Wicked Release (26 page)

43

S
am got to the hospital quickly. He ran up the stairs to the fourth floor into the neuro department and rushed up to a startled receptionist. “I'm here, I'm here. I'm supposed to be seeing Dr. Adams. He called and told me to come in right away.”

“Oh, yes. Mr. McCloskey?”

“That's me.”

“He was pulled away for a family emergency. But he cleared you to go see Dr. Moore instead.”

“Dr. Moore?”

“Mhmm,” she said, disinterested, her eyes locked onto her computer screen. “You know where his office is? He'll meet you there and take you down to radiology.”

Sam turned to the stairwell. He knew just where Moore's office was. He took the stairs several at a time, anxious to get face-to-face with the man who'd been toying with him for days. He wanted to look him in the eyes and hear his confession, the man he was convinced had killed Cass and Dr. Brown, someone who was supposed to be his best friend. The man who was responsible for torturing Jess. He wanted to throw Marcus Moore against the wall, tighten the cuffs around his wrists, and drag him off to jail. He was so close . . . the doctor just needed to make one little slip-up and then Sam could officially arrest him.

Moore's office door was cracked slightly open. It didn't matter to Sam that he was in a hospital, surrounded by witnesses. Or that he didn't think the doctor would necessarily attack him there. Something about the situation felt completely off. He touched a hand to the gun on his hip, wrapping his fingers around the handle. With his other hand, he pushed the door and it slowly creaked open. “Dr. Moore?” he called again.

Soft music played from inside the room and though it took a couple of seconds to recognize the tune, when it hit him, it slammed into him like a wall of bricks. “
Witchy Woman
.”

Sam's gaze darted around the empty office. There had to be something,
anything,
that could implicate the man in even one of his crimes. Then he could get a search warrant and nail the bastard. But the doctor was too damn smart for that. A song playing on repeat on his stereo was circumstantial at best.

Sam grabbed his cell phone, cursing as he remembered the battery was dead. Instead, he grabbed Moore's office phone, pausing just before he dialed Straimer. Instead, he hit
redial.
A series of beeps sounded in his ear and then a woman's voice answered.

“What are you still doing at the office?” she snarled. “Get down to Warner's boat now. People will be arriving any minute. I'm waiting for you in O'Malley's Pub next to the dock.” Sam looked at the time—it was only six.

Without saying a word, Sam slipped the phone back into its cradle. Warner's masquerade. Sam cursed and paced the office, scanning the cluttered space for any other clues. There were more questions than there were answers. Why the hell would a doctor get involved in distributing drugs? Why would he risk it? Especially since the only drug he was distributing seemed to be a new prescription medication. It didn't make any sense. This had to be something bigger. Something more involved than the drug trade.

Sam dialed Straimer's home number on the office phone. “Captain—get to Elliot Warner's yacht at the pier next to O'Malley's Pub. There's a black-tie masquerade event happening there tonight and if we don't get to that yacht by seven, I have a feeling we're going to lose all the evidence in this case.”

“Black tie? Sam—”

“Captain, just find yourself a tux and a mask and gather as many uniforms as you can who clean up nicely. Go to Mary's Chowder House and ask for Epoly. Tell her I sent you and you need to get into that party. She'll help.”

“You need to give me more, Sam. I need more than this if I'm going to be pulling uniforms for backup—”

“My cell is dead, but I'll meet you on the yacht. It leaves dock in an hour.” He hung up, racing out of the office.

 

“Oh my God.”

Jess clutched her stomach and fell to her knees beside Elliot. Blood flowed from under his body, spreading into a pool. If she hadn't known better, hadn't seen Lyle shoot him with her own eyes, it would have looked like a spilled glass of red wine seeping out beneath him.

Elliot was trembling, his face gone white. His bloodstained hands clutched the hole in his stomach. “How could you do that?” Jess asked, looking up at Lyle. Gone was the innocent-looking man wanting to help her escape. Instead of the weepy brown eyes he had flashed her earlier, they were now dull and beady as his lips tightened into a scowl.

“So you believe him over me? You believe his lies?” Lyle shouted.

She did believe Elliot. He wasn't the one who pulled a gun. And he had looked genuinely surprised to see her in his master suite. She knew that admitting the truth was suicide, but she nodded all the same. “Yes. I believe him.”

Rather than the sneer she expected to see, reverence gleamed in Lyle's eyes. “Well, then you're not as stupid as I thought you were. I could have given everything to your sister. Everything he offered her, I could have provided, too.”

