Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(120)

I try to call out a warning. That Lindy’s armed and more than capable of killing again.

But it turns out the detective doesn’t need any advice. Lindy turns toward the beams of light. She wheezes, probably the closest she can come to a laugh. Then she points her gun just in time for the cop to open fire.

I watch Lindy collapse on the floor beside me. I think there should be gators. They should come and drag her body away, never to be recovered.

Then Samuel is there, peering down at me with concern.

“Hang on, Flora. Help is coming. Hang on.”

I whisper back: “Stacey Summers. Upstairs. Help her.”

Then the gators do come. Except it’s me they carry away.





Chapter 50


KEYNES SAT ON THE FLOOR in his ridiculously expensive jeans, holding Flora’s hand while D.D. called for EMTs, then for additional officers to search the complex.

It took them a good fifteen minutes to work their way through the vast space. Devon Goulding, Natalie Draga had created quite the nest in the middle of the abandoned building. D.D. discovered a kitchen where the plumbing had been jury-rigged with an illegally tapped water pipe and stocked with various food supplies and alcohol bottles, obviously pilfered from the Tonic nightclub. Same with a downstairs bathroom, that, yes, contained tubes and tubes of glittery hair gel.

The team spread out, searching room by room, floor by floor, until at last, an officer discovered Stacey Summers collapsed in an upstairs corridor, clearly in critical condition. More calls for medical assistance; then they had both Stacey and Flora whisked away to local hospitals.

Keynes went off, talking on his cell phone to Flora’s mother, while D.D. finally made the middle-of-the-night phone call the Summers family had been waiting three months for.

Then, she paced.

Keynes hadn’t been lying. The paperwork for this kind of incident would be something else. D.D. was required to remain on scene to answer preliminary questions from independent investigators regarding her use of deadly force. As a restricted duty detective, not even cleared to carry a firearm, she would face further scrutiny, perhaps even disciplinary action.

Maybe Phil would yell at her again. For behaving recklessly. For not trusting her team. For once more walking into a darkened building, whether it was a good idea or not.

She should feel anxious. Stressed. Contrite?

But she didn’t.

She’d called for backup. She’d organized a team of officers to assist. She had approached the situation with the goal of containment, not confrontation, as befitted a supervisor. Then, when the situation had escalated to the point of immediate action . . .

She’d performed as she’d been trained. Regardless of her injured left shoulder and physical limitations, she’d eliminated the clearly visible threat and saved a victim’s life.

She felt . . . strong. Capable. Self-sufficient.

She felt, for the first time in months, like herself again.

She called home. It was 3:00 A.M., but Alex was familiar with middle-of-the-night conversations. Truth was, she needed to hear his voice. After a night like this, she wanted to feel at least that close to him.

“I’m okay,” she started the call.

“Good. Where are you?”

“I killed her. Jacob’s daughter, Natalie. I shot and killed her in the line of duty.”

A pause. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too. She pointed her gun right at me, I had no choice.”

“You had a weapon?” Alex had always been a smart one.

“I borrowed one, to enter the property. We heard shots fired. We went in prepared.”

He didn’t say anything, because going in prepared wasn’t the same as going in cleared for duty and they both knew it.

“I was scared,” she whispered. “I’ve never been scared before. It’s always been just part of the job. But this time . . . All I could think about was my stupid shoulder. Could I aim fast enough, would I be strong enough . . . I did what I had to do, but I was scared.”

“Cal Horgan—”

“Is going to ream me a new one.”

“With good reason?”

“I don’t want to be scared. And sitting at a desk, that feels like hiding to me. Being on restricted duty, that’s being frightened. I want to be cleared. I want to be the detective I used to be.”

“Honey, your injury—”

“I did what I had to do. A suspect leveled a firearm at me in a life-and-death situation and I performed under pressure. I won’t be scared again, Alex. And I won’t stay chained to a desk.”

“So, you’re not calling home to tell me I can get out the bubble wrap, roll you up, and keep you safe with me forever?”

“I’m going to face disciplinary actions.”

“Probably.”

“I’m going to need your support.”

“You have it.”

“Then . . . I want to pass my physical. I want to be cleared for full duty.”

“Is it okay if I’m scared? Because this call right now, my wife just faced an armed gunman, not my favorite middle-of-the-night conversation.”

“I want to be the detective I used to be.”

“D.D., I fell in love with the detective you used to be. I married the detective you used to be. You don’t have to change for me, or for Jack. We know the detective you used to be.”