He purposefully misunderstood her, indicating the paperwork as he spoke. “I’ve got to have it all done before we go to trial next month.”
“That’s not what I was talking about and you know it.”
“I don’t think you have a right to use that tone with me.” He sat back in the chair. She could see that he was tired, and his usual easy smile was nowhere to be seen.
She asked, “Are you sleeping okay?”
“Big case,” he said, and she wondered if that was really what was keeping him up at night. “What do you want?”
“Can’t we just talk?”
“About what?” He rocked his chair back. When she did not answer, he prompted, “Well?”
“I just want to—”
“What?” he interrupted, his jaw set. “We’ve talked this through a hundred times. There’s not a whole lot more to say.”
“I want to see you.”
“I told you I’m buried in this case.”
“So, when it’s over…?”
“Sara.”
“Jeffrey,” she countered. “If you don’t want to see me, just say it. Don’t use a case as an excuse. We’ve both been buried deeper than this before and still managed to spend time with each other. As I recall, it’s what makes this crap”—she indicated the mounds of paperwork—“bearable.”
He dropped his chair with a thud. “I don’t see the point.”
She gave humor another stab. “Well, the sex, for one.”
“I can get that anywhere.”
Sara raised an eyebrow, but suppressed the obvious comment. The fact that Jeffrey could and sometimes did get sex anywhere was the reason she had divorced him in the first place.
He picked up his pen to resume writing, but Sara snatched it from his hand. She tried to keep the desperation out of her voice as she asked, “Why do we have to get married again for this to work?”
He looked off to the side, clearly annoyed.
She reminded him, “We were married before and it practically ruined us.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I remember.”
She played her trump card. “You could rent out your house to someone from the college.”
He paused a second before asking, “Why would I do that?”
“So you could move in with me.”
“And live in sin?”
She laughed. “Since when did you become religious?”
“Since your father put the fear of God into me,” he shot back, his tone completely devoid of humor. “I want a wife, Sara, not a fuck-buddy.”
She felt the cut of his words. “Is that what you think I am?”
“I don’t know,” he told her, his tone something of an apology. “I’m tired of being tied to that string you just yank when you feel lonely.”
She opened her mouth but could not speak.
He shook his head, apologizing. “I didn’t mean that.”
“You think I’m here making a fool of myself because I’m lonely?”
“I don’t know anything right now, except that I’ve got a lot of work to do.” He held out his hand. “Can I have my pen back?”
She gripped it tightly. “I want to be with you.”
“You’re with me now,” he said, reaching over to retrieve his pen.
She put her other hand around his, holding him there. “I miss you,” she said. “I miss being with you.”
He gave a halfhearted shrug, but did not pull away.
She pressed her lips to his fingers, smelling ink and the oatmeal lotion he used when he thought no one was looking. “I miss your hands.”
He kept staring.
She brushed his thumb with her lips. “Don’t you miss me?”
He tilted his head to the side, giving another indefinite shrug.
“I want to be with you. I want to…” She looked over her shoulder again, making certain no one was there. She lowered her voice to barely more than a whisper and offered to do something with him that any self-respecting prostitute would charge double for.
Jeffrey’s lips parted, shock registering in his eyes. His hand tightened around hers. “You stopped doing that when we got married.”
“Well…” She smiled. “We’re not married anymore, are we?”
He seemed to be thinking it over when a loud knock came at the open door. It might as well have been a gunshot from Jeffrey’s reaction. He jerked his hand back and stood up.
Frank Wallace, Jeffrey’s second in command, said, “Sorry.”
Jeffrey let his irritation show, though Sara could not guess if it was for her or Frank’s benefit. “What is it?”
Frank glanced at the phone on the wall and stated the obvious. “Your extension’s off the hook.”
Jeffrey waited.
“Marla told me to tell you there’s some kid in the lobby asking for you.” He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “Hey, Sara.”
