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Sam had dropped her collar in a holding cell and had him booked for attempted murder. The whole time he’d raved and cried and professed his innocence, even to her and Frank, as if they hadn’t been there when he’d pointed a gun at them and fired. Either she’d knocked the man into a state of amnesia, or her assailant was stuck in one of the strongest cases of denial she’d ever seen. Or he acts better than Meryl Streep. He didn’t seem to know where he’d been, not just earlier that day, but for the last several months. Disorientation manifested in his darting eyes, overactive sweat glands, and frantic thrashing, all of which made it easy for her to order a tox screen. None of it, however, made him ripe for questioning.
At least the man had a name, or one he’d given them anyway—Harlan Bowes. With no identification on him and no fingerprints in the system, Sam had only his word to go on. So she let him spend the night in a holding cell, assigning Officers Pettigrew and Mollicone to background checking, figuring her perp would still be there in the morning.
She needed a chance to sleep on the man’s apparent madness. Everyone feigned innocence in the face of charges. Harlan Bowes just did it so well that he shook the sanity of one who had him dead to rights. Perhaps a psych assessment is in order.
She chuckled as she left the precinct for the night, figuring her thought could have applied to Bowes or herself. After picking up a pizza for her and Michael to split, she ate dinner with him mostly in silence. Asking Michael about his day had resulted in a non-committal grunt—maybe something about Herman Melville—in return. And when he disappeared into his room after, it was fine by her. She was struggling for the words to tell him she’d been attacked again, not wanting to worry him. After all, they had caught the mask-wearing turd, hopefully bringing an end to their constant looking over their shoulders. She would know more in the morning and could fill Michael in then.
She kicked back on her sofa with a cold beer and her feet up on the coffee table to watch a few cooking shows. She liked them despite never cooking. At one moment, it occurred to her that she’d been shot at that day. She shrugged, finished her beer, and went to bed.
Sleep came easy, but it didn’t keep. Her dreams played out scenarios around Harlan Bowes that her mind had been too tired to consider in her waking hours. He hadn’t been one of her past collars, had never even been arrested as far as she could tell. Maybe he had something to do with one of Frank’s cases. That familiar mask he’d been wearing suggested otherwise.
Who are you, Harlan Bowes? Sam twisted herself up in her sheets. She envisioned herself dolled up like General Custer, mustache and all, as a Lakota, Cheyenne, and Arapaho army swarmed around her, and she recalled Bowes’s words. Ten little Indians standing in a line. One toddled home and then there were nine. The tribesmen circled her on their horses, drawing closer and kicking up dust until all she could see were dark shadows in a suffocating cloud.
She awoke with a start, her alarm blaring on her nightstand. Bowes’s chant was probably just the ravings of a mad man. She rolled to the right and swatted the alarm off, then propped herself up on her elbows. Or maybe he just really likes Agatha Christie.
Her bed head flopped over her face, a matt of frizzy brown kinks. Her lips cracked as she yawned, and she picked white crud from their corners as she scanned her nightstand for a water bottle. Not finding one, she threw her legs out of bed, stood, then grabbed a pair of jeans she’d left on the floor for... three? No, four days? Sniffing them, she concluded they passed inspection. She stepped into each leg and hopped to tug them over her hips.
An old scar on her belly itched as if it were still healing, and she ran a finger over it. The narrow line of raised and rugged flesh from a slash to her bicep, compliments of Tessa’s stepfather, still tingled when she thought about it. The bruising to her head from her fight with Rex Billings, a violent drug lord with a heavyweight boxer’s build, had vanished, but her jaw and forehead still throbbed and cracked with the freshness of waking up. She’d been shot only a fraction of the time she’d been shot at, which was becoming far too many. It had been a crazy last two years.
After throwing on a T-shirt from the pile on the floor, she opened her door and stumbled out of her room. Michael sidestepped her with a muffled grunt, toothbrush jutting from his mouth, hair wet and wearing nothing but the towel around his waist.
