Double Vision (18 page)

Y
ancy slid into his seat, his heart heavy. He hated lying to Jenna, even by omission. But he couldn't involve her in this,
especially
not now that Hank's brother had warned her a dispute over whether or not Ayana would get the money Hank left to her in his will was coming. Hank's mother would have a field day if somehow this thing with CiCi and Denny went badly and Yancy was caught for
killing
a cop. And then the only way news of Ayana's gold-digging mother's cop-killing boyfriend could get worse would be if it was discovered that Jenna knew about the whole thing and had helped him cover it up.

No. It was better—and safer—if Jenna stayed blissfully ignorant.

Even if it meant the openness and honesty their relationship was built on was now about as transparent as Jenna's alarm code system.
Fuck
.

He inserted his earpieces and hit the button to signal he was ready for calls, though taking other people's emergencies was the last thing he wanted to do today. God only knew he'd feel better wallowing in his own self-pity at home, with only Oboe's incessant scratching to keep him company. Sure, worrying wouldn't do any good, but at least he'd know he was sitting there obsessing properly over this complete screw-up of his, rather than moving on with his everyday life as if he was just some common, conscienceless sociopath.
Shit, cool guy. Way to mess up everything.

Yancy took a call from an elderly woman whose Chihuahua was barking, which had her convinced prowlers were lurking in her backyard. He dispatched a car to check on her, but he had a feeling all they'd find would be a nosy squirrel or stray cat taunting the little dog through the glassed-in door. He sent a cop to investigate a suspicious person loitering outside a female dorm at one of the local colleges, then clicked to answer the next call.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

“I . . . I'm stuck here.”

“What is your name, sir?”

“Armond Hester,” the man said, sounding agitated.

“Sir, can you tell me your location?”

“Yeah, I'm . . . I'm at the corner of, uh, Bentley and Cramer.”

Yancy typed the location into his computer. Now to assess who he needed to send. “And what seems to be the trouble, sir?”

“I'm stuck! I just told you!”

“What do you mean by ‘stuck,' sir?”

“I can't get off the street!” the man said again, the frustration in his voice heightening.

Yancy sucked in a deep breath. Sometimes when people were panicked, they found it hard to elaborate. He needed to ask the right questions. “Why can't you move from where you are, sir?”

“There ain't no taxis on the road!”

Yancy closed his eyes.
One, two, three . . .

“Sir, not being able to hail a taxi is
not
an emergency unless you have a medical emergency, in which case I can send an ambulance. But since you didn't tell me any immediate medical crises when I asked your problem, I suggest you dial information and call a cab company rather than clog this line. That way people with real emergencies can get through. Have a safe day now.”

He pressed the button to release the call. People were insane.

His red light came on again. Maybe this time it would be someone who couldn't find a porta-potty at an outdoor event, or someone at a deli who ordered a sandwich with no lettuce but received a lettuce-loaded nightmare that might or might not contain bread or meat at all underneath the many layers of the green bunny food. They happened every day, but they never got any less strange . . . or stupid.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

“Yancy! It's me. I . . . I need help.”

Yancy's heart thudded like raindrops on a tin roof. He'd
told
CiCi they couldn't ever act like they knew each other, for her own safety, yet here she was, calling him by name on a recorded 911 dispatch call, having recognized him by voice. He couldn't scold her, of course, lest he give them away even more, but damn, he wanted to chew her out from here to Timbuktu.

“What seems to be the problem, ma'am?” he asked, trying to sound neutral despite his pulse racing so fast it seemed as if his blood might shoot right out of his veins. He knew the pimp couldn't be there . . . He was dead! Had the other dirty cops found her?

“It's not . . . well,” she hesitated, seeming to think better of what she almost said. “It's my dad. Yancy, he's been attacked!”

