The Drowning Man (20 page)

And she knew. Pops was gone. “No,” she managed to get out. “Tell me he's okay.”

Woods shook his head again as he stood. “I'm so sorry, Tate.”

“No,” she repeated, because it was the only thing she could say. Then Woods’ strong hand was on her waist, leading her towards the back door and outside.

As soon as they were alone, she turned to him, the unanswered question hanging between them.

Woods cleared his throat. “The housekeeper found him this morning. When he didn't come down for breakfast, she went up to his room.” He put up a hand to stop Lora from saying anything. “There is
no
evidence of foul play. He was in his favorite chair. There was an empty bottle of scotch on the floor. His BAC was pretty high. It looks like he passed out and just stopped breathing.”

A bitter gust of wind cut through the layer of numbness that had descended upon her. Lora shook her head. “Not possible. He didn't get drunk. He drank, but he didn't get drunk.”

“An autopsy will be performed if that's what you want, but by all indications, it looks like a natural death.”

“I hope you're right,” she said softly. The only thing keeping her body from collapsing to the pavement was the steely resolve that if someone had murdered the one person in this world that had always been there for her, she would find them and put them in the ground.

“Let me drive you,” Woods said.

“No. I need to do this on my own,” she said, turning her back on her partner's sympathetic gaze.

Not remembering the drive there, Lora was out of her car in the hospital parking lot before she had time to let her mind wander. She flashed her badge at the receptionist as she walked by the front desk and pushed open the door that would take her to the basement level where the morgue was located.

It wasn't her first time there, far from it. She used the familiarity, the cold silent grayness of her surroundings to keep her distance from the emotions swirling inside her.
Stay detached. Treat it like any other case.

“Detective Tatum,” the somber faced attendant said, walking down the hall towards her. “This way please.” He gestured at the second door on the left.

She'd seen the attendant on numerous occasions.
Why couldn't she remember his name?

He opened the door for her, then hurried around her to the body that lay on the gurney covered with a crisp white sheet. He stood, silent and still, waiting.

Lora nodded and he slowly pulled back the sheet.

It took every ounce of control she possessed to keep herself calm at the sight of Pops' still body and closed eyes.

“That's him,” she said, spinning around and heading for the door on wobbly legs.

The attendant called after her, his voice echoing down the cinder block hallway. She didn’t stop.

She went straight from the morgue to the gym and spent a long time beating the shit out of a punching bag. Exhausted and barely holding it together, she walked back to her building and took the stairs to her condo two at a time, enjoying the sharp ache in her overworked muscles.

Using more force than was necessary, she jerked open the stairwell door. And found Trent sitting on the floor in front of her condo. He put down the runners magazine he was reading and stood as she approached. The look in his eyes told her he knew what had happened.

“Justice call you?” she asked, digging her keys out of her purse, looking anywhere but at him.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him nod. “I wish you would have, though,” he said.

“Trent, I'm fine. Really.”

He looked at her, his eyes burning with intensity, his body blocking her way inside. “No, you're not,” he said. “And that's okay. You don't have to be strong all the time, Lora.”

“Trent, I …” was all she managed to get out before her throat stopped working.

Trent reached for her, pulling her close. In the safe comfort of his arms, she finally let down her guard, letting him support her weight. But she didn't cry.

Late that night, Trent held her as she slept. As his fingers gently stroked her hair, he marveled at how the simple act of holding her close could make him feel so damned good. He didn't want to move, didn't want to wake her. The moment was too fragile.

While outside the small country chapel a media circus was in full swing, the candlelit interior remained quiet and intimate. But Lora was still alone among the shadowy sea of dark clad mourners who surrounded her, and for that she was grateful. She wouldn't have been able to stand having Justice or Trent near, couldn't stand for them to see her weak and hurting. It was better this way. Easier.

She looked around the one room chapel, studying each colorful flower that covered most of the surfaces, inhaling their delicate aroma. Her grandfather had loved this tiny church. He'd grown up four miles from here. He'd gone to Sunday school, been married, buried friends and family, and prayed in this exact spot. It was fitting that his life ended here.

His final wishes had been simple. A short memorial service, then his ashes buried at the 50-yard line of his beloved football team.

The reverend was speaking, but the words only half registered. It took all of her focus to sit silent and unmoving in the hard uncomfortable pew. She could endure this, she just had to hold it together a little while longer. She focused on her breath, counting each painful inhale and exhale.

When the service finally ended, she kept her head low as she walked down the aisle and ducked out the side door, not up to making conversation. The last thing she needed was to hear a perfect stranger tell her how much her grandfather would be missed. She was all too aware of that fact.

Locked safely in her car, Lora congratulated herself on making it through one of the worst events of her life. Now it was time to put the feelings aside and move on. That was what Pops would want. The thought made her want to weep. She swallowed it down. Tears wouldn't change a damned thing.

A sudden wave of exhaustion hit hard, leaving her feeling shaky and empty. It would be so easy to drive over to Trent's apartment, let him take her in his strong arms and hold her. But the relief would be temporary. And she knew what had to be done.

She had to prevent another tragedy.

She had to stop Simon Hewett.

It had been two days since Lora had called him. Trent had offered to go to her grandfather's funeral with her, but she'd refused. And he hadn't heard from her since that very brief phone call. He should have gone anyway, to pay his respects. He hadn't known Drayton Nabors well, but he had liked and respected the man.

It shouldn't be a big deal, Trent thought. But, damn, he missed her. She'd gotten to him like no other woman had. No one had even come close. Was she ashamed of him seeing her weak and in pain?

