All Fall Down. Erica Spindler

and day-old beer. He knew the type of man who seduced, battered, then in a possessive, jealous rage, killed a bright, beautiful young woman like his sister—he knew the type because he had seen their handiwork all too often.

      Connor brought his glass to his lips, hoping to wash away both the taste in his mouth and the images in his head, of Suzi and the countless other victims, of the unimaginable and unthinkable that through his work had become the everyday. Of Joli Andersen and the terror he had seen in her lifeless eyes.

      No amount of drink would rid him of the images—he had tried before. The best he could hope for was oblivion.

      It would have to do.

      His doorbell rang, impeding his progress to that end. Muttering an oath, he stood and made his way to the front door, ready to chew out whatever unfortunate had happened onto his porch.

      He flung open the door. Steve Rice stood on the other side.

      Connor glared at him. “What?”

      “Nice welcome.” The man smiled, obviously undaunted. “Should I consider that an invitation in?”

      “Suit yourself.” Connor swung the door wider and stepped aside so the other man could enter. Without waiting for him, Connor returned to the couch and his drink.

      Steve closed the door, then picked his way around the stacks of paperwork, stopping directly across from Connor. “Mind if I sit?”

      “Knock yourself out. Clear a space.”

      The other man carefully collected the papers that were spread over the seat of the easy chair, arranging them in a neat stack. He laid them on the floor, then sat, his gaze settling on Connor.

      “Thirsty?” Connor asked.

      “No, thanks. Unlike you, I’ve grown rather attached to my liver. I think I’d like to keep it.”

      “Amusing.” Connor held his glass up in a mock toast, then drained it. “You here tonight as a friend or a boss?”

      When he didn’t respond, Connor followed his gaze and saw that the agent was staring at a framed photo on the lamp table. It was a picture of his ex-wife’s son, snapped on one of the fishing trips they had taken together. The boy wore an ear-to-ear smile as he proudly displayed the bass he had caught.

      Connor reached across and laid the frame flat against the table.

      The man turned back to Connor. “Talked to Trish or her boy recently?”

      “Not since she left me.”

      “That was a long time ago, Con. What, a couple years?” Connor shrugged.

      “I remember you being pretty fond of her boy. What was his name?”

      Jamey. Connor fisted his fingers. “You going someplace with this, Rice?”

      “Just curious.”

      “Well, fuck off.”

      The SAC looked at his hands, loosely clasped in his lap. “You have the TV on at all tonight?”

      Connor looked up sharply. “Should I have?”

      “Cleve Andersen’s reward offer was the top story. After all, a hundred-thousand-dollar giveaway is headline news. They also ran an accompanying clip of you criticizing the move. I believe you called it bone-headed.”

      “Which station?”

      “All of them. Both the six and ten o’clock broadcasts.”

      “Shit.”

      “Yeah, shit.” He looked Connor dead in the eyes. “Cleve Andersen’s the victim’s father. He’s an important man in this town. He has connections that don’t stop at the state line. Powerful connections. Are you hearing me?”

      “I’m hearing you,” he said and stood. “But you’re not saying anything. Spit it out, Steve.”

      “First you challenge Andersen in front of a roomful of people, then you talk to the press. Andersen’s on the warpath.”

      “And he’s after my scalp.”

      “He did a little checking up on you this afternoon. Found out that you hit the bottle pretty heavy. Found out about your being censured. About your demotion.”

      Connor stiffened. “I still do my job. Better than anybody. And you know it.”

      “I knew it once.” He looked away, then back at Connor, his expression troubled. “You need to stop this, Connor.” He motioned to the room, the papers, the bottle. “It’s killing you.”

      Connor laughed, the sound hard and tight. “It’ll take more than a little tequila to kill me.”

      “It’s not the tequila I’m referring to. Let Suzi go, Connor. Let her go.”

      The words hit him with the force of a wrecking ball. “Let her go,” Connor repeated, his voice thick. He met the other man’s eyes, his burning. “And how the hell do I do that?”

      “You just do it.”

      Emotion choked him. “You don’t know shit. You can’t imagine what I … what I’ve—”

      A sound passed his lips, drawn from deep inside him, part fury, part pain. “It’s my fault, you asshole! She asked me for help, begged me to come home. Instead, I lectured her about standing on her own two feet. I told her the time had come for her to grow—”

      He struggled to get a grip on his runaway emotions. “Don’t you get it? If I had listened to her, when she asked for help, if I had only—”

      He bit the words back and swung away, shaking with impotent rage. With grief and regret.

      “I’m sorry, Con.” His friend stood and crossed to him. He laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m recommending you for a leave of absence. Effective immediately.”

      Connor turned. “Because I offended Charlotte’s leading citizen? Or because I’m tarnishing the Bureau’s sterling image?”

      “Look at yourself, you’re a wreck. Embarrassing the Bureau is the least of my worries concerning you. I let you keep working like this, you’re going to get yourself or another agent killed.”

      “Don’t do this, Steve.” He said it evenly, without inflection. It was as close as he would come to begging. “Without the Bureau, I’ll never catch this guy. He’ll get away with it, with taking Suzi.”

      “Don’t you see? He’s already gotten away with it. You have to let this go. You have to move on.”

      Connor shook his head. “I’ve missed something, that’s all. With the Bureau’s resources—”

      “Is that all this job’s become for you? A way to fuel your obsession?”

      “You don’t understand.”

      “No, I guess I don’t.” He held out a hand. “I’ll need your badge and weapon. I’m sorry, Connor. You’ve left me no choice.”

      11

      The phone awakened Melanie out of a deep sleep. Instantly alert, she grabbed for it, nearly knocking over the remnants of a glass of wine—a rare indulgence for her. “May here,” she said, her voice thick.

      The caller whispered something Melanie couldn’t understand. She frowned. “Officer Melanie May. Who’s calling, please?”

      “M … Melanie. It … it’s m … me.”

      “Mia?” She glanced at the clock, noting that it was nearly 2:00 a.m. Her heart leaped to her throat. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

      Her sister began to sob, the sound deep and broken, as if wrenched from the very center of her being.

      Alarmed, Melanie sat