She turned her head to see who was coming and saw Conroy first, Mia right behind him.

  Her partner said, “I’ll call Dean.”

  Conroy came over and crouched. He shined a white flashlight beam at her face. Savannah hissed and turned away from it. He touched her chin. “Let me see.”

  Savannah said nothing.

  “He’s on his way.” Mia stepped to her other side. “Ouch, that looks bad.”

  Conroy touched his thumbs to either side of her nose. She knew exactly what he was looking at.

  “Don’t.” Didn’t matter how gentle he was being.

  He said, “Dean can reset it when he gets here. I’ve seen it done, but I haven’t done it myself.”

  Just the idea of it made Savannah groan. Tears spilled down her cheeks.

  “I’ll check the glove box for napkins.” Mia’s voice trailed away as she rounded the hood of Savannah’s car.

  “What happened?”

  She didn’t want Conroy’s voice to be soft, but it was. Savannah looked around for the evidence bag she’d been carrying. All she saw on the ground was her phone with its now shattered screen. “Took the books.”

  “Huh?”

  She had to be clear. Otherwise she’d have to say this more than once. Savannah took a breath and blew it out slowly. “Shoved me against the car. Took Summers’s books.”

  Conroy stood. “I’m going inside to find the guard.”

  Mia tucked some napkins into Savannah’s hands and said, “Dean should be here in a minute.”

  “He needs to reset her nose first.” Conroy turned away.

  Savannah wasn’t going to sit here and wait for the torture. She shoved off the car and got her feet underneath her. Her foot smarted and she leaned on the car anyway. She pushed to standing, trying to ignore the way her brain didn’t seem to know if it wanted to spin or throb. Maybe both. At the same time.

  “Easy.” Mia reached for her.

  Savannah grasped her hand for solidarity, not necessarily for help staying upright. Her friends were here.

  “Want me to call Tate?”

  Savannah turned to her. Frowning hurt a lot. “Why would I—”

  “Never mind. I just…” Mia shook her head. “Never mind.”

  “Let’s go inside.”

  “Not so fast.” The male voice called out with such authority Savannah’s legs nearly buckled.

  She turned to see Dean striding in her direction. His long legs ate up several feet of sidewalk with each step.

  “That looks fun. How’s the other guy?” He dumped a duffle bag on the ground beside her phone that she hadn’t yet picked up and reached for her face. He touched her chin, turning it to one side, and then the other. “Well?”

  “What?”

  “The other guy?”

  “Oh. He ran off.”

  “Coward.” He dug a pair of rubber gloves from his bag and snapped them on. “I much prefer gunshots, but I guess this will have to do.”

  He reached for her face.

  Mia said, “I don’t prefer gunshots.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you do.” He slid his thumbs down her nose. She knew it was coming and grabbed the sides of his shirt at his waist. “Good. Steady, yeah?”

  Savannah pressed her lips together.

  “A regular southern belle.”

  She started to gasp. He snapped the bridge of her nose back into place. Savannah cried out, mostly out of frustration. How did he..?

  “Ow. That really hurt.”

  He ignored her, digging around in his bag. He grabbed a packet that looked like a cold pack and, flicking it back and forth between his fingers, snapped whatever was inside the packaging. He reached for her again, but she backed off. He held out the package to Savannah and glanced at Mia, “I figure you probably prefer explosions. Right? Flames and burning police cars.” He said it like the whole thing was a running joke.

  Savannah took the package. It was cold, and growing colder, even in the first few seconds she held it.

  He got out a couple of bandages and taped them across the bridge. “Hold that to your nose, and don’t let go until I tell you.”

  “That hurt.” Savannah was seriously pouting. She said, “We are not friends. Are you even a medical professional?”

  “I’m fast. Does it matter?” When she said nothing, he grinned. “In the Navy they used to call me Frankenstein.”

  She nearly dropped the ice pack.

  “As in, the doctor.” He winked, bent for his duffel, and then was gone.

  “That…”

  Mia was laughing.

