Cincinnati, Ohio,
Saturday 19 December, 6.15 P.M.
Showered, bandaged, and wearing clean clothes, he pulled into his own driveway and parked the SUV he’d taken from the fleet at the Fairfield garage. That he only bought black SUVs and kept them all spotless wasn’t an OCD quirk. It was by design. If one got wrecked – or bled on – he could easily change it out for another. No questions meant no denials. No denials meant no lies that he’d have to keep track of and remember later.
He got out of the SUV, locked it, then did a slow three-sixty, checking out the houses on his street with a smile. His neighbors had outdone themselves decorating, especially the Wainwrights next door. Every year Ike Wainwright’s lights were the nicest on the block.
‘Really nice!’ he called up to Ike, who was perched on a ladder, adjusting the star atop the nativity scene in his front yard. It was populated by the three kings, shepherds, and the holy family, all fashioned from wax.
Ike owned a string of funeral homes. How he’d come by his expertise with wax was not something most of their neighbors wanted to think about, but Ike made a good living making the dead presentable. This he knew because he found out about each of his neighbors, from their income to their tax bill to how often they had sex with their respective partners. Ike and Mrs Wainwright still got busy with regularity.
That meant the old man was happy and occupied and, most importantly, not a nosy neighbor. He didn’t like nosy neighbors.
‘Thank you!’ Ike called back. ‘I bet Dorsey that my house wins this year.’
He turned to study the Dorsey house at the center of the cul-de-sac, six houses down. The two always competed for best decorations. ‘I don’t know, Ike. Dorsey has that Santa’s workshop and he gives out candy canes.’ He looked back up at Ike on the ladder. ‘You gonna have the animals this year? Because that might tip the scales in your favor.’
Ike always had a menagerie around the nativity scene, but the homeowners’ association had balked last year when he’d added a camel to the sheep and goats.
Ike scowled. ‘Yeah. Had to get a special permit. Lousy bureaucrats. I have a barn erected for them in the backyard. It’s not like we’re bothering any neighbors back there.’
Because their houses sat at the edge of the community. Directly behind their back fences was another fifty feet of trees, then a ten-foot electric fence topped by razor wire, followed by a thirty-foot sheer drop to Columbia Parkway. They got night traffic noise, but it was worth it to have the buffer. Nobody was going to sneak up on his home from behind.
‘Sometimes I think the homeowners’ association sits around and makes up stuff to annoy us,’ he said and Ike nodded vigorously.
‘But it’ll be worth it, just to see the smiles on the kids’ faces when they pet the animals.’ The old man’s face creased in a smile. ‘Stop by.’
‘We will. Be careful getting down from that ladder,’ he cautioned. ‘Don’t want a repeat of five years ago.’ When Ike had fallen and broken a hip. Waving his goodbye, he made his way up the sidewalk, noting the icy patches. He’d have to salt.
Or use kitty litter. He kept forgetting that salt was now a neighborhood taboo. Either way, he didn’t want anyone falling on his property. One fall could trigger a lawsuit and his entire life would be on review. No, thank you.
He paused to pick up a toy truck and a mini soccer ball, then opened the door. ‘I’m h—’ A small body launched from the middle stair, sailing through the air into his arms.
‘Daddy!’
‘Oof!’ He bit back a curse at the pain radiating up both arms and hoped he hadn’t popped any stitches. Dropping the toys, he wrapped his arms around the small bundle and made himself smile. ‘I think you’ve gained about a hundred pounds since this morning.’
Tiny hands grasped his cheeks and big blue eyes stared into his. Like looking into a mirror, every single time. ‘Santa,’ Mikey pronounced seriously.
‘Me?’ It came out as a surprised squeak. Had he been outed already? He’d been enjoying playing Santa and hadn’t wanted it to end. Not yet.
‘No, Daddy.’ The oh-so-mature voice came from next to his elbow, and he turned his smile down into eyes as blue as Mikey’s. At seven years old, Ariel was on the cusp of figuring out the holiday myth. ‘Mama said we could see Santa tonight after church. Mikey’s excited, that’s all.’
Dammit. Church was not going to happen tonight. He had to get out there and find Linnea. He’d only come home to fetch his notebook. It was the only place he wrote anything down. It was old-fashioned paper and ink, unable to be hacked.
But he had a few minutes for his princess who was always too damn serious. ‘Only Mikey?’ he teased and was rewarded with Ariel’s shy grin. ‘You’re not excited at all?’
