The Precinct: Brotherhood of the Badge

And then, of course, there was the furry monster by the door. Yukon’s dark eyes reflected the light with something like contempt at the disruption of his sleep. Despite weeks of training and all the patience she could muster, the silvery gray malamute had yet to warm up to her. No amount of coaxing, not even a treat, could lure him to join her in bed with the other dogs. He didn’t even mooch when she cooked in the kitchen. Yukon tolerated the rest of the household. He accepted the food and shelter she offered and ran or roller-bladed with her anytime she asked. She always got the feeling that he was looking for a chance to escape—to run and keep on running away from the prison he temporarily called home. No way was Yukon ever going to thank her for rescuing him from being euthanized by an owner who couldn’t handle such a big, athletic dog. No way did he care that she’d been scared, trapped in a nightmare she’d relived time and again these past six months. No way was he going to offer one bit of his strength to make her feel any better. She spotted the crumpled notepad lying just a few feet away from him against the wall. “Nothing personal, big guy,” she said. “Sorry I woke you.”

Liza checked the clock. Four a.m. She’d worked the late shift at the vet clinic and had her applied microbiology review in another four hours. She should try to get some more sleep.

But she was wide awake in the middle of the night. She had no family to call, no arms to turn to for comfort. She was isolated by the very nightmare she desperately needed to share with someone who could help her complete the memories and then get them out of her head. But the KCPD and a restraining order from the D.A.’s office—to keep her identity out of the press—prevented her from talking to anyone but the police and her therapist about the gruesome crime she’d witnessed. She was alone, with no one but her three dogs for company.

She glanced over at Yukon, who was resting his muzzle on his outstretched paws again. He understood isolation. “But you like it better than I do, big guy.”

With sleep out of the question and class still hours away, Liza shoved Cruiser aside and kicked off the covers. “Move it, princess.”

Knowing she’d have extra fur and body heat to keep her warm, Liza kept the house cool at night. The October chill that hung in the air shivered across her skin as her bare feet touched the wood floor beside her bed. Instead of complaining, she let the coolness rouse her even further. After a few deep breaths, she stepped into her slippers and pulled on her robe as she walked past Yukon and headed for the kitchen.

The usual parade followed, with Bruiser right on her heels and Cruiser padding behind at a more leisurely pace. Yukon deigned to rise and come out of the bedroom, only to lie down outside the kitchen doorway. Liza brewed a pot of green tea, ignored her fatigue and pulled out her pharmacology text. She read her next assignment until the first rays of sunlight peeked through the curtains above the kitchen sink.

It was 7 a.m. Late enough to politely make the call she’d been ready to make since the nightmare woke her.

The male voice on the other end of the line cleared the sleep from his throat before answering. “This is Dr. Jameson.”

Great. She’d still gotten him out of bed. Now her therapist would think she’d had some kind of breakthrough. But all she had was the same familiar nightmare she wished would go away.

Combing her fingers through the boyish wisps of her copper-red hair, Liza apologized. “I’m sorry to wake you, Doctor. This is Liza Parrish. I think I’m…” She swallowed the hesitation. There was no thinking about this. Just say it and get on with it, already. “I want to try the hypnotherapy you suggested. I need to get the memory of that cop’s murder out of my head.”

“CAN SHE TELL ME ANYTHING NEW or not?” The burly blond detective named Kevin Grove addressed the question across his desk to Dr. Trent Jameson rather than to her.

The gray-haired psychologist answered for her as well. “Possibly. Though she seems to be juxtaposing her parents’ deaths with your crime scene, there were certainly a few more details in the account she shared with me this morning. She’s certain there were two gunshots now. And that the victim’s body had been arranged in a way that indicates the killer—or someone who was on the scene with the killer—cared about him.”

“Uh-huh.” Grove frowned, looking as skeptical as Liza felt.

Dr. Jameson continued. “I realize those are clues your forensic team can piece together as well. But I tell you, the clarity of her memory is improving. I believe we’ve reached the point where I can put her under and guide her memories toward a particular fact.”

“You can do that? You can pick a specific memory out of her head?” Grove asked.

