Holy hell.
“How ...” Ricky cleared his throat. Felt his balls draw up into his belly. “How do you want me to do that?”
“You play his game until I tell you different.”
“But ...” What the hell was he talking about? He couldn’t know Braddock wanted him to roll over. “What game?”
“That, Ricky boy, is for you to find out. And, while you’re at it, you’ll keep that doctor bitch off my ass. Make sure she gets the message I’m sending her way.”
Just like that, Tyrone made his exit. His bodyguards glared at Ricky before doing the same.
When the door banged shut, Ricky sucked in a ragged breath.
He was so screwed.
If he got into the middle of this war between Braddock and Tyrone, he would end up just like Shelley.
If her smart-ass sister didn’t know it already, she’d better figure it out in a hurry.
Shelley was a casualty of war.
Chapter Thirteen
3021 Appleton Street, 12:30 a.m.
Braddock was still reeling from the events of the past two and a half hours.
Had he lost his grip on reality?
Apparently.
He damned sure had lost all semblance of self-control.
The forensics tech was almost finished upstairs. The perp had entered the house through an unlocked window on the back side of the ground floor. All the windows in the house were unlocked. It seemed that before the perp had finished his task, the worn-out window sash in Shelley’s room had dropped unexpectedly and shattered the glass. Braddock couldn’t say whether the perp had been too rattled to simply go out an upstairs window or if he’d intentionally mowed CJ down to frighten her.
Whatever the case, if they were lucky, some of the prints lifted would give them a match. But they’d have to be damned lucky. Shelley had entertained lots of guests in her bedroom. Even with eliminating the prints they’d collected immediately after her murder, they could be interviewing matches for weeks. And if the perp had worn gloves, as Braddock imagined he had, the whole exercise would be a colossal waste of time and manpower.
CJ had refused to make eye contact with him when she’d finally emerged from the bathroom wearing a big, fluffy white robe he recognized as one of Shelley’s. She’d stayed in the kitchen since. He had smelled the coffee brewing but didn’t dare invade her space. As much as he would have loved a cup of coffee, it wasn’t worth the backlash that was surely coming.
She already despised him. He doubted she liked him any better now, no matter how amazing the quick and dirty sex.
He took a breath. He could still smell her scent on his skin ... on his clothes.
No matter what he wanted to feel, he recognized what had just happened for what it was: a serious mistake.
“All done,” Greg Day, the evidence tech, announced as he descended the stairs. “I’ll try to have something for you on the blood by noon. The prints”—he shot Braddock one of those looks—“will take some time.”
“I appreciate the priority status.” If that blood was human, Braddock wanted to know ASAP. “If the blood turns out to be human, compare it to Shelley Patterson’s.”
No one messes with me.
This had to be Nash’s work. Bastard.
Day gave him a salute and headed for the door.
“You’ll call me when you get the lab results?”
“Definitely,” Day called over his shoulder as he exited. Braddock turned to find CJ lingering in the doorway leading into the kitchen. A rap on the front door waylaid what he needed to say. He held up a hand for CJ to hold on.
