stepped up behind Dr. Jones, abruptly felling her with a blow to the back of her head. She crumpled without a sound.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Detective,” Maitlin drawled, cold stare contradicting him. “You have caused us considerable time and money, but the result will be worth it.” To the others, he ordered, “Burn it down. I have what I came for.”
– – –
Though only static came though the headset, Cee Cee’s voice was clear in his mind.
“Max, I need you. Hurry!”
By the time he reached the clinic at a dead run, smoke seeped from under the door. Contact with the knob burned his palm as he flung it open to find flames had fully engaged the file room and raced across sagging ceiling tiles into the waiting area and down the outer wall. An acrid fog made visibility all but impossible. He could sense her but couldn’t see her.
“Charlotte!”
As he pushed into the caustic smoke, he could just make out three shadowy figures engaged in vigorous hand to hand. As one went down hard and another reeled backwards, Cee Cee’s raw shout reached him, “I’ve got this handled. Get Dr. Jones. In back. She’s hurt.”
Though instinct growled for him to protect her first, he heeded her wishes over his pride, advanced rapidly into the thickening haze. “Dr. Jones!”
Covering his mouth with the flap of his coat, he heard nothing over the snap of flames except the wail of approaching sirens and his own heartbeats thrashing in his ears.
The sight of a body stretched out on the floor snatched away what little breath he had left. Scooping the limp figure into his arms, Max made a hurried retreat as heat and smoke filled the waiting area with noxious fumes and the sickeningly sweet odor of burned flesh. He couldn’t see anything through the blanketing haze.
“Charlotte!”
“Out here!” her mental call directed.
He stumbled from the building where fresh air triggered a paroxysm of coughing. Max collapsed to his knees between the truck and pumper angled outside the building. Choking, gasping, he surrendered the gravely injured doctor into the hands reaching for her.
A soft, compassionate voice assured, “We got her, sir. We’ll take care of her.”
While paramedics worked over the yet unresponsive figure, Max struggled to his feet, more overcome by fear than by the acrid smoke.
And then he saw her.
One uniformed man lay face down on the wet pavement, hands secured behind him while Cee Cee clapped handcuffs on another kneeling next to him. Her fake stomach was dangling by a single strap beneath an open coat that was as singed as the blues of the patrolmen. Her face wore streaks of soot, the mangled wig laying on the pavement beside her like a small animal victim of a hit and run. Coughing interrupted a terse reading of Miranda rights, but she got through them before finally looking up.
Their stares locked. Her smile broke wide and white against grimy skin.
She was the most glorious thing he’d ever seen.
– – –
After gulping down his third bottle of water, Max demanded, “What have you found out?” He’d been cooling his heels at the Institute for over an hour while Cee Cee was put through an all-points checkup by Dr. LaRoche.
The two detectives exchanged solemn looks. Finally, Junior Hammond put their grim knowledge into words.
“We got nothing. Me and Boucher got rerouted to a potential officer-involved shooting.”
“Leaving one of your own?” Max growled, struggling to contain his inner beast.
Seeing his eyes flash red, the younger officer spread his hands wide. “We were radioed that the op had been called off and were put on the other call. No way in hell we’d just walk off and leave her on her own, Mr. Savoie.”
They’d been lured away.
“No record of that call to us. The guy Charlotte ID’d,” Hammond intoned, “doesn’t exist. No Jeffrey Maitlin, doctor, dentist, or dog catcher in Chicago or anywhere else that fits the description. Na-fuckin’-da.”
Max leapt up, pacing the tiny waiting room. “They pulled you off. What about the uniforms?”
“Bar bouncers trying to make it as bit part actors.” Hammond shrugged. “They was told they were extras in an action flick. Hell, you can’t turn a corner ′round here without tripping over a film crew or folks asking if you’re one of them NCIS TV fellas so’s they can take a picture with you.”
Boucher snorted. “Pity them that got theirs taken with your ugly mug.” He fended off Junior’s swat and added, “Your missus gave ′em a good going over. PR’s