“Good to see you up already.” Her voice croaked as she shuffled along the wall, still not fully awake. She squinted and threw a hand up to block the sun pouring in through the blinds.
Michael grunted again and disappeared into his room. Anxious to go to school? Her eyes opened a little wider. Maybe it’s a girl? A twinge of guilt hit her in the gut as she thought of Tessa. Sam liked the girl just fine—well, maybe not just fine—but thought that, given her history, maybe Michael would be better off staying away from her. The verdict was still out on how messed up she might be. The twinge grew into a pang when she reminded herself that Tessa had been a victim of her stepfather, someone for whom she should sympathize, not distrust.
She was acting like a mother. It was her job to look out for Michael. As she listened to him slamming shut dresser drawers and closet doors, hastily getting ready for school, she laughed. I only want what’s best for my boy. She nodded. That much was true.
After a cup of coffee, she headed for the bathroom, the ache in her joints fading with each step. A nice hot shower cleared her head and got her moving, though she stayed in too long again to let the water pressure massage her muscles. By the time she got dressed, Michael was gone. She looked at the clock and figured she’d better get a move on too. Finally feeling like a whole person, she locked up and headed out.
***
FRANK WAS WAITING FOR her outside of the precinct. “Are you going to question him now?” he asked, dispensing with all the usual pleasantries and idle chitchat, which Sam appreciated.
“Yeah.” She put her hands on her hips, her long gray coat billowing in the wind. “You want to sit in?”
Frank nodded. Clean-shaven and wearing a dark suit, he reeked of bitter coffee and cheap aftershave. His prominent chin with its small divot was a focal point to his face. That and his height made him hard to look in the eye without refocusing. “He wasn’t just shooting at you, you know.”
“What’s your take on this guy?”
“I don’t have one. He’s... not what I was expecting.”
“What were you expecting?”
“I’m not sure.” He stroked his chin. “Maybe someone more menacing or more—”
“Cult-oriented?” Sam fixed him with a cold stare. “Maybe it’s time you told me everything, huh? This is twice now that someone—hopefully the same someone—wearing some kind of hokey Native American stereotype mask has attacked me. And it all started right after we took down the Suarez gang.”
Frank grunted. Under his breath, he muttered, “Hector Suarez certainly seemed their type.”
“See? That’s what I’m talking about. You came down for more than just the Suarez gang. And I hear you when you say you think Hector Suarez was part of some dark criminal enterprise. Fine, and maybe so, but what links him to the guy in the mask, and more importantly, what links all of them to Carter Wainwright?”
Frank set his jaw but could no longer meet her gaze. “Sam, I wish I could tell you more. Suffice to say, I have strong intel that suggests Carter Wainwright is operating out of this—”
“What intel?” Sam huffed. “Who’s your source?”
“You know I can’t reveal the name of my CI. Please don’t ask me to. I wouldn’t ask it of you.”
Sam studied his face. He looked pained, his eyebrows crinkling up his forehead, wrinkles showing their dialogue running through his mind. There was so much he wasn’t telling her, so much he wanted to but couldn’t. “Frank, you and I have been through a lot together. Sure we had a shaky start when you first showed up, but I thought we’d come a long way since then. Now you’re here, and it’s like we’re right back where we started—me giving you full access while you keep your dirty little secrets.”
“It’s not like that. It’s just—”
“I’m on your side. You know that, right?”
He nodded but still couldn’t look her in the eye. “I know.”
Annoyed, Sam concluded she would have to seek her answers elsewhere, starting with the mysterious shooter, Harlan Bowes. Sam extended her arm toward the entrance. “Shall we?”
Frank nodded.
“I hope you take my willingness to cooperate as a sign that maybe you should do the same.”
He didn’t reply, just opened the precinct door for her, and Sam walked in without a thank you.
