Page 36 of View from Above
He regretted the words the second they’d left his mouth, but it was too late to take them back.
She rolled her lips between her teeth. The small muscles in her jaw flexed, revealing her bite into the soft flesh he’d convinced himself he couldn’t live without. A line of tears glittered in her eyes, and Payton’s gut clenched. Too far. “And taking you to bed? What was that? Part of my manipulation to get you to trust me or just a bonus?”
“It certainly wasn’t because you thought there’d be anything between us after we closed this case,” he said.
“Wow.” Her scoff punctured his nerves. “You’re unbelievable. I can see why your previous partners opted for reassignment, Detective Nichols. Not because you’re abrasive and prefer to work alone but because you don’t trust anyone, do you? Not even yourself.”
Detective Nichols. A part of him hated those two words rolling off that perfect mouth, but she’d crossed the one line he couldn’t forgive. She’d helped herself to a part of his life he’d rather forget. His teeth ached under pressure of his mandible. “You don’t know me.”
“And you don’t know me.” The tears were gone now. Nothing more than for show. The trauma therapist he’d met on the rooftop of a potential crime scene washed the vulnerability from her features, leaving challenge behind. She closed the distance between them. “Despite what you might think of me and my profession to help those who can’t help themselves—including you—nothing that happened these past few days was a lie. I care… I cared about you, damn it.”
Payton ignored the rise of hope she was telling the truth. She’d investigated his father’s case. She’d lied to him by keeping him in the dark. And if she’d lied about that, what else had she told him to placate him? To get what she wanted?
Her hand shook as she clenched her jacket. “You weren’t a project for me to fix and investigating your father’s disappearance… I just wanted to help. I wanted to help you like you did for me. And whether you want to admit it or not, you needed that push. The resentment and anger you have for your father are going to keep coming back. They’re going to interrupt your life over and over again until you deal with what happened, and I thought if I gave you the next piece of the puzzle, you could take that step to move on.”
“Is that what you’re doing, Mallory? Moving on?” Every instinct he owned warned him not to push the issue, but the helplessness in not being able to solve his own father’s case had already taken control. “You’ve told me time and again how horrible Roland Kotite was as a father, right up until he died, but I don’t see you moving on. You’re here trying to find his killer, to give a bastard like that justice, like none of it ever happened. Tell me, how healthy is that? How am I supposed to believe you only have my interest in mind when you can’t even commit to your own bullshit?”
Mallory’s shoulders curved inward. “That’s not the same thing, and you know it.”
“Isn’t it?” he asked. “You can talk all you want about moving on, but I think you like where you’re at, Doc. You’re comfortable in the neglect and abuse, and I think you want people to see you, to hear your story, and pity you. In the end, you’re exactly like the man you hate so much. A narcissist willing to do whatever it takes to come out the victim.”
She stepped back as though he’d thrown a physical strike, and every cell in his body hated himself for it. Mallory recovered in less than a full breath, showcasing the strength she utilized to support others. “Well, you’re right about one thing. There definitely isn’t going to be anything happening between us after this case.” She severed eye contact, chin nearly to her chest. “I apologize for harassing you to take another look at this investigation, Detective Nichols, and for the obvious upset I’ve caused. Do what you want with the notebook. Everything’s already been arranged with my friend at the clinic. I’ll make sure you won’t hear from me again.”
Mallory shoved past him, knocking his shoulder back harder than he’d expected. His ribcage screamed in protest, but he wouldn’t bow under the pain. Because it was nothing compared to the gaping hollowness that threatened to swallow him whole.
The office had gone unbelievably quiet, and Payton realized Agents Dunn and Reese had left the door to the captain’s office open. Damn it. He couldn’t think about that right now. According to whatever exercise Lincoln Dunn had guided Mallory through, the killer wasn’t finished. Payton walked past the garbage can where he’d tossed the notebook with Mallory’s notes and back to his desk.
A few minutes later, Trooper Wells collapsed into a chair seated to one side. The weight of her attention pressurized the small amount of air at the bottom of his lungs. She set a to-go cup on the corner of his desk as he pulled Roland Kotite’s financial records and phone history.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Lucille Kotite stood to gain her husband’s properties, funds, and investments. If what Mallory had said was true, and her father had another child in the running for all that inheritance, they had to move fast.
“You realize you’re an idiot, right?” Wells asked.
His blood pressure had yet to come down from his confrontation with Mallory, and he wasn’t in the mood to rehash it all over again. “It’s none of your business. I need you to take a couple uniforms over to Lucille Kotite’s house. If she’s the killer’s next target like Mallory believes, I want eyes on her.”
“That, right there.” Wells hauled her feet off his desk and sat forward. Pointing straight at him, she settled electric blue eyes on him. “That’s why every partner you’ve had puts in for a transfer. Mallory was right. You don’t trust anyone. Not in the field, and sure as hell not with your personal life. Do you have any idea how frustrating that is? How can we trust you to have our backs out there if we don’t even know what’s going on in your head?”
He’d already been through one throw down today, but if Wells wanted to push, he’d give as good as she did. Payton cut his gaze to hers. “Here I thought you transferred because your sister was abducted last year.”
Wells stood as though he was the one who’d overstepped the boundaries they’d agreed to as colleagues. “You’re such an asshole. You don’t let anyone close then wonder why you’re miserable, can’t sleep, and alone. And you know what? You brought it on yourself.” She tossed a small notebook he recognized from the trash can in the captain’s office at his chest. “You should take a look at that. Maybe if you knew what really happened to your father, you’d stop taking your frustration with his case out on everyone else. Especially the people who still care about you.”
Payton let the notebook hit his desk as Wells strode toward the elevators without another word. It wasn’t enough he’d seen Mallory for who she really was, but the only friendly he had left on the job was walking out on him, too. Great. Then again, he was used to the isolation. His mother had checked out the day she’d realized her husband wasn’t coming home. Between school and working two jobs to keep a roof over their heads, he hadn’t had the time to be social. No school dances. No football games or rodeos. No going to the movies or getting into trouble. His and his mother’s entire world had depended on his singular focus, and that was what he was doing now. Focusing. That was what would give him the ability to catch this killer.
He tossed Mallory’s notes onto a pile of fresh cases and got back to work, but Roland Kotite’s phone history wasn’t enough to keep his attention. By the third time he’d caught sight of the unimposing bound notebook, he’d given up. Officers circled the office as ringing phones cut through the white noise of conversation, papers, and shuffling offenders. Grabbing the damn thing, he flipped to the first page.
She’d written his father’s name in soft italicized handwriting at the top. Details, dates, and notes taken directly from the police report he’d memorized over the years had been noted in the same handwriting across the small rectangular pages. How had she gotten ahold of all of this? Who’d given her access to—
Shit. The file in his desk where he’d kept his collection of empty notebooks. Payton set his elbows against the desk as he flipped through page after page. And at the end, she’d noted a handful of unrecognizable organization names that’d been crossed through. Except one. The Seattle Clinic.
And underneath that, John Doe, age sixty-six.
He didn’t know what to make of that, what to think. The only other information she’d left was a phone number. Payton wedged the handheld from his desk phone and dialed.
The line picked up. “Seattle Clinic, how can I help you?”
“Yeah, Dr. Mallory Kotite left me your information regarding a patient.” He fidgeted with the corner of the notebook. “A John Doe, mid-sixties—”
“You must be Detective Nichols. Yes, Dr. Kotite let us know you’d be contacting us. We’re glad you called,” the receptionist said. “Mr. Doe is one of our few patients who’s never had any visitors.”