Reed sat with Chaz Bergman on the rocks watching the moonbeam light over the bay. They each had a bottle of Summer Pale Ale, a technical violation. But at two in the morning on the lonely stretch of coastline, Reed figured nobody cared.
Though Chaz had moved to Seattle for a job right out of college, they hadn’t lost touch, and kept up sporadically through texts and e-mails.
Face-to-face time tended to be limited to Chaz’s return for Christmas and the occasional long summer weekend.
“Sorry I couldn’t make it earlier,” Reed said as they settled in.
“Cop shit?”
“Yeah.”
“You get the bad guy?”
With a nod, Reed took his first long drink. “Book ’em, Danno.”
“Detective Quartermaine. It still slays me.”
“Supreme IT Nerd Chaz Bergman. Doesn’t surprise me a bit.” Reed took another pull from the bottle, let the long day go. “I didn’t expect to see you again this summer. You were just here in July.”
“Yeah.” Chaz took a slower, smaller sip, nudged his glasses up on his nose.
He’d kept his husky build, but put on some muscle. He had a lot more hair now, enough that he tied it back in a stub of a tail. He’d added a weird little soul patch that didn’t disguise the geek.
Chaz looked out at the water, shrugged. “My mom really wanted me to fly in for that McMullen deal. I guess part of me wanted to. Not to talk about it so much, but to see some of the people who were in the store that night.”
“That kid,” Reed remembered. “He was, like, twelve, and now he’s working on being a doctor.”
“Yeah, and the pregnant woman. She’s got those twins.”
“You saved them, bro.” Reed tapped his bottle to Chaz’s.
“I guess. Speaking of, how’s Brady Foster?”
“He’s great. Batted three-forty on his high school team last year. They had another kid, you know, Lisa and Michael.”
“Yeah, that’s right. You told me.”
“A girl. She’s five. Camille. She’s crazy smart, looks like her mom. I tell you, Chaz, Lisa’s amazing. She lives with that night every day, but she doesn’t let it, you know, define her. It sure as hell doesn’t stop her. I guess I look at that family, and what that night cost them, and how they didn’t just survive it, they didn’t even just overcome it, they, well, they shine, you know? Like that damn moon up there.”
“I never asked you, but do you ever go back there? To the mall?”
“Yeah.” He’d drawn maps, marked points of attack, victims, movements, numbers. He had it all in his files. “It’s changed a lot.”
“I can’t go in there. I don’t even like driving by. I never told you, but I took the job in Seattle because it was the farthest away I could get and stay in the country. Well, the mainland—and I didn’t get offers from Alaska or Hawaii. It’s a great job, a good company,” Chaz added. “But it was the distance.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Reed said after a moment.
“I don’t think about it for weeks, months. But I come back here and it hits me all over again. Weird … because I was in a locked, crowded room for the worst of it, not in the thick like you. Jesus, we were just kids, Reed.”
Chaz took a longer drink. “Or I’ll hear about another mass shooting, and it all flashes back.”
“I hear that.”
“I go to Seattle, and you go to the front line.”
“You took a job, man. You built a career.”
“Yeah, about that. The reason I’m back? I’m taking a transfer to New York. Taking a little downtime first, heading down to check out some apartments the company’s got lined up.” Chaz shrugged. “They want me to head up the cybersecurity division there.”
“Head it? Holy shit, Chaz.” Reed gave him a congratulatory elbow in the ribs. “You’re a fucking honcho nerd.”
It made him smile, but Chaz shook his head, shoved his glasses back up on his nose. “I almost turned it down. New York’s a lot closer than Seattle, but I can’t let that damn night, that damn mall—what did you call it?—define my damn life. So I’m moving to New York in November.”
“Congratulations, man, all around.”
“How do you do it? I mean, the badge and the gun and putting it on the line every fucking day?”
“Detective work’s mostly detecting, and a boatload of paperwork, legwork. It’s not like TV. It’s not car chases and shoot-outs.”
“You’re going to tell me you’ve never been in either one.”
“Some car chases. More foot chases—and why do they run?—but some car chases. They’re crazy, I’ll give you that.”
“Shoot-outs?”
“It’s not like the O.K. Corral, Chaz.”
Chaz just looked at him, those quiet eyes behind the thick lenses.
“I’ve been involved a couple of times when we had shots fired.”
“Were you scared?”
“Bet your hairy white ass.”
“But you did it anyway, and you keep doing it. See, that’s the thing about you, Reed. You face up and do it anyway, and you always have. New York’s not facing down some asshole with a gun, but it’s sort of my ‘do it anyway.’”
Chaz paused, smiled. “With a promotion and a big, fat raise.”
“Lucky bastard. I bet you’ve got the rest of a six-pack in a cooler in that rental car.”
“Eagle Scout. We’re always prepared. But I’m driving, so one’s it.”
“So let’s take it back to my place, polish it off. Tomorrow—well, today now. Sunday, and I’m not on the roll. You can sleep on the couch.”
“I could do that. Why are you still living in that dump?”
“It’s not so bad, and there’s talk about some gentrification in the neighborhood. I could be sitting sweet before you know it. Anyway, I might not be there much longer. I’m looking at a house tomorrow afternoon. It feels like the one from the outside, and the video tour. Nice yard, new kitchen.”
“You don’t cook.”
“Doesn’t matter. Excellent master suite, and so on. I like the neighborhood. I can walk to pubs and restaurants. Mow my own grass. Best, if I can whittle the price down just a couple clicks, I can afford it without selling my blood or taking bribes.”
“You could sell your sperm,” Chaz suggested. “Remember that guy—Fruenski—who did that in college?”
“I think I’ll try my hand at negotiation first. Anyway,” he said as they rose, “you ought to come with me tomorrow, check the place out.”
