Michael Prescott - Mortal Faults

“Nothing that dramatic.” She was surprised at how good it felt to be embraced, how much she needed it. “They were pros, though. One of them was wearing the body art. I was hoping it might mean something to you.”

“It does. It’s the logo of the Scorpions.”

“The Scorpions. Scary name.”

“Scary guys. You sure you’re okay?”

She slipped free of his grasp and let him study her from head to toe. “Do I look incapacitated?”

“No.”

“All right, then. So who exactly are the Scorpions?”

“Biker club out of Santa Ana. They all have tats like this.”

“If they’re in Santa Ana, how did they come to your attention?”

“They get around. Santa Ana is where they started. They have a few satellite clubs in L.A. If you got into it in San Fernando, you’re probably dealing with someone local.”

Abby thought about Reynolds’ trip to the barrio. “No, I don’t think so. I think Orange County is a better bet. You wouldn’t happen to know where in Santa Ana these gentlemen can be found?”

“I don’t, but I can talk to somebody who does. If you give me a reason why I should.”

“They fired bullets at my head.”

“That’s what concerns me.”

“It concerned me, too.”

“I mean, it concerns me that you might be thinking about revenge.”

“What I’m thinking of is bringing these folks to justice.”

“Street justice? Or the regular kind?”

“The regular kind. Trial by jury, innocent until proven guilty, Miranda warnings, the whole nine yards.”

Wyatt reached out and stroked her hair thoughtfully. “I know I ought to believe you.”

“Come on, Vic, what do you think I’m gonna do? Track down these guys and get into another pissing match?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“A pissing match is one contest I know I can’t win. Besides, although I may be occasionally a tad reckless, I’m not suicidal.”

“Not normally. But you seem pretty jazzed, Abby. Kind of…”

“Hopped up? Like I’m on speed?”

Wyatt squinted at her. “Well, yeah.”

“Someone else made the same observation. So I guess it must be true. I mean, not the speed part. But I am a little jumpy. Can you blame me?”

“Not at all. But you know, there’s a reason police officers aren’t sent back into the field right after a shooting incident. The aftereffects-”

“I studied psychology, Vic. I know all about posttraumatic stress.”

“Then you’re aware that you’re showing some of the symptoms. You’re on an adrenaline high. At some point you’re going to come down. You could come down hard.”

She took his hand. “You’ll be there to break my fall.”

“How can you know that?”

“You always are.”

He looked away, embarrassed. “I really think you’d be better off taking some time to get yourself together. Deal with what you went through. Get it out of your system.”

“Oh, hell, I’m not a newbie. I’ve been shot at before. And I’ve shot back. I killed a man once, and I didn’t lose a damn bit of sleep over it.”

“Maybe it would be better if you had.”

She pulled her hand away. “Are you going to help me or not?”

He thought about it. “Tell me what you intend to do.”

“Find this guy. Then bring in the feds.”

“How are you going to tip off the FBI without involving yourself?”

“I have a contact in the Bureau.”

“Then why do you need me?”

“They don’t know the city like you do.”

Wyatt pursed his lips. “Nice compliment.”

“It’s the truth.”

“I know you’re manipulating me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Your lips are moving.”

She bristled. “Somebody woke up on the cynical side of bed.”

“It’s hard not to be cynical with someone who uses you.”

“Look, Vic, if my being here is a problem-”

“It is. You know it is. We can’t be seen together. It’s risky enough for me to come to your place. The damn doorman and those guards at the desk could pick me out of a lineup with their eyes shut by now.”

“How would they be able to pick you out if they had their eyes shut?”

He ignored the question. “I’ve taken a lot of chances for you, Abby. And, let’s face it, it’s pretty much a one-way street.”

“I take, but I don’t give. Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s what you said.”

“You’re not disagreeing.”

“Would I have any reason to disagree?”

“Maybe I’d just better go.”

She turned away. He put a hand on her shoulder and drew her back. His voice was softer than before. “The situation must be pretty desperate if you’re coming here.”

“Not desperate. Just urgent.”

“Subtle distinction. You promise you’re not going to go off and get yourself killed?”

“That’s not the plan.”

“And you aren’t gunning for revenge?”

“My life isn’t a Charles Bronson movie. I told you what I want to do.”

“Yes. You told me.”

“And you don’t believe it,” she said flatly. Tess hadn’t believed her, either. She was tired of being doubted. “Okay, I’ll take off, then.”

“Not till I get you that info.”

She cocked her head, uncertain she’d heard right. “Yeah?”

“One of our gang guys will know about the Scorpions. Just wait here. And try to be inconspicuous.”

“I always am.”

He left. She paced the small office, barely aware of the chatter on the police radio. A uniformed cop stuck his head in the doorway, saw her and not Wyatt, and mumbled something about coming back later. Other than that, she was undisturbed.

She thought about what he’d said. Yeah, she was stressed. Who the hell wouldn’t be? She was tense and a little hyper. So what? She’d survived a goddamned gunfight. All her senses were temporarily heightened, her mind racing. That wasn’t a bad thing. If anything, it gave her an edge.

Maybe coming to the station house had a been a bad idea. She knew she shouldn’t be seen with him, especially by his fellow officers. It was the kind of thing that could come back to hurt him if she were ever exposed. But she was in a hurry. She wasn’t in the mood to play it safe.

He complained that she rarely told him anything about her cases. He was right. But the thing was, she was doing it to protect him. The less he knew, the better.

That was part of it, anyway. Not the whole truth. If she were being completely honest with herself, she would have to admit that she never shared more than necessary. Not with Wyatt. Not with Tess. Not with anybody. She was the original lone wolf. It had always been like that for her, but in recent years she seemed to have retreated even deeper into isolation and wariness. She had learned to trust no one, to be perpetually on guard.

It wasn’t the easiest way to live. And it wasn’t getting any easier. More and more often these days, she was getting that trapped feeling. It came on for no apparent reason and lingered for hours or days. Usually a dream served as a harbinger. She would dream of herself in prison-not a real prison, simply a place she couldn’t escape from. It might be nice and pretty, with attractive decor and comfortable furnishings, but she couldn’t leave. Sometimes the prison looked like her condo, and other times it looked like the ranch in Arizona where she’d grown up, but most of the time it was just an anonymous place, as meticulously appointed as a luxury hotel, and as impersonal.

She’d had the dream on and off for years. She was pretty sure she knew what it meant. Her symbolic imprisonment was a subconscious complaint about the life she’d chosen.

She worked alone. She’d created a job that allowed her to interact with a wide variety of people while maintaining a cautious separation from them all. Sometimes she felt trapped in the private world she’d carved out for herself.