“Back at the Mission. They’re fine.”
“Good.”
“You shouldn’t have been here alone.”
“I called you, didn’t I? I figured a minute or two out here would be fine.”
“It wasn’t fine.” Sarah raised a trembling hand to Melina’s hair. “What did he want?”
“To kill me.”
Sarah fisted long fingers more accustomed to cupping a chalice or playing the piano at Sunday service than throwing a punch. “This was a stupid idea.”
Melina tamped down the adrenaline swelling in her throat. “Dangerous, maybe. Not stupid.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. You’re covered in blood.”
Blood coated her skin and her clothes. She hoped the guy did not have HIV or hepatitis. “I need to call the cops.”
“My assistant already did,” Sarah replied.
“Sam knows about this?” Melina asked.
“He was there when the other girls came back without you. He was furious. He was on the phone with the cops before I could get out the door.”
As if on cue, blue lights bounced off the nearby warehouses. “How did he get the cops to the Bottom so fast?”
“Friends in high places, I suppose,” she said.
It was Sarah and Sam’s favorite joke. She not only ran the Mission, but she was also an ordained Episcopal priest.
Two police cars rolled up, and immediately two officers were braced behind their open driver’s side doors. Weapons pointed in her direction.
The cops were young, fresh faced, and she would bet neither one of them had been on the streets more than a year. She knew adrenaline made rookies extra jumpy. Everyone wanted to go home at night.
“Drop your weapon!” one officer shouted.
Melina gently knelt on the concrete sidewalk, laying her SIG and knife near weeds jutting up through the sidewalk cracks. She stayed down on both knees, hands locked behind her head, and Sarah followed suit.
One cop held back, weapon trained on them, while the other approached. “Identify yourself,” he said.
Her ankle was really throbbing. Thankfully, it did not feel broken, but a sprain was the last thing she needed. “My name is Melina Shepard. I’m an agent with the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. My badge is in my purse.”
The cop approached and kicked the gun and knife away from her.
“Be careful with that knife,” she said quickly. “It’s covered with the suspect’s blood and needs to be bagged. Better yet, get a forensic van down here.”
Silent, the young officer grabbed her purse, stepped back, and dug until he retrieved the leather wallet. He flipped it open. The badge’s gold glittered.
“Agent Shepard, are you injured?” the officer asked.
The adrenaline rush was fading, leaving her with an unsettled feeling. “No.”
“And who is this?” the officer asked.
“Reverend Sarah Beckett.”
The officer eyed Sarah’s long arms still suspended above her head. “You run the Mission?”
“That’s right,” Sarah said.
“I’ve heard about you. You can put your arms down.” He extended his hand to help Melina up, but she refused it. “Thanks, but I’m covered in the suspect’s blood, and I don’t want to contaminate the evidence.”
“I’ll radio for an ambulance,” the officer said.
“It’s really not necessary,” Melina said.
“Yes, it is,” Sarah said. “She’s been through a lot.”
The officer returned to his car as the two women stood.
News traveled fast, and this unsanctioned adventure/fishing expedition by Melina meant an ass chewing was headed her way. She had come to the Bottom at the behest of Sarah, who was worried about two girls who had gone missing from the streets in the past couple of weeks. Missing persons reports had been filed, but so far, the police had not spent much time on either case. Sarah knew the girls and had begun making headway with both toward getting them off the streets.
Melina had suspected she was chasing a pimp who did not want to lose his best moneymakers. They were likely being held in a run-down crack house. A smart pimp would not kill a working girl, but instead would lock her in a room and bring johns to her.
The smell of bleach lingered in her nostrils, as did the memory of the van’s padded walls. She mentally cataloged details about this assailant, including the syringe, the perpetrator’s blond wig, and his efficient, practiced assault. This was not his first attempt to kill. The setup was sophisticated and clearly reflected very dark fantasies.
She stared at the scuffed tips of her boots and thought about the missing girls. A shiver ran over her scalp.
