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Chapter 27
DARREN
Past
“You’re getting discharged already?!” Bridget cries over the phone.
“I’m not sticking around a hospital longer than I have to,” I reply as I pick at the completely unappetizing hospital food.
“I can be there in about an hour.”
“You don’t—”
“I’ll see you then,” she cuts me off before hanging up.
JD turns to me. “What did Trawley say when I was in the bathroom?”
“They found the car abandoned. No prints. No gun. Not even shell casings.”
“So no leads?”
“None. He thinks the case might turn cold on its own, though he says there’s a video we should look at. The tapes for the cameras facing the street have been turned over to the PD, but he had Cheryl save the one recording the entrance.”
“What are we going to do about the girls?”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re going to blab it to their families.”
“Bridget only has an aunt—not even a blood relative—that she’s close to. Her mom’s off in Europe and isn’t really in her life.”
“Amy has family in SoCal.”
“What are you worried about?”
JD shrugs. “I don’t know. They might want to dig into the guy their daughter’s seeing.”
“They’re not going to find anything. Cheryl talked with them both when she dropped them home. She said they seemed to accept Trawley’s take on the shooting.”
“Speaking of family, word’ll eventually make it to your mom.”
“Yeah, I thought of that. I’ll give her a call soon. You talk to your dad?”
“I will. He’s made some enemies in his time. Who knows. Could be someone in the past finally wanting to settle a grudge.”
I lean my head back and look up at the ceiling and fluorescent lighting. I’ve gone through everyone I know to see who might have a motive for the shooting. Marshall, who left only after stationing one of his other security men outside our door, is looking into Joseph Mok. But if it’s not Mok, the next logical conclusion is that it’s triad related. Maybe having to do with my taking over the counterfeit division.
Shit. Unless we catch the perps behind this, they might try again. Bridget survived, but what if she’s not so lucky the next time?
I think about the many times my mom has tried to talk me out of the Jing San. Maybe she was right all along.
Picking up my phone, I decide to face the music and call my mom. When I tell her what happened, I expect to hear hysterics. Instead, there’s dead silence.
“You can say ‘I told you so,’” I tell her.
“Why? Is that going to make a difference?” she returns. “You’re going to start listening to me now?”
“I didn’t think I would actually get shot.”
