Covert M.D. (11 page)

Yeah, like she couldn’t tell that from the blast of hot air.

Disregarding the danger and the foul fumes, Nia used her fingernails to tease the scrap of paper free. More of the label was visible now. Luer Lock Syringes 1 CC.

“The supplies!” She turned toward Rathe to share the discovery. “We’ve found the—
look out!
”

An apparition lunged up from the laundry cart and tackled Rathe. Trailing a white sheet, it could have been Jacob Marley’s ghost, but the solid smack of flesh on flesh was real. The laundry cart overbalanced with a crash. Taken by surprise, Rathe fell beneath the weight of his gray, ghostly attacker.

Nia screamed before she realized the heavy metal door would muffle the noise. There would be no help from the others in the laundry area.

Heart pounding, she leaped aside as the men rolled across the floor, grunting and trading punches like dirty street fighters. Cadaver Man kicked the tangling sheet aside, and Nia grabbed it.

“Get up, Rathe.
Get up!
”

Either he heard her cries, or realized he had no leverage on the floor. Rathe elbowed the taller man in the gut, scrambled to his feet and shot her a wild look. “Get out of here.”

“Like hell I will.” When Cadaver Man lurched to his feet and swung a meaty roundhouse at Rathe’s head, Nia stepped in and looped the sheet across the villain’s throat. She jumped on his back, pulled tight and did her best to strangle him.

Mistake. Cadaver Man roared, spun and slammed himself backward against the incinerator console. The blow drove the breath from Nia’s lungs in a whoosh that was masked by the scream of sirens and the roar of machinery as the incinerator flared to life.

A gout of heat and smoke belched from the open door, then the failsafes shut down the metal dragon. Still, the heat in the room skyrocketed, the metal glowed cherry red.

“Nia, let go!” Before her dazed muscles could obey Rathe’s shout, he hit Cadaver Man from the side, sending the three of them staggering toward the open door of the incinerator.

Instead of letting go, she tightened her fingers on the sheet and her knee grip on Cadaver Man’s ribs. She jerked her weight to the side, hoping he would overbalance.

He did. Right into the incinerator.

The lean gray man shot his hands out and touched hot metal. Steam rose. Flesh sizzled. And Cadaver Man screamed, a high, thin noise of agony.

He spun and shuddered, bucking Nia off his back. She felt the sheet skim through her fingers, felt her body lift through the air.

Furnace-hot air blasted around her.

Gravity slammed her toward the ground, toward the red-hot metal. She reached out her hands, twisted her body and fought the inevitable.

“Nia!” The shout was almost lost in the machine’s roar.

“Rathe!” She felt his fingers tangle in her shirt and yank. Buttons popped, cloth ripped. She grabbed for him, and their hands locked. They tumbled to the floor—

Outside the incinerator.

The cement was cool at Nia’s back, Rathe warm against her front. They lay chest to chest, tangled together like lovers.

Cadaver Man was gone.

Rathe lay still, his heart pounding in time with hers. Quick and frightened. Excited. After a moment he groaned and buried his face in her hair. “I can’t take this, Nia. You’re scaring the hell out of me with these stunts. You’re a bloody menace!”

But there was no censure in the words now. There was only weary acceptance. So she took a chance. “I’m also a bloody good investigator. Admit it.”

They had evidence now, and connections. Cadaver Man formed a link between the corpse and the missing
supplies. But who did he work for? How did the transplant deaths fit in?

And why burn the pilfered equipment? Or had they just burned the packages? And if so,
why?

“Damn it, Nia—”

The rest of his words were lost in the metal howl of the outer door, and the arrival of the ERT—the equipment response team. Summoned by the incinerator’s alarm, they were stunned to find a pair of doctors on the floor, surrounded by crumpled whites and an upended laundry cart.

As soon as she could, Nia slipped away from the chaos, out the back door, which opened onto the loading area. She tucked the scrap of paper in her pocket and wished that it had been something more concrete. More obvious. But she couldn’t think about it now; she was suddenly too tired. Achingly bone-weary, fuzzy-head tired. Too tired to even face the drive to the apartment.

