Promises to Keep (7 page)

Eighteen

Sabrina sat in the
chair next to the hospital bed and watched the boy sleep. According to Mandy, his name was Alex Kotko. He'd
been kidnapped from St. Petersburg, where he'd lived on the
streets, abandoned by his father after his mother died. He had no idea how long he'd been in captivity and could tell them nothing that might help lead them to the man who'd held him.

There was a soft rap on the door before it was opened. “Hey.” She looked up to see Mandy standing just inside the doorway.

Sabrina gave her a smile that waned quickly. “Hey,” she said, sitting up a bit. Strickland wasn't the only one who called Mandy Black
Coroner Barbie
. With her bright blond ponytail, pert freckled nose, and dark-green eyes, she looked more like a cheerleader late for math class than an assistant chief medical examiner. It was an apt nickname, but Sabrina never used it. She knew how much Mandy hated it.

“How's he doing this morning?” Mandy said, shutting the door behind her.

“As well as can be expected, I suppose.” She glanced at the boy. He was still asleep.

Mandy read her perfectly. “It had to be done.”

Sabrina nodded. “I know. I just … ”

It'd taken well over an hour for Mandy to coax the boy out of the corner and another thirty minutes before she was able to drape the blanket Strickland had brought in from his trunk around his shoulders. She wasn't sure what Mandy had said to him, but whatever it was, it was enough for him to allow her to lead him through the house and out into the yard.

People had gathered. Neighbors crowding around the tape barrier. Uniforms pushing them back. They all went quiet when they saw the boy. He pressed himself into Mandy's side, her hand shielding his eyes from the sun and his face from the people who stared at him. Mandy pushed the boy into the back of Strickland's unmarked, following him in. Sabrina had gotten in the back as well, hemming him into the middle of the bench seat—the coroner on one side, her on the other. She said nothing, just listened to Mandy talk to the boy in a low comforting tone, trying not to think about what she knew had probably happened to him in that basement.

The hospital. The boy was a victim who needed medical treatment, but he was also evidence that needed to be processed. She knew from experience that the medical exam after rape was nearly as traumatic as the assault itself. If there was any way she could avoid putting him through it, she would. But there wasn't.

The second he saw the doctors, he went wild again. Shoved Mandy into the wall and ran, but he didn't get far. It'd taken three orderlies to restrain him while the nurse gave him an IM injection full of something that turned his bones to jelly. They wheeled him down the hall, leaving her feeling like shit, but Mandy was right. It had to be done. She looked at the paper bag the nurse had brought her an hour ago. Fingernail scrapings and various swabs—hopefully everything she needed to find the man responsible and nail him to the wall.

“What are you doing here?” she said, changing the subject. Nothing good would come from re-opening old wounds.

Mandy looked at the sleeping boy. “I thought I'd come hang around until Social Services showed up. They were having a hard time scrounging up an interpreter. I'd hate for him to wake up and have no way to communicate. Besides …” Mandy cut Sabrina a wicked look. “I don't think he likes you very much.”

“Yeah? What was your first clue? Was it when he tried to bite my hand off or when he called me a
government whore
in Russian?” She'd insisted that Mandy translate everything he said, in addition to catching it on the voice recorder app on her cell.

Mandy winced. “The Russian people hate and fear their government. Criminals and murderers are held in higher esteem.”

“I wish I spoke a foreign language. All I can do is swear in Spanish, and that's just because Val cusses me out on a regular basis.” She laughed. This time it felt a bit easier. “Where'd you learn to speak Russian?” Sabrina said, more out of curiosity than anything else, but when Mandy's face went still, she was sorry she asked. “Look, I'm sorry. It's not any of my business, I just—”

Mandy shook her head. “No. It's okay. My parents were fluent. They taught me.” She looked at the boy again. “Some things you just don't forget.”

There was another knock. A uniformed officer pushed the door open. “I'm here for … this.” He picked up the bag and signed the piece of paper attached to it to maintain chain of custody. “You need a lift, Doc?”

Mandy shook her head. “No, but thanks. I'm waiting for the Inspector.”

