Книга - Shades of Passion
Shades of Passion
Virna DePaul
Shades of the pastDetective Simon Granger has devoted his life to solving high-stakes cases, and he’s vowed never again to get involved with a woman whose work is equally as dangerous. But when the Special Investigations Group teams him with a beautiful psychiatrist, his resolve is shattered by the tense and emotionally charged partnership…Shades of intrigue Determined to outrun the grief over her sister’s death, Dr. Nina Whitaker reluctantly agrees to use her training to help the police. Despite Detective Granger's disdain for her profession, she believes she can change his mind.But then a grieving father begins a deadly game of revenge, threatening Nina's life, challenging her beliefs, and drawing Nina and Simon together in an explosive endgame of intrigue…and unstoppable passion. Shades of passion…
SHADES OF THE PAST
Detective Simon Granger has devoted his life to solving high-risk cases, and he’s vowed never again to get involved with a woman whose work is equally as dangerous. But when the Special Investigations Group teams him with a beautiful psychiatrist, his resolve is shattered by the tense and emotionally charged partnership....
SHADES OF INTRIGUE
Determined to outrun the grief over her sister’s death, Dr. Nina Whitaker reluctantly agrees to use her training to help the police. Despite Detective Granger’s disdain for her profession, she believes she can change his mind. But then a grieving father begins a deadly game of revenge, threatening Nina’s life, challenging her beliefs, and drawing Nina and Simon together in an explosive endgame of intrigue…and unstoppable passion.
SHADES OF PASSION…
Praise for the novels of Virna DePaul
“DePaul’s latest novel combines nonstop action, a cunning villain and one very strong and passionate special agent working through her own demons after a tragic incident...what carries this story is the fiery chemistry between the two main characters.”
—RT Book Reviews on Shades of Temptation
“Sexy, page-turning excitement.”
—New York Times bestselling author Lori Foster on Shades of Desire
“DePaul’s romantic suspense has shades of a thriller inside the pages, with damaged characters, love scenes that make the pages almost too hot to handle and hair-raising villains…a very enjoyable read.”
—RT Book Reviews on Shades of Desire
“Gripping…the perfect blend of danger, intrigue and romance. You won’t be able to put this book down.”
—New York Times bestselling author Brenda Novak on Chosen by Blood
“So incredibly well written, different and hot!”
—New York Times bestselling author Larissa Ione on Chosen by Blood
Shades of Passion
Virna DePaul
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Contents
Prologue (#ucd4a6e8e-ad28-55d6-a376-ad1a57f777b0)
Chapter One (#u77520b78-c4ea-5470-a278-a4bb97ea2ccc)
Chapter Two (#u1607cd83-08f0-55de-871a-84475e0cbc36)
Chapter Three (#uf12c4a30-015f-5136-9aac-a9e78c65018f)
Chapter Four (#u2d61eb9a-f773-54ac-ae87-b0b8f6a29114)
Chapter Five (#uaf661386-ad3f-5c67-8599-b594ce53b144)
Chapter Six (#u7be32194-15a7-5ce5-96c5-e0d758153b00)
Chapter Seven (#u871108ae-5373-5b0f-905b-094e5a55319c)
Chapter Eight (#u2cf062c8-80b7-526e-a5c4-5f30347ccb3b)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE
THE MAN CAME TO BETH just when she needed him most.
Just when the pain of existence became too sharp to bear.
She looked into eyes that morphed into rich landscapes, green hills and golden sunsets that stretched far beyond the back of his head, going on for an eternity.
Those eyes beckoned her, promising an end to her suffering. Tempting her with not just peace, but infinite joy. Love. Acceptance.
Only there was love here. Hope.
Hadn’t someone told her that? Someone she trusted? Believed? Hadn’t she said the world was beautiful?
The man held out his hand. In his palm lay a pink satin ribbon. “The world can be beautiful,” he said. “Depending on which direction you travel.”
I’ve traveled so long, Beth thought. I’m tired.
“I know you’re tired,” the man said. “Come with me. I’ll carry you. I’ll let you rest.”
His voice matched the hypnotic beauty of his eyes. It was a deep rumble that resonated throughout her body, enveloping her in a comforting hug the same way her mother’s arms used to wrap around her. But her mother, her champion, was gone now. Cancer had taken her. It had eaten away at her insides and left Beth alone, with only her father for company. She didn’t want her father. She didn’t trust him.
There was another woman, though. Another woman who fought for her. Wasn’t there?
Beth struggled to remember, but her vision tunneled, focusing her attention on the long length of ribbon in the man’s hand. She reached out and stroked it. It felt smooth. Soft. And when Beth pressed the ribbon against her lips, the memory of her mother’s kisses made her weep.
“You’re not alone,” the man said. “I’m with you. Part of you. Part of everyone. I’ll bring you to your mother. She’s waiting. All you need to do is trust me.”
Beth’s tears dried up, and her grief turned to resolve.
Trust me. Trust us. Trust me.
The man’s visage blurred. Morphed into one of a female with blond hair and green eyes.
I know her, Beth thought. She’s helped me. She can help me again.
I’m part of everyone, the man had said. I’m part of you.
Which meant Beth wasn’t alone. Not anymore. And she never would be.
Not if she trusted him.
Following the man’s instructions, Beth held the ribbon between her hands, then looped it around her throat.
“It will hurt at first,” the man warned.
Beth hesitated. Where had the woman gone?
“Don’t fight it. It’s like being born again. You’ll close your eyes and sleep for a time. But when you wake up, I’ll be there. And so will your mother. You’ll finally be happy. No one will hurt you ever again.”
“I hurt,” Beth whispered. “I don’t want to hurt anymore.”
So she did what the man said until she couldn’t breathe. Until she felt pain. Until she felt fear.
But just as he promised, it didn’t last long.
I’m being born again, she told herself as the darkness closed in.
And this time, the world will be beautiful.
CHAPTER ONE
SIMON GRANGER’S FATHER had always measured a man’s worth by his ability to man up. Didn’t matter how tired or angry or sick or sad he was—a man did what he had to. Otherwise, he was worthless. No, less than worthless. He was nothing but a bag of bones taking up space.
That’s why, the day after his ex-girlfriend Lana Hudson was murdered by a serial killer, Simon showed up for work just like always.
Now, six months later, he still worked. He testified in court. Occasionally he even socialized with the other members of the Special Investigations Group, a division of the California Department of Justice.
He did what he had to. No complaints. No excuses.
But this...
This was harder. Much harder.
So hard that he’d put it off.
So hard that he wasn’t sure he could actually do it.
But his father’s voice prodded him.
Don’t be a wuss, Simon. All that counts in this world is a man’s actions. Do the right thing and it doesn’t matter what you feel. You, the man, what you do—that’s what counts. That’s what’s real.
As usual, playing back his father’s words spurred him into action. This time, he didn’t stop until he stood by the grave site. He studied it with an odd combination of regret and relief.
It was in a good spot, in the shadow of a willow tree, covered with the thick green lawn that sprawled across the cemetery grounds. The place emanated peace. He could almost feel Lana standing beside him, her hand on his shoulder, a soft smile on her face as she thanked him for coming.
The gravestone suited her. It was polished. An elegant marbleized cream. The epitaph, however, made him flinch. Underneath her birth and death dates, it read:
Lana Hudson
Beloved Daughter
Taken by a Soul in Pain but
One Better for Having Met Her
He wanted to wipe out any mention of the “soul” that had taken Lana from them. It seemed obscene that a tribute to Lana’s life would include any mention of the man who’d killed her. But the epitaph hadn’t been his call. As a man Lana had briefly dated, Simon had no right to override her parents’ wishes. That was especially true given he couldn’t dispute the epitaph’s overall message—that Lana had blessed every life she’d touched, no matter how dark that life had been.
“Hi, Lana. Sorry it’s taken me so long to visit. Things have been busy at work and...” He cringed, imagining how Lana would have called him out for his lameness if she’d still been alive. “Yeah. Well, you know why I haven’t come by. I was pissed as hell at you. I—I still am. But I loved you, babe. And I miss you. I couldn’t let another day go by without telling you that.”
A faint breeze encircled him and he closed his eyes, imagining her arms holding him close. They’d fought before she’d been killed. Fought because she’d taken risks to help a criminal and Simon hadn’t approved. Hadn’t understood. He still didn’t.
But that didn’t matter. Not anymore.
Lana was gone. She’d taken part of Simon’s heart with her. Without it, there was no joy in life. No hope for it.
Still, he’d do what he had to. He’d do his job.
Whether he did it from a desk or on the streets, he’d do his part to make sure that men like the one who killed Lana got what they deserved. A fast-track ticket to hell.
The breeze that had wound around him suddenly stopped, and he heard its absence as a sigh of disappointment. He imagined Lana’s voice chiding him. Urging him to be compassionate. To understand that not all killers were evil. That bad things sometimes happened due to pain, not hate.
As he always did, Simon tried to hear the truth behind her words. But he couldn’t. Like the soul immortalized in her epitaph, he was better for having met Lana. Yet even she hadn’t been able to work miracles.
Crouching, he placed the flowers he’d brought against her tombstone.
And as he walked away, he was bleakly aware that he hadn’t felt that gentle breeze again.
Two days later, Simon sat on a wooden bench in the foyer of the Welcome Home homeless shelter in San Francisco’s Tenderloin district, waiting for the director, Elaina Scott, to come out of a meeting. To pass the time, he opened the file he held, reviewing what he knew about the victim, a previous resident of the shelter.
It wasn’t much.
Three days ago, Louis Cann had been stabbed to death in Golden Gate Park. Normally, the homicide would have been handled by the San Francisco Police Department. In fact, SFPD had already conducted most of the preliminary investigation. Yesterday, however, things had changed. And that was putting it mildly, Simon thought with a mental snort. Now, a prostitute named Rita Taylor claimed she’d seen Cann’s killer walking away from the crime scene—wearing a patrol cop’s uniform.
Talk about a conflict of interest.
Which was why SIG had been assigned the case. SIG was the state equivalent of the FBI, with jurisdiction over every law enforcement agency in California. The team of five special agents assisted with some of the most complex investigations, but one of their primary duties was to handle cases that other agencies couldn’t due to some kind of conflict.
Unfortunately, even with the preliminary work conducted by SFPD, the meager contents of the file Simon held were just that. In addition to Rita Taylor’s statement, he knew the victim’s identity and that Cann had often stayed at Welcome Home. He also knew that Cann had once served in the military, that he’d fought in Desert Storm and that at the end of his tour he’d managed a fast-food restaurant. Within a year, he’d been living on the streets. He’d been doing so for over ten years and would probably have continued right on doing so if he hadn’t been killed.
He didn’t have a record of significant problems with the police, and the few volunteers and street people that had known him had denied knowledge of anyone wanting to hurt him. In fact, every person that had been interviewed had said the same thing: Cann kept to himself. He didn’t have friends. He didn’t want them. He talked to no one. Who would want to kill someone like that, especially when that person had nothing worth stealing?
In other words, everything in Simon’s file amounted to a major dead end.
There was no reason to believe that interviewing the shelter director would result in anything new, but this was his case now and Simon wanted to make sure nothing important had been overlooked the first time around. After he was done here, he’d reinterview Rita Taylor, check with SFPD about patrol officers on duty near Golden Gate Park three days ago and then spend the next few days conducting even more interviews—of patrol officers, park vendors or other employees who might have been in a position to see anything, and anyone else he could think of. A whole lot of legwork for what was probably not going to be a lot of payoff.
Didn’t matter. His job was to pursue every lead, weak as it may be, and that’s what he was going to do.
He flipped through the crime scene photos, settling on the close-up shot of the Semper Fi tattoo on Cann’s left biceps. He couldn’t help thinking how pathetic it was that Cann, a man who’d once served his country, had ended up living on the streets. Dirty. Wizened.
Dead.
Bags of bones taking up space.
It’s what Simon’s father would have said if he was here. And despite knowing it was wrong—or at the very least, politically incorrect—Simon would have had to agree with him. He wasn’t exactly proud of his thoughts, but he wasn’t a fraud and he wasn’t a liar, either. While it was true that justice should be blind, that didn’t mean it had to be ignorant, too. Even so, any personal feelings he might harbor about individual weakness didn’t affect the way Simon did his job.
Simon sought justice for a lot of people and that included the ones he didn’t necessarily like, as well as the ones he’d privately characterize as weak. To Simon’s way of thinking, homelessness was the ultimate sign of weakness. Criminals were weak, too, but at least criminals still fought for something, even if it was something selfish or depraved. The homeless no longer fought for anything, even their own dignity.
Or did they?
Had Cann fought for his life in the end?
If so, they’d found no evidence of it. No defensive wounds to indicate he’d resisted his attacker. Which meant he’d most likely been taken unawares. Even the expression on his face at the time his body had been found suggested it. He looked slightly surprised. As if he couldn’t quite believe what had happened to him. But in that startled gaze, Simon saw something else. An unspoken plea for justice. A haunted yearning for Simon to find his killer.
That desperate, desolate expression was something Simon had long ago become familiar with. He’d seen the same expression on the faces of every murder victim he’d ever encountered. He’d even seen it on Lana’s face, too, he thought grimly, blinking rapidly to drive the disturbing memory away.
