Sydney held her breath. “Did he die?”
Jack shook his head. “Probably should’ve, but he was too damned strong. He probably would’ve been better off, for all that’s left of him. He’s in a hospital now. Sitting there, rotting away. There’s nothing left of his mind.”
“What happened to the dealer?”
“He kept firing away for what seemed like forever. I tried to get to my brother, but the door was shattering around me. Then the shooting stopped, and I heard the last two shots. One was for her; the last one he saved for himself.”
They sat in silence. Sydney wanted to comfort him, but no words came, so she lay back again and stroked his arm.
“When it was over, I didn’t know what to do. Everyone I’d ever cared about was gone, and I had nowhere to turn. I kept hoping Jimmy might recover, but there was too much damage. I didn’t have anything left.”
“That’s when you joined the police.”
“I felt so fucking helpless that night. I never wanted to be that helpless again. I don’t know why, but I felt like becoming a cop might help—that way I’d be able to protect anyone I cared about again. Except that it hasn’t really worked. If anything, all the time I’ve spent as a cop, all the shit I’ve seen, it’s made me feel less able to protect anyone. There’s so much ugliness out there, and it’ll find the people it wants to, no matter who’s protecting them.”
She stopped her hand on his arm. “Is that it?”
He gave her a crooked smile. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ve probably got lots of other issues fucking me up, too. I just thought you should know, it’s gonna take some time for me. I have stronger feelings for you than I’ve had for anyone since Jimmy was shot—maybe more than anyone even before that. But that scares the shit out of me, and I’m just trying to deal with all that.”
She lay there for a moment, letting her body settle into his as she started caressing his chest again as though massaging scar tissue. Then she sat up and took his face in her hands, pulling him close into a deep, soulful kiss. When it ended, she whispered to him, “Thanks for the warning, but I’ll take my chances.”
C
ASSIAN MADE IT
to the door on the second knock, opening it a crack; all he had on was his jeans.
“Rise and fuckin’ shine,” Train said, looking his partner over. He stood at the top of the stoop, his rumpled gray suit on, the tie already askew. He was holding three coffees and a bag of bagels, and he started to push his way through the door. “I hope you got a good night’s sleep, because we’ve got a lot of work to do.”
Cassian stepped in front of his partner, keeping him from en
tering the apartment. It was no easy task, given Train’s size. “Gimme a minute, Sarge?”
“What do you mean, ‘gimme a minute’? Take all the minutes you want. I’ll be in the kitchen with the bagels.” He started to push past his partner again.
“Seriously,” Cassian said, refusing to budge.
“I bring coffee and bagels and you expect me to wait outside? Are you shitting me?” Suddenly Train’s eyes narrowed, piercing Cassian. “What the fuck is going on?”
Just then, Sydney’s voice sounded in the background. “Jack, where are the towels? If I don’t take a shower, I’m not going to be fit for decent company, as my mother likes to say.”
Train’s glare intensified, and Cassian was immediately on the defensive. “Sarge, it’s not what you think.” Train pushed the door hard, knocking Jack back a step and giving him a full view into the room. Cassian turned and saw what his partner was looking at. Sydney stood at the edge of the hallway, wearing only one of his frayed T-shirts. Her figure—a fabulous figure, Jack noticed, not without a flash of pride—was clearly visible through the thin cotton, her nipples ever so slightly interrupting the otherwise smooth flow of the fabric. She saw Train and unconsciously pulled at the hem of the shirt, bringing it down over her upper thighs.
Cassian turned back to Train. He leaned against the door in defeat. “Okay, maybe it is what you think, but you don’t have to worry.”
“I don’t?” Train asked slowly, his voice simmering.
“I’m sorry,” Sydney said, clearly feeling self-conscious and recognizing the tension in the room. “I just need a towel.”
“They’re in the closet in my bedroom.”
“It appears she knows where your bedroom is,” Train grunted at Jack.
“I’m sorry,” Sydney repeated.
Jack waved her off. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”
She nodded and turned to head back down the hallway. Then she paused and turned around. “Good morning, Sergeant,” she said tentatively.
Train’s demeanor softened slightly. “Good morning, Sydney.”