The uniform headed out, bag in hand. They were quiet for a while, both of them absorbing the events of the previous twenty-four hours that led them to the hospital bedside of a boy neither one of them knew.

Finally, Sabrina spoke. “Strickland asked you to come by, didn't he?” she said, and she took Mandy's silence for confirmation. She sighed. “He's like Mother Hen on steroids.”

“He's your partner. Give the guy a break,” Mandy said, easing into the chair next to her.

“Oh, I'd like to sometimes, believe me.” She took a breath and blew out a sigh. “I don't need a babysitter.”

“I'm not your babysitter. I'm your friend.”

That's what she liked best about Mandy. There was no bullshit to sift through when you talked to her. She said what she meant. Still …

“Don't you need to get to—”

“Relax. I called Randell in to transport the body back to the morgue after we left yesterday. It should be there now.”

She shook her head. “I don't want Randell to perform the autopsy. I want you.” Mandy was the best. She cared about the people that hit her table. Not just their bodies, but who they were before they died. That was important to her.

“Don't worry, the case is still mine. I scheduled a room for later this morning,” Mandy said. “Between you, me, and Mother Hen, that sick son of a bitch is as good as caught.”

Before she could answer, her phone buzzed in her pocket. “Speak of the hen …” she said as she pulled it out and glanced at the screen. “Hey, how's it going?” she said into the phone.

“Less than great. Mathews just left. He's playing your song,” Strickland said before barking out a few orders to the gaggle of uniforms he was undoubtedly trying to organize.

“The
Where-the-fuck-is-Vaughn
song?” She sighed. “I haven't heard it in so long, I actually miss it.”

“Further evidence that you need your head examined,” Strickland said. “Anyway, he wants us both to get to the station ASAP.”

She looked at the sleeping boy. He was pale, frail-looking. Like he'd been dragged through hell again and again until he was so spent, so worn, that he'd begun to fade away.

You remember what that's like, don't you, darlin'? The good ol' days …

Sabrina stood, somehow managing to push Wade from her mind, at least for the time being. “I'll see you there in an hour.”

Nineteen

She'd bought curtains.

It was all Michael could think, standing at the window of his room, looking out across the yard toward the back of Sabrina's house. She hated curtains; they blocked out the light. He glanced at the little writing desk tucked into the corner of his room. Saw the chair he used to sit in while he watched her—

The knock on his door pushed him away from the window, like he'd been caught doing something wrong. Ben poked his head in. “Housekeeping,” he said before pushing his way in. He tossed a dry-cleaning bag across the back of the leather armchair just inside the door. “Better suit up.”

Michael glanced at the bag but didn't move. “What are we doing here, Ben?”

The kid gave a long-suffering sigh. “I told you: she found a body that matches the description of the Maddox boy along with a live witness that might be able to lead us to the who, how, and why.”

“No. What are we doing
here?
In this house.” The words came through gritted teeth. “And please bear in mind that I have absolutely zero patience for your bullshit right now.”

Ben gave up with a lazy shrug. “Alright. I just figured you'd want to see her. Tryin' to do you a solid.”

He wanted to see Sabrina more than he'd wanted anything in his whole life. “You thought wrong. We don't have time for this crap. We've got a kid to find, so—”

Ben glanced at the window. “A few days ago you were ready to chew off your arm to get to her. Quit flip-flopping—you're making me dizzy.”

“Why in the hell are you so interested in my feelings?” he said quietly.

Ben shrugged. “Because you have them. For her. I find it …
encouraging.”

Unease settled against his skin and for some reason Michael thought of the debt he owed to the man in front of him. Rather than pursue it, he changed the subject altogether. “What's in the bag?”

Now the kid smiled. “Cheap suit, FBI badge—the usual.”

He began to wonder, not for the first time, if his partner was on drugs. “You want me to play Fed?
Here
? You
were
paying attention when I explained to you the pile of shit I had to slog through just to make it out with my neck intact the last time I got involved in one of her investigations, right?”

“Quit your bitching. No one's going to remember you. Not with that mop on your head.” Ben grinned.

