28. Patrick

Days passed. Alex woke. Life resumed.

On one of Dane's days off, I met him at the hospital and visited Alex. It had been his idea. He'd insisted, actually. He said he wanted to show me off to his team.

Everyone was there. Alex was pale but awake. He smiled almost as much as his eyes closed. Wide patches of chest hair had been shaved away so the medical team could work their magic, but his stupid 'stache had survived unscathed. Several times throughout our visit, he reached up and twisted the darn thing, looking more like a cartoon villain than a hospital patient.

Burton's wife made a casserole for us to eat while we sat with Alex. He was still in the ICU and, technically, we weren't supposed to bring outside food, but the first responder badge gained our group some special treatment. Cheesy chicken noodle something-or-other had never tasted so good.

Sami snuck in a bottle of Jack Daniels, which vanished almost as fast as the noodly goodness. Alex groaned about being left out. Dane told him to pull up his panties and stop whining.

I was horrified, unsure whether I should stand up for the man in his injured state, until the others laughed and piled on. Taunting was their love language.

Throughout the visit, Burton , Sam, and Dane treated me like one of their own. At no point were things awkward or uncomfortable. They asked about my work, teased me for being "the enemy with a pen," and harassed Dane about breaking "his skinny boyfriend" if things got too rough.

We both blushed through that one, though the mental image of Dane trying to break me up against the washing machine or dryer or couch or counter … damn, I had to count backward to keep my shorts from tenting.

Dane leaned over and kissed my cheek. My heart soared.

And I felt like shit.

The center of my investigation was lying on the bed before me, surrounded by his team and closest friends, each of whom had accepted me into their family without question. They had no idea I was about to tear their unit apart. They couldn't see the wolf in their midst.

Worst of all, Dane had dropped his tough exterior and was showing genuine affection, holding my hand or resting his palm on my leg. I'd only dreamed of having a guy like me that way, show me that respect and fondness. I never expected to actually experience it.

And I was days from destroying it all.

That night, after a wild round up against the bedroom closet door, Dane held me as he slept, his breath a gentle kiss on my neck. I ran my fingertips along the arm draped around me, holding me close. I trailed the artery bulging beneath his tanned skin, and savored the scent of his musk mingled with Irish Spring.

I'd never liked that soap. Its aroma was simply too strong, meant to cleanse or mask the natural flavor of a man. On Dane, it was a delicacy I craved. If some inventive bartender made a drink of that scent, I would guzzle it down.

Kind of like how I guzzled down—

"Can't sleep?" Dane's words tickled my skin.

I pulled his arm tighter around me. "Just in my head. You get some rest though. I don't want to move."

He nuzzled my neck with his nose then pressed his lips. I wanted to freeze that moment and never leave it.

On the fourth day following the Monroe Place fire, Dane was off work again. I was not.

My article was due in two days, rain or shine, and Demmit promised to take my head if I was late. Emily vowed to hold my hair back as he swung the blade.

So much for my support team.

I wasn't sure why Captain Fredericks was away, but the normal rotation had been altered. Captain Zhang was on duty.

"Thanks for giving me a few minutes, Captain," I said, sitting in the chair across from his desk.

He closed his office door and took a seat on the couch nearby. "Happy to. What can I do for you?"

"I would like to talk with you on background. That's off the record. No names, no attribution."

Zhang stared a moment, then nodded. "Okay. I thought you guys were always on the record."

I scooted the chair so we were facing each other. "Most of the time we are, but I need to tell you some things that … this is really … I don't even know how—"

"Son, just ask what you need to. We're all big boys here."

I smiled weakly. He was being so nice. This was going to suck.

"To be clear, I'm not recording our conversation, and I will not use your name in any way. No one outside of my editor knows I'm speaking with you."

He folded his hands in his lap. "Should I have legal here? Department PR? My union rep?"

"No, sir. I don't think so."

"You don't think?" His brows shot up.

