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“Okay, okay,” Ryan agreed at once. “No hospital. We’ll just get you home and into a warm bath—with your favorite lavender bath crystals. How’s that?”
Claire smiled through her tears. “That would be perfect.”
“I’m going out front,” Marc announced, already in motion. He wanted to give the women time to dress and to pull themselves together. And he knew they were in the best of hands. “I’ll do a sweep,” he said over his shoulder. “Then I’ll call Patrick and tell him all clear. I’ll also intercept law enforcement, who’ll be showing up any minute. Anything they need to know right away, they can hear from me. The rest of the interviews can come later.”
“Thanks, Marc,” Hutch said quietly.
“No problem.” Marc turned around for a second. “By the way, nice shot. You would’ve made a great SEAL.”
A corner of Hutch’s mouth lifted. “And you would’ve made a great cop.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Two weeks later
Mike’s Tavern was a good, old-fashioned Tribeca bar. Family-owned, it had been around for decades. Its well-worn surroundings and reasonable prices kept loyal patrons coming back time and again.
Ryan and Marc had pushed two tables together to accommodate both of them, plus Patrick, Hutch and Captain Sharp. They’d all been there for a few beers, trying to unwind after weeks of questioning, debriefing and paperwork.
“It’s getting late,” Captain Sharp said, pushing back his chair and standing up. “My wife’s holding dinner.” He clapped Patrick on the shoulder, then indicated the entire group. “The tab’s yours,” he told them. “It’s the least you can do. My butt’s still sore from being ripped a new asshole about this escapade. No more cowboy operations in my city, gentlemen.”
“Bullshit,” Patrick countered. “You and your brass buddies were all smiles at that press conference. Even your frenemies at the FBI looked happy. I almost puked at the public display of ass-kissing.”
The other men’s jaws dropped, and four pairs of eyes stared at Patrick. His blunt outburst and colorful expletives were
so uncharacteristic of the “by-the-book” guy—even with three beers in him—that it shocked the hell out of them.
Then they all burst out laughing.
“Shit, I wish I’d gotten that on video,” Ryan said. “As it is, everyone’s gonna think I either made it up or said it myself.”
“I’ll vouch for you,” Marc assured him.
Ryan grunted. “A lot of good that’ll do. Your rep is almost as sketchy as mine.”
Horace Sharp shook his head, still laughing. “I’m outnumbered and outgunned. Time to leave with my dignity intact.” He leaned over, picked up his beer to polish it off and headed out, waving as he left.
Marc turned to Hutch as soon as the four of them were alone. “How did your debriefing go?”
Hutch shrugged. “I survived. Even with exigent circumstances on my side, my boss pointed out the blatant gaps in my report. He lectured me about policy and procedures. Despite all that, he had to admit I didn’t violate the Bureau’s deadly force policy. So I’m okay. Still, I guess I’ll never make ADIC.”
Everyone chuckled at the double entendre. They all knew that the acronym stood for Assistant Director in Charge—pronounced “a dick”—a high rank in the FBI hierarchy. They also knew how Hutch meant it.
Hutch inclined his head in Marc’s direction. “I take it you’re okay with the law enforcement community?”
“As okay as I’ll ever be.” Marc was clearly fine with that. “Cops couldn’t argue that the kill shots were necessary. Glen and Jack were about to stab Casey and Claire with their switchblades. So we took them out. Period.”
“They were damned lucky there was a former navy SEAL on the scene.” Ryan jumped to Marc’s defense. “Your strategy was perfect. So was your shot—and Hutch’s. You made the headlines read a lot nicer for them than the alternative would have. They should be grateful.”
“I doubt Forensic Instincts is ever going to be getting medals from the authorities,” Hutch said, taking another healthy swallow of beer. “But don’t kid yourself. Right now, the Feds and the NYPD are counting their blessings that you were there. Two minutes later...” He shuddered. “Let’s not even go there. All that matters is that Glen and Jack Fisher are dead. Suzanne Fisher went to pieces once the cops broke the news to her. She’s spilling her guts and filling in all the missing blanks. Enough said.”
“Consider the subject closed.” At that particular minute, Ryan didn’t give a shit what the authorities thought of them. No matter how many boundaries were stretched, in this case the end more than justified the means.
His attention was drawn to the doorway as he spotted Casey and Claire walking into the bar. They were the important ones to consider right now. They’d been through hell. The case had taken its toll—big-time. Their recovery was all that mattered.
Ryan motioned for them to come over. They saw him, and made their way to where the guys were already seated.
It didn’t take a genius to see that their eyes were red and puffy, and their cheeks were streaked with tears.
