Cross Fire, page 18
“It’s okay, Holly. I don’t mind the hallway. But I could use a pillow.” He nodded to the couch I was standing beside.
I grabbed one of the fat pillows and tossed it at him. I almost took out a lamp with it, but he snatched it at the last second.
“Between the two of us, Marx isn’t gonna have an apartment left by the end of the month,” he commented. “And we really need to work on your aim. It’s awful.”
I crinkled my nose at him and threw another pillow. It nailed him in the back of the head as he turned to leave. That one landed perfectly. I heard him laughing as he pulled the door shut behind him.
I curled up on the couch with the copy of The Wizard of Oz Gin and I had shared, and continued reading it with Riley beside me. She and I never had the opportunity to reach the end of the book before she died, and I wanted to finish it for both of us.
The scratch of a key in the lock two hours later made me sit up a little straighter against the pillows. Marx stepped inside and I relaxed. “Hey,” I greeted.
He gave me an interested look. “Did you banish Prince Charmin’ to the hallway?”
I slid a bookmark between the pages and closed the book. “Nope, he banished himself. What’s in the paper bag?”
“Spaghetti fixins,” he said, his gaze shifting to my feet.
I abruptly realized I still had my shoes on, and my feet were on his leather couch. I lowered them slowly to the floor. “Can I help?” I asked, desperate to feel useful.
It must have shown on my face, because Marx opened his mouth to say something, closed it, and then sighed, “Don’t blow up my kitchen.”
He handed me the bag and stripped out of his jacket and shoes, placing them in their usual spot by the door. He glanced at the new side table, blinked, and then muttered, “What in the . . .”
It was a hot-pink-and-purple zebra-striped table we had found in the teenage girl’s section of the store. Jordan had picked it out. Marx was speechless. When he looked my way, I ducked down behind the bag of groceries on the counter and laughed.
“Holly,” he scolded, which only made me laugh harder. I pointed over the bag at the front door. I heard him rip it open and lean out into the hallway. “Jordan! Is this abominable piece of furniture your doin’?”
“You wanted me to replace it,” he replied.
“This is not Africa. There will be no zebras in my livin’ room. Remove it.”
Jordan laughed as he came back into the apartment. He stood next to Marx and surveyed the table. “I think it adds a nice splash of color.”
Marx grimaced. “It’s loud, and it’s stampedin’ all over my senses. Who in their right mind would ever design somethin’ that hideous?”
“Who said anything about them being in their right mind?” Jordan asked. “I’m almost positive there were drugs involved.” He picked up the table and set it into the hallway before closing the door. “Now it can scream at your neighbors when they walk by.”
Marx grumbled as he walked into the kitchen. He pointed a finger at me. “You quit your gigglin’. It’s not funny.”
I covered my mouth to hide my smile and silently handed him the box of spaghetti noodles. He filled a pot with water and set it on the stove. I started pulling groceries from the bag: sauce, cheese, meatballs, mushrooms . . .
“I thought you hated mushrooms.”
“I do. But there’s a certain young lady who’s fond of them.”
I smiled. There was a loaf of French bread in the bag too. “Out of curiosity, if I weren’t here, what would you be eating tonight?”
“General Tsao’s chicken and fried rice.”
He didn’t even hesitate. Somehow that didn’t surprise me. I tossed the loaf of French bread to Jordan. “Would you cut that, please?”
“Jordan is not invited to dinner,” Marx pointed out.
“So I shouldn’t cut the bread then?” Jordan asked, pausing with a serrated knife over the loaf.
“Cut the bread, please,” I insisted.
Jordan grinned smugly at Marx. “I think Holly wants me to stay for dinner.”
“How unfortunate for you that it’s my house.”
I dragged one of the stools over beside the sink and plopped on it to wash the mushrooms. I was tired of being on my feet. Between pool and walking, Jordan and I had been on our feet all day.
“So how was your day?” I asked.
