Beholden (9 page)

Luke finished his coffee. “Looks like you’re bending a few rules on this one, old buddy, rushing her through before the paperwork’s
in.”

“Sometimes, you have to. I want this under way ASAP. Terry Ryan is a brave young woman who had a good life going for her,
until she witnessed that shooting. She’s lost a reporter friend, a cousin who burned to death in the crash, and survived an
attempt on her life. And now she’s been taken away from everyone she knows. That can’t be easy.”

No, it never was. “How’s she handling it?”

“She’s not happy, but she’s cooperating so far. She doesn’t know it, but the worst is yet to come.” When the healing was over,
loneliness and frustration would set in. Jones glanced
at his watch and stood. Eight, and it was a long drive back to Phoenix.

“Looks like you’ve got a case. When are you planning to issue arrest warrants?”

“Tomorrow. I had to delay until Terry was safe. This morning, I had Phoenix General release a statement that the second occupant
in the Volkswagen has died of internal injuries. The longer we can keep the suspicions that Terry’s still alive to a minimum,
the better off we’ll be.”

“What about the family? Didn’t they want to see the body?”

Jones sighed heavily. “I told them that we had to move the body to do a police autopsy, that they’d get to view her later.
They didn’t buy it, especially John Ryan, Terry’s father. He’s a retired cop and he’s sure something’s rotten in Denmark.
Trouble is, he can’t prove it, though he’s driving everyone crazy with calls and visits demanding answers.” Jones shook his
head sympathetically. “I can’t blame the man.”

“You located Russo?”

Bob allowed himself a small smile as he walked toward his car with Luke. “Sam’s on probation. He’s violated the terms so it’s
automatic jail, no matter what his expensive attorney pleads. And the new charge is accessory to murder.”

“Which is also what McCarthy faces.” Luke watched Bob climb behind the wheel, then braced a hand on the closed door. “Let’s
hope you draw someone like Carmichael.” Judge Henry Carmichael was known to be tougher on cops gone bad than anyone sitting
on the bench.

“That would be nice.” Bob held out his hand. “I appreciate your cutting things short here.” His statement left volumes unspoken.

Luke shook hands. “Only for you would I do this.”

“I know that.” He handed Luke a second manila envelope. “All the particulars are in there—pictures, addresses,
bio on Terry Ryan and her family. When can I tell George you’ll be relieving him?”

“Give me three days, maybe four. Will she be out of the hospital by then?”

“Most likely. George has a secured place set up in San Diego. Info is in there. I’ll activate your checking account.”

Luke was thoughtful. George had found a secure place. He wasn’t sure he trusted the man. Maybe he’d step up his timetable.

Jones started the engine, slipped into gear. “Oh, and Luke, get a shave and haircut.”

Luke waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah.”

It was easy to read the shock followed by cold fury in Sergeant McCarthy’s gray eyes as he looked up from reading the warrant
for his arrest that had been handed him. “Phil, what the hell is this?”

Seated at Captain Marino’s desk, Phil couldn’t quite meet Mac’s eyes. “Accessory to murder, like it says.”

“Whose murder?” Mac demanded.

Remington didn’t want to do this, not to an officer in Central where they’d served together for over twenty years. They were
more than coworkers; they were friends. He wished Marino hadn’t chosen this week to have his damn prostate out, putting Phil
in charge as second-in-command. “There was a witness to the shooting of reporter Don Simon. We have a sworn statement that
you were present. The county attorney feels he’s got a case.”

“A witness!” Mac’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s this witness?”

Phil knew by the silence outside the open door of the glassed-in office that all the cops were listening, most looking stunned.
“You know I can’t discuss the case further. I advise you to call your attorney, Mac. Your first appearance before the judge
is tomorrow morning at eight-thirty.”

Mac turned to see two officers step in, moving to his side,
waiting to escort him out. One held a pair of handcuffs. He swung back to the lieutenant. “Do something, Phil. We’re friends,
for God’s sake.” He stroked his mustache nervously, hating the tremor in his voice.

Remington dropped his gaze. “I can’t, Mac.” He picked up the Miranda and read the sergeant his rights.

Humiliation had Mac curling his fists. “More heads are going to roll before this is over. Mark my words. I’m not going down
alone.”

