Bloodshade Page 3

  My eyes widened. Estrada was always professional. He respected space and was always positioned at least a foot, but usually more, away from whoever he was talking to. His eyes were on my neck, and for a moment, I thought he was actually going to kiss me. My throat. One of the two. I had yet to prove vampires existed but the way Perry worked, I definitely would not be surprised.

  “You got clipped,” he stated. His voice was low, a husky whisper. His eyes were hard and knowing. “Right there, at the end of your ear. It’s clotting. Looks clean.”

  “Yeah, well, I cleaned it, disinfected it.” I had never been a good liar. I could write, no problem. I was probably one of the best journalists this paper had, but I couldn’t lie to save my life—literally, it would seem. Estrada was a good detective. He could sniff out a liar a mile away. I hoped he didn’t see me as that—a liar. But I had to protect Jon at all costs.

  “Usually,” Estrada continued, shifting his weight and crossing his arms over his chest. “When you run the way you ran—for your life, presumptively—adrenaline pumps through your body and causes you to minimize any pain you might have felt when it happened. Getting clipped in your earlobe wouldn’t be noticed. It almost seems as though you had someone with you, Ms. Tucker. Either that, or you have a guardian angel who’s packing.”

  “Look,” I said. He took a step back and I felt myself suddenly regaining my ability to breathe. “I already told you I have no idea who killed those two men. I saw my bloody shirt and that’s how I found out about my ear being hit by a bullet. I have a first-aid kit in my bottom drawer.”

  “Just in case?” He raised his eyebrows, giving me a doubtful look.

  I shrugged my shoulders. What more did he want me to say?

  “Do you know if the building has security cameras?” Estrada asked, looking around the floor of the building, trying to see if he could spot any hanging from the ceiling.

  “I don’t,” I said curtly.

  That was a lie. Some floors did, some didn’t. This floor actually did have security cameras because there had been instances where journalists had been threatened before. It was before my time but the measures lasted even today. The offices were all bulletproof and this floor along with the mail room floor had security cameras. I hoped Jon had the wherewithal to disable them before stepping into the main area of the sixth floor.

  Estrada smiled when I said that. I couldn’t help but have my gaze linger for a few seconds. The man was gorgeous, even if he was an asshole.

  “You see, there,” he said, placing his hands on his hips as he continued to look at me with amusement twinkling in his eyes. “I don’t believe you. I think you know who saved you from those men. I think it’s the same person who helped with your ear. And I think you know there are security cameras on this floor because we saw that they were conveniently shut off right after the men were shot. Of course, the shooter was off screen, as though he knew where the cameras were and how to position himself so they were out of the shot.” He grabbed his notebook from his pocket, along with his pen, and clicked it so he could write. “Why were those men chasing after you, Ms. Tucker?”

  I scoffed and couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “What happened to the one more question and then I was free to go?” I asked.

  “We both know there was never going to be just one question,” Estrada said. “So, you don’t know why two men, identified as two bodyguards for Mayor Guzman, would be after you? Guns were found on them, and based on your ear and gunpowder residue on their hands, they did fire at you. You wouldn’t have gone snooping around where you shouldn’t be, would you?” He raised his eyebrows once again, giving her a long look.

  “If you think you know the answer, why do you even bother to ask me?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest.

  He shrugged. “I always want to give you the chance to admit your mistake and to get on the right team,” he said. He grinned, his eyes twinkling and his whole face lighting up. “I’ll get you eventually, Hawkins. You’re a good person deep down.”

  “I go after the truth, Estrada,” I said. “That’s my job. It’s yours too. We should be on the same team but it’s hard to work together if you don’t like what the truth is.”

  “And you have to abide by the rules in order to get to the bottom of things,” Estrada countered. “You don’t get to do things your way because you think you’re right.”

  Now it was my turn to shrug. “In my defense, I am usually right,” I said.

  He smiled despite himself.

  I waited until the last couple of officers trickled out of my office before I turned to Estrada.

  “To answer your question, because I trust you, because you are one of the last few cops who aren’t corrupt and aren’t working to increase his bottom line, I’ll tell you,” I said. Because I did trust him, and maybe if he heard it from me, he might do some of his own investigation. “We both know Mayor Guzman is a corrupt piece of shit and the only reason she’s holding office is because she works with both the cartels and the Irish mobs.”

  “Well then.” Estrada cleared his throat. “That was honest. But that doesn’t explain why her men were chasing you.”

  “I can’t just call her a corrupt, lying piece of shit without proof, Estrada,” I said. “Come on. Even you know that.”

  “We can’t make baseless accusations, Lara,” he said, throwing his arms out and pacing up and down the expense of my office. “I need evidence before I can do anything.”

  “What do you think I was doing?” I asked.

  “Actually, you probably shouldn’t tell me what you were doing because it’s probably illegal, let’s be honest,” Estrada said, throwing his hand up in the air. “Look. My advice? Keep your head down and your mouth shut. You’re getting into things that don’t involve you for a reason. Do I need to go into the whole speech about don’t leave town, blah, blah, blah?”

  I gave him a long look. “You’re a good cop,” I told him.

