Chapter 20
Twenty
Ryan dragged out his Zippo and lit a Marlboro.
Seven hours ago, as scheduled, Dr. Kurt Trenton had pulled himself together, despite the objections of his friends and family, and led the tri-organ transplant on former governor Garrett Shelby.
Trenton was a hero. A tragically wounded one, if only in the emotional sense.
He might not be God, but an angel certainly sat on his scrub-clad shoulder.
Maybe, just maybe, because he would put himself through the rigors of a lifesaving twenty-hour surgical procedure after his terrifying night in a hell designed just for him, the good doctor was actually a humbler man. Time would tell.
Ryan sat on the counter of the first-floor men’s room and inhaled a deep drag from his cigarette.
Worth had given up and authorized him to smoke there since the press whores were still camped outside.
A technician had been brought in to temporarily override the smoke detector so the alarm wouldn’t go off every time Ryan lit up.
Worth was officially off Ryan’s asshole list. He still didn’t like him much, but that was because he was a prick.
Pricks were different from assholes. And Worth was definitely a prick.
Getting back to another prick, Trenton’s high-powered attorney had reduced the doctor’s official statement down to one sentence: “Dr. Trenton recalls returning to his car in the hospital’s parking garage and sitting down behind the steering wheel.”
“That’s all, gentlemen,” his attorney had insisted. “He didn’t see anyone or hear anything.”
Trenton’s luxurious Tesla Roadster had been taken into custody by forensics. So far they hadn’t found jack shit. Nothing in the hospital garage that couldn’t have belonged to any one of several hundred other people. Nothing on the security cameras. Nothing at the church.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
The media was all over the story. Ryan’s past had been rehashed again. All sorts of speculation about the three victims and the possible perpetrator had hit the papers as well as the television and radio news.
Worth had issued a statement saying there was a possibility the abductions were connected and that the Bureau was investigating that avenue.
Ryan closed his eyes and leaned back against the mirrored wall.
The C-4 explosive glued to Trenton’s chest had been fake—a substance similar to polymer modeling clay.
The detonating charge had been a small homemade explosive configured from an illegal type of holiday fireworks commonly sold under the table.
Basically, a cardboard tube packed with explosive materials like a “quarter stick” or an M-80.
Had Trenton not been found before detonation, that charge could have caused a serious enough injury to pose a threat to his life.
The reverend had said that he generally started tours in the church by noon on weekdays.
That would have been too late, lending credence to the possibility that before being discovered, Trenton could have bled to death.
And that was the thing . . . Devoted Fan didn’t appear to want anyone to die. Sure, this last challenge had been a little tougher, but not so much so that the likelihood of failure was greater than the likelihood of success.
Ryan had concluded that the man wasn’t a murderer . . . Maybe, under ordinary circumstances, not even a criminal. Yet something had triggered him to act, and he was trying to prove some point. Something beyond Ryan’s hero status. Something personal.
But what?
The door opened and Grace walked in, a folder in hand.
“Is Worth looking for me?” Ryan took another drag. He felt like a brand-new freshman skipping class, hiding out in the boys’ restroom.
“Not yet.” She scooted onto the counter on the other side of the sink. That burgundy skirt hiked up, revealing several inches of very nice thighs.
“You have a thing for men’s rooms, Grace?
” He turned on the water in the sink, wet the cigarette butt to ensure the fire was completely doused, then tossed it into the waste bin beneath the paper towel dispenser.
Color darkened her cheeks. He smiled, couldn’t help himself.
He’d done that now and again since meeting her.
More irony. This was the last situation that should make him smile.
“Let’s talk,” she suggested, opening the file she’d brought with her.
“Let’s,” he agreed. She could talk all night and he would be content to watch her profile as those lips moved, forming each word.
His brain instantly retrieved the imprinted memories of having those lips meshed with his own.
So soft and yet so full. The image instantly morphed into other scenarios that included him and that lush mouth.
He would be more than happy to repay in kind.
He couldn’t think of a thing he would enjoy more than having his mouth on every part of her.
She swiveled her face toward him, stared straight into his eyes. “Stop looking at me that way.”
He ordered his pulse to slow. “Sorry.” But he wasn’t sorry. He was hard and horny and he wanted her again. And again after that. Right here would be fine, right now would be better than fine.
