Chapter Twenty-Seven

Margo Angelhart

Isent Jack's call to voice mail, but followed with a quick text that I'd call in a few.

I'd just arrived at the Cactus Park police precinct because I needed to confirm that Carillo ran my plates. That meant talking to Rick.

Sergeant Rick Devlin worked swing shift in the 900, a long narrow precinct bordering Glendale west of the I-17 corridor. I had debated going to his house in Anthem, but decided after three months of no contact, showing up on his doorstep wasn't the best idea.

So here I was, outside his precinct and hoping it was open.

Phoenix PD was so understaffed that they often didn't have the people to handle walk-ins. They were understaffed three years ago when Jack left, and they were no better off now. Phoenix was the fifth largest city in the US and had half as many officers per capita as the fourth largest city—and a third as many officers as the sixth largest city.

So staffing precincts for walk-in traffic was one of the first luxuries to go.

Just because Rick was a sergeant didn't mean he sat at his desk all day—he was often in the field, responding for backup or whenever a ranked officer was needed at a crime scene. But, because he was a sergeant, he was always in the precinct at the beginning of his shift.

I arrived at ten minutes before two, when he would officially be on duty, and was fortunate that the precinct was open, manned by a very pregnant woman in leggings, a filmy blouse, and lightweight jacket. My guess, a cop on light duty.

"Hi, I'm here to see Sergeant Devlin," I said. "Margo Angelhart."

"Angelhart? You know Jack?" She had a New York or New Jersey accent. I know they're different, but linguistics are not in my skill set. I can tell the difference between the west, the east, and the south, and that's about it.

"My brother."

Angelhart is not a common name. I was related to every Angelhart I'd ever met.

"How's he doing?"

"Good. You worked with him?"

"Eight years ago, before he got his gold shield, he was my FTO. Back when I only had one kid and thought that was it. You talk to him often?"

"Just had burgers and beer last night."

"Next time you see him, tell him Fitz got knocked up again."

"You're Fitz."

"Eleanor Fitzpatrick, a mouthful."

"Try Margaret Angelhart ten times fast."

Fitz laughed. "I saw Dev come in, but let me see if he's free."

She rose, put a hand on her back. "I swear, this is the last kid I'm popping out. 'Course, I said that four years ago with number two. It just gets harder the older I get."

There was a time I wanted kids. That's what happens when you grow up in a great family—you want to make a great family of your own. But I was on the verge of turning thirty-three and didn't have a steady boyfriend, let alone a husband, and I wasn't going to do it alone. I'd thought Charlie Endicott was the one, then he wasn't. For a while, I thought Rick Devlin was the one.

He wasn't. At least, the jury's still out. And the longer the jury was out, the less likely we'd make it work.

Rick came out with Fitz and stared at me. I wanted to melt. He was just as sexy as I remembered, and the way he looked at me as if he was surprised and pleased and confused all at the same time had me twisted up inside.

Rick was one of the few men who ever tied me in knots like this.

"Have a sec?" I asked.

Unspoken, in private.

"Of course." He walked me through the back. He glanced at my hip. "You carrying?"

"My usual." It was always a good idea to tell cops when you had a weapon, especially in their own house.

Rick and I had been to the range together many times. We were competitive. But win or lose, whatever we bet usually ensured we both won.

Rick was one of those guys I was super attracted to. All fit and lean and muscular with deep blue eyes the color of dawn, a square jaw, and dark hair that was always just over regulation length and curled at his collar.

Rick could have been a model. Knowing Police and Fire had a sometimes not-so-friendly rivalry, I once teased him he was so gorgeous he could be on the cover of the next Phoenix Firefighter calendar. He pretended to be angry and proceeded to do things to me in bed that he claimed no fireman was capable of.

I had to stop thinking about Rick and sex or I was going to make another huge mistake.

I'd promised myself three months ago when we had it out that I would not come back without a sincere apology coming out of this man's mouth. A bit of groveling would be nice. Hence, we hadn't spoken in three months.

Rick found a small conference room for us and closed the door. "I assume you want privacy."

"I really want a computer."

"You look good, Margo."

"Liar."

He smiled, shook his head. "I didn't think you'd want me to comment on the dark circles under your eyes."

"I like honesty," I said and returned his grin. "A lot of late nights this week. I need a favor."

"We haven't talked in three months and you want a favor."

"We haven't talked because you haven't called to apologize," I said, losing the smile. "I don't like asking you for a favor, but I don't have anyone else to go to."

He didn't say anything for a minute and he didn't avert his eyes. I refused to fidget. I stared back at him, as casually as I could.

"It depends," Rick finally said. "I'll help if I can."

I had thought the entire morning as I was installing my new security system about how much to tell Rick. He would know if I was lying—or at least suspect—and be less likely to help. But I didn't want to tell him everything. I knew him, and he would go after Peter Carillo.