And damn it, he didn’t want to see it anymore.
Not like that. Not like this, he thought as he shut the file with a snap.
Hopefully he wouldn’t have to. Not once he closed this case, anyway.
Visiting Lana’s grave had helped him make the decision he’d been struggling with.
He couldn’t do this much longer. One way or another, Simon’s days of working the streets were coming to an end. His choices were either early retirement or a move to management, and despite everything, he wasn’t ready to leave the job altogether. Then again, he could always do private security. A lot of former cops did, including Lana’s father, and they made an extremely good living doing it, too. Gil Archer had made it clear that Simon could work for him anytime he wanted, but Simon wanted balance. Off the streets but not completely off the streets. That left management, only this time—unlike eight months ago, when he’d walked away from a captain position because it hadn’t been exciting enough—he’d have to make it stick. If he could convince the brass to give him another shot, that is.
Understandably, Commander Stevens was reluctant to stick his neck out for Simon again, especially when so many other qualified applicants were jonesing for a cushier gig with increased pay. Still, Simon figured if he solved this case, Stevens would owe him big-time. Hell, the mayor would probably be so grateful he’d speed the promotion along, cutting through all the civil service bureaucratic red tape Simon had had to navigate last time.
Unfortunately, closing this case wasn’t exactly going to be a walk in the park. So far, they’d managed to keep Rita Taylor’s accusations locked down, but that wasn’t going to last long. While he was trying to win over Stevens and the mayor, Simon’s actions would be scrutinized like crazy—by a public wanting to make sure a guilty cop didn’t get away with murder, and by his fellow officers who’d be judging his loyalty and his ability to protect one of his own. And that wasn’t even counting the press. The minute Rita Taylor’s statement got leaked, the higher-ups would have a shitload of reporters riding their asses.
And that meant they’d be riding Simon’s ass, too. Hard.
A homeless man—a homeless ex-marine—dead. The only suspect a possible cop.
Things weren’t looking good for a city that was already suffering negative publicity from recent police encounters with the homeless. Simon’s involvement would either make him a scapegoat or a hero. It was up to him to make sure the latter occurred.
A minute later, a sound made him look up.
A bewhiskered man wearing a filthy khaki jacket and equally dirty green-and-white-checkered golf pants made his way down the hall, coming toward him, placing each foot in front of the other equidistance, murmuring numbers to himself. After a moment, Simon realized the man was counting steps, making certain not to step on the black tiles and only stepping on the white ones. Even with twenty feet between them, the man stank—the perpetual stench of homelessness. Each city’s homeless had a particular odor. New York’s stank of the subway—engine grease and urine. In San Francisco, the pungent odor that surrounded the homeless had a different scent—urine and pine. Probably because so many hung out in Golden Gate Park, and despite what had happened to Cann, that wasn’t likely to change.
The man drew closer and Simon wanted to pull back, away from the increasing wave of stench, but the slats of the bench kept him trapped. When the man reached Simon, he stopped walking. Stopped counting. As if waiting for something. But what?
At first, Simon thought the guy had made him for a cop. That he was going to ask him a question. Maybe even share something about Cann. But then...
Oh, hell.
Simon lifted his foot from the white tile.
“Forty-two,” the man murmured as he stepped on the tile, then continued walking and counting, reaching fifty before opening the outer door and leaving the building.
After the man left, Simon stood to stretch his legs and scanned a large bulletin board on the wall. It was covered with flyers announcing everything from AA meetings to pleas for volunteers to an upcoming fundraising gala to benefit the mentally ill. The price of admission? Four hundred dollars a plate. It was being put on by the San Francisco Golf Club and Simon had seen the same flyer before—at work. The event would be attended by some of the city’s wealthiest philanthropists and politicians, and Commander Stevens had mentioned that with all the bad PR the police had been receiving lately, the mayor wanted a few officers to sit at his table. Free of charge, of course, but Simon still wondered how many volunteers Stevens had managed to line up. Most cops Simon knew, Simon included, would hate putting on a monkey suit and rubbing elbows with a bunch of socialites, even if it was for a good cause. But because Simon wanted Stevens and the mayor on his side come hiring time, because he wanted that captain position, he’d volunteered anyway.
Still, something about seeing the fundraising flyer here—in a homeless shelter, for God’s sake—bothered him. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why. Hell, the residents who stayed here could probably live a year on the cost of one night’s admission to the gala. Even worse, most of the money raised wouldn’t go directly to places like this shelter, but toward providing a bunch of rich people a gourmet meal and a night’s entertainment.
It just seemed wrong somehow. But, he reminded himself, it was a good cause and the homeless would benefit to some degree. It wouldn’t make a bit of difference in the grand scheme of things, of course, but—
The door next to the bulletin board opened and a pretty Asian woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties stepped out. Wearing a skirt and an ivory blazer, she looked as overdressed in these surroundings as Simon did in his slacks, button-down shirt and suit jacket. She smiled, nodded at Simon, then walked away.
The receptionist he’d spoken to earlier poked her head out of the office. “She’s ready to see you, Detective.” She beckoned him in and Simon put thoughts of the fundraising gala out of his mind. He walked into the receptionist’s office, which served as an intake room for those wishing to stay at the shelter. In the corner, a silver-haired man in a pale blue polo shirt watched as a younger man, dressed more casually in jeans and a graphic T-shirt, spoke to a stooped-over woman of indeterminate age and swimming in a tattered, faded sweater. The man in the polo shirt looked familiar, but Simon couldn’t place him before the receptionist drew him to another closed door, knocked, opened it for Simon and waved him inside.
Despite the shabby walls and chipped trim, the space seemed homey, softly lit. He’d noticed earlier, while sitting in the foyer, that the scarred vinyl floor appeared well kept, and no cobwebs or dust bunnies were in sight. Indoor plants covered most surfaces. To those without one, this place must feel like a home, even if it was just a temporary one. But to Cann, this would never be home again.
Seated at a cluttered desk sat a woman, probably early fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and glasses. Pictures of kids sat haphazardly with files on the desk and a diploma from Harvard hung on the wall. The shelter director. Probably some trust-fund baby do-gooder, he thought, then mentally winced.
It was exactly what he’d thought about Lana when he’d first met her.
Only the do-gooder part had been accurate.
After a moment, the woman looked up and gave him a tired smile.
“Ms. Scott?” he confirmed.
“Please call me Elaina. What can I do for you, Detective?” she asked.
“I’m Special Agent Simon Granger, but the title of Detective works, too. I’m with the Department of Justice, and I’m here about Mr. Louis Cann. I understand he stayed here this past month?” At her silent invitation, he sat in the chair next to her desk.
“Yes, but I already gave the local police a statement, and the officers interviewed the residents who were staying here at the time. They all had alibis at the time of the murder, as did my entire staff. Furthermore, none of us had seen Mr. Cann that day or had information about who might have attacked him. Given that, I’m curious why you’re here. And why DOJ is involved in the murder of a homeless man.”
“I’m afraid I can’t talk details, but rest assured I’m trying to find the person or persons responsible. As you indicated, the residents that happened to be here for questioning have been cleared. There’s no evidence that any of them had a vendetta against Louis Cann. But a lot of people come in and out of this shelter. I’m wondering how often Cann stayed here in the past year. If he had run-ins with past residents. A grudge can last quite a long time. Maybe you’d be willing to give me your roster from the past few months along with the registration documents of those occupants? It’ll increase the scope of our investigation. Give us more to look into.”
Scott picked up a pen and tapped it against the surface of her desk. “You mean it’ll give you more water to cast your net into. Sounds like a fishing expedition, Detective.”
That may be, Simon thought, but at least he was willing to fish. The news was plastered with accusations that the police didn’t care about the homeless or, more specifically, the mentally ill, yet here he was, doing his best to find Cann’s killer.
But he was also inferring that another homeless person might be the murderer, he realized. Suspecting she might take offense to that—as unwarranted as that offense might be—he said, “Look, the roster would help. But I’m not limiting my investigation to past residents. I also plan to talk to park employees and past employees of this shelter who might have associated with Cann.”
Jesus, he thought. That probably sounded even worse to her. Like he was accusing her previous coworkers of murder. But so what? Investigative work was about following every lead, regardless of whose feelings might get hurt in the process. Basic civility was one thing, but he couldn’t worry that his questions would be taken the wrong way. That kind of political tiptoeing would be more important when he was back in management, but right now, he had to keep his mind focused on what was best for the investigation. “Listen,” he began, but Scott shook her head.
“I’m sorry, but unless you have a subpoena, I’m afraid I can’t give you a roster or documentation on the shelter’s residents. Unless the resident signs a release, those records are confidential. And as I’m sure you can guess, no one signs a release.”
Right, Simon thought, then tried again. “I apologize if my requests seem clumsy, but I’m trying to find a killer and that means potentially keeping your past and future residents out of harm’s way. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“Of course it does, but—”
“Besides,” Simon continued, “we both know that under the law, confidentiality is waived in certain circumstances.”
“Yes, I do know that. But this isn’t a situation where a client is threatening suicide, has threatened to harm a third party or where child abuse has been disclosed. Now, I’m sorry, but I really can’t see how I can be of more help. And before you go hunting down that subpoena, I will say any information I’d have on Mr. Cann would be minimal. Dare I say even useless to you? But do what you feel you need to. Most of the residents the police talked to have already moved on, but I believe there are one or two left who knew Mr. Cann. You’re obviously free to inquire whether any of them is willing to talk with you.”
Simon’s mind automatically rebelled at that suggestion. “Given the statements I’ve already reviewed, and unless they’ve suddenly stopped drinking, taking drugs or hallucinating, the chances of me getting anything useful from them isn’t exactly high, now is it?”
Elaina Scott’s brow furrowed but she said nothing.
“I don’t mean to be insulting, but I’m trying to call things the way I see them. You know as well as I do that your...residents...often don’t make the most reliable of witnesses. Most of them are...” He hesitated, trying to be polite, but Scott tsked anyway.
“Crazy? Pathetic?” she guessed.
Simon shrugged. “Mentally challenged,” he said.
“That’s correct. But mental challenges don’t make them pariahs or murderers, Detective.”
“But it does make them extremely inaccurate reporters,” Simon said. He stood. “And the truth is, I can’t solve Mr. Cann’s murder without more than I have now. If I’m fishing in the dark, it’s because I have to. In a murder investigation, we often rely on people who were close, either emotionally or physically, to the victim, and that includes people the murder victims lived with.”
“Does it also include cops who should have been protecting the murder victim rather than killing him? Or are they subject to some kind of immunity?”
Her loaded comment surprised him, but he was careful not to let it show on his face. He simply stared at the woman and she eventually smiled, but it was a smile hardened by suspicion and experience.
“I work on the streets, Detective. I hear plenty. Mr. Cann’s murder is still a topic of conversation around here. I’ve heard the rumors that a cop has been implicated. Yet here you are, focusing your attention on residents of this shelter. On people who’ve worked here.”
“Because I’m looking to find the truth. No matter what that truth is. You can bet I take accusations of a cop’s involvement in Louis Cann’s murder very seriously. And yes, despite what I said about inaccurate reporters, I’d like to speak to your current residents about Mr. Cann if they’re willing to speak with me, whether they were interviewed by SFPD before or not. Before I do that, however, do you know anything that can help me?”
She appeared startled by the way he’d turned the tables on her. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. Something. Anything that will give me more insight into who Mr. Cann was. Whom he associated with.”
“He was a loner, Detective. He kept to himself. That’s how he preferred it.”
“Right.” Simon swiped his hands over his face, then sighed. “Too bad. It’s a little difficult to find out who murdered a man who apparently never associated with anyone else.” Simon remembered Cann’s Semper Fi tattoo and again wondered what had brought the man to the point where he’d been living on the streets. “Funny how Mr. Cann managed to spend four years in the military surrounded by people only to get out and, by everyone’s account, never talk to another living soul again.”
“That’s not uncommon for a man who served in battle, Detective.”
“What do you mean? How did a former marine come to be in a homeless shelter, Ms. Scott?”
She visibly hesitated. But after assessing Simon for a minute, she seemed to come to a decision. She sat forward. “I’m not a medical doctor. I’m afraid you just missed her. She left my office before you came in. But my best guess? You’ve heard of post-traumatic stress disorder?” When he tipped his head, she continued. “We have many former military personnel come through here, Detective. The local clinics can’t recruit volunteers to provide counseling fast enough. PTSD is a severe illness and is cropping up more and more among our returning military. It affects some of these young men and women so severely they can no longer function in society. I suspect if you go through Mr. Cann’s military records, you’ll find a diagnosis of PTSD.”
“I’ve asked for those records, but getting that kind of thing isn’t easy, especially when that person is already dead. Next of kin tends to fight us on exposing skeletons they’d rather keep buried. Too bad Cann’s family didn’t do more to help him while he was alive.”
Scott just smiled sadly and shook her head. “It’s not that simple, Detective. I wish it were. Truth is, many homeless people have loving families who’ve tried to make a difference and simply can’t.”
