Sacrificial Muse (A Sabrina Vaughn Novel) (2 page)

TWO

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.

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 lig
ht 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 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 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.

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.”

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.

“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.

“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.”

“
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.

FOUR

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.”

“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 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 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 lock-up. 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 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.”