[Chapter 52: Bolt]
Murphy kicked himself for letting Annie get such a head start. He steered Jake's cruiser up the narrow space between the buildings, stopping where the alley met the street, spotting her dark figure hurrying down to her car, which was parked a ways from the shop.
He waited impatiently for a gap in traffic. The permanently engraved image of her getting out of Beckman's car had sort of made him forget that she had her own car here, too. Following it through Southie was about the last option on his list, other than lingering here at the shop, but how was he going to convince her to hop on the bike with him, after everything that had just happened?
Turned out that little problem was about to solve itself. He drove up alongside as she was stepping off the curb. She scowled at him, saying something he couldn't hear over the rumble of the bike.
He did hear a horn honk, far behind him. Annie looked back, alarm registering on her face. He twisted to see what his side mirror wasn't showing him: the black Cadillac about half a block away. Its passenger window opened and Murphy caught a glimpse of familiar big ears as Nando zeroed in on them. He didn't wait to watch the barrel of an H&K appear.
He spun to shout at Annie, and felt her legs slide around him from behind.
"Go, go!" she shouted.
He gunned it, dodging around cars in a way Jake's cruiser was never designed to do. He cut right at the first alley he saw, hearing the car's brakes squeal a moment later, then its engine rev, coming up the street parallel. He cut right again, taking them back the same direction they'd come, feeling Annie's arms clutch tighter around him as a cluster of trash cans forced him into another sharp turn—almost too sharp with the extra weight-and jut back out to a surface street. Almost immediately they came to a red light. Murphy edged to the right, but even that option was blocked, thanks to a Coors delivery truck taking up half the street. Swearing, he put a foot to the ground for balance, knowing the rumble of the engine was like a homing beacon, calling those thugs closer with each passing second.
The afternoon sun glinted in his eyes as he scanned the surrounding cars. Annie leaned closer, pressing against his back.
"Left turn lane on the cross street," she said in his ear. "Two cars back."
Murphy saw it and swore again. In about ten seconds, that Caddy would have a green arrow, and the turn would bring it directly alongside the bike. He could try to shoot first, but it would be at least two guns and two tons of moving steel against him. He'd end up the center of another bloody, messy detour.
The driver's window rolled down, and a man wearing dark rectangular sunglasses stared at him. Murphy stared back, mentally running through his options, when the driver raised his thick eyebrows expectantly. For a split second the man was Rocco, telling him Go—get the fuck out of here!
Murphy saw the space between them with new eyes. The road was blocked by the beer truck, but the corner of sidewalk wasn't.
He twisted the wheel, pointing them toward the gap—and toward the Caddy.
Annie's grip got tighter.
"Murphy, what-"
"Hold on," he said, and gunned it.
They hit the low curb with a jolt, skipped over the sidewalk, and then dropped back down to the street to fly past the Caddy. One block, then two, then Murphy felt his teeth grind and realized he was still holding his breath for gunshots that hadn't come. Opting for speed over stealth, he opened the throttle, weaving between cars until another light finally forced them to slow.
Annie was nearly squeezing the air out of him. He tapped her interlocked hands and she relaxed, resting her head between his shoulder blades. Snaking through more alleys and smaller streets, he backed it off to a cruising speed, not having a specific destination in mind, just gaining as much distance as possible.
The sun was getting low. There hadn't been any signs that they were tailed, but it would still be smart to take a different route going back, which meant getting home that much later. He wondered if Connor had found Leah yet. His hands felt stiff with cold, his many battle wounds aching from the vibration of the road. The only warm spot on his body was where Annie was holding on to him. In that thin button-up shirt, she had to be feeling the cold even worse than he was. It seemed pretty silly now to be carrying Connor's peacoat around in the saddlebag when one of them could be wearing it. Especially since he would very much enjoy giving whoever was listening through that bug an undiluted 1500cc's in their ear.
Murphy slowed on a small back street that cut between industrial warehouses, stopping next to a pile of wooden pallets.
"Where are we?" Annie asked.
He looked around. The view was dirty and bleak, but in the distance, on a smoke-gray horizon, he could see the towering steeple of St. Augustine's cathedral.
"Safe, for now," he said.
He waited for her to get off, but she only fidgeted behind him. Then he heard the beep of cell phone buttons.
He twisted to look at her. "Who are you calling?"
"Jake," she said, groaning as she slid stiffly off the seat. "He probably thinks I'm dead."
Murphy swung off the bike. "If you were dead, they would've left your body. Hang up."
