Baby Jane Doe

“We’ll be sharing more information as it becomes available,” she continued, ignoring Garner and her own discomfort. “In the meantime, we appreciate you honoring the guards’ privacy and giving the doctors time to do their work. Thank you.”

Before the news clip faded and the picture returned to the studio anchors, Eli zeroed in on the blood staining the commissioner’s cuffs. The tension in his neck shifted and throbbed at his temple. He reached up and touched the two butterfly bandages that cinched the wound in his hairline.

Was that his blood? For all her cool, calm and collected facade, Shauna’s hands had been surprisingly warm and urgent as she’d tended him. And her shapely body had shaken with fear, or perhaps simply an over-abundance of adrenaline, when she’d been sandwiched between Eli and the floor.

“What the hell?”

Before Eli could quell his hormones’ masculine response to the vivid memory of his boss’s subtle feminine attributes, her grown son shot to his feet, swearing at the television.

“What?” Baldy asked, scrambling to catch up with his partner’s mood swing.

“Did you see her clothes?” Cartwright tugged his cell phone from his pocket. “She didn’t tell me she got hurt.”

Eli drained the last of his coffee and observed the interchange, a very curious fly on the wall.

Mr. Comedy sobered up with a remark to calm his partner. “If it was serious, she would have told you. I heard she gave first aid to one of the downed guards. It’s probably his blood, not hers.”

Cartwright punched in the number. “Damn it, Coop, I’m calling her.”

Baldy stood and tapped his fingers against his partner’s fist. “Seth, your mom’s a grown woman. And she didn’t get the job she has just because she’s pretty. She can take care of herself.” He crushed his paper cup and made a neat, three-point shot into the trash can. “Besides, Captain Taylor will be waiting for us. Maybe he’s going to finally brief us on that gambling case he wants us to work on.”

“I guess you’re right.” Seth Cartwright paused to consider his partner’s words, though his posture remained stiff and unyielding. “But after the meeting—”

“—I’ll dial the number myself. C’mon.”

Cartwright nodded. He flipped his phone shut and turned to follow his partner from the room. That’s when he realized the six-four fly on the wall had never left the room. Cartwright’s chest expanded with a deep breath as he glared at Eli. “What?”

Eli shrugged off the taunt. “Nothing. Just got caught up in the news report. The commissioner’s your mother?” No response. Why didn’t that surprise him?

Thick arms crossed in front of his wrestler’s chest. “You’re Masterson. That I.A. guy who’s going after Detective Banning, aren’t you?”

Going after? Hell. Would it kill anybody to say good morning around here? “How about, I’m the I.A. guy who’s doing his job? Just like you. Banning has nothing to fear from me unless he did something wrong. Personally, I don’t think he did.”

“Uh-huh.”

The visual standoff lasted a split second longer before Seth’s partner, Coop, called him to get his butt in gear and get to the meeting. With a dismissive nod, effectively telling Eli to mind his own business and keep any comments about Seth’s mother to himself, the young officer strode from the room.

So Seth Cartwright was defensive about his mom. His partner’s teasing was probably a mild example of the heat he took from his coworkers for being the head honcho’s son. Probably had to prove himself a dozen times over to show he’d earned his spot on the force.

Of course, the young man had almost blown a gasket when he saw that blood. Maybe he wasn’t defensive about his mom so much as he was defensive of the woman who’d raised him. Eli could have confirmed that none of the blood on the commissioner’s clothes was her own. But it wasn’t his place to say, nor was it his habit to make friendly reassurances.

Time to seek out Merle Banning and finish up the paperwork. Eli was anxious to clear his desk before he had to sit down and answer to a hearing about his involvement at yesterday’s bank shooting. At least his name and face had been kept out of the media. Publicity generally meant even closer scrutiny. And while Eli had developed a knack for flying under the radar, he knew it was only a matter of time before one of his colleagues at I.A. called him into his or her office.

Eli hadn’t even cleared the doorway when his cell phone rang. If he was a superstitious man…

Shaking his head, he pulled the phone from his belt and glanced at the number. Though he recognized the KCPD prefix, the number was unfamiliar. Hell. Why not? He wasn’t superstitious.

He pressed the Talk button. “Masterson.”

“Detective.” The woman at the other end of the line breathed a sigh of relief before slipping into a more familiar clipped and confident mode. “It’s Shauna Cartwright.”

“Ma’am.” His initial surprise at hearing her voice gave way to a misplaced pleasure, and more quickly to irritation. Shauna Cartwright had no reason to call him, except for business. And the only business they had in common was the damned paperwork for yesterday’s robbery/homicide. He’d barely had a chance to scribble his notes, much less get them typed up. “If you’re looking for my report, tomorrow’s the earliest I’ll be able to get it to you. And that’s working on my own time.”