“It’s not his fault, it’s mine,” she said. He looked at her noncommittally. Then she nodded and continued back toward the bathroom.
Once she was gone, the scowl returned to Train’s face. “Good to know. It’s her fault. That makes me feel so much fuckin’ better. Maybe they’ll mention that in our discharge papers.”
“Sarge, wait. Before you—”
But Train wasn’t waiting. He pushed his way past Cassian, carrying the coffee and bagels into the kitchen and slamming them down on the counter, the coffee slopping over and puddling on the countertop. “What the fuck were you thinking about, Jack? You know she’s the sister of a murder victim, right?”
“I know.”
“An unsolved murder, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“I haven’t.”
“Technically still on our long list of potential suspects.”
“That list would have to be very long for her to be on it, Sarge.”
“Suspect or not, we put her in protective custody, for shitsakes. In your protective custody.” He rubbed his forehead in disgust. “I should have my fucking head examined for letting that happen.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Sarge.”
Train looked up, his face twisted in anger. “I don’t blame myself! And regardless of what she says, I don’t blame her either. I blame you!” He started to pace. “Didn’t we talk about this?”
“We did.”
“Didn’t we specifically discuss this?”
“We did.”
“I told you—no goddamned personal involvement. There’re people watching this case. We may need this girl’s testimony to convict whoever we find at the end of this twisted rope, and you put her in a position to have her credibility questioned. There’s gonna be hell to pay when the defense lawyer finds out you’ve been fucking her!”
“Hey, back off!” Cassian erupted. “I’m not just fucking her!”
“Oh, sorry, Precious. What are we calling it? Love? Whatever you want to call it, it’s still a major fuckup.” He took a deep breath, calming himself a little. “It can’t happen again,” he said, his voice calmer now.
“I can’t make that promise.”
Train looked at him carefully, calculating his partner’s resolve. “She’s that important to you? You’d risk your career over her?”
Cassian shrugged.
Train shook his head in disbelief. “She better be worth it, because you’re risking everything you got.”
“Even you?”
There was a long silence between them. Then Train’s anger broke like a storm clearing. He shook his head. “Been together for too long to let a little thing like gross misconduct shake us apart. I’m with you whatever happens. What the fuck, if I lose my pension, I guess we’ll all just live off love, huh? I’m just pointing out that to put this much on the line, you better fuckin’ marry this girl.”
Sydney’s voice came from behind him. “I leave the room for five minutes and you’ve got me married off already? Don’t I get a say?”
Train turned. “Sorry, Sydney. I’m just pointing out that you two are playing a dangerous game. You might as well know it, too.”
“That’s his way of saying he’s happy for us,” Cassian said.
“Just sayin’ is all,” Train said.
She looked back and forth between them. “I take it we’re all okay, then?”
Train shrugged. “Got no choice, do I?”
“Good,” she said grabbing a cup of coffee. “So, what do we do now?”
“Now we figure out who killed your sister. If we bury that problem, people will have less of an issue with the two of you.” Train sat down at the table and pulled one of the bagels out of the bag. He ripped off a piece, dipped it in the cream cheese container provided by the store, and popped it in his mouth. “Did either of you figure out how the lawsuit gives us a legitimate motive for Senator Venable?”
Cassian shook his head. “We’ve got nothing. The lawsuit doesn’t even mention Venable’s father.”
“Besides,” Sydney added, “the class of plaintiffs includes patients who were at the Institute both before Venable’s father was there and after he left; so it’s not like anyone can claim from what’s in the pleadings that he did anything that wasn’t already being done.”
“And then there’s the final kicker,” Cassian pointed out. “Even if we could tie the lawsuit to Venable, we’d still have to prove that Sydney’s sister was planning on writing an article about it, and that Venable somehow found out about her plans. At the moment, we don’t have anything to suggest that she was even working on a story.”
Train chewed on his bagel. “I had the computer forensics guys do another search on the hard drive of your sister’s computer at work for Venable, the Institute, eugenics, and anything else I could think of that might be related to this, but they came up empty.” He popped another piece of bagel into his mouth. “You told us a few days ago that you have her laptop, right, Sydney?”
“I do, but she generally didn’t use it for work.”