Marx slid a tray of meatballs into the oven. “Eventful.”
When he offered nothing more, I prompted, “Meaning?”
He set a timer and then leaned back against the counter as he fixed me with a penetrating stare. “Why don’t you tell me about your day.” When I frowned at his displeased tone, he clarified, “I heard you received a few picture messages.”
I shot Jordan a sharp look. “You told him?”
He at least had the decency to look guilty as he admitted, “Technically, I texted him.” My anger must have radiated outward, because he quickly explained, “I had to, Holly. You’re staying with Marx so he can keep you safe from Collin, which means he needs to know any time he contacts you or interferes with your life. How’s he supposed to protect you if you’re keeping things from him?”
“That wasn’t your decision to make,” I shot back.
“You didn’t tell me about the phone calls or the text message at the precinct, and you weren’t gonna tell me about the messages today,” Marx said, and there was some emotion in his voice I couldn’t quite identify. Hurt? Disappointment? “Why?”
I sighed and resumed scrubbing the mushrooms. “Because they’re just pictures and phone calls. You have so much going on already with Shannon, this case, these people who are after you for working this case. I’m not gonna bother you with every little thing, especially when I can handle it myself.”
Marx pursed his lips as he considered that, and I about fell off my stool from shock when he said, “Okay.”
“O-okay?”
“If he calls you or sends you messages and you don’t feel uncomfortable or afraid, then fine. But the moment it makes you feel threatened—”
“I’ll tell you.”
“Just so we’re clear, if he says anythin’ that even suggests he’s watchin’ you, that’s a threat, and I expect you to tell me immediately.”
I could hear the undercurrent of frustration in his voice, and I knew he must be thinking about the message Collin had sent while I was at the precinct. He had been watching me, and I had deliberately kept that fact from Marx.
I nodded in agreement and then asked, “So about your day . . . any luck on the case? Did you find Tear?”
“I did.”
“And? Did he tell you anything?”
“No. He’s dead,” he answered with palpable anger. “I got a call this mornin’ that he was found facedown in the gutter from a gunshot to the back of his head.”
My brain struggled to reconcile that fact with the man I had just seen very much alive a few days ago. “When?”
“Looks like he was killed shortly after you got a good look at him at Shannon’s house. My guess is that when we put word on the street that we were lookin’ for him, he became a liability, and his employers had him executed.”
“Somebody’s cleaning up loose ends and trying to cut you off at the pass before you can dig any deeper,” Jordan reasoned.
“Seems that way.”
I sucked in a worried breath. “What about the kids who bought drugs from the street dealer? The ones you’ve been questioning? Are they gonna go after them next?”
Marx shook his head. “Doubtful, but I won’t be surprised if I track down the dealer only to find a corpse.”
“Please be careful,” I pleaded. “They’ve already made it clear they don’t want you investigating this case, and they’re obviously not afraid to take lives.”
“You do realize I’m a cop, right?”
“So that means I can’t worry? Because I’m pretty sure I just read about a cop dying last week in a shooting.”
“It means I know the risks, and I know how to take care of myself. I’ve been doin’ it for twenty-five years. You don’t need to worry so much.”
I straightened. “Well, by your logic then, I’ve survived twenty-eight years, so you don’t have to worry about anything happening to me either. Clearly, I’m an expert at surviving.”
He gave me a thin smile. “There’s a difference between survivin’ and not gettin’ hurt, and your track record for gettin’ hurt leaves me plenty to be concerned about.”
“He’s got a point,” Jordan agreed. “I’m pretty sure if we dropped you off in an empty parking lot all by yourself, you would manage to fall into a pothole or get hit by a parked car, if you didn’t manage to get kidnapped first.”
I hit him in the chest with a mushroom, and he laughed.
Jerk.
“I appreciate your concern, and I promise I’ll be extra careful,” Marx assured me.