Officer Peyton Reynolds sat at his usual desk outside the holding cells. The officer appeared to have lost a few pounds over the summer in an apparent effort to shed the merciless office nickname. His hair neatly combed and beard trimmed, he looked a positive contrast to his usual disheveled, droopy-eyed, and sullen self. Still, he was quite heavy, his belly resting atop his desktop as he perused a magazine propped up by his stomach.
Sam could only imagine what the man had been through in Texas. She’d tried to learn about his traumatic ordeal to find out more about how Bruce had died, which had led to her helping him land a job at the precinct. Sam didn’t want to think about telling him what Frank believed—that Wainwright might be in their backyard—and what that might do to him and the progress he seemed to be making, his slow climb back from hell.
“Hi, Officer Reynolds,” Sam greeted, slowing her pace and taking the time to smile genuinely. “How’s everything?”
“You know, started a new diet.” He smiled sheepishly, a bit of rouge coming into his cheeks. “I met someone.” He dropped the magazine and sat up straight, the smile vanishing. “Things are good. You?”
“Good, good. We’re here—”
“We?” Reynolds threw an arm over the back of his aluminum chair and shifted to look behind her.
Frank hovered a few feet back.
“Agent Spinney!” he said, a bit too exuberantly, before a wave of darkness washed over his face. He cleared his throat and pasted back on his smile. “Always good to see you—far from Texas, that is. Back again so soon?”
“Yeah. It’s good to see you too,” Frank said softly. “Just visiting the detective here. Keeping her out of trouble.”
Reynolds snorted and his belly shook. “Good luck with that.”
Sam narrowed her eyes on Frank, noticing how close to the vest he was keeping his business there from Officer Reynolds, even more so than he’d been doing with her. An awkward silence started to settle between them.
Sam faked a cough. “We’re here to see Harlan Bowes.”
“That lunatic? Guy was raving all night, screaming to be let out. He says he’s got some kind of medical condition. The officers you had look into him didn’t come up with nothin’ suggesting any medical conditions, but—” He pulled open his desk drawer and removed a manila folder. “—they did leave this for you.” He dropped it on the desk.
Sam leaned over the desk, resting her palm on the folder. “Great, thanks. How’s he behaving now?”
“Sedated. We called the hospital to check whether he was treated there. A doctor came by to evaluate him and gave him something to help him sleep. She tried to have him released into her custody, but we told her she’d have to talk to you about that.” Reynolds shrugged. “That woman did us a huge favor, shutting him up.” He glanced at his watch. “That was hours ago, though. He’ll probably be ranting and raving again soon, I’m sure, but at least I’ll be off duty.”
“Did you get the doctor’s name?” Frank asked, jumping at the break in conversation. He leaned into the desk, flicking his fingertips against his thumb the way he did when he was anxious.
What’s got you so nervous now, Frank? Sam studied his expression, in effect sending the question telepathically to the FBI agent. Frank stiffened, then noticeably relaxed, likely a trained response, his shoulders drooping and his easy smile returning to make him appear worry-free.
Reynolds tapped his meaty forefinger on the folder. “All her info should be inside here.”
Sam picked it up. “Thanks. Can you have Bowes transferred to Interview Room A?”
“Royo’s in A, but B’s available.”
“That’ll work. Thanks.” She tucked the folder under her arm and led Frank into the room adjacent to Interview Room B. The room was dark and empty, save for a desk, a couple of chairs, and a camera that faced a one-way mirror.
“What was that with Reynolds?” Sam asked as soon as she was sure they were out of the officer’s earshot. “Keeping quiet about why you’re here?”
Frank shuffled his feet. “I didn’t want to scare him is all. The man’s been—”
“No.” Sam fixed her gaze on his. Something in his words didn’t ring true. She squinted. “It’s something else.” Her chin dropped as she thought, then raised again as his motive slowly dawned on her. “You’re worried about a mole?”
Frank clenched his jaw. “You’re the only one here I can trust on this. Wainwright has help on the inside. Of that I’m certain.”
