By the Book, page 12
Nick ignored the unspoken implication that he was more interested in Coyne than the case warranted. Random attraction was one thing; he would not let it lead to anything more involved. “Definitely. The connections are too pat to ignore.”
“Right,” Duncan deadpanned. Then he was gone.
Nick dialed the Boston number first. There was no answer. He tried the Revere one, but that was disconnected.
A woman in scrubs walked into the waiting room. “Special Agent Marshall?”
Nick raised his hand. “Any news?”
“I’m Dr. Lee. May I see some identification?” Nick let her check his badge, but she still hesitated. “Are there any next of kin?”
“I’m trying to get in touch with his mother, but she doesn’t seem to be home. You really need to talk to me, doctor. We have reason to believe that the attack was targeted. The more I know, the better we can protect Mr. Coyne.”
Dr. Lee gave him a short nod. “He was beaten with something hard and heavy. I can’t be sure, of course, but I’d be looking for something like a metal pipe. He suffered a facial fracture, a laceration on his forehead, a concussion, two fractured ribs, and countless contusions. He’s in recovery now, and I expect it’ll be a while until he’s coherent enough for you to talk to him, but he’s young; his body should recover fully in time. I do want to keep an eye on that concussion for another couple of days, though. And he’ll have to come back for a follow-up on that cheek fracture.”
Nick winced, then exhaled slowly. “Thank you, doctor. Does he have a room assigned yet? I’d like to put a uniform in front of it.”
“I don’t think so, but I’ll make sure they’ll let you know as soon as he does.”
She was as good as her word, and a nurse contacted him half an hour later with directions to Coyne’s room.
* * *
Nick stirred out of not quite sleep and shifted in the sober armchair when his back protested against the forced position. Something in the room had changed.
His thumb moved to the safety of the Glock in his hand, and before he was even fully alert, his eyes checked the door, but it remained closed.
His watch told him it was 2:44 a.m.
“’Zgoingon?” Coyne’s voice was barely audible over the ever-present hum of the hospital all around them.
Nick twisted the small clamp light over the bed so that it illuminated Coyne’s face without blinding him. Coyne’s right eye was open, the other, over the heavily bandaged cheek, swollen completely shut.
“You’re in a hospital bed, but you’re going to be fine. Try not to move too much.” The slow drip of pain meds would hopefully keep things bearable for a while, but Nick winced whenever he looked at the man. He was not emotionally engaged. It was simple human empathy with a young man hurt, a beautiful face torn up beyond recognition; that was all. Healing would take time, no matter how young Coyne was.
“M’kay.” The eye closed again.
Nick checked his phone for messages. He’d been trying to call Mrs. Coyne every hour, but either she was a heavy sleeper, a party animal, or on night shift. He felt a tad less urgent about reaching her since he’d been assured Coyne wouldn’t die. Not something he’d wanted to think about. Now that that particular danger wasn’t looming over him anymore, he was able to acknowledge that it had been a possibility, and how heavily it had weighed on his mind. He didn’t need a life on his conscience. Any life. Not Coyne’s in particular.
Still, she’d want to know. She’d want to be here, bring her son toiletries, pajamas, fresh clothes. Even Nick’s own mother would want to know, though it would probably be Dad who’d rush to his bedside and bring him an overnight bag.
Nick tried to remember being eight years old, tried to imagine the terror of watching his father being shot in front of him. He failed.
He wondered how Coyne had kept it together after finding himself in nearly the same situation seventeen years later. About the iron control that must take. At the same time the cop side of his brain drew possible connections, replaced iron control with lack of empathy, and warned him not to get his emotions involved with a man who suddenly looked much less in the clear than before. He ignored the too late that lurked in the back of his mind. But even his cop half found it hard to move Coyne back from the us to the them side of the equation.