Call it delayed shock, call it lack of sleep or adrenaline letdown, her body was shutting down. She stumbled to the curb and belatedly realized she was alone—and Cadaver Man had escaped through the same door. He could be anywhere. He could be—

A hand gripped Nia’s upper arm. She squeaked before recognizing the flare of warmth.

“It’s me.” Rathe cupped her elbow in one warm hand. “I’m taking you home.” He flagged a passing cab.

“You don’t need to.”

“Maybe not, but I’m going to, anyway. Your daddy raised me right.” He slid into the cab beside her and gave
the driver the address of the Boston General apartment building.

Though it seemed she should take offense to his high-handedness and that last comment, Nia couldn’t stir up a good dose of anger. Her body wanted to shake with the memory of plunging toward the incinerator’s gaping maw. Her eyes wanted to tear with frustration that they were still so far away from a solution. And her heart wanted to ache with what she’d seen in Rathe’s eyes when he’d held her pinned to the floor. After he’d saved her life.

“Rathe…” she began, not sure what she meant to say.

“Shh. We’ll talk about it later. Trust me.”

And strangely enough, she did.

RATHE GOT HER HOME, bullied her into bed and closed the bedroom door behind him. He didn’t sneak in later and watch her sleep, though part of him wanted to do just that. He didn’t kiss her good-night, either. It wouldn’t have been professional.

And a man could only take so much.

Instead he ordered a pizza, commandeered the neutral-toned living room couch and the sturdy coffee table and got to work. He snagged blank paper from Nia’s portable printer and used a pencil to chart their clues and conjectures. Connections and interconnections.

And if his mind wandered to the bedroom down the hall, imagined her naked and sprawled amidst the warm sheets, it was only proof of his tenet. Women didn’t belong in HFH investigations. They were a distraction. A liability.

But the mantra rang false in his head. Nia wasn’t the problem here, he was. When he’d asked her to pick, she had chosen the job over him. And it stung.

“Rathe?”

His eyes snapped up. The pencil between his fingers cracked in two. She stood in the hallway, messy-haired and clad now in a waterfall of silk that glowed primary colors against the oatmeal apartment decor. That image instantly, irrevocably banished the memory of a teenage college student sitting on the beach steps behind him. It banished the mental snapshot he’d kept of that last morning in the airport hotel, when he’d woken up before her, fever broken, fully aware of where he was. Who she was. What he’d done.

And how much he wanted to do it again.

But those images were now replaced with the sight of womanly curves, dark, tumbling hair and sleepy eyes. In that instant she went from being Tony’s daughter to being a woman. Heaven help him.

She nodded to the papers strewn across the coffee table. “Find anything?”

“Nothing jumps out at me.” He grabbed a slice of cold, congealed pizza, more to keep himself from reaching for her than from hunger. “I figure Arnold Grimsby—Short Whiny Guy—was killed to keep him from talking…but about what? Are the missing pharmaceuticals really connected to the transplant deaths? If so, how? And why burn them?” He shook his head in disgust and tossed the pizza down without taking a bite. “We need more.”

“Then we’ll get more.” She glanced at the clock above the blank TV set. “Logan’s picking me up in an hour. Maybe you should search his office while I keep tabs on him. Better yet, search his house.”

“We’ll stay together.” There was no way he was leaving her alone with Hart.

“But—”

“This isn’t negotiable, Nia.” He rose to his feet and paced, needing to work off the excess energy that had buzzed through him from the moment she appeared in the hallway door and his mind had pictured her naked beneath the robe. “Cadaver Man has inside information and free access. That has to come from somewhere, right? And the jerk who attacked you hired himself a fancy lawyer. Big money. That says doctor to me.”

She crossed her arms. “You’re falling in love with your own theory, Rathe. And you’re reaching.”

“Of course I’m reaching.” He rubbed both hands across his face. “What else can I do? We need more evidence.”

“Exactly. Which is why you should snoop in Logan’s office while I keep him occupied. I don’t necessarily think he’s our man, but there was something…strange about him when the transplant patient died. I think he knows something.”

“I’m not leaving you alone with him.” Rathe crossed the room, stopping just a heartbeat away from her. “I won’t.”

She lifted her chin, irritation chasing the sleep from her eyes. “You would if I were a man.”

