“What do you remember? Exactly.”
“A brick wall. Men on their knees, bags over their heads, tied. Screaming. Begging for their lives.”
“Bags?” His gaze lowered and lost focus as if she’d triggered a memory for him. Pulling her gun from its holster, she handed it to him. He sniffed the gun’s slide, studying it from all angles. “It’s been discharged,” he said.
“Recently.” They both knew that Cynthia would have cleaned it after practicing at the range. “I have to call Benton and tell him what’s happened.”
Charlie stood and lifted the television remote off a side table, then turned on the set. Local news appeared on the screen, broadcasting live. It was a media circus, and the station’s chyron spelled out, “The Chinatown Massacre.” Special Agents Benton, Gilroy, and Modena—three black-suited, white-shirted, black-tied FBI task force members—were on screen, working behind yellow crime scene tape against the backdrop of a brick building.
“Benton knows,” Charlie said. Cynthia’s heart pounded as she carefully stood, eyes focused on the screen.
“That’s the place…from last night!” She pivoted toward the living room entrance, where she’d dropped her pocketbook, and made quick work digging out her phone and plugging it into the wall charger. “They must have been calling—”
“Since an hour ago.” He stepped to her side. “Six dead. Executed, wrists zip tied, cloth bags on their heads, affixed by duct tape circling their necks.” He tilted his head toward the television screen. “Why didn’t you call it in last night? You called me at ten. Shots were reported around then. That’s a half hour unaccounted for, if the video recorded you entering the safe house at ten-thirty.”
“I know.” She bit her lower lip. “A half hour after the murders, on foot, blocks from the crime scene, holding a recently discharged weapon.”
“A half hour where you didn’t call for backup.” He spoke with slow, measured tones, but she understood the context. Why? Damned if she knew, but she understood her behavior looked sketchy as hell.
“My phone must have died.” She’d left it in the car, in her pocketbook. “I don’t know, Charlie, what more do you want me to say? I don’t know.” He tossed the remote on the couch and took her by the upper arms, forcing her to meet his gaze. Whatever he saw there had him pulling her close, holding on. Evidence shuffled in her head like a pack of cards until the facts lined up. Cynthia looked guilty as sin. He wasn’t saying it, but they were both thinking it. “I’m afraid,” she said. His fingers curled into her back as he more completely formed his body to surround hers, even resting his chin on the top of her head. He was her shield against the world.
“I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve got you.”
She believed him. Cynthia had a target on her back, so Charlie would protect her. It made her feel safer, but it was no comfort. Instead, it just filled her with guilt, guilt, guilt.
Chapter Two
Charlie held her close, hating how she trembled. They both knew she was in trouble. The only questions seemed to be: to what degree, and how could he help. Both he and Cynthia were supposed to be at the crime scene, although his instinct told him neither should be within a mile of it. Just showing up had the potential to taint an evidentiary hearing, thus creating liability for the District Attorney when it came time to prosecute. If Cynthia was the “unknown subject.” The unsub. Which she wasn’t, couldn’t be, but that didn’t mean a judge or jury of her peers would not see it otherwise.
“Why did you come to my house last night?” he said.
Cynthia tilted her chin back, meeting his gaze, but her grip remained strong, as if she feared he’d leave her. “Excuse me?”
“Last night, sometime around nine PM.” Her confusion had him second-guessing himself. “I saw someone in my driveway and thought it was you. No?” Her expression grew stricken.
“Charlie…I don’t remember.”
“I’m sorry.” He gave her a comforting squeeze, and then became distracted by her curves, and how they pressed against his length. He shut that down real quick. Had to, or he wouldn’t be capable of much thought. “I heard something outside last night, looked out the window, and thought I saw you.” He adjusted his stance to subtly put distance between their bodies…just a bit, enough to prevent himself from embarrassing either one of them. “When I stepped onto the porch to check, you were gone and my car trunk was ajar. That’s when I found the duct tape, zip ties, and brown cloth.”
“Huh?” She searched his expression. “You found them in your trunk?”
He nodded. “Then you called at ten. I thought you were calling to explain, but then the line disconnected. When you didn’t answer your phone, I became worried and headed over to your apartment. I’ve been here since eleven last night.”
“Show me the stuff I put in your car.” She stepped out of his arms completely, and Charlie had to stop himself from reaching for her again. What was wrong with him? He clenched his fists, blaming his behavior on his unease. Circumstances were out of control, and instinct told him to hold on, to control Cynthia.
“It’s still in my car.” He led the way through her living room and then out of her apartment to his black Charger, parked at the curb. Popping the trunk, he indicated the items in question with a tilt of his head. Cynthia went over to the driver’s side, reached inside, and unclipped a pen from one of his notepads. She used its tip to lift one of the cloth pieces. Two-ply, a foot square, he noted three of its edges were sewn together, creating a pouch of sorts.
“Charlie, these are—” She dropped everything back into the trunk, pressing her palm against her chest. He looked at the cloth more closely and then immediately saw what had upset her. Yup. They were hoods. “And I put these here?” she said.
“You don’t remember.” It implied brain trauma. He looked more closely at her pupils, and was relieved to see they weren’t dilated. “Like I said, last night around nine, nine-thirty maybe, I saw… I thought it was you.” She turned from him, looking down the street, but he’d have been surprised if she saw anything, because her eyes were unfocused. Cynthia seemed on the verge of a full-on panic attack. “Come on.” He didn’t want her losing it in a public place. He closed the trunk and led her back inside. Soon he had her back on her dark leather couch, frozen peas on her head, clutching one of her fringed green throw pillows.
“I don’t remember, Charlie, and this is upsetting me. I can’t even remember going to the gym,” she said. “Though I know I did. My gym clothes were still damp this morning. What if—” She compressed her lips, seeming on the cusp of crying.
He hovered, trying to catch her gaze. “Let’s go to the hospital.” She needed an x-ray, maybe a CAT scan.
“This is crazy,” she said. “If I was at your house last night, I wouldn’t have broken into your trunk and put evidence inside.” She squeezed the pillow tighter to her chest. “Not without talking to you first.” Maybe. Cynthia was forgetting her recent and dogged attempts to cut Charlie from her life. Because of that damn kiss.
He sat next to her, but was careful not to touch her again. Lately, when she was near, everything had a way of being about what happened after she’d kissed him. The kiss was never far from either of their thoughts, apparently, but for very different reasons. She regretted it, and he couldn’t seem to stop reliving it in detail: how she’d felt in his arms, how she’d smelled, and… Right now, those memories were counterproductive. Charlie needed to focus, and to do that he needed to maintain a physical and emotional distance from Cynthia. Not that he knew how to do that. Not with Cynthia, anyway. He’d never learned.