Maybe, Simon thought. He’d certainly heard that line before. But he couldn’t help thinking that if someone he cared about suddenly became homeless, he would make damn sure he didn’t stay that way. “The doctor who was here before me. She’s a psychiatrist?”
Scott shook her head. “A family practitioner that minored in psychology. But she just started pro bono volunteer work at a mental health crisis clinic. She stopped by to introduce herself to me and put up a flyer.”
“Right. Another flyer,” Simon murmured. “Any chance Cann saw her? Or any other counselor that you know of?”
“No. Like I said, this is the first time I’ve seen her. And Mr. Cann never mentioned seeing a counselor or dropping in at a clinic.” Scott sighed. “The truth is, I know almost next to nothing about Mr. Cann, Detective, and he didn’t keep me appraised of his comings and goings. We provide food and shelter here when we can. In order to meet our requirements, our residents have to provide basic information and follow some rules designed to keep everyone safe. Other than that...” Scott shrugged.
Right. Other than that, he had exactly what he’d had before—a big fat zero. “Is there anything else you can tell me about Cann?”
“Just that he didn’t deserve to die.”
“I agree with you.” When she just continued to look at him, he asked, “You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you’re a dedicated cop. You want to do your job and do it well. But you have obvious biases against the mentally ill. I sensed you withdraw even as I used the word PTSD. But it doesn’t matter. I want the person who killed Mr. Cann found as much as you do. Probably even more so. I promise that if anyone does turn up with new information, we will contact you right away. Now, are you ready to see if any of our current residents will talk with you?”
He sighed.
Strike one.
More and more, he thought, this was a ball game he hated playing. But for now, at least, he was playing.
“Yes, Ms. Scott. I’d appreciate your assistance with that.”
* * *
THE NEXT DAY, BACK AT SIG headquarters, Simon glowered at the man in front of him.
Liam “Mac” McKenzie, SIG’s lead detective, stared back without flinching. “I see you’re not thrilled with the idea, but my hands are tied. Elaina Scott was crystal clear in her opinion that you shouldn’t be handling the Cann murder. She said your obvious dislike for the homeless, and in particular, the ‘mentally challenged,’ was quite apparent.”
Damn her, Simon thought. When he’d interviewed the few Welcome Home residents who’d been willing to talk to him yesterday, the interactions had gone smoothly. They hadn’t provided anything useful, but he’d been respectful and professional, just as he always tried to be. Scott must have still been pissed by the conversation they’d had in her office. Or maybe she just hadn’t believed him when he’d said he took accusations of a cop’s involvement in Cann’s murder seriously. “Come on, Mac. Since when does a bullshit complaint like this warrant pulling me off of a case?”
“I never said you were off the case. I said I want you to get some help. With the case and...off of it. DeMarco will assist. You’ve both been handling some tough cases lately with no time off to speak of. Consider the partnership a chance for a well-earned break.”
“And while DeMarco’s assisting, my well-earned break is going to consist of spilling my guts to some stranger?”
Mac sighed. “It’s called grief counseling. You need it.”
“That’s your opinion.”
“As well as Commander Stevens’s. Why do you think it was so obvious to Ms. Scott that you’re uncomfortable with mental health issues? Anyone who has them and anyone who talks about them?”
“Not everything is about Lana, damn it.”
“In this particular case, it is. It’s about Lana. It’s about you. Are you really surprised? We’ve been at you to get some help. There’s a reason we’re all worried about you.”
“Like?”
“Like it’s been over six months, yet you still leave the room if someone even mentions Lana’s name.”
Of course he did, Simon thought. Despite managing to visit her grave site the other day, hearing Lana’s name immediately caused a flood of memories to swirl through his mind. The last time they’d made love. The last time they’d laughed together. And the last time they’d argued just before she’d died. Yeah, they had been broken up before she’d been killed, but it wasn’t what he’d wanted. He’d still cared. Lana had still mattered. His insides felt like they were being squeezed in a vise, but he carefully kept his expression clear and his voice neutral.
“What’s there to talk about, Mac? Lana and I dated for a while, and dealing with her death’s been tough.” He shrugged. “Life goes on.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to, man? Lana didn’t just die. She was murdered. Violently. Yet you can’t seem to acknowledge that, can you?”
He glanced away, shoving the ache rising from his chest back down where it belonged, to the deep, dark place behind his ribs. He narrowed his gaze on the paper-filled trash can two feet in front of him. “Dead’s dead. What the hell difference does it make how she died? Elaina Scott’s accusations aside, tell me one thing I’ve messed up on the job. If you can’t, then I don’t need to see a damn shrink.”
“You haven’t messed up. Not yet. But it’s coming. This is just a preventative measure. You’re not sleeping, Simon. You look like shit. And your grim reaper attitude has everyone ready to slit their wrists whenever they’re in the office with you.”
Fuck. The desire to kick the trash can grew almost overwhelming. “Who’s complaining? Tyler? DeMarco? I saw the same shrink you guys did after Lana died and he cleared me for duty. The department has no right to impose mandatory therapy sessions.”
Mac shook his head. “No one’s complaining. Yes, you’ve been cleared for duty. And no, this counseling isn’t mandatory. You won’t lose your job if you don’t see it through.”
“No. But I’ll be stymied. Relegated to having an ‘assistant.’ Or I’ll work the less choice assignments. Great. That’s just great. Thanks for backing me up on this one, Mac.”
“Damn it, just listen! You’re hanging by a thread, Simon. You know it. We know it. And Commander Stevens knows it. No one’s wanted to push you, but this is where that ends. You want this case? You want the other ones that are coming down the pipeline? The big ones? See a shrink for regular counseling or take some time off before deciding to do it, but either way...”
“Yeah,” Simon growled. “Either way I’m gonna end up lying on some quack’s couch trying to convince her I’m not too much of a basket case to do the job we do, when only a basket case would want the job in the first place.”
Mac grinned. “You still have a sense of humor. Show the shrink that.”
“I wasn’t kidding. What we do is fucked up, Mac, and you know it. It’s what makes Lana’s murder just another day in the life.”
“So why are you still here then?”
“I won’t be. Not for long. It was a mistake coming back to SIG. I’ve known that for a while now. I was gonna wait before requesting a transfer, but this little dictate has just speeded my decision along.”
“A transfer?”
“I want back in management.”
“You tried management. You didn’t like it.”
“Maybe I didn’t give it enough of a chance.”
“I remember Lana telling you that. What? Now that she’s dead, you feel guilty enough to do what she’d have wanted you to?”
Simon smiled tightly. “Nice try, Mac, but I don’t feel guilty for her death. She put herself in a killer’s sights, and then she walked right up to him. She was careless despite the warnings I gave her. I’m not blaming myself, and that’s exactly what a shrink will tell you.”
Mac nodded. “Then you have nothing to worry about. If you want a shot at another management position, you need to prove you’re stable enough for it. That’s going to mean another psych evaluation eventually anyway. Might as well get it done now.”
Simon blew out a disgusted breath. “Might as well. It’ll probably take a while to get scheduled—”
“I made an appointment for next week. See this for what it is, Simon. Stevens and I are doing you a favor.”
“Yeah,” Simon grunted. “Thanks heaps. So what do I do in the meantime?”
“You’ll continue working the homeless murder case with DeMarco. Close it, see the shrink and you’ll get considered for management. Hell, I’ll even recommend your promotion myself. I’ll do everything I can to make it happen for you, Simon. But you have to work with me.”
Simon knew he didn’t have a choice. If he wanted a shot at a promotion, hell, if he wanted to continue working—and he needed to continue working—he had to appease Mac and Stevens. Volunteering to attend some damn fundraiser wasn’t going to be enough. Even solving Cann’s murder might not be.
He didn’t blame himself for Lana’s death, but he sure as shit didn’t want spare time on his hands.
Whether he blamed himself or not, spare time meant time to think about Lana. Time to think about how she’d cried and pleaded with her killer before she’d died. And time to wonder if some part of her had blamed Simon for failing to save her.
CHAPTER TWO
UNBELIEVABLE, DR. NINA WHITAKER thought as her boss, and she’d like to think her friend, continued to pace in front of her. She just won’t give up. Karen was determined to pull Nina away from her geriatric dementia patients in order to deal with politics and policing issues. Never mind that those things had once been Nina’s passion. They were in her past for a reason.
Almost three years ago, she’d sold her carriage house in Charleston, South Carolina, and moved across the country. Her goal had been to heal and start over, but in running from her past, she’d also been forced to leave behind one of her greatest accomplishments—convincing the Charleston law enforcement community to embrace greater mental health training and oversee the formation of a Mental Health Intervention Team. At one time in her life, Nina would have run with that success and continued to advocate the same kind of change in every city across the nation.
The death of her patient Beth Davenport had changed all that.
After Beth died, Nina had decided to leave crisis work, policy reform and decisions of life and death to others, and instead focus on a quieter though still worthwhile existence. Now, Karen wanted Nina’s help convincing SFPD to adopt the same MHIT training model that Charleston had implemented. Unfortunately, she was no longer content with Nina acting as a source of information on the topic. She wanted Nina to rally for funds. To talk to the police. To act as the program’s spokesperson.
She couldn’t do it, Nina thought.
She wouldn’t.
Stay strong. Don’t give in.
But despite her inner pep talk, Nina could feel herself being swayed by Karen’s words.
“Another homeless man’s been hospitalized after resisting arrest. That’s two this week. Both those men were mentally ill, and both times they didn’t understand they were being arrested. It wasn’t that they were resisting arrest—it’s that they didn’t understand reality. We can put a stop to it, Nina. What’s it going to take before you’re willing to get involved?”
Hell freezing over? The fact that it was a question, even in Nina’s own mind, further signaled her weakening resolve, but she managed to shake her head. Karen was an expert manipulator, but Nina was a psychiatrist. While that didn’t mean she was wholly immune to being manipulated, she had the advantage of knowing it was happening. Not only that, she was a realist. Give Karen an inch and soon Nina would find herself fully immersed in the trap she’d worked so hard to free herself from. “I’m sorry, Karen, but you’ll have to be content with the help I’ve already given.”
There. That was good. She sounded firm. In control.
But Dr. Karen Harper, the chief administrator for San Francisco Memorial Hospital’s Mental Health Division, remained unconvinced. Like a predator scenting weakness in its prey, she moved closer. “Do you want someone to die?” She paused, hands on her hips, looking down at Nina over the tops of her glasses, which were a dark navy blue the exact shade of the top she was wearing. “A transient? Maybe even a cop? Because it’s happened before and it could happen again. It will happen again. It’s just a matter of time. I’m trying to do everything I can to stop it, and with all the bad publicity the police have had with the homeless lately, this is as good a time as any to push. But in order to make the police listen to me, I need your expertise on this, Nina. Please.”
Please.
The word wasn’t normally in the hospital administrator’s vocabulary. It just proved how desperate Karen was for Nina’s help and how passionately she believed in the MHIT program. Obviously, Nina believed in it, too. It could help the city’s police reduce violent confrontations with not just the homeless, but all mentally ill suspects. It could help save lives. But becoming immersed in that kind of advocacy again? It just wasn’t something Nina could afford.
Helping others without actually being responsible for whether they lived or died. That’s all she wanted. That’s why she’d left her home and chosen to work with geriatric dementia patients in the first place. It wasn’t a job without its own pain. She genuinely liked her patients. She tried to help them through their suffering, and eventually she grieved their passing. The fact remained, however, that when the end came, it usually wasn’t a surprise. She was prepared. What Karen was asking of her came without that type of assurance, and she wanted no part of it.
Nina knew herself. Her strengths, but most of all her weaknesses.
What Karen was asking would play into every single one. If she started trying to save lives again, she’d feel duty-bound to save them all, and her failure to do so would eat away at her. Reminding her of the other lives she’d failed to save.
Two lives in particular.
“We’ve talked for hours,” Nina reminded her friend. “I’ve given you the information you need. The statistics. You’re more than capable of educating police officials about Charleston’s Mental Health Intervention Team program and the benefits the city has seen—”
“Not without the support of the program’s creator and chief advocate. With these latest claims of police brutality, higher-ups from the SFPD have finally agreed to meet with me. However, I suspect it’s just a political tactic to appease the press. They want to show the public the police aren’t taking our concerns lightly. But no matter how much you’ve prepared me, I can’t anticipate all the questions that will be asked. And I don’t have first-hand knowledge of how the program was implemented. Having you by my side at these meetings will lend us credibility we just can’t get otherwise.”
She was right, but Nina told herself to stand firm. Nina was a treasure trove of information when it came to police interaction with the mentally ill, but she could help Karen without becoming personally involved. “I’m sorry, Karen. You knew when you hired me where I wanted to focus my efforts. If my services haven’t been valuable to the hospital then—”
“I didn’t say your work here isn’t valuable, Nina. And yes, you were very clear that you were no longer interested in public policy work. That you wanted to focus your practice in the geriatric department. But I thought...” She shook her head and blew out a breath. “I guess I thought you wouldn’t be able to help yourself. The work you did in Charleston was so important.”
“And it’s work you’ll implement here, too,” Nina said softly. “It didn’t happen overnight in Charleston, either. I’ll continue to be a resource to you. But I don’t want to be directly involved. It took over my life, Karen, and I’m just starting to get it back. This isn’t the kind of thing you can just dip your toes into. It’ll consume my time.”