That was exactly what Phil was afraid of. Why couldn’t Mac see that his hands were tied on this? Silently, he nodded to one
of the blues who quickly threw on the cuffs and led Mac away. Rules were rules, and if he didn’t follow them, if he made exceptions
for a friend, word would get back to the captain eventually. And he’d lose the respect of his fellow officers. Leaning back
in his chair, Phil scrubbed a trembling hand over his face. He was a man not easily ruffled, but today’s events had shaken
him.

He was still stunned over an incident earlier. Out of the blue, a deputy from the U.S. Marshals Office had arrived with three
warrants in the murder of the
Phoenix Gazette
reporter. The ones for Sam Russo, a man with known mob connections, and his henchman, Ozzie Swain, had been no surprise.
The shocker had been the order to arrest Mac.

The feds were closemouthed as usual, but already rumors were running rampant. No one as yet really knew who this mystery witness
was. Phil had his own suspicions, and they had him tense. It was hard to remain untainted when one cop in a precinct was arrested.
Usually it was only the tip of the iceberg.

And he had other problems.

The young detective from Mt. Shadows Precinct on the east side, Andy Russell, had everyone up in arms over the Ryan girl’s
Volkswagen, dragging in the mechanic who was ready to swear there’d been tampering, accusing someone in Central of changing
his report. The receipt had been initialed
by Mac. Phoenix General Hospital had released a statement that the Hartley girl had died of internal injuries. Phil had thought
that was the end of that. Terry’s father, John Ryan, did not.

John was like a thorn in Phil’s side, giving voice to countless ungrounded suspicions, replaying possible scenarios, throwing
out veiled barbs. Repeatedly, he’d come to the station insisting on an investigation, demanding answers.

Phil didn’t have any.

He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the desk. He hated to see Mac led off in cuffs, but there was nothing he could do
about it. All he wanted at this point was to keep up with the work in the captain’s absence, to keep a low profile. The things
that were wrong with the department, such as what Mac allegedly was involved in, had happened before he took over for Marino.
He wouldn’t get the blame. If anyone would, it’d be the captain. The buck always stopped at the top.

When Marino retired next year and promotions would be considered, Phil’s record would still be clean. Of course, he’d have
to be careful, not make enemies, not step on any toes. Maybe he’d be wise to have a chat with Mac after his hearing, calm
him down, tell him to stay cool.

After all, it wasn’t over until it was over.

Sara Baines had often been labeled a tough, efficient, no-nonsense woman, in both her career as an RN and in law enforcement.
She knew she could not help her patient subjects by being overly sympathetic. Her work called for her to be an odd mixture
of detached and caring.

Yet, owing to a strong nurturing streak, her heart went out to the young woman in the bed struggling to recover from a great
many recent traumas. Her facial surgery done several days ago was healing well, probably because Terry Ryan was young and
had been healthy before her accident. She was
sleeping now, the medication Sara had given her after changing her bandages allowing her to rest.

Sara checked her patient’s pulse, then quietly left the room. She found George Everly playing solitaire at the kitchen table,
his jacket hanging on the chairback, his gun holster strapped on in plain view. Sara walked to the counter and poured herself
a cup of coffee from the pot. “Want some?” she asked him.

“No, thanks. I can’t handle too much of that stuff.”

George looked every day of his fifty years, Sara thought, mostly because he’d inherited a tendency toward baldness and a short
stature that made him look beefy rather than solid. He’d been trained years ago and had been quite the boy wonder in his youth,
or so she’d heard. Sara found him dull and uninteresting, but no one had promised her excitement on the job.

“She asleep?” George asked.

“Yes. It’s the best thing for her, of course. But, you know, even asleep and medicated, she moans and she thrashes, like she’s
reliving the terrible things that have happened to her.”

George placed a black jack on a red queen, freeing a space. “Probably is, poor kid. I’ve got a daughter about her age. What’d
the doc say about her face?” The doctor from the private hospital had stopped by daily per Jones’s instructions to check on
the patient under federal guard. George hadn’t been in the bedroom during his visits.