‘Well, maybe a little,’ she allowed. ‘You need to hurry. Mama says dinner’s ready.’
Still carrying Mikey, he followed Ariel to the kitchen where something smelled good. ‘I’m starving,’ he said, settling Mikey into his highchair. ‘What’s for supper?’
Rita turned from the stove with a smile. ‘You’re late. Is everything okay?’
He kissed the tip of her nose. ‘Never better.’
And though he might lie to the entire world, he did not lie to his wife. He dodged the truth like a boxer dodged a flurry of fists, but he did not lie. That way the police – or his enemies – would never be able to question her. She knew absolutely nothing.
So he would have to ensure that ‘never better’ was the truth.
He’d have to silence Linnea before she could turn him in. That meant finding her first, and he had no time to waste. He’d make her come to him.
Which he knew how to do because he made it his business to know everything about everyone with whom he did business, including where they’d had dinner reservations. Except that hadn’t ended so well and Fallon and her companion still breathed. He’d be fixing that too. First priority, however, was Linnea.
‘Good,’ Rita said. ‘Sit down and eat before it gets cold. We have to be at church early tonight. For the cantata. You missed choir practice this morning, so you need to be there early tonight for a dress rehearsal.’
Christ. The fucking Christmas musical. He’d nearly forgotten. He’d been planning to ditch the service tonight, but he couldn’t very well do that, could he? It would look bad. Too many people would know that he wasn’t in a place he was supposed to be.
Always have an alibi was his motto, and it had worked for his entire life. So he’d go and he’d sing and then he’d make Linnea show herself.
‘Right.’ He smiled at his family. ‘I have one small thing to do and I’ll be right back.’ He waited until he was locked in his home office before texting Butch. Busy tonight. Unavoidable. Keep looking for the girl.
Will do. U ok?
Yes. Hold for instructions. Moving a portrait of Rita, he uncovered his wall safe, twisted the dial, then retrieved his notebook. He locked the safe before moving to his desk. He never left the safe open. An open safe was an invitation into his deepest secrets.
The notebook itself would be useless to anyone other than himself. Every entry was written in code and the key was locked away in his brain. He flipped pages until he found the one titled ‘Linnea Holmes.’ Twenty years old, she’d grown up in the Indiana foster care system, her best friends Andy Gold – born Jason Coltrain – and Shane Baird. Andy had been the most useful leverage against her, but he was useless now. Shane, on the other hand . . .
Shane Baird, he texted. Lamarr Hall. Kiesler Univ, Chicago. ASAP. Bring him to me. Alive.
He waited thirty seonds for Buton’s reply: Will take me 5 hrs to drive. ASAP enuf?
No, that was not ASAP enough, not if Linnea had contacted Shane already. Shane might run and his best leverage would disappear. Mike knows a pilot, he texted back. Can get you there in 90 min out of Lunken. Call him. The guy owned his own small jet. He’s flown with him a few times and he’d always been discreet.
Will do.
It would have to be good enough. If all went well, he’d have Shane Baird in his hands by the time the canatata was finished. Shane would make good bait and Linnea would give herself up, just as she had for her precious Andy.
He also knew that finding Linnea would only snip a loose end. There was the bigger, original problem of the botched job in the restaurant. He needed to fix that, ASAP.
He washed his hands and returned to the table to find his little family waiting patiently. ‘Ariel, do you want to say the blessing tonight?’
She folded her hands. ‘Yes, Daddy.’
Cincinnati, Ohio,
Saturday 19 December, 6.25 P.M.
Meredith shook her head as she entered her house, her grandfather closing the door behind them. A video gaming system, complete with controllers and cords, had taken over her coffee table. ‘Are you planning on moving back in, Papa?’ she asked lightly.
‘No way in hell. It’s too cold up here.’ He pointed to Diesel, who sat on her sofa reading a manual. ‘Your bodyguard here is a gamer. I was showing him mine.’
Meredith gave Diesel a weary smile. ‘Hey, Diesel, You didn’t have to come sit with me, but I’m grateful that you did.’
‘Don’t even mention it,’ Diesel said. ‘I mean, seriously, I had to fight the others to take the first shift and I didn’t even know Clarke Fallon was your grandfather. He’s a fucking legend.’
It was true. Clarke Fallon was a superstar among game designers. He’d created a blockbuster game ‘back in the day,’ as he called the 1970s, and had continued creating for decades. Now that he’d retired, he kept busy consulting and mentoring younger designers.
