Ron looked a little wistful. He was a good guy, with a deep sense of right and wrong. Too bad he had to save lives the ordinary way.
Skye led Bella back toward the area in the station that contained their cubicle. She didn’t have the time, or the inclination, to break for a meal. She was thinking too much about her impending visit to Trevor Owens’s hospital room.
But she couldn’t go immediately, and not just because she had to finish the report detailing her perspective on what happened yesterday. She had research to do. She couldn’t exactly ask Owens what he was thinking when she brought him back from the dead or what made him so determined to survive. But she could arm herself with at least a little knowledge before going to see him.
“Come on, Bella.” She led her companion out to the parklike fenced-in training area. The weather was Southern California perfect. The sun was shining, and it smelled…well, green and a little salty from the nearby Pacific.
She let Bella run for a few minutes but she stayed still, conserving her energy. They were soon joined by three more members of the ABPD K-9 unit, guys with young, eager German shepherds who engaged Bella in roughhousing while Skye and her fellow humans cheered them on.
“You were at that warehouse yesterday.” Ken Vesco was a by-the-book cop, an African-American who was friendly with Skye despite chiding her now and then about not treating Bella enough like a dog. “I wish to hell they’d called me back on duty, but Bandit and I had already worked ten hours.”
“I doubt there was more you or any of the other guys could have done,” Skye said. She’d been the only K-9 handler there at the time. “Bella picked up the scent in the warehouse, but by the time she followed it outside to the parking lot the suspect was already gone.”
“The bastard shot two cops,” Curt Tritt said through uneven, gritted teeth. His dog was Storm.
“I want to be in on it when there’s something else to go on,” tall, thin Manny Igoa added. “Rusty and I’ll help bring him down.”
“Bella and me, too.” Sure, Skye had taken on responsibilities in law enforcement for reasons far different from most of her compatriots’, but she always wanted to do a good job with her regular duties—not to mention those that her fellow officers would consider quite irregular.
The others were still playing when she called Bella to go inside. She led her dog into the bull pen of cubicles shared by the K-9 team—a bunch of desks and file cabinets roughly organized in one moderate-sized room. She sat at her desk, told Bella “down” and booted up her computer.
As soon as she’d filled out her report on yesterday’s warehouse incident, she opened the nonconfidential part of the ABPD employee files and looked up Trevor Owens.
And got a jolt. The guy had been with the department for nearly seven years. During that time he’d been in four officer-involved shootings besides yesterday’s. In all the others, the suspect had also apparently fired first, and Owens returned fire in self-defense. Each time but this one, the suspect had died.
The Force Investigation Division had cleared Owens of any wrongdoing. That’s all that was listed there—no specifics regarding any event or its review. The more detailed reports remained confidential, and although Skye might have been able to access them, she wasn’t officially entitled to. Plus, if she opened them, it might raise a red flag. She couldn’t do that. Her survival here depended on her remaining low-key, under the radar.
She soon left for the day with Bella and with more questions raised than answered.
After Skye showered and changed into comfortable jeans and a blue denim shirt, she walked and fed Bella. Then, leaving Bella at home, Skye drove her own car to the Angeles Beach Medical Center.
She asked at the information desk for the room number. After exiting the elevator on the correct floor and walking to his room, she paused. What the hell was she doing there?
Accepting an invitation from a downed officer, she reminded herself. Plus…satisfying her curiosity, if only a little.
Still, she hesitated at the door. Then she rapped and walked in.
The room’s sole occupant was sitting up in bed. “Hello, Officer Owens,” she said. “I’m Skye Rydell. I was told you wanted to see me.”
“Come in.” His voice was hoarse but wasn’t weak or pained the way someone who’d recently been so near death might be expected to sound. That didn’t surprise Skye.
His bed was raised, supporting his back as he sat straight up. He wore the kind of faded green cotton hospital wrap that made most people look ill. But despite the slight pastiness to his face, he looked healthy and tan. His sleeves were pushed up to his wide shoulders, framing impressive biceps.
As she looked at him, those brown eyes she recognized, deep and steady, met hers. A little embarrassed to be caught assessing him, she smiled uncomfortably. “You look like you’re recuperating okay,” she said. “How do you feel?”
“Like shit.” His voice cleared as if he’d intentionally thrust away its former hoarseness. “But a whole lot better than when they brought me in. I’ve seen you around, you know, but I almost didn’t recognize you without your dog.”
That evoked a genuine smile from her. “And I almost didn’t recognize you without your assault rifle.”
His laugh, deep and sexy, filled the room. “Have a seat.” He motioned to a chair, and she complied.
“So…why am I here?” She studied the way the guy’s prominent cheekbones underscored the eyes that so defined his face. The artificial light radiating from a bar above the bed’s headboard revealed a hint of auburn in his sable-brown hair. Beard stubble shadowed his taut cheeks and emphasized a cleft in his strong chin. Definitely one good-looking cop, especially this close up.
“I was told you were there when I was wounded, weren’t you?”
“Outside,” she replied. “We came into the warehouse—Bella and I—when you were already down.”
“Yeah, after Danver was hit.” He sounded offended, as if the death was a personal affront. There was a bleakness in his eyes and the set of his mouth that stirred Skye.
She couldn’t exactly tell him she’d communicated with his fellow SWAT officer, helped him peacefully to the other side. “It was really terrible,” she confirmed. “But at least you’ll be okay.”
“But the bastard who did this got away.”
That was obviously on a lot of cops’ minds.
“He won’t get away with it,” she said with certainty.
“Yeah.” Trevor’s grim expression suggested he would see to it himself.
Was he going to get caught up in another officer-involved shooting? Was the goal she’d sensed in him as he lay dying to right this wrong by committing a wrong himself?
She shuddered. Maybe she had made a mistake after all. Her intent, as always, was to help those who needed—and deserved—it. Was this police officer a loose cannon who would kill a suspect first and ask questions later? But he had been cleared of wrongdoing in those past