Blood trickled out of the corner of Elliot's mouth and his words were quiet. She could barely hear him speak. “H-he always wanted to take over the drug trade. I wanted out. I wanted to walk away.”

“Shut up!” Lyle screamed, cocking the gun and raising it, this time aiming at Elliot's forehead.

“That would be a waste of a bullet,” Elliot said, and gave a throaty chuckle despite wincing in pain.

“You wanted out so that you could begin a life with
her
. You wanted out so that you could take her away from me.”

Despite her trembling limbs, Jess stood up and started backing toward the door. Lyle was a lunatic; totally delusional. “How could Cass have made such a terrible choice?” she managed to say with a steady voice.

“I—what?” Lyle's eyes were wild, bloodshot with fury.

“Elliot didn't love her. He used her like a little one-trick pony. If he loved her, he would have been able to keep her in line, isn't that right?” Jess took a cautious step forward. “Is that what you would have done?”

“He was too soft. That's why she strayed and went to that detective instead of remaining loyal to the business,” said Lyle.

Jess took another step forward, carefully reaching out her hands and stroking his arms. “But you . . . you wouldn't have been afraid to tell her the truth. You weren't afraid to tell me.” She sucked in a breath, pushing her breasts into his chest and curling her arms around his neck.

“All your sister needed was a firmer hand,” Lyle said. His palm cracked hard against her ass, squeezing like it was a piece of fruit to be crushed. Jess cried out, falling against his body. His mouth crashed down onto hers and he bit her lip hard enough that blood spilled over her tongue. Tears burned in her eyes, but she pushed them away, right along with her pride.
Play along,
a little voice said.
Stay alive
.

“Now,
that's
how a man kisses,” she said, brushing her finger along Lyle's lips.

“This outfit won't do for tonight. Not if you're going to be my date,” he said.

Jess pulled back, letting her hand fall to her clavicle. “You're asking me to be your date?”

Small tremors slashed through her core as she watched and waited for his response. There was nothing else she could do.

“I wasn't asking. I'll be right back—I always keep some backup outfits in my quarters for my subs.”

He left Jess and Elliot in the room, locking it from the outside. Once he was gone Jess didn't waste any time. She rushed to the chest of drawers, grabbing as many spare clothes as she could, and carefully lifted Elliot's shirt off his chest. She tied the materials in a makeshift tourniquet around his waist. “Breathe, Elliot,” she said. “You're going to get out of here alive. The fact that you're still conscious is a good sign.”

“I trusted him . . .” Elliot sputtered. “I trusted him with Cass. Trusted him to keep her safe.”

“Don't think about that right now. When Lyle and I leave, put pressure to the wound. There's got to be a doctor somewhere on board.”

“Downstairs,” he rasped, the single word taking way too much of his effort for Jess's comfort. “There's an operating room down in the hull.”

“What?
Why?
”

He grasped her hand in his bloody one. “Stay alive, Jess. I'm so sorry I dragged you and Cass into this.”

Jess cupped his head, placing a wadded-up shirt under the crook of his neck. “Don't do that. We don't have time for regrets and this is not good-bye.” With that, she wiped her bloody hands on another shirt as best she could, and then threw it in the closet.

“There's more to this than just drugs. There's a whole team of doctors—”

The lock turned and Elliot groaned, shutting his mouth as the door opened. Lyle stood in the doorway and held up a new outfit . . . if it could even be called that. He handed it to Jess. “Here you go.”

Jess stared at the leather strips of the gown, horrified, doing her best to disguise her disgust. “Isn't this a black-tie affair?”

“BDSM black tie is a little more . . . open to interpretation,” Lyle said. He nestled into a chair in the corner. “Get dressed, Jessica. I want to watch.”

44

S
am made it down to the pier in less than thirty minutes. Granted, his cuff links weren't fastened and he'd barely had time to grab a scarf that was different from the color he usually wore at these functions. The color of your scarf denoted your role in the community as a dom or sub, so by changing it he hoped to confuse the regulars. No one could know it was him at first glance. Luckily, he'd had a larger mask in his closet, one that covered most of his face. And before throwing his tuxedo on, he covered his hair with baby powder to change the color. Glancing in the mirror, he could almost pass for someone different. He just needed a little luck.

There was only one problem. He didn't know what the ticket item was to get on the boat this time. It was usually something challenging to get ahold of. In the past it had been a dead fish or something equally bizarre.

