Damaged (31 page)

Friday, May 18, 6:20 p.m.

A
t the sound of John’s voice, Kate started. She couldn’t see him at first. It was dim in the parkade. Then she saw his form silhouetted against his car.

“Oh. Hi, John.” She gave a nonchalant wave and turned toward the elevator. Her heart pounded furiously. He was the last person, the very last person, she wanted to see right now. She hadn’t figured out his connection to BioMediSol but she was sure there was one. And if he was connected to them, then he was involved in some very dirty deeds.

“Wait, Kate!” He walked hurriedly toward her.

She stopped and turned. “I have a meeting, John. I have to go.” She forced a smile.

“I need to talk to you before you speak to Randall.” He stood stiffly, his arms rigid at his sides, next to the trunk of a very nice car. Randall’s, in fact.

“I don’t think so.”

“Kate.” Disappointment, pain, concern were all wrapped up in that one syllable. “Don’t be like that. I want to help you be successful.”

“Help me?” Anger at John’s betrayal—of her faith in him, of his callous disregard for people’s health, of his criminal use of the dead—flooded through her, capturing in its torrent her grief and pain. “I think you’d better help yourself.”

She knew it was the wrong thing to say the minute it came out of her mouth.

He stared at her.

Finally, he said, “What do you mean?” His voice was dangerously soft.

She felt the hair on her arms rise. “Nothing.”

“Oh, I think you do know, Kate,” he said. His eyes hardened. “If you are as smart as you think you are, you’ll keep your mouth shut with Randall.”

It was the first time Kate had ever heard him speak without his usual courtliness.

She tensed. She wanted to run. But his next words pinned her to the spot.

“You do have a secret, don’t you, Kate? One you wouldn’t want him—or the bar society—to know.”

She felt her skin go clammy. “I don’t know what you are talking about.” She wanted him to keep talking, to confirm her darkest doubts about him, but her body wanted to flee. She took a step back. “Look, I’ve got to go—”

He smiled. “I won’t tell anyone that you broke into Keane’s Funeral Home and stole confidential records—”

She felt her insides turn icy. She had heard all she needed to hear. He could only know about her theft if he was in collusion with Anna Keane. And if he was in collusion with Anna Keane, it meant he knew she was onto him. It meant he had every reason to keep her quiet.

“John, I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

He smiled. “Don’t bother bluffing, Kate. We know what you did. So here’s the deal—you keep our secret
safe, and we’ll keep yours. Otherwise, you can kiss your legal career goodbye.”

What he didn’t realize was that she’d already said goodbye to it.

He leaned against Randall’s car. He began to tap something against the bumper.

She glanced down. And froze.

It was a tire iron.

Slowly, but very surely, it was hammering a long dent into the gleaming chrome of Randall’s Jag.

“I don’t mean to rush you, Kate, but I believe Randall is waiting for you.”

She swallowed. “No deal.”

Then she gathered every ounce of energy she had and spun around. She bolted down the parkade ramp to the stairwell. John lunged after her.

Something clattered out of her pocket. She could hear John’s footsteps, surprisingly light and frighteningly fast.

She reached the door to the stairwell. Ragged breathing filled her ears. Was it hers? Or was it John’s?

It was John’s.

He was closing in on her. She wrenched the door handle, pulling it with all her strength. It opened and she threw herself forward. Her body moved faster than her feet. She pitched headfirst down the damp concrete steps. John grabbed her arm. Righting her.

Relief rushed through her. Followed by sick realization.

He raised his arm.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw it. The tire iron.

Fear made her legs weak. She yanked herself free of his grip.

She felt the whoosh of air being displaced by motion. A sob broke free of her throat. “No—”

The tire iron cracked down on her head.

The stairwell engulfed her in black.

Friday, May 18, 6:47 p.m.

P
ain. Throbbing, taunting, exploding in waves. She had never felt pain like that before. It consumed her. Made her long for unconsciousness.

She tried to open her eyes. The lids were weighted with lead. Dizziness overwhelmed her. She let her lids fall. It was easier to succumb than to fight it.

“She’s coming to.” It was John’s voice.

Panic welled in her. Where was she? What was wrong with her?

She tried to open her eyes again. Dizziness slammed into her.

She breathed deeply. A smell taunted her consciousness. Strong, unmistakable.
Imogen.