Despite his confidence that he would be okay, I worried for him over the next few days. I didn’t think that worry would ebb until he either solved the case or dropped it, and knowing him, the latter was a foreign concept.
Jace sent me a text to remind me that her sled hockey game was today and she expected me to come. I texted her back:
Bringing the sheriff with me.
Jordan came by to pick me up in the early afternoon. I put on the last of my winter layers in the bathroom at the arena and then went to meet him outside the ice rink. I loved supporting Jace’s sports, but I was allergic to the cold.
Sled hockey, aptly named because the handicapped players competed in sleds rather than skates, was my least favorite of her sports. Everyone looked the same in their protective gear, and I could never remember which number belonged to which player. And the hockey puck was so absurdly small that it was like trying to follow a speck of dust blowing in the breeze.
Jordan looked me over when I joined him outside the shatter-resistant barrier that would protect our teeth if a hockey puck went wild, and his lips twitched.
“Warm enough?” he asked, and I could hear the restrained amusement in his voice.
He was wearing his brown leather jacket, while I had donned the bright-red parka Jace had lent me for just such an occasion, gloves, and a large hat that covered my ears.
“I don’t like the cold,” I said, and the words left my mouth in a puff of steam.
“You look like the Michelin Man rolled in ketchup.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Are you making fun of me?”
He shook his head with a fist against his mouth to hide his smile, but his eyes twinkled. “Not at all.” He cleared his throat. “Do you wanna sit?”
He gestured to the freezing metal bleachers, and I shook my head. “My butt will go numb.”
He lost it and laughed.
“Are you laughing at me?” I demanded. I would’ve put my hands on my hips to look fierce, but the parka was slippery and my hands perpetually sliding down my body would undermine my ferocity.
He coughed a little as he tried to regain his composure. “Do you wanna sit on my jacket?”
“No,” I said firmly. “I wanna stand. Besides, you would freeze, and then I would feel guilty.”
“I don’t mind the cold,” he reminded me. “You apparently do.”
I resisted the juvenile urge to stick my tongue out at him. I turned to watch the players make their way out onto the ice.
“So is this a New York sport?” Jordan asked. “I’ve never seen anything like it before, and I was pretty sure I watched every sport in existence.”
“It’s part of the Adaptive Sports Program,” I answered vaguely, squinting to try to pick Jace out of the players.
“Yeah, that tells me nothing.”
I strained to remember the direct quote from the brochure. I wasn’t great at explaining things. “A program to promote equality for handicapped athletes who are unable to compete in traditional athletic activities.”
“So it’s like traditional hockey, except with sleds.”
“Um . . . I’ve never watched traditional hockey.” I saw the black blur a split second before it slammed into the transparent barrier, and I braced for it.
Jordan ducked reflexively when the hockey puck slapped the barrier with a loud thwack. “Whoa,” he exhaled, standing up straight and looking at me with wide eyes. “That was unexpected.”
I smiled. “Yeah, he does that.”
The culprit skated to the open doorway leading into the spectator area and leaned through it to see us. From the front, I could make out his dark hair and moss green eyes.
Wayne . . . something. I knew that wasn’t right, but it was somewhere along those lines. Dang it, Jace had just said his name a week ago. William . . . Walter . . .
He waved a thickly gloved hand. “Hey, Holly!”
I gave him a small finger wave. “Hi, Philippians 4:13!” He had a habit of wearing his faith on his T-shirt, and more often than not, it was Philippians 4:13—I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. It was the verse that carried me from one day to the next.
His face split into a wide smile. “Who’s your jumpy friend?”
“Jordan,” he introduced himself. “And you just caught me by surprise.”
“Warren, but I’m fine with Philippians.”
I blushed with embarrassment. I would remember his name one of these days.
Someone cut across the ice and nearly smashed into the side of Warren’s sled before veering at the last second and parking beside him. Blue tips peeked out beneath the head gear, identifying Jace before she even turned her head my way.
