Promises to Keep (8 page)

Twenty-Two

Michael shouldn't have opened
his mouth. He should've listened to the crap Mathews spewed, nodded, thanked him for his time, and left. That's what he was getting ready to do, but then he made the mistake of looking at her. The look of quiet resignation on Sabrina's face told him that this was something she'd heard before. Something she was long used to. And that didn't sit well with him at all.

So he stood, towering over that self-important piece of shit, and let loose. He didn't regret what he said or the shouting match that had ensued behind closed doors, with Mathews threatening to call his superior and him laughing in his face. No—what he regretted was that he'd allowed Sabrina out of his sight for the two minutes it took him to tell Mathews to shove it up his ass. He should've remembered that she had a habit of taking off when the situation at hand promised to be emotionally messy.

The light coat that had been on her chair was gone, which meant she'd left the building. Glancing at Strickland, he saw that he'd traded the files in his lap for his keyboard. He was peering at his computer screen, painfully pecking at the keys with an excruci
ating lack of skill or speed. “Where'd your partner go?” Michael
said, yanking open one of her desk drawers to rifle through it. Not because he thought it would offer him any answers but because his messing it up would make her angry.

“Better not do that. She gets testy when assholes touch her stuff,” Strickland said, glancing up from the screen with a frown. Sabrina's partner looked at him as if he'd known Michael was here all along, which went to show that no matter how impressive Michael found him, he continually underestimated the man.

Slamming the drawer shut, he went for another one, scattering colored paperclips and perfectly sharpened pencils everywhere. “Where'd she go?”

“Home. Spelunking. Around the world in eighty days. How should I know? She was here and now she's not,” Strickland said, his tone gaining edge as he sat back from his computer to look at Michael.

“You just let her go?” he said, slamming yet another drawer.

“Let her? I'm sorry, are we talking about the same woman?” Strickland said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “No one
lets
her do anything. You of all people should know that.”

Michael ignored Strickland's last comment. “If you see her, tell her I need to talk to her,” he said, pulling a business card from his breast pocket. He flipped it at Strickland, who stared at him while it sailed over his desk and onto the floor next to his chair. Without even looking at it, Strickland turned back to his computer and resumed his hunt-and-peck routine. “Yeah, I'll be sure to do that for you. Have a good day,” he said.

Clenching his jaw with enough force to make his teeth ache, Michael walked away before he did something he probably wouldn't regret.

He walked to the lot that housed officer parking. Her car was nowhere to be seen. She was in the wind, and he had no idea where she'd gone.

The boy was awake, although he was pretending not to be. Sabrina pulled up a chair and prepared to wait him out. If at all possible, he was even paler than she remembered, the dark shock of hair that fell across his forehead standing out in stark relief against the impossible white of his skin. She glanced at the tray of untouched food on the nearby overbed table. How long had it been since he ate?

The social worker was long gone. As horrific as the circumstances were, she was “doubtful that his case took any kind of precedence.” There were children everywhere in need of social services. Sabrina assumed it went down as it always did—they came in, took a report, tried to ask the kid some general questions, and talked to the doctors about his condition. Not much they could do, really; he was the Russian Embassy's problem now.

A brief conversation with the charge nurse when she arrived told her that Ben had come and gone. The business card he left at the station was embossed with the insignia for the Russian Consulate. It looked official—just like the badge Michael had been flashing around the station earlier. A quick peek in the waiting room reassured her that Ben had taken precautions before he'd left. The Pip pretending to watch
Maury
barely glanced at her, but he knew she was there. His kind didn't miss much.

She glanced at her watch. It was just after three o'clock. How long did she think she could hide out here before she had to face Michael? Just the thought of him tied her stomach in knots.

The door pushed open, letting a young female nurse in with a soft
hiss
and
click
. “How's our boy?” she said, checking the level on the bag of fluid hanging from the pole.

“Playing possum.” Sabrina watched as she made sure the leather restraint cuffs that kept him in bed were secure.

“Can't say I blame him. He's been through a lot,” the nurse said, brushing hair off the boy's forehead. He flinched but managed to keep his eyes closed. “The doctor will be by in a few minutes to give you a full report.”

The phone in Sabrina's pocket buzzed against her rib cage. She smiled the nurse out the door before she reached for it. “This is Vaughn.”

“Hey, if it isn't my long-lost partner,” Strickland said.

Sighing, she closed her eyes for a moment. She'd known this was coming. “Hey, Strick. What's up?”

“Oh, nothing much … just trying to solve this pesky murder.” His voice had that nasty bite to it that set her teeth on edge. “Were you planning on coming out of hiding anytime soon, or am I gonna have to do it on my own?”

“I'm not hiding. I'm at the hospital; the boy's awake.” She was still able to lie like a pro. Years of practice made sure of that.

“Uh huh … right.” Strickland wasn't buying it. He never did. “He left about an hour ago, so it's safe to come back.”

