Smith slipped his hand into her open shirt, his palm cupping her breasts. "You got something good in here?" he asked. "Heart sure is beating fast."
She stood as still as she could, eyes squeezed shut as his hand moved to her other breast. His breath was heavy, his pleasure evident.
Lena should have been terrified, but she was not. Something was eerily familiar about the threat of his body pressed into hers. Smith was a small man, compactly built. Muscles rippled along his arms and chest, and if Lena let herself consider it, he reminded her of Ethan. She knew how to handle Ethan, how to keep him walking that tight line between anger and control. Seeing how far she could push her lover was almost a game by now. The problem was that sometimes she lost. Lena had the split lip to prove it.
Smith whispered, "You got something good?" his breath hot in her ear. She could feel him pressing harder into her, making his intentions obvious. Lena felt herself floating somehow, like her soul was in another place while her body remained at the station.
Then there was another voice that Lena did not recognize. The second shooter had said, "Stop that," with little authority, but Smith still backed away, his hand lingering for as long as it could.
Smith ordered Lena, "Take off your shoes." Then told Molly, "You next. Up against the wall."
Molly's trepidation was obvious, but she followed suit, leaning her hands against the wall between the photographs. Lena buttoned her shirt as she watched Smith give Molly a solid pat-down without copping any feels. She moved away from the photographs and sat on the floor to untie her shoes. She had taped the knife to the indentation just behind her ankle bone, underneath her sock. The tendon throbbed, and she tried not to show her nervousness as she handed Smith her shoes. The high tops had covered her ankle when he frisked her. If he did not frisk her again or ask her to remove her socks, she would be okay.
Smith turned her shoes upside down, looking at the soles and peering inside. He did the same with Molly's shoes, then dropped them both back on the floor. Molly went to put on hers, but Smith stopped her.
He rummaged through the boxes, looking for contraband, then said, "Pick these up and tote 'em in the back."
Lena knelt down and picked up the box, covering her chest in the process. She waited for Molly to pick up the drinks before pushing open the swinging doors to the squad room. Lena had managed to slip her sneakers on but had not tied them. Her feet were sweating, but she could feel the surgical tape holding the knife. How could she pass it along? How could she leave it where it would do anyone any good?
She concentrated on the things that she could control, checking out the room. The station was turned upside down, but Lena was glad to find that the map Frank and Pat had drawn was pretty accurate. Clothes had been shoved into the air vents, and the filing cabinets and desks were shoved against the doors. Brad stood in the center of the room wearing his boxer shorts and a white undershirt, his hairless white legs looking like matchsticks poking out of his black socks and regulation shoes. Beside him, the three girls were on the floor tucked under Marla's arms like a flock of chickadees. At the rear of the room, Sara sat with her back to the wall. A man lay with his head in her lap, the bottom soles of his shoes facing Lena. She stumbled, dropping the box. The man was Jeffrey.
"Here," Brad said, picking up sandwiches and putting them back in the box. His eyes were open wider than usual, and he spoke in a deep baritone. "Matt was shot in the shoulder," he said.
"What?"
"Matt," Brad said, his eyes going to Jeffrey. "He was shot in the shoulder."
Her mouth said, "Oh," as if she understood, but Lena could feel her brain stretching to make the connection.
Sara's voice was a hoarse whisper, her concern obvious. "He's in and out. I don't know how much longer he can hold on."
Molly asked, "Can we do anything to help him?"
Sara had trouble speaking. She cleared her throat, then said, "You could get him out of here."
"That ain't gonna happen," Smith said, rifling through the sandwiches, reading the labels. "Man, this is ass." He seemed to be showing off, and Lena guessed it was for her benefit. She was becoming one of those women she hated seeing as a cop. She would go to their houses when their boyfriends got out of hand, and they would beg and cry to keep the bastard out of jail. There was something about them, something about the way they held themselves and looked at the world like they were waiting for one more punch. They gave off some kind of scent or something that invited the kind of guy who liked to hit women.
Sara said, "He needs medical attention."
Molly took her stethoscope and headed toward the back.
Smith said, "You going somewhere?"
"I was going to -"
"That's okay," Smith stepped aside with a slight bow. He saw Lena watching and gave her a wink.
Lena knew what was expected of her, and she said, "Thank you," without giving it another thought.
She started unpacking the sandwiches, handing them to the children and asking them each in turn if they were okay. Still, she felt that same disconnection, as if someone else was in the room handing out sandwiches and Lena as floating overhead, watching the scene.
The phone was still ringing, and Smith walked over, picked up the receiver and slammed it back down.
One of the girls jumped at the noise. She cried, "I want my daddy."
Lena soothed, "I know. It won't be long."
The girl started crying in earnest and Lena gave her a bottle of water, feeling helpless and angry at the same time. "Don't cry," she said, sounding more like she was pleading. Lena had always been horrible with kids. Still, she tried, "It's going to be okay."
Marla gave a low moan, her eyes glassy as she stared at Lena.
Lena tried to get the old woman's attention, saying, "Are you all right?" She tried to act like a paramedic, putting her hand on Marla's shoulder, asking, "Are you okay?"
Smith was over near Molly and Sara. He obviously did not like what he was hearing, because he finally said, "That's enough. Get out of here. Take the old bitch."
Molly said, "He needs help."
"What about me?" Smith asked, indicating a small strip of white cloth wrapped around his arm. Blood spread out from the center, nearly saturating it.
The phone started ringing again. Wagner had probably freaked when they carried Matt outside.
"There are supplies in the ambulance," Molly said. "Let Matt go and I'll stay here and suture you."
"Got a couple of heroes here," Smith said to his partner, and Lena realized he meant her as well.
Lena was kneeling by Marla, and Smith practically swaggered as he walked toward them. Without a word, he jerked up one of the girls by her wrist and yanked her toward the front of the room. She yelled, but he must have twisted her arm enough to shut her up. He took the crying child with him and talked to his partner. Lena was still on her knees, and she turned to watch them, putting her feet behind her. Slowly, she moved her hand to her ankle, feeling the pocketknife. She felt someone's hand over her's, but dared not turn around. Brad was to her right, so she knew it wasn't him. The children were too frightened to move. Marla. It must have been Marla whose fingers worked so deftly with the tape and removed the pocketknife.
Smith said, "We got a doctor, couple of paramedics. Why not?"
His partner gave a wary shake of his head, but seemed resigned to whatever Smith had planned.
Smith walked back to Lena, dragging the girl. "Go get your case out of the ambulance."
"What?" she said, not understanding.