She was backing away from him, putting a hand to her free ear. "Uncle Jake...I can explain-"
"Damn it, Ann-"
"No, I'm not hurt. Please just…tell the cops it was self-defense." She met Murphy's eyes, backing up another step. "No, I was alone. I haven't seen him for a few days…Your bike?" She made a pained face. "Yeah, about that…"
Murphy put his hand next to hers on the phone. "Tell him he needs an alibi."
Annie waved him off. "Jake, there's a really good explanation-"
Murphy shook his head, holding up five fingers, and then lowering them one at a time, counting down.
"Your bike's fine," Annie hissed into the phone. "I'm so sorry about this. I'll call you!"
He took the phone from her and tossed it into the saddlebag.
"What the hell's your problem?" she demanded. "I told him it was only me."
"You think Jake's dumb enough to believe you could ride a fifteen-hundred pound hog all by yourself? You could barely move the kickstand."
"He deserved to know that I'm okay."
"Well, now he does," Murphy said. "Cops were probably there already, and if they didn't manage to trace it, you can bet they'll be looking for the bike. You could've at least told him about the black Caddy."
"Sorry," she said, throwing her hands up. "I'm not an expert at manipulating the police like you are."
Murphy looked at her warily. So she was ready to talk about the Saints now, was she?
"Could've fooled me," he said. "You did a pretty fine job fucking with Chestnut Hill patrols last night."
"I told you, Beckman made me go with him."
"Aye, you told me a lot of things." Which he would soon get to the bottom of, but not while they were out here.
He returned to the bike, taking out the gun in the back of his pants, which had shifted south with his movements.
"This pit stop's over," he said. "Time for us to get inside somewhere, and lose the bike."
He rubbed the spot where the gun had been pressing, reminding himself to strap on a holster when he got home.
He looked up to find Annie watching him. "Is this what happens when you go over the edge?" she asked. "Every person in your life becomes an enemy?"
"I don't know, Ann. You tell me."
"I have to prove myself to you now? When you're the one who's a…" She kicked a rock into an oily puddle, unable to say it. "I really don't know what else you want from me-that you didn't get already."
He felt warmth return to his face. He'd been entirely justified searching her back at the shop, and he wasn't about to apologize. Just thinking about that bug being hidden in her lipstick made him want to search her again.
"What you've given me doesn't add up," he said. "If Beckman was harassing you, why didn't you just tell Jake?"
"I was trying to keep Jake out of it, obviously. I thought I could reason with Josh myself."
Murphy scoffed. "You should've told me. I'd have reasoned with him."
"Right. With your fists, or your guns? You can't vigilante your way out of every problem, Murphy. He knew about the pennies I took—off Frankie and Vigoda. You're the only one I told, but somehow he knew."
"Woman, you found the bodies. You were there before the cops. He knows you have an unhealthy fixation with the Saints." She glared and he shrugged. "It's not supernatural. He guessed."
"Beckman doesn't guess."
"No, he uses. Every advantage, every weakness, every means available to get what he's after—which is me. You're the means, I'm the end. Sorry to burst your bubble, but you're nothing more than a pawn."
Her cheeks went from chilly pink to flaming red. It was obvious his words hurt, but she deserved to hear it. The part of him that felt guilty for it, he silenced with the deafening start of the engine.
He hooked a thumb at the seat behind him, telling her to get on.
Mouth hard and green eyes tearing up, she took a last look at her surroundings, as if hoping there were some other option she'd missed. He tapped the gas gauge, not wanting to see her expression when she accepted that it was him, or nothing.
She climbed on without another word.
He gunned it a little harder than necessary and steered them home through the narrow streets.
The cold air seemed to make everything sharper—his steering, his vision, even his chaotic thoughts about the woman holding on to him. She wasn't wearing a wire. She claimed to know nothing about the bug. She admitted being with Beckman on his stake-out, but said it was against her will. Was she his source, or wasn't she? What would it take to get the whole truth?
And how was he going to do this, exactly? He still needed to check his apartment for more bugs, which she may or may not have had a part in planting. If she tried to alert someone, or say some code word, like Connor had suggested, how could he prevent it, and still keep an eye on her, all the while keeping both of them safely out of sight? Every solution that came to mind included rope…
He tried to avoid stopping at lights when he could, cutting through alleys and parking lots whenever possible, partly so that they weren't a stationery target, and partly because Annie's hold on him was relaxing. The closer they got to his apartment, the more loosely she held on to him, to the point he half expected her to tumble into traffic. The moment he stopped under the fire escape below his unit, she was off, retreating into the shadows of the building.
