Ellery had to give young Kryzynski credit. He kept his eyes moving and his posture loose. Anybody looking at him would peg him for law enforcement, same as Ellery had pegged Jackson.

Which was good.

If they were going to outface Bridger, he might think twice about shooting a badge.

Of course, Collin Miles had thought the badge kept him safe too.

Into the lobby to check in. Kryzynski had to show his badge to pass his guns through security, and Ellery had a moment to think that Jackson hadn’t carried a gun two days ago. He had one stashed in the glove compartment, but he didn’t carry.

For a guy who looked as badass as Jackson Rivers, he walked around as open and vulnerable as the next guy on the street.

Ellery’s fury burned a little brighter. Bridger had been in this same building, his gun probably showing in his shoulder holster, and he had walked out to kill. All Jackson had was what he grew up with—his street smarts and his damned near indomitable heart.

When Ellery and Kryzynski resumed their shoulder-to-shoulder stride through the corridors to the elevators, he felt translucent with anger, like flame.

Which may have saved their lives. They both heard clattering and someone yelling at the security guards to move faster—but Ellery didn’t really believe Bridger could have parked and run that fast until they were in the elevator and the doors closed just as Bridger came into view, puffing, blowing, but sprinting toward their car.

Ellery glared at him, daring him to open fire here, in the capitol building, where three innocent civilians shared the car with them, and Bridger stumbled back in shock.

The doors closed completely, and they could hear him pounding on them as the car started to rise.

“Jesus,” Kryzynski swore. “Stay in the elevator or run for the stairs?”

Ellery’s heart pounded and he remembered Jackson’s encounter in the stairwell. “Either one’s a death trap,” he said, swallowing but keeping his face impassive. “Did he look well to you?”

“Heavens, no,” said a well-coifed woman in a black business suit. “He looked like he was going to have a heart attack right there.”

Ellery nodded grimly at her, offering a tight smile. “Me too. I think—”

The elevator opened on the second floor, and everybody looked at him and Kryzynski.

“Go!” snapped Ellery. “Jesus, fucking hurry!” The baffled workers scurried out of the lift, and Kryzynski hammered the Door Close button in the faces of the people waiting to go up.

Kryzynski laughed in the sudden silence. “I hope you don’t have any political aspirations, Counselor, because I think you just pissed off a senator.”

Oh Lord. “My mother would be so proud,” he muttered. Then he brightened. “But if you manage to shoot Bridger and tie him to the hood of my car, she might forgive me!”

There was a grim nod, and Kryzynski pulled out his phone. As the elevator doors opened, he was calling for backup from the active force, and some of Ellery’s fear receded. Yes. They were on the side of the law—and that had meant something his entire life. There was no reason for that to change now.

The corridor seemed especially long, but he and Kryzynski clipped down it at a fair pace. The clatter from the stairwell didn’t surprise either of them, though, and Ellery swung inside Chisholm’s office just as Kryzynski drew his weapon and slammed the door shut behind him.

Gloria looked up from her desk in surprise. “Oh, Mr. Cramer!” she said, sounding dismayed. “Mr. Chisholm is here, but I was just going to call to reschedule your appointment.” She looked around as though Jackson would suddenly appear. “Did you bring your friend?”

On the other side of the door, Sean Kryzynski, off-duty cop, started shouting at Bridger, his superior officer, to stand down.

Ellery was fucking done. “Bill Chisholm!” he yelled. “Bill Chisholm! I know where your daughter is!”

Gloria gasped, and behind her, the closed office door that he and Jackson had run up against opened. In the corridor, Ellery could hear security and what sounded like a doozy of a confrontation—but so far, no gunshots.

“My daughter?”

Ellery looked up toward Chisholm’s office door and got a glimpse of their savior and the guy behind Scott Bridger—all rolled into one.

Middle-aged, with a roll around the middle and a ruddy, puffy face. Not enough exercise, too much red meat and wine—but not obviously evil. He had whitish receding hair and tiny eyes, too small to even see what color they were.

But not the devil.

Ellery reminded himself of that as he pulled out his phone.

“This,” he said, holding it up, “is a rendering of her taking a picture of a crime scene Scott Bridger staged hours before her death.”

Gloria and Chisholm both gasped, and Ellery looked those tiny eyes dead-on. “Do you want to see what she looked like in the morgue? Because if you want to know what I think happened, you need to have security arrest Scott Bridger now, and have them on the lookout for his accomplice.”

“Is Owens here?” Chisholm asked, looking numb. “Bridger usually leaves him in the car.”

Oh—
that
explained how he got there so fast. He must have been dropped off while his buddy parked.
D’oh!

“You’re dodging the point, Mr. Chisholm. Do you want to know what happened?”

Suddenly Chisholm’s ruddy complexion went gray and his lips went a little blue. “Yes,” he whispered.

Crooked lawyer? Yes. Corrupt politician? Probably.

But Ellery knew he was—had put money on him being—a father first.

Even Jackson’s mom had been worried about her son.

“Gloria,” Chisholm rasped, “do me a favor and call security. Tell them to take Bridger into custody and let Mr.—”

“Kryzynski,” Ellery supplied quickly. He looked apologetically at Gloria. “Mr. Rivers is in the hospital,” he said. “Because your boss’s friend shot him.”

She gasped, and Chisholm backed up and gestured to let Ellery in.

“Call them, Gloria!” he snapped, and then Ellery was beyond the gate and facing the lion himself.

Chisholm’s stride was still purposeful as he walked into the office space and behind his desk. Ellery had a moment to look around—plain carpet, old if quality furniture, and walls with framed prints. Not original and not soothing, but personal. They must have pleased Chisholm and nobody else. On his desk were pictures of his wife, son, and daughter.

Ellery recognized a sweet-faced blonde version of the girl in the pixel rendering—and the meat in the morgue. She’d been beautiful at nine, and twelve, and fifteen. After that her smile soured and she stopped wearing her hair in a ponytail or a braid, going through several incarnations before turning it goth black.