CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Heather turned to Brooke. “Are you okay?” she asked, her concern evident.
Tears gathered at her friend’s question, and Brooke swiped at them to clear her bleary eyes, wishing she could sleep for a week. Without dreams or nightmares. “No, I’m not okay. Sharon is dead, and I think it was supposed to be me who was killed, not her.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because if you think about it, we look fairly similar. Like, if the killer had a rough description or a bad picture—”
“Like the one in the paper?”
Brooke frowned. “Yes, like the one in the paper. I can see how he might mistake her for me. Especially since she was in my office.” She ran a hand over her face. “Probably fixing coffee for me like she’s done every morning since I started working there.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “She died because she was fixing coffee. For me.”
“That’s a big leap there.”
“Maybe.” She dropped her hands to her lap. “And I wouldn’t have even thought about it if someone hadn’t been in my house when I got home. Now, I just don’t know. I wonder . . .”
Heather narrowed her eyes. “Wonder what?”
“I had a client in Afghanistan. He was from this area and I had to send him home.”
Her friend straightened and her eyes sharpened. “You think he’s the one who did this? That he was coming after you because he wants revenge?”
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
“I think it’s not out of the realm of possibility and it needs to be checked out.”
Brooke nodded.
“You need some sleep,” Heather said.
“Yeah.” Brooke lifted her gaze to meet Heather’s. “Are you sure you’re okay with me staying here tonight? You need your rest too, and I might . . . well, you know.”
Heather scowled. “The fact that you even asked is insulting.”
“I know.”
“Good.” Heather yawned. “I think I’m going to take a hot shower and grab some sleep while I can. You don’t have to worry about waking me up tonight anyway. I’m on call.”
“Bless your heart.”
Her friend stood. “And I wouldn’t mind if you did.”
“What?”
“Wake me up. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
Heather hugged her and Brooke cherished the sweet connection for the brief moment. God may not have blessed her with the kind of family she’d always yearned for growing up, but he’d made up for that in the kind of friends he’d placed in her life.
Heather stepped back, smothering another yawn. “Oh my. I’m tired. Thank you for the fabulous meal. Now I’m going to leave you with this positive thought.”
“If you can’t make it as a shrink, you can always start a catering business.”
Brooke tossed her wadded napkin at Heather as the woman left. Heather’s lighthearted teasing never failed to lift her spirits. Today was no exception, in spite of the tragedy she’d just suffered.
But now her friend was gone and Asher was in the den still talking on the phone. As it didn’t sound like a conversation with someone at the hospital, he was probably talking to one of his coworkers.
Brooke crossed her arms in front of her on the table and rested her head on them. The action pulled at the scars on her back, but she ignored the sensation and closed her eyes.
“Wake up! Wake up!” She shook him, but his eyes were locked on the ceiling above. Pop! Pop! The fire crackled. The smoke moved in, covering her like a weighted blanket. She coughed, unable to breathe. The pain finally registered and she looked down to see her arms engulfed. The right one fell off, then the left. Isaiah picked one up and held it out to her. She didn’t understand. He was dead. He shouldn’t be able to help her. He was dead!
She screamed.
A hand shook her. “Brooke, hey, Brooke, it’s okay. Wake up.”
Her eyes popped open. The flames and smoke faded. Her fingers—of both attached arms—curled into fists. Asher sat in the chair next to her, eyes full of compassion and understanding. “How long was I screaming?” she asked, her voice husky, thick with sleep. The fact that she’d basically passed out the moment she’d closed her eyes told her what she already knew. She needed to find a way to deal with the nightmares.
“Just once.”
Her gaze flicked toward the stairs.
“Heather didn’t hear it, I don’t think. The shower’s still running.” He frowned. “And I think I hear music.”
“She has a shower radio.” Brooke pushed to her feet, cheeks heated, shame gripping her. “Sorry about that.” She shouldn’t have relaxed or let her guard down, but she was so tired.
She walked into the large den and eyed the refrigerator next to the bar in the corner.
“Don’t start,” Asher said. “It’s too hard to stop.”