“It’s a new technique I’ve been working on for several months with some success.” Jameson blew out a long sigh, as though defending his expertise was a tedious subject. “I believe questioning Liza while she’s in a suggestive state could tap into those memories she’s either blocked or forgotten.”

“You want to hypnotize her here.” Detective Grove still wasn’t up to speed on the idea of hypnotherapy. Or else, that doubt in his tone meant he understood just fine what Dr. Jameson was proposing—he just didn’t think it was a worthwhile idea.

Liza squirmed in her chair. Surrendering her thoughts and memories to a professional therapist was risky enough. To do it in front of an audience felt a whole lot like standing up on a firing range and letting the entire world take a potshot at her.

But she had to try. This was about more than clearing her head of the nightmares that plagued what little sleep she did get and left her exhausted. She owed something to John Kincaid, the dead man she’d found in the warehouse. Six years ago, witnesses had come forward to help convict the thieves who’d murdered her family in a home invasion. Liza had been away at college, working on her undergraduate degree, the night her parents and pet were murdered. She hadn’t been there to fight to protect her family. Or to see anything useful she could testify to at their killers’ trial.

But she could testify for John Kincaid. If she could remember.

Helping another victim find justice was the only way she could help her late parents.

Twisting her gloves in her hands, Liza distracted herself from the uneasy task that lay ahead of her by counting the dog hairs clinging to the sleeves of her blue fleece jacket.

“The setting isn’t ideal.” Dr. Jameson gestured around the busy precinct office with an artistic swirl of his fingers. “But I’m skilled enough to perform my work anywhere I’m needed. A little privacy would be nice, though.”

Detective Grove pushed his chair back and stood. “A little privacy sounds good. We can use one of the interview rooms.”

Divided up into a maze of desks and cubicle walls, the detectives’ division of the Fourth Precinct building was buzzing with indecipherable conversations among uniformed and plain-clothes investigators and the technicians and support staff who worked with them. Liza felt a bit like a rat in a maze herself as she got up and followed Dr. Jameson’s fatherly figure and Grove—the bulldog-faced detective who’d interviewed her before in conjunction with the Kincaid murder case.

Liza tucked her gloves into her pockets as they zigzagged between desks. While Dr. Jameson discussed their late morning session with the detective, she couldn’t help but compare the two men. Both were eager to tap into the secrets locked inside her brain. But while Detective Grove wasn’t concerned with how her memories got tangled up, her therapist seemed to think he could use the painful experience of her parents’ deaths to tap into her hazy memory of John Kincaid’s murder, and draw out the information that he believed was hiding in a well-protected corner of her mind.

It felt odd to be discussed as though she were a walking, talking clinical experiment instead of a human being with ears and feelings.

About as odd as it felt to be watched by the tall, tawny-haired hotshot standing beside a black-haired man with glasses at the farthest desk.

Liza’s first instinct was to politely look away. The two men were obviously sharing a conversation, and the parade through the desks had probably just caught his attention for a moment. But the moment passed and she could feel him still watching her. Liza turned his way again, then nearly tripped over her own feet as she stuttered to a halt. “Impossible,” she gasped.

Remember. An imaginary hand from her nightmare grabbed hers and she flinched.

She was being watched by a ghost.

Closing her eyes and shaking the imagined sensation from her fingers, she purged the foolish notion from her head. Her brain was tired and playing tricks on her. Ghosts, shmosts. They weren’t real. Taking a deep breath, her streak of self-preservation that had seen her through the most difficult times of her life kicked in, giving her the impetus to mask her shock before opening her eyes and moving on.

Man. Ghost.

Reality. Memory.

She snuck another peek as the man lowered his head to resume his conversation. See? You twit. Get a grip.

The similarities were there, yes. But that honeybrown hair wasn’t streaked with gray.

The square jaw was whole. Not bruised and broken.

The eyes were blue as cobalt. Piercing. Very much alive.

Liza circled behind a carpeted cubicle wall. No way could Captain Hotshot be the same man she’d found murdered on that warehouse floor. She was going nuts, plain and simple. Agreeing to interrogation under hypnosis was a very bad idea. She should go home. Go back to work. Go for a run with her dogs. Anything normal. Anything physical. Anything that would stop the fear and confusion, and get her life back to its fast-paced, sleep-deprived, business-as-usual state.