She started to return the greeting but stopped at the sight of him. He looked dead on his feet. “Are you all right?”
Frank put his hand to his stomach, a sour look on his face. “Bad Chinese.”
She stood, putting her hand to his cheek. His skin was clammy. “You’re probably dehydrated,” she told him, putting her fingers to his wrist to check his pulse. “Are you getting enough fluids?”
He shrugged.
She stared at the second hand on her watch. “Throwing up? Diarrhea?”
He shifted uncomfortably over her last question. “I’m okay,” he said, but he obviously wasn’t. “You look real nice today.”
“I’m glad somebody noticed,” Sara said, giving Jeffrey a sideways glance.
Jeffrey tapped his fingers on the table, still annoyed. “Go on home, Frank. You look like shit.”
Frank’s relief was obvious.
Sara added, “If this isn’t better tomorrow, call me.”
He nodded again, telling Jeffrey, “Don’t forget about the kid in the lobby.”
“Who is it?”
“Something Smith. I didn’t catch…” He put a hand to his stomach and made a sick sound. He turned to leave, managing a garbled “Sorry.”
Jeffrey waited until Frank was out of earshot to say, “I have to do everything around here.”
“He’s obviously not well.”
“It’s Lena’s first day back,” Jeffrey said, referring to Frank’s ex-partner. “She’s supposed to be in at ten.”
“And?”
“You run into Matt yet? He tried to call in sick, too, but I told him to get his sorry ass in here.”
“You think two senior detectives gave themselves food poisoning so they wouldn’t have to see Lena?”
Jeffrey walked over to the phone and put the receiver back in the cradle. “I’ve been here over fifteen years and never seen Matt Hogan eat Chinese.”
He had a point, but Sara wanted to give both men the benefit of the doubt. No matter what he said about her, Frank obviously cared for Lena. They had worked together for nearly a decade. Sara knew from personal experience that you could not spend that kind of time with someone and just walk away.
Jeffrey pressed the speaker button, then dialed in an extension. “Marla?”
There was a series of clicking noises as she picked up the receiver. “Yessir?”
“Has Matt shown up yet?”
“Not yet. I’m a little worried what with him being sick and all.”
“Tell him I’m looking for him as soon as he walks in the door,” Jeffrey ordered. “Is there someone waiting for me?”
She lowered her voice. “Yes. He’s kind of impatient.”
“I’ll be there in a second.” He turned the speaker off, mumbling, “I don’t have time for this.”
“Jeff—”
“I need to see who this is,” he said, walking out of the room.
Sara followed him down the hallway, practically running to keep up. “If I break my ankle in these heels…”
He glanced down at her shoes. “Did you think yo
u could just waltz in here whoring yourself out and I’d beg you to come back?”
Embarrassment ignited her temper. “Why is it you call it whoring myself out when I want to do it, but when I don’t want to and I do anyway, all of a sudden it’s sexy?”
He stopped at the fire door, resting his hand on the long handle. “That’s not fair.”
“You think so, too, Dr. Freud?”
“I’m not playing around here, Sara.”
“Do you think I am?”
“I don’t know what you’re doing,” he said, and there was a hardness around his eyes that sent a cold chill through her. “I can’t keep living like this.”
She put her hand on his arm, saying, “Wait.” When he stopped, she forced herself to say, “I love you.”
He gave her a flippant “Thanks.”
“Please,” she whispered. “We don’t need a piece of paper to tell us how we feel.”
“The thing you keep missing,” he told her, yanking open the door, “is that I do.”
She started to follow him into the squad room, but pride kept her feet rooted to the floor. A handful of patrolmen and detectives were starting their shifts, sitting at their desks as they wrote up reports or made calls. She could see Brad and his group of kids congregating around the coffeemaker, where he was probably regaling them with the brand of filter they used or the number of scoops it took to make a pot.