"No, you don't. Sorry. Guess I'm nervous."

That didn't relax him. Shit.

I leaned forward and lowered my voice. "Were you aware of an investigation into the handling of assigned medical equipment within fire stations throughout the city, specifically drugs used in EMT kits and on your ambulance?"

On Emily's advice, I decided to represent this as a broad investigation into citywide handling of drugs, hoping he might open up about procedures if he thought his station wasn't the focal point.

Zhang sat back, his face a mask of stone. "No. Internal affairs wouldn't necessarily notify me of an investigation. That wouldn't be proper."

"This isn't from IA, sir. It's Atlanta PD."

His mask shattered. He stood and walked around to sit behind his desk, putting its bulk between us. "Police? That's unusual."

I nodded and waited for him to offer more. He didn't speak.

"Sir, can you walk me through the chain of custody procedure for restricted drugs in a fire station?"

He hesitated; caution was written all over his face. This was surely a hot potato he'd rather never touch, and here I was tossing it directly into his lap. On or off the record, there was no way he would want his fingerprints anywhere near something like this. I had to ease his mind somehow.

"Sir, I want to help." I set my pen and pad on the edge of his desk so he could see I wasn't taking notes. "I don't know how long it will be before the police department acts on their findings. It could be weeks or months, but our sources think it will be days. I want to better understand how these things work so I can write a story that will frame this for people. If someone is stealing drugs, arrests will speak for themselves, but we still have a chance to tell the story in a way that protects the rest of the department and your people."

His head tilted as he thought, his eyes drifting past me. Then he nodded slowly. "Fine. What do you want to know? I can't promise to answer everything, but I'll tell you what I can. Nothing about individuals, only general procedures. Those are public anyway."

"That's all I need. Procedures. Thank you, sir." I grabbed my pad and flipped it open. "Could you start with when medical supplies are ordered, how that is triggered, how inventory is maintained, where items are stored, and walk me through the disposal of old, outdated medicines?"

"You don't ask for much, do you?" He chuckled. "I think we're going to need coffee for this conversation."

After a quick trip to the kitchen, we settled back into his office, me in the same chair and the captain comfortably on the couch. He walked me through the basic ordering process, which, to my surprise, was basically a paper system of notebooks, receipts, and flimsy paper trails. He responded to my cocked brow by saying simply, "We can use our limited budget for scanners and bar codes, or we can buy life-saving equipment. It really comes down to that choice."

I couldn't believe a city the size of Atlanta couldn't walk and chew gum, but Zhang appeared sincere in his frustration over budgetary matters. I bookmarked that topic for a possible future story, something that would actually help the department rather than pick it apart.

When he got to the part about daily inspections, I raised my pen, pausing his explanation. "Is there a single person assigned to do these inspections, or does it rotate? How does that work?"

"In larger stations where there are two or three truck teams working in each shift, the duty might be shared. Generally speaking, each team assigns one person primary responsibility for the checks. Others would take the lead in checking batteries, gas-powered equipment, hoses, oxygen tanks, and the like. It's all very structured and orderly."

"What about in this station?" I asked.

"We only have one truck and one ambulance, which means only one of each team works during each shift. There are a few others with random duties—"

"Like the captain?"

"Yeah, like me." He grinned and nodded. "Anyway, whichever team is working on a given twenty-four-hour shift has a person who takes lead."

"So, technically, there are two primaries in this station, one on the team with Dane, Burton , Alex, and Sam, and another on the team that works opposite days?"

Zhang nodded. "Exactly. Although, there is a third team who rotates through. They're only here once a week, but they have a guy who takes lead on these checks when they're here."

I scribbled a note. "How do they record these checks? More paper?"

I knew the answer from my snooping but wanted the captain to confirm what I'd found. There could've been some nuanced step I'd missed from simply scanning the logs that offered a better explanation for the disparity in the data.