“Who attacked you?” the officer asked.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting that kind of trouble.” A sigh shuddered through her. “The driver was a white guy. Clean cut. Blond hair, but it was a wig. Gloves. Dark jacket. Jeans. Boots. Not the type you would expect to meet in a place like this.”
Sarah snorted. “Rich or poor, married or single, religious or atheist . . . all kinds troll these waters.”
“I need that evidence bag,” Melina said. “The knife needs to be secured.”
The second officer pulled on latex gloves and retrieved an evidence bag from his cruiser.
“What are you doing out here alone, Agent Shepard?” the officer asked.
Doing the exact thing training officers told them not to do in the academy. “Reverend Beckett was worried about two missing girls. I was trying to find them.”
“Alone?” the officer asked, his voice sharp.
“With me.” Sarah spoke clearly, as if confessing her sins.
The officer’s attention shifted between the two. He shook his head in disbelief. Even as a rookie, he knew it was a crazy stunt.
“I was wrapping up my questioning with the girls,” Melina said. “I then called Sarah and was preparing to leave. Then the van started moving toward me.” She recounted her remaining observations of the attack. There was no masking that she had been reckless.
“Where did you get the knife?” the officer asked.
“It’s part of my belt buckle.” She rubbed her hand over the red scratch marks now marring her olive skin. The second officer bagged the knife that had been a gift from her dad when she’d graduated the academy. “Be careful with that.” Again, she recalled the scent of bleach. This guy was no amateur. “It’s got a killer’s DNA on it.”
CHAPTER TWO
Monday, August 24, 6:00 a.m.
Head pounding. Ankle faintly throbbing. Alarm clock blaring.
Melina grabbed the phone charging on her nightstand and shut off the buzzer that had yanked her from a deep sleep that had only come after too many hours of staring at the ceiling. She had seen 1:00 a.m., 3:00 a.m., and finally 4:00 a.m. before she had drifted off. She had barely slept in the last seven days.
She sat up, pushed back thick strands of hair. Her scalp was still tender to the touch, but thankfully, her attacker had not ripped out massive clumps as she had first feared.
She closed her eyes, immediately picturing the inside of the van. Handcuffs. The syringe. The sharp scent of bleach.
The images had haunted her all week, as had the threats from her boss, Agent Carter Jackson. Jackson’s normally controlled southern drawl had sharpened with anger as he had watched the doctor examine Melina’s ankle in the hour after the attack.
“You’re lucky!” he yelled. “And the reverend is no smarter! Protocols are in place for a reason!”
“It was worth it,” she countered.
“You do not speak, Agent Shepard. You listen.” He began to pace the room. “You’re confined to your desk while I decide if I reassign you to Records Division for the remainder of your career!”
She understood Jackson had been so upset because he was worried. She only hoped in a week or two he would cool off.
Yesterday, she had stopped at a coffee shop and picked up a triple espresso for him. She had set the peace offering on his desk and dawdled, hoping he would look up from his computer. He had not acknowledged her.
She was not only way up Shit Creek, but Jackson had snapped her paddle in his big bare hands.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed while staring at the digital time. “Fifteen more minutes of sleep.” She whispered the words like a prayer, mentally calculating how fast she could dress and be out the front door.
Handcuffs. Syringe. Bleach.
Her heart thumped faster in her chest. Who was she kidding? Sleep, if that is what she had attempted last night, was not returning anytime soon.
As she scooted to the edge of the mattress, her oversize T-shirt twisted around her waist. Bare feet skimmed a cold hardwood floor, and she remembered the shag carpet was still waiting in the virtual shopping cart, along with a dozen other items she could not afford until payday.
She was slow to put weight on her right ankle. She could walk now without a limp, but there was still some swelling.
She stood, padded down the long hallway to the galley kitchen, and turned on her coffee maker. No matter how tired she was or how late she got home the night before, she always set up the coffee. One-quarter cup of grounds to four cups of water. The perfect blend that soothed her cranky morning self.