Coyne looked much smaller in that hospital bed than the nearly six feet Nick knew him to be. He was so pale that the skin around his unbruised eye seemed translucent. The broad shoulders were hidden under the duvet, and the bandages on his face highlighted how utterly vulnerable a human being was to blunt force trauma.
In a way, all that made things easier for Nick. He didn’t have to make any decisions yet, because no matter how deeply Coyne was involved in the case, or in what way, for now he needed Nick’s protection. In dubio pro reo. For now, Coyne was innocent, and Nick hoped with every fiber of his being that that would remain true.
He leaned forward and studied the broken face, forced himself to really look at it, so that by the time Coyne woke up again, he would be used to it. He didn’t want Coyne to see him flinch.
Long lashes painted deep shadows on the diaphanous skin. The lips were nearly as pale as the face. Nick had a sudden, disconcertingly vivid memory of Coyne catching his lower lip between his teeth, brows furrowed, as he was concentrating on the computer screen in front of him. Kissing lips. Oh yeah.
He quickly leaned back. You are way out of line, Marshall. That memory was best buried PDQ.
For a while, he kept himself busy with his phone, but he couldn’t ignore a man who was only an arm’s length away from him. Every tiny move, every deeper breath made Nick look up and check on him.
Just before five in the morning, Coyne woke up again. “Special Agent Marshall?” He had difficulty getting all the syllables out, but his voice was stronger now.
“Nick will do,” Nick said, before he could stop himself.
“Nick,” Coyne repeated, and the single syllable sent something aflutter in Nick’s stomach. “What happened?”
“You don’t remember?”
That small furrow appeared between Coyne’s brows. “I was at Ma’s for dinner. I remember walking home.”
Nick waited for more, but that was all Coyne had to say. “Do you remember getting home?” he prompted.
Coyne’s concentration turned inward as he tried to remember. “No,” he said slowly, drawing the word out.
“Do you remember calling me?”
“Yes,” he said, just as slowly. Then his expression snapped to attention, and his voice was clear when he said, “Kyle Havering.”
Nick’s brain made a valiant effort to follow, but came up blank. “What about Kyle Havering?”
“Employee zero-zero-four.” Coyne paused, and when Nick didn’t answer went on, “192.168.122.7. That’s his machine. On the audit stamp. The other one is 192.168.19.12.”
Holy shit. He was talking about the computers from which the suspicious entries had been made, giving Nick the IP addresses.
Nick scrambled to get his phone out. If he was right, this could be a major break. At the very least, it was a loose thread that could be pulled. “Say again?”
Coyne repeated the numbers, and this time Nick wrote them down, along with the name. How the fuck Coyne remembered them after everything he’d gone through was beyond him.
“So, what happened?” Coyne asked again.
“You don’t remember being attacked?” Nick asked back.
“By whom?” He clearly had no idea. Dr. Lee had warned Nick that might happen. Selective memory loss wasn’t unusual after head trauma.
“I was hoping you could tell me. I found you in front of your building.” Sometimes that memory loss was permanent. Nick hoped that wasn’t the case here. Still, it was disappointing. “Do you remember your ma’s phone number?”
Coyne reeled it off without difficulty. It was the same number Nick had been dialing all night.
“She won’t be home until six or seven in the morning, though. Night shift,” Coyne said. Which explained that. Then he mumbled, “Why was I attacked?”
The question made Nick furious all over again. Because apparently you can’t stop throwing yourself in harm’s way. Out loud he said, “I don’t know. But I intend to find out. As soon as my replacement gets here.”
“Replacement?”
“Protective detail. You don’t want whoever did this to try again, do you?”
A shudder went through Coyne’s body that made Nick regret his choice of words.
“So, you’re here on duty?” Coyne asked.
“Well, yes, of course.”
“Oh.” A world of disappointment rang in that short word. And Nick couldn’t have given a single reason why that should make his day.