‘Do not build his ego,’ she teased, then stood on her toes to peck Clarke’s cheek. ‘I’m going to make some tea. You two want some?’
‘Depends. You got any whiskey for it?’ Clarke asked.
Diesel snickered. ‘I really like him, Merry.’
‘Of course you do. He’s an oversized middle-schooler – just like you,’ she said to Diesel, then turned back to her grandfather. ‘Of course I have whiskey. I was expecting you, Papa. Just not today.’
‘I found a cheaper flight,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d told you I’d moved my dates up.’
‘If you did, I missed it. Diesel, do you want to join us for tea?’
‘Do you mind if I drink it in here?’ He gestured at the screen. ‘He’s beta-testing it. It’s brand new. I’ve only read about it so far. I want—’ He broke off, blushing.
‘You want to play.’ She smiled at him, genuinely charmed by his enthusiasm at a new game. He looked younger than she’d ever seen him. ‘I get it.’ And she did. ‘Go ahead. Play is good for the soul.’ She’d built her counseling practice on that belief.
And it was just as well that Diesel sit in the living room for a while. She needed time to settle, to arrange her thoughts before she asked the man to commit a felony for her.
‘Smart girl,’ her grandfather murmured as he followed her into the kitchen. ‘I think that boy needs to play more than anyone I’ve met in a long, long time.’
Meredith smiled at the thought of Diesel being called a boy, then her smile dimmed. She wasn’t sure what kind of childhood he’d had, but suspected it had sucked royally. ‘I think you’d be right. What kind of tea . . .’
Shit. Meredith’s step faltered. Her refrigerator was covered with pages carefully cut from coloring books and colored in with equal care. Adam’s pictures. She always took them down when she had company, but she hadn’t anticipated today’s events.
Recovering, she put the kettle on. ‘What kind of tea would you like?’
‘Doesn’t matter. It’s just a prop so that I can drink the whiskey without reproach.’ He sat at her kitchen table, not saying another word as she worked, but she could feel his eyes on her. Every second. Until she couldn’t take it anymore. She folded her hands on the counter, staring at the kettle, willing it to whistle, her stress building faster than the pressure in the kettle. She was headed straight for a panic attack. She’d already taken one of her anti-anxiety pills, right before she’d showered in the hotel, because she’d gotten her first good look at her own face. And her soiled hair. She’d nearly lost it right then.
She was about to lose it now. Hands shaking, she reached into her cupboard for the medicine bottle she kept there. She popped another pill and prayed she wouldn’t need more. She’d already taken her limit for the day. She hated taking them at all, but this time of year it got bad. That, and seeing a young man murdered in front of her, she thought bitterly.
And seeing Adam again? That hadn’t helped at all.
She could still feel her grandfather watching her. ‘What?’ she asked petulantly.
‘I didn’t say anything, Merry,’ was his carefully quiet reply.
‘You never had to,’ she muttered. ‘Just like Dad.’ Her father could just look at her and make her confess to whatever wrong she’d committed, from breaking a window to sneaking out after curfew. I miss you, Dad.
She could hear the patpatpat of her grandfather’s palms on his sweatshirt and knew what he was searching for. She got his pipe and tobacco from a drawer and put it on the table. ‘You forgot them the last time you were here.’
‘I didn’t forget them. I left them here in case I forgot to bring my kit in the future.’
She went back to preparing the tea, calmed by the pill and the scent of his pipe. Her hands didn’t tremble too much when she took a pot of tea and a glass of whiskey to Diesel, then set one up for Clarke.
She placed her own teapot and cup on the table, then sighed to herself. She couldn’t pretend Adam’s colored pictures weren’t there. He’d sent them for her eyes only. He’d never said so, but Meredith knew it was true. Without a word, she pulled them off the refrigerator, one at a time, stacked them carefully, and placed them in the drawer of the desk where she clipped coupons and organized recipes.
When she sat at the kitchen table, her grandfather was sipping his whiskey, his pot of tea left untouched. ‘Go ahead and ask,’ she said. ‘I know you want to.’
Clarke shrugged. ‘Seemed remarkably well done for Hope.’
Hope was her nine-year-old niece. ‘That’s because she didn’t do them.’
‘Who is he?’
She blinked at him. ‘What makes you so sure a man colored those pictures?’
‘I wasn’t, till just now.’ He puffed on his pipe. ‘He’s important to you.’
Meredith’s heart hurt. She’d yearned for Adam since she’d first laid eyes on him over a year ago. She dropped her gaze to her tea. ‘Yes.’
