An Eye For Danger (book 1)

Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Through a white curtain encircling my hospital bed, I made out a bean-pole silhouette with spiky hair and a square coat that shrugged as the person set his hands on his waist.

“Let me get this straight,” whispered a whiskey voice. “While I was outside in the freezing cold, scouring streets for an exit route, you were upstairs getting your rocks off.”

“Wasn’t like that. Not completely.” Sam’s silhouette dragged a hand over the back of his neck.

“Three weeks, Sam. Three. Count my fingers.” The shadow doubled with a deep, whooping cough.

“Could be pneumonia by now.”

The guy’s head snapped toward Sam. “She’s a witness, for crissake. You know Bureau policy. What the hell were you thinking? And when I say thinking, I mean with that thing in your skull. Typical you, Sam. Screw it up now, clean it up later. Reynolds know yet?”

“Why, you gonna tell him?”

“Fuck you.” The shadow punched Sam in the arm. “You got a lot to learn about playing team. Partner.”

His last word was said with such acridity, I wondered that this was the voice on Sam's phone, the one he'd trusted to save our asses the night of the bombing. That’s also when I recognized the driver of my Land Cruiser: the rough voice, the sharp instructions to load me up fast, even if Sam had to throw me into the wheel well.

A short cough, then the man said, “I’m asking if you were dumb enough to confess.”

“’Course not. And Ramsey agreed to keep a lid on things. For now. At least she believes me. If not for those marks on Jules' neck, this wouldn’t look so, so… unforgivably bad.”

“You mean it wouldn’t look like rape.”

“Shhh!” Sam lowered his voice so it nearly disappeared. “That's not what I meant. Tell me you wiped the joint.”

“What the bomb left behind, firefighters mostly destroyed. But yeah, it’s clean. Like I need another partner convicted. What was left of your evidence bags went straight to Boss. The rest are in the Land Cruiser at your place. A pink negligee? Jesus, Sam. I assume you flushed the condoms. Your DNA’s in CODIS, moron.”

Sam blew out his breath, scrubbing furiously at the back of his head. I knew enough from watching television to understand that Sam's genetic code was in a federal database. I only wondered if mine was too.

“Boss will get the details in my report.” Sam cleared his throat. "Eventually. He's got a soft spot for me, so I think I've got leeway."

“Definitely a soft spot. I recall his last words were, ‘Keep that goddamn recruit out of trouble, so he doesn't blow the whole effing case.’"

Sam shook his head. "He really said 'effing'?"

The man huffed. "Your only credit, dumbass, is you got Troy off the street, but even that's a mess. You got a short leash, Sam, that just got shorter. Boss doesn’t like insubordination or incompetence. Neither does Reynolds. And neither do I.”

“Just keep running interference. Don’t need Boss crawling up my ass. Not here, not now. And why the hell would he bump Reynolds from handler to lead this late in the game?”

“You’re kidding, right.” The driver punched Sam’s arm again. “Thanks, Partner.”

“Got it.” Sam held his arm. Whatever he'd done to screw up, which I assume extended beyond seducing the witness, I didn’t like the sound of the consequences, and I already distrusted this Reynolds character. "Christ, I hate this,” said Sam, turning to face my direction. I almost called out to him with a hundred questions. "I'll sleep better when she's in the system."