They watched each other as he pushed the bike closer to the wall. It wasn't until he retrieved Connor's peacoat from the saddlebag that he noticed the gun in his pants was missing.
He rammed the peacoat under one arm, wishing he'd left her by that stack of pallets to fend for her damn self. Closing his eyes, he fought to keep his cool.
"I'm going upstairs," he said. "You coming?"
She brought her hands slowly from behind her back, holding the gun low, trying to look like she knew what she was doing.
"You can come or not," he said. "I can't guarantee we weren't followed, though, so watch your back. You've nine shots left. Careful of the recoil."
He turned and walked toward the building without looking back. Inside, he climbed the stairs slowly, waiting, listening. He reached his floor, hearing nothing but the neighbor's cat hissing at him from behind a closed door.
He leaned his forehead against his deserted front door, feeling it mocking him. Now what?
"If I come in, I get to keep this."
She'd followed him up without a sound. His guard snapped back up, balanced with a heavy dose of irritation. She hovered on the top step, her finger too close to the trigger. Time to throw her off her game.
"Annie," he said quietly, "Before this goes any further, there's something I should say."
He could almost feel her eyes narrowing. He bowed his head, taking a deep, conflicted breath. He waited until she began to walk cautiously towards him.
"At the shop," he said, "the way that all went down…it wasn't what I wanted."
She inched closer, studying him. There was a hissing as she passed his neighbor's door.
"Which part?" she asked suspiciously.
The image flashed in his mind and he banished it quickly. "You know which part. In Jake's room."
Her steely gaze faltered, her eyes flicking down to the gun in her hands. "Is that your idea of an apology?"
She was standing almost next to him now. Slowly, with the backs of his fingers, he brushed her hair back over her ear, which he was pleased to see had turned a bright shade of pink.
Heavy footfalls in the stairwell made them both pause. The steps climbed higher, then faded as the person exited into one of the lower floors.
Annie looked nervously up the hall, then at Murphy. "You can try again inside," she said softly.
He unlocked the door and gestured for her to go ahead of him.
Biting her lip, she lowered the barrel of the gun and stepped forward. As soon as her back was turned, he disarmed her, tossed the gun aside and locked a hand over her mouth, muffling a startled—and then furious—scream.
She bit hard on his finger. He swore, pinching the flesh of her cheeks against her teeth until she gave a muted squeak.
With his concentration on her mouth, she wriggled one arm free, yanking and straining against the arm he held her with, making his bullet wound burn.
He went for the ribs. It only took about twenty percent of his strength to make her gasp and collapse in submission. He kicked the door closed behind them.
"Now," he said very quietly, his mouth brushing her ear, "When I let go, you go sit on the couch, and you keep your goddamn mouth shut. Understand? You don't touch anything, you don't go anywhere, you don't say anything unless I say so."
She nodded. Slowly, he relaxed his hold on her.
Her leg jerked to kick at him, but he was ready this time. Lifting her off the ground, he swept his leg sideways, knocking her feet out from under her and dropping them both ungracefully to the ground. She landed with a pained wince.
"Done?" he asked.
Her lips fused together, she stared past him at the ceiling. He watched her, waiting, feeling her breaths coming short and fast beneath him. Finally she nodded. He got off her slowly, keeping clear of her knees and pausing every few inches, not trusting the fire still in her eyes.
A double-fisted punch caught him smack in the stomach. He grunted and she rolled sideways, reaching for the gun beside them on the carpet.
But he moved faster, knocking it away and tackling her face-down. She gave a sharp cry as he twisted both arms behind her, just high enough and hard enough to immobilize her.
"You sure don't learn, do you?"
His phone rang. Gripping her wrists easily with one hand, he sat straddling her back and answered. Connor told him about going to wait for Leah at a bar. They didn't know if she was planning to talk. Murphy reminded him his only job was to warn her about the bug. The rest was up to her.
"How's Annie?" Connor asked. "She still pissed?"
Murphy snorted. "Do plastic paddies drink green beer?"
"Sorry. Stupid question. Just let her simmer until I get back. We'll question her together. You can be the good cop this time."
Annie was beginning to squirm under him. "I don't think that'll be happening," Murphy said.
"You okay?"
"Yep." Murphy shifted his weight further down to her backside, locking her hips against the floor and stilling her movements.
