Internal Affairs (6 page)

As far as Sara was concerned, if this was Cassie in mellow mode, she must’ve been a holy terror before. Sara loved Cassie as a friend, but was a little intimidated by her at the same time. Especially now, under the circumstances.

“Hey!” Sara said, her voice cracking a little with the effort of trying to sound normal. Knowing the BCCPD’s top forensic evidence analyst missed little, she nodded to the folder, which was of the sort usually used to transmit results from one division of the task force to another. “I didn’t expect you to hand-deliver.”

“A priority is a priority, especially these days,” Cassie said matter-of-factly. Her words were friendly enough, but behind them was a hard edge that was pure business. The members of the task force—and ancillary members like Sara herself—had all lost acquaintances in the attacks, most had lost friends. They were committed to doing whatever it took to break al-Jihad’s hold on the region and bring down his terror cells, including those potentially rooted within the BCCPD and FBI.

Swallowing against a knot of guilt at deceiving a friend, Sara asked, “Did you find anything interesting?” She tensed with hope, because “interesting” could mean the DNA from the blood spatter was a match to someone other than the dead agents, or that the bullet traced to a non-PD weapon. “Interesting” could suggest Romo hadn’t killed either of the agents, that she wasn’t being an enormous idiot by keeping his secret.

“Maybe,” Cassie said, her eyes narrowing slightly. “And the hand delivery was because your message made it sound urgent. Which leaves me wondering about the source of DNA samples that didn’t come from either of the bodies you’re not autopsying.” Her telling look went to the autopsy theater, where Stephen was hard at work on the dead agents, who hadn’t been wearing clothing the same type as the ones Sara had sent over. Cassie looked back at her. “What have you gotten yourself into, Sara?”

Heart thudding as her panic level rose, Sara faked a grimace, and said, “I’m doing a favor for a friend who wants to keep a very low profile, that’s all.” It wasn’t a lie. But it didn’t feel good, either.

So turn him in,
the logical part of her brain whispered.
Tell Cassie right now. Say, “Romo Sampson showed up at my place yesterday, wounded and covered in blood, alive, with no clue where he’s been for the past bunch of months, what he’s been doing, or who he’s been working for.”
Yeah, that was what she should say, she knew.

But she didn’t.

Cassie gave her a long look, then shook her head. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Me, too,
Sara thought wildly, hoping she wasn’t in the process of making the biggest mistake of her life. “Did you get a hit on the DNA?”

Frustration glinted briefly in the analyst’s eyes. “No, damn it. No matches in any of the databases. Not even a partial hit off a relative. You’ve got one male donor, and the DNA is useless until you’ve got another sample to compare it to.”

“Isn’t that the story of our lives?” Sara said, and she wasn’t faking the regret. Although CODIS grew by leaps and bounds each year, the federal DNA database still only held a fraction of the available samples, and then primarily those belonging to major violent criminals, such as murderers and rapists. Although the repository of DNA profiles held millions of samples, matching an unknown was still a long shot. Cautiously she asked, “Did you check the samples against the PD and military databases?”

Romo would be in them, she knew, and the knowledge strung her tight. She’d been betting the blood contributions from the spatter would overwhelm any sweat contributions from his body, and she’d only given Cassie clothing fragments that hadn’t been stained by the blood loss from his shoulder wound, but still, it had been a calculated risk.

Cassie lifted a shoulder. “Military, police. The works. No match.”

Sara tried not to let her relief show. “Anything on the bullet or spatter pattern?”

“It’s all in here.” Cassie lifted the sealed folder.

Sara stopped herself from demanding a summary, reminding herself she was supposed to be nothing more than an educated drop point for some mythical undercover operative. There was no reason for her to want the nitty-gritty, beyond curiosity, and up to this point, she’d made a point of not wanting to know too much about the case, just as she’d tried to avoid the news bulletins the day before.

She’d done her work and helped where she could,
but—especially after Romo’s death—had distanced herself from the details. Reversing that now would only draw a level of attention she couldn’t afford. Technically, Cassie shouldn’t even have done the work she’d asked. But friends trusted friends, which made Sara feel even worse.