“I’m not.” She looked away. “I think about it, but I’ve seen what self-medicating with alcohol does and it’s not pretty. As much as I might be tempted or want the oblivion I know it can bring, I just . . . won’t.”
“Your father?”
She gave one quick nod. “So I know better. But I can’t say I don’t remember the nights he simply passed out and didn’t wake up until the next morning.”
“He paid for those hours, though.”
“You sound like you know that from experience.”
His gaze met hers. “I do. My problem started in college. In Kabul, I knew I’d need my wits about me if I was going to survive.” He shrugged. “My sister begged me not to die over there, and I knew alcohol would lessen my chances of coming home. So I haven’t touched a drop since I joined the military. Not that I haven’t been tempted sometimes.”
She swallowed hard and let her eyes linger on his. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, it’s just one day at a time, right?”
Brooke huffed a short laugh. “Right. Are you sure you’re not the one with the psychiatric degree?”
“Ha. Funny.”
He gestured to the couch and she sat. “What did you find out about Mr. Ricci?”
“He pulled through surgery and is holding his own. He should be awake sometime tomorrow, and the nurse said we could come by and talk to him.”
“How did you get her to reveal all that?”
“Kind of?”
“I’ve been going to church with Gavin, and she’s a member there. I simply told her the truth. That I was one of the people he tried to kill, wanted to ask him why, and could she tell me when I could do so.”
“Okay, then we go first thing in the morning before we head to Columbia to see Miranda?”
“We?”
“Of course, we. I’ve canceled my appointments indefinitely. Marcus is working on getting everything—” The ringing phone cut her off. She snatched it and glanced at the screen. “It’s the same number as before.”
“Did they leave a message before?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you see what’s so urgent?”
She sent the call to voice mail. “If it’s so important, they’ll leave another message.”
Once the voice mail indicator popped up, she tapped the screen and listened. “Brooke, this is Special Agent Caden Denning again. I’m going to assume that you haven’t listened to my earlier voice mails, so I’ll start from the beginning. This is going to seem like a really strange request, but I talked to my sister, Sarah, and she said she thought you were in danger and you needed to watch your back. It had to do with something she overheard regarding your last interaction with Isaiah Michaels before the explosion at the restaurant. Anyway, give me a call at your earliest convenience. If I haven’t heard from you by tomorrow morning, I’ll try again.” He left his number, and it matched three of the previous attempts to reach her.
“Oh boy.”
“What is it?”
She summarized the call from Caden Denning. “I need to call him back.”
“Go ahead,” Asher said. He stood and paced. “I’m just going to do a perimeter check around this place.”
“Just so you know,” Brooke said, “Heather’s windows are wired.”
He shot her a tight smile. “Good to know.”
Her first attempt to reach Special Agent Denning went to voice mail. She left him a message, and almost before she could even hang up, her phone was ringing, displaying his number. “Hello?”
“Is this Brooke Adams? Sarah’s friend?”
“Yes.”
“This is Caden Denning, but I guess you figured that out.”
“I did. I’ve heard a lot about you.” She and Sarah had exchanged family histories over the course of serving together, but she’d never met the woman’s family.
“Uh-oh.”
“All good, I assure you. Sarah adores you.”
“The feeling is mutual.” He cleared his throat. “I’m assuming you listened to my messages?”
“I just listened to the last one. I’m so sorry I didn’t pick up when you called, but it’s been a very crazy day.”
“What kind of crazy, if you don’t mind me asking?”
She told him and he sucked in an audible breath when she finished. “Sarah said you might be in danger.”
“I think we’ve figured that part out.”
“Well, there’s more.” She listened to him talk about Isaiah Michaels and the fact that he’d taken something from the hospital just hours before the explosion had taken his life—and that two men were talking about her. But why?
“What about Sarah?” she asked. “Is she okay? Is she safe?”
“That’s a really good question, but apparently something that happened between you and Isaiah has caught the attention of some people. Can you think of what that might be?”
“No. Seriously, the day’s not even a blur until the very end. I remember the details vividly. All Isaiah wanted me to do was refute any accusations that he was a traitor. His dying words were ‘Not a traitor. Don’t let them say I am.’”