  Savannah finished, “Wasn’t funny. At all.”

  “Come on, partner. Let’s go find the Chief. I’m a little worried he’s in there reading the security guards the riot act for not seeing what happened to you.” Mia wound her arm in Savannah’s so it looked like they were walking as girlfriends, not cop partners, and not like Savannah needed help.

  Which, considering the fact her head now pounded and she had to hold an ice pack against her nose, meant she probably did.

  “Here.” Mia led her to the waiting chairs in the foyer. “You take a load off, I’ll go find everyone. And maybe some water.”

  “That would be good.”

  Savannah had to sit there, alone in the semidark, for five minutes. Just five, but it felt more like half an hour. She watched the clock tick every long, agonizing second.

  Conroy strode back from the hall, followed by Mia and a security guard. The desk guy. “There’s one guard on duty for the whole building. Can you believe that?” He shifted her hand holding the ice pack in order to take a peek, and winced. “Put that back on.”

  She wanted to fire back a comment, but her brain wasn’t catching up.

  “Cameras caught it, though.”

  She raised her free hand. “I don’t want to see. Maybe later.”

  “Yeah, no.” Conroy pulled out his phone. “I have to make a couple of calls. I want to know where Tate is.”

  “Why…” He was already gone.

  “That sweater—hoodie—again.” Mia groaned. “The guy running from Aggerton’s office? He was the one that did this to you.”

  Tate had done this? No. It hadn’t been him before, so it couldn’t be him now. She couldn’t think straight. The person with his sweater had shoved her.

  The security guard stuck his hands in his pockets. “You probably need to be seen by a doctor.” He looked around. “Uh, you want me to call one?”

  Mia frowned at him. “What I want you to do is figure out who could have assaulted a police detective outside a building you’re supposed to be patrolling. I can take care of my partner.”

  “Outside? Not my purview.”

  “Lucky for you.” Mia’s expression seemed to indicate she thought that was suspicious. As though the guy had purposely ignored what had happened outside. Maybe he was even paid off to look the other way and not call the cops when she was knocked out and had the books stolen.

  That could be why he’d ignored her when she came in to get the books. He’d only shoved the clipboard and then the evidence bag at her, asking to see her badge.

  Had he been paid off?

  Mia turned to her. “Shall we?”

  “Yep.”

  They found Conroy outside, pacing. “Call me.” He ended the call he’d been on and spun around. “I left Tate a voicemail. No idea where he is. But the DA picked up. He has notes and copies of the books, and he said he needs to talk to us anyway.”

  “Let’s go then.”

  Mia and Conroy both looked at her.

  “One stop, one conversation. Then the hospital.” When neither of them moved she added, “Dean already put my nose back in place. What else is there to do?”

  Conroy sighed. “Let’s go.”

  They loaded up in his car and drove across town. With the passing of each street, the houses sat farther and farther back from the curb. Longer and longer driveways. Then L-shaped houses. Detached, double-height, three-car garages. Welcoming lights that lined driveways.

  They pulled up to a wrought iron gate, and Conroy pressed the bottom button on a keypad. He told the speaker his name, and who was with him.

  A second later the gate rolled open.

  “Huh.”

  “Yeah, right?” Mia and Savannah shared a smile. Then Mia said, “Conroy’s been here before, but I never have.”

  The door opened like a great yawn. In the entryway stood a suited man, pencil thin with gelled hair. “The district attorney is expecting you.”

  He led them to a study, where an older gentleman sat behind a desk. “Conroy.”

  “Yes, sir. This is Lieutenant Tathers and Detective Wilcox.”

  She could have kissed him for leaving off her first name. The last thing Savannah needed was attention from the local district attorney. She’d had enough of a relationship with one in her previous life. As it was, she stumbled only to fall into a chair. Probably should have stayed standing, considering the smeared blood on the front of her shirt.

  The assistant guy reached for her and winced. Sorry to muss the expensive furniture.

  She shot him a death glare that seemed to work. Maybe not, though. She figured she didn’t look too good.