“Don't remind me,” Michael said, running a hand over his head. He'd grown it out for the Cordova job and hadn't had a chance to cut it. He thought of Sabrina's partner, Strickland. From a distance the guy had looked like your typical cop. Rumpled. A bit dopey. Up close was a different story. Christopher Strickland was going to remember him, no doubt about it. Michael shook his head. “You go.”

“Can't. I get to go to the hospital and play diplomat from Russian Embassy,” Ben said in a thick Russian accent. “And no, we can't switch. Your Ruskie sucks.”

“
Eto luchshe chem vash, mudak
.” It's better than yours, asshole.

When he still didn't move, Ben crossed his arms over his chest and gave him a hard look. “Look, this is how the job gets done, you know that. The sooner we get in, the sooner we can get out. So quit being a pussy and put on the suit.”

Twenty

Michael hit the station
lobby and flashed his fake badge at the desk sergeant. The guy bounced a sharp look from the badge to his face and back again. His lip curled up a bit and he chuffed a harsh, one-note laugh. “I'll phone it up. Homicide's on three,” he said before slapping the desk phone out of its cradle.

Feds always got the ticker tape parades when they came to town. It was enough to give him a case of the warm fuzzies, but he understood. He'd never been a fan of law enforcement himself. Michael stowed the badge in his breast pocket and nodded his thanks before making his way to the elevator, feeling like he was on display every step of the way.

He kept his face turned away from the surveillance cameras mounted in every corner, more out of habit than actual need. Lark had wanted to come with him, but that had earned him nothing more than a round of belly laughs in the face. Instead he'd been left behind, reduced to maintaining and manipulating security feeds from both the station and the hospital. Michael could just see him, surrounded by computers in Miss Ettie's sunroom, scowling at the monitors. He'd been pissed beyond belief that he was getting the big freeze, but what could he do? Run and tattle that the other kids wouldn't play with him? Fat chance. Admitting to Livingston Shaw that you couldn't handle the task at hand was like chumming shark-infested waters. Lark would rather eat the crap sandwich Ben was feeding him than disappoint the boss.

The door slid open on the third floor and he shouldered his way past the silent patrol officer, feeling his eyes drilling into his back until they slid closed again, but he didn't turn around. Instead he asked the closest cop to point him in Captain Mathews's direction.

He made it about halfway across the room when he happened across it. Sabrina's desk. Clean. Uncluttered. The desk butted up to it was disgusting—and occupied.

Strickland sat with his feet kicked up on his cluttered work
space, nose buried in a stack of files resting in his lap. Michael
walked by without slowing, heading for Mathews's office. Strickland never looked up.

A couple of sharp knuckle raps earned him a terse bark that sound like
come in.
Michael pushed the door open, fixing his best
I'm just here to help
smile on his face. Behind the desk was a man in his early forties, sandy hair cut high and tight and small dark eyes that looked like they were already counting the days until retirement. “You the fed?” Mathews said.

Michael nodded. “Yes. Special Agent Marcus Payne, sir.” The word
sir
stuck in his throat, but he took a few steps into the room and leaned across the worn desktop to offer his hand. It was taken and given a few disgruntled pumps before being all but thrown back at him.

“Got a call from your field office. Told me you'd be coming in,” Mathews said, managing to make it sound like he'd caught Michael
taking a piss on his prize tulips. “Have a seat. Inspector Vaughn was just about to get down to the debrief.”

Michael looked at the pair of chairs to his right. The one offered was empty. Sabrina sat in the other, less than two feet away.

Twenty-One

One of Sabrina's most
valued attributes was her ability to compartmentalize. She could divide herself into sections—mother, cop, friend, partner. One section rarely bled into another. It was how she had survived eight-three days of rape and torture. How she'd been able to pull the trigger and blow her half-brother's face away when she'd learned what he'd done to her. It was her ability to operate in sections that allowed her to sit in Mathews's office next to Michael without totally losing it.

