“Meet St. Louis County detective Cate Reilly.” Zeke moved beside her.

The man did a double take. “Neither of you were who you pretended to be?” He sighed and shook his head. “So much subterfuge in the world.”

That was rich, coming from him—but he seemed unaware of the irony.

“In case you’re wondering, Kayla is fine.” Cate listed slightly, as if she was having difficulty remaining upright, and Zeke absorbed her weight.

“I’m glad to hear that. She’s a fine young woman with tremendous potential. Would you tell her I’m sorry—about everything?”

Instead of responding, Zeke opened the door, guided Cate out—and wrapped her in his arms in the deserted hallway. “I’m taking you home.”

“Please.”

He helped her to a chair in an empty office, finished his business as fast as he could, and had her in his car and barreling west on I-64 within fifteen minutes.

“There are still so many unanswered questions.” She leaned against the headrest, her profile shadowed as he pushed the speed limit to the max to get her back to her apartment ASAP. “Like—how did Wilson make his Mexican connections?”

“We’ll get to all those questions—but in terms of connections, think about this. Given his work with addicts, some of whom were probably dealers as well, it wouldn’t have been difficult for him to gather information about local leadership . . . and cartel contacts. Based on the cover that kept him off law enforcement’s radar, the cartel would have been happy to shift power to him over time.”

“I guess that fits—even if I’m having difficulty understanding his rationale for getting involved in the whole sordid enterprise.”

“Join the club.”

She yawned. “Do you mind if I . . . if I let myself drift off?” Her words slurred.

“Not at all.”

Two minutes later, he glanced over.

Her eyes were closed, her breathing even.

She was already asleep.

So he’d see her home, tuck her into bed, spend the night on her couch—and first thing tomorrow, resolve another question that hadn’t yet been answered.

Namely, where the two of them went from here.

30

AS HER PERSONAL CELL began to vibrate on the nightstand beside her, Cate groaned, groped for it—and forced her eyelids open.

It took her a few seconds to focus on the name on the screen.

Sarge.

She put it to her ear and slowly eased her legs over the side of the bed, wincing as her ribs protested. “Morning.”

Or . . . was it?

Hard to tell with her room-darkening shades.

She squinted at her watch.

Nine-twelve.

It was either morning, or she’d slept almost sixteen hours.

Judging by her bleary vision and utter fatigue, it was morning—and she’d had a mere four hours of shut-eye.

“Did I wake you?”

“Uh . . . yeah.”

“Sorry. I know you had a long night. How are you?”