"You know, just because we didn't find a wire on her, doesn't mean we were wrong about the bug. Don't let her get in your head."
"Oh, don't you worry about that."
"Remember, we're the good guys."
"That's what I keep telling myself. Con, I gotta go." He hung up and then leaned down, putting his lips to her ear.
"Kitchen. Crawl or I drag you."
She glared at him but complied, stumbling once, giving herself enough pain not to let it happen again.
He pulled the duffel off the counter as soon as he could reach it, the pounds of heavy metal hitting the floor jolting her upright onto her knees. Using his teeth, he ripped off a strip of medical tape as long as his arm.
"What the hell do you think you're-" One upward tug on her arms and her mouth snapped closed. He should have gone this route from the beginning.
He wrapped every last inch of the tape around her wrists, lacing it in a figure-eight pattern for good measure. Towards the end, he realized he'd taped over some of her burns from the autoclave, but then she muttered some particularly nasty insults and he found himself not caring nearly as much.
A gauze-roll gag was next, which she didn't take willingly, then more tape around her ankles, then her knees, too, just to make a point. Not trusting her not to scoot, bound and gagged, across the floor and get into some new kind of trouble, he dragged a chair into the center of the living room and dropped her in it, using another half a roll to secure her.
Her eyes never left him, and it took all he had not to say every last thing on his mind while he had, literally, a captive audience. Talking about anything important would have to wait until he confirmed no one else was listening.
He swept the apartment thoroughly and efficiently, checking under every lamp shade, table, bed, dresser, and chair, behind and on top of every curtain rod, picture frame, and cabinet. The place was dusty, but actually not as bad as he remembered it. Connor had probably straightened things up last night. Kind of pointless now, though it did make the sweep easier. In the bedroom, he tucked the few personal items they kept into the weapons duffel, suspecting that the regret of losing another temporary home was not too far on the horizon.
The only questionable objects his search turned up were a keychain, a cheap bottle opener, and a plastic chip clip. Each turned out to be nothing, when smashed under his boot on the linoleum. For some reason, the fruitlessness of the search didn't make him feel any better.
"I only want to ask this once," he said very quietly, returning to stand before her. "And if you lie to me, I swear to God I will leave your ass tied up here, and ride that Harley off into the fucking sunset alone."
She didn't move to acknowledge him. Her gaze was fixed on his arm, where he saw fresh blood had soaked through his sweater sleeve. Careful of her band-aid covered scrape, he reached out and lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes.
"Is Beckman still listening, or not?"
Her eyes darkened, telling him…absolutely nothing.
Slowly, making sure they were on exactly the same page, he pried the tape from her mouth. She coughed out the gauze gag, wiping her mouth on her shoulder.
"If I had to guess," she said, her voice shaking with anger, "I would say not, since he's been at the police station all morning, questioning my uncle."
Murphy had been steeling his self-control, prepared for another smart-ass retort. This was not what he'd expected.
"What?"
"I told you Jake had a good alibi. Beckman called him and Zeke back in about Frankie. They went together in Zeke's car, that's why his bike was still there."
Trying to process, he turned the TV on, flipping to a channel that was just static, hoping that if there was still a bug that he'd missed, the white noise might be enough to filter out their words if they spoke quietly.
"Why is Beckman working on Frankie's murder right now?"
Annie looked slightly offended. "It's still unsolved. What else should he be working on—the Saints? You are so damn full of yourself."
He took a seat on the coffee table next to her. Duffy's death and the subsequent media spin already had every cop in the city focused on the Saints. But was it focus, or distraction? He got the sick feeling that when he finally saw the whole picture, it was going to be too late.
She cleared her throat. "What happened to your arm?"
His injured flesh throbbed with the reminder.
"Got stabbed with a pen."
"Ha. Ha. I could help with that if you untie me-"
"I'll untie you when you give me a reason to trust you."
"How?" she cried. He knew he was being harsh, but the sudden shine in her eyes surprised him. "I get that you're pissed I went with him," she said, her voice shaking with something besides anger now. "The way you and I left things, after the last time I was here…"
Too late, he realized she was looking at the kitchen table. The memory hit him physically, as if it had just happened—her wet clothes, her smooth hands slipping around his bare waist, the soft heat of her mouth.
The moment stretched and he knew she was thinking of it, too. Very lightly, she kicked his boot with hers.
And just like that, he was back on that Dunkie's bench, watching those tall black boots step out of Beckman's car.