She'd been called into Mathews's office for what she assumed would be the reboot of her weekly reminder of how much he hated her. Before her transfer, he used to call her in and sit her down just so he could go over all the ways she wasn't fit to carry a badge. She was impulsive, insubordinate, noncompliant with department policy … oh, and despite evidence to the contrary, he was convinced that she'd had a fellow officer murdered a few years ago. He'd warn her that he was watching her, that one screwup was all he needed to give her the boot. She'd let him rant at her for a while and when he ran out of steam, she'd thank him for his time and leave. It was kinda their thing.

She picked her favorite water spot on the wall—the one shaped like Florida, to the left of his head—and started staring, waiting for the diatribe. It never came.

Instead he said, “A fed is on his way up here to stick his nose in the kiddie murder you and Pigpen picked up today. Try not to embarrass the shit out of me, will ya?”

A few knocks sounded behind her, but she didn't bother to turn around.
You meet one fed, you've met them all
. Then she heard his voice and she
couldn't
turn around.

Michael. Michael was here.

Taking a deep breath, she turned and held out her hand, formed her mouth into a courteous smile. “It's nice to meet you, Agent Payne. I'm Inspector Vaughn.” She looked down at the hand she held out in front of her. As steady as you please. He took it and gave it a shake while saying something about how nice it was to meet her. Her eyes touched his for a moment—the quiet gray of them seemed a bit darker than she remembered but just as beautiful. His hair was longer and styled. His face was calm, passive even. It was a look she remembered well.

The part of her that wanted to bolt from the room reared its ugly head for just a moment, but she walled it off. Pulling her hand back, she dropped it in to her lap and looked at her captain. “Shall I start?” Mathews grunted at her; she took that as an affirmative. She started talking, filling them both in on the case. They listened. Michael asked a few questions and she answered him, surprised at the tremor-free sound of her own voice.

When finished, Sabrina sat back in her seat and let the two of them talk it out. She was too busy concentrating on keeping herself in her seat to participate in what they were saying. The creak of Mathews's desk chair drew her attention. He sat up in his chair and placed his hands, folded, on top of his desk. A sure sign that he was about to say something that would piss her off.

Instinctively, she clamped down on her temper in an attempt to cut Mathews's mouth off at the pass.

Looking at Michael, he said, “I feel I should mention that I have deep reservations concerning Inspector Vaughn's ability to lead an investigation of this magnitude. Not only is she newly returned from
a fifteen-month stint on SWAT, she's rash and unpredictable.”
Mathews looked at her, and she saw herself lunging across the desk to bitch-slap him silly. “Vaughn's been instructed to provide you with full cooperation and to assist you in all matters of this investigation,” he said, even though he'd informed her of no such thing. “But in the interest of transparency, I'll admit that she's not the inspector I'd have chosen for this assignment. If at any time, you feel like you would prefer a different liaison, don't hesitate to say so.”

Never one to disappoint, Mathews hit every nerve Sabrina had and it took everything she had to keep her mouth shut.
Egotistical, overblown son of a—

“I've been fully briefed on what you view as Inspector Vaughn's shortcomings, Captain Mathews. I'm also aware that, despite where she's been for the past fifteen months, she's the best investigator you've got.” Michael/Agent Payne stood, looking down at Mathews with a mix of amusement and contempt. “As for her being expected to comply—if I wanted someone to follow me around and lick my shoes, I would've asked for a dog. Inspector Vaughn is expected to speak her mind, ask questions, and follow the evidence. If that leads her in a different direction than the one I'm heading, I'll welcome and appreciate any insight she can provide.” He delivered the last of his statement directly to her.

Mathews turned and gave her a look that would've killed her if looks were capable. “Get out.”

“Yes, sir,” she said quietly, unable to scrape away the smirk that'd plastered itself to her face. Easing herself from the chair, she stood and managed to get through the door without giving voice to the myriad smartass comments that were doing the Super Bowl Shuffle around her head.

She started toward the bullpen but pulled up short. Strickland was sitting at his desk, going over witness statements to make sure they hadn't missed anything from the canvass. Michael was less than twenty yards away. More than a year and he'd finally come back—but as usual, he hadn't come for her.

On impulse, she grabbed her jacket off the back of her chair and pulled it on.

Suddenly this was the last place she wanted to be.