“Thanks, I’ll pass it along,” she said. “Did you want to grab some coffee?” She would’ve rather kept sulking in her office, but she had a feeling the moment she and Cassie parted company, the astute cop’s brain was going to circle back on dangerous questions, and Sara couldn’t afford to let that happen.
Romo
couldn’t afford for her to let it happen.

Cassie checked the time on her cell, and made a rueful face. “Rain check? I’ve got a meeting in twenty.”

“Absolutely, rain check it is,” Sara said, trying to keep the relief out of her voice. “Thanks for doing this.” She held out her hand for the folder, hating the lies. The deeper she got into this, the worse it seemed. For several moments she was sorely tempted to come clean to Cassie, bring her friends in on the situation and let Romo be furious with her. Was that really such a bad idea?

But when Cassie sketched a wave and headed for the door, Sara didn’t call her back.

Instead, she closed and locked her sticky office door, and broke the seal on the folder. A quick scan confirmed the negative results on the DNA profiling, and added two critical pieces of information, one good, one bad. On the good side, the bullet hadn’t come from an official weapon and it didn’t match any of the personal sidearms belong
ing to task force officers, which suggested Romo hadn’t been shot by one of the good guys. On the bad side, the spatter pattern—what Cassie had been able to get off the small pieces of black T-shirt, anyway—was consistent with close-range arterial spray from a severed throat, and the shirt’s wearer had most likely wielded the knife.

Sara had taken a good look at the patterns on the shirt, and though she was no expert, she’d been certain that the blood from Romo’s injury had soaked in atop the edges of the spatter, giving the incidents a time frame. Adding the information together, she could come up with a hypothesis of sorts, namely that sometime the prior day, just before—or during—the op that led to the manhunt, Romo had cut a man’s throat and then been shot in the back by someone other than a cop.

Sara blew out a breath. Between the blood and bullet evidence, it seemed reasonable to conclude that Romo had been the unidentified man who had escaped alone from the manhunt. She tried to tell herself that didn’t necessarily mean he was one of the good guys, but on some level it felt that way. He’d turned on the terrorists, or they’d turned on him. Either way, didn’t it stand to reason that the enemy of Bear Claw’s enemies was on their side, more or less?

The logic wasn’t perfect, she knew, but she thought it might be enough to help her convince Romo to give himself up to Fax or Tucker, both of whom she trusted implicitly.

Her friends might not have liked him much after the breakup, but they were all task force members, and at this point would take whatever help they could get when
it came to getting al-Jihad, Lee Mawadi, Jane Doe and the others into custody. They would help…assuming she could talk Romo into turning himself in. Problem was, he could be seriously stubborn, and Sara had never once been able to make him do something he didn’t want to.

“You’d better start now,” she told herself. “Lives might depend on it.” Hers. His. Those of the citizens of Bear Claw.

Thinking fast, she turned to her computer, logged on to one of the larger international databases of medical literature and started keying in queries on retrograde amnesia, and techniques for retrieving blocked memories. She pulled together a basic information kit that gave her a few ideas on how she might be able to help Romo, and then started shutting down for the day. Stephen waved on his way out, having completed the agents’ autopsies and filed the necessary reports. Once she was alone in the ME’s office, Sara told herself she was okay, that there was no reason for her to feel exposed. This was her space, her place in the world.

For now, anyway. She’d just that morning received yet another of Proudfoot’s aggrieved memos, warning that she needed to minimize her department’s overtime. Which she’d be able to do if he let her hire another examiner, damn it.

That added stress dragged at her, worried her and had her jumping at shadows as she headed to her car. Although it was Saturday, the lot between the PD and ME’s office was nearly full, mute evidence of the double and triple shifts being pulled by the members of
the task force. She didn’t see anyone else headed out, but felt a strange prickling between her shoulder blades, as though someone was watching her.

She took a look around as she unlocked her hybrid, checking out the windows of the buildings nearby, but didn’t see anyone there, either. Under other circumstances, she would’ve brushed it off as her imagination, fueled by the manhunt and the pall of fear that hung citywide. Given what was going on in her life—and the fact that she’d promised Romo she would get an escort home—she dug out her cell phone and called Tucker’s cell.