It’ll consume me, she thought.
“All right. Thank you for hearing me out,” Karen said. “Please...let me know if you change your mind.”
It was only when Karen left Nina’s office that Nina spotted the folders her boss had forgotten.
Or more likely, the ones Karen had deliberately left behind.
She could guess what was in them. Articles about recent confrontations between police and the homeless, most of who were mentally ill or challenged and therefore more prone to intense reactions if the particular responders didn’t know how to deal with that person’s condition. Too often police didn’t understand what was happening in a schizophrenic’s brain, or how mania could induce psychosis in someone with bipolar disorder. Threats only revved up those people’s minds—made things worse, not better.
She told herself she wasn’t going to fall for Karen’s obvious ruse.
Less than thirty minutes later, she opened the folder and scanned the papers inside. Each article had a common theme: that someone—suspect, civilian or police officer—had suffered personal injury or death because a confrontation with a mentally ill suspect had escalated when it probably hadn’t needed to. Several articles also included statistics.
That people with severe mental illnesses were killed by police in justifiable homicides at a rate nearly four times greater than the general public.
That ten to fifteen percent of cases where law enforcement officers acted with deadly force could be considered premeditated suicides.
That people with mental illnesses killed law enforcement officers at a rate five point five times greater than the rest of the population.
The facts went on and on.
She’d seen thousands of articles just like these. It’s what had spurred her to seek change in South Carolina—a task made far easier given she’d had her father’s political influence behind her— and the positive effects of that change continued to bear fruit even today. San Francisco, while more liberal than most cities, still had to function with limited funds, which meant reluctance to provide training that appeared extra rather than essential. Police routinely received training on how to handle mentally ill suspects, but it was usually subpar, barely covering the basics. What if Karen was right and Nina could convince San Francisco officials to take them seriously and make positive changes as a result?
She closed her eyes as guilt prodded at her.
It was one thing to make a lifestyle and career choice, but something else entirely to stand by and do nothing when she had the ability to help society as a whole, and one particular community specifically. What harm could it really do to act as Karen’s consultant, and talk to police about starting a Mental Health Intervention Team in San Francisco? If she could help even a handful of police officers truly understand that those experiencing a state of psychosis could be subdued without resorting to violence, didn’t she have an ethical duty to do it? No, she wouldn’t be able to help everyone, but helping even one person...
Someone like her former patient, Beth Davenport...
Or someone like her sister, Rachel...
Pain rippled through her. Oh, God, Rachel. She still missed her every hour of every day.
What would Rachel want her to do?
She withdrew her purse from the drawer of her desk and took out the small cloth rag doll that had been Rachel’s. She knew what carrying it said about her. That it was an unhealthy attachment brought on by lingering guilt.
A crutch.
A way to punish herself.
It didn’t matter. The doll was the last tangible connection she had to her sister. She wasn’t giving it up.
With a sigh, she put the doll back in her purse, stowed the purse in the drawer, picked up her phone and called Karen. “A phone call,” she said when the other woman answered. “Maybe a meeting or two. But that’s all I’m committing to. And you owe me drinks when this is over.”
“I’ll take it. Thank you, Nina. You won’t regret this. Drinks are on me—I promise.”
Nina hung up. But even as she did, she had the unsettling feeling she’d soon be regretting a lot of things.
CHAPTER THREE
LESTER DAVENPORT HAD made many mistakes in his life. He hadn’t taken school seriously. He’d taken alcohol far too seriously. And he’d been a terrible husband. So terrible that his wife had ultimately left him, just as he’d always known she would, then up and died anyway, leaving him to deal with his daughter’s grief as well as his own.
His biggest mistake, however, had been entrusting his daughter—his sweet little Beth—to the care of the Charleston mental health system. He’d known his daughter had deserved better. Not a county hospital, but the best that money could buy. He should have done whatever it took to get her out of there.
Only he hadn’t had that kind of money. And his daughter had suffered because of it.
Now, as Lester imagined that suffering—the kind of pain his daughter must have been feeling to have done what she had—he sobbed so loudly the sound hurt his ears. Hands shaking, he reached for the box of cards he’d bought at the grocery store. He picked one at random—they all sported puppies, so it didn’t matter—and began to write.
Beth had loved puppies.
Beth! his mind cried as he wrote.
His sweet Beth.
After a few days in the hospital, she’d started to get better. He’d seen it in her eyes. The last time he’d visited her, he’d talked about bringing her home. How wonderful it would be—just the two of them together again. This time, he’d promised, he wouldn’t mess up. They were going to have a fresh start.
As he’d talked, Beth hadn’t spoken a word.
She’d seemed to get worse after that.
He’d seen it. Why hadn’t they?
They’d left her alone. His sweet daughter. Even after they’d known what she wanted—to end her pain, to leave this world—they’d left her alone with the means to accomplish her goal.
A damn teddy bear. One that Leo, her hoodlum of a boyfriend, had brought her. Lester had never liked the kid. He’d done his best to keep Beth away from him, but the hospital staff hadn’t been smart enough to do the same thing. They’d taken the teddy bear away from Beth, but they hadn’t thought to check Beth’s mouth. That’s where Beth had hidden the ribbon.
After Beth had died—no, after she’d killed herself with the ribbon that had been tied around the damn teddy bear’s neck—Lester had wanted to kill Leo. He’d thought about it. Planned it. Had been this close to ending Leo’s life.
But then he’d realized the kid couldn’t really be blamed.
No, she was the one to blame.
Beth’s doctor.
Nina Whitaker. The daughter of a wealthy politician who’d played at helping others when she hadn’t known what the hell she was talking about.
She’d said Beth was going to be okay.
That she’d take care of her.
She’d lied.
Then she’d left.
She’d thought she could run and leave her mistakes behind her, right along with Beth’s memory.
But she couldn’t.
She wouldn’t.
Every year, Lester made sure of it.
Every year, he sent her a card.
Every year, he reminded Nina Whitaker that Beth was dead—and that it was her fault.
CHAPTER FOUR
SEVERAL DAYS AFTER BEING told he had an appointment with a shrink, Simon pulled into San Francisco Memorial Hospital’s parking lot. If he drove a little faster and slammed his car door a little harder than normal, so be it. Normally, he was cool as ice, unflappable and disciplined enough to work a case for hours, days, even months—whatever it took to get the job done. But he was here under protest and he was pissed and he didn’t care who knew it.
Damn it, he had interviews in the Cann murder case to conduct. At least, he should be conducting them. Instead, he’d been forced to hand off a few of them to DeMarco just so Simon could spill his guts to some stranger. If his fellow SIG members had thought he was surly before, they’d better watch the hell out. Work was supposed to be his escape, but ever since his conversation with Mac, all he could think about was Lana.
Not good. He needed to burn off some of his anger and frustration before he met with Dr. Kyle Shepard or he might just find himself on a leave of absence from SIG before he was ready for it.
As he made his way to the hospital’s main entrance, the sound of female laughter caught his attention. To his right, two women were getting into a convertible Bug. They smiled flirtatiously when they caught sight of him, but he felt no surge of attraction toward them; that worried him. They were young and pretty and he felt nothing? It was as if Lana’s death had killed his ability to be attracted to another female.
Hell, who was he kidding? He hadn’t been attracted to another woman well before Lana’s death. And since they’d broken up before she’d died, it had been over eight months since he’d even had sex.
That couldn’t be good. Simon was an extremely sexual man and like many cops, he relied on an active sex life to balance out the stress of his career. Before Lana had died, despite the fact she’d still been grieving her dead husband, Johnny Hudson, he’d been focused on her for close to two years. He could barely remember being attracted to a woman before her. After she’d died, well...romance was the last thing on his mind. It hadn’t escaped his notice that of the SIG team members, he was the only one who was currently single or not getting any. Mac had his wife, Jase had Carrie and DeMarco was constantly hooking up with some new woman.
No wonder Mac and Commander Stevens were worried about him. He’d obviously been ignoring his baser needs too long.
Maybe when he was done talking to Dr. Shepard he’d go to McGill’s Bar, a local cop hangout. Pickup joints and one-night stands weren’t his style, but he could probably do with some physical relief. Sex with no emotional commitment. It wasn’t pretty, but not much about his life was.
Without another thought for the females in the convertible, he continued forward. When he caught sight of another woman getting out of her car, however, his gut immediately clenched.
He froze. His first thought was...she looks like Lana.
His second thought was...something’s not right with her.
His cop senses went on alert.
He knew immediately why she reminded him of Lana. She was blonde. Not just pretty. Gorgeous. Elegant. Like Lana, she was the kind of woman you couldn’t help noticing.
So Simon noticed.
And this time when he was confronted with a good-looking woman, he felt an unmistakable stirring of attraction.
He studied her more closely. Her resemblance to Lana was only superficial. Her face was more angular, her features sharper and her eyes were almond-shaped, suggesting she had some exotic ancestry. Her body was also different. Where Lana had been slim and athletic, this woman’s curves were more lush. Her hips wider. She looked tidy, pulled together in a silk blouse and tailored skirt.
Her car, on the other hand, was god-awful ugly. An old Ford station wagon in a faded eggplant color. The contrast between her beauty and the car’s run-down junkyard condition didn’t connect. That immediately made him edgy. He didn’t like things that didn’t make sense.
He told himself he was being ridiculous.
Driving a beat-up old car wasn’t a crime. Maybe she spent her money on hair salons and fancy clothes rather than what she drove.
With a shake of his head, he walked until he was right next to her. Before he could pass her, she turned and brushed against him. Innocent as it was, the brief contact caused both of them to jerk back. She dropped her bag, spilling its contents on the ground.
“Sorry,” she muttered. He crouched down to help her, frowning when he saw the small, crudely sewn rag doll, just about four inches tall, lying amid her keys, wallet and—
She stepped closer and crouched beside him. He couldn’t help noticing the graceful sweep of her slender calves. To his utter surprise, his fingers itched to touch them. To determine for himself if they were as smooth as they looked. Disturbed, he jerked his gaze away and somehow ended up knocking heads with her.
She gasped.
“Shit,” he muttered.
She raised a hand to briefly rub her temple. Her eyes were green. Soft and pale just like her creamy skin and her golden hair. “It’s okay. I wasn’t looking where I was going. I—”
Her gaze flickered to the ground. Abruptly her words cut off and her face turned bright red. Simon looked back down at the contents of her purse. He noticed something he hadn’t seen before and felt heat spread through his body; not to his face but someplace farther south. The word Sextuplets blazed up at him.
Was that—?
She snatched up the DVD case and shoved it back into her purse, then threw in everything else before standing. He straightened far more slowly.
He swiped a hand across his face but obviously didn’t do a good enough job of hiding his smile.
“Not a word,” she said and started to walk away.
Her voice was like another punch in the gut. It was a bit gravelly. A rocker chick’s voice inside a woman who looked like an angel. He fell in step beside her.
She didn’t look at him. When they reached the front entrance and passed through the automatic sliding doors, she paused in front of the Information counter. He followed suit.
Her gaze met his and her chin tilted up. “A patient gave it to me. She’s an older woman and she has a collection and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings—”
He pressed his lips together and managed to keep a serious expression on his face. He nodded. “Right. She collects porn and thought for some reason you might be interested. I wonder what made her draw that conclusion?”
She narrowed her eyes, trying to look threatening but only managing to look adorable. The tendrils of attraction he’d been feeling exploded into something hot and wild. It took him by surprise, so much so that she’d already moved toward the lobby elevators before he noticed. He followed.
She frowned at seeing him standing next to her again.
“What?” he said. “We’re in a public hospital and I have a doctor’s appointment.”
It had been a while since he’d met a woman who blushed so easily.
“Of course,” she said.
“Are you one?”
“Am I one what?”
“A doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Then you shouldn’t be so embarrassed about getting caught with a skin flick in your bag. The human body and what it needs to survive is nothing new to you, right?”
She smiled tightly. “Right. Excuse me...”
She turned and walked away.
He cursed himself for driving her off. “Weren’t you going to take the elevator?” he called.
“Yes, I was.”
He watched her go with more than a little regret, but he was smiling when he got into the elevator. Too bad he couldn’t have run into the doctor at McGill’s. He’d have spotted her and he’d have done his best to bed her. Because despite his musings in the parking lot, he was definitely interested in having sex again.
And suddenly she was the only one he was interested in having it with.
* * *
NINA ACTUALLY FANNED herself as she took the stairs up to the sixth floor. Whew.
That was one handsome man. Not pretty-boy handsome, either.
Manly man handsome.
Manly man sexy.
And given the way he’d reacted to seeing the porn she’d had in her purse, he had a sense of humor, too, which merely made him more attractive.
She cringed at the memory of him seeing that DVD case, but at least it had distracted him from Rachel’s rag doll. She’d noticed the brief surprise on his face when he’d glimpsed it and she’d once again wondered whether her inability to get rid of the doll represented a bigger problem than she’d thought. She didn’t need an object to remember her sister, after all. Especially one that her sister had been cradling on the night she’d...
