“Yeah, we’ll have to see if Patrick can put in some paperwork on his end, get it on the books with Recondito PD. Between the ongoing Ink investigation and a police officer killed in the line of duty while working the case, I’m sure he can put together a strong enough case to justify a surveillance team, at least on paper.”
Daphne nodded, then gestured to the laptop carrying case on Izzie’s desk. “You get everything you need?”
“I think so.” Instinctively, Izzie patted her pockets in sequence, making sure she had all of her equipment on her, even though she had just done so a short time before when leaving her hotel room. It was somewhere between a ritual and an obsessive tic. Phone, FBI credentials, firearm? Check, check, and check. Ammunition and handcuffs? “It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to get some more ammo before we go, though.”
“I got you covered.” Daphne headed toward the gun vault door, and Izzie followed her over. As she punched in the code on the electronic door lock, Daphne hummed thoughtfully. “I’m wondering if we shouldn’t tool up.”
She pushed the door open, and then held it for Izzie to step inside.
“What do you have in mind?” Izzie asked.
Daphne followed her inside, and gestured to the locked cages that lined the walls. “Bullets might not be enough to take those Ridden guys down, but maybe something with a little more stopping power could slow them down a bit.”
Izzie looked around the cages while Daphne pulled a keyring from her pocket and unlocked the locker where the ammunition was stored. A Resident Agency like this didn’t maintain the kind of armory that a Field Office supporting a Special Weapons and Tactics Team would, but what they did have might come in handy.
“You don’t think Agent Gutierrez would have a problem with that?” Izzie asked.
“I’m responsible for the inventory.” Daphne had a sly grin on her face as she passed her a few clips worth of ammunition for her semiautomatic. “We’d have it all checked back in before he even noticed, I’m guessing. And if we have to use any of this gear, and I have to write up any shots fired reports, well, the fact we needed it will justify the fact we took it, right?”
“Okay, then.” Izzie nodded, sliding the ammunition into her pocket. “Let’s tool up.”
A short while later the two left the offices, Izzie with her go-bag slung over her shoulder and the laptop carrying case in her hand, and Daphne with her overnight bag on one arm and a vinyl duffle bag containing a couple of tactical shotguns, two bulletproof vests, and several boxes of shells on the other.
“Come on,” Izzie said, glancing at the sky as they stepped outside. The sun was barely visible over the tops of the skyscrapers of the Financial District to the west. “We need to get moving. There’s some things I want to pick up on the way there.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Patrick was in the produce section of the grocery store, loading his basket with the ingredients for the stew he’d decided to fix for dinner, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and swiped it on, and saw that he had an incoming call from Joyce.
“Hey, you,” he said, holding the phone to his ear. “Where are you?”
“I’m at the morgue,” came the reply over his phone’s speaker. “I just finished up my report on Carlson, and as soon as I file it I’ll be heading down to your place. Are you there now?”
“No, just making a quick stop at the store.” Patrick tossed a bag of potatoes into the shopping cart.
“Okay.” She sounded a little preoccupied.
“Everything alright?”
He could hear her sighing on the other end of the call. “Yeah, I’m just a little spooked. Ten years working with dead bodies every day and I never really had a problem before, but now . . .” She trailed off.
“That was before one of them got back up off the slab and came after you,” Patrick said, his tone sympathetic.
“Yeah.” She paused for a moment. “Oh, hey, I finally got back the lab analysis of the stuff I found under Tyler Campbell’s fingernails.”
It was Campbell’s unexpected death in a holding cell, and the discovery of the vacuoles in his brain in the subsequent autopsy, that had first given Patrick the suspicion that there might be a connection with the Fuller murders.
“And?” he asked.
“Haven’t had a chance to dig too deeply into it, but it’s . . . weird.” He could hear papers rustling in the background. “I’m bringing it with me, so you can look it over yourself tonight, if you want. But like I say . . . it’s weird.”
“So, noted.” He steered the shopping cart out of the produce section and headed toward the butcher counter. “Can I get you anything at the store?”
She barked a quick laugh before answering. “How about a case of wine? After all that’s happened, I think I need at least that much.”
“I’m on it,” Patrick answered, chuckling.
“Okay, I’ll see you in a bit.” She paused, and added, “And Patrick? Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Never.”
The call ended, and he slipped the phone back into his pocket.
He might need to stop by the liquor store down the street from his place on the way, as well, Patrick decided. If the rest of them were as anxious about all of this as he was, wine might not cut it.
Patrick was unloading grocery bags from the trunk of his car when a car pulled to a stop at the curb a few car lengths behind him, and he felt himself tensing defensively as he turned at the sound of the engine switching off and the car doors opening. He glanced over his shoulder, his free hand slipping to his side toward the handle of his holstered pistol, but when he saw that it was Izzie and Daphne climbing out of the
