Fight For Me (13 page)

He knew Chris was trying to be sarcastic,
but at this moment he did want him to do everything, anything to
stop this. “Yes.”

“I will do my best,” Chris promised, his
dark eyes earnest, and despite his earlier outburst, he knew his
friend would do all he could.

He had settled into the discussions with the
six badges in the room and was finally starting to feel confident
in both departments working together when Cassidy burst through the
door. “My house,” she started, her face pale, her breathing
erratic, her chocolate eyes wide. He rushed to her, tucking two
fingers beneath her chin to look into her tear-stained face.
“What's wrong?”

“It blew up,” she managed to say between
sobs. “The Johnson's house, too. They're not sure if they'll make
it.”

McNamara leaped from his chair, violently
stabbing the screen of his cell phone, yelling, “Why didn't anyone
call me!” when his call connected. The five cops rushed from the
room, leaving Dylan with a glassy eyed woman he knew how to make
scream in ecstasy, but not how to comfort when her house had been
bombed, her neighbors in the hospital. Words failing him, he
gathered her in his arms, murmuring nonsense about catching the
asshole, loving her, and Lord knew what else until her body stopped
shaking against him.

Chapter Nine

Cassidy was really beginning to hate the
hospital. She sat in Dylan's lap because she needed to feel warm
and safe—she'd analyze that later—waiting for the word on Maria and
Dorsey Johnson. The older couple's townhouse shared one wall with
hers, and when her house had blown, so had theirs. She hadn't been
home in weeks, but they had been sound asleep, blown out of their
beds, their conditions critical. Why didn't she think to warn them?
After the break-in, she hadn't thought about her house being
destroyed. Who would? She shivered in Dylan's arms and he pulled
her closer to him as she prayed for the Johnsons. “Please let them
pull through,” she whispered.

Dylan's warm breath ruffled her hair as he
held her close. “No matter what, it's not your fault.”

But it was. Someone held her accountable and
was punishing her by hurting others. She needed to help identify
him, needed to bring him to justice. “He's punishing others for
whatever it is I've done to him. We have to stop him.”

“Good thing you said that, I won't have to
convince you now,” Officer Morgan said as she approached them. “I
was hoping you could sit down with me for a while, help me narrow
this list further.”

She would do anything if it would help.
“Anything.”

“Um, do you want to come with me?” the other
woman asked, eying her and Dylan's intimate embrace
uncomfortably.

“Anything you want to ask, anything I have
to say is safe.” The blonde officer's blue eyes widened a bit at
Cassidy's declaration, but she didn't say anything else. “Please
tell me you have a theory.”

She nodded. “I do.” She perched on the
waiting room chair across from them. “This guy is someone who
blames you for the loss of his home, his family, his friends. If we
look at the things he's done, he's trying to take the same things
from you, violating your space, taking your computer, your car,
your home from you.”

“With every case I've won, I've taken a home
and family from a perp. Every single one of them hates me,
Officer.”

“I know, but it has to be someone who
carries a strong hate for you, not just your position. Someone who
names you the center of all the loss in his life. Doesn't someone
come to mind when I say that?”

“The only name that comes to mind is that of
a dead man,” she said, her thoughts going to the only time she'd
been truly shaken during a trial.

Officer Morgan nodded. “Nicholas Rossi?”

“No, although he's dead, too.” She took in
and let out a deep breath. “The name that comes to mind is Philip
Stanza. His case was years ago, and even though I was second chair
to J.D., Stanza vowed from the stand he would make my life a living
hell before he murdered me.” She shuddered. She'd been terrified
for weeks, afraid Stanza would get to her even though he'd been
locked up during trial. She swallowed. “My research clinched the
case, and he knew it. He's dead, though. Has been for four
years.”

Officer Morgan tilted her head as she tapped
a finger against her lips, and Cassidy wondered what wheels were
turning in the other woman's head. “He was put to death?”

She put her ear on Dylan's chest, taking
comfort in the beating of his heart, willing herself to calm down
after thinking about how scared she'd been of the cold-blooded
arsonist. “Unfortunately the death penalty was off the table, no
matter how much he deserved it. He was sentenced to life, but died
of pneumonia.”

