Internal Affairs (5 page)

“If you leave, I doubt you’ll get far,” she said dryly.

His eyes went to the window, even though she’d drawn the curtain earlier, blocking out the night. “You’re probably right. I’ve endangered you by coming here. Whether I leave or not, you’ll still be a target.”

A chill swept over her. “I was talking about the fact that I doubt you’d make it far without collapsing, given the concussion, bullet wound and blood loss.” But he was right about the other, too, she knew. People were looking for him. Regardless of who found him first, she was going to be in serious trouble. If the task force found out she’d hidden him, Percy would have his excuse to fire her. If the terrorists found him, they were both dead.

She should turn him in, to Fax or someone she trusted. But what if the blood on his clothing had come from the dead agents? Even Fax was on a witch hunt to cull all the conspirators from the federal ranks, and none of her friends had thought much of Romo in the wake of the breakup. Could she truly trust them to believe in him the way she did?

Damn it, she didn’t know what to do, and she hated not knowing what came next. She’d grown up in a family that had been in a constant state of flux, with her father coming and going depending on where her parents had been in the cycle of him cheating, her kicking him out, him repenting and her forgiving him. Over and over again.

“You’re a doctor?” Romo asked, no doubt because she’d just predicted he’d fall on his face if he tried to leave now.

“I’m—” She broke off, struck anew by just how odd it was for him to be meeting her for the first time all over again, after they’d been as intimate as two people could possibly be. Or at least as intimate as he’d let them be. “I’m the chief ME of Bear Claw City,” she said, and
even she heard the quiet ring of pride in the words. And why not? The job might not be hers for much longer, but for now she could claim the prestigious title.

He whistled. “Impressive.” He frowned for a moment, thinking.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head. “It’s just that it’s true, you know. You’re in danger now because I came here.”

“I have friends who could help.”

Romo’s expression went instantly shuttered. “Don’t tell any of them that I’m here. Don’t even hint it. Promise me.”

His sudden intensity sent a spear of worry through her. “Why not?”

“I don’t want to endanger them the same way I’ve endangered you,” he said, but she had a feeling there was more to it than that.

“They’re all cops and agents, Romo. They can handle themselves.” She wasn’t as sure as she sounded, though. The memory of his funeral was too close to the surface. She couldn’t bear to think of reliving the experience for Chelsea, Fax or any of the others.

“Promise me,” he repeated, reaching out as though he wanted to touch her, though they were a room apart. “Promise you’ll give me the night to remember. Promise me we’ll talk again before you do anything.”

They stared at each other for a long moment while the air thickened with things said and unsaid, and with too many questions. Finally, unable to deal with the pressure that gathered in her chest and made her want impossible things, she turned away. “Get some rest.
I’m going to call Tucker. He’s a homicide detective with the BCCPD. If I tell him the manhunt has me freaked out, he’ll send a patrol past here every hour or so.” It didn’t seem like nearly enough, but it was all she could think to do just then. She couldn’t leave her patient, couldn’t move him, couldn’t kick him out…and she’d just promised not to turn him in until at least morning.

“And one other thing.”

“What?” she asked, but the word came out weakly, as exhaustion rushed over her, swamping her. Her brain was full, her heart heavy. She just wanted to shut it all off for a little while.

“You called me Romo.”

She stilled, her heart cracking a little, bleeding for what he’d lost, for the uncertainty of when—or even if—he’d get it all back. “That’s your name. Detective Romo Sampson, Internal Affairs, Bear Claw Creek.”

“And you?”

“Sara Whitney.”

He said her name back to himself. “Pretty name.”

The offhand comment shouldn’t have touched her as deeply as it did. Because of that, because of the weakness it indicated, she backed out the door. “I’m going now. Sleep. And don’t stress your stitches.”

She closed the door firmly at her back, not to keep him in, but to remind herself to keep out. Romo wasn’t hers anymore. He hadn’t been for a long, long time.