She didn't bother to ask who he was talking about. It would be an insult to her partner's intelligence. Of course he'd recognize Michael, there was no use denying it. “Was there a reason you called?”

“Actually, yes. The house our victim was found in was a foreclosed property. I traced the paperwork back to a local bank. It hit the auction block about six months ago and was bought by a shell company. Among their list of business expenses are quarterly trips to Thailand, Cambodia, and Colombia. It's a bit of a tangle, but I think I traced ownership back to a private investor. Walter Elm.”

All of the countries he listed were well-known as sex tourism destinations, but the last one snagged her attention. “Colombia? When was the last time Elm went to Colombia?”

“Less than a month about. I'm heading to his office now. Wanna go?”

The
hiss
and
click
of the door told her that the promised doctor had arrived. “Yeah. Give me thirty to get back to the station. Look, the doctor is here. I'm gonna get the rundown from him and then I'm on my way.”

Dropping the phone in her pocket, she looked up with a smile, but it died within seconds of realizing that, despite the white coat and stethoscope, the man in front of her wasn't in the habit of saving lives.

He was in the habit of taking them.

Twenty-Three

In spite of the
nagging knot in the pit of his stomach, Michael forced himself through Sabrina's front gate and up the walk. He knocked on the door and waited, even though he knew she wasn't home. Her car was nowhere to be seen … but there
was
a black Nissan Titan parked in the driveway like it belonged there.

He told himself it was perfectly reasonable for him to be here.
He was on an assignment and Sabrina was a part of it. He had
every right to establish that whoever was here was supposed to be. It was professional courtesy that had him standing on her front porch—nothing more.

He was full of shit.

The door opened and he suddenly felt like he was sucking wind. Devon Nickels stood in the doorway. His bare feet and rumpled hair told Michael more in two seconds than a long-winded explanation ever could. He was comfortable and relaxed. He was exactly where he should be. He was at home, and Michael was intruding.

Nickels stared at him for a moment before speaking. “You've got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Where is she?” he said, trying his best to ignore the intense urge to grab the man in front of him and break his neck. The baby on Nickels's hip made it marginally easier to keep his hands to himself.

She let out a squeal, her chubby fingers curled around the collar of Nickels's navy blue SWAT T-shirt. A gold band glinted on the hand that anchored the baby to his side. She grinned, crinkling the corners of her whiskey-colored eyes. Michael tried not to look at her. Tried not to think about what she meant.

“Not here. I'll forget to tell her you stopped by.” Nickels moved to shut the door, but Michael was faster. His hand shot out and gripped the doorframe. At the same time, he jammed his foot in its path. Nickels's expression went from annoyed to angry in the blink of an eye. “
Honey
,” he shouted over his shoulder before turning his carefully guarded expression back in Michael's direction.

Sabrina's friend Valerie appeared a moment later, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “What is it?” She looked through the open door, her expression turning from puzzled to something more difficult to define. “Michael.” She whispered his name a moment before she stepped through the doorway and wrapped her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder.

He went stiff, looking at Nickels in hopes of finding some help, but there was none to be had. The cop watched the two of them, his expression softening slightly as he held on to the baby in his arms just a bit tighter.

It was suddenly clear but before he could comment, Val raised her face from his shoulder and looked at him. He envisioned her as she was the last time he'd seen her—small and naked, being dragged along a dirt path by a man who intended to kill them both.

“No scar?” she said, studying the side of his face where David Song had sliced him with a scalpel.

“No. I got lucky,” he lied. It'd taken a few surgeries for FSS's plastic surgeon to repair the damage Song had done, but the result was worth it. It was as if his confrontation with the man who'd stalked and murdered three women before turning his attention toward Sabrina and Val had never happened.

Almost.

“I'm glad. You're way too pretty for a scar.” She smiled at him, taking a step back. “Sabrina called a while ago. She's at the hospital, following up on a case she's working.”

“Thanks,” he said, lifting his gaze to look at Nickels for just a moment. “And congratulations. Both of you.”

Val gave him another smile. “Thank you,” she said, pulling the baby from Nickels's grasp and into her arms. “For everything.” She turned and said something to her husband before disappearing back into the house.

Twenty-Four

Cofre del Tesoro, Colombia
January 2009

Michael looked at the
young woman sitting beside him. Lydia had taken her shoes off as soon as she sat down, her brown toes digging into the pale sand, face turned up to the sun. Just beyond them, Christina played tag with the waves, running after the water only to turn and scurry away from it the moment it returned, giggling all the while.

“You should smile more often.”

He turned to find Lydia watching him. “If I did, people would know the truth.”

“What?” Lydia said, grinning at him. “That you're human?”

He laughed, shaking his head. The girl had gotten bold in the months she'd been sneaking down to the beach to join them. Her initial fear had evaporated quickly, leaving an intensely curious nature. There was nothing she wouldn't ask, and he'd found that there was little he felt uncomfortable telling her. “Yeah, something like that.”