But when she cleared the wall, Liza was forced to pause again as a pair of uniformed officers escorted a young man wearing baggy pants to a desk and handcuffed him to a chair. Determined to convince her brain that she’d only imagined Kincaid’s ghost across the room, Liza used those few camouflaged seconds to study the man who’d spooked her.

The badge hanging from a chain around his neck marked him as a police officer. Yet, unlike the detectives wearing suits and ties or the patrol officers wearing their standard blue uniforms, this man was dressed in black from neck to toe. Black turtleneck. Black gun and holster at his hip. Black pants tucked into what looked like black army boots. And a black flak vest that bore two rows of white letters—KCPD and S.W.A.T.

Mask the spiky crop of hair with a knit cap and add stripes of eye black beneath his eyes, and she’d think he was ready to launch some kind of covert attack.

Against her, judging by the way his gaze darted back to her the instant her path cleared and she took a step.

That nosy son of a… Red-haired temper flamed through her veins, and Liza tilted her chin and hurried after Jameson and Grove.

So Captain Hotshot was a tough guy. One of those S.W.A.T. cops who defused bombs and calmed riots and shot rifles at bad guys from a mile away. He probably hunted for fun—had trophies of innocent deer and hapless pheasants mounted on his walls at home.

Tough guys didn’t scare her.

The detective with glasses standing beside him kept talking, but the man in black continued to watch her. Suspecting her own scrutiny might have intensified his, Liza resolutely focused her gaze on the back of Jameson’s silvery head and wished the path from Grove’s desk to the interview room was straighter and shorter.

She felt the tough guy turn his conversation back to the man beside him, but the instant she snuck a glance over to make sure his fascination with her had waned, he blinked. And when those clear blue eyes opened again, they locked on to hers across the sea of desks and detectives. What the hell? Liza’s pulse rate kicked up a notch. Without looking away, he lowered his head to say something to the other man. Were they talking about her?

Liza broke eye contact as she neared his position. A distinct feminine awareness hummed beneath the surge of temper. But both energies fizzled as an all-too-familiar panic crept in. Maybe she had more than her sanity to worry about. Did he recognize her? Did he know why she was here? Dr. Jameson and Detective Grove had reached the hallway leading to the interview rooms. Another few steps and she’d be there as well.

Two more steps. One more glance.

Enough.

“What?” she exclaimed, turning and taking a step toward the armed man, realizing too late that he was several inches taller and a heck of a lot broader up close than he’d been with the length of the room between them. But guts and bravado spurred her past the unnerving observation. “Do I have lunch in my teeth? You think I’m some kind of circus sideshow? Why are you staring at me?”

Without batting an eye or missing a beat, he grinned. “You started it.”

“I did not.” Snappy, Liza.

“Holden…We need to walk away.” The caution from the detective beside him went unheeded.

Tough Guy faced her, looking as calm and bemused as she was fired up. When a man was armed for battle and built like a fort, he probably didn’t feel the need to lose his cool. “Maybe I’m just admiring the view.”

Liza scoffed at the flirtatious remark. Right. Like her freckles and attitude had turned his head. “And maybe you’re just full of it.”

An elbow in the arm from the man standing beside him made the tough guy raise his hands in surrender. “My apologies. Can’t help it if I’ve got a thing for redheads.”

“Uh-huh.” Liza hadn’t expected the apology. Didn’t trust it. Wasn’t quite sure how to handle it, either.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand at her elbow. She calmed her reaction before it reached her face and looked up into Dr. Jameson’s indulgent expression. “Liza? It’s not the time for chatting. I want to pursue this while the dream is fresh. Come along.”

“Who’s chatting?” Liza grumbled. Grateful for the opportunity to escape, she allowed Detective Grove to usher her into a room stuffed with a conference table and chairs. Before the door closed behind her, she gave one last look over her shoulder. The tough guy with the smooth lines and eerily familiar countenance was still watching her. Her reaction to his intense scrutiny was still sparking through her veins. Something about those probing blue eyes was as spellbinding as it was unnerving. Turning away from his inexplicable fascination and determined to dismiss her own, Liza let the door close behind her.

“Who was that man staring at me? I’m sure I’ve never met him, but he looked…familiar.”

