“She did and you missed it. I guess you were running from a bullet-spitting drone when she passed on the information. She’s making progress. She’s pretty sure that all three families—the Sidorovs, aka Holdens, the Baileys, and the Fields—came over from Russia sometime in the early nineties. They all changed their names to American ones, and they’ve taken great measures to hide their Russian heritage. Whoever helped them was very skilled and had a lot of resources to make their Russian past disappear.”
“My father could do that,” Ava said. “Maybe that’s the connection. He helped them get out of Russia? The nineties? That was about the time of the fall of the KGB, but not everyone was happy about that.”
“And the KGB never really disappeared. They just renamed it the FSB. Maybe these people were agents for your father?”
She shrugged and winced. “It makes sense. And if they were in danger, he’d relocate them.”
“But right in your backyard?”
“Not all of them. Just the one family. The others that were killed were in San Diego, Texas, and Oregon, right? And the one in Oregon, Bridgette O’Reilly, was the sister of the guy whose family was killed in Houston—Carl Bailey.”
“Yes.”
She rubbed her forehead. “Trying to keep it all straight is giving me a migraine.”
“I can relate. But yes, you’re right on the families and how two of them, at least, are connected.”
“So, maybe my father had a reason for—”
The doctor’s arrival cut her off and sent Caden and Zane from the room. For the next hour and a half Caden paced the hallway while Ava’s wounds were tended to, including a quick trip to radiology for X-rays.
“You’ve been hanging around Ava too much,” Zane said.
“Why’s that?”
“She does the same thing. Paces when she needs to think.”
He was right. She did. Caden stopped and raked a hand through his hair. “It works.”
Zane narrowed his eyes. “I know that look. You’ve thought of something.”
“No, not really. But while we’re here, I want to check on Mickey.”
Zane frowned. “He’s not awake yet or someone would have called.”
“I know,” Caden said, “but I don’t care. I want to go see him.” He paused. “Has someone notified his grandparents?”
“Not sure.”
“Let’s go find out as soon as Ava can leave.”
“Ava’s leaving.” Caden turned at her voice. She stood in the door, a butterfly bandage on her cheek, another on her forehead, and her arm in a sling. “Where are we going?”
“You’re sure you’re up to going anywhere?”
“I’m sure. The bullet was just a graze. I’m losing the sling as soon as you break me out of here. I have some painkillers in my pocket that I’ll probably flush, and everything else is minor—even the knock on the head.”
“No concussion?”
“Not even close.”
“All right, then.” He looked at Zane. “Sounds like she’s in better shape than you are.”
Zane rolled his eyes and Ava covered a smile with her good hand.
“Let’s go.” Zane coughed into his elbow and led the way to the elevator. “He’s out of ICU, but they’re keeping him in a secure room with a guard on the door.”
“Excellent.”
“The officer who called it in said Mickey was terrified. His last words were, ‘Don’t let him kill me.’”
“He saw his family’s killer.”
“That’s what it sounds like, and now the killer has to make sure Mickey can’t identify him.”
Two floors up and a walk down a long hall took them to a corner of the square tower. The officer on duty looked up from his phone when they reached the glassed area that led into the room used for quarantine—or in Mickey’s case, protective custody.
Caden and Zane flashed their badges. “We’re here to see Mickey Fields.”
“You’ll have to run that by the medical staff.” He nodded to someone behind them. “Like her.”
A nurse stepped into the area and sized them up. “Can I help you?”
“Would it be possible to see Mickey Fields?” Caden asked.
“He’s still mostly unconscious.”
“Mostly?” Ava asked.
“He’s in and out.”
Ava took a step forward. “Have his grandparents been notified?”
“I’m not sure. He hasn’t had any visitors, so . . .”
“Maybe we could wait with him until his grandparents get here?” Zane asked.
“Just one of you.”
“I’ll go,” Caden said. “No need to give the poor kid the cold on top of all of his other issues.”
Zane scowled.
Ava’s phone buzzed. “I guess that’s my cue.”
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
Ava recognized John’s number. She grimaced, surprised it had taken him this long to call. Knowing she was about to be raked over the coals, she excused herself and stepped into the hallway. Zane motioned he was going to get a drink from the cafeteria.
She waved him on, then swiped the screen. “Hi, John.”
“What do you think you’re doing?”
The low, lethal tone to his voice stopped her. Then anger bypassed her filters. “I have a right to know who he is.” She paused. “Who he was.”
“No, you don’t. You don’t have any rights when it comes to him. He set things up the way he did on purpose. If you want to honor him, you should respect that!”
His words hit home. And yet—
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he continued. “The fine line you’re walking. The people you may be putting in danger. You need to—”
“I’m trying to protect people! You wouldn’t help me, so I had to take things into my own hands.”
“And you lied to Julie. You used your friendship with her, her love and trust in you, to get something that you know you shouldn’t have. What do you think that yearbook page is going to tell you?”
The guilt she’d been fighting ever since her visit washed over her like a tsunami. He wasn’t wrong. She’d justified betraying Julie’s trust in order to save lives. But how often had he done the same? Didn’t necessarily make it right, but something pushed her to see this through to the end. “Does she know?”
“No. I wouldn’t break her heart like that. She thinks of you as a daughter, you know that. Do you remember the times you called her, crying because your own mother was passed out, and what did Julie do? She talked to you, encouraged you, told you what to do and how to help Nathan, remember?”
“Of course I remember.” And she did. The memories were more than vivid, tumbling one over the other.
“And you go and pull this stunt. I thought more of you.”
Ava hesitated, hearing something more in his voice. Something . . . she could almost put her finger on. And then it hit her and she gave a short, humorless laugh. “Lay on the guilt trip all you want, John, but you admire me. You’re impressed at what I did, aren’t you? It’s what any good officer would have done—including betraying someone they love to get to the truth.” The last part of the sentence was hard to choke out, but it was true.