“I want to go over a couple of theories with you.” She turned her attention back to the folder.
“Hit me.”
She glanced at him again with that look that suggested he might want to rephrase.
“We,” she said before settling her attention back on the pages in the file, “have three completely unrelated victims, two female, one male. Two adults, one child. Two rich, one poor. Three historic landmarks as crime scenes. And you.” Those big dark eyes rested on him once more.
“And that’s it. No evidence, no prints, no witnesses other than Mr. Jackson, who didn’t see enough to be useful. ”
That about summed it up. “How is Davis coming along with that fan list?”
“He has it narrowed down to less than two hundred, and he’s making phone calls. When he eliminates those who have moved away or died or whatever, he and Arnold are going door to door.”
“Nothing from Schaffer?”
Grace shrugged. “Nothing significant She did find your notes on that final report. So Goodman’s associate told the truth about that part anyway.”
“Speaking of Goodman,” Ryan ventured, recalling the pushy lady from this morning outside the church, “what’s the deal with her? Just another assertive newshound?”
Grace closed her file and clasped her hands atop it.
“She’s been around for a while. Came to Birmingham about five years ago from Pittsburgh.
Most people consider her the voice of what’s happening in this city.
Divorced. No children. Totally dedicated to the job.
Basically, a bitch as far as anyone in law enforcement is concerned. ”
Ryan considered his temporary partner. “Sounds like you don’t care for the lady.”
“She hurts people to get what she wants. I have a problem with that. The Byrnes were ready to take out a restraining order to keep her away from their house after their daughter was rescued. I’m sure Katherine Jones has suffered the same treatment, only she doesn’t have a lawyer on retainer to make her life more comfortable.
Hospital security will probably keep her off Trenton’s back.
” Grace gave her head a little shake. “Look what she did to Mr. Braden and Agent Quinn. And you,” she added, a flicker of some undefined emotion in her eyes.
Could she possibly give one shit about his feelings?
“That exposé of Goodman’s didn’t hurt me, Grace.
The man she targeted is gone. This one”—he patted his chest—“isn’t that guy.
He’s just a bum who does what he has to and nothing more.
” When she would have argued, he went on, “What she wrote hurt Derrick Braden and Andrew Quinn . . . the two people left from that nightmare who still had something to lose.”
That was the truth if he’d ever spoken it.
A knock on the door drew their attention there.
“Grace?” Pratt called through the door rather than coming on in.
Maybe he was afraid of what he would see. He hadn’t asked any questions about the episode at the airport, but the guy had to have noticed the tension between Ryan and Grace.
Grace slid off the counter and strode to the door. Ryan took the opportunity to admire those gorgeous legs. He’d gladly sell what was left of his soul to have them wrapped around him one more time.
She opened the door, the back of the hand holding the file propped on her hip. Her colleague peeked past her to see what Ryan was up to. “What?” she demanded.
“Worth wants the two of you upstairs.” He looked from Grace to Ryan and back. “There’s some guy from Quantico here.”
Ryan had wondered when the Q would get around to sending somebody down for a look-see. Took them longer than he had expected.
Grace followed Pratt up the stairs, and Ryan followed her. He definitely got the better end of the deal. If he loitered a few steps behind he could see up her skirt just far enough to get a glimpse of smooth thighs.
Didn’t take her long to figure that out. She stopped. Waited for him to catch up, then gave him the evil eye.
Like he said before, he was only human.
Worth waited in his office. The agent from Quantico sat in one of the chairs facing Worth’s desk, his back to the door.
“Agents Grace and McBride,” Worth said, “have a seat.”
The visitor stood and turned to greet them, and Ryan stopped.
Collin Pierce.
“Agent Grace.” Pierce extended his hand. “It’s good to see you.”
She accepted his hand, her action delayed just enough for Ryan to notice.
“Agent Pierce,” she acknowledged, drawing out the syllables as if surprised or reluctant.
During that instant, that fraction of a second, when Pierce held on to her hand before she pulled away, Ryan observed something. Some infinitesimal impression that said these two shared a connection, past or present, which still simmered.
“McBride.” Pierce turned to him next, thrust out the same hand. “It’s been a while.”