  “I’m a good cop because I keep my head down and my mouth shut,” he said, cutting me off before I could finish. “I do my job and that’s all I worry about. I don’t get into anyone else’s business.”

  “And if it was done right in front of your eyes?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest. I leaned against the side of my desk, my feet screaming at me for a break. “What would you do then? Would you continue to keep your head down and your mouth shut?”

  Estrada narrowed his eyes at the assumption. Good. He needed to realize that doing a good job didn’t mean he was doing the right job.

  “You know I wouldn’t, Tucker,” he said, his voice low. A warning.

  He was upset that I would even question that, but what did he expect? Estrada wasn’t a stupid man. I knew without a doubt that he knew about Guzman, how her entire campaign was funded with dirty money, how prosecutors couldn’t convict known cartel members or mafia men, because evidence suddenly went missing and witnesses turned up dead. And somehow, the cops couldn’t do anything about it. Nobody was arrested or punished except a few low-hanging fruit from a tall tree, and those that were arrested, their family suddenly came into a good deal of money.

  I said nothing. Instead, I continued to look at him.

  “I’ll have one of the officers take you to your place,” Estrada finally said, pulling his eyes away from me and looking at the floor. “Is there anything else you need to tell me? Anything you might have? Anything I can actually help you with?” His eyes found mine and while I would never say Isaac Estrada pleaded ever, they had a glimmer of hope that maybe I would tell him something he could use.

  I trusted Estrada. I did. But I didn’t have evidence I needed to turn over to Estrada. Once I had it, I would give it to him and he could finally officially open an investigation. Until then, I had to bite my tongue and keep my head down—just like he said. But I wouldn’t stop learning.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “Not yet, anyway.”

  He nodded his head, disappointment evident on his
face. Estrada turned and headed to the door. I heard him shout something outside my office and an officer—a baby—jogged up in full gear.

  “You’ll be taking Ms. Tucker home tonight,” Estrada told him. “Stay twenty minutes, make sure she gets in and settles down.”

  He nodded. “Sir.” He turned to me and gave me his charming, professional smile. He probably had no idea who I was and how much I annoyed the police force on a daily basis.

  Estrada looked at me once more. “Before I let you go, did the paramedics check out your feet? And don’t lie.” He glanced at my feet. “Don’t answer that. If they had, you’d be bandages up.” He looked at the officer. “Can you radio the medics? I think they’re still out there. She needs to be checked out.”

  Half hour later, I was finally given permission to leave. I had bandages wrapped around both feet and I was given orders not to walk for the next couple of days. I nearly rolled my eyes because I knew I’d be in the office tomorrow—I guess technically this morning—in flats, ready to get started on my next plan of attack since the evidence against Guzman I was supposed to acquire tonight had not panned out the way I anticipated.

  The officer seemed just like Estrada—professional and polite but direct. There was no small talk in the ten-minute drive back to my apartment in West Point. There were fewer cars on the street at this time. West Point was known for being middle class. As someone who lived by herself, the majority of my check went to paying my rent, but I had a doorman and extra security measures that prevented people who had no business at the building from simply walking in. It was also in a relatively safe area, with the majority of crimes being white collar, with some burglary. It was rare for violent crime to occur here and when it did, it was big news.

  When he pulled up, Taylor Grimes, a middle-aged man in a green coat and black top hat, immediately opened the door to my building. He recognized me—possibly from the fact that this wasn’t the first time I was dropped off in a police car. Thankfully, the EMT hooked me up with those wrap-on slippers patients usually got visiting the hospital. The adrenaline had completely disappeared from my body so everything hurt. It was difficult for me to walk to the door, even with Rodriguez assisting me.

  “Same old?” Taylor asked, his periwinkle eyes twinkling with amusement.

  “You know it,” I managed to get out. “I lost my favorite pair of high heels tonight, Taylor.” I turned to the Rodriguez and offering him a smile. “Thank you. For everything.”

  “Take care, ma’am,” he said.

  I almost balked. I wasn’t used to being called ma’am at twenty-eight years old but I knew he was just trying to be polite. I limped across the smooth golden tile and pressed the elevator button.

  “There’s always tomorrow,” Taylor pointed out. “You could always find a new pair of favorite heels.”

  This elicited a genuine smile on my face rather than polite one. The elevator pinged and the golden doors slid open, allowing me to step inside. I barely remembered to press the button to my floor before I all but crumpled against the back wall.

  I got to the seventh floor faster than I remembered the elevator ever moving before. At this point, my legs felt like lead but I dragged myself down to 707 and grabbed my keys.

  Once I secured the locks on my door, I dropped my purse on the floor and fell face first into my couch. I needed a bubble bath and the candles I picked up from Target lit. I needed dim lighting and the sound of rain outside my cracked window. For now, I would deal with the soft fabric of my worn brown couch. I breathed in. It smelled of faded smoke and ground coffee beans—just like my uncle.

  “Okay, Tucker,” I muttered to myself, forcing myself to stand. “Time to get up. You’ve had your break.”

  I padded to the kitchen and reached on top of my fridge, grabbing a lighter. My candles were already set up. I bent over the porcelain tub and lit each one—two on the corners of the bathtub and one on my sink.