Swallowing hard, Nina shook her head. No. She wasn’t going to deal with that particular memory right now. Especially not today. It was the third anniversary of Beth Davenport’s death and Nina had no illusions about what was in store for her today. Last year, Beth’s father, Lester Davenport, had proven how resourceful he was, once again tracking down her place of work and mailing her one of those hideous cards of his. Before the day was over, she’d probably get another one. Until then, she would damn well think about something else.
Someone else.
With determination, she thought about the man from the parking lot again.
He wasn’t quick to smile, but when he did, the expression softened his intimidating, almost grim countenance into something mischievously boyish. It made her think of playing tickle-tag along the ocean shore or dancing the salsa at a hip city club or resting her head in his lap while she read a book in Golden Gate Park. In other words, it made her think of all the things she’d like to do with a partner, yet her life had become her work and she rarely dated, and she hadn’t yet met a man she could picture herself doing all those things with. At least not before him...
Given he was a complete stranger, that was either pathetic or a sign that she was ready to explore dating again. It was all a matter of interpretation.
The question was which interpretation she was going to choose.
Having reached the sixth floor, Nina pulled open the stairwell door and headed toward her office. And just like always, once she immersed herself in work, thoughts about what might be possible in any other aspect of her life faded away.
* * *
HIS LONG LIMBS SPRAWLED out in front of him, Simon tried to put the pretty doctor out of his mind and waited for his appointment with the shrink to start. As more and more time went by, he found himself thinking about her and wondering if he should track her down. Then what?
Despite that porn DVD in her purse, she didn’t look like a woman into casual sex, which meant she probably had gotten it from one of her patients.
When he caught himself smiling, he shook his head. He had to focus here, not think about some intriguing woman and the equally intriguing contents of her purse.
Impatiently, he glanced at his watch. It was already twenty past the hour. Rising, he strode to the receptionist’s window. She was another pretty blonde and she was talking to...
His eyebrows lifted in surprise.
The pretty doctor.
Simon waited as the women continued their chat, then cleared his throat.
They looked up. The blonde doctor’s green eyes widened in recognition.
Simon nodded. “Hello again.” Their gazes remained locked before he managed to turn his attention to the receptionist. “Do you know how much longer Dr. Shepard is going to be?” Simon asked.
“It shouldn’t be too much longer.”
“Right.”
He felt the gaze of the other woman on him and looked back at her. She smiled.
She had an incredible smile.
Attraction once again morphed into something else. Desire. Need.
He made up his mind to ask her out. Maybe she wasn’t into casual sex, but he could always get lucky, right?
Then he noticed the badge now hanging around her neck.
Nina Whitaker, MD, PhD. Psychiatry, Psychology.
A psychiatrist.
Just like Lana. Only Nina Whitaker was a twofer. An MD and a PhD.
She’d truly made it her life’s work to help the mentally ill.
Air left his lungs and the damned pain wormed its way upward again. Silencing a swearword, he turned away without returning her smile.
* * *
AS THE TALL, BROODING man stalked away from the receptionist’s window, Nina reached past Sandy to close the sliding Plexiglas window.
“God, isn’t he gorgeous?” the receptionist gushed.
That, Nina thought, is an understatement. For the second time that day, the brief glimpse of the man had gotten her motor running. “Gorgeous, sure, but he also has a major chip on his shoulder.” Her heart had nearly exploded out of her chest at seeing him again, but despite the renewed spark of interest in his eyes, she hadn’t missed how his expression had grown disdainful once he’d seen her name tag. “What’s his name?”
“Simon Granger. Isn’t that just hunky?”
The strong name fit him, she thought. “Who’s he here to see?”
“Dr. Shepard.”
Ah. That made sense. Kyle worked primarily with military and law enforcement. And since Simon’s hair was on the longer side, that meant... Nina nodded. “He looks like a cop.”
“Yep. You wanna talk to him? Who knows? Maybe he could be of service.” She grinned. “Seriously. Didn’t you say your meetings with the police chief had stalled?”
More like hit a brick wall, Nina thought. Karen had been wrong. Even given Nina’s experience with establishing the MHIT program in Charleston, she was having little luck convincing San Francisco officials that spending time and money to train officers on advanced strategies to deal with the mentally ill would be worth it in the long run. The police chief hadn’t disputed the training could make a difference for the suspects, but thought it would likely jeopardize his men more than it would help them.
“My men are trained to use force only when it’s absolutely necessary to protect themselves or others. They don’t need to be second-guessing themselves by considering the mental health complexities of the suspect in question. That’s something that becomes relevant once the suspect has been contained and any threat he poses diminished. In the moment, it doesn’t matter why someone’s acting dangerous, only that he is,” he’d said.
Nina had heard the same argument again and again. And in all fairness, it had some validity. But protecting police was only one aspect to be considered. Those same cops had to make distinctions between the suspects they apprehended all the time. They handled men and women and children differently. They approached things differently if someone was elderly, had an established record, or had never been in trouble with the law a day in his life. They considered how someone was dressed, how they walked, how they talked. An understanding of someone’s mental condition was another aspect that should be considered when entering a situation, and glossing over it was the easy answer.
Bottom line, however, was most cops hated the idea of coddling a criminal and were resistant to seeing one in a compassionate light. Maybe it was because it made it harder for them to do their job. But that was no excuse for ignorance.
She looked once more at the gorgeous guy in the waiting room. “Too bad I don’t do cops,” she murmured only half-jokingly.
Sandy laughed. “You don’t do anyone, Nina. Good thing I do.”
Smiling, Nina straightened. She’d leave the flirting to the receptionist. As sexy as Simon Granger was, he was still a cop. One who obviously disdained what she did for a living. “I’ll be on the geriatric floor.”
“Ms. Horowitz still there?”
Nina pictured the elderly woman who’d gifted her with the DVD Simon Granger had seen and who had a penchant for Old Hollywood lingerie, even when she was hospitalized. “For a little while longer, I think. Then the family will likely call hospice.”
“It’s hard to imagine a life as vibrant as hers coming to an end.”
Nina frowned. She tried, she really tried to hold back the dual images, the first of her sister as she lay in her coffin, and the second of a teenage girl with a pink ribbon tied around her neck, but it was impossible. It had been exactly three years since Beth Davenport had hung herself, but Nina knew no amount of time would make her forget the horror of finding her body.
Just like it wouldn’t erase the horror of finding her sister’s.
She swallowed hard, speaking only when she was sure her voice would be steady. “The end of any life is hard to imagine. But there are far worse ways to go. Ms. Horowitz will be surrounded by people who love her when her time comes. That’s really all any of us can ask.”
“I’d rather fall asleep and never wake up without ever having to deal with a deteriorating body or mind.”
“Most dementia patients aren’t aware of the infliction,” Nina reminded her.
“But we are. And we pity them. That’s enough. I never want to be pitied.”
Nor do I, Nina thought. But sometimes circumstances just lend themselves toward pity.
Without her permission, her gaze once again wandered to the big man now pacing in the waiting room. The set of his shoulders and his energy-driven stride told her he wouldn’t want to be pitied. Would likely deplore such sentiments more than most. Yet she’d seen the shadows in his eyes. Knew he grieved, if not another person, then some loss of self that had happened a long time ago. Her instinctive desire to soothe and heal him wasn’t surprising, but the renewed surge of chemical attraction was. Her mind wanted to get to know Simon Granger better, but so did her body. Nina turned back to Sandy, who was also staring at the man. “I’m heading back to my office. Want me to see what’s keeping Kyle so you can stay and enjoy the view?”
Sandy didn’t take her gaze off him. “You don’t mind? I’ll be your slave for life.”
Nina laughed. Before she left, she couldn’t resist one last glance at him. He looked up, and through the Plexiglas partition, his gaze immediately collided with hers. For tense seconds, they stared at one another. Then he glanced away, leaving her to simultaneously savor and curse the sizzle of desire that once again coursed through her.
She obviously needed to get out more. Find someone fun, have herself a little frolic and stop drooling over the patients. Problem was, she rarely socialized so finding someone fun to frolic with was a little difficult.
As she approached Kyle’s office, an athletic young man with curly blond hair was just leaving. He wore a short-sleeved T-shirt that revealed brilliantly colored tattoo sleeves. A particularly gruesome tattoo caught Nina’s attention—a skull with a unicorn in its mouth. Philosophical statement? Evidence of personal frustration over bipolar tendencies? Or both?
She almost rolled her eyes at her mental questioning.
Sometimes a tattoo was just a tattoo.
The man was saying goodbye to Kyle. “I’ll check out the clinic you told me about. Thanks, Dr. Shepard,” he said before turning and catching sight of Nina. He smiled before walking away.
In spite of his disturbing tattoo, he seemed...carefree. Happy.
Which was good, of course, but a little unusual for one of Kyle’s patients. Kyle specialized in PTSD, and his clients typically had the same brooding quality as the man pacing restlessly in the waiting room.
Kyle stepped into the hallway. “How’s it going, Nina?”
“Good. Sandy sent me to check on you. Your next patient’s getting a little restless.”
He nodded. “Thanks.”
When Nina got to her own office, she noted that her in-box was still empty and checked her watch. Looked like she and the police officer in the waiting room were both being a little impatient. If she’d read him accurately, he was obviously waiting to be seen by a doctor he had no respect for. Not uncommon with cops who were reluctant to show weakness or reach out for help, even though doing so was key to their continuing ability to do their jobs.
And she? She was waiting for her annual present from Lester Davenport, of course. The deliberate reminder of his daughter’s death and the part Nina had played in it.
Nina didn’t need the reminder. She knew the significance of today’s date.
And she blamed herself enough as it was.
Still, ten minutes later, when the mail finally arrived, Nina’s hands were shaking. When she saw the envelope with the familiar handwriting on it, her breath stuttered in her chest.
And when she opened up the envelope and withdrew the card inside, she closed her eyes and thought, No. She obviously hadn’t blamed herself enough. Like always, Davenport’s note caused pain to run through her like a thousand razor blades, but this time, there was something else added to the mix.
Fear.
Because Beth’s father wasn’t content with angry words anymore. This time, he’d included threats.
Several of them.
But all of them amounted to the same thing.
His daughter was dead.
And he wanted Nina dead, too.
CHAPTER FIVE
SIMON FIGURED DR. KYLE Shepard was a middle-aged man’s version of Little Orphan Annie. It wasn’t a particularly attractive combination, but it probably lulled most people into a false sense of security. They’d be too distracted by the doc’s garish red hair to pay any attention to how he was trying to siphon out their most private thoughts.
Not Simon.
His guard was up and would stay that way. He wasn’t taking any chances when it came to his job, but he didn’t need some stranger prying around in his head, either.
“So, Detective Granger, you’re here because you’re a trauma survivor.”
It wasn’t a question, but given the way the doctor paused, he clearly expected Simon to respond.
“I’m here because my superiors ordered me to be,” he drawled.
“And how do you feel about that?”
He smirked. He couldn’t help it. Why the hell did shrinks always lead with that damn question? What the hell difference did it make how he felt about a situation he couldn’t change? “I don’t feel anything about it. I’m here. I’ll cooperate. All I want is to get back to work.”
“All you want? But that isn’t true, is it? You want Lana Hudson to be alive, don’t you?”
Simon stared at the redhead, thinking he’d underestimated him. Shepard had gone in for the kill mighty fast. Faster than Simon had expected. “What I want and what is possible are two different things. What I want is irrelevant.”
Dr. Shepard nodded. “With respect to Lana, or with respect to your life in general?”
The temper that had been simmering below the surface suddenly flashed. Simon leaned forward in his chair. “Am I here for full psychoanalysis? Because, frankly, I thought I was here for grief counseling given a serial killer tortured and killed my girlfriend.”
“Ex-girlfriend,” Dr. Shepard said mildly. “Wasn’t she?”
Simon sat back. “She’s dead. Can’t get any more ‘ex’ than that.”
“Why had you two broken up?”
He’d known that question was coming, and he didn’t pull any punches or try to hide the ball. He knew perfectly well why Lana had broken up with him and he’d made his decisions knowing it would happen. “She didn’t like the fact I’d gone back to work the streets after taking a management position. She didn’t want to be involved with someone with a death wish, not when she’d already lost her husband to the war.”
“Do you have a death wish?”
He gazed steadily at the doctor. “I’m not afraid of death.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Simon said precisely, “I don’t wish to be dead.”
“Have you ever? As a teenager? When you were in the military?”
Dr. Shepard stared at him with an intensity that, if Simon didn’t know better, implied he knew his deepest, darkest secrets. Instinctively, he slammed every defensive wall he possessed in place. “No.”
“Then what do you wish for?”
He forgot about why he was there—to safeguard his job—and blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Right now, I’m wishing this appointment was over and I was back at work.”
Several tense seconds of silence followed his response. Great, Simon thought. Now he’d gone and pissed the guy off. But damn it, he didn’t want to be here. He shouldn’t have to be. He—
“Work is important to you. Why?”
Simon pinched the bridge of his nose. Why was this guy asking questions when the answers were so damn obvious? But fine, Simon thought. The sooner he gave the doc the answers he wanted, the sooner he could get out of here. “I make a difference there. I like to think I keep the bad guys on their toes. I delay them a bit.”