She swallowed. "I thought we were…well, I didn't think we were enemies."
He put his hands through his hair, turning from the sight of her bound in the chair. How did it get to this? It was like they were stuck in a revolving door, passing the same points over and over, and never getting anywhere.
He spotted Connor's rolled-up peacoat on the floor in the entryway. Weighing the decision for only a moment, he brought it over and lifted out the broken lipstick. Silently, he showed her the circuit board and battery, thinking he probably should have gagged her again to be safe, but it was too late now.
Her eyes widened. With his whole being, he found himself wanting to believe her shock was real. He rolled it back up quickly.
"The only way it could have gotten here is by falling out of your purse, Ann. Friends don't plant bugs in friends' apartments."
Her mouth dropped open. "You can't possibly think I orchestrated that whole…incident between us. Friends don't carry friends to their kitchen table and knock their purses off and then blame them for what falls out!"
"So you admit it."
"You kissed me!"
It was mutual, but that was beside the point.
"You just said it came from your purse."
She groaned. "If it did, it wasn't mine, I'm sorry. Boy, am I sorry. Sorry I walked in on you in that towel. Sorry I moved back to Boston. Sorry I ever offered Rocco that damn discount for his family and friends."
Hooking the legs of her chair, he dragged her closer, until her taped knees were tucked between his. He kept his eyes carefully averted, completely ignoring the curve of lace-wrapped flesh peeking from where he'd popped the button from her shirt.
"I want to know what happened on that stake-out," he said, entirely unaffected by the faint scent of peaches that made him want to pull her closer still. "Whose idea was it to screw with those patrol units?"
She seemed mildly embarrassed by the question. "Josh was hounding me for information, so I gave him some."
Murphy raised his eyebrows, encouraging her to continue, hoping they were finally getting somewhere.
"I realized that none of the other cops were supposed to know I was there. Beckman said he needed me as a witness-but he didn't want anyone to know. It felt…" She wriggled her shoulders awkwardly. "I freaked out. I had to get out of there. Bullshitting him was like waving a flag out a window."
"A lot of people aren't seeing it that way, Ann. Me and Connor aren't the only ones who think Beckman's dirty. People know he has a source, and if they find out it's you-"
"All I did was feed him bogus names! Ask Agent Smecker, or Duffy, or Dolly. They all heard me. I took a chance that Beckman wouldn't recognize them right off, but somebody should have."
"What did you just say?"
"I'm not going to apologize because this city's cops have the cultural education of sixth graders. I bet you've been to more art exhibits than all of them combined. Well, maybe not Smecker."
Murphy stared at her for a long moment. He didn't know what time he'd collapsed on that bench and watched Beckman drop her off, but it was becoming clear that their respective sleepless nights didn't stem from the same cause, at least not directly.
He picked up the remote and changed it to the news channel, a heaviness settling in his chest.
"They've worked next to these universities and museums their whole careers," she was saying. "You'd expect some knowledge to rub off on them."
"Hush." The intro was starting for the early-evening newscast.
"What?"
"Shut up and listen." Dark-haired news anchors smiled briefly, before referencing the clipped image of Mancini's towering mansion in the corner of the screen.
"Murphy, enough already. I know this kind of sick stuff doesn't bother you, but it bothers me. What I saw last night is something I'd very much like to forget."
"Watch," he ordered, "or I tape your fucking eyelids open."
"It's in Spanish!"
"No es un problema para ti."
He cranked the volume, and then lasted about five seconds before going to the kitchen for a cigarette and a beer. But he could only escape the screen, not the sound.
Dolly and Greenly had been right this morning—the news last night was a birthday party compared to today. The Saints were implicated with what seemed like every recent homicide in the state. Regina's nearly nude body and Seamus's shocking boxed delivery cast it all in an even uglier light.
He could hear the Latino newscasters speculating about the Saints, pronouncing the word with so much irony, they might have been using air quotes. They've gone too far, was the general consensus.
Suddenly it felt damning to be hiding like this. He wasn't ashamed of the wicked lives he'd ended, of the good he'd done. But God help him if she started to believe the stuff they were broadcasting.
He stepped quietly out of the kitchen in time to catch the coup de ta-that gorgeous portrait of Duffy in his dress blues. He really had been a good-looking motherfucker. Raising his beer bottle privately, he toasted his friend, and then had a hell of a time swallowing it down.
