Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(37)

He sighed and shook himself. After a moment, he pushed up the sleeves of his pullover and rested his elbows on his thighs, switching modes.

“Let’s put culpability aside for the moment,” he said. “Who gave the order to destroy the bodies?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“And you think this person is silencing everyone involved. And he started with Jeremy Kane.”

“Yes.”

“And he’s also after you.”

“They’ll come for me soon enough.”

“They?” Cohen’s face went pale. “Jesus, Sydney.”

I noticed for the first time that the whites of his eyes were shot through with red, and he’d missed a patch while shaving. He’d been working overtime, the way he always did when on a case.

And now I’d dropped this in his lap like tossing a grenade.

He glanced around his home. This privileged, sheltered place with its marble countertops and floor-to-ceiling windows, the leather furniture and wide-planked floors and Sub-Zero refrigerator. The ghetto-hip basketball hoop where he practiced his hook shot in a living room large enough to park a Cessna. He knuckled his eyes, and when he dropped his hands, he looked like a man who’d found that his house had been plucked from Kansas and dropped in Oz’s war zone. And the witch was fresh out of ruby slippers.

His eyes came back to mine. “This man hurt you in Mexico?”

“One of his men did. Yes.”

“How can you just . . . you’re so calm.”

“I have no choice. You’re involved now, and this is about your life as much as mine.” I wanted nothing more than to touch him. But I didn’t move. “I have to stay calm.”

He cleared his throat. “What about your CO? What does he think? He must know who gave the order.”

“He died not long after that night. Mortar attack. I thought it was bad luck. Now I’m not so sure.”

“Okay.” He palmed a fist, rapping his knuckles. “You said one person gave your CO the order. Who is this ‘they’ you’re talking about?”

“I think one man is behind it. I call him the Alpha. But he’s got plenty of help.”

“What kind of help?”

“I’m trying to figure that out, too. But I have reason to believe they’re black-ops people.”

He scraped his fingers through his hair. “You mean something like the NSA? Or the CIA?”

“Like that. Yes.” Clyde was watching me with worried eyes, and I placed my hand back on his head. “I don’t know. That’s part of the problem.”

“Okay. Okay.” Cohen’s voice was artificially brisk. “Tell me what you’re thinking. What do you intend to do?”

“If I can determine exactly what happened over there and who was behind it, then I can take it to the authorities. And then I will grind these guys into the dirt.”

“Won’t that be risky for you if the whole story comes out?”

“I could still be court-martialed. You should know that. But that’s the least of my worries right now. My plan is to start with Jeremy Kane’s murder. Finding his killer should get me a lead to the Alpha.”

Cohen narrowed his eyes. This was his territory.

“How so?” he asked. “All the evidence points to a homeless man.”

“A homeless man whom all of the Denver PD can’t find? Who just disappears into thin air?”

“Go on.”

“That’s pretty much my case in a nutshell.” I looked away. “I need to know you won’t try to stop me.”

He was silent for a long time. A trumpet solo heralded Billie Holiday’s “Strange Fruit.” Cohen stood and went into the kitchen, then returned a moment later with two glasses, each holding two fingers of amber liquid. He handed one of the glasses to me.

“Last of the Ardbeg,” he said, clinking his glass to mine.

We drank. The scotch burned.

He went to the nearest window and gave me his back. “I have to go to LA for a trial. The crime was committed in California, but we caught the guy here. I was going to leave Clyde with your grandmother since I fly out in the morning.”

“How long?”

“At least a few days.”

Relief flooded through me. “That’s good.”

“It sucks. But I don’t have a choice.” His voice was tight. “Come with me.”

“You know I can’t.”

“I know you won’t. I’ll tell Gorman that Kane was a friend of yours and ask him to share what he learns.”

“Thank you.”

He tossed down the rest of the whiskey and without looking at me walked around the couch toward the bedroom. “I’m going to bed.”

“Just like that?”

He stopped. His shoulders were a wall. “I have to think about this, Sydney. I’m grateful that you finally shared things with me. And I don’t want to punish you for letting me in. It’s what I’ve been asking for ever since we met. But it’s a lot. I need time to chew it over.”

“You’re not even in the room with me right now,” I said.

“Maybe not. But the real problem is that you have never been in the room. You never even left the doorway.”