“Ma'am, I need you to remain calm,” Yancy said, willing CiCi to listen to his words but also to read between them and follow his lead. To help her, he had to get them out of this current situation, which unfortunately for them was being recorded and could be legally referenced. This call had to be wrapped up in a way that didn't end with cops at CiCi's. “You sound
panicked
,” he said, emphasizing the word and hoping she'd catch on to what he was doing, letting it be a signal to her that while he knew she was upset, she shouldn't blurt out everything in her mind on this call. “You said your dad was attacked.
Why do you believe this?
” Yancy asked, each word slow, deliberate.

“Um . . .” CiCi's shaky voice stalled, her breath rattling as she tried to compose herself. “I guess he might've fallen . . . now that I look closer at everything.”

“Okay. And is he alert?”

“Yes.”

“Does he appear to be physically injured?”

She hesitated. “I . . . don't think so, no. Actually . . .”

Relief flooded to every muscle in Yancy's body as her tone told him she was catching on.

“I actually think he must've just taken a spill. I came in and saw him on the floor and just overreacted. He seems completely fine now. But thank you, and I'll call back if there's any change. I'll hang around and watch him awhile just to make sure.”

Yancy quickly rattled off the signs of a concussion and encouraged her to call if she suspected her father's condition changed or became more concerning. Then he shoved back from the table and grabbed his satchel, already heading toward the main office. Yancy told his supervisor he had a family emergency, and he hightailed it out of the dispatch building. He floored the Prius toward CiCi's home. If her father had been attacked, the police needed to be brought in. But given what had happened two days ago, they needed cops at her home dusting for fingerprints and conducting an investigation about as much as Yancy needed to see a front-page photo of the Ramey house after its location was leaked to the media. Christ, what a disaster.

He pulled into a parking spot in the little lot down the street reserved for the neighborhood pool, and jogged the rest of the way to CiCi's. He didn't want his Prius parked in front of her house any more than it had to be, even if their “we don't know each other” cover
was
already blown.

The door flew open before he could knock, and CiCi threw her arms around him. “Oh, thank God you're here! I don't know what to do. Someone broke in . . . hit Dad over the head. He swears he's fine, but when I got here . . . oh, God, Yancy. I thought he was dead. I came in and scared whoever. They ran out the back, and I was too busy tending to Dad to try to get a look . . . He was laying there, still and everything. Jesus. Who would do something like this?”

Cops who are seeking retribution for killing one of their own come to mind.
“I don't know, CiCi. Are you
sure
he doesn't need to be checked out by a doctor, though? I know we don't want or need police at this house right now, but we could take him to the ER, tell them he fell or something. I don't know.”

She shook her head. “I know, I know. He probably does need to be checked. But . . . police would get involved anyway after him being at that grocery store and everything. They're already after him for more interviews even though he can hardly remember yesterday from today, and if they hear something happened to him . . . My God! They might think it was related, want to put him in protective custody. Oh, God, Yancy, I can't let them take him—”

Yancy's head spun. “Whoa, whoa. Slow down. What do you mean he was at the grocery store? You're not talking about the mass shooting at Lowman's?”

Rocks seemed to drop into the pit of his stomach even before she nodded. He'd wanted so badly to keep Jenna from being involved, but little did he know, she was
already
involved. Fate always
was
a cruel bastard.

“What do we do?” CiCi squeaked.

“
You
don't do anything. Stay with your dad a minute. I have to make a phone call.”

J
enna reached headquarters at about the same time Dodd did. He held the door of the office open for her.

“You look like you got run over by a lawnmower,” he commented.

“Thanks. You look pretty zombie-like yourself,” she replied. The truth was, she might've slept the night before, but it had been the sort of sleep where somehow her brain had seemed to still be working and worrying even while she wasn't cognizant of it. Combine that with how obviously upset Yancy had been this morning, and she was in no mood to spar with Dodd. She'd thought seeing Yancy would make everything feel better, but instead, his palpable feelings had only clouded her thoughts. And she couldn't blame him. She could kick herself for even letting the thought cross her mind when Ayana had said what she had about “lime beans” green. It was just plain silly.