‘But he doesn’t feel the same way.’
I have to explain some things. ‘I don’t think so. Can you ask me something else?’
‘Fair enough,’ he said mildly. ‘Who tried to kill you today?’
Meredith’s chin jerked up in surprise. ‘I don’t know.’
‘But you have a very good idea. Anyone bothering you at work?’
He knew about some of the more blatant threats in the past and she knew they had worried him. But he’d never asked her to stop providing therapy to the kids who so desperately needed someone in their corner. She’d always loved that about him.
‘One or two,’ she admitted.
‘But you didn’t tell the police their names.’ He lifted his shaggy gray brows. ‘Wendi whispers loudly. She wanted me to hear.’
‘I couldn’t give names. They haven’t made a specific threat to me.’
Clarke gulped the whiskey, his swallow audible. ‘But you can tell me their names.’
Her heart stuttered in genuine fear. She didn’t want him to be her human shield and she especially didn’t want him going after the shooter. ‘I don’t want you anywhere near them. If one of them is responsible for what happened today, it’s a matter for the cops.’
Clarke’s eyes flashed with temper. ‘Yet you’ve given them no leads.’
‘Not true. I told Ad— Detective Kimble that a person existed. And I told him exactly where the person had followed me and when. All the places have surveillance equipment.’
Understanding lit his eyes. ‘Good girl.’
‘Had to tell him twice,’ she grumbled. ‘I wasn’t obvious enough the first time.’ The moment that Adam finally had understood might have been comical under other circumstances. She cast a look at the living room. ‘I might give him a hand.’
‘How?’
‘I was going to ask Diesel for help.’
‘Finally!’ Diesel bellowed from around the corner. He appeared in the doorway, the mug of tea she’d given him looking like a child’s cup in his huge hand. He’d tucked his laptop under his arm, his expression even more eager than it had been over the new game.
‘I thought you were playing,’ Meredith said.
‘I was. I was going to give you time to drink your tea before offering my assistance.’
Meredith chuckled. ‘Sit with us, Diesel.’
He did, casting a quick look at the fridge that made her cheeks heat. He’d seen them too. ‘I liked them,’ he said simply. ‘Especially the waterfall picture. Who colored them?’
‘Maybe we can color some,’ she said, dodging the question. ‘It calms me.’
‘Huh,’ was all he said. ‘I like lions and tigers myself. I can probably download a few to color, if you’ve got the colored pencils. It calms me too.’ He flexed his big hands. ‘Kate’s even teaching me to knit.’ Opening his laptop, he arched one brow. ‘I’m ready to investigate anybody who’s bothered you. Names, please.’
Meredith was still staring at him open-mouthed. ‘You knit? Really?’
Clarke’s lips twitched. ‘Your stereotypes are showing, Merry.’
She closed her mouth with a snap. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry, Diesel, that was wrong of me.’ She eyed his laptop. ‘This can’t be traced to you or me, right?’
Diesel snorted. ‘Give me some credit, Merry. I’ve poked around in other people’s servers for Marcus for years and haven’t gotten caught. Not because of anything I did, anyway.’
Her grandfather looked curious, so Meredith explained. ‘Diesel works for Marcus O’Bannion, who owns the Ledger.’
‘The newspaper.’ Clarke nodded. ‘I subscribe. Read it online every day. Good stuff. Never seen your byline, though, Diesel.’
‘I stay in the background,’ Diesel said uncomfortably. ‘I’m IT.’
‘Diesel is too modest,’ Meredith said, giving the big man’s hand a pat. ‘The Ledger . . . well, let’s just say they creatively investigate people who should have been punished but who’ve slipped through the legal system. They expose them on the front page. Diesel digs for the dirt. Sometimes he doesn’t get permission before he starts digging.’
Clarke’s eyes widened in open admiration. ‘You’re a hacker?’
Diesel’s cheeks reddened. It was really kind of cute.
‘A very good one,’ Meredith confirmed, ‘or so I’m led to believe. I need this to be discreet, Diesel. And I need you to forget anything you see. No telling Marcus or Scarlett.’
‘Who’s Scarlett?’ Clarke asked.
‘Detective Scarlett Bishop. You met her last time you visited. Tall cop with long, dark hair. She’s partnered with Deacon Novak, the FBI guy.’
Clarke nodded. ‘The one with the really cool eyes?’