A
S THE DOOR SHUT,
he lay still, staring after her, trying on his own name.
Romo Sampson.
It was a good enough
handle, he supposed, ignoring the lick of panic that came when he realized he didn’t know what “Romo” was short for, if anything. He didn’t remember the name, didn’t remember the parents who’d given it to him, or the woman he’d instinctively come to for help.

An ex-girlfriend,
he thought, trying to align that information with his almost overwhelming desire to roll across the big bed with her, and do something to blunt the roiling, churning lust that had gripped him low in the gut the moment he’d pressed his body against hers, the moment he’d kissed her.

Mine,
his entire being had said at that moment. And she had cooperated fully, making it something of a shock to learn that they weren’t together, hadn’t been for some time. Somewhere in his banged-up head, he’d been sure they were a couple. Apparently, he’d forgotten their breakup. He’d forgotten a whole lot of things, and he had a feeling lots of what he’d forgotten wasn’t at all pleasant.

Sara seemed convinced he’d been undercover. He wasn’t so sure. But as he lay there, trying to remember something—anything—the gray-brown crept in on the edges of his vision, taking over everything. Willing or not, he slept.

Hours later, he awoke stiff and sore, with an excessively foul taste in his mouth. A dim light shone from the bathroom, and when he made it in there, he found a couple of pain pills and a glass for tap water. He downed the pills and water, and stood there, braced against the sink with his head hanging and his shoulder on fire.

He should go back to bed and give his body more healing time, he knew, but his half-remembered dreams kept him on his feet.

His head throbbed, tangling the present with occasional flashes of what he could only assume were things from his past. They weren’t in any sort of order, though, didn’t have any context. He hoped to hell the flashes themselves were evidence that his memory would come back quickly, as whatever swelling he had going on inside his skull came back down to a dull roar. Problem was, a part of him wasn’t sure he wanted those memories back—they were starting to show him some seriously grim scenes, ones suggesting he hadn’t been quite the nice guy Sara seemed to believe.

He saw blood and heard a man’s screams, saw a computer with a set of schematics on it. And he had an overwhelming sense that he needed to be doing something, performing some sort of mission, but he was damned if he knew what he was supposed to be doing.

Panic stirred. He was unarmed, unprotected. And he wasn’t sure the thought of the local cops doubling their patrols was much of a comfort; first, because from the sounds of it, the terrorists had been running rings around them for months; and second, because for all he knew, the cops were the ones looking for him.

He should leave, he knew. Unfortunately, he was realistic enough to admit that he wouldn’t get far. He was too damned weak to run. What was more, he’d been there too long already. Whoever was looking for him might’ve found him already. If so, he couldn’t very well leave Sara, knowing she was in danger. He owed
her better than running away. He owed her protection, through the morning, at least.

Pushing away from the sink, he headed for the bedroom door, remembering that he’d glimpsed a gun cabinet in the office next door to the bedroom. Almost as an afterthought, he realized he was wearing cheapo skivvies and nothing else. Detouring to her wardrobe, he unearthed a pair of navy blue drawstring sweatpants and a plain black T-shirt that probably swam on Sara’s slender frame, but fit snugly across his chest.

The clothing was soft and smelled of her, of laundry detergent and springtime, though he couldn’t help noticing the faint odor of blood that came from his own skin, tainting the moment.

Once he was dressed, he slipped out of the bedroom and down the hall to Sara’s office. He crossed to the gun cabinet, alert for any noise from the first floor, assuming she’d bunked down on the couch. The gun cabinet was unlocked, which had him muttering about her lack of security. When he got the cabinet open, though, and saw that it was most of the way full with first aid supplies that looked hastily rifled, he figured that explained it. She’d left the cabinet unlocked in her haste to deal with his injuries.

Either that, or there was no gun in there, just medical supplies.

For a moment he thought he was out of luck. Then he caught sight of a small handgun on the top shelf, shoved most of the way to the back next to a box of ammo. Gritting his teeth against a bit of pain, he dug the weapon out and loaded the little .22. Once he had
it tucked into his waistband, he felt far better about the situation, and his ability to deal with anyone who tracked him to pretty Sara Whitney’s home.

