Catch a Shadow (5 page)

She stuck the envelope in her pocket and Merlin in his cage. “Have a good day with Sam,” she said.

“G'day,” he answered in her voice.

He was being easy on her this morning. “Good bird,” she acknowledged and gave him a piece of the apple she'd intended for herself. “Sam will be here soon.”

“Very good bird,” he congratulated himself before taking the chunk of apple.

She left before he charmed her more. He did that sometimes when she was leaving. He seemed to have discovered it was far more effective in delaying her a few more moments than recriminations.

Smart bird
.

Moments later she was at the fire station that was home base for their unit. The ambulance was there and ready to go. As a rule, trauma and mayhem came later in the day unless it was a morning drive-time accident. The night people had time to clean and restock.

She did a quick check of their equipment and supplies as Hal joined her. He looked as weary as she felt. His brown hair looked uncombed, and one of the buttons on his shirt was unbuttoned.

“Big night?” she asked.

He grinned. “Sarah's birthday. We went out to dinner, then …”

“You needn't continue,” she said with a smile. “You'd better button your shirt before the captain sees you.”

“I hope you have a similar excuse,” he said, his gaze settling on her face. “You look tired.”

“Yesterday was a bummer.”

“Maybe today will be better.”

The thought was drowned out by the ringing of the bell, signaling a call. Hal took the info and wrote down the address. “Looks like a domestic abuse,” he said.

She had her own radio up to her ear. “Police been called?” she asked the dispatcher. They all hated domestic abuse cases, never knowing what they were walking into.

“The police are already there. They made the call.”

She didn't waste any more time but jumped into the passenger seat and buckled her belt as Hal roared out of the station. God, she hated these calls, and she knew them too well. One of her friends had been trapped inside an abusive marriage. Kirke had tried to get Lynn to leave, especially after what she knew was at least a third assault, but Lynn—like herself—was alone and without family. She'd been a foster child, and a true family had been a lifetime dream. She hadn't been ready to give up on the marriage, especially when heartfelt apologies came after a beating.

Then she was murdered by her husband four years into the marriage. She'd finally had enough and told him she wanted a divorce. He shot her the next day.

Those images ran through Kirke's head. She'd held on to her own marriage too long. Although Jon had never struck her, he had been emotionally abusive, belittling everything she did. She'd left after two years. It had been eighteen months late.

They arrived within five minutes. Two police cars blocked the road. All the lights in the house were on.

An officer met them halfway. “He beat the hell out of his wife,” he said. “She's barely breathing.”

“Where's the husband?”

“In my squad car.”

She nodded, grateful. The hardest part of this job was trying to be nonjudgmental. She'd never been very good at keeping her mouth shut in the face of bullies. She hurried up the steps. Another officer was kneeling next to a woman. Blood was everywhere.

She immediately focused on the gash in the woman's head. Bleeding badly. The patient was bent in a fetal position as if trying to protect herself.

She was unconscious, and her breathing was shallow.

“Her name?”

“Susan Whitaker.”

“Susan,” she said to the injured woman, even as she realized Susan Whitaker was beyond hearing.

She turned back to the officer. “How long since the injury?”

“The husband said several hours ago. He locked her in the garage, thinking she was just sulking.”

Kirke wanted to kill the husband.

She checked the woman's pupils. “Unequal,” she told Hal. They both knew what that meant: intracranial hemorrhage.

She phoned in the vitals to the hospital and was told to get the patient there as soon as possible. She applied oxygen, then she and Hal loaded the patient on the board, then on the stretcher and wheeled her to the ambulance and lifted her inside. They were minutes away from the hospital.

She started an IV. “Come on, Susan. Stay with me. Don't let him win.”

Then they were at the emergency entrance, and they rushed her inside, giving specifics to the triage nurse.

They waited to give any additional information that was needed, then Hal filled out the run report. She went to the information desk. “We brought in a man yesterday. His name was Mark Cable. How is he?”

The receptionist typed in the name on the keyboard and glanced at the screen. “In critical care.”

“Do you have anyone listed as next of kin?”

The receptionist looked up at her.

“Sometimes it helps families to know that their loved one was thinking about them,” she said, knowing she was breaking a rule even thinking about contacting a family member.

But rule breaking apparently didn't bother the receptionist, who gave her an understanding nod and turned to the computer. “No name of a responsible party,” she said.

“And no one has asked about him?”

“Not while I've been here.”

Hal turned from where he had finished the paperwork and raised an eyebrow.

Their pager buzzed. Another call.

She sighed. No more time for questions.

And Hal thankfully didn't ask any. She didn't want to lie to him or make him an accomplice in what she'd done. She was risking her job on what she was beginning to believe was a quixotic quest. She'd gone too far, though, to hesitate now.

Jake waited impatiently at the motel office for the package the forger had promised last night.

He'd decided at the last minute to stay another night. He'd checked his phone messages, and there had been no calls from the supervising officer. Maybe he had several more hours.

But every moment counted now, and when a deliveryman hurried into the office, Jake moved to the desk. After satisfying the clerk that it was indeed his, he moved away and opened it, glancing quickly at the contents. A new driver's license was there, complete with the photo that had been taken for the driver's license he'd carried to Atlanta. The forger had come through.

He'd complained last night when Jake had called and ordered a new identity immediately. He'd said he couldn't do it in time to get overnight delivery.

But he had. At a very expensive price.

Jake tucked the license into his wallet. Now he was David Cable, a resident of New York City with an address that could be confirmed.

Thank God he still had some friends left, men he'd served with in Special Forces who'd never believed the charges against him. One had found the forger for him, a man who did work for the government as well as criminal enterprises.