“Delay but not stop them completely?”
“No one can stop them. Not all of them.”
“Can they be healed? Some of them?”
Dr. Shepard’s question automatically made Simon think of the doctor.
Nina Whitaker.
She’d reminded him of Lana in more ways than her cool blond looks. She’d had that same watchful gaze, intense yet filled with compassion, as if she could see every scar that lay underneath his skin and she wanted to kiss them all. Make them better. The idea of her kissing him anywhere made him shift in his seat and wrestle with the attraction that had tried to pull him closer even as he’d mentally sneered at her chosen profession. He ran a hand through his hair, painfully aware that he hadn’t answered Dr. Shepard’s question. And that he didn’t want to. “Why are you asking me that?”
“Lana was a psychiatrist. Some might say the reason her killer got close was because she was trying to help him. What did you think about that?”
He remembered the fight they’d had the last time he’d seen her. He’d been scared for her. He’d wanted to protect her. But she hadn’t wanted that. She’d wanted to heal a criminal more than she’d wanted to protect herself. Or him. So when he answered, he answered truthfully. “I thought she was a fool.”
“One that deserved to die?”
The feeling of denial was emphatic and swift. “I didn’t say that.”
“No, you didn’t. But do you believe it?”
Did he? The least constructive emotion Simon felt when he thought about the way Lana had died was anger. At the man who’d killed her. And, like he’d felt at her grave site, even anger at her for placing herself in a killer’s sights. But he didn’t blame her. He knew she’d been doing what she felt she had to. “No. I don’t.”
Dr. Shepard nodded. “Okay, let’s talk about the incident that led to her death. What do you know about it?”
For the remainder of the hour, they discussed how Simon’s fellow SIG detectives, Carrie Ward and Jase Tyler, had been working a case trying to track down a serial killer dubbed The Embalmer. How Carrie and Lana had gone on national television and tried goading the killer into revealing himself. Unfortunately, they’d been more successful than they could have ever anticipated. The killer had waited outside the police department and concocted a good enough story that Lana had gone with him of her own free will. And then she’d been killed—murdered—just as violently as Mac had indicated earlier.
After rehashing the facts and discussing Simon’s “feelings” about them over and over again, Dr. Shepard nodded. “Thank you. Our session is done. If you’d like to reschedule, I look forward to talking to you next week.”
Simon stood. Managed to choke out, “Thanks.” Without waiting to see if the doctor extended his hand, Simon turned and left.
He was almost to the hospital lobby when his cell phone rang. He scowled when he saw the number of the incoming caller on the screen.
“Checking up on me, Mac?”
“Are you still at the hospital?” Mac’s voice was strained. Urgent.
“Yeah. What’s up?”
“SFPD just brought a 5150 into the E.R. There’s reason to believe he kidnapped a young girl. If possible, take Dr. Shepard to the E.R. with you. See what he can get out of the guy as he’s evaluating him.”
Shit, Simon thought, replaying how rudely he’d just walked out of the man’s office. “Wish I’d known we needed his help before I talked to him.”
“Made that good of an impression, huh?”
“I cooperated,” he mumbled. “Sort of.”
“Just snag the doc and meet Officer Dan Rieger in the E.R.”
“On my way.”
He backtracked to Dr. Shepard’s office. He was able to get into the waiting room, but the door leading to the back offices was locked. The receptionist was gone, but she’d left the Plexiglas divider open. He stuck his head in and called out, “Dr. Shepard?” Nothing. “Is anyone here?”
He heard a noise in one of the back offices followed by footsteps. A woman stepped into view.
It was the doctor he’d rudely dismissed earlier. Nina Whitaker. The one that, despite himself, he’d imagined naked and lying in his arms.
Hell, he was imagining her naked right now.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I need a doc to come into the E.R. with me. There’s a 5150 about to arrive who might know where a kidnapped young girl is.”
She hesitated. “Let me find out who the on-call doc is.” A minute later, she was back. “It might take a while, but someone will meet you down there.”
Damn it, they didn’t have time to wait. That was obvious by Mac’s call. By the fact he’d wanted Simon to drag Dr. Shepard to the E.R. “This is a critical situation. You can do it, can’t you?”
She hesitated. “Yes, but—”
Despite his misgivings, despite the fact he wanted to stay as far away from her as possible, it couldn’t be helped. Clenching his jaw, he motioned for her to join him. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER SIX
SIMON GRANGER GUIDED her toward the E.R. with a big hand cupped under her elbow. Even as she managed to keep up with his long strides, Nina tried to get through to him. “Wait a second. You’re saying you want me to get information from someone exhibiting a psychotic break?”
“If that’s the same thing as someone acting crazy, then yes.”
She glared at him. “And you think that’s easy to do?”
“Doesn’t matter if it’s easy or not. He supposedly kidnapped a little girl who might need medical help. We have to find out where she is. If you don’t get the information out of him, then I will.”
She managed to pull away and skid to a stop. The detective faced her with his hands on his hips.
“And just what does that mean?” she asked. “That you’ll beat the information out of him?”
“I didn’t say that. But I’ve been trained in interrogation techniques. If your questions don’t give us the answers we need—”
“Your ‘techniques’ will likely escalate the situation even more.”
His expression remained impassive. “Then let’s hope I don’t have to use them.”
He turned and strode away, leaving her to follow.
As they entered the E.R., he went up to the receptionist and showed her his badge. “There should be a patrol officer here with a 5150. Officer Dan Rieger.”
“Yes,” the woman said, her gaze finding Nina’s, who nodded. “They’ve already been put in a room. I’ll show you to him.”
She escorted them past several exam rooms to where a uniformed patrol officer was pacing in front of an open door.
“Officer Rieger? Special Agent Simon Granger. Is your perp inside?”
The man nodded. “They’re taking some blood tests. He’s in restraints and they gave him a shot to calm him down. We picked him up for shoplifting, but he got all agitated. Started saying we were part of the alien invasion. That he wouldn’t tell us where the little girl he was protecting is.”
“Are you certain he has a young girl and isn’t simply delusional?” Nina asked.
“He had a young girl’s jacket. And an inhaler. One of those over-the-counter kinds, so it doesn’t have a prescription on it. But he said the girl was having trouble breathing and had run out of her medicine. That’s what he was stealing. I gotta go with my gut on this one and say he’s got some girl hidden somewhere. And if she’s out of her asthma medication, we’re running out of time.”
Simon turned to Nina.
She nodded. “Let me see what I can do.” She stepped inside the room and nodded to the nurse who was labeling a vial of blood. On a gurney lay a young man, legs and wrists restrained by leather straps, a dazed expression on his face. Possible catatonia or maybe too heavy a dose of the antipsychotic. She just hoped he was lucid enough to discuss the girl he’d taken and where they’d find her. She stepped inside and tried shutting the door.
She gasped when Granger held it open.
“I’m coming with you.”
She glared at him. “No. You are not. I’ll evaluate the patient and report back in a minute.”
“But—”
“Let go of the door right now, Detective, or I’ll have no choice but to call security and have you thrown out.”
Their gazes held and clashed for several seconds and she had to force herself not to look away from the pure fury in his. Slowly, however, he released his grip on the door and stepped back. With an imperceptible sigh of relief, Nina shut the door, blocking out his scowling face.
* * *
“SHE A PSYCHIATRIST?” Officer Rieger asked Simon.
“Yeah.” Simon stared at the door through which she’d disappeared.
“I hope she’s a good one.”
Despite the way she’d managed to get under his skin, Simon had a feeling she was better than good. The problem was, she could be the very best and he still wouldn’t like it. If she could help them get the information they needed, great, but he knew what would happen either way. She’d already referred to their perp as a “patient.” As soon as she came back out, she’d start talking about helping the guy. Trying to help the man who’d kidnapped a little girl and probably had done God knows what to her already. And when that happened, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to—
The door opened and Nina stepped out.
“Can we go in and see him now?” Simon asked.
She shook her head. “That’s not a good idea.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s indeed having a psychotic break. He doesn’t know where he is but he feels threatened. The doctor gave him Haloperidol, a quick-acting antipsychotic, but he’s still having delusional thoughts. Right now, he needs to get his brain activity settled. He’s operating in a vastly different reality than we are.”
“So what are you going to do?” Simon growled. “Light incense and sing Kumbaya?”
She narrowed her eyes in warning. To Simon, sass and intelligence had always been an alluring addition to physical beauty. This woman had all three in spades. Too bad they had a life-or-death situation at hand. If the situation was different, and despite what she did for a living, he might be up for exploring what made Nina tick.
“If that’s what it takes,” she said. “You want the information, don’t you? The only chance I have of getting it is to establish trust with him and make him feel safe. And the only way I’m going to be able to do that is if I know he’s actually going to be safe.”
“Meaning what?”
“He looks like he’s been roughed up.” She glanced pointedly over his shoulder at Officer Rieger.
Simon didn’t jump to any conclusions. He knew better than most how dangerous a cop’s job was. It was easy to judge a cop’s actions once danger had passed, but unless you’d been in his shoes... “I don’t know anything about that,” he said softly.
“No, but he does.”
“He resisted arrest,” Officer Rieger clipped out.
Nina glared at the young officer. “He thinks we’re all aliens who want to suck out his brain. Of course he resisted.”
“You’re bartering with me for promises of leniency?” Simon asked, his expression and tone incredulous. And pissed. “When what I’m asking for is information to help save a little girl?”
She returned her gaze to his. Bit her lip as if contemplating his words, then shook her head. “Wanting a man to be treated with basic respect is not the same thing as asking for leniency. I’ll do everything I can to get you the information. But you involved me, which means Mr. Callahan is now my patient, and that means I’ll be doing whatever is necessary to make sure he’s treated with dignity.”
“Mr. Callahan, huh? Yes, let’s think about his needs instead of the little girl he kidnapped. At least you’ve got your priorities straight, Doc,” Simon sneered.
“I need to go in now. But this is going to take a while. And I can’t promise anything.”
“Nothing but taking good care of your patient, you mean?”
Her back stiffened and she paused with her hand on the door, but she didn’t turn back around. Instead, she said softly, “I’m well aware of what’s at stake, Detective. Don’t think for a minute that I’m not.” She stepped back into the room and shut the door with a decisive click.
An hour later, Simon was about to barrel into the examination room when Nina finally stepped out. She looked flushed, her expression pinched, but she immediately locked gazes with him. “I have something. I can’t know for sure, but...”
“What is it?”
“He grew up in a house in Pacifica. 180 West 27th Street. He said it’s the place he always felt safe. Safe to be who he truly is. Safe from the aliens.”
Without taking his gaze off her, he snapped, “Rieger?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s go.” To Nina, he said, “Keep talking to him.” He handed her a card. “Here’s my cell. If he says anything to make you think we’re headed in the wrong direction, call me.”
“I will. Good luck. I hope you find her.”
“I hope so, too.”
They found the girl in the basement of Michael Callahan’s family home. She’d been tied up and was dehydrated, her skin ice-cold and turning blue. Her pulse was thready and her breathing labored. She was exhibiting signs of exposure, shock and an asthmatic attack. Simon carried her out just as an ambulance pulled up in front.
“We’ve got it from here, sir.”
As he stared at the girl, Simon thought of Lana. Despite what he’d told Mac earlier, he had the sudden thought that he’d failed her. Had he failed this girl, too? Waited too long to get to her? Should he have muscled his way into that examination room and beaten the location out of her abductor?
“Sir, please. Give her to me.”
Simon reluctantly gave the girl to the medic.
He followed the ambulance to the nearby hospital.
And he stayed until the doctors told him the little girl would be okay.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A WEEK AFTER THEY’D found Rebecca Hyatt, the little girl Michael Callahan had kidnapped, Simon sat at his desk in SIG’s detective pit. He finished typing up his report on the Cann murder, stuck it in the folder and filed it along with the other “as-of-yet unsolved” crimes that would be occasionally looked at but otherwise relegated to the back burner. Between Simon and DeMarco, they’d followed every lead and interviewed everyone they could think of, patrol cops included, but had come up empty. Add the fact that their only witness, Rita Taylor, had recanted her statement about Cann’s killer being a cop—she now insisted that what she’d thought was a police uniform might actually have been that of a city bus driver or air-conditioning repairman—and it was time to move on to the next case. First, however, he had to do the final report on the Michael Callahan incident.
In front of him laid the daily newspaper from the day after the event. He’d seen the article when it had come out. He’d kept a copy to add to the file. Now, he skimmed the article again and cursed.
Doc Finds Child but Public Suspicion of Police Continues
The article was chock-full of information. First, it detailed several recent incidents between police and mentally ill suspects, some of whom had been homeless, and all of whom had claimed police brutality. Next, it referred to the murder of Mr. Cann, a homeless veteran, and the “rumor” that a cop had been responsible, though thankfully it didn’t identify Rita Taylor as a potential witness. Finally, the article touched on Rebecca Hyatt’s rescue, though again the reporter had been smart enough not to include the little girl’s name.
