Minutes to Kill (19 page)

“So how do we start looking for the girl in Vegas?” she asked.

Chet turned back to his desk. “Normally, when looking for a missing teen, the go-to source is the friends. We can’t do that. We also don’t have cell phone, ATM, or credit card records to check. The Vegas PD is trying to match the prints. They’ll start local and expand their search as they go along. But I learned a couple of things from my own experience. Within forty-eight hours, someone is going to try to lure a runaway into prostitution. Once a pimp gets ahold of a kid, it’s very hard for the kid to get away—dangerous even.”

Had he tracked his daughter that far?

“I know you’re wondering about Teresa. Yes, I believed she was being trafficked. She was likely also using drugs. While she didn’t like the side effects of her prescribed medicine, she did try to escape her symptoms with recreational drugs and alcohol.” His fingers curled into fists. “I guess I provided the perfect example.”

“So where does that leave us?” Hannah put him back on track. There was no use beating himself up for a past he couldn’t change.

“If your teen is being trafficked, she might not be from Nevada. She could be from any state. Did she have an accent? Is there a possibility that she’s from another country? Traffickers bring girls from Mexico or other foreign countries. Sometimes the girl’s parents pay these guys, thinking their daughters will get a better life in America. Then when the girls are brought over, the traffickers tell them they have a debt to work off. Families are threatened. Girls who are here illegally won’t go to the police. They’re forced into prostitution to pay off a never-ending debt. Girls are also shipped around from state to state. It’s harder for families to track a girl if she’s frequently moved.”

Hannah searched her memory. “I didn’t hear a foreign accent or any indication that English wasn’t her primary language.”

“OK, then we’ll focus on states in the continental US.”

“This sounds like a very organized activity.”

“Sometimes yes, sometimes no.” Chet scrolled to a website and paused on a phone number. “Girls get trafficked by their boyfriends, by kidnappers. Or they’re already turning tricks to put a roof over their head or buy a meal, and a pimp gets his hooks into them. And some girls are sole proprietors. Maybe she’s hungry or has kids to feed and no marketable skills. If she only has one thing to sell, and she’s desperate enough . . .”

Hannah supposed hungry children were motivation to do just about anything to feed them.

“Now. We’re going to play a game. I’m going to ask you a lot of questions. The cop in Vegas probably asked you most of them. Just do your best to answer.” He put two sheets of paper in front of her. On the top of one he wrote
Sure
. The other paper he headed with the title
Maybe
. “If you’re one hundred percent positive of your answer, write it here. Be quick. Let’s see if your subconscious is holding any information hostage. If it’s more of an impression, write it here. When we’re done, I’ll put it all together and start making calls.”

“OK.”

His questions came rapid-fire. “Did she have a regional accent? Exactly how did she phrase that?”

When Chet’s interrogation was finished, Hannah looked down at the paper. She’d remembered a few more details, but her head ached from the strain.

“Go on downstairs and take a break while I put this all together and make a few calls.”

Hannah went down to the kitchen for more water. She took a Tylenol from her purse and swallowed it. Needing a distraction to take her mind off the never-ending replay of Jewel’s abduction, she switched on the television, turned the volume on low, and sat on the couch. A blue scroll on the television caught her attention.

“Breaking news: Shooting in progress, Scarlet Falls, NY.”

She ran to the bottom of the stairs. “Chet!”

He appeared on the top landing. His face was drained of color.

“You heard about the shooting?” She glanced back at the TV. A commercial played. The blue banner was unchanged. No new information.

“What shooting?” He descended the stairs.

She pointed at the TV. The thought of Brody shot and killed took Hannah out at the knees. She wobbled. Chet grabbed her arm and eased her onto the couch. “I’ll find out what happened.” He reached for the phone.

Eyes locked on the TV, Hannah wrapped her arms around her body. Chet had been upset before she’d told him about the shooting. He ended his call. “He’ll call me back as soon as he has details.”

Who was shot?

He sat on the sofa next to her, eyes riveted on the TV.

“What happened before I called you?”

“I opened my e-mail. There are more than three hundred messages in there from the last six months.”

“Are you going to open them?”

“I don’t know,” Chet said.

A blond female reporter in a newsroom appeared on the TV. She read from a teleprompter. “A report just in. A shooting is in progress at a kennel in Scarlet Falls. At least one police officer has been shot.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Brody dove for the ground. A bullet whizzed past his head. Weapon in hand, he crawled to the steps and took cover behind the thick concrete. The suspect was firing through the windows from inside the house. At that angle, he couldn’t shoot Brody without coming outside.

But Brody was pinned. He couldn’t see the shooter from his position.

Where was Stella?

Had she retreated to the car? She couldn’t have left him and Lance. Disappointment swamped Brody as he scanned the area.

