Deadly Alliance by Kathleen Rowland Page A

door, she held tight to her seatbelt. The cruiser bumped up and around the parking ramp. She doubled over from nausea. The cruiser came to an abrupt halt, and she lurched forward.
    Finn turned around. “Here we are.” The nose of the vehicle pointed to the bathroom door.
    Amy scooted across the seat to look out. She recognized her Altoid’s box, keys, and hand sanitizer as they lay strewn across the cement. Something was tossed into a corner, but she couldn’t make it out. “Maybe that’s my purse over there.” She hoped her wallet was inside.
    Byron handed Finn a pair of white latex gloves and a plastic bag. “Use these while I check the bathroom.” Shoving his door open, Byron stepped toward it.
    Finn raised his brow. “This isn’t the work of a cleaning crew.”
    “Nope. Housekeepers are tidy.” Amy watched Finn unfurl his lanky body from the cruiser.
    Seconds later he was on his knees on dirty cement. He stretched to gather items from her purse. His involvement was a benefit, but she knew a couple of other things. That butt and those legs belonged to someone she’d like to know better.
    Holding up a pair of black, leather gloves, he threw her a cautious gaze.
    “Those are gloves, not what I was hoping,” she said.
    “Perpetrator’s gloves, I’d guess. You’re missing your purse.”
    Amy swallowed hard. “Nuts.” She stepped out and stood near him. “Are the gloves unlined?”
    Finn stood. “Yup. For purposes of dexterity.” The warmth of his breath fluffed against her face.
    Amy’s stomach reminded her to brace herself. Down in that room, blood had spurted and splattered. “The guy with the sword wore gloves. Byron downloaded the photos, right?”
    Finn nodded. “Sent them to the FBI.” His voice groaned with a gruff timber.
    “FBI.” Amy wanted to remain in the shadows, hidden from the bloody pandemonium while the police and FBI worked the case.
    Finn slanted her a glance. “You had a camera, as we all do, in our cellphones. You’re quite the crime fighter to have used yours.”
    She tried to be. “The gang execution went sideways. A robed man died. Didn’t look like the leader.” Their violence pulsed through her mind. Unlike the night of terror in Paris, where they wanted to blend in, here they made their presence known with robes and swords.
    Coming from the bathroom, Byron dashed past them to the cruiser and picked up the receiver of his police radio. Speaking into it, he said, “Send the fingerprint unit ASAP.”
    Looking at Byron, Finn held up the gloves.
    “Indeed. With blood.” Byron ran a hand through his hair. “Amy, your last photos showed a robed man. He wore gloves and pointed toward your camera.”
    Amy stiffened. “I was worried about noise. Forgot about the flash.” She watched Finn’s forearm flex as he bagged the gloves.
    Byron took his plastic bag. “Thanks, Donahue.”
    Finn raised his face toward the ceiling and cursed a blue streak. “What do we have to go on?”
    “Amy’s photos. The gloves are good.” Byron looked up from his seat in the cruiser. “Inside, they’re saturated with the oils and sweat of the wearer’s hands. Holds DNA, and leather leaves a print of its own.”
    Finn asked, “What about surveillance cameras?”
    “FBI is tapped into them. BOLO for a light-blue SUV is out.” Byron shut his door, leaving Amy and Finn standing together.
    Amy had read enough cop romances to know BOLO meant Be On the Look Out. Her sense of urgency mounted. “Just so you know. The Irish Roaches were held hostage around the table.”
    “How did you draw that conclusion?”
    “I’m from Long Beach. The Waterfront Roaches wear striped suits and gold, Claddagh rings.”
    He grunted. “Crazy. With the rings, they throw in a pinch of religious reference. The Roaches are menacing, but loyal to each other. What about the other gang?”
    “One Arab leader. The others wearing turbans spoke English.”
    “Recruits, then.” Finn ducked his chin and