Vigilante Mine (7 page)

"Yeah. Man deserves a raise." Amanda's forehead crinkled and she studied him with such intensity he wished his supernatural talent included mindreading. Her fingers plucked at a strand of frizzled hair and she made a face. "I guess I'm heading home to get cleaned up, before Lieutenant Dale changes his mind and locks me in the hospital for the night instead."

Want company?
Ryan swallowed the question. "You'll be all right?"

"Of course."

As she turned to leave, he noted a calculating edge to her expression that spoke of trouble. "Amanda?"

"Hmmm?" Blue eyes flicked toward him. Wide, feigned innocence. Yep. Trouble.

The corner of his mouth quirked upward. "I'd save a visit to your lieutenant's house for the morning."

She laughed. The sweet, tinkling sound burrowed into his chest like a mug of hot tea, resonated with his power, simmered through his veins. What she intended to do when she left the scene of the fire was none of his business. If he could have provided backup, a personal Klepto escort . . . It was still daylight. Yes, she was unarmed. Yes, her team was cornering a psychopath. He couldn't interfere. Amanda patted her pockets and pulled out her express rail card. She skirted a coverless manhole on her way across the street, turning north for the station. He shouldn't interfere.

Jay came up on his right and snorted. "What's he doing?"

"He, who?" Ryan squinted after Amanda, looking for the man Jay had seen. Sometimes his baby brother forgot that everyone else didn't share his super-magical eyesight.

"Romeo." Jay caught himself and sighed. "Third doorway down."

The silhouette of a black dog crouched in a recessed entryway on the sidewalk level.

Jay tipped his head to the side. "Is he tailing your girl?"

"Yes." A sudden, wide grin escaped.
Keep an eye on her for me, Romeo.

The dog raced after Amanda.
"What, not even a 'please'?"

Jay didn't seem to notice the exchange as he pressed the unlock button on his key fob. The red-tinted lights flashed on the front of his lovingly polished black Camaro. "Let's get you cleaned up for the press conference."

"I'm not on tonight. They didn't recognize me." Ryan froze with his fingers on the door handle. "How did you hear about that?"

"I might not have super ears like you, but I can read reporter shorthand from two thousand paces."

No secrets in this family, not when Jay could spot words across a parking lot, Ryan could hear whispers through walls, and Zach just . . . knew . . . when something was up. When each of them had turned thirteen, Ryan and his brothers had walked the Ohanzee spirit search. One by one they'd been granted a spirit guide, an animal who had then gifted them with their unique abilities. Though it worked best at night, like his owl spirit guide's, Jay's high-powered binocular vision rivaled Ryan's hearing.

And like Ryan's often unpredictable ears, Jay's enhanced eyes weren't quite the "gift" their heritage claimed them to be.

"I need to find you a hobby." Ryan gave him a rueful smile but he climbed into the passenger side bucket seat. Acrid smoke drowned out the usual scent of leather as he buckled in. A change of clothes and a hot shower was definitely in order.

Jay rubbed his hands on the wheel before pulling into the street. "So. Mother's file?"

"You have no shame." Ryan's head hit the headrest and he tossed his glasses into the center console. "It sucks being oldest sometimes, you know?"

"Try being youngest," Jay muttered.

He changed gears and roared through the dead traffic signal that ringed the intersection. With so little traffic these days, the lights strung up over the road went unused. Few worked, and those blinked yellow.

After several minutes, Jay spoke again. "None of us believe her death was an accident, Ryan. If you're planning to find her murderer on the side, Zach and I should be involved."

"No." Ryan shut his eyes and slid a hand over the file tucked in his jacket as if by reassuring himself it was still there he could intuit who to blame. "We're not going to talk about this."

"Yes, we are."

"Jay," he said, but his brother was already plowing forward.

"You can't expect us to sit by while you fall out of burning buildings on some quest to avenge our mother's death." Jay's voice rose with each word until it reverberated in the compact space. "You can't do it on your own."

Ryan crossed his arms over his seatbelt and ensured the filters he'd put up at the station had all returned to normal. He'd made a mistake. He needed to be yelled at, and Jay needed to yell. Zach would be louder.

"Getting syndicate players off the street, stopping the killing, that's what we do now." Jay took in a calming breath and relaxed his grip on the wheel. "All three of us. We're a team. We're not your baby brothers who need a sitter. And today, Zach on comm, me pulling your ass out of there
—
We're a team. Day or night."

"We can't tackle this as Klepto." Ryan uncrossed his arms and braced himself against the dash as Jay took another sharp curve. Then he caught the smug look on his brother's face and realized with a curse that he'd said "we". "Why won't you let this go?"

Jay pulled into their private garage at McLelas Financial and parked. He turned in his seat and his gray-blue eyes pulsed like a zoom lens on a Nikon as they adjusted to the dimmer lighting. "Because you need to trust us, Ry."

"I do trust you."

"Then stop being an ass."

Ryan jerked a hand through his hair and sighed. Stubborn ran through McLelas veins like a virus. What was so bad about trying to protect them from the backlash of his mistakes? His fingers twitched as honey-brown strands and the scent of caramel staked prime real estate in his head, taunting memory and man alike.

He aimed a sharp afterthought at his spirit guide.
Don't let her see you.

CHAPTER FOUR

That fool Dale
hadn't mentioned his promise at the press conference. He stood and the kitchen chair crashed to the floor.

"Not smart, Lieutenant."

With his omission, Lieutenant Dale sealed the fate of Relek City's corrupted leadership and joined the list of pretenders. Another once-righteous man fallen to the sinful lure of the white-collar underground.

Everyone eventually caved.