Sara sipped her coffee. “He said she’d probably need more surgery later. Her kind of injury has to be repaired in stages.
In the long run, provided she doesn’t develop an infection, she’ll do okay.” She’d watched the doctor change the bandages,
seen the swelling and the redness, and knew it would be some time before all that disappeared. “I wouldn’t want to hand her
a mirror when she’s awake just yet though. Or tell her she’ll face the knife again.” The present condition of Terry’s hair
alone, growing back in blond tufts from when
her head had been shaved, would surely make her cry, the nurse thought, to say nothing of the condition of her face.

Sitting down at the table, Sara saw George contemplate the cards spread before him. He appeared to be stuck. She waited several
seconds, then could stand it no longer. “The six of hearts at the end. Move it to the seven of clubs.”

George made a face. “Oh, yeah.”

She glanced at the wall clock. “What time did Luke say he’d be here?”

George looked at her from beneath shaggy brows. “Couple of days, Jones said. But you know Luke. He’s not one to give anyone
his schedule.” He went back to his game. “Don’t worry. He’ll be here when he’s good and ready.”

Sara had to agree. Luke Tanner definitely marched to his own drummer. She’d worked with him on several cases. The man was
unflappable, with nerves of steel and a hard face that revealed nothing. Perfect for his line of work.

A bit difficult to live with, though. And live with him in somewhat close quarters as they watched over Terry Ryan was what
she’d have to do, for a while yet anyhow. Sara and Luke Tanner were both the same age and at five-ten, Sara was only a couple
of inches shorter than Luke. But there their similarities ended. Beneath her professional demeanor, Sara had a soft heart.
She doubted if Tanner even had a heart.

George folded his game. “Want to play double? I’ve got another deck of cards.”

“No, thanks.” Boredom was the worst part of this job. “I think I’ll make a pot roast. Maybe I can convince Terry to eat some
when she wakes up.” Sara glanced out at the bright San Diego afternoon before finishing her coffee and rising to check the
contents of the refrigerator.

At that moment at Arizona State Prison in Florence, Sam Russo walked into the visitor’s room, sat down in the second cubicle,
and picked up the phone. On the other side of the thick glass, his brother, Nick, already had the phone to his
ear. “About time you got here,” Sam said, his deep voice low.

“I’ve been busy, checking out stuff, like you said.” Nick leaned forward, noticing that his hands were sweaty on the receiver.
Damn but even visiting prison made him nervous. Just turned forty, he was movie-star handsome, with curly black hair and a
muscular build he owed to gym workouts and daily runs. His clothes cost plenty but leaned toward the flashy, a fact that didn’t
seem to keep women from throwing themselves at him. Nick had never married, valuing his freedom too much. The one person he
owed his complete allegiance to was his older brother, Sam.

“What’d you find out?” Sam asked, impatience making his words clipped.

“Hospital says the girl’s dead and…”

“Bullshit! Who else could be their
special witness?
Did you see the body?”

“No. Ozzie was working on it with his connections at the hospital, but he had to get out of town and lay low for now. He’s
not going to do us any good if he’s in here with you.” Nick could see the sweat on Sam’s face, and it scared him. He’d always
admired Sam’s cool attitude under pressure. He’d never seen his brother sweat. But then, he’d never seen his brother in prison
before, either. His hands shook. He wished he had a cigarette.

“I say she’s alive. She’s got to be the one. Someone knows something, and I want you to find that someone.”

Nick swallowed hard, sending a glance toward the guard standing by the door at Sam’s back. “The cops are watching me, you
know.”

“You know how to get around them. I taught you myself. Now get going. Check out the girl’s family, her friends, people she
worked with, old boyfriends. Find out if there really is a body. You follow me?”

“Yeah.”

Sam Russo’s philosophy was simple: every man had his
price. “You got money. Pay for information. Find that someone. You got to find the girl, dead or alive. Without her, they
got nothing.”

Looking into Sam’s fiery eyes, Nick nodded. “I will.” He had to find her and spring Sam. His brother wasn’t handling prison
well. Sam had practically raised Nick after their parents had died. He owed Sam, big-time. “You can count on me.”

“I am, little brother.” Sam dropped his voice even further. “And if you find her alive, you know what to do, right?”

For the first time, Nick smiled. “Yeah, I know what to do.”