  I stripped my outfit, grunting and groaning as I did so. This job was getting the better of me. I was going to scream soon. I would probably have to get rid of the outfit. The shirt was ruined with blood, I had already lost my shoes, my pantyhose had a run in it. I might be able to salvage the skirt but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to.

  I would worry about it later.

  I ran the water and poured in the bubbles. After I pulled my hair up into a high, messy bun, I slid into the hot water, the bandages on my feet already peeling off and exposing the injury to the water. I hissed at the pain, at the heat of the water, but my muscles were already responding and rested my head behind me.

  I stayed in there for a long time, drifting in and out of a shallow sleep. The bubbles were long gone, the water was lukewarm, and the candles had melted low. It was time to get out and try to get a few hours of sleep. One of the things I heavily invested in when I moved into my own place was my bed. It was upsetting to me that I rarely got to enjoy it the way I originally intended to.

  After draining the tub, drying off, and blowing out the candles, I trudged to my bedroom and pulled on a large T-shirt and a pair of boy shorts. I took the rubber band out of my hair, letting it fall to my shoulders.

  I had a lot to do, even now. My first priority was to research the name Jon had given me and see what information I could pull up on Sonya Crawford.

  Chapter 4

  When my alarm blared the next morning, I immediately stopped it. As much as I wanted to go back to my office today, I wanted sleep more. I shot off a quick text to my editor and let myself sleep for three more hours.

  I woke up naturally just after nine, feeling refreshed but run over by a truck. I took a quick shower, which helped wake me up further, and after stepping out, my muscles seemed to relax more. I breathed in the steam and gave myself a moment to appreciate the fact that I could still do this. I could still breathe in steam and feel hot water hit my back and walk—even though it hurt to step into anything.

  I made myself some instant oatmeal, and sliced up strawberries to plop in there. When I finished breakfast, I pulled on a deep purple blouse and high-waisted slacks. I wasn’t sure what sort of shoes I would wear today. I felt comfortable in my furry slippers but I couldn’t walk two blocks without ripping them up, and there was no way I intended to lose two pairs of my shoes within twenty-four hours. Instead, I forced my feet into black flats that I hadn’t worn in a while but that had wrapped around my feet like a lover hugging his partner. It wasn’t the support that I wanted, but it would have to do.

  I made sure to grab my purse, my keys, my wallet, and my badge before heading out the door.

  The walk through the streets of Perry was much different than at night. The skies were clear, leaving a cooler morning than the sunshine insinuated. A few puffy white clouds filled the sky, but they were hard to make out with the skyscrapers blocking them from view. There were still tourists lining the streets, trying to get a picture with the Twelfth Street fountain, pulling out their maps and trying to figure out where they wanted to go. The public transportation system—PTS—was underground and resembled New York’s subway system so people were ascending and descending the concrete staircases every other block.

  I preferred to walk even though I could, technically, take Madison Avenue to Twelfth. The days I was running late, I would do so because it would take all of five minutes to get to work if the PTS didn’t break down and the trains were running on time.

  The wind tugged at my hair and I knew it was probably going to rain in the next day or so. The thought made me think of Jon Hawkins and what he was doing right now. I hoped he was somewhere safe, somewhere that would provide adequate shelter during the upcoming storm. I couldn’t imagine him at Grand Lake Park, shivering under a tunnel or a park bench. Truth be told, I couldn’t imagine Jon shivering at all but I didn’t like the thought of even the possibility.

  I walked into the office twenty minutes later. There was yellow police tape around the entrance where my assailants had shot open the door. I shuddered as I
walked past the entranceway and to the back. There was more security there as well. I had to go through a metal detector, have my purse searched, and flash my badge to three different people before I was allowed in. I heard from hushed conversations that the security guard who was shot last night was recovering in the hospital. I made a mental note to visit him. I felt responsible for his stay. If I hadn’t…

  I didn’t want to think about it right now.

  I took the elevator up to the sixth floor. My fingers shook as I clutched my purse closer to my body, my fingers wrapped around the straps. I didn’t know why but I was started to sweat. The back of my neck was sweaty as were my underarms. The people around me didn’t notice me. They were all on their phones.

  I was left alone in the elevator for one flight but it was too short to prepare me for anything. The elevator doors slid open and I stepped out with shaky knees.

  “Come on, Tucker,” I muttered to myself. “Get your shit together.”

  Except as I stepped out into the hall, I was assaulted by flashbacks and images of the night before. The gunshots. I felt like I could hear them even now. The blood spilling onto the porcelain tile. I nearly tripped, afraid I was stepping into blood. My own shirt. In that moment, I felt my ear throb, as if to remind me how close I was coming to death—or, at least, being shot.

  I took a deep breath and started walking to my office. I walked by cubicles, thrumming with conversation, silenced themselves as I walked by. Obviously, they were talking about what happened last night. They knew I was involved.

  I cleared my throat and held my head high. I was still shaking. I was still sweaty and unsure and I felt like all I wanted to do was to hide in my office, draw the blinds, and cry.

  Maybe I should have taken the day off. Maybe I should have given myself more time to get over this.