“Nia…” She was right and they both knew it. She pursed her lips, and the sight went straight to his groin. Drawn by the invisible bonds that bound them one to the other, he leaned down, damning the consequences. She swayed toward him, just a whisper away, slid both hands up his chest—

And pushed him away.

“Back off, Rathe. Partners or lovers, remember? It’s your rule, so I suggest you stick to it.” She spun and retreated in a flash of colored silk and bare legs. The bathroom door shut behind her. Moments later the shower splashed to life.

Leaving Rathe alone. Aching.

No, that wasn’t right. He was simply alone, as he’d been for so much of his life except for two bright spots—the time he’d shared with Maria, and those years he’d fancied himself a member of Tony’s family.

“Damn it.” He scrubbed a hand across his face. Fatigue tugged at him. A brief catnap had done him little good. He was tired, not just from this assignment, but from the grind of the life. The endless stream of temporary friendships. The never-ceasing danger.

Maybe Wainwright had a point. Maybe the great Rathe McKay was finally burning out. Maybe it was time for him to take a desk and leave the field to new, enthusiastic investigators. Like Nia.

His jaw clenched and he glared at the closed bathroom door, forced himself not to imagine slick pink flesh and dark, wet hair. He forced his stiff legs to carry him back to the couch, forced himself to pick up his
handwritten notes and read them for the tenth time. Forced himself to focus.

And he saw the connection.

Chapter Seven

Nia shaved her legs, slathered herself with scented lotion, and felt foolish for taking the time. This wasn’t a date, it was business.

But she couldn’t quell the low hum of excitement in her stomach as she slid on the one black dress she’d brought with her and tweaked her killer black garters into place. She piled her dark hair atop her head and fastened it there with two faux diamond combs, providing a hint of flash that was echoed at her throat and ears. She slipped into low black shoes with soft rubber soles—perfect for running, if necessary—and stepped back to approve her appearance in the wide wardrobe mirror.

She didn’t clean up often. But she cleaned up well.

It wasn’t until she turned for the door and the excitement balled in her throat that Nia jolted, finally realizing that she wasn’t excited to see Logan, wasn’t excited about taking this next step into covert work.

No, she was excited for Rathe to see her. Excited for him to realize what he’d been missing these past seven years.

“Knock it off and focus,” she told herself, “you’ve outgrown him. This is about the job, not about Rathe.”

But that didn’t settle the anxious knot in her stomach, nor did it stop her from striking a pose just inside the living room.

He didn’t even glance up from his papers. “I think I’ve figured it out.”

Her excitement shifted directions. She crossed the room and leaned over him. “What? Tell me?”

“I think it’s black market.” He turned toward her. “I’ll bet—” He froze, his eyes locked on the neckline of her dress, which hadn’t seemed daring only moments before.

Heat suffused Nia’s body. Her nipples crinkled to points beneath the lacy black demibra. She slapped a hand to her throat, where the material gapped, and stumbled back a pace. Her face burned from the heat, and from the sudden flare in his eyes.

“But—” She cleared her throat against a sudden tug of wanting. “But why would Cadaver Man incinerate the supplies if he could sell them?”

“I’m not talking about the supplies.” Rathe shook his head. “I think a few boxes were burned to misdirect us.” His eyes bore into hers, and it felt as though they were having two separate conversations. Their voices were discussing the case, but their bodies had moved on to an entirely different topic.

A more dangerous one.

“Then what?” She took another step back. He stood and followed with a single stride forward, making her feel like prey.

“The organs. Rare-type organs have a huge black market value, especially if you have a transplant doctor willing to do the work himself.”

It made a horrible sort of sense, but didn’t account for everything. “How would it work? The Boston General patients are receiving their transplants. We’re not missing organs, we’re losing patients.” Like Julia. Somehow the woman’s name, her face, had stayed with Nia.

“I know. The autopsy on the last dead patient showed a proper transplant—two failing kidneys and the new one grafted lower down. So we’re not missing organs….” He dragged a hand through his hair. “But I pulled in a marker and got a copy of last month’s transplant list. I compared it to the one Talbot gave us from the current database and found two patients who’d fallen off the list.” He handed her a sheaf of papers. Two vaguely familiar names were highlighted. “These guys are big money.” He paused. “Big,
dirty
money.”