Granted, a .22 wasn’t much in the way of firepower, but it was something.

He was about to close up the cabinet when he spied a crumpled paper bag that looked completely out of place amid the sterile first aid supplies. Beside it were his boots. A quick recon showed that the bag held what he suspected were his clothes, packaged as if for evidence. He left the bag alone, but took the boots, carrying them rather than putting him on because he didn’t want to wake Sara as he descended the stairs.

Halfway down, on a small, carpeted landing, he paused as a touch of heat feathered across his skin, accompanied by a flare of longing. He grabbed for the memory but it refused to come clear, leaving him feeling hollow. Lonely.

“She’s your ex-girlfriend,” he reminded himself. “
Ex.
And you’re sure as hell not in a position to be thinking about changing her mind on that one.” He’d endangered her by his presence. He wouldn’t compound that by trying to seduce her.

He wasn’t clear on what had happened between them. He didn’t think he was the kind of man who cheated; he’d felt a deeply rooted twist of guilt and self-loathing when she’d mentioned it, along with something else that made him think things had been far from simple between them. But complicated or not, he’d reacted to her. And, injured or not, he wanted her.

Still, though, she’d been very clear: no second
chances. And although he didn’t know her well—at least not in this incarnation of himself—he had a feeling she didn’t make statements like that lightly.

But while logic and rationality said he should leave her alone, when he reached the first floor and found her lying asleep on the sofa where she’d been before—where she’d been when he grabbed her, kissed her—he had to damp down the almost irresistible urge to cross to her, go down on his knees beside the couch and pick up where they’d broken off earlier, with her hands on his face, his buried in her thick, honey-colored hair. That part had been easy, natural. The rest of it, though, was anything but.

Knowing it, and knowing he couldn’t live with himself—whoever he was—if anything happened to her, he snagged the bedding he’d been lying on earlier, and cobbled together a makeshift pallet near the front door. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, he found as he lay down and felt his bruises howl, his stitches tug. But that had been his plan—the discomfort would keep him from sleeping too deeply despite his injuries, meaning he’d have a better chance of hearing an intruder and responding in time. He hoped.

He lay facing the door for maybe five minutes before he gave in to the temptation and levered himself painfully to his other side, so he could watch Sara sleep. She’d left on the same kitchen night-light as before, and the dim illumination cast soft shadows on her hands, which were tucked beneath her cheek. The pose might have been angelic, but even in repose her face lacked the pure sweetness generally associated with cherubs
and angels. No, she exuded an earthy sensuality in the tilt of her high, elegant brows and the purse of her full lips. And there was an energy about her, a sense that she was never quite still, even in sleep, never quite at peace with herself, or maybe with what was going on around her.

Can you blame her?
he thought sardonically, because of course he couldn’t blame her one bit. But he could, and would, do his best to see that she didn’t suffer because she’d helped him.

Forcing himself to turn away, he once again faced the doorway, and shifted the handgun to beneath his pillow, where he could grab it easily if he heard a suspicious noise. Then, knowing he’d better doze and give his body the time and resources to heal, he closed his eyes and put himself into a light, restorative trance he didn’t know he knew how to do until after he’d done it.

In the trance he saw sounds as colors, a rainbow of soft nighttime noises, none of which alarmed him. Sinking a level deeper into the self-hypnosis, he heard the same whisper that had been nagging at him since he’d regained consciousness out in the woods.
The mission. Must complete the mission.

Now, though, that wasn’t the only thing he had to do. The mission—whatever the hell it was—might be his priority, but alongside it was another need, one very close to his heart. He had to make sure that Sara didn’t suffer for his sins.

The next morning Sara awoke stiff and sore, and for a moment didn’t know where she was. Her living room came clear around her first, reassuring in its familiarity, and she had a half second of thinking she’d fallen asleep in front of the TV, which although rare, was something she did from time to time.

Then she saw the silhouette of a man standing at one of the front windows, peering between the drawn curtains. Heat shimmered through her alongside dread, though it seemed odd that the two could coexist. “See anything?” she asked softly.

