Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Peter frowned at the phone in his hand. What the bloody hell was going on? “Hello?”
Nothing.
His frown pulled deeper. The caller ID display told him it was his baby sister on the other end, but since when did Reggie think it was funny to call and not say anything?
She wouldn’t.
Unease twisted in Peter’s gut—cold and tight.
She’d pulled a lab raid last night. She hadn’t told him which lab she was hitting in their last conversation but he knew when she was going in and when she’d planned to be out.
He made it his business to know when she went on one of her freedom missions.
No one else in the family knew what she got up to in the wee hours of the morning.
Dad would kill her, even if he did agree with her motives, and Mum would chain her to the sofa, but someone had to be there for her if she was ever—God forbid—arrested, or worse yet, shot.
She didn’t like it, but too bloody bad. It’s what big brothers did; they pissed off their little sisters, even if it was for their own good.
Peter placed the phone back to his ear. “Reggie? Can you hear me?”
Still nothing. Well, nothing except the irritating scratch and hum of the connection. His gut twisted again. Damn it. What if she was in trouble?
In trouble? Reggie’s always in trouble.
Peter shook his head. She’d been after someone big last night. He’d seen it in her eyes. Someone she considered the enemy. Perhaps she’d finally been caught. Goddamn it, what if she was—
“You’re on your own, lizard.”
The muffled words, almost inaudible, fell from the phone.
Male? Irish? Peter snapped straight in his chair.
Lizard? Shit. Rex. “Hey?” His sharp shout lifted the heads of quite a few people surrounding him but he ignored their curious stares.
They were in a cop shop, for Christ sake.
Someone shouted down a phone just about every other minute. “Hey? Regan?”
Nothing.
Cold worry gnawed at him, joining the tension squirming in his gut. Fuck.
For a terrible moment, he didn’t know what to do. His gut, as churned as it was, told him to get over to Regan’s house now, but to do so meant hanging up the phone in his hand and what if his little sister was in her home, was on the other end trying to talk to him, needing his help?
“Thomas?”
Peter stared at the far window, the blue, cloudless sky outside seeming to mock him. Goddamn it, what the hell should he do? Was Reggie—
“Thomas!”
A gruff and very belligerent voice barking his name yanked Peter’s attention away from the window and the ominous thought of his sister’s silent phone. He stared up into his boss’s bloodshot eyes, unable to miss the sour expression on his round, unshaven face. “Yeah, Inspector?”
“Your wife’s been tryin’ to call you for the last ten minutes.” Tony Muriciano glared at him, leathery skin yellow and dry from far too many cigarettes.
“Ex-wife, Inspector,” Peter corrected, his grip on his phone curling tight.
Fat, nicotine-stained fingers jerked on the waistline of wrinkled chinos and Muriciano’s ample gut wobbled under his white shirt. “Whatever. Tell her next time she’s tryin’ to get hold of you to call the switch. I’m too busy to deal with her shit.”
Peter looked up at his boss, suppressing a snarl of frustration. Reggie. What was going on with Reggie?
Muriciano managed to look annoyed. “How the fuck she get my number anyhow?”
Maybe it was when you hit on her last Christmas party, you fat fuck. “I don’t know, Inspector.”
Muriciano’s lips pulled away from yellow teeth in a snide smile.
“Of course.” His red-rimmed eyes glinted.
“So, was that your sister’s name I heard you shoutin’ out a second ago?
She okay?” He swiped a hand over his pate, licking his lips.
“You can give her my number anytime. I’d hate for such a pretty young thing to be in trouble.
” He snorted, mouth stretching into a wide leer. “Unless it’s trouble with me.”
Peter’s fist clenched and he shoved aside the urge to pull his own gun from its holster and shoot his captain in the head. “She’s fine, Inspector.” He held up the phone still clenched in his grip. “Just a lousy connection.”
Muriciano gave his head a nod. “Hmmm. Well, if she needs a hand…” He chuckled, the sound both low and crude, and Peter had to sink his nails into his palm to keep his hand from wrapping around his Glock.
The Inspector turned and began weaving his way back to his office on the other side of the room, barking orders and insults at various detectives and uniformed officers as he went. “Your wife’s on line ten, Thomas,” he shot back over his shoulder. “She sounds pissed.”
“Ex-wife,” Peter growled, returning the phone in his hand to his ear. How the hell the man ever made detective, let alone Insp—
“Fuck! She’s not here!”
The harsh shout spat from the handset and Peter jumped.
“The bitch isn’t here! They’re not here! Where the fuck is O’Connell?”