* * *
Nick sat in a coffee shop across from Arch Tower with a breakfast bagel and a coffee that wasn’t even in the same league as the hospital brew. He’d finally reached Mrs. Coyne, and, man, talk about being wary of the law. It made Nick want to take a look at the file on Coyne’s father. For now, he’d left Coyne in his mother’s care and under the watchful eyes of a Sergeant Odell from the BPD. Duncan had dropped by to collect Coyne’s effects and whatever possible evidence the nurse had combed out of Coyne’s hair and scraped from under his fingernails.
Nick had quickly driven home for a shower and shave, and to ditch his blood-soaked suit. He’d pissed off George again by not staying long enough for what she considered a proper breakfast, though she’d mellowed when he’d asked her to drive him to the Bureau, and use the Jag for the rest of the day as she pleased. He’d signed out an unmarked Ford Taurus that would be more suitable than the two-seater Jaguar to transporting a suspect if needed.
The bagel did the job well enough. When Nick was reasonably sure everyone at Venture would be at their desks, he washed down the last bite with the rest of his coffee and went across the road and up to the tenth floor.
Sullivan’s secretary descended on him as soon as he walked in the door. “I’m afraid Mr. Sullivan can’t be disturbed right now.”
“I have no intention of disturbing Mr. Sullivan,” Nick said. “I merely have a few questions for Kyle Havering. Where would I find him?”
“Main office, leftmost corner desk under the windows,” she said without getting up, clearly ready to defend the entrance to Sullivan’s office against opposition.
Nick was happy with that. He didn’t need her buzzing around him.
When he stepped into the main office, however, the desk she had indicated was empty.
“Mr. Havering isn’t in yet?” Nick asked the guy at the next desk.
“He was. Might have gone to the restroom. End of the hallway to the right.”
Nick didn’t make a habit of barging in on people in the middle of their business, but surprise could be an advantage.
He stopped short of pushing the door open, though, when he heard Sullivan’s voice on the other side. “And what do you think he would have done, you brain-dead moron? Now the cops are going to be down on us like flies again. Fuck.”
A voice Nick didn’t recognize said, “Sorry, boss. I just thought—”
“I don’t pay you to think,” Sullivan interrupted. “I pay you to follow orders. Leave the thinking to me. Did he see your face?”
The other man mumbled something Nick couldn’t understand, then Sullivan said, “Well, you better take care of him then. Fuck! I do not want to see him in the witness box. You got that?”
“Yes, boss.”
“Get the fuck out of here before I lose my temper.”
Nick quickly ducked into the break room until both men had left. Sullivan had to feel quite safe if he kept conducting his shady business behind half-open doors. Not that Nick had learned much from their conversation. Was the second man Havering or some hired goon?
He went back to the main office, where, at the corner desk, a big man was grabbing his jacket, getting ready to leave.
Nick went over. “Kyle Havering?”
“I am. You’re one of the agents who was here earlier, am I right?” Definitely the voice of the guy in the restroom.
“Special Agent Marshall. We have a few more questions concerning some entries in the accounts you may have made. I’ll need you to come with me.”
Havering looked surprised. “Like what? Right now?”
“Please.” The thought of that big guy against Ben... Nick wanted to break his skull so bad his hand itched. Politeness was his refuge.
“I was just going to run some errands. Can it wait until this afternoon?”
Nick ground his teeth. I heard exactly what errand you’re on: keeping Ben out of the witness box. “I’m afraid not. Do yourself a favor, Mr. Havering, don’t make me march you out of here in handcuffs.”
“Okay, okay. No need to get heavy-handed.”
Nick almost decked him then. He took a step back and motioned toward the exit. It was all he could do to keep his hands off the piece of excrement.
Havering didn’t fold easily into the back of the Taurus. He must have been nearly twice Coyne’s weight. Nick’s fingernails dug painfully into his palm.
He drove to the field office in silence, though Havering kept asking questions, and tried to make small talk. The man never shut up. Nick hoped he would keep that up during questioning.