His shoulders tensed, but he kept up his surveillance for a moment longer before he turned to her. “An unmarked sedan has been by a couple of times, no doubt thanks to your friend. I haven’t seen anything I would consider suspicious.”

Sara frowned and sat up on the sofa, rubbing her face to clear the sleep from her system. “How long have you been standing there? You’re supposed to be resting that shoulder.”

“I can rest when I’m dead for real.” He paused. “I borrowed your gun. If that’s a problem for you, just say the word and I’ll hand it over.”

She couldn’t see his expression or read his mood, could only see the outline of his body against the light coming through the curtained window. Oddly, though, she wasn’t bothered by the thought that he was armed. He’d been a cop when they met, so she was used to him wearing a gun. “Keep it. I’m not the world’s best shot.” She rose and crossed to him, putting herself between him and the window so she could see his face. “How are you feeling? And don’t lie.”

“Sore,” he admitted. “But alive, thanks to you.”

His face was drawn and tired, more gaunt than she remembered, and covered with a day’s worth of stubble. She’d never seen him looking so rough before…and she’d never had a stronger impulse to throw herself against him and sob into his chest. Or kiss him. Or pound her fists against him.

Emotions jammed her throat, forcing her to swallow around a huge lump of tears, anger and elation.

His expression changed, going from guarded wariness to concern. “Hey.” He reached out to her. “It’s okay.”

She jolted away, batting at his hands. “It is
not
okay.” Part of her wondered if it would ever be okay again. She’d thought she’d gotten used to him being out of her life, first as an ex, then as a dead man. But now, having him standing in front of her…she didn’t know how to cope, didn’t know if she could.

She’d come to Bear Claw hoping for a calm, orderly
life, one where she could do good work for the ME’s office and the young, progressive mayor. She’d found a home and friends she loved, and for a while, a man, as well. Even when her and Romo’s relationship had ended, she’d managed to keep things on a relatively even keel, at least outwardly. She’d functioned. She’d dealt. She’d mourned his death. And time had gone on. Except that now, more than a year later, the city was under a terrible threat of violence, her job was on the brink, Romo was back and things were rapidly spinning out of her control.

“We should sit,” Romo said. “We need to talk.” He took her arm and urged her away from the window, in the direction of the kitchen. “Come on, I’ll make us some coffee.”

Near-hysterical laughter bubbled up in her chest. “My coffeemaker’s busted. I broke it yesterday morning, back when my biggest problems were my wonky windshield wipers, my sticky office door and the acting mayor’s vendetta against my staff.” But she let him guide her to one of the stools at the breakfast bar. When he started boiling water for tea, finding the bags in the third cabinet he tried, she scrubbed her hands over her face again, and sighed. “God. I hate feeling so out of control.”

“Finally. Something we have in common besides what I have to believe was some really great sex.”

His offhand comment was so dry, delivered so perfectly, that she laughed in spite of herself. Then again, he’d always had a knack for turning her knee-jerks back on themselves, making her see them for the old patterns
they were. That was why she’d agreed to go out with him in the first place, after resisting for nearly a month—he’d convinced her that despite his reputation, he was no playboy. He’d claimed that while he’d dated around when he’d first arrived in Bear Claw, he’d been a serial monogamist, and that a handsome, charismatic devil like himself was no more likely to cheat than any other man, comparisons to her father notwithstanding.

And he’d been right. For a while, anyway.

The memory didn’t sour her mood so much as it reminded her of what she’d begun to process the night before, as she’d slid toward sleep—namely that the fact of Romo being alive didn’t rewind the months prior to his death. If his funeral hadn’t taken away the sins of his life, then neither did his resurrection.

“Here.” He deposited a steaming mug of tea on the breakfast bar, took one for himself and made a vague gesture. “You want milk or sugar? Lemon?”

The question was a poignant reminder of how much he’d lost. The old Romo had kept a running file of her likes and dislikes in his head, which she’d taken as evidence that he’d paid attention, that he’d cared. And maybe he’d done both of those things. But he’d also played her.

