Ida patted Jameson’s butt. “You go look for her while I get myself to where the band is. Pieced together from the middle school, but they can play some notes.”
Jameson gave her a kiss on the cheek and watched her sway through the crowd gathering at the front of the house. It wouldn’t be hard to find a tall, blond woman in this crowd. The orange glow of the street lamps would be a hindrance since it gave everyone a weird cast to their skin. Even with that, he’d find her easily, and then he’d steal her away to unwind from this day. Sitting beside her would be enough. He needed nothing else but her presence to soothe him.
He got amused considering another wrestling match with her. That would definitely get out the tension that he felt.
The key to getting rid of the stress permanently would be to arrest the right person for the murder of Velasquez, and that seemed too far away, too unattainable. He could harass that guy for days, but even he didn’t think the man was guilty of killing the woman. Tim’s surprise at the news of the woman’s death had carried sincerity to every corner of the room. He doubted that the man was that good of an actor. He and Decker would need to dig deeper for a viable suspect.
Of course, none of this mattered this evening. Zara did, and he’d have to tell her that he talked to Tim. He hadn’t believed her when she said he couldn’t be guilty, and perhaps he should have. Still, Tim had a connection with a murdered lady, and he hadn’t shared much information at all. The guy knew something, and Jameson needed to figure out what it was.
He searched around the edges of the crowd for Zara. When he didn’t find her, he ducked into the house. It was empty except for an older woman rocking a baby to sleep. She said she hadn’t seen a tall white woman, so Jameson walked back outside. As Ida sang a loud, impassioned version of a birthday song accompanied by a bunch of young men, he searched the edge of the people gathered listening.
No Zara.
He blew his breath out, frustrated she hadn’t made it to the party. From a dark place in his brain came a terrible thought. Panic based on fear for her life spread through him. From his heart to his breathing, nothing ran at his normal pace. Emotion threatened to overwhelm his actions. He shoved his hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking. His left hand hit the hard surface of his phone. His heart beat slowed as he realized he could call her.
With a few touches, he listened for her voice to follow the ringtone. It rang and rang, finally going to voicemail. He didn’t bother to leave a message. She’d told him she never checked them. With another few stabs at his phone, he sent her a text message. He stared at it, waiting, hoping she would answer, something sarcastic so that he would know it was really her and not the creep who’d killed the dominatrix.
Nothing. He took off at a jog in the direction of her house. Down one street, left at the next, and a quick right got him to her house. Her red car sat in front of her house. He felt the hood of the engine. Not exactly hot, but not the cold of a long quiet engine. A quick glance showed him that she’d listened to him about getting curtains for the front room, and they were closed. From underneath them, no light shone. He’d have to use the key she told him about if he wanted to go inside. He wondered how she’d booby trapped it, because she said she had good training in doing that.
Before trying her hidden key, he decided to knock first. No answer on her phone didn’t mean she was in any peril. As he took the steps, he paused. This could be stupid, the totally wrong move. What if she were in danger inside? Knocking might panic her attacker. Back up. He’d need it, but they’d laugh at him. He had no proof something was afoot. All he had was a handful of fear for an amazing woman that had breathed new life into him.
Using the extra key was a better idea. If she were inside, he could use the worried about her excuse. She’d be annoyed, but she’d understand. Then, he’d come clean about not trusting her about Tim. Back down the stairs and around to the side of the house he went, looking for that spot in the siding that raised slightly. He turned on the flashlight from his phone to see better in the darkness.
Just about waist level, a board bowed out from the house. He reached beneath it for the key. Something stabbed at his side bringing excruciating pain. Then wetness, his own blood spreading through his shirt. He went into survival mode, shoving the pain away, ready to take the man down. The blade pressed against his throat before he could take the man out. Shit. Zara. Was she safe? He froze.
“Don’t do it. She’ll be dead if you do,” a voice with a yat accent buzzed in his ear. Jameson had heard that kind of empty threat before.
“Nice try. She’s not someone who’s surprised easily.”
“True, but I got you. Who’s to say my cousin can’t do what I can?”
Jameson cursed himself for believing Tim’s surprise. He’d try reasoning first in case Zara was being held against her will with a weapon pointed at her. “Tim, this isn’t the way to go about this.”