There were two young men in the lobby, one of them leaning against the back wall, the other standing in front of Marla. Sara took the standing one to be Jeffrey’s visitor. Smith was young, probably Brad’s age, and dressed in a quilted black jacket that was zipped closed despite the late August heat. His head was shaved and from what she could make of his body under the heavy coat, he was fit and well muscled. He kept scanning the room, his eyes furiously darting around, never resting his gaze on one person for long. He added the front door to his rotation every second time, checking the street. There was definitely something military in his bearing, and for some reason, his general demeanor put Sara on edge.
She looked around the room, taking in what Smith was seeing. Jeffrey had stopped at one of the desks to help a patrolman. He slid his paddle holster to his back as he sat on the edge of the desk and typed something into the computer. Brad was still talking over by the coffeemaker, his hand resting on the top of the mace spray in his belt. She counted five more cops, all of them busy writing reports or entering information into their computers. A sense of danger coursed through Sara’s body like a bolt of lightning. Everything in her line of vision became too sharply focused.
The front door made a sucking sound as it opened and Matt Hogan walked in. Marla said, “There you are. We’ve been waiting for you.”
The young man put his hand inside his coat, and Sara screamed, “Jeffrey!”
They all turned to look at her, but Sara was watching Smith. In one fluid motion he pulled out a sawed-off shotgun, pointed it at Matt’s face, and squeezed both triggers.
Blood and brain sprayed onto the front door as if from a high-pressure hose. Matt fell back against the glass, the pane cracking straight up the center but not breaking, his face completely blown away. Children started to scream and Brad fell on them en masse, pushing them down to the ground. Gunfire went wild and one of the patrolmen collapsed in front of Sara, a large hole in his chest. His gun discharged on impact, skidding across the floor. Around her, glass flew as family photographs and personal items shot off desks. Computers popped, sending up the acrid smell of burning plastic. Papers floated through the air in a flurry, and the sound of weapons firing was so intense that Sara’s ears felt as if they were bleeding.
“Get out!” Jeffrey screamed, just as Sara felt a sharp sting on her face. She put her hand to her cheek where a piece of shrapnel had grazed the flesh. She was kneeling on the floor but could not remember how she had gotten there. She darted behind a filing cabinet, her throat feeling as if she had swallowed acid.
“Go!” Jeffrey was crouched behind a desk, the muzzle of his gun a constant burst of white as he tried to give her cover. A large boom shook the front of the building, then another.
From behind the fire door, Frank screamed, “This way!” pointing his gun around the jamb, shooting blindly toward the front lobby. A patrolman slammed open the door, exposing Frank as he ran to safety. On the other side of the room, a second cop was shot trying to reach the group of children, his face a mask of pain as he slumped against a filing cabinet. Smoke and the smell of gunpowder filled the air, and still more firepower came from the front lobby. Fear seized Sara as she recognized the snare-drum tat-tat-tat of an automatic weapon. The killers had come prepared for a shoot-out.
“Dr. Linton!” someone screamed. Seconds later, Sara felt a pair of small hands clinging to her neck. Maggie Burgess had managed to break loose, and instinctively, Sara wrapped her own body around the girl’s. Jeffrey saw this, and he took out his ankle holster, giving Sara the signal to run as soon as he started firing. She slipped off her high heels, waiting for what seemed like hours until Jeffrey raised his head above the desk he was hiding behind and started shooting with both guns. Sara bolted toward the fire door and threw the child to Frank. Floor tiles splintered and exploded in front of her as bullets sprayed, and she backed up on her hands and feet until she was safely behind the filing cabinet again.
Sara’s hands moved wildly as she checked to see if she had been shot. There was blood all over her, but she knew it was not her own. Frank cracked open the door again. Bullets popped off the heavy-gauge steel and he returned fire, sticking his hand around the edge and shooting.