Detective Grove glanced toward the door as if her ghost had followed them into the room. “The big guy in the S.W.A.T. vest?” As if anyone else had zeroed in on her through the midday crowd like that. “That’s Holden Kincaid.”

Liza sank into the nearest chair. “As in Deputy Commissioner John Kincaid?”

“Yeah.”

That explained the resemblance. A thing for redheads, my ass.

So much for anonymity. If she could figure out who he was, then he had probably identified her as well—the woman who’d reputedly witnessed John Kincaid’s murder. Behind that smart-alecky charm, he was probably wondering why the hell she hadn’t come forward with the entire story and fingered the killer already.

She’d get right on that. Just as soon as she could remember.

“Holden Kincaid, um…how is he related to the man who was killed?”

Grove spread open the case file at the end of the table. He could make that bulldog face of his look pretty grim when he wanted to. “He’s John’s youngest son. And you need to stay away from him.”

Chapter Two

“Got him.” Holden Kincaid framed the target in the crosshairs of his rifle scope, blinking once to make sure his vision was clear.

Clear like crystal.

His mind and body followed suit, blocking out any distraction that might interfere with the execution of the task at hand. The crisp October air lost its chill. The rough friction of the roofing tiles against the brace of his elbows and thighs vanished. Emotions were put on hold as months of training calmed the beat of his pulse.

Every observation was now made with cold-eyed detachment. From his vantage point atop the neighbor’s roof across the alley, he could look right over the privacy fence into Delores Mabry’s trashed kitchen. There was a cloudy spot on the window glass, a greasy hand print from the last time the perp had looked out into the back yard. But the smudge didn’t mask the gray-haired woman cowering behind a chair against the refrigerator. The window’s curtains hung wide open, indicating the target hadn’t given much thought to how the police would react to this hostage situation. Holden’s target was big enough to make this a relatively easy shot—if his orders had been to shoot to kill.

But as the pudgy stomach in the bright white T-shirt passed by the window again, Holden knew there would be nothing easy about this shot.

Al Mabry was armed. He was moving. And the poor SOB probably had no clue to the danger his delusional state had put his mother, himself, and a dozen cops into. Going off his meds did that to a schizophrenic. Mabry was ill. Suicidal. If possible, KCPD wanted to end this standoff with everyone alive. But if Mabry decided to obey the voices in his head and suddenly start shooting up more than the living room furniture, then Holden’s orders would change and a life would end.

No emotions allowed.

Static crackled across Holden’s helmet radio and Lieutenant Mike Cutler, his S.W.A.T. team leader and scene commander, came online. “You can take that shot?”

Holden rolled his shoulders and neck, easing the last bit of tension from his body before going still in his prone position. “Yes, sir.”

“Molloy, can you confirm?”

Dominic Molloy, Holden’s lookout, backup and best friend, adjusted his position on the roof beside Holden and peered through his binoculars. “I wouldn’t want to take it. But I’m not the big guy.” Holden sensed, rather than saw, the teasing grin around the steady chomp of Dom’s gum. “The hostage is on the floor,” continued Molloy. “Scared out of her mind, maybe, but she doesn’t appear to be harmed. Mabry’s pacing the kitchen with his gun to his head. Hasn’t pointed it at Mama yet. He does lower the weapon when he stops to drink his coffee.”

Mabry had ordered his mother to brew a fresh pot earlier. After spending the better part of the past night on this call, Holden longed for some hot coffee himself. Or a hot breakfast. Or a hot…No. He couldn’t afford to feel anything right now. Focus.

“The perp’s routine hasn’t varied for the last forty minutes,” Holden reported. “The next sip he takes, I could drop him. I think I can even neutralize the gun.”

“You think?”

Cutler’s skepticism didn’t rattle Holden. “Not a problem, sir. My shot is clear.”

Dom chuckled beside him. “I see what you’re planning.” He raised his voice for Cutler and their teammates to hear. “I can confirm. Kincaid can take the shot.”

“We’ve been messin’ with this drama long enough,” Cutler rumbled. “There’s no way to reason with him and I don’t want this to escalate.” If Mike Cutler couldn’t talk a hostage down from his crazy place, then no one could.