‘That’s him,’ Diesel said. ‘Scarlett’s cozied up with my boss, so I see her a lot. And I keep a lot of secrets from her, because she’s a fuckin’ cop and I don’t want to go to jail. And no, Merry, I won’t tell you which secrets and I’ll deny I said it if she asks.’
Meredith had opened her mouth to ask exactly that. ‘Nobody tells me anything,’ she muttered instead, making Diesel chuckle.
‘You don’t want to know. I don’t snoop on anyone who doesn’t deserve it, but you’re so squeaky clean, you’d feel guilty about not telling the cops.’
‘What about me?’ Clarke asked. ‘Aren’t you worried that I’ll tell the cops?’
Diesel shook his head. ‘You want Meredith safe. I don’t see you turning me in.’
Clarke nodded. ‘You’re right. I won’t. In fact, I’ll buy you a bottle of twenty-five-year Lagavulin,’ he said, but Diesel shook his head.
‘You don’t have to do that. I don’t like bullies. Homicidal bullies are even worse.’
Meredith tapped the table, getting both men’s attention. ‘This can’t show up in the Ledger or in a police report. I’m protecting the privacy of a six-year-old girl.’
Diesel grew abruptly grim. ‘Got it. The little girl is safe?’
‘Yes. She and her mother are living with the mother’s sister, and her father is angry. Having his wife leave him was bad enough, but having his daughter taken made him look very bad in front of his company. He’s the type who does not like looking bad.’
‘I know that type,’ Diesel muttered.
There was a raw vulnerability in his words that made Meredith’s counseling radar ping, but he’d never spoken to her about such things, so she let it go. ‘There’s been no involvement by the police or social services, so this isn’t a matter of record – public or otherwise.’
‘Should there be police involvement?’ Diesel asked.
Meredith sighed. ‘My gut says yes. The little girl hasn’t told me anything yet, though. She’s still too scared, and I’ve only been seeing her for a few weeks. But I know the father’s type, and I don’t think he’s going to allow her sessions to continue. One way or the other. So far, he’s just hovering in the periphery of my life. He shows up at the running track and the grocery store. Even at church. He just smiles and looks surprised, like, wow, what a coincidence that we’re in the same place at the same time, again.’
Clarke abruptly pushed away from the table, his chair nearly upending. He marched to the sink and tapped the bowl of his pipe against his hand, emptying the residue.
‘Papa?’ Meredith murmured.
He hunched forward, one hand gripping the edge of the sink. ‘I’m just . . .’
‘Angry as fucking hell,’ Diesel supplied tightly. ‘If this guy is responsible for what happened today, he needs to be . . .’ He shook his head. ‘To be willing to kill you is bad enough. To be willing to kill dozens of other people? Evisceration is too good for him.’
Clarke’s shoulders heaved once, his chuckle bitter. ‘I agree. He could have . . . I would have lost you,’ he whispered.
Meredith went to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and laying her cheek against his back. ‘But you didn’t. I’m here. I’m sure Detective Kimble will make checking the surveillance tapes a priority. We can help him out a little, though, or Diesel can.’
Clarke nodded. ‘Then get him started.’
They returned to the table. ‘His name is Broderick Voss,’ Meredith said.
‘Where do I know that name from?’ Diesel typed it into a search engine. Then his eyes widened. ‘Holy shit, Meredith. He’s the CEO of Buzz Boys. They’re all over the finance pages. They went public a few years ago. Voss went from being a struggling nerd to uber rich.’
Meredith sighed. ‘Everybody thinks only drug addicts or street thugs hurt their families. Nobody wants to believe guys who work in major corporations can too.’
‘What do you want to know, specifically?’ Diesel asked.
‘Where was he this afternoon? Does he drive a black SUV? Does he have a military background? Has he ever worked with explosives? Does he own any guns? Specifically, a rifle like the one used to shoot . . .’ She drew a deep breath. ‘The young man today.’
Her grandfather’s face visibly paled. ‘And almost you.’
‘But he missed. I don’t want to give him another opportunity, do you?’
‘No.’ Clarke’s big hand drew into a fist. ‘No, I don’t.’
Distract him. Now. ‘Papa, I’m kind of hungry,’ she lied. ‘Can you make me some soup? I have packets of chicken noodle in the pantry.’
‘Yeah. I can do that.’ Jaw taut, he got up and got busy.
‘You’re a pretty good liar,’ Diesel murmured. ‘I’ll remember that.’
‘He knows I’m lying,’ Meredith murmured back. ‘Who do you think taught me how? Don’t play poker with him. He’ll tell you he’s never played before and the next thing you know, he owns your favorite Billie Holiday album.’