Sam groaned. “Yeah, inside the agency, not here. Or at least not freaking Reynolds. You of all people know what that man has been through.”
“I know not to underestimate Wainwright or his power to turn anyone to his cause.”
“Including an FBI agent like you, Frank?” Sam crossed her arms. “Maybe it’s your mysterious CI—”
“Ha!” Frank’s head rocked back as he laughed.
Heat rose in her cheeks. She had no idea what she might have said that could have been so amusing.
“My CI’s loyalties are beyond question.” Frank composed himself. “Like I said, you’re the only one here I can trust.”
Sam shook her head, then leaned into the hallway and watched Reynolds as he read his magazine. Her frustrations rising, she snapped back into Frank’s space. “Will you work with me here?”
Frank just sighed. After a moment, her anger subsided. The thought was absurd. Not Frank. Not Reynolds. Soon, I’ll be looking at Michael with suspicion. Until the possibility of Wainwright coming back into the picture, she hadn’t realized she still harbored some lingering resentment toward Frank for his involvement in Bruce’s death. And that was all it was—something she needed to let go. But as her dad used to say, the Irish were best at two things—drinking and holding grudges.
On the desk beside Frank was a small console with a few levers and buttons. Sam pointed to it. “You know how that works?”
Frank nodded. “Flick the switch and sound comes in through the speaker.” He pointed to the black box mounted in the corner to the left of the mirror, close to the ceiling.
Sam walked over to the camera and set it to record. “The camera’s on already. Let’s not advertise your involvement here by having you come into the room with me. The brass might have something to say about it. If there’s something you think I’m missing, just come over and knock. I’ll come out.”
He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, and Sam stared at him with arms crossed. When he didn’t speak, she turned to the mirror. An officer had led Bowes, who looked half asleep and possibly drugged out of his mind, into the room and had handcuffed him to the metal rings on the desk. He slumped forward onto his arm, a stream of drool sliding from the side of his mouth and pooling on the table.
Sam rolled her eyes. “This should be fun.” She stepped into the hall, closing Frank in darkness behind her. As she passed the officer who had escorted Bowes into the interview room, she lightly touched his arm. “Have two coffees, black and as scalding hot as you can make them, brought over to B.”
The officer nodded and walked away. Sam entered the room.
Crinkling her nose, she sat across from her suspect. Bowes stunk like stale sweat and stained linens. He probably hadn’t showered in days. His breath was worse—chemical-induced foulness, the odor carrying on his every breath. His eyes were bloodshot and his grayish tongue lolled as he looked up at Sam and giggled. Spit bubbles popped at the corner of his lips. If he’d been ranting and raving during the night, he’d been struck dumb by morning.
“T-t-ten lith-thel Injians... st-standing in a lingh. One t-tottered home... gyahh.” Bowes hawed, farted, hawed again, and slumped forward on the table.
Just what in the hell did that doctor give him? Sam turned to the mirror and shook her head. She wasn’t able to see Frank, but knew exactly what he was thinking—maybe she should try again after Bowes could sleep off his obvious intoxication.
Maybe the coffee will help. A wisp of a smirk formed on her mouth before she could subdue it, and she glanced over her shoulder to see if either the camera or Frank had caught it, sense soothing her as she realized that even if either had, they would have no way of interpreting it or connecting it to what she would do next. She wasn’t proud of the plan she intended to execute, but even though she knew it to be wrong, she had no problem taking a shot at one who’d shot at her.
Sitting in the chair across from Bowes, she crossed her arms and legs and stared at his slumped form. As if sensing her gaze, Bowes lifted his head, his mouth slack and eyes bloodshot, and looked at her languidly, then rested back down on his arm.
Sam opened the file to a copy of the man’s driver’s license. Harlan Bowes, forty-three years old. Brown hair, brown eyes, five-foot-nine. She studied the squat, unimposing man in front of her for a moment then glanced back at his file. “No priors. Nothing in the system anyway. Nothing to suggest a violent bone in your body. You’re even an organ donor. Yet you tried to kill me yesterday. Why?”