  He turned to his boss. “Sir?”

  “Coffee please, Fenris.”

  Savannah resisted the urge to find that satisfying. She should be a better person than to relish in the fact someone else had to take an order.

  “Rough night?”

  She turned to the district attorney, too fast. Her head throbbed and she winced. “You could say that.”

  “Makes two of us.”

  Conroy said, “Sir?”

  “Chief Barnes, I’m afraid someone is trying to kill me.”

  Thirteen

  His back was against the wall. Metaphorically, if not literally. There was nowhere for Tate to go.

  The boot connected with his ribs again. He was pretty sure that one cracked something.

  Tate said, “All right.” That was more than enough.

  “So you’ll talk?”

  Tate gritted his teeth. He took a second and just breathed, trying to clear his head of the pain that made his whole body feel like lead. Or one giant bruise.

  He had to breathe a thank you to Whoever was up there listening. That he hadn’t been kicked or hit in the head was no small thing. And it was a relief they hadn’t settled for kicking and punching him in the gut, either, because he’d have raised his arms to defend himself, and then been tagged in his stitches for sure. Ouchie.

  “Talk.” The gunman pulled his leg back.

  Tate raised one hand. “Okay. Give me a second.” He pulled himself to sitting and said again, enunciating each syllable, “Just give me a second.”

  The gunman shifted his hand, pointing the barrel of his Glock at Tate’s face. He didn’t like being faced with a gun that was so much like one he owned. This one had the safe action system, unlike the regular safety that could be disengaged with the thumb, like most handguns. Anything that made you think in order to operate it—instead of just a point-and-shoot with no consideration—was always his preference.

  While holding a deadly weapon, the worst thing you can do is act on instinct without thinking. Contrary to popular belief.

  “In a second, your brains will be all over this wall.”

  “Okay.” Tate was repeating himself now. “I came here alone.”

  “I know who you are, Mr. Private Investigator. You on a job?”

  “That’s confidential.” Tate decided to just go for it. “And I’ll only talk to your boss.” He gave the guy a second. “I want to see West.”

  The gunman hesitated. One of his buddies snickered. How many were here?

  Tate lifted his chin.

  The amused guy said, “Maybe he should give him what he wants,” with a smile on his face. As though Tate would regret making that request.

  He knew what would likely happen when he went up against the big boss. West had managed to keep his name secret for a long time. Tate had never even heard of him and didn’t have a clue who the guy was. But apparently he was worthy of fear and respect.

  These guys might think their boss warranted caution, but playing it safe had never gotten him anywhere. Certainly not results, at least. The cops had their ways of doing things, and he had his.

  “Take me to him.”

  The gunman chuckled. Before he could speak, red and blue lights flashed outside.

  “Cops!”

  Three of them scattered like rats through the house. The gunman moved in as though he had all the time in the world. He pointed the gun right at Tate’s forehead, pressed the cold metal against his skin. “Until next time.”

  Using the gun, he shoved Tate’s head back. The back of Tate’s head ground against the wall, and then the gunman was gone. Climbing out the window without a look back.

  “Last Chance Police Department!”

  Boots on the wood floor, down the hall. Moving at a steady pace.

  “Clear.”

  “Anyone here?”

  Tate didn’t move. He wasn’t even sure if he could, so that was probably for the best. Probably he looked pretty nonthreatening.

  “Hands!”

  Tate lifted his fingers on both hands, shifting only slightly to raise his palms. Not that he even had the strength left to raise his elbows.

  “Tate?”

  He blinked and focused on the officer, trying to rally some strength. “Basuto?”

  The sergeant crouched in front of him, stowing his gun as he took in Tate. “That looks nasty.”

  Behind him another officer said, “Sarge?”

  “It’s Tate. Radio in it’s all clear, and we’ll get him taken care of. He’s pretty messed up. Looks like he had the snot kicked out of him.”

  “Copy that.” The younger officer stepped back into the hall. Donaldson was his name.