“I did box a couple rounds with my kangaroo before coming in to work. Gets the blood pumping, ensures the day can only get better from here.”

“Sounds exhilarating,” Jenna replied, plopping down in one of the chairs in the briefing room.

“Nah, I jest. I was on the phone with the Chicago crew about the nightmare in the Cobbler case. Looks like this guy is going to get sent to a padded room. I still can't believe it. The sheer stomach it takes to saw off feet . . . damn. And based on bleeding and bruising, several were still alive when he did it. A lifetime supply of thorazine? It's too good for him.”

Jenna sighed. She could empathize for sure. She'd seen one too many cases where a mental institution could never do justice to the pain and terror some bastard had dealt. Hell, knowing Claudia had spent most of her time incarcerated in a cushy institution was enough to cause Jenna's liver to produce bile at rapid rates and send it up her esophagus just to say hello.

But now, the mental institution seemed like the lottery compared to knowing her mother was out there somewhere—anywhere—able to go out for a steak dinner and maybe even make a new man a nice morning cup of joe with three sugars, one half and half, and two arsenics just for good measure.

“It's already done?” she asked.

“Might as well be,” Dodd said, his voice weary. “Everything approved, rubber stamp only thing missing. Then he's on a transport.”

“Shit.”

Dodd nodded his agreement. “Shit indeed.”

The others spilled into the room, and Saleda began tacking up pictures on the front board. Jenna recognized the people in the photos as the “candidates” Molly Keegan had identified last night: people who might have attracted the Triple Shooter's—or the Furies'—ire.
Let Operation Needle in a Haystack begin.

But before Saleda finished, Jenna's phone vibrated. She glanced at its face. Yancy.

Guilt washed over her as she clicked the button to send the call to voice mail. The daily briefing was about to start, and even if they were on the rocks, she couldn't talk right now.

A second later, though, the phone vibrated again. This time a text.

Call me NOW. Is relevant to your case. Alzheimer's guy attacked.

Jenna's heart sped up as she reread the message quickly, then a third time just to be sure. “Alzheimer's guy” had to be Eldred Beasley. He was the only person she was aware of in conjunction with the case who had the medical condition. But how did Yancy know about him? He could've taken the 911 call about the attack, but that didn't make sense. If it had gone through police, she'd be getting a call from someone at the crime scene who'd realized this might be related . . . not from Yancy, who as far as she knew until now, hadn't known a thing about Eldred Beasley's name, medical condition, involvement in the case, or anything else. Even if Yancy
had
taken a call about Eldred Beasley, in theory, he should know as much about the man's golf score or Internet search history as his being at Lowman's that day.

What the hell . . .

“Be right back,” Jenna muttered, standing and stepping into the hall. She hit Yancy's number on her speed dial.

When he answered, she didn't waste time asking how he knew about Eldred Beasley. If the man had been attacked, the chances of it being unrelated were slimmer than the chance she might let Ayana go to senior prom without a bodyguard.

“Where are you? Where's he?”

“One Ninety-two Peake. But, Jenna . . .”

Something in Yancy's voice sounded strange. Strained.

“What's going on, Yance?”

A sharp breath.

“Jenna, come. But if you have to call cops in . . . look, just don't ask me why right now. I need you to trust me and not make me explain until later. If cops need to come, call the
state
cops. No locals.”

The quality of his tone made a shiver ripple up Jenna's back. She'd never heard him sound this way before. Ever.

She swallowed hard. “Okay.”

Jenna hung up the phone and headed back into the briefing room. Her thoughts ran, her heart prodding her to go to Yancy alone, to find out why he was so afraid. To protect him.

Nevertheless, if something had happened to Eldred Beasley, the team needed to go. Even Yancy, for whatever reason, knew an attack on a man who was a witness at Lowman's—even if he couldn't remember jack shit about it—was no coincidence.

“Folks, we need to head to the Kelly Garden neighborhood. Our Alzheimer's patient who witnessed the shooting at Lowman's has been attacked.”