The laughter died between them, fading slowly until there was nothing by silence. “What
is
the truth, Michael? Why are you here?”

He looked away from her, watched Christina zigzag back and
forth across the sand, her peals of laughter tinkling like bells.
“There's nowhere else for me to go.” He hadn't meant to say it, but once the truth escaped him, more followed. “I can't go home and what I was doing … ”

“The killing.” She said it softly, her face tipped down to catch his line of sight.

He finally turned to her, looked her in the eye. “Yeah. The killing … it was killing
me
.” He nodded. “So instead, I let your husband pay me an obscene amount of money to play on the beach and read bedtime stories.”

“Do you miss it?” she said, genuinely curious.

“Miss what?”

“Home,” she whispered the word, transforming it into nothing more than a wistful sigh.

He thought of Frankie—the only home he had left. “Yes, I do. What about you, Lydia? Why are you here?”

She cut him a sidelong glance. “I live here.”

He laughed in spite of himself. “Okay, smartass. Maybe what I mean is,
how
did you get here?”

She lifted her shoulder in a halfhearted shrug, her mouth quirking into a smile that did nothing to hide the tears that glittered in her eyes. “I don't know. This isn't where I'm supposed to be. I was very young when Alberto found me working in my father's coffee fields. He was charming. Said the right things. He was so polished. Even as nothing more than his cousin's gofer, you could see he wanted
more
. He paid my father three hundred dollars—before I knew what had happened, I was married and taken away.”

“Your parents
sold
you?”

Her lips pursed, her dark eyes clouding just a bit. “Colombia is not like America. Here, choice is a luxury. Men like Alberto are not the kind of men you say no to.”

He looked away. “I'm sorry.”

“For what? None of this is your fault,” she said. She looked at her daughter, now building one of her sandcastles a few yards away, and suddenly her smile became genuine. “Besides, without Alberto, there would be no Christina. For that alone, I have no regrets.”

“Do you love him?”

She thought quietly for a long moment—so long that he was starting to regret asking—before she finally answered. “There was a time, in the beginning, when I hoped that I would learn to. But no, I don't. I can't,” she said, looking up at him. “What about you? Was there ever someone special?”

Now it was his turn to think. “Yes.”

Lydia drew her knees to her chest, hugging them tightly. “Tell me about her?”

Michael looked out across the ocean, seeing not the water but the small East Texas town he grew up in. “She was a few years younger than me. I didn't see her very often—usually when my parents dragged me to church or when I stopped into the diner where she worked. They had this video game—
Millipede
—I used to play it all day just so I could see her.” He grinned in spite of himself. “I don't want to even think about the amount of money I wasted on that stupid game.”

She smiled at the memory he'd shared with her as if it were her own. “You must have liked her very much.”

His grin faded away, memories taking root. “I did, but she had a boyfriend and I was”—he struggled to find the right words for what he'd been back then—“not someone she took much notice of.”

Lydia frowned. “Did you love her?”

It was the same question he'd posed to her only minutes before and it gave him pause, just as it did her. “I wanted to be good enough for her.”

She gave him a look that said she understood full well that he'd
managed to avoid answering the question. “Were you? Good enough for her?”

He shook his head. “I tried but could never quite manage it.”

She gave him a sympathetic look. “Perhaps when you finally leave here, you can find her again.”

He looked away, casting his gaze across the ocean. “She was murdered a few years after I joined the Army.”

Her eyes went wide. “Oh … I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. It happened a long time ago,” he said, shutting the door between himself and a past he couldn't change, even though just thinking about it, what Melissa must have gone through, twisted his insides. He looked up, his gaze scanning the cliff line high above the island's private beach. In the distance, he spotted a lone figure standing at its edge. He couldn't tell who it was, but its sudden appearance tightened the skin along his nape. “It's getting late, you should head back.”

She followed his gaze and caught sight of the figure just as it turned and moved out of sight. “Do you think—”

“Don't worry about it, just be careful, okay?” he said to her, forcing himself to ignore the niggle of apprehension that slid down his spine. It wasn't Alberto; he'd been away for weeks now and showed no signs of returning. His private helicopter was still sitting on its pad waiting to be called for a pick-up.

“Okay,” she said as she stood. “Thank you for letting me see her.” She thanked him, without fail, every single time they met on the beach, no matter how many times he told her that her gratitude was unnecessary.

“There's nothing to thank me for. She's your daughter, Lydia,” he said.

“You're wrong, you know; you are more than good enough,” she said before turning away, refusing him the chance to answer.

He watched her kneel down next to Christina and speak softly. The little girl looking up at her and nodded. She flung her shovel down and threw her arms around her mother's neck while Lydia pressed her lips to her cheeks and hair.

Finally she stood, giving him a small wave before disappearing into the trees.