Maybe I wanted him to, but not when it could jeopardize Rick's career.

"Can you find out if someone ran my plates? It would be recent—the last forty-eight hours. Law enforcement, but not Phoenix PD."

That surprised him. "Why?"

"I'll tell you if the answer is yes, you'll do it."

"I don't want to know if you've committed a crime, Margo. Don't put me in that position."

"I didn't commit a crime."

Rick and I had three fundamental problems in our relationship. One of them? He didn't like how I sometimes crossed the line. I would argue I walked the line, but he didn't concur. We had dealt with this conflict by, essentially, ignoring it.

He motioned for me to follow him to his cubicle.

"It's quiet."

"Everyone's on patrol."

"I thought you'd be in briefings."

"They staggered swing. Hell, last year they fucked up the entire schedule. And we're still seriously short."

"I know. It sucks."

"We need more good cops. With your background, you'd be fast-tracked."

"Don't start again."

When I left the Army, Jack tried to get me to join Phoenix PD. Being a female and former military and military police was like a trifecta of positives. I seriously considered it after two years of bartending while building my fledgling PI practice, but then I got my first big case and I knew then and there, being a PI was my calling. I'd had enough of the rules and regulations in the military, and being in law enforcement would be more of the same.

I liked my job, I liked making my own hours, and I especially liked not having to follow other people's rules.

"Can't help it," he said with a half grin and logged into his computer. "Let me think about how to do this—what agency, do you know?"

"DPS."

He typed quickly, but only using four fingers—the middle and index fingers on each hand.

Then he stopped. "I'm trusting you, Margo. Because everything I do generates a record, and I don't want to have to explain this to my LT."

"I didn't commit a crime."

He turned back to the computer. "Your plates."

I rattled off my license plate number.

He stared at the screen.

"Yes."

"Yes, someone at DPS ran my plates?"

"Monday afternoon, just after seventeen hundred."

"Shit. Is there any way for him to go back and erase his search history?"

"Every search is logged. It can't be erased." Rick looked back at the computer, printed the sheet. He stared at it, frowned. "Wait, we had a report come in this morning with this name." He closed down the database he was in and brought up the briefing sheet. "Trooper Carillo filled a missing persons report on his wife and two kids. Do you know about this?"

The bastard filed a report. I thought he might—when your wife runs away with your kids without a trace, you have to say something to someone otherwise you might be considered a suspect in their disappearance.

But what did I tell Rick? I technically hadn't committed a crime. Annie was the mother of those two kids, and she was still married to Carillo. If he wanted to fight his wife for abandonment or denying him access to his children, he had to go to court. He'd probably win, but it wouldn't happen overnight, and by the time he had a judgment, Annie would be deep in her new identity two states away.

"Can I see the report?"

"You promised to tell me."

"I will. But Rick—you have to make me a promise."

"What the fuck, Margo? Changing the rules?"

"I know you, and I don't want you to do something stupid."

"Are you in trouble?"

"No."

"Then just tell me."

I glanced around, but the only person in the bullpen was a detective on the far side of the room, and she was on the phone.

"Carillo's wife hired me."

"Why?"

"To protect her."

Rick's eyes darkened, his voice turning so low it was almost a whisper. He grabbed my wrist. "Are you telling me that Carillo hurts his wife?"

I should have found someone other than Rick to get the information from. I knew his story, knew about his childhood.

"Rick." I didn't raise my voice, but I glanced at where he held my arm tight.

He immediately let go, looked almost panicked.

This was our second fundamental problem. Rick had been raised by an abusive father and alcoholic mother. He feared he would turn violent, that it ran in his genes. He became a cop to help victims, but sometimes, his anger overcame him when faced with certain cases. He'd been suspended once for excessive force when he was called to a scene where a belligerent man had blackened the eye of his teenage son, then broke his arm right in front of Rick and his partner. At the same time, when he worked a domestic violence case, he could almost always talk the victim into getting help.

I didn't want to give him a reason to go after Carillo.

"He ran your plates," Rick said calmly. "So he knows you helped her."

"I was careful, but he's sneaky. He monitors all external doors—when they open and close—so he knew when Annie last left the house. He probably talked to the neighbors, looked at their security cameras. He could have run every car that drove down his street around the time his garage opened." I did not tell Rick that Carillo was in my house. I wasn't certain I could talk him down from going after the man, and I had no proof. If I had proof, I would have filed charges against him.

I held out my hand. "Can I see the report, please?"

Rick hit print, then handed me the paper when it popped off his printer. I read quickly.

"Fuck him," I said. "He's making claims that I know are not true."

"What claims?"

"Annie isn't depressed—postpartum? What the hell? That's just to make it sound like she might be a danger to her kids."

"Is she?"

"No."

"Where is she?"