“Still, it’s the only place we’ve got to start with, so we might as well begin there. Where’s the computer now?”
“It’s at my apartment.”
Train stood up. “I guess that’s where we’re headed next.”
z
Salvage sat in a coffee shop at the window across the street from Sydney’s apartment. He’d spent the evening camped out in the shadows of the jagged entryways and walk-downs that carved their way along the streets of the funky Adams Morgan section of D.C. An area that was home to much of the city’s artistic community, as well as many of the best bars in town, Adams Morgan was constantly moving, and he’d been able to shift from one location to another in the immediate vicinity on an irregular basis to avoid drawing attention to himself. He’d always stayed in sight of the apartment, though, and he was sure that she hadn’t returned.
She’d have to come home eventually, he knew. Even if she was holed up someplace else—at a friend’s place or a hotel— she’d inevitably need to come back for something. In his ex
perience, people always did. Everybody grew overconfident with the passage of time, and everyone made mistakes. He would wait as long as it took for Sydney Chapin to make hers.
He was just bringing the large cup of coffee to his lips when he saw the Crown Victoria pull up and double-park in front of her apartment. The flashers came on and Sydney stepped out of the backseat. For a moment, he assumed that she was simply being dropped off, and that he might have his chance to finish his job and be done with this nightmare of a client. But then he saw the enormous black man emerge from the driver’s seat. Clearly a cop, Salvage surmised. His movements were those of a cop, slow and deliberate, and he squinted and looked around almost unconsciously as he got out of the car. A second later another man emerged from the front passenger side; younger, white, better dressed. Still a cop, though, he concluded—just a newer, flashier model.
Salvage sipped his coffee as he watched all three of them enter the building. He was considering his next move. He wouldn’t take her out while she was with the police unless it was absolutely necessary. He’d be able to do it, but it would most likely involve killing the police officers as well, and the cops never liked it when you killed one of theirs. It would stir up a hornet’s nest, and that would be good for no one. He put his coffee down and pretended to look over the paper on the counter in front of him. He had to be patient; his time would come.
z
Sydney sat on a futon couch in front of the wooden coffee table in her walk-down one-bedroom apartment. The apart
ment was exactly what you might expect for your average twenty-seven-year-old law student. The place was dark and cramped, and the stink of coffee mixed with the odor of mildew that was a fixture in most sub-street-level flats in D.C. The moisture was unavoidable in this city built on swampland.
“Nice place,” Jack commented as Sydney booted up the laptop.
“Suits my needs, and it’s affordable,” she replied.
“The whole independence thing, huh?”
She looked at him and he saw a flash of spirit. “That’s right. Problem?”
“Not at all,” he said, adopting a defensive posture.
The buzzing of the computer coming to life interrupted them, and they both turned their attention to the screen. After a moment the calendar function popped up and asked them if they would like to confirm Sydney’s dead sister’s schedule for the day. “That’s how I learned that Liz had met with Professor Barneton the day she died.”
“Skip over the Outlook program for now,” Train directed her. He was seated on the couch to her right, his bulk making the wooden frame groan in agony as he leaned forward. “Go to the main screen and see if we can find any of her work files.”
Sydney clicked on the
skip schedule
icon and the laptop buzzed and whirred until the home screen appeared. Various files were lined up on its left-hand side.
“Go to ‘My Documents,’” Train ordered. Sydney clicked away and a list of folders appeared. “Anything on Venable?”
Sydney scrolled down. “Nothing obvious.”
“How about the Institute?” Cassian asked.
“Nope. Nothing.”
“Let me take a look.” Jack slid in front of the computer. There were between twenty and thirty files in Elizabeth Creay’s “My Documents” folder. None of them seemed particularly relevant from their titles. Most looked as if they were from long before her murder, and others were clearly outlines or notes from articles on unrelated topics. One file grabbed Cassian’s attention, though. “Consolidated Pharmaceuticals,” he said out loud, reading off the name of the file. He’d only looked briefly through the papers from Willie Murphy’s lawsuit, but the name of the company rang a bell. “Does that sound familiar to anyone?” He turned to Sydney. “Did you bring the printouts from the lawsuit with you?” She reached into her bag and pulled out a sheaf of papers, handing them over to him.