  Frees was just scary looking, and a former marine. Allen was on a desk since he’d been shot a few weeks back. There were other officers, but Tate hadn’t met them much. He and Basuto had worked a couple of cases together.

  “What happened?”

  Tate said, “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  “Got an anonymous tip. Caller said an off-duty cop was being attacked inside this house.”

  He said nothing.

  “And then it turns out to be you. Can you walk?”

  Basuto helped him up. Not without a lot of groaning and gritting of teeth, which the sergeant seemed to think was funny. “Let’s go, old man. You need a hospital.”

  Tate didn’t laugh, though any other time he’d have been amused by the jab.

  “How many?”

  “Twelve, at least. Maybe twenty. It’s all kind of blurry.”

  Basuto chuckled. “The truth?”

  “Four. Get me mug shots, I’ll ID them.”

  “Priors?”

  Tate said, “Probably.”

  Having photos on file with the police department would only be the case if the men had been arrested prior to meeting Tate tonight. He wondered if Hammer’s photo would be among them, and then it occurred to him that the undercover fed must have been the one to call in the anonymous tip. He’d had to leave Tate to those men, and so he’d done what he could to keep Tate alive.

  It hadn’t gotten either of them a result for the operation, and certainly no closer to West. Well, except the phone Hammer now had. But his anonymous phone call had probably saved Tate’s life.

  West. A name they now knew. Which meant the operation hadn’t been a total loss.

  Basuto walked him outside. Donaldson winced. The other two officers he didn’t know couldn’t care less and were walking up ahead. Donaldson said, “Should I call the chief and fill him in?”

  “He’s probably home for the night, right?” Tate didn’t want Conroy to be bothered. Since Tate had stood on the opposite side of the fence, making sure Hammer’s cover hadn’t been blown, Conroy had reason to distrust him. If Tate could read him in about the FBI Op, things would be different. But he couldn’t, so they weren’t.

  Sergeant Basuto said, “He was still in when the call went out that Detective Wilcox had been attacked.”

  Tate spun around to him. Too fast. Everything got dizzy.

  Basuto continued, “They were supposed to go straight to the hospital, but made a stop off.”

  Tate wanted to ask where they were, since he thought Basuto might know but wasn’t saying. Only he thought that if he opened his mouth, he would throw up. He managed to say, “Savannah?”

  Now everyone would know he had feelings for her, or at least cared. Tate brushed off the worry about their opinions.

  Basuto said, “She was collecting evidence from the courthouse. The chief said she was slammed against her car so hard she broke her nose.”

  “Let’s go.”

  They drove him to the hospital, and Tate got seen to. Pokes, prods. X-rays. He let them check everything, since he didn’t plan on coming back soon to see the doctor about anything else.

  Mostly he got funny looks, but he didn’t feel that he owed anyone an explanation about what happened. He figured the fact he’d been brought here, checked in by the police, and then left in the doctor’s care was answer enough.

  He sent half a million texts to Savannah, but she didn’t answer. Then he started with Conroy. Eventually he got back one message.

  On our way.

  He figured that meant Conroy was bringing Savannah in, so he called the number he had for Hammer before they got there. No answer. Tate sent an email to his brother-in-law—a report, essentially.

  “Somewhere to be?”

  Tate looked up from tying his shoe to find the doc standing there, eyebrows raised.

  Tate lowered his foot from the bedcovers. Not how his mom had taught him, or how his sister raised him after her death. Shoes didn’t belong on the furniture. He didn’t answer, just asked a question of his own. “Cracked or just bruised?”

  The doctor said, “Your ribs are just bruised.”

  Tate nodded. “Not steel-toed boots, then.” Getting kicked with those was a surefire way to break a few bones.

  The doctor frowned.

  “Sign me out, doc.”

  “Mr. Hudson—”

  “I don’t like hospitals during the day, and during the night even less so. People walking around talking. Phones. Machines. You can never get rest, so instead of feeling better, you wind up feeling worse the next day. I’d rather be at home.”