"I don't know." Technically, I didn't know exactly where she was, only the city and the person she met when she arrived. "I didn't want to know. She's gone, she's not coming back."

"He can go to court."

"Let him."

"What did he do to her?"

I looked at him, really looked. "Do not go after him, Rick. I have a plan." Sort of. Not really. More, thinking about making a plan.

"What did he do to her?" Rick repeated slowly. Anger lit his eyes but his voice was cool, calm.

"Complete and total control over her life. Tracked her through her phone. Knew when she left the house and when she came home. Separated her from her friends. Repeatedly raped her. Every morning she woke up to him forcing himself into her. When she said no, he punished her—but never left a mark on her body where it could be seen. She started planning to leave when she found out she was pregnant with Marie. She hid grocery money. But she didn't know how to leave him without him being able to find her or get custody. When he accused her of flirting with a waiter, she finally reached out for help. She fears for her life."

"Arizona has some of the toughest domestic violence laws in the country. Why didn't you bring her to me?"

He meant to say to the police, but he didn't. Because he personalized these cases.

"Because Carillo is a cop and she doesn't trust the system. She feared he would get visitation and either take her kids or turn them against her. He's sadistic and cruel. She has no family—her mother's dead, father lives out of state and she hasn't talked to him in years, grandparents are dead, no siblings. She had friends, until Carillo. She had a job, until Carillo. She believes that only by disappearing will she live."

"And he knows you helped her."

"He can't surprise me because now that I know he knows, I'm prepared."

"A man like this—he'll come after you."

"I hope he does."

"Dammit, Margo!" Rick glanced around to make sure no one heard him. He lowered his voice. "Margo, listen to me—you are tough and capable and I'd bet on you any day of the week in a fair fight. But a man with a badge who hurts his wife isn't going to play fair when you screw with him."

I was doubly glad I hadn't told Rick about the break-in.

Rick continued. "He needs to be fired."

"Good luck with that," I said.

"I have resources. I can get Annie into a safe shelter, get her a good lawyer—your aunt, she's taken cases like this pro bono."

"Annie isn't coming back. I can't reach her. I don't have her number, don't know where she is."

"It's the kids—someone reports the kids and we'll have to go and make sure they're okay, put it in the system. He'll know where they are, can still get to them. She needs to testify. I know it's hard, but—"

"Not going to happen. She left the state." I winced. I hadn't meant to say that, but Rick probably suspected I knew more about Annie's whereabouts than I'd admitted to him.

He stared at me. "You gave her money, didn't you?"

I didn't answer. He knew me, and I didn't want to argue with him about my finances.

"Rick, I got this. Thank you—I mean it—for helping me."

"Does Jack know?"

I shook my head.

"He needs to know."

"No, he doesn't. Look," I added before he could argue with me, "if I get any sense that Carillo is going to do something rash, I'll talk to Jack. Right now, there is nothing against Carillo. I'll find something. Because you and I both know that his wife isn't the only one he hurt."

"I'll look at his record."

"You don't—" The look on his face had me stopping mid-sentence. "Okay. Don't do anything stupid."

"Double for you."

I rose, turned to leave, then looked back over my shoulder. "Tell Sam I said hi."

He nodded, but didn't say anything.

I left. Samantha Devlin was our third fundamental problem. Rick's thirteen-year-old daughter had come to me three months ago for help with a cyberbully. She hadn't wanted to tell her dad, and I hadn't told him. I had mistakenly believed because Rick and I were on a more serious spin in our on-again, off-again relationship that he trusted me with his daughter.

He found out and told me that I wasn't her mother and had no right to keep something like a cyberbully from him. It hurt. He was partly right—I should have told him, or pushed Sam to tell him what was going on. But I had been a thirteen-year-old girl and there were some things that thirteen-year-old girls were not comfortable telling their fathers—especially a first kiss and the subsequent rumors and lies that followed online. He was right—but what he said cut deep. I love Sam. And Rick cut her out of my life.

Some things Rick and I could overcome.

Some things, we couldn't.

I called Jack as I left the station.

"You rang?" I said.

"I thought you were helping us."

"I have other cases."

"I'm here with Logan. If you're willing to help, I could use it. Tess and Luisa are working another angle."

Jack, wanting my help. Did he really need it, or was this another stunt to get me to join the family business?

Still...if Jack was helping Logan, I could find out more about him and his relationship with Brittney, try to figure out why she'd hired me in the first place.

Brittney wanted a divorce with as much money as she could get, which meant proving adultery. But my gut told me she knew he wasn't cheating, so why hire me before she set him up with Rachel? Maybe she'd tried to set him up at the beginning but it hadn't worked? She hadn't even known about Jennifer until after Logan met with her.

There were genuinely stupid people in the world. And increasingly, I suspected Brittney was one of them. Unless she had some brilliant endgame in mind that I just couldn't see yet.

"Okay," I said. "Text me when and where."