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She shook her head. She didn’t want to talk about it now. “Let’s go.”
Lieutenant Elena Gomez picked up the call from her sergeant, Lex Popovich. “Gomez,” she answered as she reviewed reports. She liked being in command; she didn’t like the explosion of paperwork. It never stopped coming.
“Quinn is here.”
“I know. She’s testifying this afternoon. Dyson assured me that it’s one hearing, and she’ll be gone by tomorrow.”
“We need to tell her.”
She put her pen down. “Lex, no.”
“At the time, it was the right call to cut her out of the investigation, but she’s here, she needs to know what’s going on.”
“She came to see you, didn’t she? Now you’re feeling guilty.”
“You would be, too, if you had lied to her face!”
Which was precisely why Elena had avoided Kara. She had been Kara’s training officer, her friend. It was better not to talk with her than to be forced to lie.
“Try to avoid her, Lex. Twenty-four hours and she’ll be back on a plane to DC and we’ll finish this investigation.”
“She wants to come back. She thinks she can.”
“Maybe—”
“Right,” Lex said, barking out an angry laugh. “She’ll come back and work for us when she learns we’ve been lying to her for months. Fuck it. She’ll never forgive us. I don’t know if I can forgive myself.”
Even if Kara could return to LAPD, it wouldn’t be in the capacity she’d want.
“Stay the course, Lex.” She hung up.
Guilt washed over her, then it disappeared. It would return, but she had a job to do, and she would damn well do it.
3
Conrad James didn’t need to follow Costa or Quinn from the airport to know where they were going. That they arrived on time was good enough for him.
He had a tight schedule, and didn’t like to be rushed, even when he had a deadline.
The people who needed to die would all die in good time.
He listened to classical music not because he was well educated—though he was—and not because he particularly liked it—though he had an affection for Tchaikovsky—but because the music relaxed him and put him in the right mindset.
He was halfway downtown when his cell phone rang. He paused the music and answered the call.
“Yes.”
“Well? What’s going on?”
“Why are you calling?” He’d been working for the group for months and they still hadn’t learned that he did not appreciate micromanagement.
“Because you sent me a cryptic text message while I’m in the middle of a meeting that the game is on? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Should I have said, in writing, that Mathias Costa and his team are here, that Detective Quinn has an appointment at the courthouse at eleven thirty with Mr. Dyson? Should I have said, in writing, that the assassination is on schedule?”
“Don’t be such an asshole.”
Conrad bristled. He did not like this man. He didn’t particularly like anyone in the group, but he was the most vulgar and, honestly, the most stupid.