The story moved on to Chestnut Hill. He crushed out his smoke, watching Annie from behind, feeling he ought to give her a moment to absorb it all. At the end of the report, there was something new— a hotline number to call with information, and an artist's sketch of the driver who'd abandoned the SUV. This must be the picture Seamus had been talking about.
Murphy crossed the room, studying it quickly before the screen cut back to the news anchor. The man in the sketch was overweight, balding, with a round chin and a wide nose. Not the slightest bit like Seamus. But there was something very familiar about the style of the shading, the angle of the lighting on the face, the subtle fade to crosshatching in the background.
"That looked like your drawing." He didn't know what he felt, but it swirled like a hurricane inside of him. "Annie, was that your drawing?"
She was leaning forward slightly, her head bowed, and she was crying. With her hands bound behind her, she couldn't even wipe the mascara-tears off her face.
He broke. He started to pull out his knife, but then spotted a strange pair of bent blade scissors on the carpet by the TV. After checking them quickly for a transmitter, he came quietly behind her and used them to free her hands.
She gasped, clutching her wrists. Kneeling before her, he cut the tape on her knees and ankles, tearing every last piece from the fabric and crushing it into a ball, until a soft hand touched his cheek and he froze.
"I'm sorry," he said, fighting past the roughness in his voice. "I figured Beckman would have told you."
Her fingers smoothed over the small scabs where chips of Mancini's concrete roof had struck his cheekbone, and then lifted to skim the healing cut at his hairline where she'd taken out that blue glass. Gently, so gently, her thumb slid over the swollen cut on his lip.
He wanted to close his eyes, wanted to turn his face into her palm, but the news was still on, reports of violence and destruction dissolving this peace, though he fought hard to block it out.
She still hadn't spoken. Something brushed his nose, and he saw that it was tape, still stuck on her wrists. He caught her hand, wanting to remove the tape himself, but then she pulled both wrists back protectively, and with a slam of guilt, he remembered her burns.
"Come on," he said, pulling her to her feet. "There's an easier way."
He took her into the bathroom, and with soap and water began to carefully work the tape off of her reddened skin. It wasn't a quick process.
She let him do it all without complaint or comment. Minutes passed and he found himself marveling that a bathroom this small could hold two people plus such an enormous invisible elephant.
"You saw Seamus driving," he said when he couldn't take it anymore, "but that wasn't him in your sketch. Who was it?"
She shifted to lean against the toilet tank. "No one. Sort of a hodge-podge of James Gandolfini and Jack Black, with a little Vin Diesel."
He stopped washing to look at her. Her green eyes were rimmed with red, and she gave a sheepish shrug.
"It was three o'clock in the morning, and I was tired of being a pawn."
His earlier words to her, however true, echoed sharply in his mind.
He pulled a bit too hard on the tape and she flinched, taking the soap from him and lathering it herself.
"It was stupid. I was stupid, thinking Beckman was the worst of my problems."
"No, you knew what Seamus's face on the news would mean. You didn't want a good man's death on your hands. It was—I don't even have a word for it. It wasn't stupid."
She gave him a tiny smile.
He needed to tell her. She shouldn't have to ask.
He cleared his throat. "Smecker and Duffy weren't supposed to be on that roof. Con and I didn't find out until later, when we got a phone call."
She nodded, carefully rinsing her wrist under the faucet. "Beckman got a phone call, too. He didn't bother to share, but now I understand why he got so intense. He wouldn't leave until I made the sketch."
Suddenly that lingering light in her upstairs room tried to take on a whole new meaning. He knew he should ask her—just mention it. Clear things up in his head.
Instead he handed her a towel. "Beckman's taken your sketch and spun the whole thing around, getting the media to rally behind him. The truth is, that stake-out kept everyone busy who could have been backing up Smecker and Duffy."
"But…" she looked doubtful as she blotted her arms dry. "Seamus and that SUV were your doing, weren't they, to distract from your business with Mancini? I mean, no offense, but wasn't it your plan to keep the cops busy?"
He wasn't sure why his face got hot. It was Beckman who had screwed everything up. "It was our plan to keep everyone away from that roof. Mancini was supposed to be alone with his girlfriend, but he was tipped off by someone who knew the Saints were coming." She still looked doubtful. "Christ, do you think it was my plan to face off a dozen machine guns?"
"Is that how that happened?"
Her gaze fell on his bloody sleeve. "That happened because you clawed me, like a girl."
"Hello, you attacked me."
"You took my gun. What did you expect?"
