In Close Quarters. Candace Irvin

But that’s…” She couldn’t even finish.

      He nodded. “Much deadlier.”

      “But…teenagers?”

      Another nod.

      She wrapped her arms about her chest, desperately trying to ward off the sudden chill swamping her. “You think it’s related to the note, don’t you? You think the fentanyl came from this hospital.”

      “Perhaps. I do know it was surgical quality, definitely not street, because they still had the glass ampules on them, but the stock numbers were etched off. When you showed me the note, I had hoped to check around a bit more before I came in undercover. To be sure the ampules were from this hospital.”

      “Then why didn’t you?”

      But she knew.

      His frown deepened, confirming her suspicions. “There was another overdose last night. 2:00 a.m. She was sixteen, perhaps seventeen. I cannot be certain because I have not yet been able to identify her.”

      Karin bypassed her desk and slumped straight into her chair with a thud. “So young.”

      “Sí.”

      Sixteen years old.

      A sophomore in high school.

      She should be going on her first date, learning to drive a car, looking forward to college. She certainly shouldn’t be out at 2:00 a.m. on a school night, shooting up a drug that was seventy-five times more potent than morphine. The girl had to have suffocated within minutes. Where the hell had she gotten it?

      “Doug.”

      TJ hunkered down in front of her, reaching for her hands as she locked her fingers together and stared at them.

      In a way, this was her fault. She should have nailed Doug Callahan’s ass to the wall last summer when she’d had the chance. But no, she’d kept her mouth shut. She’d been so damn worried about making waves for fear she’d lose her slot that she hadn’t even tried to turn him in—not to mention the fact that her stepfather would find out—that all she’d done was deny the charges. Without proof, it was Doug’s word against hers. When hers finally won out, no doubt aided by her stepfather’s reputation, Doug had even had the gall to call her up and warn her that someday he’d get even.

      Well, it looked like someday was here.

      She really should have gelded him when she’d had the chance. She glanced up as TJ squeezed her fingers. “If Doug is behind this, I want his head on a pike. You just tell me what I have to do to get it there.”

      “Dine with me.”

      “Excuse me?” Of all the requests she’d expected, that was not one of them. At the very least, she was sure he’d be telling her to leave town again.

      “Sí, dinner. I want you to sit down with me tonight, go over the list of names I have. Doctors, residents, interns, nurses. As the USS Baddager’s doctor these past two years, you had to have consulted with some of them, no? I must learn as much as I can about each one. Information that will not be in their files, information you may have.”

      She nodded. “Anything you want.”

      “Good. Then after dinner, I would like you to pack your suitcase. I want you to visit your mother, Cariño, and leave the remainder of this case to me.”

      She’d do anything, all right.

      Anything but that.

      He was late.

      Karin kicked off her heels and stalked across the kitchen tiles in her stockings, stopping just short of the cordless phone on the wall. She glared at the chunk of silent plastic before wrenching her gaze back to the clock on the stove. No, TJ was worse than late.

      He was dead—or he’d better be.

      He’d stood her up.

      Why she was even surprised, she didn’t know. But she was. Correction, at six-thirty, when he was still just half an hour overdue, she was surprised. Perhaps even a little worried. But now? At ten o’clock? She was beyond worried.

      She was livid.

      Karin ripped the refrigerator door open and stared inside. The bottle of wine she’d left to chill in the middle of the empty shelves taunted her. She slammed the door and turned back to the stove. Back to the clock. Back to that damned silent phone. Not only had the rat stood her up, he hadn’t even had the decency to call and let her know. As if he would.

      They never did.

      Not the smooth ones.

      Oh, no. They just cruised in, hours late, flowers in hand with a new lie dripping from their lips. No doubt his would be a doozy. Probably twenty-five with long brown hair and legs even longer. Not that he’d phrase it quite like that. Lord knew TJ was experienced enough to couch it better. He’d have been running late, there’d been an accident, he’d stopped to help. Or maybe he’d been called out on a case. Hell, given his past, he probably had a hundred prime excuses stocked inside some corner of that philandering brain, each just waiting its turn.

      Well, it didn’t matter.

      By the time she was five years old, she’d heard them all.

      She spun around and jerked the refrigerator door open again, this time reaching for the bottle of wine. But as she thunked it onto the counter and opened the drawer to grab the corkscrew, she froze as the enormity of her actions slammed into her.

      What the hell was she doing?

      She swung her gaze back to the bottle. To the goblet she hadn’t even realized she’d placed beside it. How many times had she seen her mother with a goblet and a bottle just like this one, on a kitchen counter just like this one? And how many times had she sworn that no man would make her do the same?

      Disgusted, she slapped the corkscrew back into the nest of utensils and slammed the drawer home. She turned back to the oven and yanked the door open. Removing the still-warm containers of Luigi’s legendary take-out linguini, she dumped them into the trash compactor. Finally she added the unopened bottle of wine to the top. She was not recycling that bottle—because it was exactly where it belonged, along with any chance of ever dining with TJ Vásquez again.

      In the garbage.

      Then she turned on her heel and went to bed.

      She was going to be angry.

      TJ stood at Karin’s door, his motorcycle helmet resting gingerly in the crook of his left arm, the knuckles of his right hand poised, inches from knocking, as he acknowledged the truth. No matter how much he had tried to deny it on the ride over, he knew Karin was going to be angry.

      And that was if she let him past the door.

      He pulled his hand back. Perhaps this was not a good idea. Dios mío. He knew it was not. Unfortunately he needed to see her. Tonight. For several reasons. The least of which was the message she had failed to get.

      Then there was the other.

      He knocked.

      As ten raps became twenty, he increased his force—and his worry. Where was she? Had she not left the hospital as he had asked this morning? Had she confronted Doug Callahan, instead, even though she had promised she would not?

      He refused to believe she would be so foolish.

      He chose to believe she was safe.

      Sí. Most likely, she had grown tired of waiting for him to arrive and had packed as he had requested. At this very moment she was no doubt tucked between satin sheets at her mother’s home in La Jolla. He was about to pick her lock and make certain when he heard a noise from within. The scraping of a chain sliding across its track.

      The door opened.

      Karin’s beautiful face, heavy with sleep and heavier with anger, greeted him. “Good, you’re alive.”