“IT HAD NOTHING to do with the Triple Seven?” Ethan asked, his face scrunched with concern on the screen of Abby’s computer. It was Sunday night. He’d heard about the attack in her driveway because he had set up a Google alert for her on his phone.

“No, we’re not sure why it happened. The injured man won’t talk.”

“I’m glad you thought so quickly and that you’re okay.”

This was a pleasant talk over Skype, and they had mended a few things.

“But I’m not happy to see the Triple Seven in the news.”

“I’m out of it, Ethan. Another team has been assigned the case. And you might hear a lot more about it. There’s a PI here —he’s related to the cook who saved me.” She told him about Luke and that he was investigating the Triple Seven case privately. She didn’t mention the embrace and flushed as she recognized how difficult it was to forget that.

“I’ve decided that I need to let it go,” she said. “You and Dede have been right all these years.”

“Good.” He paused and Abby knew he had something significant to say. “Abby, you are such a smart, gifted woman. I know that your gifts would be so much more valued and valuable out on the mission field.”

“We’ve been through this. I’m not called to the mission field like you are.”

“Just pray about it. That’s all I ask.”

Abby did her best to keep smiling and promised that she would, but after they ended the call, she knew that even without the Triple Seven, her heart and her mission were in helping people devastated by crime.

By Monday morning, Abby was glad her days off were finished and she could bury herself in work. The better part of her weekend she’d spent explaining to friends and people at church why she’d been hiding her true identity. Everyone understood, but a few were hurt because they felt she didn’t trust them. She really had no idea how to respond to that and prayed she’d have the opportunity to show them they were wrong.

She was first in the office purposely because she wanted to catch up without interruptions. At some point in the day she’d also have to go to the range and retrieve her duty weapon. Happy though she was to be back, she was thankful Jacoby had forced her to take the time off. The horror of the attack had faded, but the memory of Luke’s embrace lingered and Abby wasn’t sure how to deal with that.

She also still pondered her conversation with Ethan. It wasn’t the first time he’d said he thought Abby would be an asset to him and his team. They ended the call praying together, but it continued to nag her how Ethan seemed to think it would be an easy thing to walk away from a career she loved, a career she was good at.

First things first, she started a strong pot of coffee. She needed something to get her mind off disturbing thoughts about loyalty and Luke Murphy. She hated how she kept winding back to the feel of his strong arms around her. True, she could cut herself some slack for the weak moment, but she couldn’t forgive herself for still thinking about it days later.

The trouble was, she and Luke would always have strong interests in the Triple Seven. She’d come to realize his sharp mind and instincts could be a huge help. Yet the more she was around him, the more she wanted to be, and that was not helpful. She’d solve the case and their connection would end. Period. She did not want any further entanglement.

When Abby forced her thoughts off Murphy, they veered onto disturbing questions about just what Asa knew. If he did know something, she hoped and prayed that it was his secret alone. Her mind could never fathom that sort of betrayal from Woody as well.

Sighing, she tried to clear her mind of all but getting caught up on mail and e-mail. There were still numerous e-mails from journalists and news outlets. She responded to all of them by referring them to press relations.

An e-mail came in as she hit Send on one of them. The new one was from Fred Wright, the OC detective.

She picked up the phone and called him.

“That was quick.”

“You got me early. What’s up?”

“Just thought you’d like to know about the autopsy on that guy from the shooting on the bike trail. A ricochet killed him.”

“Ricochet?”

“Yep, best we can figure, the bullet fragmented on the bridge pylon and a big piece hit the guy in the sweet spot. He died instantly. So Murphy was probably the target and the other guy a poor marksman.”

“Lucky for Murphy. Did you get an ID?”

“Not yet. Prints aren’t in the system. And the gun he had on him, the serial number had been filed off.”

“Thanks for the information.” Abby hung up, wishing that case were hers but glad in the end that it was Wright’s because he would share what he could.

A few more e-mails caught her eye. The big man and his partner who’d been at her house were identified as Dac Malloy and Trevor Taylor, residents of Las Vegas, Nevada. Bill had cc’d her on e-mails he sent to LVPD, requesting information, if they had any, on the pair. Since the big guy had been seen at Crunchers, he also made inquiries about George Sanders.

Good thinking, Roper.

There were return e-mails from the Las Vegas cops waiting, and she saw the direction the answers to his inquiries were taking their investigation. Malloy was well known to the LVPD as Las Vegas muscle, had many arrests for assault on file. George Sanders was also well known to the PD as a wannabe high roller and a mean drunk.

Did Malloy and Taylor come here to lean on Sanders for something, or did they work for him? Abby drummed the desk with her pen and frowned. If that is the connection, it was possible Nadine saw or heard something she shouldn’t have. But if that’s what happened, why did Nadine run away? And why try to kill her? If Sanders was the problem, why not go after him?

Every question spawned another.

The last e-mail she opened was a note from Bill. Sanders had retained counsel after their visit. He’d called in his big-name attorney: Ira Green. That sounded familiar, and when she scrolled though an earlier e-mail, she saw that Trevor Taylor had invoked his rights in the hospital and wielded the same attorney. Hmm.

The coffee finished brewing, and she poured a cup. She stepped to her mail slot to retrieve her snail mail and intraoffice mail. As she hadn’t been in since Wednesday, there was quite a stack. She grabbed it, bunching it together as best she could so it would fit under her arm, and returned to her desk and dumped the pile. A generic gray-and-white media envelope caught her eye immediately, and she pulled it from the stack.

Leaning back, she looked at the neatly printed handwritten address, as if it had been copied directly from her business card. She opened it, and out came a DVD and a note written on notebook paper.

Detective Hart, I don’t know where to turn. Please help me. I’m hiding because I saw something I shouldn’t, and now I’m in trouble. If they find me, they will kill me, and if they know I sent you this DVD, they’ll kill my whole family. They have my phone; they know all my contacts. Please watch it and put them in jail so I can go home.

Nadine

The security video Murphy mentioned.

Shock brought a burning sensation to Abby’s throat, and she stood, pressing one hand to her mouth and the other to her stomach. She was glad beyond measure that she had the office to herself. It was several minutes before she could pick the disc up and put it in the DVD player. She powered on the TV and hit Play. As the black-and-white picture came into focus, she could see that it was a static surveillance video with a view of the front and side of a small building. There was a time stamp on it. What she was watching had taken place a month ago. It was couple of minutes before she realized she was looking at the office at Crunchers —the porch and the front door, and the door farther down the side of the trailer.

She watched and after five minutes was about to hit Fast-Forward when the side door opened and a man stepped out, followed by another man she instantly recognized as George Sanders. A third figure emerged who could only be Dac Malloy, and behind him was Trevor Taylor.

Sanders shoved the first man in front of him so hard that the man stumbled and fell to one knee at the bottom of the stairs. Taylor lashed out with a vicious kick to the head that sent the downed man sprawling.

Abby hit Pause and stepped close to the screen. She couldn’t identify the man who’d been kicked, though there was something familiar about him.

Stepping back, she hit Play again and watched as a horrific tandem beating took place. The man in the middle had no chance as Taylor and then Malloy took turns pummeling him. At one point Taylor picked the guy up and held him so Malloy could smack him in the face with something. Abby guessed it was a sap, a sand-filled leather weapon often used by enforcers, and that this was standard operating procedure for the pair.

As she watched the beating progress, recognition slowly dawned. Shock pulsed through Abby and she felt numb. There on the screen, in a time frame covering five minutes and a few seconds, she was witnessing Malloy and Taylor beat Dan Jenkins to death while George Sanders watched.