She grabbed his hand before he could back away from his turn under the faucet. Carefully, she pushed his sleeve up over the bandage.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked. "I'm not stocking smelling salts these days."
She rolled her eyes and stopped being so gentle.
"No one knew our plan," he said. "Whoever tipped off Mancini had to have heard Con and me on the bug, talking here at home."
"You're thinking Beckman."
"I am. Either as the mole, or the Associate himself. Maybe they're one and the same."
"But where's your proof that he tipped Mancini off? If it's his bug, it only means he guessed—correctly—that you might be a couple of guys that a cop should keep tabs on."
"Christ, Ann. Whose side are you on?"
She threw away the blood-soaked gauze. "I'm asking questions that you should be asking yourself, because I don't want to see you cross a line that you can't come back from. I hate the guy, but—what if you're wrong?"
Did she mean to say that, in her eyes, he hadn't crossed that line already?
"I don't take any of this lightly," he said. "I'm not asking for approval, but I do hope you believe that."
"Are you sure you don't just want it to be Beckman, so that he's the bad guy, and you're not?"
"Aye," he said dryly. "Are you sure you don't want him to be good, just to know you haven't been consorting with—ow, Jesus, I need that blood, woman."
"Stop fidgeting." She took a sudden, very deep breath and turned her head towards the shower. "Oh, god—your blood."
"I can do this myself," he offered.
"When you said you didn't tell anyone about the pennies I took, what you really meant was you told Connor, but no one else. Right?"
"Aye, I suppose."
She sat down on the toilet lid and tried to breathe evenly. "Were you in the dining room when you told him?"
"Jesus. I think I was."
She bent forward, putting her head down. "It is Beckman's bug. I think that sneaky bastard stole the pen from my purse—the one with..."
"My blood on it? You kept that thing in your purse?"
"It was in a baggie."
"Not cool."
"I didn't know it was yours! I thought I was helping catch the Saints…."
He raised his brows, which she managed to see from between her knees.
"I'm so sorry, Murphy. He must have stuck the lipstick bug in there at the same time."
He shook his head, a small fire igniting inside him, like a pilot light next to a tanker truck.
"It's his doing, not yours." Murphy swept his wound under the flowing faucet, gritting his teeth.
In a very small voice, she said, "I can understand why you didn't think so." Slowly, she blew out a breath, adding, "Wash that with soap. It's going to get infected."
Only Annie could be bossy while trying not to pass out. "It's fine," he said. "The skin's not too red, and underneath it's still oozing clear, not white—here, take a look."
She gave him the finger and turned her head away.
He chuckled. "Darlin', don't hate me for saying this, but you may want to give your medical career some second thought."
"I know," she groaned. "I am literally the worst paramedic I know. Don't tell anyone, but I was actually relieved when Leah got me suspended. Even though it was still a bitchy thing to do." She sat up partially, resting her head in her hands. "I saw her and Ortie on the news, with Duffy. This must be killing her."
She was quiet for a long moment. Murphy found himself some fresh bandages. The TV was still on in the other room, loud enough that he didn't hear her sniffing until he got back to the bathroom. Who would have guessed she had actual concern for her old partner?
"Is that why Connor went to see her?" she asked.
"It's why she ended up here with him last night."
She turned, her glistening eyes lighting up.
Murphy said, "It's not as thrilling as it sounds."
"Not for you. Did you sleep with a pillow over your ears?"
"I wasn't here."
"Oh."
She did not ask where he'd spent the night, and he did not volunteer it.
"If Beckman's been hearing all this, why hasn't he come to arrest you by now?" she wondered.
"I don't think he's planning to arrest us. I think he's planning on handling this the same way he handled Scuderi. In fact, I think that's what he was trying to do last night in Bay Village."
"All his problems, dead at the scene."
"And we would have been, if not for...someone looking out for us." He offered her his good hand. "It's safe now, I've wrapped it up."
She met his eyes, and he saw something reflected in them that was dark and deep and hard to contain.
"You have to use it," she said. "This window. You know about the bug now, but he doesn't know you do. Use it—confront him. And find out exactly what he needs to pay for."
"What do you have in mind?"
"A carrot on a stick. Let him overhear some time and place that the Saints will be, doing something irresistibly unlawful, and then wait for him to show up to catch you." She smiled, still half-ashamed as she took his hand, bracing her hand on the wall for a moment before heading back out into the living room. "What? What is that look? Did this really not occur to you?"
"O' course it did. It'd have to be damn convincing, though. And that's if the thing's even still working. Con cracked it pretty hard when he stepped on it."