He sat Havering down in an interrogation room and had someone bring him coffee. Then he called up to accounting for a printout of the entries he wanted. The ones made from the two IP addresses Coyne had given him.
“Are you psychic?” Greg asked. “I was just going to tell you about those.”
At least the boys weren’t completely useless. Coyne had just been faster.
“Magic,” Nick said. “Send the lists down to printer five, please, ASAP.” Let Greg puzzle over how Nick had found out. Couldn’t hurt if people believed that he was a step ahead of them.
Unfortunately, they got nothing from Havering. He was charged with fraud, and money laundering. But Nick wanted him on the book for assault with a weapon and possibly murder. He was sure Havering was the man who’d beaten up Coyne. And if he was Sullivan’s enforcer, it made sense that he would have killed Henderson, though something in that scenario didn’t sit right with Nick. Different styles. It would explain why they hadn’t seen him come out of the building, though. He’d simply have gone back to his office.
Nick swore under his breath. He could prove none of this. Neither Havering nor Sullivan had mentioned a name in that bathroom. Whatever conclusions Nick might draw, the judge would call them conjecture. And Havering had stopped talking.
Nick was glad they had him off the streets for now, but he wouldn’t get a good night’s sleep until Sullivan was under lock and key as well.
With a sigh, he went into Peña’s office to talk to his boss about placing Coyne in protective custody as soon as he was released from hospital.
Chapter Eleven
Ben
“Protective what?” Ben hurt everywhere—the blazing headache especially made listening difficult—but that got his attention.
“Protective custody,” Marshall repeated patiently.
“I’m not a child.” Even talking hurt.
“I noticed.” The words vibrated on a suppressed growl, but before Ben could question the reason why, Marshall went on, “I’m talking about police custody, Mr. Coyne, not child welfare.”
Ben almost protested the formal address. Hadn’t Marshall called him Ben a few nights ago? The exact words escaped him, but he was fairly sure he hadn’t just hallucinated that. Well, apparently things were different now. Quite different. Except for the pain. That was still there, with interest. Large mining equipment inside his skull. “Oh, that makes it much better. Throw me in jail, why don’t you?”
Marshall rolled his eyes. He really did. Ben had broken Agent Poker Face. “I never said anything about jail. We have a few protected locations that are fully stocked and furnished.”
Ben threw a surreptitious glance at the small cup with painkillers on his dinner tray. He was supposed to eat first, but the pills looked way more tempting than the hospital food. “Like a safe house?”
“Yes, a safe house. With your permission, I’ll get you some clothes from your apartment, and come back here to pick you up when you’ll be released tomorrow.”
Maybe Ben should try another spoonful of the mashed potatoes? They couldn’t possibly really taste like Elmer’s Glue, could they?
They did. Ben washed them down with some water before they could stick to the inside of his mouth. He couldn’t chew for the moment, even talking hurt, but did they have to serve him that? “My mother is going to pack me some stuff,” he said, still somewhat thickly. She’d dropped by with toiletries and things as soon as she’d heard where he was, and she was going to pick him up tomorrow.
“I’ll talk to her. I don’t think it’s wise for your mother to go back to your apartment for the time being,” Marshall said, leaving Ben to draw his own conclusions.
Good point, probably, but Ben wasn’t drugged enough to be charitable, and yet too drugged not to enjoy tormenting Special Agent Marshall. “You just want to paw through my underwear.” He’d have loved to milk that image a bit more, but the drugs made him slow, and Marshall’s answer came like ice water.
“I can assure you, Mr. Coyne, I’ll be perfectly happy to assign the task.” And yet, was there the faintest bit of color rising up Marshall’s neck?
A hazy memory surfaced in Ben’s mind, of Marshall telling him to call him Nick. Had he dreamed that? He glanced at that angular, somewhat forbidding face and found himself unable to think of the man as Nick. This was definitely Special Agent Marshall: competent, authoritative, abrasive. Nick was softer, more pliant, less in control. Way less. That almost-kiss...
