Kissing the Key Witness

“Yeah, right.” He grinned as he pulled the parking brake on his prized 1967 Shelby Mustang. “And pink elephants really do exist.”

He glanced at his watch before heading to one of the small bay doors. He’d met snitches here countless times over the years. The Cuban-born owners knew that but said nothing, because—big surprise—they didn’t want the contents of their shipping crates examined by anyone calling himself a cop.

The prickles continued to tap-dance across his skin, Adam gave his eyes a few seconds to adjust, then made his way to the storage unit’s crowded center.

It smelled worse in here than outside. Tiny claws scrabbled on concrete as he squeezed between the towering crates. Catching a movement ahead, he let the grin return. His informant was acting more like the rodents around him than the bird of prey whose code name he’d adopted. The man’s head shot up as Adam’s holster scraped across the face of a crate marked Bananas.

“Only me,” he said when Falcon’s hand crawled inside his hoodie. “For the record, I was off duty and halfway across the city when you called.”

“I want it back.”

Adam resisted the urge to laugh. Not only had his snitch been pacing like a jittery rat, but in the bad light he actually resembled one. A cartoon version, with popping eyes, long fingers and feet comically elongated by deep patches of black.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Sorry, pal, but it’s done. I’ve got my evidence. You’ve got your immunity. Fair deal all around.”

“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to turn him in.”

Adam leaned on one of the towers. “Uh, refresh my memory. Who came to whom, begging for help?”

Falcon spoke through clenched teeth. “I had my reasons back then. Situation’s changed. I want it back.”

“Not an option.” Adam reached for his backup weapon. “And if you’re thinking about shooting me for it, you’ll be wasting good bullets. I’ve already—”

“Your captain’s gone fishing,” Falcon blurted, then offered a cynical smile. “I’ve got my sources, too, Tyler. You haven’t turned it over yet. Can’t until Monday. Means my boss’ll be free to kill me for another sixty hours. Even then I won’t be safe. I’m not the only person on his payroll.”

“Just the most cowardly.” Adam shrugged. “Or maybe the most desperate.”

“Do you know what he’s capable of?”

“I’ve seen his work.”

Falcon made a frantic flapping motion. “He’s got, like, elephant ears.”

“Well, I’ve got, like, elephant feet, and one of them’s about to boot you in your canary-yellow ass. He won’t—”

“He will.”

“Falcon, even Orlando Perine wouldn’t—”

His informant surged forward, teeth bared. “Talk about asses. I’m telling you, Tyler, he’ll yawn while he’s pulling the trigger. That’s how big a deal murder is to him. We’re talking ice water for blood. Reptilian brain. No emotion. Okay, I was desperate to get out, get away, so I did something stupid. But he found out. He knows someone’s turned. Doesn’t know who. Only that one of his people sold him out. Or is about to. Bottom line? It’s not worth the risk. I’d rather go to prison and live than die the way he’ll kill me if he finds out what I’ve done.”

Adam pushed off the tower of crates. “Have you been taking drama lessons as well as drugs? Gear down and breathe, okay? No one’s going to die. And no one but me is ever going to know—”

A sudden sharp pain in his shoulder, followed by another to the left of his spinal column, brought him up short. Blinking, he looked down at the front of his shirt. Twin blotches of red spread quickly across the fabric.

“Oh, hell…”

His vision wavered. He heard Falcon swear; saw him jump sideways and vanish behind a crate.

The prickles on his spine turned to claws that scratched so deeply, they scored his lungs. His chest heated and filled. His mind began to fade.

“Guess I was wrong,” he murmured. “Looks like someone’s going to die, after all.”

The black took over as he pitched face-forward onto the warehouse floor.

Chapter One

“Maya, wait!”

So close, Maya Santino reflected, with a sigh. She’d actually made it to the staff exit this time.

A lanky E.R. nurse swooped in from the side. “Nice try, Doc, but it’s a no go.” Spotting Maya’s earbuds, she cupped a hand to her mouth. “I said, we need you, Dr. S.”

“Yes, I gathered that, Jamie.” She pulled out the earbuds and stuffed the iPod into her oversize bag. “What’s the problem?”

“McVey’s here.”

Although she wanted to resist, Maya let her friend and colleague propel her back along the corridor. “You do know I was coming off a ten-hour shift even before that last two-hour meeting, right?”

“Is it my fault the man won’t see anyone but you?” Jamie Hazell continued to push her forward. “Admissions says his hand’s wrapped in a filthy towel, but he flat out refuses to go to the clinic. Says it’s you or no one. There’s Lysol at the desk if you want it.”

Maya grinned. “My uncle raises chickens in South America. Spend a weekend on his farm, then talk to me about McVey.” A brow went up. “Treatment room four?”

“As far from the madding crowd as possible.”

“There’s a madding crowd?”

Jamie swept a hand in front of her as they rounded the corner. “You decide.”

From Maya’s perspective, it was only mild mayhem. She’d seen much worse during her three-year tenure at Miami’s Eden Bay Hospital. Once, the sea of gurneys had been so deep, she’d been forced to climb over one to reach another.

Of course, they’d been smack in the middle of the hurricane season then. Storm after storm had pelted the southern coast. There’d been home and highway accidents, tramplings and assaults. Scores of buildings had been damaged. Maya’s roof had taken two beatings from uprooted trees. Her car had gotten it from a toppled streetlamp.

Reaching out, she straightened her friend’s name badge. “Cheer up, Nurse Hazell. You’re transferring out of the E.R., remember? Thirty days and counting.”

“Unless Dr. Driscoll changes his mind. It’s happened before. Enjoy your patient.”

Five minutes later, her earbuds replaced by a stethoscope around the collar of her lab coat, Maya pushed through the treatment-room door.

McVey—it was the only name he used—sat on a table. His thin shoulders were hunched, and his back was bowed. The thought struck, as it often did, that he seemed familiar in some way. Then, poof, the thought vanished, and he was just McVey again, a man currently in a great deal of pain.

He supported his injured left hand with a grimy right. He might not live on the street, but Maya suspected the odd jobs he did at a low-income apartment complex didn’t keep him far from it.

“Okay.” Using her two index fingers, she indicated the bloody towel. “What’s the story?”

“Got slammed in a furnace door. Rusty metal, sharp edges. Tore the skin when I jerked free. Uh, is Witch—sorry, Nurse Hazell working tonight?”

“I’m afraid so.”