It made her nausea worse.

“Quick, is it ready?” That was a woman’s voice.

“Here,” John said. “You do it. I’m no good with these things.”

“I’ll bet,” the woman replied, disgust in her voice.

The woman’s name was right on the tip of her tongue. Which was dry, so dry. She needed a drink of water.

Someone grabbed her arm, pushing her sleeve quickly
up to her bicep. It was the woman. Her fingers were businesslike, practiced.

“Look, while she’s out, I’ve got to check in with my wife. So she doesn’t get suspicious.”

The woman’s fingers tightened. “No. You need to stay, John. I can’t face him alone.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back in plenty of time.”

“John!” The woman’s panic was evident in her voice. “Wait. Please, don’t go.”

There was a pause. Then John said in his most soothing voice, the voice Kate knew even in her groggy state was his most dangerous, “Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”

The door thudded before the woman could respond.

Cool air rushed over Kate’s skin. A piece of tubing pinched her above the elbow as it was tightened.

Sweaty fingers tapped the skin over her vein. She wanted to pull her arm away but couldn’t. She turned her head. The white spots tilted sickeningly.

Jab. Despite the woman’s palpable anxiety, the needle slid into her vein smoothly. Anna was good at this.
Anna
. That’s who the voice belonged to.

Nausea surged through her. She moaned. Then came the undertow of sleep. A heavy, rolling sleep.

Don’t. Don’t.

Fight it.

The heaviness rolled over the pain in her head. It rolled through her muscles, holding down her limbs.

She let it take over.

Blackness floated through her.

Friday, May 18, 7:16 p.m.

He couldn’t believe it.

She’d stood him up.

Randall glanced at his watch again: 7:16 p.m. He’d called her more than an hour ago.

Damn it. He needed her to cooperate. He ran a hand over his face. He’d let his anger override his professionalism and now this was the price he was going to pay. He’d thrown her an ultimatum and she’d stamped on it. Out of anger? He wasn’t sure. She’d sounded on the verge of tears. Maybe she was taking a few minutes to collect herself. Because he knew she wouldn’t appear in his office teary-eyed and vulnerable. No, she would stride in and give him a curt excuse for her tardiness, her gaze defiant in her red-rimmed eyes.

At least he hoped so. Otherwise, there was only one conclusion to draw from her failure to appear.

She was on John’s side, after all.

Friday, May 18, 7:20 p.m.

“Ethan. Come to the war room pronto.” Ferguson’s voice was tight with excitement. “The lab just called.”

“I’ll be there in five.” He threw his cell phone onto Lamond’s lap, checked his rearview mirror and did a quick U-turn. “They’ve got the results from the last victim,” he told Lamond.

“Finally,” Lamond muttered. They were both frustrated. It’d been a fruitless day. Ethan had been interviewing surgeons, Lamond had been going through morgue records. So far, everyone was above reproach.

They made it to the station in three minutes. Ethan and Lamond jumped out of the car and ran into the building. The war room was buzzing when they arrived. Ethan felt adrenaline surge through him. Something had finally broken on the case.

Ferguson stood at the head of the board table. The other detectives crowded around her. As soon as Ethan and Lamond reached the table, Ferguson cleared her throat.

They fell silent at once. Their usual banter had been worn out from the strain of too many days with too many disappointments.

“Our killer has finally slipped,” she said. Her eyes gleamed with anticipation. “The lab found trace evidence on victim number three’s body.”

“Semen?” Lamond asked.

Ferguson shook her head. “Embalming fluid.”

Friday, May 18, 7:24 p.m.

H
e walked into the embalming room. The familiar smell embraced him, tantalizing his senses. It was like coming home. It
was
home.

He strode across the room. The elevator door was sitting open, waiting for him.

This was a good sign. He punched the button and waited, glancing at his watch: 7:24 p.m. He was early.

But he couldn’t wait any longer.

Adrenaline pumped through his body.

Anna had called him in tonight for an “extra case.”

There had been something in her voice—fear, desperation, anxiety—that he had never heard from her before. But he wanted to hear it again. When he was tightening his grip on her.

He was happy to come in, he said.

The elevator stopped. She would be on the other side of the door. His muscles tightened in anticipation. Spots flecked and foamed around his vision. The door slid open. His legs would not bend.
Jesus.
He didn’t know what was happen
ing to him, but it couldn’t happen now. Not when the need was so great. Using all his strength, he staggered forward.