“Right,” Duncan deadpanned. Then he was gone.
Nick dialed the Boston number first. There was no answer. He tried the Revere one, but that was disconnected.
A woman in scrubs walked into the waiting room. “Special Agent Marshall?”
Nick raised his hand. “Any news?”
“I’m Dr. Lee. May I see some identification?” Nick let her check his badge, but she still hesitated. “Are there any next of kin?”
“I’m trying to get in touch with his mother, but she doesn’t seem to be home. You really need to talk to me, doctor. We have reason to believe that the attack was targeted. The more I know, the better we can protect Mr. Coyne.”
Dr. Lee gave him a short nod. “He was beaten with something hard and heavy. I can’t be sure, of course, but I’d be looking for something like a metal pipe. He suffered a facial fracture, a laceration on his forehead, a concussion, two fractured ribs, and countless contusions. He’s in recovery now, and I expect it’ll be a while until he’s coherent enough for you to talk to him, but he’s young; his body should recover fully in time. I do want to keep an eye on that concussion for another couple of days, though. And he’ll have to come back for a follow-up on that cheek fracture.”
Nick winced, then exhaled slowly. “Thank you, doctor. Does he have a room assigned yet? I’d like to put a uniform in front of it.”
“I don’t think so, but I’ll make sure they’ll let you know as soon as he does.”
She was as good as her word, and a nurse contacted him half an hour later with directions to Coyne’s room.
* * *
Nick stirred out of not quite sleep and shifted in the sober armchair when his back protested against the forced position. Something in the room had changed.
His thumb moved to the safety of the Glock in his hand, and before he was even fully alert, his eyes checked the door, but it remained closed.
His watch told him it was 2:44 a.m.
“’Zgoingon?” Coyne’s voice was barely audible over the ever-present hum of the hospital all around them.
Nick twisted the small clamp light over the bed so that it illuminated Coyne’s face without blinding him. Coyne’s right eye was open, the other, over the heavily bandaged cheek, swollen completely shut.
“You’re in a hospital bed, but you’re going to be fine. Try not to move too much.” The slow drip of pain meds would hopefully keep things bearable for a while, but Nick winced whenever he looked at the man. He was not emotionally engaged. It was simple human empathy with a young man hurt, a beautiful face torn up beyond recognition; that was all. Healing would take time, no matter how young Coyne was.
“M’kay.” The eye closed again.
Nick checked his phone for messages. He’d been trying to call Mrs. Coyne every hour, but either she was a heavy sleeper, a party animal, or on night shift. He felt a tad less urgent about reaching her since he’d been assured Coyne wouldn’t die. Not something he’d wanted to think about. Now that that particular danger wasn’t looming over him anymore, he was able to acknowledge that it had been a possibility, and how heavily it had weighed on his mind. He didn’t need a life on his conscience. Any life. Not Coyne’s in particular.
Still, she’d want to know. She’d want to be here, bring her son toiletries, pajamas, fresh clothes. Even Nick’s own mother would want to know, though it would probably be Dad who’d rush to his bedside and bring him an overnight bag.
Nick tried to remember being eight years old, tried to imagine the terror of watching his father being shot in front of him. He failed.
He wondered how Coyne had kept it together after finding himself in nearly the same situation seventeen years later. About the iron control that must take. At the same time the cop side of his brain drew possible connections, replaced iron control with lack of empathy, and warned him not to get his emotions involved with a man who suddenly looked much less in the clear than before. He ignored the too late that lurked in the back of his mind. But even his cop half found it hard to move Coyne back from the us to the them side of the equation.
Coyne looked much smaller in that hospital bed than the nearly six feet Nick knew him to be. He was so pale that the skin around his unbruised eye seemed translucent. The broad shoulders were hidden under the duvet, and the bandages on his face highlighted how utterly vulnerable a human being was to blunt force trauma.