‘I also still hear very well,’ Clarke called from the pantry. ‘And I have an excellent memory. You made a bootlegged copy for me and kept the original for yourself.’
‘And you were proud of me for creatively cheating,’ Meredith called back.
‘That I was, Merry. Diesel, you want soup? Seems like if I’m actually going to make some, somebody should eat it. She’ll just pick at it.’
Diesel’s mouth curved in an easy smile that Meredith had never seen before. ‘Yes, sir. Thanks.’
Cincinnati, Ohio,
Saturday 19 December, 6.55 P.M.
Adam, Deacon, and Scarlett had spent the last hour taking statements from all the occupants of the restaurant. There weren’t many people he’d trust implicitly to interview witnesses without his involvement, but Deacon and Scarlett were two of them. Deacon was his cousin and Scarlett and Adam had worked homicide together for years. The three of them made a good team and systematically took statements from patrons, staff, and anyone who’d been outside at the time of the shooting.
The restaurant’s occupants had all seen the same thing. The young man with the gun, Meredith trying to talk him down, Meredith pulling her gun, the shot coming from outside, the gore, the broken window, the second shot, and the injured patron.
But they’d struck gold with a couple who’d come to the restaurant to get engaged. The groom-to-be’s best friend had been hiding behind a post to videotape the entire proposal. The groom had just gotten down on one knee when the young man walked through the restaurant and stopped at Meredith’s table.
They’d gotten a perfect view of his face. Hopefully the victim’s fingerprints would yield an ID, but, at a minimum, they had his face. They’d provided a photo to the media and it was now being shared by every national news outlet, online and on TV. So far, no one had come forward to identify the poor bastard.
Deacon and Scarlett joined him in the meeting room the hotel had provided for their interviews, both taking their seats with deep sighs.
‘Are we done?’ Deacon asked wearily.
‘We still have one more person to chat up,’ Scarlett said.
Adam rubbed his temples. ‘She still in the ladies’ room?’ The one person they had yet to interview had hidden herself in a bathroom stall. Officer Kendra Cullen had noticed her as soon as they’d evacuated the restaurant patrons to the hotel lobby and had been rotating watch duty with a few of the other cops outside the ladies’ room door. Wendi’s little sister was a damn good cop.
‘Yep.’ Scarlett rolled her eyes. ‘Every time she peeked out of the bathroom she ducked back in. Kenny went in, asked her to come out to be interviewed, but she kept saying she was feeling sick and locked herself in the stall.’
‘Is she sick?’ Adam asked.
Scarlett shrugged. ‘She’s repeatedly refused medical attention. Kenny had to go back on patrol and there’s a guy standing watch now, so I guess I’m elected to go fetch her.’
‘Do we know who she is?’ Deacon asked.
Adam nodded. ‘Name’s Colleen Martel. She’s the hostess at Buon Cibo. She showed Meredith and Mallory to their table.’
‘Their very conveniently placed table by the window,’ Deacon murmured.
‘That Meredith had been told wasn’t reservable when she called ahead to ask for it,’ Adam added. ‘I’ve been waiting for a background check on Colleen. I wanted to know if she had any priors before I talked to her. It came in about five minutes ago. She’s clean. Not even a parking ticket.’
‘I hope she’s got a good reason for hiding in the toilet, then.’ Scarlett stood. ‘Don’t do anything fun till I get back.’
Adam propped his elbows on the table, dug his thumbs into his throbbing eye sockets, and tried to figure out what the girl could have done or seen or . . . whatever to make her hide for hours in a toilet so that she didn’t have to talk to them. But his brain was serving up nothing. His mouth was dry and his skin felt way too tight on his bones.
Dammit, he wanted a drink so fucking bad. He was glad he’d given his sponsor the heads up because this day was only going to get worse. Fortunately, he’d be able to take in a meeting at midnight. John would meet him in the basement of St Agnes’s, no matter what time of the night. The guy was a truly fucking awesome sponsor. I’m lucky.
I’ll be luckier if I can get Meredith to listen to me tonight.
He’d also be luckier if he could get a fucking lead on this case so that he wouldn’t have to worry that someone was going to kill her the next time she left her house.
‘You okay?’ Deacon asked quietly.
‘Yeah. Just a bad headache.’ Not a total lie at least.
Deacon dug into the pocket of his leather trench coat, pulled out a power bar and tossed it across the table. ‘Eat something.’
