“Thank you,” he said.
“No worries,” the man said over his shoulder, already retreating toward the safety of his wife.
Quinn shrugged on the jacket and zipped it up to cover the blood. He was thankful that he’d met one of the rare, decent people in the world who didn’t feel compelled to dish out advice. He looked up at the sound of a chime. Measured relief washed over him as Thibodaux and Ronnie got off the elevator with two men. OSI was a relatively small organization, especially when it came to officers. Quinn knew the detachment commander at the Academy but wasn’t familiar with either of these agents. One, an African American man in his mid-twenties, wore 5.11 khakis, a blue OSI polo, and a light cotton jacket. The other, older by a decade, had a blond goatee and wore pressed jeans. The senior man’s sport coat was tailored too close to hide the fact that he was wearing a pistol on his left side.
Garcia snaked her arm around Quinn, oblivious to the blood. They’d all been close enough to the action that each looked as though someone had taken a red paintbrush to their clothes. The stains stood out starkly against Garcia’s bright yellow dress. She snuggled next to Quinn, offering physical and moral support. He returned the gesture, arm around her waist, hand on the swell of her hip, to draw her even closer. Thibodaux raised the brow over his functional eye. Like a good partner, he said nothing, waiting instead for Quinn to fill them in about Kim’s condition on his own time.
The African American agent extended his hand. He looked fresh out of the OSI Basic in Glynco. “Mr. Quinn,” he said, shaking Jericho’s hand. The formal title of Mister when addressing an agent who was an officer allowed OSI personnel, whether they were enlisted, officers, or civilian, to leave everyone’s rank a mystery in the event their investigation led them to question a superior. “I’m Special Agent Torrance, Field Investigations Squadron here at the Academy. This is—”
“Mike DeKirk, FBI,” the agent in the sport coat said, cutting him off. He had a strong Texas accent, which put a frown on Thibodaux’s face as soon as he heard it. Texans had a way of ruffling the Cajun’s feathers.
Jericho shook their hands. “Thanks for coming so fast.” He glanced up at Thibodaux, filling him in. “They’ve had her in surgery for a while now. I’m still not sure what’s going on. Is Camille still okay to watch Mattie?”
“No worries, l’ami,” the Cajun said. “She can drop off the boys with the Bruns and bring Mattie over when you give the word.”
Jericho nodded. “I’m sure Kim will want to see her as soon as she wakes up.” If she wakes up… He pushed the thought out of his mind.
DeKirk cleared his throat. “I hate to interrupt, but as you know, time is of the essence in these cases. Is there anything you can tell us that might help find who did this?”
Quinn took a deep breath, started to say something, then changed his mind. “I really wish I could.”
“Nothing at all?” DeKirk pressed — as any good investigator would. “Does your wife have anyone that might want to hurt her?”
Quinn shook his head.
“I know it’s difficult,” DeKirk shrugged. “But I need you to think. Anyone at all, jealous boyfriends — maybe any of your old girlfriends—”
Agent Torrance shook his head. “Might not be the best time to worry with that,” he said, nudging DeKirk.
“And how about you, Mr. Quinn?” DeKirk said. For some reason, Mister sounded much less polite when it came from the FBI agent’s mouth. “You have any enemies?”
“I’m sure I have a few,” Quinn said.
“Care to go into any detail?” DeKirk shrugged. “This shooter was a professional. You need to tell me what you know.”
“Listen,” Quinn said evenly, keeping his voice low so the young couple across the room couldn’t hear. “I know you’re just doing your job, DeKirk. Believe me, I want to catch whoever did this worse than you—”
“Do you, Quinn?” DeKirk’s eyes narrowed. “Because it seems like you’re holding something back. It looks to me like you don’t give a shit if your ex-wife’s shooter gets away.”
Quinn took a deep breath, held it, gritting his teeth. Ronnie touched his arm, surely feeling he was about to explode.
“Come on.” Agent Torrance put up a hand again. “This isn’t the time or place.”
DeKirk glared at the young agent. “Don’t tell me about time and place.”
Thibodaux took a half step forward, closing on DeKirk with his intimidating height. “We all get the good cop bad cop thing,” he said, voice flat. “But you press this now, while it’s still touch and go with Kim’s surgery, and it’ll be good cop, flat-on-his-ass cop.”
Quinn counted to ten before speaking.
“I will tell you everything I know, but I’ll have to get you cleared first. Then I’ll need everything you have on this.”
“Not the way it works, Quinn,” DeKirk said, dispensing with the Mister. “You know that. In situations of terrorism, the Bureau has the ball. Somebody shot your ex. I feel for you, I honestly do, but you’re way too close to this. OSI can do a joint investigation if they want, but I seriously doubt your command will let you be part of it. Now calm down and tell me what you know.”
Quinn’s nostrils flared. The man was only doing his job. And yet Quinn felt the pressing need to hit someone, so it might as well be DeKirk.
Thibodaux snatched up a Sports Afield magazine from the lobby chair and borrowed a pen from Agent Torrance. Scrawling something quickly on the back cover, he held it up toward the FBI agent in a hand the size of a pie pan, trying to mediate. “Little suggestion here, DeKirk, why don’t you get ahold of your boss’s boss’s boss and have him give this number a call. They will verify that you should cooperate with us. That way, we won’t all have to pee on everything to mark our territory.” The big Marine gave a smug grin. “How ’bout that?”
“Whose number is this?” DeKirk eyed the magazine.
Thibodaux shrugged. “Ask your boss.”
“I thought you were just Air Force OSI,” DeKirk scoffed.
“I am,” Quinn said.
Fuming, the agent whipped out his cell phone as if it were a weapon. He ripped the back page off the magazine and stepped away to make his call just as a tall man in green hospital scrubs walked through the double doors from surgery.
He wore a black cloth surgeon’s cap imprinted with red chili peppers. A mask hung around his neck and paper booties from the OR still covered his shoes.
Quinn felt his heart in his throat when the surgeon smiled a noncommittal smile. It was closemouthed, but hopeful — certainly not the smile of someone with horrific news.
Ronnie Garcia reached to take Quinn’s hand in hers, squeezing it tight.
“She’s stable,” the doctor said. “It’ll be a few minutes before they get her settled in recovery. She’ll be groggy but you can see her.”
Relief and guilt washed over Quinn. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said.
“There are some issues we need to discuss.” The surgeon folded long fingers together at his lap. “She lost a lot of blood.” His eyes shot sideways, almost imperceptibly. It was just for a moment, but Quinn saw it and braced himself for what was about to come next.
“The bullet was moving extremely fast when it hit her,” the surgeon continued. “There was a massive amount of hydrostatic damage to the nerves and surrounding tissue. Rounds like this tend to tumble.” He shook his head as if recalling the damage — impassive, clinical. “We tried our best, but there was no way to save her leg.”
Quinn’s mouth hung open, stunned. He nodded stupidly but said nothing. What could he say? Kim’s nightmares for him had now fallen on her.