"We have logs," he said simply. "Dig through them if you want. They're downstairs on the counter where the checks are done. Just don't remove the log from the bench, alright?"

"Of course. Thank you." I wrote on my pad like he'd told me something I didn't already know, then made a show of thinking hard by biting the nib of my pen and staring at the wall above his head. "What about the expired drugs? What's done with those?"

"They're destroyed. We have a sharps container downstairs—I think the guys keep it under the counter where the checks are done—that's where old meds are dropped."

"Does that get tossed in the trash?"

He shook his head. "No, the city contracts with a service that disposes of bio waste. It's one of the budgetary items we share with the hospitals. I think the police department and a few others might be in on that budget scheme too."

"Huh. So, someone from that contractor comes and takes the sharps container away?"

He nodded. "I'd have to check, but I think they come twice each month."

My eyes widened. "That's not very often."

"We don't throw that much out." He shrugged. "We maintain a small inventory but try to adhere to just-in-time ordering principles. If we run low, we can always borrow from other stations or hospitals. The city's network is its own safety net."

That was interesting. I had never thought about all the various services across a city coordinating inventory needs. While I didn't view local government as a wasteful monster devouring every dollar in sight like some politicians claimed, I was pleasantly surprised to learn that our government had thought like a business, at least where stocking drugs was concerned. That sparked yet another idea for a future article, so I frantically scribbled another note.

"So, once expired meds drop into the bin, they can't be removed?" I asked.

Captain Zhang stared as though trying to process my line of questioning. "I've never tried to open the sharps container, but I would think they are sealed shut. We can go down and look if it's important."

"It might not be. I was just curious." I played it off but couldn't stop my brain from spinning like a dreidel and a its three-year-old owner.

"Is there any supervisory review of these logs? Regular sign-off by managers?"

Zhang sat back, tossing an arm across the couch's cushions. "We have an annual audit. They verify the logs then."

"So, there's not a routine check at the station level?"

"No."

"What about cabinets or pantries containing inventory?" I shifted, hoping he wouldn't see the way my breathing had sped to a sprint.

He opened his mouth to answer, but I thought of something else. "Sorry, one more thing on the sharps container. Do you know if the contractor who takes those does any kind of inventory or weighs the containers?"

His brows scrunched, and an amused quirk twisted his lips. "You're asking if the trash men weigh the trash? Really?"

My laugh was awkward. "I guess that sounds silly, doesn't it?"

He nodded, and I swore he fought off an eye roll.

If there was no check between the time the drugs were disposed and the bins removed, how was I supposed to prove anything? There would be no way to tell if someone failed to put something in the bin or if the bin had been tampered with prior to collection. I stared at my notes, then glanced up at the ceiling, searching for answers that eluded me.

"Anything else? I need to get back to it." Zhang stood and strode around to sit behind his desk.

Something blinked where the ceiling met the corner of his office. A camera. Ohhh …

"Are there cameras downstairs?" I asked, my heart suddenly pounding in my ears.

Zhang nodded. "Yeah, they put in a new security system a while back."

"Are they recording? If so, how long are those kept and where are they stored?" I tried to keep the excitement out of my voice, but Zhang's pinched brow told me I'd failed miserably.

"They're retained for a month. There's a computer that controls the whole thing in our server room. All the videos are stored there." His tone had shifted from amiable collaboration to a guarded sternness that warned me away from asking for access right away. The server room was the heart of almost any organization. They wouldn't let just anyone in there, especially without a babysitter.

"Does anyone have access to those videos on a network?"

His head cocked.

"I mean, could the folks who supervise a station pull those videos up from some central server? Are they linked?"

He sat back and scratched his cheek. "I don't think so. I'm pretty sure they're stand-alone systems, but you'd have to ask the IT guys to be sure. That's not really my strong suit. I'm more of an axe and hose kind of fireman."