There was silence for a moment before he said, “Are you ready to tell me what’s going on yet?”

Sara winced. “Cassie blabbed.”

“We’re worried. This isn’t like you. If you’re…” The tough homicide detective, who’d been only slightly domesticated by his marriage to forensic reconstruction specialist Alyssa Wyatt, paused as if feeling his way through delicate territory. “If you’re trying to atone for something you think you should’ve done before, please don’t. Leave the cloak-and-dagger stuff for the professionals. Okay?”

Sara’s throat closed a little on the show of friendship and trust—he knew she was up to something, but wouldn’t interfere directly. He just wanted her to know that he was there, that they all were, to help her. That was how it had been with Chelsea and Fax, she knew. The friends hadn’t agreed with all of Chelsea’s choices, but they’d been there when she’d needed them. Now they would do the same for Sara, the moment she asked. “Okay,” she said, her voice a bare whisper. “I’ll…okay.”

“I’ll follow you home myself. Just give me a couple of minutes.” He hung up before she could respond to that, but he didn’t mean anything by the hang-up. That was just Tucker’s way.

Five minutes later, he was in his unmarked sedan, following her home, making her feel safe—for the moment, at least.

R
OMO WOKE
groggily at the sound of a key in the front door lock, found himself facedown on Sara’s couch, and cursed himself for the weakness that had come from his injuries. He’d hated lying low, hoping to hell she was okay. But he’d had no choice. His body needed to heal, so he’d been forced to trust her not to turn him in, and not to take unnecessary risks.

He didn’t need all of his memory back to know that trust wasn’t something that came easily to him.

Cautiously, he levered himself upright on the sofa and then to his feet. He thought of meeting her at the door, but then he stopped himself. She’d promised to have one of her cop friends get her a police escort home. Logic said that—assuming her protection was any good—the cop would want to come inside and look around, making sure the house was clear. Hell, for all he knew, she’d had too long to think about the situation, and had made the logical decision to turn him in. In a way, he wouldn’t blame her if she had.

Okay, that was a lie. He’d blame her, and he’d feel betrayed. But he’d get over it. He’d somehow gotten over her, hadn’t he?

Hearing a low, masculine voice outside, he stiffened,
then ghosted down the hallway, toward the rear exit he’d scouted earlier. Granted, he could be in trouble if the house was surrounded. He had a feeling, though, that he could take care of a rear guard or two.

Sara might’ve been hoping that the spatter analysis would suggest he’d been standing next to the blood donor when the blow was struck, but in his gut he knew he’d been the one to make the fatal cut. He didn’t know how he knew that, or how he knew it’d been a knife rather than a close-range gunshot. But he knew, damn it. Just as he knew Sara would be better off if he left now, if he just walked out the door and disappeared. Her friends would help keep her safe.

But who would help him?

The question had him pausing with his hand on the doorknob. Not because he was afraid of going off on his own—he had a feeling he was used to that. No, what had him hesitating was the knowledge that if Sara’s most optimistic hypothesis was the right one, and he’d been undercover somehow, working for al-Jihad, then him disappearing was exactly the wrong move to make. If he’d been undercover, they needed to figure out his mission, who he’d been reporting to, and find a way to get back into the loop. He could have important information inside his skull, maybe even something that would blow the whole case wide open.

You’re reaching,
his inner cynic whispered.
The story sounds good, except for one thing. If you were undercover, why aren’t you getting any memory flashes of that? All you’re getting are the bad guys.

He should go, he knew. But he’d hesitated too long.

“Leaving?” Sara’s quiet voice said from the other end of the hallway leading to the back door.

She stood silhouetted in the light from the main room. The illumination picked out golden highlights in her shoulder-length hair and emphasized the long, lean length of her body in its smart power suit. She wore a long raincoat of mossy green against the damp, late-summer day, and the belted waist emphasized the narrowness of her waist, the femininity of the curves beneath. She looked expensive and put-together, and probably should have made him feel underdressed, in his borrowed sweatpants, T-shirt and bare feet. Instead, he was buffeted by an unfamiliar sense of rightness, a surge of “oh, there you are!” that made him want to cross to her, kiss her and welcome her home for the night.