Whatever was needed to board that boat as a party member, he was sure he didn't have it on him. He needed to get creative if he was going to make it on the boat. Jess and Elliot should already be on board, greeting the guests, playing out their little ruse. Whatever it was they had planned, they knew that Dr. Moore was going to be on that boat tonight. They knew and they had been planning this. Without him.

Hired bouncers walked the perimeter of the boat's deck.
Elliot sure knows how to throw a bash,
Sam thought as he strolled to the edge of the dock, pretending to check out the various angles of the yacht. He scratched his chin, feigning interest in the woodwork and dinghies hanging off the sides while the rest of the masked partygoers gathered at the gangplank. Several hostesses waited to check their ticket items, but he was still too far away to see what they were holding.

Sam eyed a small ladder that trailed up from a dinghy, hovering just above the water and leading to the middle deck. His eyes followed the line up to where a bouncer was forty feet or so above, pacing back and forth, but he didn't seem to be focused all that hard on Sam's side of the dock. The bouncer's sights were set on the front of the boat, where partygoers were gathering. There was a chance that Sam could jump onto the escape boat and climb up the ladder without anyone seeing him.

A small chance. A fucking miniscule chance.
But he had to try something. He glanced to his left in time to lock eyes with Mary, who was turning the corner and heading for the party. She stilled midstride. Even from far away, he watched as her head tilted, looking from him to the boat. She gave a barely visible nod and then she strutted toward the entrance and flung her arms out dramatically. “Hello, my Mainer fetish group!” she called in a singsong voice. All heads swiveled in her direction, including the bouncer's above Sam. He moved to the side of the boat until he was entirely out of view, checking out the commotion below.

That nervous tension uncoiled in Sam's belly—even if just for a moment. He'd have to remind himself to get Mary a damn good Christmas gift. Backing up a few steps, he took a deep breath. It was now or never. She wasn't going to be able to distract everyone for long.

He ran and launched off the edge of the dock, leaping onto the safety boat hanging off the side of the yacht. The edge slammed into his stomach, damn near Heimliching his lunch right out of his belly. His toes dipped into the water, but he pulled himself over the side until he was flat on the floor of the little rowboat. It certainly wasn't his most graceful move ever, but it worked. He paused, waiting to see if any of the bouncers had heard his
Mission: Impossible
moment. From the other end of the dock, he could still hear Mary's high-pitched voice distracting the crowd.

Sam sat up, glancing up at the deck beyond the ladder. He couldn't see anyone, but at this angle that didn't mean the bouncer wasn't still there.

Sam channeled that grueling year of detective training and jumped onto the ladder, pulling his entire body weight like a chin-up.

He reached the top, curling his aching arms around the edge of the ship and kicking off of the top step of the ladder to throw his body weight over the edge.

He landed with a thud, his back slamming into the floor of the boat. He sucked in a needy breath—holy shit. He and Matt seriously needed to lay off the doughnuts.

“And that, ladies and gentleman, is my toast!” he heard Mary's voice echo from down below, followed by the sound of dozens of clinking glasses. How she managed to get flutes of champagne passed around for her toast was beyond him. He had long stopped trying to figure out the mysterious ways of Mary.

Sam heard a bass chuckle from somewhere to the right and he pulled it together, forcing his breath to slow down as he rolled to his feet. He walked calmly and as slowly as he could manage in the opposite direction. It was all about looking like you belonged.

“Hey!” the bouncer shouted after him, but Sam didn't turn around. He continued walking toward where he could hear the other partygoers mingling. “Hey, you! How did you get down here?”

Sam sped up his footsteps, taking the stairs up to the top deck three at a time, and then blended into the crowd, turning in time to see the bouncer hopping up the steps and scanning the crowd.
Come on, Jess,
Sam thought, also searching the crowd.
Where are you, baby?
There was an uneasy burrowing feeling in his gut. He hadn't heard from her all day, even thought it was his own fault for forgetting to charge his phone.

The crowd got bigger and bigger as more and more masked men and dolled-up women filtered onto the yacht. He could only hope that Straimer had made it on with Matt and Rodriguez and a few others. But with the sea of masked people floating around him Sam didn't recognize any of his team.

A man a little younger than Sam stood up at the highest point of the boat, bottle of champagne in hand, and began to speak. He looked familiar, but it was hard to tell who he was behind the black mask that covered half of his face.