His message wouldn't go unheeded. They needed to understand he would see the end of every pretender
—
syndicate plants and corrupt officials hiding behind the mask of title and privilege, each with a chokehold on the public's misplaced trust, harming his beloved city with every filthy breath
—
yes, every single pretender must be purged.

This mercy, his mercy, granted time for them to step down and repent. Ignorance was a pox, but his purpose wasn't to punish stupidity. Only corruption.

He pushed open the sliding door to his balcony and turned up the volume on the TV as he walked. The city looked dirty and hollow at night. A true representation of its character. At night, Relek City flourished with people who didn't hide from what they were
—
vandals, thieves, killers. Real, hardened criminals stalked the dingy alleys and clubs rife with the stench of illegal smokes. There was an element of truth he almost respected.

They made the night honest.

A table on the balcony held his instruments: Wires, bullets, gasoline. He ran a loving hand over a half-completed incendiary device. In the end, it didn't matter if the corrupt stepped down or not. His mercy would end in the fulfillment of his sacred responsibility.

The city's rebirth in a wash of blood.

Without corruption, without temptation.

" . . . many people willing and ready to help our local blues," an anchor's voice leaked into the night. "Stay tuned to News 9 this week for continuing coverage on this near-tragic accident."

Useless investigators hadn't even found the body.

His hand clenched around the TV remote and he stared at his broken kingdom, seeing an overlay of flame and ash.

Red. Black. Orange.

He grabbed a gun from the table and slipped two bullets into the clip. Just two. One to counter the wounds against the city, one to counter the ills against its people.

Under cover of night, in the time of truth, they would all understand.

CHAPTER FIVE

Work was an
active crime scene and home was a stifling box. Even the good company and maple syrup-scented air of Mrs. Byron's townhouse couldn't lift her spirits. Amanda jabbed a fork at her last bite of eggs. Yesterday had been hell, but the day off was somehow worse. Nothing said "valued asset" like being lumped in with non-essential personnel.

The downstairs of Mrs. Byron's had been converted for the sole purpose of serving meals to a hungry neighborhood. A generous, pink- and gold-checkered table backed against her expansive, polished kitchen. Those in the know stopped by for breakfast, lunch, dinner
—
the older woman was always behind the stove.

"You don't pay family for meals, Detective," Mrs. Byron said, but as usual didn't return the bills Amanda snuck into her apron pocket. She whisked a young boy's plate away. "More?"

Fresh batter hit a pan and sizzled.

"You know I'd starve without you." Amanda dumped a cap of cinnamon over her toast.

"Oh honey, yes. I've seen you behind a stove."

The cowbells tied to the front door hinges jangled. Neighbors joining for breakfast, smiling or waving at her on the way in from the cold, comfortable with her presence despite her badge. Amanda had grown up local. In the North End she didn't face slammed doors or wait around for officious documents. Here, people shared their gossip without invitation. Home court advantage. Amanda returned their greetings with a nod and scooped up her bread as she stood.

One of the men claimed her vacated seat. He tossed a twenty on the table, helped himself to the waffle platter, and wiggled a butter knife in her direction. "Quite a stir yesterday. Any runners? Anyone bite it?"

Amanda ground her teeth. Her reflexive answer snapped inside her chest, but despite the flippant words, his second question was more curious than callous.

"You saw the news." She lifted one shoulder. "Our staff got out okay and all prisoners are accounted for."

His forehead crinkled. "All of them?"

"Now, if your cousin had jumped, you think he'd miss breakfast, Greg?" Mrs. Byron's gray-green eyes twinkled. "Day's just gettin' started though; you could always bail him out for lunch."

Greg smeared his breakfast with cream cheese. "Boy deserves it. Two months, community service after that. We'll straighten him out." He turned to Amanda as if he had another question but Mrs. Byron stepped between them with her spatula aimed at the bay window.

"Don't see four wheels every day." The older woman squinted through the gauzy curtains and clucked her tongue against her teeth. "Wasteful."

Amanda edged in next to her to see a blue convertible, top up, metallic paint gleaming, crawling past their row of townhouses. Bare pavement followed in its wake as the tires ate up remnants of gray snow.

"Only folk who cruise around here are sneaks and showoffs," came a tenor remark. Amanda turned and the boy who'd been sitting near her flushed with guilt. "No offense, ma'am."

"None taken." Amanda sent him a smile as she plucked her coat and its coordinating scarf from the wall peg. A quick brush at the flakes of old paint that clung to the gray material and then it was on and her hand found the door. "My cruiser's only flashy when it has to be. Thanks for the eats, Mrs. B!"

A shouted lunch invitation followed her outside. Amanda crammed her toast into her mouth and flipped her hair out from under her jacket collar. It crackled with static. One or two desperate split ends tried to climb the side of her face and her patience fled. She cinched her scarf tight around the strands.

And stay down.

Dry air aside, at least Mrs. Byron's heater worked. The blessing was more than she could grant the precinct and as far as silver linings went, it would have to do. Light flakes and murky skies loaded the week's forecast, but the former seemed to be taking a break. Maybe her mood would pick up with the reprieve.

She huffed out a breath that crystallized in the air. Lieutenant Dale was high if he thought she'd keep her nose out of this investigation.

She'd give him today. After that, whoever bombed their department was hers.

Pushing aside her frustrations, she welcomed the fancy car's distraction. Gas was too steep a commodity for most in the North End; theirs was a predominantly foot and bike traffic neighborhood. Was the driver
—
as her young neighbor had put it
—
a "showoff", or a "sneak"? Curiosity led her boots after the low rumble of engine that purred straight to her toes.

The brazen vehicle slowed, then eased to the sidewalk. Her steps faltered, but before she could ID the driver, she heard her name. She turned to see Greg jogging down the townhouse steps with a still-glistening piece of bacon clenched in his hand.