He’d had no such qualms about Simon. Or Nina Whitaker. Or Officer Rieger or Michael Callahan. According to Callahan’s parents, their son was schizophrenic and hadn’t meant to harm anyone, and they were grateful Nina had been able to work with him to find the girl’s location; funny how people didn’t mind exposing skeletons if doing so meant it might keep a loved one out of jail.
Taking everything into account, the article had managed to do what the reporter had intended: make San Francisco law enforcement look like a bunch of blundering fools who couldn’t distinguish their asses from a hole in the ground without the help of a damn shrink.
Yes, Nina Whitaker had helped them find the little girl, but the newspaper made her sound like a miracle worker. Worst yet, a miracle worker whose involvement was necessary in order to overcome the shortcomings of local police, when the only shortcoming in this particular situation had been Michael Callahan’s. As much as Nina would say that shortcoming had been caused by illness, it was no excuse. Even assuming Callahan had been trying to save the little girl from aliens? He’d almost killed her. Besides, the only one who’d ever know if Callahan really believed aliens had been after the girl was Callahan. What a crock. Simon had seen enough to know that Callahan had probably been motivated by far less altruistic desires.
Slapping the newspaper clipping on the top of his “To Be Filed” mound of paperwork, Simon started on the final report. Unfortunately, it didn’t have his full attention. His mind kept wandering back to Nina, just like it had all week.
She was beautiful, sure, but she had a strength and spirit that eerily reminded him of Lana’s. On the one hand, that called to him. On the other, it made him sick. He couldn’t help thinking that the same spirit he admired was going to get her in trouble one day. Maybe not in as much trouble as it had gotten Lana, but...
Move on, Granger, he told himself. Lana and Nina Whitaker were both in his past. He needed to focus on the present and the future, and do his job—keeping people safe from the criminals Nina Whitaker wanted to heal and treat.
He’d just finished the final report on the Callahan incident when he felt an itch between his shoulder blades. When he looked up, he thought he must be hallucinating. First he’d read about her in the paper. Then he’d struggled to keep her from his thoughts.
He needn’t have bothered.
Nina Whitaker stood in front of him.
Shit, he thought, but his curse was mostly in response to the way his body immediately zinged to life. Feigning an annoyance he wasn’t really feeling, he stood and walked up to her.
“What can I do for you?”
She cocked a brow at his curt greeting. “I’m here for an update,” she said mildly.
He pressed his lips together, knowing he should have called and updated her as soon as they’d found the girl. It would have been the professional thing to do. Unfortunately, since she made him feel anything but professional, he’d figured it was better to be safe than sorry. But now that she was here... “You were right. We got to her in time. Rebecca Hyatt. I should have filled you in. I apologize.”
There was none of the relief he’d expected to see in her expression. “I already know that,” she said. “When you failed to call me, I tracked down the information on my own. I found out her name and what hospital she was admitted to. I also know her mother fainted before seeing her and that her father caused quite a scene, too. By all accounts, despite the fact his daughter was found and is going to make a full recovery, he blames me for the delay in getting to her. According to him, if I’d let the police handle the situation, we wouldn’t have wasted time coddling a criminal and you would have gotten to his daughter much sooner. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t file a lawsuit against me.” She paused, but only to suck in enough breath to continue. “Then, of course, there were all the news stories covering the event. Some more favorable to me, some not. So like I said, I already knew what happened. I meant I’m here to give you and your commander an update.”
For some reason, his instinct was to apologize for the behavior of Rebecca’s father, when he’d probably have felt the same way if he’d been in the man’s shoes. Confused, he scowled. “An update on what?”
“On my patient.”
Her patient. Michael Callahan. He crossed his arms over his chest. “What makes you think I give a fuck what the status of your patient is?”
Her expression softened. “Michael didn’t mean to hurt her. Aliens, remember? He thought he was helping her.”
“And I’m sure that’s exactly what his defense attorney is going to argue at trial. Will you be testifying on his behalf?”
“I imagine so. And I imagine that makes you hate me even more, doesn’t it, Detective?”
He paused. It would be easier if she thought he hated her, but for some reason, he didn’t want that. “I don’t hate you,” he said grudgingly.
“Just my job.”
He didn’t bother denying it. “Well, you’ve given me the update. So I guess you can go now. Thank you for your help.”
“If you really want to thank me, have a drink with me.”
He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d suddenly stripped down in front of him. It didn’t matter that he’d sensed she was attracted to him, too. He’d done absolutely nothing to encourage her. And she obviously thought, with good reason, that he was a redneck cop who’d use muscle to get results when reasoning failed. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Why? We already established I don’t respect what you do.”
“Is that a requirement for having a drink with me?”
“Not usually. But then again, having a drink is usually a prelude to something else. You offering me that, too?”
He’d simply been trying to goad her, but the way she blushed and looked away had his body hardening. Yeah, she was attracted to him. But was she receptive to doing something about it? He’d never have pegged her as an easy lay, but maybe...
She lifted her chin defiantly. “A prelude to having sex, you mean? I’m afraid that’s not what my invitation is about.”
He shrugged, not surprised that he’d misread her. “So what is it about?”
She imitated his shrug. “You interest me. You seem to be a smart man, yet your bias against the field of mental health treatment seems unreasonable.”
That wasn’t quite how Elaina Scott had put it, but close enough. “So you want to analyze me?” Of course she did. For all he knew, she’d compared notes with Dr. Shepard. He knew that would be illegal, but people broke the law all the time.
“I prefer to think of it as ‘getting to know someone better.’”
“And then what?”
“Does there have to be anything else?”
There did if his body had any say in the matter. He stepped closer, wanting to rattle her and liking the fact he did. Her breath escalated and she inadvertently took a step back. He studied her slowly. From her pale, glossy hair, down to the tidy but curvy length of her body and ending at the shiny black pumps she shifted nervously.
When he met her gaze again, her eyes were slightly dilated.
“I just like to keep my options open,” he explained. “I don’t like what you do for a living, but you’re damn easy on the eyes. Who knows? Maybe I could do something for you this time around. I’d make damn sure you enjoyed yourself in bed with me.”
“I’m sure you would. But it takes more than the promise of pleasure to get me into bed with someone.”
“And it takes more than someone wanting to get to know me better to get me to go for a drink with a shrink.” Deliberately, Simon stepped back.
She smiled tightly and nodded. “I understand. Then I suppose it really is time to go, Detective Granger. Goodbye.”
She turned to leave, looking as shocked as he felt when he reached out to stop her.
“Wait.”
She stared at his hand for a second and so did he. His grip highlighted the differences between them. Him, big and rough. Her, soft and smooth. Powerful and delicate. Male and female. Suddenly, he longed to press the rest of his flesh against hers, chest to chest, hips to hips—to see how that looked, yes, but more important, to feel it. To feel her.
He whipped his hand away and took a step back.
To her credit, she didn’t smirk or comment on his retreat.
“Michael Callahan is still in the hospital,” he said. It was a statement, not a question, and even though he hadn’t meant to sound critical, she obviously interpreted his words that way.
She pursed her lips then nodded. “He was held on a seventy-two-hour hold for evaluation, but under the law can be kept for an additional fourteen days for treatment.”
“Even though he’s going to prison the second you’re done with him?”
She gave him a chiding look. “He’ll only go to prison if he’s deemed competent. And only then if he’s convicted—”
Simon snorted. “He gave you the information that led us to that little girl. He’ll be going to prison eventually.”
He didn’t say the words if I have anything to do with it but they echoed around them nonetheless.
She sighed. “Maybe prison is where he’ll end up. Maybe not. And whether you or I think he deserves to be imprisoned is irrelevant. It’s up to a jury, one that’s been given all the facts, including those about Michael’s psychotic break at the time he took the little girl.”
“Right. And you’re going to be the one to tell them those facts. Don’t forget to bring your box of Kleenex while you’re at it.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Look, I know you’re—”
“Simon, you going to introduce us to your friend?”
Nina’s head whipped around at the sound of Jase Tyler’s voice. The handsome, sandy-haired Texan stood several feet away. Beside him, Carrie Ward, fellow agent and Jase’s girlfriend, struggled to keep her expression serious but her curious gaze bounced between Simon and Nina as if she was watching a tennis match. A very interesting tennis match.
“Dr. Nina Whitaker,” Simon bit out. “Meet Special Agents Jase Tyler and Carrie Ward.”
The trio shook hands.
“Sounds like you and Simon were discussing the pros and cons of rehabilitative therapy. You a shrink, Dr. Whitaker?”
Nina cautiously turned to Carrie. “I’m a psychiatrist, yes. Do you have an interest in rehabilitative therapy, Detective?”
Carrie smiled. “Working with this bunch? I need all the help I can get.”
That startled a laugh out of Nina, and Jase and Simon looked at each other. Despite himself, Simon had to forcibly stop himself from smiling, too.
“Seriously, whether I’m interested in rehabilitative therapy depends,” Carrie said. “Whose rehabilitation are you discussing?”
Nina hesitated, but Simon crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against his desk. Granted, Jase and Carrie weren’t as touchy about shrinks and therapy as he was, but as fellow cops they knew how often criminals tried to excuse their actions with claims of mental illness. “She’s treating Michael Callahan.”
“The guy who kidnapped that little girl.” This time it was Jase who made the statement, not Simon, but his tone was clearly critical.
Nina lifted her chin. “I’m here to speak with Commander Stevens. If he decides to fill you in, you can discuss your disdain for my profession then. Outside my presence.”
Jase stared at her, his expression blank, before he tipped his head. Simon saw the gesture for what it was—a small sign of respect. The same respect he felt for Nina. They couldn’t help it. They worked in a male-dominated, often violent world. The fact that Jase and Carrie’s relationship was going so strong was testament to the fact that, despite his previous dalliances with drop-dead gorgeous but fragile women, Jase was instinctively drawn to strong women who kept their soft hearts more under wraps. Just like Simon usually was. And Nina Whitaker was definitely a strong woman. In many ways, however, in ways that related to her patients, Nina’s soft heart was on display for everyone to see, whether they liked it or not.
“It was nice meeting you, Detectives,” she said to Jase and Carrie. Then she turned to Simon. “Goodbye, Detective Granger. I’d say it was a pleasure, but we’d both know I’d be lying.”
Jase made a choking sound that obviously communicated his amusement.
As Simon watched Nina stride out of SIG, Carrie elbowed Jase.
“Looks like you made less of an impression on her than even Simon here,” she said.
The other man grinned at her. “I no longer want to make a good impression on women. Just one particular woman.”
Though they immediately separated, walking to their respective desks, Carrie couldn’t hide the pleased blush that colored her cheeks. Knowing how much the two had gone through to be together, the sight pleased Simon, but he couldn’t let them see that. “Jesus, I’d tell you both to get a room, but you’re already living together. Give me a break, would you?”
He threw himself into his chair, trying to convince himself he could actually concentrate on work after seeing Nina Whitaker again.
Jase laughed. “Funny. That’s exactly what Carrie and I were saying to each other before we interrupted you and the doc.”
Simon frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You two were generating more heat than a five-alarm fire. Too bad she’s...well...you know.”
Simon grunted, but Carrie interjected, drowning out the sound.
“Too bad she’s what? Smart? Beautiful? Has a backbone?”
Simon swiveled around to stare at her. “Did you miss the part where I said she’s Michael Callahan’s shrink?”
“Nope. I didn’t. Did you forget that Lana did a lot of good before she was killed?”
Simon’s heart twisted. Stunned silence echoed around them.
“Jesus, Carrie,” Jase said.
But Carrie just continued to look at Simon. “I’m not trying to be cruel, Simon, but you can’t blame every psychiatrist for what happened to Lana. She was good at her job. What happened to her was the work of one man, and one man alone.”
“A man Lana thought was sick.”
Shadows suddenly appeared in Carrie’s eyes, giving her a haunted expression. “Brad Turner was sick. Sick enough to dismember a woman. Sick enough to peel the skin off another—” Her voice rose a notch before she tamped down her emotions.
“Carrie,” Jase said softly, but Carrie shook her head.
“No. I’m okay. Lana isn’t. Because of Brad Turner. But maybe if someone had listened to her, or someone like her, earlier, maybe Brad Turner would’ve gotten help long before he met Lana. Maybe he wouldn’t have killed the women he did. And maybe Lana would be alive today. Have you ever thought about that?”
Simon had no doubt that his face must look as haunted as Carrie’s just had. At least, that’s how he felt. Haunted. And nauseous. He rose and walked toward the door, hoping it didn’t look like he was stumbling.
“Simon, wait.”
Simon froze, but didn’t turn around.
“I—I care about you. We all do. We’re worried and—”
Simon turned toward her. “Don’t be worried. And for God’s sake, don’t care about me. All it’s gotten me so far are weekly appointments talking to a man about how I feel and what I’d do differently if I could. But no more. I’m through with ‘not-really-mandatory-but-essentially-mandatory’ counseling. You can tell both Mac and Commander Stevens that. Worry and caring? No, thanks. I don’t need it, Carrie, and frankly, I don’t want it.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“YOU WANT ME TO SHADOW Simon Granger?” Nina asked Commander Stevens in disbelief. “You can’t be serious. I’m a psychiatrist, not a cop.”
