Janice Kay - Trusting The Sheriff

“No.”

“What’s the last thing you do remember?”

That took some concentration. “Laundry. Basement of my building. Someone dumped my clothes and stole the dryer cycle.”

He grinned. “I’d remember that, too.”

“Partner—Neal—worried about something.” After being promoted almost a year ago from patrol to detective in the Major Crimes division of the Kansas City, Missouri, police department, she’d been paired with Neal Walker. His previous partner had just retired. The two of them hit it off, even socializing. Abby and his new wife had become friends. “Wouldn’t say.” She recalled telling him she’d help, his crooked grin. His voice, tenser than usual. Let me make sure I’m not imagining things. He’d dropped her off by her car. And then...

Abby stared into space. And then... There was nothing. Not a single thing. Panic soared and she struggled to sit up.

She and the doctor wrestled briefly. She was so ridiculously weak, he was able to ease her down.

“You need to stay calm,” he said soothingly. “Don’t worry. People often lose their memories of a period surrounding traumatic events. Right now, your body has to deal with the physical injuries. You’ve been in a coma, so it’s not surprising that your brain isn’t entirely booted up yet. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” She didn’t even blink as she stared at him, afraid to sink into that black void. “How long...?”

“You’ve been here for three days. We’re really happy to see you regaining consciousness.”

“What...happened?”

“Your injuries? You were shot twice. Fortunately, you were wearing a Kevlar vest. It didn’t stop the bullet in your shoulder, but the shot to your chest might well have killed you. Instead, you have only severe bruising and a cracked sternum. It also appears that when you fell, you struck your head against the corner of a dumpster. I understand you were found in an alley.”

Dread supplanted the panic. “Neal?”

The doctor took a step back, his expression becoming guarded. “Your partner?”

“Yes.”

“I think I’ll let your Sergeant Donahue tell you about that. He’s been haunting the place.”

She knew. She knew .

She managed to turn her face away.

* * *

HER DOCTOR DIDN’T allow any visitors until the following day, after they’d moved her from intensive care to a room she currently had to herself. She could only imagine how frustrated Donahue was to be thwarted. Given the severity of her head injury and the length of time she’d spent in a coma, Dr. Sanderlin insisted she rest, use pain medication as needed and not worry.

Yes, he actually said that again. After patting her hand. “Don’t worry.”

Abby would have done nothing but worry if she hadn’t felt so rotten. If she didn’t push the little button, her head felt like a rocket right at blastoff, spewing fire. If she did use the stuff, she dozed. Quite honestly, she didn’t feel much better the day after regaining consciousness, but when she was capable of thinking clearly, she chased herself in circles. What could possibly have happened? If Neal was alive, why wouldn’t the doctor have told her so? Or said, Gosh, I don’t know who Neal is?

And why couldn’t she remember?

An orderly had just removed her breakfast tray when she heard a cleared throat and Sergeant Michael Donahue stepped into view. He supervised her unit of detectives, and they all felt lucky. He could be gruff, but never failed to support them against higher-ups or the public when needed. He was smart and capable of compassion, and his detectives very rarely encountered a difficulty he hadn’t already met and overcome in his lengthy career.

He’d turned fifty-four back in February, when they threw him a surprise party. Donahue was still a good-looking man, his gray hair short but not buzz-cut. His wife liked to run her fingers through it, he’d tell them with a hidden smile. He dressed well, his suits appearing custom-made to fit his tall body and bulky shoulders, but within an hour or two at the station, he invariably looked rumpled. Abby had met his wife, Jennifer, who was known to roll her eyes on occasion when she dropped by the station and first set eyes on him.

“Abby,” he said, his face creased with what she took for concern. “You scared us.”

She managed a weak smile.

He pulled a chair close to the bed and lowered himself into it. “Shot twice.”

“So they tell me.”

The lines on his forehead deepened. “The doctor claims you have no memory of what happened.”

“The doctor’s right,” she said huskily. “I have this huge blank.” Her hand rose to touch her temple.

He studied her in silence for longer than she understood. Then he leaned back in the chair and said, “That’s a problem for us. The...scene where you were found is puzzling, to put it mildly. I’ve been hoping you can tell us what occurred.”

She gave her head a very careful shake. “I can’t. All I know is that I was found in an alley.”

“Neal was with you,” Donahue said, “also shot twice. Unlike you, he didn’t survive.”

Yes, she’d known, but the news threw a punch anyway. Abby felt tears burn in her eyes. “How?”

His face hadn’t softened at all. She didn’t see the expected sympathy. Instead, he had the kind of stony expression suspects saw.

“It appears that you shot Neal with your service weapon and he shot you with his. You apparently struck your head on the dumpster as you fell. You need to tell me if you’ve been having issues with him, or if he had a problem with how you handled any investigation.”

“How I handled...?” She gaped at him. “You think we quarreled?”

“How else can you explain the physical evidence?” he said implacably.

“I can’t explain anything! Neal and Laura are—were—my best friends! We never disagreed.”

“Then why would you have shot him?”

“Did you test for gunpowder residue on my hand?”

He hesitated. “We did, and didn’t find any. But the only fingerprints found on your Glock were yours.”

Something was very wrong.

“And Neal’s?”

“The same.”

“There had to have been someone else there,” she said, having trouble believing he’d suspect either of them. “You know both of us.”

“I’ve seen cops go bad before. It stinks, but it happens. If Neal did, I need you to tell me.”

She looked right into his eyes. “I’ll never believe he would.”

His graying eyebrows rose, obviating any need for him to say what she knew he was thinking: Then you have to be the bad apple .

* * *

SEVERAL OF ABBY’S fellow detectives came by to see her. Most of them had apparently gathered here at the hospital after she and Neal were found in that alley, holding vigil for her after they learned he was dead. She was told that Sergeant Donahue had worked the scene himself, along with an experienced detective, Sam Kirk. The CSI team had gathered trace evidence—too much of it. Alleys ranked right up there as the most impossible scenes. Employees from businesses along the block came out regularly to drop garbage into a dumpster or smoke a cigarette, grinding the butt out with a shoe and leaving it where it lay. Homeless people lurked, scrounging in the dumpsters, sleeping behind them, having sex and getting into fights. Cars cut through, passengers or drivers tossing litter out windows. Rats frequented the alley, as did stray cats.

The man who’d heard the gunshots and had the guts to run toward them rather than away would have left his own trace evidence. He claimed to have seen a dark shape standing over her, a man—he thought male—who ran away when he called out.