In a way, all that made things easier for Nick. He didn’t have to make any decisions yet, because no matter how deeply Coyne was involved in the case, or in what way, for now he needed Nick’s protection. In dubio pro reo. For now, Coyne was innocent, and Nick hoped with every fiber of his being that that would remain true.
He leaned forward and studied the broken face, forced himself to really look at it, so that by the time Coyne woke up again, he would be used to it. He didn’t want Coyne to see him flinch.
Long lashes painted deep shadows on the diaphanous skin. The lips were nearly as pale as the face. Nick had a sudden, disconcertingly vivid memory of Coyne catching his lower lip between his teeth, brows furrowed, as he was concentrating on the computer screen in front of him. Kissing lips. Oh yeah.
He quickly leaned back. You are way out of line, Marshall. That memory was best buried PDQ.
For a while, he kept himself busy with his phone, but he couldn’t ignore a man who was only an arm’s length away from him. Every tiny move, every deeper breath made Nick look up and check on him.
Just before five in the morning, Coyne woke up again. “Special Agent Marshall?” He had difficulty getting all the syllables out, but his voice was stronger now.
“Nick will do,” Nick said, before he could stop himself.
“Nick,” Coyne repeated, and the single syllable sent something aflutter in Nick’s stomach. “What happened?”
“You don’t remember?”
That small furrow appeared between Coyne’s brows. “I was at Ma’s for dinner. I remember walking home.”
Nick waited for more, but that was all Coyne had to say. “Do you remember getting home?” he prompted.
Coyne’s concentration turned inward as he tried to remember. “No,” he said slowly, drawing the word out.
“Do you remember calling me?”
“Yes,” he said, just as slowly. Then his expression snapped to attention, and his voice was clear when he said, “Kyle Havering.”
Nick’s brain made a valiant effort to follow, but came up blank. “What about Kyle Havering?”
“Employee zero-zero-four.” Coyne paused, and when Nick didn’t answer went on, “192.168.122.7. That’s his machine. On the audit stamp. The other one is 192.168.19.12.”
Holy shit. He was talking about the computers from which the suspicious entries had been made, giving Nick the IP addresses.
Nick scrambled to get his phone out. If he was right, this could be a major break. At the very least, it was a loose thread that could be pulled. “Say again?”
Coyne repeated the numbers, and this time Nick wrote them down, along with the name. How the fuck Coyne remembered them after everything he’d gone through was beyond him.
“So, what happened?” Coyne asked again.
“You don’t remember being attacked?” Nick asked back.
“By whom?” He clearly had no idea. Dr. Lee had warned Nick that might happen. Selective memory loss wasn’t unusual after head trauma.
“I was hoping you could tell me. I found you in front of your building.” Sometimes that memory loss was permanent. Nick hoped that wasn’t the case here. Still, it was disappointing. “Do you remember your ma’s phone number?”
Coyne reeled it off without difficulty. It was the same number Nick had been dialing all night.
“She won’t be home until six or seven in the morning, though. Night shift,” Coyne said. Which explained that. Then he mumbled, “Why was I attacked?”
The question made Nick furious all over again. Because apparently you can’t stop throwing yourself in harm’s way. Out loud he said, “I don’t know. But I intend to find out. As soon as my replacement gets here.”
“Replacement?”
“Protective detail. You don’t want whoever did this to try again, do you?”
A shudder went through Coyne’s body that made Nick regret his choice of words.
“So, you’re here on duty?” Coyne asked.
“Well, yes, of course.”
“Oh.” A world of disappointment rang in that short word. And Nick couldn’t have given a single reason why that should make his day.