“Get out!” Jeffrey repeated, preparing to give her cover, but Sara could see one of her kids from the clinic hiding behind a row of fallen chairs. Ron Carver looked as terrified as she felt, and Sara held up her hands to stop the child from running before a signal from Jeffrey. Without warning, the boy took off toward her, his chin tucked into his chest and his arms pumping as the air exploded around him. Jeffrey started rapid-firing to draw the shooter away, but a stray bullet zinged through the air, practically severing the child’s foot. Ron barely broke stride, using the pulp that was left of his ankle to propel himself forward.
He collapsed into Sara’s arms, and she could feel his heart fluttering in his chest like the wings of a small bird as she ripped off his cotton shirt. She tore the material length-wise and used the sleeve to wrap a tight tourniquet. She used the other half of the shirt to tie his foot on, hoping it could be saved.
“Don’t make me go out there,” the child begged. “Dr. Linton, please don’t make me.”
Sara made her tone stern. “Ronny, we have to go.”
“Please don’t make me!” he wailed.
Jeffrey screamed, “Sara!”
Sara scooped the boy close to her body and waited for Jeffrey’s signal. It came, and she held Ron tight as she ran in a crouch toward the door.
Halfway there, the boy started to kick and scratch at her in wild panic, shrieking, “No! Don’t make me!” at the top of his lungs.
She clamped her hand over his mouth and forced herself toward the door, barely registering the pain as his teeth cut into the flesh of her palm. Frank reached out, snatching Ron by his shirt and yanking him to safety. He tried to grab Sara, too, but she ran back to the filing cabinet, looking for more children. Another bullet whizzed past her, and without thinking, she went farther into the room.
She tried twice to see how many children were with Brad, but with the bullets and chaos all around her, she lost count each time. She searched frantically for Jeffrey. He was about fifteen feet away reloading his gun. Their eyes locked just before his shoulder jerked back, throwing him against the desks. A plant fell to the floor, the pot breaking into a thousand pieces. His body convulsed, his legs gave a violent twitch, and then he was still. With Jeffrey down, everything seemed to stop. Sara darted under the nearest desk, her ears ringing from the gunfire. The room went quiet but for Marla’s screaming, her vo
ice trilling up and down like a siren.
“Oh, God,” Sara whispered, looking frantically under the desk. Just over the front counter, she saw Smith standing with a gun in each hand, scanning the room for movement. The other young man was beside him, pointing an assault rifle toward the front door. Smith was wearing a Kevlar vest under the jacket, and she could see two more guns holstered to his chest. The shotgun lay on the counter. Both gunmen were out in the open, but no one fired on them. Sara tried to remember who else was in the room but again could not keep count.
Movement came to her far left. Another shot was fired and there was the ping of a ricochet followed by a low groan. A child’s scream was stifled. Sara flattened herself to the floor, trying to see under the other desks. In the far corner, Brad had his arms spread open, keeping the kids down on the floor. They were huddled together, sobbing as one.
The officer who had fallen against the filing cabinets moaned, trying to raise his gun. Sara recognized the man as Barry Fordham, a patrol cop she had danced with at the last policeman’s ball.
“Put it down!” Smith screamed. “Put it down!”
Barry tried to raise his gun, but he couldn’t control his wrist. His gun flopped wildly in the air. The man with the assault rifle turned slowly toward Barry and fired one shot into the cop’s head with frightening precision. The back of Barry’s skull banged into the metal cabinet and stuck there. When Sara looked at the second gunman, he had returned to guarding the front door as if nothing had happened.
“Who else?” Smith demanded. “Identify yourself!”
Sara heard someone scramble behind her. She saw a blur of colors as one of the detectives ran into Jeffrey’s office. A spray of bullets followed him. Seconds later, the window was broken out.
“Stay where you are!” Smith ordered. “Everyone stay where you are!”
A child’s scream came from Jeffrey’s office, followed by more shattered glass. Remarkably, the window between the office and the squad room had not been broken. Smith broke it now with a single shot.
Sara cringed as the huge shards of glass splintered against the floor.