“You're sure he's dead?”

How could he not be dead? She scrambled to
sit up straighter. “What are you saying?”

Officer Morgan was preoccupied with her
laptop for a few minutes, the keystrokes ringing in Cassidy's ears.
What did she mean, was she sure Stanza was dead? He'd died in
prison. It would take an elaborate cover-up to fake a death there.
“I've got you, Cassie,” Dylan murmured in her ear. “I will protect
you, even from a ghost.”

“A ghost?” She willed the small woman to
find whatever it was she was looking for quickly. “Are you telling
me I'm being stalked by a ghost?”

“He was an arsonist, an explosives expert,”
Tiffany Morgan began.

“And he's dead,” Cassidy protested. The man
had been evil personified, but he was dead, burning in hell no
doubt.

“I'm not so sure about that.”

She stood then, Dylan letting her go easily.
“How the fuck do you fake a death in prison?” She could feel the
hair on her arms standing up, knew her voice was screeching through
the hospital, but couldn't force herself to calm down. Stanza
wasn't a member of a gang or a cartel, all the evidence showing he
had acted alone. Gabe McNamara's wife had been murdered in one of
the blazes, and she had worked with the arson investigator to nail
Stanza with an airtight case. Now, four years later this woman was
suggesting he hadn't died, had come back to haunt her like the
ghost he was supposed to be? No, there had to be another answer.
“It could be a copycat, an apprentice we didn't know he had...” she
lost steam in the middle of the sentence, unsure what else she had
planned to say.

“I'm pulling up his records, looking for
someone who was inside with him, recently paroled. I don't know how
he could have faked his death, but the crimes against you are
deeply personal, Ms. Everett.” She looked at the clock on the wall
briefly before continuing. “Was the case tried under Judge
Simmons?”

“No, but Simmons was the CA then.” Why
hadn't she thought of someone copying Stanza weeks ago? Why hadn't
the police? “Why are we just now coming to the realization this
might be related to Stanza? Why not take the copycat, the
apprentice angle after the car bomb?”

“Same reason you didn't think about him, I'd
guess.”

“He's dead.” She prayed he really was dead.
She had been scared before, but if Stanza had faked his death to
torture her, she didn't know if she was strong enough to fight
him.

“If he's not, he will be,” Dylan promised
from behind her, taking her into his arms and returning to the
chair, the warmth of his body chasing away the chill that had
overcome her. “He's not gonna get you, Cassie. I won't let
him.”

“He's dead,” she repeated weakly.

“If it's an apprentice, it could be anyone,”
Tiffany offered, giving voice to what was swirling in Cassidy's
head. If Stanza had groomed someone to hate her, to torture her, to
take everything away from her, someone with no ties to her who
couldn't easily be tracked, she wouldn't stop looking over her
shoulder until he was caught. Her thoughts went to the man behind
her, and she prayed nothing would happen to him. She knew she
should send him away with her family, shield him from the danger
surrounding her, but he wouldn't go. Like a coward, she shoved the
thought away and snuggled into his arms instead, loving the feel of
him around her, the safety she felt with him.

He held her tighter against him, his voice
coming out as a growl when he vowed, “Doesn't matter. No one's
gettin' to her.”

“I believe you,” the officer said as she
stood and headed toward the hall, “I'll keep you posted,” promised
over her shoulder.

“You do that.”

~*~

“It has to be an apprentice,” Chris said to
Tiffany. She was furiously typing away at her laptop, sitting at
his desk while he leaned against Jason's. “There's no way the man
came back from the dead to terrorize Ms. Everett.”

She shook her head, her blonde hair coming
free of its ponytail. “I can't find anyone who makes sense. I mean,
it'd have to be someone who was inside with him, someone he'd have
interacted with, spoken to, incited into violence, but I'm not
finding anyone.”

“Broaden the search. Make it anyone who's
been paroled in the last four years, who worked at Lee, who was
frequently in and out. Anyone who might have had contact with
Stanza. Someone who has the technical expertise to knock out our
radios.”