Working off the clock certainly wasn’t unheard of in his profession, but it would be damned annoying if he had to give up this particular evening to satisfy the boss’s demands. Not that Eli had anything more momentous planned than dinner with his sister Holly. But Holly was the one person with whom he could commiserate over their baby sister’s plight.

After yesterday’s hearing, complete with Jillian’s sullen mood and accusatory glares, he and Holly would have plenty to hash out. Tough love sucked. But coping with an addict like Jillian had destroyed the whole warm-fuzzy-family thing among the three siblings long ago. While Jillian detoxed without any outside contact for two weeks, Eli and Holly needed to do some healing themselves.

Unfazed by his surly tone, the commissioner asked, “Can you come by my office this afternoon? I’ve already cleared it with Captain Chang. He gave me your direct number.”

Running the request past his supervisor ensured cooperation, if not eager anticipation. Nothing like being master of his own destiny. Eli nipped the sarcasm and checked his mental calendar. “I can swing by about four-thirty if that’ll work for you.”

“That’s fine. I’ll have Michael take my last meeting.”

“That anxious to get my report? Or are you going to lecture me about not following the chain of command again?”

Her volume dropped to a throaty whisper. “Please. I’d rather not discuss it on the phone. I need to see you.”

Cryptic. Her hushed plea carved a delicate pinhole in Eli’s defensive armor. Commissioner Cartwright hadn’t struck him as a woman of mystery, but he couldn’t help but be intrigued.

An image of the murdering Mr. Trench Coat’s nearly opaque lenses trained down the barrel of his rifle toward Shauna Cartwright blipped through Eli’s memory.

Forget intrigued. Tension twisted a knot at the back of his neck. “I’ll be there at four-thirty.”

BY QUARTER PAST FOUR that afternoon, Eli was sinking his oxfords into the plush silver carpet on the top floor of KCPD headquarters. The receptionist at the center of KCPD’s administrative offices had offered him a seat, but Eli preferred the view at the row of windows facing into the heart of downtown Kansas City. At least he could see people moving outside.

KCPD’s limestone tower wasn’t the tallest building on the skyline. Originally built in the 1930s, the interior had been in a continuous state of refurbishing for the past six years. But it wasn’t the new decor or updated technology or even the row of commissioners’ portraits staring at his back from the long hallway that impressed him. It was the eerie quiet about the place.

There was an ominous weight to the air, a stuffy silence that lacked the relaxed comfort of a library or the creative intensity of a classroom of students taking a test.

Every floor in every precinct building he went into was a bustling hive of activity and purposeful noise. Machines. Conversations. Energy. Even the Internal Affairs division where he was based boasted more movement and warmth than this stylish tomb. Talk about your ivory tower.

It wasn’t just the uniformed officers and security gates at each entrance that made the top-brass offices feel cut off from the rest of the world. The sound-dampening choices of carpeted cubicle walls and lined drapes played their part in the silence. As did the closed doors and deserted hallways. Even with the sun shining outside—deepening the reds and golds on the trees in the park below him—Eli felt isolated.

Waiting for his appointment with the commish was a bit like being summoned to the principal’s office. Or going down to lockup at two in the morning to bail out a sister who was so zoned on booze and coke that she didn’t even realize she’d been arrested.

Eli breathed deeply, trying to dispel the tension that particular memory triggered. He pulled back the front of his suit jacket and fingered the phone on his belt. Maybe he should call the treatment center to check up on Jillian. She wasn’t allowed any personal calls during an initial probationary period, and then had to earn the privilege after that. But he could talk to one of her counselors or a nurse to see how she was settling in.

“Detective Masterson?”

Contenting his hands with rebuttoning his jacket instead of reaching for the phone, Eli greeted the receptionist with a nod. The steel-haired woman whose desk plaque had identified her as Betty Mills handed him a paper cup filled with coffee. Tepid from the feel of things. Bitter sludge that had sat in the pot all day from the whiff he got.

He still offered a polite “Thanks,” not because the woman seemed to expect it or that he looked forward to drinking her gift. But a perverse sense of irony had him wondering if kindness could soften the plastic smile she wore like a badge on her stiff expression. Nope.

“It’s inspiring to be in the company of such fine men, isn’t it?” Betty stated with awed conviction.

For a split second, Eli thought she was speaking in figurative terms, looking down at the miniature men and women outside—some in uniform, some in plainclothes—exiting down the concrete steps or entering the building for the start of their shift. But then he noted the angle of her gaze, toward the back wall and the row of portraits.

“There’s a lot of history there,” he agreed, wondering if her assessment included the commissioners who’d served in the 1920s and 1930s when there’d been suspicion of corruption among several government officials in Kansas City. But thoughts of corruption reminded him of Joe Niederhaus and soured what was left of his amiable mood.