Caden fell silent for a moment. She could almost hear him thinking. “Someone was framing him?” he finally said. “Setting him up to take the fall for something?”
“I sure think so, but I don’t have the first clue as to what—or who. He did say, ‘I didn’t know. I didn’t know.’”
“You were his psychiatrist. He didn’t tell you anything at all?”
She let out a harsh laugh. “No. He never said more than hello and goodbye to me most days.”
“Nothing about his unit, his friends, his brothers, his family?”
She hesitated. Technically, according to HIPAA, she shouldn’t say anything, but deep in her gut, she knew Isaiah would give her permission to use anything available to clear his name. “He . . . uh . . . yes, actually, one time. He mentioned his wife, Miranda, in the last session. I was asking him how he was going to deal with everything when he got home and had to adjust to civilian life. I asked him his plans and he blurted out something about asking for Miranda’s forgiveness. Seemed mad that he’d said that, then said he had to leave—and did.”
“What did he need forgiveness for? That seems to indicate he felt guilty about something.”
“I don’t know. He didn’t give me any details. But I didn’t get the feeling the guilt was related to being a traitor. I think it was something else because he kept saying ‘I didn’t know. I didn’t know.’ Like he’d done something and later found out it wasn’t a good thing, and he regretted it but was justifying his actions because he didn’t know . . . something.”
“Like maybe he acted on information without having all the facts?”
“Yes, something like that.” She sighed. “But I’m speculating. Again, it’s just a gut feeling. I’d planned to ask him about the comment at the next appointment, but he never showed up—and truly, he probably wouldn’t have told me anyway. I didn’t see him again until the day of the explosion.”
“Okay, I’m going to send an officer over for now to keep watch on the house and follow you around for the next twenty-four hours.”
The door opened and Asher stepped back inside. “All clear,” he said.
“Who’s that?”
“Asher James. He was in Afghanistan with Sarah and me. He was actually there the day of the bombing and pulled me out.” The images flickered in her mind, and she drew in a deep breath, focusing on the phone call. “I’m not at my house right now, Caden. I’m staying with Heather Fontaine. I’m sure Sarah’s mentioned her.”
“She has. All right. I’ll send someone out there. Give me the address.”
“I’m not sure that’s necessary, but all right.” She rattled it off for him.
“I think it might be necessary. Stay in touch with whatever you find out about Isaiah Michaels.” He paused and she could hear keyboard keys clicking in the background. “I’m going to call CID and ask them to get involved in this.” The Criminal Investigation Division was in charge of investigating any illegal activity within the Army.
“They were involved. Who do you think presented the evidence that nailed Isaiah as a traitor?”
Silence. “I see. All right, I have a friend who’s CID. I’ll ask her to unofficially look into it.”
“You trust her?”
“I do. Actually, we have to. Because if someone set up Isaiah, then that someone is involved in something illegal and needs to be caught and stopped.”
“And if he did that to Isaiah, he’ll do it again to someone else.”
“Exactly.”
Asher paced from one end of Heather’s living area to the other as he debated the events of this endless day. First Sharon’s death, then Mario Ricci had tried to kill him and Brooke.
His friend from the hospital had called him ten minutes ago to let him know that Ricci’s prognosis had taken a nosedive. He was now in a medically induced coma, so getting answers wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. Which meant he and Brooke needed to find someone who knew what he was up to and why he’d been searching Brooke’s home. They needed to link him to . . . something recent. Someone current. They needed to know where he was living and who he was living with and if he was working with anyone.
His phone buzzed and he pulled it from his pocket. Newell was finally calling him back. “Captain, thanks for returning my call.”
“James, it’s been a good while. How are you doing?”
“I’m hanging in there.”
“Tough to transition back, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re always welcome to come back. It’s not the same without you and Black.”
Asher shut his eyes. “Thank you, sir, I’ll keep that in mind.” Talking to the man brought everything back in force. The launch of the rocket that had taken out half their unit. The explosion at the café, killing Isaiah Michaels and two of his other unit members. A sniper making his head shot and obliterating Jasper Owens and the child on his back. Nausea rolled, gunfire erupted.