Wait. He saw her moving behind the unmarked car. Crouching, she ran to the trunk, opened it, and removed Brody’s AR-15. Holding the rifle across her body, she moved toward him.

She hadn’t run. She’d gone for a longer-range weapon.
Smart girl
. Relief flooded Brody.

Another shot came from inside the house, puffing the dirt in front of Stella. Brody looked up. Just the tip of the muzzle of a rifle protruded through a hole in the glass. Stella went flat, took aim, and fired a three-shot burst. The shooter went quiet.

Had she hit him? And was Lance still alive?

Twenty feet away from Brody, the downed officer’s feet kicked on the ground. Not only was he still alive, he was trying to inch away from the house. But his body didn’t budge. His injuries were too serious, and he appeared too weak to move. Blood stained the grass next to his leg. Too much blood for Lance to last very long without help. But to get to him, Brody was going to have to cover open ground. He’d be a clear target, like a metal duck in a shooting gallery.

To save Lance, Brody would have to trust Stella.

“Can you cover me?” he shouted.

She nodded and lifted the rifle. Sweat soaked Brody’s shirt. She yelled something back, but Brody didn’t hear it. His hearing was muffled, as if he were wearing the double layers of ear protection he used at the firing range.

Brody levered a knee under his body, launched to his feet, and ran for Lance. Stella fired at the window as Brody crossed the grass, grabbed Lance under the armpits, and dragged him toward the police cars. Lance’s blue eyes were wide open and hazed with fear and pain.

A shot rang from the house. A bullet whizzed by Brody’s head. He dropped, covering Lance with his own torso. Stella took aim and fired again. Then she straightened, waiting. Quiet descended again. Brody’s hearing returned as suddenly as it had disappeared. He heard the wind and Lance’s groans beneath him. The thin wail of an approaching siren floated in the air.

Brody pulled Lance behind the police vehicles. The cop’s pale face was turned away. Was he alive? Brody kept one eye on the house and reached for his neck. A pulse thrummed weakly against his fingertips.

In his peripheral vision, he saw a red stain spreading in the dirt next to Lance’s leg. The bullet had struck him in the thigh. Blood was turning the gravel muddy. He was bleeding out fast. Brody yanked off Lance’s clip-on uniform tie, folded it in half, and pressed it to the wound. Then he yanked off his own tie, looped it around Lance’s leg, and tied it snugly. The blood flow seemed to slow, or was that Brody’s wishful thinking? “Hang on, Lance.”

Lance’s eyes darted in wild circles. “Where is he?”

“No worries. Stella’s got us covered,” Brody said.

A door slammed. The shooter ran out the side exit of the house, a rifle in one hand, two bags in the other.

“Stop. Police,” Stella yelled.

The man whirled and fired a round at them. Stella answered with a burst from the AR-15. The shooter stumbled. She’d hit him. He recovered, though his pace was slower as he limped toward the barn. A few seconds later, a Camry roared out of the barn and over the field on the other side of the house. The vehicle fishtailed as it made a high-speed turn onto the road and sped away.

Sweat dripped into Brody’s eye, blurring his vision. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “Did you get the plate number?”

“No. Too far.” Moving toward him, Stella used the radio on her collar to update dispatch and give a basic description of the vehicle and suspect.

“How’s Lance?” she asked without taking her eyes off the house.

“Hanging in,” Brody said.

Lance’s eyes were closed, but he was still breathing.

Brody’s heartbeat ran in triple time. His lungs heaved, and sweat poured down his spine as he turned his attention back to Lance.

“I think the bleeding is slowing,” Brody said, mostly for Lance’s benefit. Stella returned to the car for a blanket. She covered Lance’s shivering body.

“I’m dying,” he wheezed.

“No, you’re not.” Stella took his hand.

“We got this,” a voice said over Brody’s shoulder. An EMT. Brody turned. A paramedic unit and two state troopers were parked next to his vehicle. When had they arrived?

Brody and Stella stepped back and let the EMTs take over. A sudden wave of weakness swept over Brody as his adrenaline plummeted. He leaned on his thighs and waited for his vision to clear. Stella stumbled to the side of the road and heaved into the weeds. When his head settled, he moved back to his vehicle and sat on the front bumper. Stella joined him a few minutes later.

“You OK?” he asked.

“Yes.” Her voice lacked conviction. She stared at him. “You’re bleeding.”

Brody looked down. His hands were coated in blood. More red stained his clothes. “It’s not mine.”

“You have a cut on your forehead.”

“I can’t feel it.” Brody’s whole body was numb.

More police cars and an ambulance arrived. An EMT taped a piece of gauze over Brody’s cut. Emergency personnel loaded Lance into the back of the ambulance and drove away. He heard the
whump-whump
of helicopter blades. He covered his eyes and squinted at the sky. A news helicopter hovered overhead.