‘Thanks. I forgot about food.’ He demolished the bar and washed it and some ibuprofen down with a bottle of water, immediately feeling a little better. He scrolled through the seventy-five texts he’d received in the last hour.
‘Anything new?’ Deacon asked.
Adam shook his head. ‘Mostly requests from reporters, but I’m happy to leave the sound bites to the brass,’ he muttered, then grimaced. ‘Hell.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve got texts coming in from my old unit. They’re all “worried” about me.’ He blew out a breath. ‘There are days I wish I’d never taken that leave.’ The mental health leave that had been so very necessary, but continued to get him looks from the other cops – of pity, derision. Contempt. He got the contempt look a lot, especially from the cop who’d spawned him. Thanks for that, Dad.
Deacon made a sympathetic noise in his throat. ‘Sorry. They just care.’
He grunted. Not all of them. He kept scrolling, ignoring the not-so-subtle jabs, until he came to a text that made one side of his mouth lift in as much of a smile as he was capable. ‘This one does. It’s from Wyatt.’
After Deacon, Wyatt Hanson was his next oldest friend. The three of them had gone to high school together, but Deacon had been a nerd while Adam and Wyatt were jocks. It had been Adam and Wyatt who’d kept Deacon from getting beaten up daily, because even then Deacon had been opinionated. And far too brilliant for his own good. It was like he painted a target on his own head every morning before school.
Deacon’s smile was fond. ‘How’s he doing?’
‘Good,’ Adam said. His and Wyatt’s friendship had fully cemented after high school, when Deacon had gone away to college. Wyatt had been his first partner right out of the academy and again in Personal Crimes, the year before. Wyatt was the guy who’d gotten him through the disaster that had been his former assignment. ‘He says if I have another meltdown, to run to his place because he has a driveway full of snow he’d like cleared.’
Deacon’s white brows lifted sharply. ‘That’s . . . kind of horrible.’
Adam chuckled. ‘It’s gallows humor and it’s okay. I did have a meltdown.’ His smile faded. The full details of which he’d only told one person outside of his old unit. And Meredith had kept his secret too. Only a few other people knew the whole story – Wyatt Hanson and Nash Currie, the detectives who’d been with him when it happened. Their immediate boss in Personal had also known, of course.
And, obviously, the guy who’d actually done it.
Panic, reflexive and visceral, washed through him at the memory, as it always did. So much blood. He still heard Paula’s pathetic attempts to scream in his nightmares. He closed his eyes, shoved the memory aside.
‘You okay?’ Deacon asked quietly.
‘Yep. Peachy.’ Adam scrolled through more messages from reporters and sighed again when he saw the messages from another familiar number. ‘Just fuckin’ peachy.’
He skimmed multiple texts from his mother, asking if he was all right. He should have already called her. He knew how she worried. He sent her a quick reply: Fine. Busy. Will call later. Love u. That would calm her for now. His mother had a heart condition and he hated to stress her. His father stressed her far enough, thank you very much.
Her return text popped up instantly, and he knew she’d been waiting, her phone in hand. Dad and I love you too.
That made him huff a bitter laugh. His father . . . Well, Jim Kimble would never worry. He was a cop’s cop. Big, burly, and bulletproof. Nothing bothered Jim Kimble. Especially not the job. Not like it bothered his ‘cowardly son.’ His father’s words.
Words that Adam had believed far too often and far too much, no matter how often or how much he told himself otherwise. He’d melted down. Shut down. Blocked out the details that might have brought a murderer to justice. Left the investigation to the other detectives on the team.
Some days he believed that he deserved the contempt in his father’s eyes.
‘What now?’ Deacon asked. ‘That laugh didn’t sound happy.’
‘Mom says “Dad and I love you.”’
Deacon snorted. ‘She keeps saying that to make herself feel better.’
It was true, and hearing Deacon say it made Adam feel better. Deacon had no love for Jim Kimble, either. Deacon, his sister Dani, and brother Greg had lived with Adam’s parents after their parents died. Jim had been an even lousier uncle than he’d been a father.
And he’d been a very lousy father.
But, for his mother, Adam would keep his mouth shut on the matter. As did his cousin. ‘I know, but as long as she stays out of the cardiac ICU, she can tell herself whatever she wants.’
Deacon rolled his eyes. ‘You’re a nicer person than I am.’
Which was not true at all. Adam simply had failed to stand up to his old man. Ever. It was far easier to avoid the problem. So it had been months since he and Jim had spoken. Problem solved.