“James? You there?”
“Uh, yes sir, I am. Sorry, I was just . . . uh . . . remembering.” And thinking that going back might not be a bad thing. He missed it.
“Right. So, what can I do for you?”
“Mario Ricci,” Asher said. “You’re good friends with Captain Gomez.”
“I am.”
“Well, Ricci just tried to kill Brooke Adams and me.”
“What?” The hard bark hadn’t changed, and once more Asher longed to be back there where everything was familiar and he knew exactly what was expected of him. “Who’s Brooke Adams?”
“The psychiatrist who worked on base. You may have known her as Captain Adams.”
“The one you pulled out of that café and wound up with her picture plastered all over the place?”
“That’s the one.” Asher explained the events that led to Mario’s shooting. “He’s still in ICU, but they expect him to pull through. When he wakes up, I plan on questioning him, but do you think you could talk to Captain Gomez and get some insight into why Ricci would break into Brooke’s home?”
“Was he one of her clients?”
“No, she didn’t recognize him. I did.”
“I see.” The man let out a low breath. “I have to say, I didn’t think much could shock me anymore, but I’m pretty stunned at this news—about as shocked as when I got word that Isaiah Michaels was a traitor.”
“I understand, I feel the same way. And for what it’s worth, I don’t believe Michaels was a traitor. If someone had evidence that he was, then he was set up.”
Silence. Then . . . “What makes you say that?”
“I knew Michaels, sir, as well as you—or better. You know he’d never do anything to betray his country—or his unit.”
“Yeah. But why go to all that trouble?”
“I don’t know. Obviously, Michaels stumbled across something and trusted the wrong person with the information.”
“You know who he talked to?”
More silence. “Okay, look, Ricci was let go with a dishonorable discharge. He and another soldier got into a fight, words were said, and that’s why he’s back in the States. However, I have no idea why he’d go after Brooke Adams. I’ll look into Ricci,” Captain Newell said, “and all of this.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“Tell Black we need him back here too.” Click.
Unperturbed at the abrupt end to the call, Asher set his phone down and pinched the bridge of his nose. When his phone buzzed once more, he grabbed it. “Gavin, what’s up?”
“I’m walking up to Heather’s front door. Can you tell the cop out here that I’m a friend?”
“Yeah. Be right there.”
Asher waved to the officer and led Gavin to the great room, where his friend settled himself on the couch.
“What’s going on?” Asher claimed the recliner next to the fireplace and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them.
“I was sitting outside Brooke’s place just watching it,” Gavin said, “thinking about Ricci and wondering if he was working alone or if he was taking orders from someone or what. About the time I was ready to leave, someone came by and started snooping around.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know. When I went to confront him, he took off and disappeared.”
“On foot?”
“He had a motorcycle hidden away a couple houses down and he’d left the key in it. He simply vaulted over the back, into the seat, and off he went.”
“Any plates on the bike?”
“No.”
“Of course not. Did you report this?”
“I did. I don’t think he messed with anything at the house, but an officer rode over to check it out.”
“What did you find? Before the officer got there, I mean?”
“The place was boarded up,” Gavin said, “but he could have gotten in if he wanted to.” He paused. “Make that, if he’d had time to try.”
Asher shook his head. “You know anything about Mario Ricci? Where he’s from and what his story is? I know him, but not well.”
“Same here. I hung out with him one night at that party Gomez threw for his unit after that particularly hair-raising adventure rescuing those two girls from the Taliban crew. I think Ricci’s originally from Texas, though.”
“Any family around here?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t get it. Could all this be connected to Afghanistan?”
“In what way?”
“Beats me.”
“Yeah.” Gavin eyed him. “So where are you sleeping tonight?”
“The couch. There’s no way I’m leaving her here alone and unprotected.” He ran a hand over his hair. “This is all messed up like a hot soup sandwich.”
Gavin rubbed his chin. “Maybe Miranda Michaels can shed some light on that tomorrow when you go visit her.”
“Let’s hope so, because I’m at a loss as to what to do next—other than to somehow prepare for the next attack.”