“Think he’s going to make it?” Stella asked.

“Lance?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know.” Brody turned to look at her. “You did good.”

“I never shot anyone before.” Her eyes were huge in her pale face. She was thirty years old, with seven solid years on the SFPD, but her pallor and shock made her look impossibly young. Stella scuffed a toe of an ugly black shoe in the dirt. “Most cops go through their entire careers without shooting anyone. I had hoped to be one of them.”

“Don’t we all.”

“You ever shoot anyone?”

“Yeah.”

“Get over it?”

“Not really,” Brody said. Except for that one surprising conversation with Hannah, he never talked about his one and only shooting. Why had he opened up to her? “If you need to talk to anyone, I’m around. Don’t let it fester. The chief is going to put you on administrative leave or desk duty for a week or two. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just policy. He’s also going to send you in for a psych eval. Do yourself a favor. Talk to the doctor. It’ll help.”

“Did you?”

“Not at first. I thought I could handle it.” He paused for a breath. The shooting in Boston had been completely justified. He’d had no legal issues. But no amount of training had prepared him to take a life. “I was wrong. It would have been easier if I’d have dealt with it right away.”

Hannah stared at the television. Her vision swam. Chet pushed her head between her knees. “Relax. Shooter situations are usually patrol. Brody doesn’t work patrol.”

The scene shifted to an aerial view of a field and outbuildings.

“Shit. That’s his car.”

Chet’s phone buzzed, and he answered it. He exhaled, his chest deflating with relief. He covered the speaker with his finger. “He’s OK.”

Hannah breathed.

Chet ended his call. “Apparently, Brody and another officer went out to a kennel to ask some questions, and some guy started shooting at them.” He scanned her face. “You all right now?”

“Yes.” Mostly. But, obviously, Brody meant more to her than she’d realized. How did she feel about that? “Someone else was shot?”

“Yeah. Patrol officer. Good guy. He’s at the hospital. Doesn’t look good.” Chet went quiet.

“I’m sorry. You knew him well?”

“It’s a small force, and I’ve been on it a long time.” He paused. “I
was
on it for a long time,” he corrected, as if his retired status was hard for him to believe. “We all know each other well. Brody is on his way to the hospital. Apparently, he has a very minor injury. Every other available cop will be looking for the scumbag who did this.”

Hannah needed to see him. She needed to put her hands on his body and assure herself that he was intact. “Want to ride over there?”

Chet paused. “I do.”

“Then let’s go.” Hannah took the dog outside for a two-minute walk. “Do you mind if I leave the dog here? She’s not destructive.”

“Not at all.” He lifted his keys from a rack on the wall.

In five minutes they were on the road headed for the local hospital. The fifteen-minute drive seemed much longer. One woman in uniform and Brody sat in the ER waiting room. Hannah’s stride faltered as she took in the bloodstains on Brody’s clothes. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves, but Hannah could still see that his cuffs were stained rusty brown. His gray suit pants were bloody at the knees. A square of gauze was taped to his forehead.

“Are you all right?” She touched his cheek.

He put his hand over hers. “I’m fine. It’s barely a scratch. Two stitches.”

“How is he?” Chet asked.

Brody didn’t take his eyes off Hannah as he answered. “They’re stabilizing him here and medevacing him to the trauma center in Albany.”

“Lance is a fighter,” Chet said.

Another man motioned to Chet, and he crossed the room to sit in a plastic chair next to him. The low murmur of muted conversation followed.

Hannah took Brody’s hand and led him into the hallway. She stepped closer, until they were toe-to-toe, and ran her hands up his arms, over his shoulders, to his chest. His heart beat under her palm. Sliding her arms around his waist, she pulled him close and leaned her head against his chest.

She reveled in the movement of his chest beneath her face. Every breath that passed in and out of his lungs reinforced the fact that he was alive.

People she cared about tended to end up dead.

Brody tried to back away. “I’m covered in blood.”

She tightened the grip of her arms. She would have waded through a river of blood to touch him. “I thought you were dead.”

His arms folded around her. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “Not your fault. You were doing your job. Do you have to go back to work?”

He shook his head. “Not right now. I’m going home to change and shower. Come with me?”

“I brought Chet here.”

Chet waved her off. “I’ll get a ride home. Go.”

Hannah went out to the truck and followed Brody back into town. They stopped at Chet’s and picked up the dog. Brody parked in front of a large three-story house on a quiet side street near the business district. By the time they arrived, rain was falling. She got out of the pickup. The sky opened up, soaking her to the skin in seconds. They ran up the walk onto the porch.

The porch light and the rain brightened the bloodstains on Brody’s clothes. He had a dangerous job, and she couldn’t bear to lose another person in her life. She hadn’t recovered from Lee’s death.

But was it too late to make the choice? What did she feel for Brody?