* * *
Nick sat in a coffee shop across from Arch Tower with a breakfast bagel and a coffee that wasn’t even in the same league as the hospital brew. He’d finally reached Mrs. Coyne, and, man, talk about being wary of the law. It made Nick want to take a look at the file on Coyne’s father. For now, he’d left Coyne in his mother’s care and under the watchful eyes of a Sergeant Odell from the BPD. Duncan had dropped by to collect Coyne’s effects and whatever possible evidence the nurse had combed out of Coyne’s hair and scraped from under his fingernails.
Nick had quickly driven home for a shower and shave, and to ditch his blood-soaked suit. He’d pissed off George again by not staying long enough for what she considered a proper breakfast, though she’d mellowed when he’d asked her to drive him to the Bureau, and use the Jag for the rest of the day as she pleased. He’d signed out an unmarked Ford Taurus that would be more suitable than the two-seater Jaguar to transporting a suspect if needed.
The bagel did the job well enough. When Nick was reasonably sure everyone at Venture would be at their desks, he washed down the last bite with the rest of his coffee and went across the road and up to the tenth floor.
Sullivan’s secretary descended on him as soon as he walked in the door. “I’m afraid Mr. Sullivan can’t be disturbed right now.”
“I have no intention of disturbing Mr. Sullivan,” Nick said. “I merely have a few questions for Kyle Havering. Where would I find him?”
“Main office, leftmost corner desk under the windows,” she said without getting up, clearly ready to defend the entrance to Sullivan’s office against opposition.
Nick was happy with that. He didn’t need her buzzing around him.
When he stepped into the main office, however, the desk she had indicated was empty.
“Mr. Havering isn’t in yet?” Nick asked the guy at the next desk.
“He was. Might have gone to the restroom. End of the hallway to the right.”
Nick didn’t make a habit of barging in on people in the middle of their business, but surprise could be an advantage.
He stopped short of pushing the door open, though, when he heard Sullivan’s voice on the other side. “And what do you think he would have done, you brain-dead moron? Now the cops are going to be down on us like flies again. Fuck.”
A voice Nick didn’t recognize said, “Sorry, boss. I just thought—”
“I don’t pay you to think,” Sullivan interrupted. “I pay you to follow orders. Leave the thinking to me. Did he see your face?”
The other man mumbled something Nick couldn’t understand, then Sullivan said, “Well, you better take care of him then. Fuck! I do not want to see him in the witness box. You got that?”
“Yes, boss.”
“Get the fuck out of here before I lose my temper.”
Nick quickly ducked into the break room until both men had left. Sullivan had to feel quite safe if he kept conducting his shady business behind half-open doors. Not that Nick had learned much from their conversation. Was the second man Havering or some hired goon?
He went back to the main office, where, at the corner desk, a big man was grabbing his jacket, getting ready to leave.
Nick went over. “Kyle Havering?”
“I am. You’re one of the agents who was here earlier, am I right?” Definitely the voice of the guy in the restroom.
“Special Agent Marshall. We have a few more questions concerning some entries in the accounts you may have made. I’ll need you to come with me.”
Havering looked surprised. “Like what? Right now?”
“Please.” The thought of that big guy against Ben... Nick wanted to break his skull so bad his hand itched. Politeness was his refuge.
“I was just going to run some errands. Can it wait until this afternoon?”
Nick ground his teeth. I heard exactly what errand you’re on: keeping Ben out of the witness box. “I’m afraid not. Do yourself a favor, Mr. Havering, don’t make me march you out of here in handcuffs.”
“Okay, okay. No need to get heavy-handed.”
Nick almost decked him then. He took a step back and motioned toward the exit. It was all he could do to keep his hands off the piece of excrement.
Havering didn’t fold easily into the back of the Taurus. He must have been nearly twice Coyne’s weight. Nick’s fingernails dug painfully into his palm.
He drove to the field office in silence, though Havering kept asking questions, and tried to make small talk. The man never shut up. Nick hoped he would keep that up during questioning.
He sat Havering down in an interrogation room and had someone bring him coffee. Then he called up to accounting for a printout of the entries he wanted. The ones made from the two IP addresses Coyne had given him.