“McCoy, look! Near the bed. On the floor. Why’s that red light blinking on the phone?”
There was a scuffle, the distinctive sound of cotton sheets being disturbed followed by a guttural male voice with a broad Scottish accent saying, “Hello?”
The phone creaked as Peter’s grip curled harder. “Who’s this? Where’s my sister?”
“Now? Or after I fuck her?”
Peter’s blood ran cold. “You touch my sister and you’re—”
A sharp clunk stabbed at Peter’s ear, followed by the drilling beep of a disconnect tone. Shit! He leapt to his feet, chair tumbling over. Shit!
It would take approximately forty-five minutes to get to Reggie’s house, thirty with the blue and reds on. Too long. He’d have to call in a Bondi unit.
Snatching up his wallet and badge, he grabbed his jacket from under his chair and took off across the room. Blood roared in his ears. Christ, what had Reggie got herself into now?
“Thomas! What the fuck you think you’re doin’?”
Muriciano’s bellow bounced around the room, and more cops lifted their heads from their paperwork.
Hot impatience tore through Peter and he slowed down, scowling at his boss. “Gotta go, Inspector.”
“Detective Thomas!”
Grinding his teeth, Peter stopped, turning to watch Muriciano lumber toward him. “Sorry, Inspector. I’ve got to—”
“Just received a call from HQ, Thomas.” Muriciano gave him a smug grin and for a second Peter saw utter belligerence flare in the man’s eyes.
“Williams broke his shoulder. Ya getting a new partner. They’ll be here within the hour.
Unless someone’s dying, you’re not going anywhere.
” The grin stretched wider and Muriciano chuckled, flabby gut wobbling like jello. “Understand?”
Jaw clenched, Peter nodded. “Understand, Inspector.” And, before rational thought took over, he punched his superior in the nose and sent the fat fuck to the floor. “But as I said before, I’ve got to go.”
Regan’s house was a shambles. More than a shambles.
When Peter crossed the threshold, he felt as though he’d stepped into a scene from a cliché-ridden movie—one of those where a house is ransacked by a crazed criminal looking for something highly important and highly illegal.
A crazed criminal who smelt like a filthy animal. Jesus! What was that stench?
A chill ran up his spine and, nose creasing at the pungent smell, his hand moved toward his gun.
“There was no one here when we arrived, Detective. Just the mess and the smell.”
Peter turned to the uniformed cop stepping up beside him, not missing the trepidation in the young man’s face. “What’s causing the stench? Do you know?”
The cop’s face scrunched in distaste. “From what I can tell, someone’s pissed all over the furniture. Especially the bed. But I can’t be sure.”
Cold worry thumped through Peter’s chest. “Piss?” He took a step deeper into his sister’s house. “Nothing’s been touched?”
The cop shook his head. “No.”
Peter surveyed the mess around him. Whoever had done this, had done so out of anger.
There were no signs of struggle. Overturned furniture littered the room, the cushions were shredded, the curtains ripped from the windows but nothing in the chaos told him Reggie had been involved in its making.
Someone angry had done this. Peter hoped to Christ they were angry because his sister had not been here.
The piss could be a disgusting, infantile response to their failure, although to Peter’s farm-boy nose it smelt more animalistic than human.
You’re on your own, lizard. The words floated through his head and he gripped his gun harder.
“Detective Thomas?”
Peter started, swinging his attention back to the cop waiting beside him. “Sorry, Officer…?”
“Paterson. Detective, shall I call in a CSU?”
Peter looked around the mayhem of his sister’s normally tidy home. He highly doubted the crime scene guys would find anything but, after punching Muriciano in the face, he’d better stick to protocol.
Yeah, not a wise move back at Command. You ready to be suspended?
A dry snort burst from Peter’s nose. Muriciano wouldn’t suspend him.
He’d bluster and rant and rave and pour a ton of public humiliation down on Peter, but he wouldn’t suspend him.
Peter knew where Muriciano had buried the bodies—figuratively speaking.
His superior wouldn’t risk the skeletons tumbling from the closet, no matter how shattered his nose and pride.
“Detective? The CSU?”
Peter nodded, re-holstering his gun. “Do that, Officer Paterson. The Bondi crew can handle it. I’m outta my jurisdiction here.”
He scanned the overturned room, trying like hell to ignore the sparks of cold fear in his chest. Jesus, what a mess. I’m coming, Reggie. Just be safe until I get there.
But where was she?
Peter’s fists clenched. He didn’t know. But he’d find out.
“Can I ask whose house this is, Detective?”