A little tension seeped from his shoulders at Diesel Kennedy’s texts. With Doc Fallon. She’s okay. Her gramps is here. The old man is . . . interesting.
Adam frowned, wondering what that meant. Knowing Diesel, it could mean nearly anything. He looked up to find Deacon studying him carefully. ‘Do you know Meredith’s grandfather?’ Adam asked, relieved when Deacon chuckled.
‘Yeah. Guy’s a hoot. Why?’
‘Diesel says he’s there with her.’
Deacon relaxed a little too. ‘Good. Clarke’ll be good for her.’ He cocked his snow-white head. ‘She’s been sad lately.’
Adam wanted to groan. ‘Not you too. Please.’
‘Just stating the facts. Not assigning blame.’ Deacon studied him for a moment longer before shrugging. ‘I never met Mer’s grandmother, but I understand that she wore pearls and carried a derringer everywhere she went. Her grandfather is a biker dude. Big, hulking guy, got tats out the wazoo.’
That was surprising. Meredith always seemed so tidy. But fearless. So maybe not such a surprise after all. He kept that to himself, though. ‘No wonder Diesel is finding him interesting.’ Diesel was also hulking and covered in tattoos.
‘Clarke’s also a retired computer geek. Was one of the first video game designers back in the day when two guys could produce a game in their garage.’
Adam chuckled. ‘Then they’re a match made in heaven.’ Because Diesel was a computer geek too. A hacker extraordinaire. Adam envied his skills.
His phone buzzed with a new text. ‘Finally,’ he said. ‘Trip says the bomb squad just gave the all-clear for the scene. He’s on his way back here from the lab.’
‘Anything on the bomb?’ Deacon asked.
‘Don’t know. Let’s get this last interview done, then hopefully he’ll be here so we can find out. I also need to have a look before the ME takes the—’
He was interrupted by loud female voices in the hallway. Seconds later, Scarlett appeared in the doorway with a young woman whose clothing was covered in brown dirt and whose hands were cuffed behind her back.
Scarlett looked pissed off. ‘Detective Kimble, Special Agent Novak, this is Colleen Martel. She is the hostess of Buon Cibo. I found her either hiding or retrieving this from the heating duct in the bathroom,’ Scarlett said, holding up a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside the bag was an envelope that appeared to be stuffed full of something.
‘It’s not mine!’ Colleen exclaimed.
‘Drugs?’ Adam asked.
‘Cash. Two hundred bucks.’ Scarlett worked her jaw back and forth. ‘She was half in the duct when I went into the bathroom to get her. Kicked me, trying to get away.’
‘I didn’t do anything wrong,’ Colleen insisted through clenched teeth.
‘Other than kicking a detective,’ Adam said mildly.
‘And carrying a concealed weapon,’ Scarlett added. She took another clear evidence bag from her pocket. This one contained a sheathed stiletto knife, a can of pepper spray, and a cell phone. ‘She was going for the pepper spray when I pulled her out of the duct.’
‘Pepper spray is not illegal,’ Colleen declared, chin up. ‘Neither is the knife.’
‘You can own all the knives you want,’ Adam told her. ‘But stilettos are considered deadly weapons and concealed carry is not legal. Unless you have a permit?’
Colleen looked away.
‘Didn’t think so,’ Adam said. ‘Detective Bishop, will you see that she’s transported to the precinct? We’ll conduct Ms Martel’s interview there.’ Where they’d get her on tape.
‘Absolutely.’ Scarlett gripped the woman’s shoulder and maneuvered her toward the hotel lobby. ‘Come along, Miss Martel.’
Panicked, the woman tried to jerk out of Scarlett’s hold. ‘No. Not like this.’ She tugged against the restraints. ‘People will see me.’
The three of them glanced at each other before fixing gazes on the hostess. ‘Why does that bother you?’ Adam asked.
The woman closed her eyes. ‘Just because. Can you take me out the back?’
‘Not without a better reason than “just because,”’ Adam told her.
The woman’s chin jutted up. ‘I fear for my life.’
Scarlett looked unimpressed. ‘Who do you fear?’
The woman shook her head. ‘I plead the Fifth.’
Scarlett huffed out an irritated breath. ‘Will you accompany me, Agent Novak, just in case Miss Escape Artist is in legitimate danger?’
‘Of course,’ Deacon said. ‘You’ll meet us there, Detective Kimble?’
‘I’ll be a few minutes behind you.’ He needed to check out the crime scene first.