He fetched the peacoat from where he'd left it by the chair, stopping to check out the window for signs of mafiosos before bringing it back to the table. There wasn't a black sedan in sight, but this was a limited angle. He really should check the view from the fire escape in his bedroom. If the thugs had any intel pointing them to this building, or even this block, it was only a matter of time before they saw the Harley.
"Does Leah know?" Annie asked. He turned from the window to see her leaning against the table, waiting for him. That Table Memory hit him again, and it took him a moment to remember she'd asked him a question.
"She does now," he said.
"And?"
"And she bolted."
"Do you blame her?"
He joined her at the table, wondering who they were really talking about here.
"Not really." He started to unwrap the coat, then stopped, knowing she wasn't going to quit asking until he really answered her. "It's complicated," he said. "Actually, no, it's not. Nobody likes being lied to. Con's out to find her at some bar, to warn her about the bug. Apparently their conversation wasn't meant to be overheard."
"Find her, or meet her?"
"Find her. She won't take his calls, but your friend Ortie let spill she's meeting somebody at this martini place by the waterfront. Con's going to intercept. Kinda wish I was there to see it, to tell you the truth."
Annie was staring at him. "Martini place, by the waterfront. Not the Blue Heron?"
"You know the place?"
"That's the same place Beckman took me, when he tried to get me drunk so I'd spill my guts. Who is Leah supposed to be meeting there?"
"No idea. Con didn't think she knew either. Said she called some office to set it up." His head spun. "If it's Beckman, and he's dirty, and he heard about her father-"
"And if Connor's there, he could arrest him."
"Well, he could try."
"You need to call him."
Murphy took out his phone and saw the clock on the screen. "No time. Con still needs to see Leah. What we need to do is give Beckman a reason to be somewhere else."
He took the coat, ready to unwrap it. Annie darted to the living room, turned up the TV volume, then darted back.
"The bug's been quiet for a while," she explained. "You want to make sure he knows it's still working—hopefully it still is. No point putting on a show if nobody's listening." She pulled up a chair next to him. "Okay, so here's the plan: the Saints found a source who's going to rat to them about the Associate. This gives Beckman double the motivation—one, to catch the Saints, and two, to eliminate this rat that might give him away."
Murphy felt his mouth open, but she wasn't stopping to breathe.
"It would work better with you and Connor talking, of course, but since you've just got me, let's play it so I'm trying to talk you out of it, and you're convincing me. Guess that's a third motivation," she added, somewhat bitterly. "Beckman can finally connect me, and bring me down with you. What? Why do you keep looking at me like that?"
"Nothing. You're just…you're like one of those kids who can play piano while they're still in diapers."
"A savant?"
"Aye. It's a little scary."
She blushed, which was more sexy than scary—but maybe that was just the table talking.
"Let's do this."
She wanted to rehearse it first, but Murphy knew there was no time. After some initial awkwardness, they both slipped into their roles in the impromptu dialogue, and Murphy found that his motivation didn't feel the least bit contrived. Annie, too, seemed fully invested in her concern for him. When she thought they'd planted enough seeds, she got up, still talking, gesturing for Murphy to follow her out of the room and down the hall. They went into his room and closed the door.
She did a little victory dance. "That was so good!" she said in a stage whisper. "You seriously gave me chills out there. It was really hard to keep arguing and not just jump on board with you."
"You put on a damn good show yourself."
She raised her hand for a high-five. He put his hand against hers softly, and with the other, pulled her against him. Her head tilted up in surprise, and his lips came down on hers, his hand moving to fist in her hair. God, how long had he wanted this? It felt like decades, centuries. He touched her lower lip with his tongue, and felt her moan softly into his mouth. She rose up on her toes and he crushed her to him, the taste and feel of her, mixed with that faint scent of peaches making his pulse throb until it spread through his whole body.
Her hand was resting on his chest, right over his pounding heart. It had started to slid upward, around his neck, when the faint sound of male voices carried up through the barely-opened window.
Annie gasped, pushing him away.
Murphy crossed quickly to the window, dropping to crouch with his back to the wall, trying to listen without being seen.
"Stay here with the bike," a thick voice said. "You, take the front door. You, the west side. You, come with me. They're not getting away this time."
Annie's eyes went wide.
...
A/N: Another cliffie! But you guys probably expect them by now. Sorry, they're too hard to resist…like that kiss, eh? That one took me by surprise—it was not actually planned. What did you think?