She shook her head. “This is fine. I take it that means you didn’t wake up with all your memories back?”

“I wish.” He took the other bar stool, spinning it to face her and covering the wince when the move jarred his injured shoulder.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” she said automatically, though he looked far stronger than she would’ve ex
pected, given what he’d been through the previous day, and far better than he ought to, wearing her sweats and tee.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he countered, seeming to search her eyes for a response she wasn’t sure she could give.

“If we assume you were working against the terrorists—and, having known you as well as I did, I’m sticking with that assumption until given reason to doubt it—then I’m probably safer if you stay,” she said bluntly. “They’ll be looking for you, and eventually they’ll look here, based on our past relationship if nothing else. I’d rather not be alone when that happens.”

His face darkened. “You should go into protective custody.”

“And tell them what?” she countered. “I can lean on Tucker for some extra drive-bys without too much of an explanation, but I’d need more than that to get myself locked down. I’d have to tell them about you, and without knowing who you were working for—and therefore who I could trust—I wouldn’t be able to control the information flow within the task force. You’d have the cops and al-Jihad after you, doubling the complications you’re going to have while you try to remember what you were doing, and for who.” She paused and said dryly, “Not to mention that while you’re putting on a good show right now, ten bucks says you’re fast asleep within the next half hour.”

Now that they were in the brightly lit kitchen and the caffeine was kicking in, she could clearly see the grayish cast to his haggard skin, the pain lines beside
his mouth and the tired way he favored his injured shoulder and neck.

He grimaced. “Sounds like you’ve been doing some thinking.”

“Hard not to.”

“Yeah.” He sat for a moment, pensive. “I hate that I’ve put you in this position. I wish…I don’t know. I wish I’d gone any place but here.”

“If you had, you’d probably be dead by now,” she said with little conceit. “If you’d wound up in the medical system, they would’ve reported the gunshot injury and whoever is looking for you would’ve found you. If you holed up somewhere without treatment, you would’ve died from the shock and blood loss. And although there’ve been days I would’ve said I hated you, I’d still much rather have you in this world than not.”

That earned her a sharp look, but he said only, “I saw the bag in the gun safe.”

At first she winced, thinking he’d take that as a sign of disloyalty. Then she decided that she didn’t care if he did. She said, “If you can’t remember anything, maybe the evidence can help tell us.”

He nodded, expression guarded. “My thoughts exactly. Did you keep the bullet?”

“Yep. I couldn’t tell you what caliber it was, though. It fragmented, and is fairly deformed. I’d like to give it to Cassie, along with the clothes.” When he stiffened, she said, “Cassie’s the top forensic analyst in the BCCPD, and she’s a good friend. I trust her with my life.”

Do you trust her with mine?
Romo’s sardonic expression seemed to say. But aloud he said only, “Can you give her the evidence without telling her where it came from?”

“If I told her what was going on, she’d keep it to herself.”

He must’ve seen something in her eyes, though, because he said, “You’re not sure of that. You don’t trust her.”

“I do,” she knee-jerked, but then clarified, “It’s her husband, Seth. He’s one of the top forensic analysts for the FBI, and I can’t swear she wouldn’t tell him.”

“And you don’t trust him.”

“I trust him to do what he thinks is right, but that’s not always what the person in question has asked him to do,” she said, remembering a couple of times over the past year that Seth had gone against his word in making his own judgment call. Granted, those instances had worked out for the best, but she wasn’t sure she dared run the risk.

Romo shifted in his seat, and was less able to hide the wince this time. “Then either you can’t use Cassie for this, or you have to lie to her about where the samples came from. Can you do that?”

The answer should’ve been a categorical “no.” But Sara found herself hesitating. “How about talking to Fax? He was undercover. If anyone knows who you’d be likely to report to, it’d be him.”

“That’s still assuming I was undercover,” Romo said. “What if I wasn’t?”