Bowes didn’t respond and showed no sign of even listening. It didn’t matter. The question had been voiced as much for Sam as it had been for her collar. She pressed on. “It says here that you work as an assistant athletic director for Bishop O’Connell High and that you coach your daughter’s softball team. Or at least you did last year. Married with two kids—” She peeped up from the file. “Why isn’t anyone looking for you?”
Her attacker’s eyes were closed. She thought she heard the low rumble of a snore building. Where the hell is that coffee?
A knock came at the door. Sam got up and opened it to see the officer she’d sent on her errand back with a tray in his hand. Two Styrofoam cups filled nearly to the brim with steaming hot liquid sat in diagonal cup holders.
“Thanks,” Sam said, taking the tray. She closed the door and returned to her seat.
“Mr. Bowes?” Sam carefully pulled one of the cups from the tray, the liquid sloshing regardless. A drop spilled on her finger and she winced. After putting the cup down on the table, she sucked on the raw flesh. Slowly, she pushed the cup toward her suspect, angling in her seat to keep her back to the camera.
“Mr. Bowes? I got you some coffee to help clear your hea—” Sam knocked the cup over. “Oh, shit!”
Its contents spilled all over Bowes’s left hand. His eyes burst open, and he screamed in pain. He jumped from his seat, only to be yanked back into the table as the chain on the cuffs went taut. He tried to wipe his hand on his pants but couldn’t reach, then shook it in the air and tried to blow on it. “What the hell? What is this?” Bowes was instantly an entirely different man. His panicked gaze darted about the room as he tugged on his cuffs.
Sam used her own sleeve to dab his hand, the skin raw and blistering.
He jerked his arm away. “Don’t touch me!”
By then, the coffee was still hot but tolerable through the fabric. “Oh, God. I’m so, so sorry,” she said, trying to sound convincing. As of yet, no one had burst through the door to assist, so she assumed Frank had seen what she was up to and had thrown interference.
She studied Bowes closely, having anticipated the burn would sober him up a bit, but now he looked as if he’d never been drugged at all, like a little pain had snapped him out of a spell. Okay, maybe more than a little pain.
Slowly, he returned to his seat, his eyes twitching in their sockets as he glared at Sam, mind scrambling for understanding. “Where am I? What’s going on?”
“Detective Samantha Reilly, at your service. I’m the one you tried to shoot yesterday.”
“Tried to shoot?” Bowes searched her face. “What the hell are you talking about? Is this some kind of joke? Oh for the love of—” His eyes filled with anger. “You! I remember you! You brought me...” He took in his surroundings once more. “I’m in jail? I thought that was just a nightmare.”
Bowes pulled at the chain binding him to the desk until his face turned purple from straining. “Help! Help! Let me out of here! Help!”
Sam leaned forward, palms spread out on the table. “Mr. Bowes, look at me.”
When Bowes continued to scream, Sam slapped the table and stood. “Look at me!”
Bowes shrunk away, face ashen, clearly terrified. “I don’t know what this is, what any of this is all about.” He raised his hands to protect his face. “Please, don’t hurt me.”
Looking at this scared little boy in a man’s body, Sam didn’t see a killer. Two decades on the job had trained her to recognize bad men, and Bowes showed no signs of being one—no hint of violence behind his eyes, no malice burnt into the bends of his lips, no evil to be found in his soul. But Bowes had tried to kill her. Something wasn’t adding up.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Mr. Bowes, but you tried to shoot me yesterday.” Sam sat down, tried to make herself less threatening by uncrossing her arms and pushing her chair back. “I have you dead to rights. You’re going down for attempted murder. Unless—”
“I didn’t try to kill you! Why would I do that? I don’t even know you. I don’t even own a gun.” He buried his face in his hands and started to cry. “This can’t be happening. Wake up, Harlan. Wake up.”