“Wrong, you stupid lunk. Tim’s got Zara. The tiny guy is the one with the blade against your neck.”
Fuck. Knowing that runt of a guy had him made the sting of pain in his side worse. He gritted his teeth, pushing away the panic and the emotions borne out of fear for Zara’s safety. He breathed slowly out instead of responding.
“Gonna say something to that?”
“No.” He could take the chance that the kid lied about his cousin having Zara. Even with a wound to his liver, he could call 911. His phone had fallen to the ground right at his foot. One solid upward hit to the guy’s jaw would knock him out, and there was a good chance that the blade of Marcus’s knife wouldn’t cut deep enough to kill him.
“Disappointing. I always thought people would spill their thoughts right before they died. You’ll be the second. Guess I’ll have to change my expectations.”
“Or stop killing.” If Tim did have Zara, they both could be inside. He couldn’t be sure that Marcus, that was the kid’s name, wouldn’t cry out before he fell unconscious. Jameson needed time.
“That I might do, but I so enjoyed watching her die. She had such hatred, then shock in her eyes. Of course, I can’t see yours. What will they look like as you’re gasping for air?”
He couldn’t let this guy get away with killing him. He swallowed and sent a wish that Zara could handle herself. As he tensed the muscles in his legs, the knife sliced through the skin in his neck.
He heard an
oof
, a grunt, and then the sharp crack of knuckles on a jaw. He grabbed his side as more blood spread through his shirt. The cut on his neck added to the pain. Focusing on who’d tackled Marcus, he fought through the searing pain. He stumbled in the direction of the bodies.
Zara’s voice cut through the ringing in his ears. “Get your gun.”
Speaking was a chore, but he focused on it to keep from passing out. “Don’t have it.”
“Shit. Sit on him.”
Jameson was pretty sure he could do that despite the black dots invading his vision. He bent his knees and landed on top of a body. It didn’t grunt, but he thought he felt the chest rise. He couldn’t be sure as he struggled to stay conscious. Weapon, his brain blared at him. “Where’s his knife?”
“Knife?” Panic dominated her tone. “I thought he had a gun. A knife?”
He heard her rustling through the bushes. “It’s here.”
Evidence. “Don’t touch it.”
“I won’t.” She knelt beside him. Her hands grabbed his face. “You don’t sound right. He got your throat.” Her fingers probed the edge of his neck wound. “That’s just at the surface. Why are you so loopy?”
Emergency. Paramedics. “He cut me. Right side.” He tried to raise his arm to point. It flopped to his side. The body beneath him grunted. She hadn’t killed the man. “Phone. Gonna need help.”
Instead of asking where his phone was or why it was there, he watched her shadowed form leap in the direction where he last stood. “Got it. Hold on, Jameson. I’ll get help.”
First aid, his brain blared. “Stop the bleeding. Can’t reach it.”
“Oh, damn. Yes. Yes. I need a kit. Shirt.” He watched her place the phone beside her as she pulled her shirt over her head. She pressed it to his side.
He growled and rocked away from her. She gripped him to her.
“Sorry, babe. Sorry. A little lighter this time.” She pressed her shirt against his back again. A tinny voice called out from the phone. Zara grabbed it. “We need medics and police. My boyfriend has been stabbed. We have the perp disarmed.”
As his consciousness waned, he admired her succinctness. She trilled off her address and repeated herself slowly, clearly. Damn. He knew why he had that ache. He loved her.
Chapter Twelve
Zara paced in the emergency room waiting room. Not being a relative or married to Jameson exiled her to the sterile, plastic chair-filled hell hole of the inner city hospital. The TV played some crime drama, exactly what she didn’t care to see this moment when she waited to hear if that little shithead, skinny guy called Marcus had cut some vital organ or punctured her man’s lung.
Her man. She wished he was, even if he forgot to put on his bulletproof vest. That would have changed everything. Jameson could have pummeled the creep. Not that she minded being the one to tackle Marcus. Although her heart filled with dread that the gun that she thought the man had would go off shooting her or Jameson, she lunged forward anyway. The thud of his body hitting the ground beneath her thrilled her. Down with the shit head. She might have howled in her triumph. She’d have to ask Jameson if he remembered what she did. If she got to see him.