I liked Zhang. He was clearly a good man who cared about his troops. The idea of shaking up Dane's world had stabbed a dagger in my chest. Getting to know Zhang, even for only a short time, made that dagger twist. Still, I had a job to do.

"Has anyone requested access to your server room recently?"

"No. That would've come through me directly. No one else is authorized to grant access."

"What about the captain who works opposite you?" I flipped a couple of pages, scanning until I found his name. "Captain Frederiks?"

Zhang nodded. "Sure, yes. We run the station together. He could allow access, but I'm sure he would've told me about it in our daily handover."

An old reporters' trick I'd learned from Emily was to take sudden left turns in questioning someone, ask things in random order to keep them guessing and a little off balance. I hadn't done a great job of remembering that particular lesson but decided to employ it at that point in my conversation with the captain.

"Why would someone do this?" I asked.

Zhang didn't miss a beat. So much for my clever tactic. "Money, I would guess."

"Money?"

"Unless they're stealing a specific drug because they have a sick family member who doesn't have insurance—and that's a stretch, don't you think?"

I nodded slowly. "So, they'd sell the drugs? That means we're probably looking for someone in a financial bind."

Zhang's face gave nothing away. "That would make sense."

"Are you aware of any of your men or women in such a bind?"

He huffed a laugh. "There aren't any millionaires in my station. We're public servants. They pay us okay, but no one's getting rich. Throw in a few kids and a spouse with expensive taste, and there's your tight budget. It could be that one of the guys has a gambling problem and got behind with his bookie. I could think of a million reasons, and each one probably exists in every station in the city."

"Huh," I said as my chest deflated. So much for a smoking gun motive. I decided to leap off the ledge. "Would you allow me access?"

This threw him off. I could practically feel his spine stiffen. "To what?"

"The tapes. The video recordings in the station."

He froze, as if I'd asked to take command of an active fire. His pupils contracted as he stared at that dagger in my chest. I could feel it turning a little faster—and deeper.

"If there is an active PD investigation, I probably shouldn't—"

"Sir, they haven't even asked to see those tapes. I'm not interfering with anything they're looking at."

That was a reach. I'd uncovered the possible key to cracking this case, one way or the other. The police would definitely want to know about it. Ordinary citizens had a duty to advise them of material information related to a crime, but I was a reporter. Freedom of the press trumped almost everything when it came to rights and freedoms. As long as I didn't tinker with evidence or alter it in any way, I would be on the safe side of the law. Besides, once I found what I needed, I would even tip the cops off to its presence, offer something in return to Em's source who'd alerted us to this whole mess in the first place. Who knew, they might thank me for my diligence and cooperation—until they read my story. Heads wouldn't exactly roll over their investigative oversight, but careers wouldn't be helped by the public learning they'd missed such an obvious potential clue. There would also likely be a hunt for the leaker, which meant Em's source would need to stay quiet for a while.

I watched Zhang, resisting the urge to scoot forward to the edge of the chair. The whole story rested on his answer. My career, at least the next steps in it, would either rise or fall with his permission. I held my breath as he thought.

"Fine." He glanced at his watch as I tried to contain the happy dance breaking out inside my mind. "Two hours. When you're done, you need to text me directly. I will let you out and escort you from the station. No one can know you are in there, got it?"

I nodded like a kid being asked if he wanted a donut. "One hundred percent. I was just here to see Dane because—"

Oh shit.

"Because?" Zhang's smirk returned.

The man likely knew about us despite my best effort at remaining professional. Hell, Dane might have told him about us, for all I knew. The team was close. Why wouldn't they also be close with their captain? He might've been their boss, but he seemed like a great guy.

But should I acknowledge we'd become … whatever we were?

"We, uh, we're friends." It sounded more like a question than a statement. I was the suckiest liar who ever sucked … or lied.

He grunted. I thought it was a laugh, but it could've been anything; though his eyes twinkled in the florescent light of his office. "Let's go before the teams return from their run. They should be back soon."