Sam sighed, not knowing what to make of Bowes’s reaction. “Okay, let’s say for a moment you didn’t try to kill me.”
“I didn’t!”
“Then tell me—what did you do yesterday?”
“I...” Bowes’s mouth dropped open as he searched for words. His head slowly shook, his eyes scanning the desk for answers that weren’t there. Finally, after several seconds of thought, he looked up. “I took a sleeping pill and got into my car—the passenger seat—and had my wife drop me off at the hospital while I slept. You see, I have this condition—”
“Let me guess.” Sam scoffed. “Messes with your memory.”
“No.” Bowes frowned. “No. It’s called agoraphobia. After a softball game, I was walking back to my car with my daughter. We were mugged.” Tears flowed down Bowes’s cheeks. He squeezed his eyes shut. “That bastard put a knife to my daughter’s throat. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t help her. I couldn’t do anything. And that feeling of helplessness hasn’t gone away.”
If he was telling the truth—and Sam could confirm it easily enough—Bowes might be worthy of her pity. It didn’t exactly add up to innocence, not even close, but something in Sam’s gut told her he might be just as much of a victim as she was. A twinge of regret twisted her stomach at the thought of the coffee stunt she had pulled.
He looked up. “So you see, I couldn’t have shot at you. I can’t leave the house. I can’t even work to support my family. I admitted myself yesterday to try and get help.” He lurched forward, fingers shaking. “You should have records of all of this. Call Brentworth Hospital. They’ll confirm everything.”
“Are you willing to sign a consent form releasing your medical records to us?”
“If it will help get me out of here, yes.” Bowes’s hands trembled as he tried to raise them to his face, once again blocked by the chain. He stared at the table, eyes shimmering with the last of his tears. “I’ll sign whatever you want.”
Sam rolled her finger on the table. “And you have no recollection of how you got here?”
“Other than you dragging me in here and throwing me into a cage? No.” He lifted his head, his face contorted into a pitiable mask of desperation, a tiny glint in his eyes seeking her out for a spark of hope. “Please, let me go. I just want to see my family.”
After a few minutes of more prodding, a knock came at the door. Annoyed, Sam took a deep breath then got up to answer it. Frank stood outside, looking as if he’d just swallowed a tarantula.
“What is it?” She stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her.
“I just made some quick calls, first to the hospital. They’ve confirmed that Harlan Bowes was a patient there but wouldn’t say what for. I’ve got a guy on the inside who could get access to medical records—”
“You’ve got an undercover agent at Brentworth? What for? And with access to medical records? That’s a violation of—”
“I’ll explain later. And before you question my tactics, don’t think I believe for one second that that coffee spill was an accident.” Frank stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Look, Bowes did check into Brentworth yesterday.”
Sam knew there was no way Frank could have made those calls in the minute or two that had passed since Bowes had mentioned Brentworth. He must have started in as soon as I left the room, after Reynolds mentioned that doctor coming by. She growled, her frustration festering for the worse because she sidelined it. Instead, she diverted her focus to the more immediate question. “Frank, this is the guy who shot at us. We caught him red-handed. Of course he couldn’t have been checking himself in at the hospital then.”
“I know that. Let me finish. He actually checked in three months ago, and according to his family, my second call, he’s been there ever since. But the hospital has him listed as being there for only a few days.”
“So what are you saying? He walked in for treatment three months ago then disappeared? Where’s he been for the last three months?”
“That, I don’t know.”
“But you suspect something’s up with the hospital—where I was attacked, where I bring Michael to see his friend regularly.” She crossed her arms and seethed. “And you suspected it even before I started in on Bowes.
“Come on, Frank! When were you going to let me know? You’ve got some nerve.” She shook her head in disgust. “You know what? If you aren’t going to share information with me, then get the fuck out of my precinct!”
“We wanted to be sure. We didn’t want to bring you into this if we didn’t have to. You have a boy now, and you’ve been through so much—”
“Spare me the bullshit. I want to know everything you know, and I want it now.”