Not possible. Lora had seen him in far worse shape. Of course, there was another possibility. That she was tracking Simon and leaving him out of it. He'd seen it in her eyes in the police station after he'd found the aquarium. She was hiding something from him. If it
was
something to do with Simon, Trent was not about sit around doing nothing while she risked her life going after that son of a bitch alone. Screw that. He had more at stake in this than anyone else.

He didn't call first, just grabbed his keys off the kitchen counter. He drove straight to her condo, running three yellow lights and two red, swerving around whoever was in his way with no regard whatsoever for the speed limits.

He stood outside Lora's front door, waiting for her to open it. He knew she was inside, had heard her soft footsteps approach the door, then pause while she looked out through the peephole. The seconds stretched on. He hadn't heard her back away. She was still there, just on the other side of the door, but she felt so much farther away.

At last, the door opened, one inch at a time.

She wore an old faded sweatshirt and a pair of workout shorts. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail. She swiped at the strands that had escaped as she stood in front of the mess on the living room floor, but it was too late. Trent had seen enough of the folders with the Kansas City police seal on top and newspaper clippings to confirm his suspicion.

“Busted,” she said quietly, not looking at him.

Trent stepped around her and bent down to sift through the pages and files scattered on the floor. There were recent newspaper articles as well as copies of older ones accompanied by faxed notes from the Las Vegas police department about a man that matched Simon's description being wanted in connection with several murders and other mob related crimes.

Seeing the little known facts about the man he knew only as Simon Hewett in black and white accompanied by a few grainy pictures was enough to send a whole wave of emotions crashing down on him.

He stood, facing away from her, staring out the window at the dark Missouri River, trying to face down his own equally dark thoughts.

Lora put a firm hand on his back. “I'm sorry, Trent,” she said.

He whirled around to face her. “Do
not
shut me out of this. I know this man better than you do. I can help.”

“This is a KCPD matter.”

“Oh really? Because if you're doing this here at your house, I have to wonder how much the department is actually doing,” Trent shot back.

She looked down at the documents on the floor. “It's complicated.”

“Bullshit. Does your partner even know you're doing this?”

“Look, Trent, it's not a priority case right now, but I'm-”

He cut her off. “Well, it's sure as hell a priority for me.”

“It is for me too.”

The intensity in her voice matched his. So did the look in her bloodshot eyes, and he wondered how long it had been since she'd slept. He hated the tired drawn look on her face, ached to make it go away, to see that rare smile of hers. “Lora,” he said, his voice softening.

“I'll go make some more coffee, and let's do this,” she said, turning towards the kitchen.

Trent reached out and grabbed her hand, jerking her body back towards him. At first she stiffened, then she put an arm around his neck and pressed her lips hard against his, kissing him as if both of their lives depended on it.

He could taste the coffee on her breath and groaned as she opened her mouth to him, her body softening in his arms as he hardened. My God, he
needed
this woman.

Lora arched up against him until they couldn't get any closer. Trent felt an overwhelming sense of protectiveness and tenderness that forced him to soften the kiss just enough for him to get control of his body. He took a half-step back, lowered his forehead to hers, and caressed her cheek. “When this is over, you and I are going to take a nice long vacation together.”

She gave him a gentle kiss on the lips. “Then let's get started.”

Trent sat cross-legged on the floor, a notebook on his lap, as he sorted through the pages. He stopped when he saw a newspaper article buried beneath one of the piles.

The headline was followed by a statement from the Chief's general manager, quotes from several of the star players, and one from the investigating officer saying Drayton Nabors passing had been a natural death.

He understood her keeping the article, but why was it here with all of her other investigation documents? He closed his eyes, absorbing the implications of what he was thinking. No. It wasn't possible.

Trent looked at Lora. “You don't think …” his voice trailed off as he studied her face and he felt sick. The next instant he was on his feet. “Son of a
bitch
. I'm going to kill him myself.”

Lora jumped to her feet and took a step towards him, her eyes dark and determined. “We do this right or we don't do it at all.”

He ran a hand down his face, took a deep breath. “All right.”

“We don't know anything for sure yet,” she said.

Trent searched her face for a long moment, then nodded and settled back down on the floor.

At four a.m., unable to keep their eyes open any longer, they collapsed onto the couch, their arms wrapped around each other, and slept for three hours until the alarm on Trent's cell phone went off. Lora didn't have to wonder how he'd make it through his shift on such little sleep. In their professions, sleep was too often a luxury.

Lora dozed for another hour after he left, then brewed a fresh pot of coffee. She had an hour and a half before she had to be at the station and she wanted to take another look at their notes from last night.

Guilt from not telling him about the note slipped under her door ate at her.

And she'd never say anything to him, not without proof, but she had to wonder about the deaths of Amy and Peter Tran. Especially now. Simon was still around. Somewhere. And he had to be stopped. That part though, she would investigate on her own.

She reached under the couch, retrieving the few documents she'd managed to hide before she'd answered the door. She hoped to God Trent would never have to know about her suspicions. But even without seeing her notes, he just might figure it out.

Trent was good, too good. He was very intuitive, and yes, probably came closer to understanding how Simon thought than anyone. But the bottom line was, he wasn't a cop. He wasn't paid to risk his life bringing down guys like Simon Hewett any more than she was to risk her life saving people from a burning building. Trent had suffered enough at this man's hands. No more. It was time for it to end.

No matter how hard it was, she was going to have to stay away from Trent to keep him safe.

It was the only way. She couldn't be around him and stay objective. It came down to two choices: follow her heart and continue to see him, or follow her head and devote every waking moment to stopping Simon so Trent could have a real future.

She wasn't naïve enough to think she'd be guaranteed a part of that future. The important thing was that he
have
a future.

Trent had barely drifted off to sleep between fire calls when his cell phone went off, jerking him awake. He sat up in his bunk and rubbed his gritty eyes, then looked at the screen on his phone. Nate.