Regret ran through Jake. His father died shortly after Jake, his only child, had been convicted. He'd left an insurance policy and some savings to Jake. Jake had taken that inheritance and some savings of his own and found a good money manager. During his last year in prison, he'd directed his money manager to put sums of money in various accounts and safe-deposit boxes. It wasn't illegal, since taxes had been paid, but he didn't want the feds to be able to trace funds back to him once he was released. He'd had every intention to start an investigation of his own.

This new identity was biting into that nest egg, but nothing was more important than finding the truth about that day, especially after seeing the man he believed was Gene Adams. The puzzle was beginning to come together in his mind.

Adams coldly murdered two of his own men and tried to murder Jake. Probably murdered a third yesterday. Jake had always thought the drug dealer had ambushed his team, then taken the two remaining men to learn who'd sent them, probably torturing and killing them. The money in his account? He'd believed the South American target had wanted suspicion diverted from himself.

Now he realized. Adams had framed him, plain and simple.

A deep chill settled inside him. If he was right, where had Adams been these past years? Where had Del Cox been? Did anyone in the government know they survived the ambush? After years in Special Services and dealing with the CIA, he wouldn't be surprised if someone did.

He stopped at a drugstore where he bought a pair of reading glasses and a package of cotton balls. Then he drove to the hospital and parked. He stuffed some cotton in his mouth to broaden his cheeks and change his speech. He added the glasses. As a disguise it was certainly minimal, but at least it would slightly obscure his features, if his face was captured on security cameras.

Yesterday, it hadn't been so important. He hadn't shown identification or associated himself with anyone but as a possible friend. But his actions today might well draw more attention.

He strode inside and went to the information desk.

“I understand my brother was brought in yesterday. Mark Cable,” he said, not needing to force urgency into his voice. He just prayed Adams hadn't arrived earlier. “What's his room number?”

The woman turned to the computer. After a few seconds, she turned back to him, a frown on her face. “Can I see some identification?”

He showed her the license. “I gained a little weight,” he said to explain his puffy cheeks.

“Haven't we all?” she said and gave him a room number and directions.

He followed the directions, making labyrinthine turns, apprehension mounting by the second. Through the corner of his left eye, he'd seen the woman pick up the phone as soon as he'd turned. Notifying authorities, he knew. It had been a hit-and-run, a crime. Of course there would be official interest.

But at least Cox was still alive.

He reached the critical care unit and went to the desk. The nurse there apparently expected him. A call from downstairs? “You're a brother?”

Jake nodded. “How is he?”

“You'll have to talk to the doctor. He's on the floor now. He'll be here shortly.”

“Can you just tell me where he is?”

He was directed to a glassed-in cubicle. The patient was connected to several machines, and tubes ran in and out of the man the hospital knew as Mark Cable. With a dropping heart, Jake realized exactly what they meant. For all practical purposes, the man was dead. He was never going to be able to tell Jake what he'd intended to say.

Just then a doctor appeared and guided him to a corner. “I'm Dr. MacGuire, the attending. I understand you're Mr. Cable's brother?”

“Yes. Someone saw the whole thing happen and called me. I was in New York. I took a plane immediately. Is he …?”

“I'm sorry. We did everything we could, but the internal injuries were too severe. We lost brain activity shortly after he arrived, but we kept him on life support, hoping we could find a relative.”

Jake knew exactly what that meant, but he had to be the grieving brother. “There's nothing you can do? We have money. I mean, there must be something?”

Dr. MacGuire shook his head. “I'm sorry. His heart stopped. We got it started again, but he went too long without oxygen.”

“I would like to see him.”

The doctor hesitated, then asked, “Are you the next of kin?”

Jake nodded. “Yeah. He's divorced and never had kids. Our parents are dead.”

The doctor hesitated again. “Have you thought of organ donations?”

Jake closed his eyes for a moment as if in pain. And he was. If he could, he would agree. But he couldn't. Too many papers and forms. It could come back to haunt him.

“No,” he said. “I don't think he would want that.”

The doctor merely nodded.

Jake went inside and leaned over Del's body. He saw the faint, almost imperceptible lines of plastic surgery on a face that wasn't familiar. For the sake of any onlooker, he leaned over as if to say a prayer, though he'd given up on prayer years earlier. A man who dealt in death had little right to pray.

He then checked the man's arm. A burn scar on the inside of his right arm. There had been a tattoo there once.

Satisfied that Del Cox, or at least the man he'd known as Del Cox, was the near-lifeless figure in the hospital bed, he left. The doctor was gone. He went to the nurse's desk, “Are there any personal effects?” he asked.

“The police have them,” the nurse replied. “They're trying to find his family.”

“Do you know whether there was a letter?” he said. He hated like hell to ask the question, but he had to know, and if the police had Del Cox's property, he had to find a way to get it. “He called me day before yesterday to tell me he had one for an old friend but couldn't locate him. It seemed important to him.”

She shook her head. “Just a wallet and clothes,” she said. “I bagged the clothes, and the paramedic responding to the call brought in the wallet.”

He nodded. He had what he needed.

Just then, another woman in a white coat appeared. “Mr. Cable?”

News traveled fast. He nodded.

“I'm from the office. We have some questions.”

He bet they had. Like insurance.

Sure enough, that was the first question.

“Do you know whether your brother has insurance?”

“No,” he said flatly. “We never discussed it.” He couldn't quite hide his distaste for the question. He wasn't Cable's brother, but if he had been, he would have had some choice comments.

“Is there a responsible party?”

“I doubt it,” he said.

“Did he have a living will?”

“I don't think so.”

“Would you have power of attorney for him?”

“No. He never thought he would die before me.”

“No one does,” she said. “I'm sorry to mention it at this time, but I have documents for you to sign.”