“Are you psychic?” Greg asked. “I was just going to tell you about those.”
At least the boys weren’t completely useless. Coyne had just been faster.
“Magic,” Nick said. “Send the lists down to printer five, please, ASAP.” Let Greg puzzle over how Nick had found out. Couldn’t hurt if people believed that he was a step ahead of them.
Unfortunately, they got nothing from Havering. He was charged with fraud, and money laundering. But Nick wanted him on the book for assault with a weapon and possibly murder. He was sure Havering was the man who’d beaten up Coyne. And if he was Sullivan’s enforcer, it made sense that he would have killed Henderson, though something in that scenario didn’t sit right with Nick. Different styles. It would explain why they hadn’t seen him come out of the building, though. He’d simply have gone back to his office.
Nick swore under his breath. He could prove none of this. Neither Havering nor Sullivan had mentioned a name in that bathroom. Whatever conclusions Nick might draw, the judge would call them conjecture. And Havering had stopped talking.
Nick was glad they had him off the streets for now, but he wouldn’t get a good night’s sleep until Sullivan was under lock and key as well.
With a sigh, he went into Peña’s office to talk to his boss about placing Coyne in protective custody as soon as he was released from hospital.
Chapter Eleven
Ben
“Protective what?” Ben hurt everywhere—the blazing headache especially made listening difficult—but that got his attention.
“Protective custody,” Marshall repeated patiently.
“I’m not a child.” Even talking hurt.
“I noticed.” The words vibrated on a suppressed growl, but before Ben could question the reason why, Marshall went on, “I’m talking about police custody, Mr. Coyne, not child welfare.”
Ben almost protested the formal address. Hadn’t Marshall called him Ben a few nights ago? The exact words escaped him, but he was fairly sure he hadn’t just hallucinated that. Well, apparently things were different now. Quite different. Except for the pain. That was still there, with interest. Large mining equipment inside his skull. “Oh, that makes it much better. Throw me in jail, why don’t you?”
Marshall rolled his eyes. He really did. Ben had broken Agent Poker Face. “I never said anything about jail. We have a few protected locations that are fully stocked and furnished.”
Ben threw a surreptitious glance at the small cup with painkillers on his dinner tray. He was supposed to eat first, but the pills looked way more tempting than the hospital food. “Like a safe house?”
“Yes, a safe house. With your permission, I’ll get you some clothes from your apartment, and come back here to pick you up when you’ll be released tomorrow.”
Maybe Ben should try another spoonful of the mashed potatoes? They couldn’t possibly really taste like Elmer’s Glue, could they?
They did. Ben washed them down with some water before they could stick to the inside of his mouth. He couldn’t chew for the moment, even talking hurt, but did they have to serve him that? “My mother is going to pack me some stuff,” he said, still somewhat thickly. She’d dropped by with toiletries and things as soon as she’d heard where he was, and she was going to pick him up tomorrow.
“I’ll talk to her. I don’t think it’s wise for your mother to go back to your apartment for the time being,” Marshall said, leaving Ben to draw his own conclusions.
Good point, probably, but Ben wasn’t drugged enough to be charitable, and yet too drugged not to enjoy tormenting Special Agent Marshall. “You just want to paw through my underwear.” He’d have loved to milk that image a bit more, but the drugs made him slow, and Marshall’s answer came like ice water.
“I can assure you, Mr. Coyne, I’ll be perfectly happy to assign the task.” And yet, was there the faintest bit of color rising up Marshall’s neck?
A hazy memory surfaced in Ben’s mind, of Marshall telling him to call him Nick. Had he dreamed that? He glanced at that angular, somewhat forbidding face and found himself unable to think of the man as Nick. This was definitely Special Agent Marshall: competent, authoritative, abrasive. Nick was softer, more pliant, less in control. Way less. That almost-kiss...