Holden was ready to take the next step. “Do you want me to take the shot, sir?”

“Let’s get him back in the psych ward. Remember, incapacitate him and we’ll take it from there. He hasn’t hurt anything but the furniture yet. I’d like to keep it that way.” Lieutenant Cutler’s tone was concise and commanding—a trait that had always inspired Holden’s own confidence. “Assault team ready to move in?”

“Yes, sir.” The responses echoed from both the front and rear ground locations.

“You have clearance, Kincaid. Assault team—on my go.”

Dom patted the top of Holden’s helmet. “You’re up, big guy. Do it.”

Shoulder? Knee? Either shot would take Mabry down. Funny how the man who’d murdered Holden’s father six months ago had shared the same skills with a gun. One neat shot to the forehead, one to the heart. Clean. Precise. Deadly.

Hell. Where had that thought come from? Get out of my head. But the comparison lingered, forcing Holden to think his way through it before he could purge the illtimed distraction.

The killer had used a hand gun, not a high-powered rifle like the one Holden cradled in his grip. He’d been a good forty yards closer than Holden was to this shot. The victim had been his dad, not a stranger. Had John Kincaid pleaded for his life? Had he held his head high in stoic silence at the end? Had he known death was coming?

Al Mabry didn’t know.

Holden’s heart quickened with each detail, beating harder against his chest, pumping a familiar rage and sorrow into his veins.

The man who’d killed his father had taken a perverse pleasure in torturing him before pulling the trigger. Holden was a better man than that. Mabry wouldn’t die. And if he had to die, he wouldn’t suffer. This was his job. Lieutenant Cutler’s S.W.A.T. team was here to save the damn day.

“Get out of my head,” he muttered, willing his training to retake control of his emotions.

“What’s that, buddy?” Dom asked.

This is my job.

“Taking the shot.” Holden iced his nerves, stilled his breath, framed the target in his sights and squeezed the trigger.

Boom.

Holden’s shoulder absorbed the kick of the rifle. Glass shattered and Al Mabry screamed.

“Go!” Cutler’s order echoed through his helmet.

Crimson bloomed on the perp’s hand as the gun sailed across the kitchen. Holden quickly lined up a second shot to the perp’s left temple in case things went south. But before Al Mabry could fully understand that he’d been shot, Holden’s teammates had battered down the door and rushed the mentally disturbed young man. Jones and Delgado had Mabry facedown on the floor with his hands cuffed behind his back, the gun secured, before Holden allowed himself another blink.

The hate and sorrow were buried. The ice remained. Closing his eyes, Holden finally allowed himself to breathe.

“All clear, big guy.” Dom sat up beside him. His boots grated on the gravel roof as he stowed his gear into the various compartments of his uniform. With the flat of his hand, he reached over and slapped Holden’s helmet. “Hey. Cutler gave us the ‘all clear.’ I guess there’s a reason why they call you the best. You were aiming for the gun, right?”

Even more than the chatter of commands and replies zinging from the radio in his helmet, Dom’s gibe reminded Holden that he needed to get moving.

Striving for the same detachment from his work that Dominic Molloy seemed to enjoy, Holden rolled over, splayed his hand in Molloy’s face and pushed him away. He could give as good as he got. “Jealous, much?”

“You wish.” Dom’s eyes sparkled with humor. “I could have made that shot if I wanted to. But it’s my job to watch your backside.”

Holden secured his rifle and picked up the tripod as he pushed to his feet and made his way toward the ladder at the front edge of the roof. “Then enjoy the view. Last man down buys the beer.”

Once on the ground, they shed their helmets and locked their equipment in the back of the black S.W.A.T. van. Combing his fingers through the sweat-dampened spikes of his hair, Holden crossed down to the street to join Rafael Delgado and Joseph Jones, Jr.—Triple J or Trip, as he liked to be called.

He held up his hand to urge the gathering crowd of curiosity-seekers off the street while the others guided the ambulance carrying Al Mabry through. Lieutenant Cutler followed right behind, signaling the EMTs when they were clear to take off. Cutler joined the team as they gathered at the van. The lieutenant congratulated them on a successful mission, reminded them to write their reports. Then he shook Holden’s hand and pulled him aside. “Nice shooting, Kincaid.”