Anna turned.

His muscles relaxed in a liquid rush. Urge swamped his brain.

Her eyes met his. Her face changed to a look he craved.

Fear.

She backed away. “Craig? You’re early.”

Friday, May 18, 7:27 p.m.

Randall tapped his desk impatiently, staring out the window. Halifax Harbour at one corner, the Citadel at the other. They were the city’s two main strongholds: the navy commanding the water, the army manning the fortress. It was a fitting view.

He thought of John Lyons. He’d held on to his superior harbor view with the tenacity of a two-year-old holding a lollipop. He didn’t even realize that Randall had no interest in it.

Was he also blind to the fact that Randall was onto him? Randall hadn’t been fooled for a minute by John’s declaration that he’d only defrauded LMB with the CreditAngels loan. There were more skeletons in his closet. And they were just waiting to drag all the partners into their danse macabre.

He glanced at his watch again: 7:27 p.m.

His jaw tightened. She wasn’t coming.

He certainly wasn’t waiting for her. He’d given her the benefit of the doubt. Whatever had upset her was no excuse for failing to appear. She’d have a hell of a lot to answer for come Monday morning.

He strode to the elevator, punching P2 on the panel. The parkade was almost empty. He walked to his low-slung E-
type, its gleaming green finish improving his mood. God, he loved driving that car.

Despite his irritation, a small smile curved his mouth.

It quickly faded when he noticed the other car sitting three spots away from his.

It looked like Kate’s.

He peered through the driver’s window. The car was empty. He scanned the interior. The backseats were covered with white dog hair.

That confirmed it. It was her car.

He pulled out his phone and dialed her cell number.

A phone chimed in response. Somewhere around the corner.

His flesh rose.

He strode down the ramp, his heart slamming into his ribs. Kate must have come to meet him.

Where was she?

The chime was getting closer.

He slowed down, scanning the parking lot.

Silver gleamed against the concrete. He ran toward it, the chiming now sounding eerily foreboding.

He snatched the cell phone from the ground and hurried to the elevator.

Kate had been in the parkade.

What happened to her? Could she be in her office, going through the TransTissue file? Could she have dropped her cell phone and not noticed?

He punched the elevator button, practically diving through the doors when it arrived. The elevator climbed to the associates’ floor. His heart rate climbed with it. He ran down the hallway to her office. There was a stillness in the corridor. Where the fuck was everyone? Didn’t they have work to do?

He was disgusted with the disappearance of the asso
ciates on a Friday night. The smell of burned coffee reached his nose. Someone had left the coffee on in the kitchenette.

His heart rate bumped up a notch. If Kate had been here, surely she would have turned the coffee machine off. The smell was so pervasive, so foul.

He lunged through her office door.

His stomach sank. Her desk looked untouched, the files neatly stacked in preparation for Monday. No sign of her jacket or briefcase.

What the hell had happened to her?

A picture of her lying bleeding, her creamy skin waxy and white, flashed through his mind.

With it came fear. Pain.

And a shocking realization.

It almost killed him to think of her being hurt.

He took a deep breath. He needed to be calm. He needed to figure out what could have happened in that parkade. Something had made her run in panic. He was sure of that now.

The hair on his arms rose.

Had she run into John?

Randall tried to put himself in John’s shoes. The man was desperate. Randall could smell it on him. Randall had pushed at that desperation, had fed it, effectively boxing John into a corner. He had wanted John off balance for the partners’ meeting.

Had he pushed him too far?

He hadn’t thought so. But he hadn’t anticipated that John would see Kate in the parkade. He’d called John at 5:15 p.m., expecting him to come right away. When he hadn’t shown forty-five minutes later, he was seriously pissed off. He wouldn’t wait any longer. He wanted
answers. Now. He called Kate. She could fill him in on TransTissue. But her refusal to come in had ignited his fury. And then John showed up. At that point, he was so consumed with anger at the mess his fucking partner had gotten LMB into—and that Randall hadn’t spotted—that he hadn’t even thought about the fact that he’d ordered Kate to come right away.

What an idiot he was. He’d assumed Kate had given him the finger. He hadn’t put two and two together. But he was sure John had. He would know Kate would be his bête noire.

He would have every reason in the world to want little Ms. Lange silenced.