“Then I should definitely turn you in to Fax.” She
paused, a little skitter of nerves dancing down her spine. “You’re not saying…”

“I don’t know what the hell I’m saying anymore. I don’t think I’m a bad guy, but how do I know for sure? And if I
was
doing something wrong, then I need to make it right somehow, which means staying free long enough to figure it out.” He reached out with his good arm and took one of her hands in his. “I hate that I’ve put you in this position.”

“I’m not too thrilled about it, either.” But the strange thing was, she wasn’t entirely unhappy about how things were turning out. Surprising them both, she said, “I’ll take the samples to Cassie and tell her they came from an informant.” It wouldn’t exactly be a lie that way.

He looked at her with wary hope. “You’d be willing to do that? Willing to get involved that way?”

She hesitated for a moment before she said, “Normally, the answer would be no. I’m not a risk taker, I like my life simple and this is pretty much the definition of risky and complicated. If I get caught, the acting mayor will fire me in a heartbeat, my friends will know I lied to them and I’ll probably face some major charges. Not to mention what might happen to you. But the thing is, Bear Claw is my home, and it’s under siege. If I can do something to help fix that, then I guess I have to, don’t I?” Those were only some of the conclusions she’d come to as she’d dozed off, decisions that had been cemented in her mind as she’d slept.

Hiding from the police reports and task force bulletins because she’d felt she couldn’t do anything to help
was one thing. Refusing to do something that actually
might
help was another. And besides, regardless of how things had ended between her and Romo, the history was there. She couldn’t turn him in until she was sure of his guilt. She just couldn’t.

He squeezed her hand. “You’re a brave woman.”

“I never was before,” she answered. “Maybe now is the time to start.”

By midmorning, though, she wasn’t feeling at all brave. She just felt like a total sneak.

She had falsified official documentation and basically lied her ass off to get Cassie to fast-track the processing of blood samples from two small pieces cut from Romo’s shirt, and the analysis of the bullet fragments he’d had in his back.

Cassie, of course, didn’t know that was where they’d come from. Sara had sent them over as “don’t ask, don’t tell” samples, which in task-force speak pretty much meant what it said. With so much of the suspicion falling within the law enforcement agencies themselves, there were undercover stings running within undercover stings. At least Sara got the feeling there were—she wasn’t in the middle of the information flow. Which, she hoped, wouldn’t trip Cassie’s suspicions too badly, making her wonder why the heck don’t-tell materials were coming through the ME’s office.

Once the samples were sent off, Sara plowed through three routine cases while Stephen worked on the two dead agents. True to his word, the other ME had come in to work the cases, even though it was Saturday. On one level, Sara was beyond grateful that she didn’t have
to deal with those particular bodies, especially given her near certainty that Romo had been among the targets of the federal manhunt. On another level, though, she found herself wanting to be alone in the autopsy theater, wished she could turn off the relentlessly cheerful dance music Stephen liked to play while he worked.

As soon as she finished with the third case, she stripped out of her protective gear, cleaned up and escaped to the peace and quiet of her office, not even bothering to be piqued when the door stuck. She had way bigger problems than that. Like a lover returned from the dead, and the very real possibility that the terrorists, or the cops, or both, were looking for him.

Romo had insisted she carry the .22 when she went in to work. She’d agreed because she’d done the necessary paperwork to carry concealed, and was able to get the weapon through the heightened security measures that now surrounded the buildings that housed the BCCPD and ME’s office. And maybe it made her feel slightly safer, knowing she had a means of defense. But still, she hated the necessity, and couldn’t bear to imagine actually using the weapon on anything but gun range targets.

Hopefully, I won’t have to,
she thought morosely, then sighed, dug her fingers into her hair and muttered, “I hate this.”

“Trouble?” a voice said from the doorway.

Sara looked up quickly, gasping a little at the jolt of surprise. Cassie stood in the doorway, holding an official-looking folder. Tall and blond, with legs that went a mile and pinup-type curves, Cassie was a bomb
shell who cared little for her own looks, and wore a don’t-mess-with-me attitude that, according to Alyssa, anyway, had mellowed a fair bit in the years since her marriage to Seth.