She beamed at me from the ice and waved so excitedly that I was torn between laughter and shrinking down behind the wall so no one could see me.
“I beat his lap around the ice by three seconds,” she declared. “He’s getting slow in his old age.”
I was a horrible judge of age, but I knew Jace was thirty. I supposed he could be a little older, but . . . probably not.
Warren rolled his eyes. “It’s not the speed that matters. It’s how you handle the puck, and I’m a wizard at puck handling.” He looked at me and Jordan. “There’s free skate after. You two should rent some skates and join us on the ice.”
Jace snorted. “We would be picking Holly up the entire time. She has the coordination of a one-legged cat.”
“There’s an image,” Jordan grinned at me.
Someone blew a whistle across the ice, and Warren and Jace issued quick good-byes before dashing away to rejoin the group. Another team skated out onto the ice, and Jordan watched with rapt attention as the frenzy for the puck began.
I couldn’t follow it. They went left, then right, and then someone tried to take out the wall with their head. The wall won. Jace whipped down the rink and slapped the puck to Warren, and it vanished. I caught a faint blur of movement as it ricocheted back and forth between his hockey sticks, but that could’ve been my imagination.
“And they call this a sport,” a chillingly familiar voice commented.
Terror trickled through me all the way to my toes, freezing me in place. My fingers tightened on the rail in front of me, and my eyes flickered across the barrier, searching out his faint reflection.
Collin stood several feet behind us.
I tried to breathe through the rapidly swelling panic, but even my lungs were frozen. If I kept gasping, they would probably crack and shatter like thin layers of ice.
God, I cried out silently. Please . . .
I didn’t even know what I was begging for. I just wanted Collin gone. I wanted him to disappear in a puff of smoke like some kind of phantom. But he didn’t.
With agonizing slowness, I managed to turn around. Having him behind me left me too vulnerable. My legs felt shaky, and I clung to the rail for support.
All the terrible things he had done to me came rushing back, and it was all I could do not to bolt out of the building or curl into a quivering ball on the floor.
Collin’s ice-blue eyes laughed at me, and I knew he could see my fear. “What’s the matter, Holly? You don’t seem happy to see me, and I traveled all this way.”
Jordan straightened at the sound of my name, and his attention shifted from the game to the man whose voice he hadn’t recognized. Collin’s face must have registered instantly, because his hand dropped to his gun and he stepped between us in the same breath.
“You need to leave,” he said, and the cold, dangerous edge in his voice startled me. He was usually so warm.
Collin considered him with mild interest. “If it isn’t the sheriff.” His gaze locked with Jordan’s, and he smiled wolfishly. “I’m going to guess, judging by the righteous anger in your eyes, that you have a little more information now than you did the other morning.”
“You have no business being near her after what you’ve done.”
“What I’ve done?” Collin’s face twisted into a convincing imitation of confusion, but his tone was goading. “I’m not sure I know what you mean. Maybe you should elaborate. In great detail. I have plenty of time, and I do love the details.”
Jordan’s fingers tightened on his gun.
“Are you really going to shoot me in front of all the children?” Collin asked, clearly doubtful. When Jordan’s fingers loosened on the gun, his lips spread into a smug grin. “I didn’t think so. That’s the trouble with you hero types—spineless.”
“No, we just have a conscience.”
“That’s what I said.” His tone suggested Jordan was dense. “In a standoff between you and me, Wyatt, I will always win, because I’m not shackled by your illogical moral code, or overburdened by a self-deprecating need to put others before myself.”
“Moral codes keep this world in balance,” Jordan replied curtly, his fingers flexing on his gun. I had no doubt he wanted this confrontation over as quickly as I did, but he had no legal grounds to remove or arrest Collin.
Collin could stand there until the arena closed if he wanted to, and no one could touch him.
“No. Moral codes are designed to protect the weak from the strong,” he countered. “To provide them with a veneer of safety they haven’t earned. Isn’t that right, Holly?”