She resisted the urge to kick the wall. Shouldn’t the cops give her some special dispensation since she was the one who rescued him? Frustration took over. The wall got a punch.
“Ma’am, please,” The security guard snarled at her.
She snarled back.
“I know you’re anxious.”
“Just let me back there, and I’ll stop beating the wall.”
“Not up to me.”
The snarl returned to her face. She tapped her foot.
“How about you wait outside? Take a walk around the block.”
“Right. That guy is in there due to a stalker who was looking for me. Want to take bets whether he has an accomplice? I certainly don’t. I’m staying here. Waiting.”
She needed a punching bag or a wrestling match. Ah, she closed her eyes to remember the feel of Jameson’s hands on her as he flipped her onto the mat. The weight of his body atop hers had brought a new type of ecstasy. If she weren’t trying to get out from under him to win the match, she would have grabbed his arms and wrapped them around her to feel the sweat of his skin against hers. She’d also considered licking the sweat from his neck before taking a bite from him, just a nibble. Not enough to draw blood.
Ugh, blood. His, all over her hands. She’d ridden in the front of the ambulance looking at the dark red stains caught in the lines of her palms. Before she’d been able to wash them, the cops had asked her tons of questions. She breathed deeply as they repeated each question, making sure she didn’t change her story.
“I skipped the party, the neighborhood one, because I was upset. I just wanted to go home. I ditched my beer in my neighbor’s trashcan. That’s when I heard the man’s voice. He said someone had me, which wasn’t true. I snuck around the side of the house. I saw a man behind Jameson…Sgt. Kelly…I mean. I thought he had a gun, and I sprinted and tackled the guy.”
“Why?” the cop asked for the third time. “What made you think you could stop the man?”
She blew her breath out so that her lips made a puttering noise. Explaining the unexplainable never made sense. Jameson, someone she loved, was in danger. That meant action, any action, and instantly. But, she tried to give her rationale. “Look, I saw something bad happening. I act on those impulses to make things right.”
“But, you thought he had a gun. Why did you think you could do what a policeman wasn’t doing at the time?”
She wanted to say, “Shut up, punk.” It required her to bite her lip not to let that nicety slip. She cleared her throat. “I was a soldier for almost eleven years. I’m trained to act, not think. There was no thinking. I moved. The guy got smashed once, an uppercut to his chin. I had Jameson sit on him, and that’s when I learned that the guy had a knife not a gun. I got the phone and called you as I gave first aid. No thinking. Acting. When the sergeant gets out of the procedure, whenever that might be, you can ask him. He’ll probably tell you that he did the thinking.”
She smiled and crossed her arms. She was done explaining the unexplainable. Jameson needed her. She would be there. She suspected she always would.
If she got to see him tonight, she’d tell him straight away how she felt and what she wanted from him. She leaned her forehead on the wall, suddenly exhausted from the night. The enormity of her mistake in trusting someone weighed on her. She owed Jameson an apology.
“Ma’am?” The security guard addressed her again.
“What?” She snapped to attention. “I can lean on the wall.”
“Yes, ma’am, you can. The nurse is asking for you.”
She couldn’t believe it. The hospital was breaking a family rule? “Me?” She eyed the man with suspicion. Possibly he wanted her out of the ER waiting room with all of her pacing and pounding the wall.
“Yes. She just called.” He pointed to the phone, revealing dark sweat stains under his arms. Had she made him that nervous? It certainly wasn’t hot in the room. “Your friend is asking for you.”
She rushed to the double doors that led to the entrance of the treatment part of the emergency department. “Push the button already.” She bounced as she waited for the motor to move the doors wide enough to get her through. With a slight turn, she squeezed through the opening and nearly ran into a woman in turquoise scrubs.
“Whoa, there, lady. You must be Ms. Robinson.”
“I am.”
“Good, your boyfriend won’t do a thing we want unless he gets to see you. Come make him cooperate.”
“Ha.” She couldn’t help laughing. “I can’t promise anything. We don’t really hold that much sway over each other.”
“At least try. He’s gonna need some pain meds after all those stitches.”