“On behalf of our host this evening, our beloved Master X, I wanted to welcome you to our yearly gala—this year, a regatta! There is plenty of food and enough alcohol to drown your livers. . . and your sorrows. Am I right?” He held his hand out, gesturing for someone to join him in the spotlight. It was a woman. Not just any woman—Jess.

Sam didn't know what he was expecting Jess to be wearing that night, but nothing could have prepared him for the woman who stepped up beside that man. A man who wasn't Elliot. Sam didn't like it. He didn't like it one bit.

Sam's entire body clenched, muscles steeled and ready for battle. He had to keep cool, think with a level head. The leather dress Jess was wearing could have been painted on. Where it wasn't skintight, it had well-planned shreds, stretching across her body in strings. Her hips and thighs were covered by nothing but little scraps of leather that came together in a skirt. Spaghetti straps filtered into two triangles that barely covered her nipples and the outsides of her breasts but then gaped open, revealing a swell of cleavage and skin all the way down to her belly button, baring her flat stomach. Heels that looked like they needed to be registered as weapons made her muscular legs look like they went on for miles.

A full head of russet brown hair peeked out from under the speaker's mask and it hit Sam like a spotlight. The driver. The mystery host taking Elliot's place was his driver.

An awareness took hold as Sam realized that all other dominants in the room were staring at Jess, their jaws practically hitting the deck. Their eyes bugged out of their heads and the jealousy of other women on the boat swarmed around like a hive of bees. But Sam knew Jess better than any of them. And that confident swagger that he knew and loved about her wasn't present. Something was wrong. Elliot's driver tugged her into his hip, embracing her with one arm and holding his champagne bottle with the other. He popped the cork. Champagne spilled out over the edge of the bottle like a volcano erupting with white, fizzy bubbles. The crowd cheered and music started to play from somewhere. The yacht began to pull away from the dock

Where the hell is Elliot if someone who worked for him is giving the welcome for the party?
thought Sam. It didn't settle right.

Sam watched as Jess scanned the crowd. Was she looking for him? Pushing his way through the masked revelers, he tried to make himself stand out, stand taller so that she'd see him, but she looked right past him and into the crowd beyond. His sense of hope deflated. But just then Jess paused and her eyes scanned back the way they came, landing on him. She squinted from behind her mask. Sam gave her a little nod. After a quick glance to the man beside her, Jess angled her head lower. Signaling . . .
signaling what? Something under them maybe?

Sam shook his head as discreetly as he could, conveying he didn't understand. Jess's shoulders slumped, defeated.

Jess brushed her fingers against the arm of the man beside her, which curved possessively around her waist. His fingers clamped onto her hip and Sam's hands flexed instinctually at his sides to keep himself from charging. Jess said something in the driver's ear. She gestured to the bar, motioning with her hands that she wanted something to drink. Sam's grin widened as he realized those hand gestures were meant for him, not the driver. The driver nodded and Jess brushed past him, on her way to the bar.

There was a jolt of excitement and he pushed aside the pride he felt for Jess at how well she was handling this. There wasn't time for that now. He shoved through the crowds, also making his way to the bar.

“Two Woodfords on the rocks,” Jess said to the bartender, and then gave a quick glance around. Only a few feet away was yet another bouncer, almost as though Lyle had sent a prison guard with her to ensure she behaved.

“Are you okay?” Sam whispered in her ear.

“No.” Her voice was a gut-wrenching rasp across his senses.

“What's going on?”

“One floor below deck. Second room on your left. Save Elliot. He said something about doctors being on the bottommost floor . . . about this being about so much more than drugs . . . whatever that means.”

“Save Elliot—why? What happened?”

“Just
go.
” The words didn't even qualify as a whisper, but were just mouthed in his direction. She was in serious trouble.

“I could arrest him now, if you saw something and can testify—”

“These bouncers will catch you before you even try to make a move, Sam. And he will kill you. You have to wait for the right time.”

The bartender brought Jess two whiskeys and her demeanor shifted immediately. She turned and took them back to the driver.

It had only been about ten minutes since the “host” had popped the champagne, but they were already in the middle of the water with no plans to hit land until well after midnight. It was an easy place to dispose of bodies. Of drugs. Of almost anything.

“She's right, you know,” a woman's voice said from beside him. It was low and sounded tighter than his grip on the edge of the bar. “And I can help you.” He turned toward the voice. Shock didn't begin to describe how Sam felt when he saw who was standing before him, ready to help.