“And that’s exactly the capacity in which we want you to serve, Dr. Whitaker. I’m not asking you to go into overtly dangerous situations with Detective Granger. He’s not a street cop, but an investigator. His casework is controlled and he’s not an adrenaline junkie. To the contrary, he’s put in for a return to management.”
“And you want me to determine whether he’s fit for that position? Is that why you sent him to see Dr. Shepard in the first place? Because I’m not going to spy on someone and report to you about him without his knowledge.”
“That’s not what I’m asking,” Stevens said. “Simon is seeing Dr. Shepard for counseling. He’s going through a difficult time...”
Nina held up her hand. “Please don’t say anything more. It’s not appropriate for you to disclose Detective Granger’s personal business to me without him knowing it.”
Stevens hesitated then said, “Fine. But you’re wrong. I’m not asking you to shadow Detective Granger so you can evaluate him. At least, not any more than you’ll be evaluating any other cop that works for the city.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We’ve discussed your desire to establish a Mental Health Intervention Team within San Francisco P.D.”
“Discussed is one way of putting it. I’ve asked for your assistance in having that program implemented. Given the information I got from Michael Callahan and the favorable press it’s brought to the department, I was hoping you’d see the benefits of what I’m proposing.”
“I’m open to hearing more about it, of course.”
“But?”
“But you’re assuming this program will benefit us based largely on public outrage at the way certain matters have been handled. I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to recommend changes based on incidents you’re learning about third-hand or by subjective sources. The program you started up in Charleston was based on extensive research, third-party observations and case studies.”
“That’s right. But that was when the program was in its infancy, before it had any kind of track record. It took years to accumulate that data. Now we have concrete statistics showing that the MHIT program has benefited the Charleston Police Department and—”
“But those stats are based on where the Charleston Police Department started out. And based on the initial data you collected, which indicated the program was warranted in the first place. I’m asking for that same foundation. That you not judge the compassion or competency of our men when you haven’t even witnessed it yourself.”
Taking a deep breath, Nina leaned back in her chair. “Tell me what you have in mind.”
“Simon has several open cases, including one concerning a murdered homeless man, but they’re all inactive right now. Barring additional activity in those cases, he’s ready for a new assignment. However, that can wait a week. In the meantime, you can work together. He’ll monitor dispatch and accompany you to calls that will be handled by a patrol officer. He’ll assist and you’ll observe SIG and the SFPD in action.”
“But why Detective Granger?” she asked, perturbed. “Won’t he object to babysitting me?”
“That’s irrelevant. Simon’s been working one tough case after another. He’s due a lighter assignment. Plus, he’s applying for a promotion to management. Better he get used to the idea of politics and suffering for the cause now. Finally, I consider your MHIT proposal fairly critical. At least, that’s what you’re arguing, isn’t it? That we absolutely need to give some thought to broad prevention instead of simply focusing on what’s already in front of us?”
Hoisted by her own petard, she thought. You had to give Stevens points for persuasiveness. “Yes, that’s what I’m advocating.”
“Then this is my offer. You’ll get the chance to evaluate how San Francisco law enforcement personnel interact with those experiencing mental illness. Complete a detailed report with your findings, and I’ll set up meetings with the appropriate people so you can make your recommendations.”
What Stevens was offering was both insanely difficult and far too easy. It made Nina wonder what he was really after. She narrowed her eyes as a thought occurred to her. “And what if my findings aren’t favorable to the police? What if certain departments want them suppressed? Or if they make it even more difficult for me to attain police cooperation?”
“Part of the benefit of being with the Department of Justice is that we oversee every law enforcement agency in the state. I’m not out to hide anything. However, despite what you and your colleagues think, I have faith in our officers and believe they handle confrontations with all suspects well and to the best of their ability. I’m not saying you’ll be able to convince me otherwise, but I will give you a fair shot. Who knows? Maybe we can compromise on training that’s amenable to both of us.”
“I won’t skew my results to make you look good,” she warned.
“I’m not asking you to. But I must also warn you that this type of arrangement is highly unusual. You’ll be signing waivers of liability forms all night. You have to go into this with your eyes wide open. If anything were to occur, Simon will protect you with his life. I have no doubt about that. But you are still a civilian putting yourself into potentially dangerous situations. If you’re not willing to take this kind of risk for the program you’re advocating, then—”
Commander Stevens’s phone rang. “Excuse me a moment,” he said before answering. His facial features relaxed slightly at the caller’s greeting and his expression reminded Nina of how different—how wonderful—Simon looked when he allowed himself to relax, too.
“I have a few more things to wrap up,” Stevens said to the person on the phone, “but I’ll be ready to tee off at six as planned. Yes, I’m looking forward to the gala, too. Four officers will be in attendance, including one from SIG. Yes. Yes. I’m actually just finishing up a meeting here. It’s with the doctor I told you about. The one that...” Stevens glanced at Nina and held up a finger, indicating he’d only be another minute.
She nodded and averted her gaze, only half listening as Stevens described how Nina had assisted with Michael Callahan. She was sure his flattery was deliberately timed.
As he’d probably intended, Nina thought again of the other people—citizens and police officers alike—who might be better off if the city implemented advanced mental health training and increased practical assistance for law enforcement. She thought of Beth and Rachel. Rebecca Hyatt and Michael Callahan. She even thought of Mrs. Horowitz, who’d passed away two nights before and how, in spite of being prepared for the end, Nina had cried anyway.
She’d known this would happen. She’d become personally invested. She’d risked the peaceful life she’d made for herself in exchange for the challenging task of helping and saving others, and she knew exactly why she had. Because she truly believed the MHIT program could help people. And because her peaceful life had ceased to be enough for her.
Coincidentally or not, her restless feelings and lack of fulfillment had started the day she’d met Simon Granger.
She just wished she hadn’t asked out the man she was about to trail. He probably thought she’d lied about where she’d gotten the triple-X movie she’d dropped from her purse and would be expecting her to come on to him at every turn. Well, she could control her baser instincts. And obviously he didn’t want to have anything to do with her romantically.
The problem was he wasn’t going to want anything to do with her professionally, either.
It was going to make things uncomfortable for both of them.
But Nina wasn’t going to take the easy way out again. Not this time.
“I’m willing to take the risk,” she said quietly. “When does this assignment start?”
* * *
SIMON STARED AT COMMANDER Stevens until the normally unshakable man’s left eye twitched. He didn’t make the mistake of viewing it as weakness. Fact was, Stevens didn’t enjoy playing the heavy, especially when it came to his own men. The twitch evidenced that. But it didn’t change the fact that Stevens would play the heavy if it was necessary.
Simon just wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
“No. Absolutely not. I don’t want to spend any more time than I already have with that woman.” He refrained from childishly saying, “And you can’t make me,” but just barely. “I have a job to do, and babysitting a shrink isn’t in my job description.”
“You’ve always been good at your job and that’s why I need you to do this. You already know the local police are under fire because of repeated confrontations with mentally ill subjects. And despite Rita Taylor’s recent backtracking, there’s still plenty of talk on the street that someone saw a uniformed police officer fleeing the scene of Mr. Cann’s murder. Now, Michael Callahan’s family is making allegations of police brutality.”
“What?” First Rebecca Hyatt’s father blamed Nina for how she’d handled the situation; now Callahan’s family was blaming the police? On what basis? But then Simon recalled Nina’s comments about bruises and Officer Rieger’s claim that Callahan had resisted arrest. Simon cursed.
“DOJ has been asked to step in as an objective party,” Stevens continued. “To determine whether local law enforcement can benefit from the type of training Nina Whitaker is proposing. Between you and me, this is a formality. The mayor’s ready to cave. Training will be ordered. It’s just a matter of how much of it we’ll have to suffer. It’s going to depend on whether we can convince Dr. Whitaker that we’re not the brutalizing apes the press has made us out to be.”
Simon shifted restlessly. A brutalizing ape was probably exactly what Nina Whitaker thought he was. “So assign her to some patrol officer at SFPD. Or if DOJ needs to be involved, an intern. Hell, I don’t care who you assign her to, so long as it’s not me. Unless—” His frown darkened. “Are you still concerned I’m unfit to do my job because of what happened with Lana?”
“I never accused you of being unfit, Simon. Just...troubled. I think you’re internalizing a lot and that you can benefit from talking to someone about it.” Stevens held up his hand. “I know. You’ve made it quite clear that you’re not going to see Dr. Shepard again. Ultimately, that’s your choice. But if you’re as well adjusted as you say you are, if you don’t really have the biases against the mentally ill that Elaina Scott accused you of, then you should have no problem with this assignment. That’s particularly true since you want to be in management. The city is suffering a public relations nightmare right now. Think how grateful the higher-ups will be if you facilitate a partnership with Dr. Whitaker in a way that benefits both sides. So that no one comes out looking like a bad guy, especially us.”
“So this is about making us look good? Is she aware of that?”
“She’s agreed to do an objective assessment.”
“And if her objective assessment is that we’re all in fact brutalizing apes, what’s that gonna do for my promotion possibilities?”
“I suppose that’s a risk we’re all going to have to take. Welcome to the world of politics. You ready to play with the big boys?” When Simon remained silent, Stevens slapped his open palm on his desk. “This discussion is over. Today’s Tuesday. Beginning Monday, Dr. Whitaker will shadow you for five days. You’ll take her out on SFPD calls so she can see how the beat cops relate to the public. She’ll make observations as a consultant for a proposed project between the hospital and the police. To the extent she makes observations that aren’t favorable to the force, I’ll have your back on that. That’s all I can promise. But bottom line, you want my support so you can get that captain position? I guess you need to decide how much you want it.”
Simon rose. “I don’t want it this bad. Is that all? Sir?”
They stared at one another before Stevens sighed and sank into his chair. “Give it some thought, Simon. She’s going to shadow someone. If not you...” He shrugged.
“Not me is my preference,” Simon muttered as he left. Not yet ready to return to his desk and what were sure to be questions from his fellow SIG detectives, Simon walked to the SIG break room. He froze in his tracks when he saw Nina Whitaker there, nursing a cup of coffee. He couldn’t help it. He stalked up to her and got in her face.
“What the hell are you trying to pull?”
* * *
SPECIAL AGENT BRYCE DeMarco was standing in front of the vending machines just outside the SIG break room when Simon strode right by him. The other man didn’t even bother to say hello, but DeMarco didn’t call him on it. From the looks of him, Simon was distracted. Again.
He was entitled. The guy had been going through some heavy-duty shit lately. Hell, they all had. DeMarco felt like he’d been put through the ringer ten times over. Then bludgeoned with a hammer. Then cut into pieces and fed to sharks.
He still couldn’t believe Lana was dead. She’d been a good woman. A good friend. DeMarco missed her like crazy. He could barely stand to think about the way she’d died—at the hands of some violent sicko who had ensured her final minutes on this earth had been filled with pain and terror.
Unfortunately, as much as DeMarco grieved Lana’s passing, his own brand of trouble had started rearing its ugly head long before she’d died and he was still dealing with the aftermath. He was having trouble sleeping, and when he did sleep, he had nightmares. He found himself getting pissed off easily, when normally he was pretty easygoing. Hell, DeMarco hadn’t even tried to bed a woman in God only knew how long because the last few times he’d tried he hadn’t been able to get it up.
All that had been going on for months, well before Lana had died.
Ironically, the only person he’d told about his problems had been Lana. And the only reason DeMarco had finally decided to confide in her was because he’d trusted her. Respected her. Liked her.
He didn’t feel the same way about her replacement.
Not that the new staff psychiatrist was a bad guy, at least DeMarco had no reason to think that, but he was a stranger nonetheless.
No way was DeMarco going to admit to nightmares and fucking impotency to a man he didn’t know. Even with Lana he’d held back. Still, talking to her about what had happened in New Orleans six years ago had helped.
Until, that is, he’d gotten the call last year.
Now, the nightmares were worse than ever.
Sometimes, when the horrible images wouldn’t leave his mind, he wished—
He looked in the direction that Simon had disappeared.
Sometimes he just wished he could talk to one of his friends about what had happened. About how much it was messing with his head. But the timing to talk to someone, someone who knew him and cared about him, was always off.
Last year, when DeMarco had been called to New Orleans for his “family emergency,” Jase and Carrie had been smack-dab in the middle of a complex serial killer case. And afterward...after that same serial killer had murdered Lana...well, everyone had been on edge.
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- Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
- Язык: Книги на английском языке
- Объём: 330 стр. 1 иллюстрация
- ISBN: 9781472015174
- Дата выхода книги: 04 января 2019
- Версия: 📚 Электронная книга
Shades of the pastDetective Simon Granger has devoted his life to solving high-stakes cases, and he’s vowed never again to get involved with a woman whose work is equally as dangerous. But when the Special Investigations Group teams him with a beautiful psychiatrist, his resolve is shattered by the tense and emotionally charged partnership…Shades of intrigue Determined to outrun the grief over her sister’s death, Dr. Nina Whitaker reluctantly agrees to use her training to help the police. Despite Detective Granger's disdain for her profession, she believes she can change his mind.But then a grieving father begins a deadly game of revenge, threatening Nina's life, challenging her beliefs, and drawing Nina and Simon together in an explosive endgame of intrigue…and unstoppable passion. Shades of passion…
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