She made a face. “I'll do that too. Right
now I'm checking Stanza against Rossi. Rossi's cartel has reach
Stanza couldn't realize alone.”

God, she was checking one dead man against
another, and he had to admit it was a good idea. He rubbed the back
of his neck, the tension there nearly popping his head off his
shoulders. This was turning out to be a wild goose chase, and
unless the Johnsons pulled through, the body count would be up to
three. He stared at the attractive blonde woman dressed in a tank
top and jeans, her face devoid of make-up, her hair pulled into a
messy tail at the back of her head. This was the officer who was
supposed to have mad research skills, who could break this case
open. “Why did none of this occur to you, to us, until now? It took
her house blowing up to look this direction?”

She looked up briefly from her computer to
meet his eyes with her tired blue ones. “I'm looking into possible
interaction between two dead inmates and who they may have spoken
to in the two years they served time together. I hardly think
that's the first thing that should've come to mind.”

Maybe so. “As true as that may be, we have
to find something. We have no real leads, and I for one don't want
to deal with any more fucking explosions.”

She glanced at him, her pretty face clearly
saying, “No shit,” without words. “I am doing what I can,
Delmonico. Give me some credit here, I just came up this theory
three hours ago, watching a mansion burn down. I'm only so
good.”

He hoped she was better than good, and
almost said as much when Davis and Jason came through the door.
They had chosen to home-base in Aylesford considering the proximity
to the hospital, and although he liked being in his own station, he
wasn't sold on a joint investigation. Tiffany Morgan might be a
research ninja, but she'd yet to come up with anything actionable.
He gave himself a swift mental kick. He needed to engage, not
question the worth of the others working the case or let his
personal feelings cloud his judgment. It would be difficult, but he
was resigned to dealing with Davis provided the man didn't act like
the prick he was. Lucky for him Jason had drawn the short straw,
pairing up with Davis so he didn't have to deal with the pompous
ass of a detective, and Steve Archer hadn't come with them to
Aylesford, begging off with another case breaking open he needed to
attend.

He didn't know how things worked in Tyler,
but unless Archer was collaring a murderer, he couldn't see how
another case would take precedence, but it wasn't his place to ask.
Besides, as much as he despised Davis, he wasn't wholly unhelpful
regarding investigation. Steve Archer didn't strike him as cut out
for the force, not offering much in the conference room a couple
hours before. When he'd said as much to Jason, he was shrugged off,
citing the celebrity part of Archer's history as the reasoning.
Tyler PD was full of people he couldn't believe were tasked to
uphold the law, but it wasn't his town, and it wasn't his place to
complain. For all he knew they were all perfectly capable, and
since it was Aylesford with the sudden rash of dead bodies, he had
no room to talk.

“Okay, Miss Cross-Reference, whaddaya got?”
Davis asked as he sat at Caufield's desk. Chris grimaced as he
imagined Reid Caufield's reaction to that fact, but didn't say
anything, instead shooting a look at Jason, finding the other man
with a similar expression.

“Chris and I figured it might be someone who
had contact with both Stanza and Rossi while they were at Lee, so I
began looking at anyone whose time in overlapped with the two years
they were both there and alive. I didn't find anything
promising—people aren't paroled from Lee very often—so we opened it
up to those who worked there, ministered there, were in and out
often,” she explained, giving him much more credit than he
deserved.

“And?” Davis asked, his right hand spinning
in a “go-on” gesture.

She shook her head at him as she rolled her
eyes. “I was getting to that, Brandon.” She took a deep breath
before she hit a few keys on her laptop. “Here's the list of people
I've found. A minister helping the inmates find Jesus, four prison
guards who have since either retired or transferred, and,” she
tapped her finger against the screen, “the prison doctor, who left
directly after Rossi's death.”

“The doctor left after Rossi was shanked?”
Chris asked. What if both men had managed to fake their deaths and
had teamed up to give Cassidy her comeuppance? He started to say as
much when Jason slammed a hand on his desk. “You mean to tell me
it's entirely possible they both fucking faked their deaths?”