“I gotta go see my grandparents. Already on the books. Then Monday, I’m heading to New York to check out my own digs.”
“Then let’s go make the best of what’s left of the six-pack.”
* * *
Reed slept till noon, then threw together some coffee and scrambled eggs, since he had company. He saw Chaz off with the promise of a wild New York weekend once his old friend settled in.
When he showered, in lukewarm water as apparently the building’s hot water heater was dying again, he thought how good it had been to spend time with Chaz. And talk about things he realized Chaz had avoided talking about.
He dressed studying his bedroom wall, the one he used as a makeshift case board. He had tacked up photos of every DownEast Mall survivor who’d died, with the death designation above each group: Accidental, Natural Causes, Homicide, Suicide.
He had maps with each of the deceased’s location when they died pinned with the name, date, time.
And he crossed-checked each along with their reported locations and any injuries incurred on the night of July 22, 2005.
Too many, he thought again. Just too many.
He couldn’t argue with Essie’s debate point on the variety of weapons and methods in the homicides, but he knew there was a pattern in there. One that just hadn’t come clear for him yet.
He had autopsy reports, witness statements, copies of interviews with next of kin. He’d compiled articles and recordings from a dozen years back right up to the McMullen special.
It had surprised him to see Hobart’s sister on there. Patricia Hobart, pale, hollow-eyed, looked older than twenty-six. Then, he guessed, having your brother murder a bunch of people, your mother blow up her house under the influence of drugs and alcohol—as the ME report stated—having your asshole father drink himself drunk and kill a woman and her kid, along with himself, rated premature aging.
She hadn’t cried, Reed recalled as he studied her picture on the wall. Plenty of nervous tics though. Hunched shoulders, fingers twisting together or pulling at her clothes.
Dumpy suit, he remembered, ugly shoes. Lived with her grandparents, stood as main caregiver for her grandmother, who’d used a walker since recovering after a broken hip, and her grandfather, who’d suffered two small strokes.
Paternal grandparents—really well-off—who’d disinherited the asshole father and uncle who’d had their shitload of guns available for a trio of fucked-up teenagers to take, to use, to kill what came to be ninety-three people in the space of minutes.
What a fucking family, he thought, strapping on his off-duty weapon, shoving his wallet, ID, and phone in his pockets.
On the way out, he pulled out his phone, called Essie. An actual call because she might ignore a text.
He jogged down the steps as she answered.
“I’m heading to the house I told you about, meeting Realtor Renee. Come on and see it with me. Bring the gang.”
“It’s a hot, lazy afternoon, Reed.”
“That’s why it’s perfect. We’ll go to the park after, the dog and kid can run around. And I’ll take you all for pizza to celebrate me making an offer. I really think this is the one.”
“You said that with that weird Victorian three months ago.”
“I liked the weird Victorian, but it had a bad vibe when we walked through it.”
“Yeah, yeah, vibe, bad. You’re a house-shopping addict, Reed.”
Since it might be true, he evaded. “It’ll be fun. This one’s only a few blocks from your place.”
“It’s over half a mile.”
“A nice Sunday stroll, right? Then the park, pizza. I’ll spring for a bottle of wine.”
“That’s so unfair.”
He laughed. “Come on. I need somebody to talk me out of it if it’s wrong, or into it if it’s right. The damn water heater’s on the death watch here again. I really do have to get out of this place.”
He knew by the long, windy sigh, he had her.
“What time’s your appointment?”
“Two. I’m heading there now.”
“Puck and Dylan could use the walk and the run-around time. Hank and I could use the wine. I’ve got to get it together first. Don’t make a damn offer until we get there.”
“You got it. Thanks. See you.”
He glanced back at the building. Someone who couldn’t spell had added some fresh graffiti advising somebody else to FUK A DUKE.
He assumed they meant duck, but maybe they knew somebody named Duke. Maybe they wanted to fuck an aristocrat or something.
In any case, it was just another sign his time there had to end.
Still, a decent coffee shop had opened up a couple blocks away, and somebody had bought one of the neighboring buildings with big talk of rehab and spiffy condos.
Gentrification could happen.
Another reason to get out. He’d appreciate seeing the neighborhood cleaned up, spruced up, but he didn’t want to live out his life in a condo.
As he drove, he imagined setting up a grill on his new back deck. He knew how to grill—sort of. Maybe he’d even learn how to cook something besides scrambled eggs and grilled cheese and bacon sandwiches. Maybe.
He’d have parties with the grill smoking—or in the great room in the winter with the gas fireplace going. Keep one of the three bedrooms as a guest room, turn the other into what would be his first ever actual home office.
Buy a big, and he did mean big-ass flat screen for the wall and sign up for every fucking sports channel on cable.
That’s what I’m talking about, he decided as he cruised into what he had determined would be his new neighborhood.
Older homes, sure, but he didn’t mind older. Most had been remodeled with the ever-popular open concept, the snazzy bathrooms and kitchens.
Lots of families, and he didn’t mind that, either. Maybe he’d come across some sexy single mom. He liked kids, kids were no problem.
He pulled up into the drive of the sturdy two-story brick, thought how much he’d liked the unabashed weirdness of the Victorian over this more traditional. But sturdy was good, sturdy was fine. And the owners had definitely put some effort into curb appeal with the plants, shrubs, the new doors on the garage.
He could use a garage.
As he got out, he glanced at the car already parked there. Not Renee’s, his extremely patient Realtor. Curious, he noted the license plate—pure habit—as he crossed what he told himself would be his brick walkway.
The woman opened the door before he pressed the (his) doorbell.
“Hi! Reed, right?” The attractive blonde in the tailored red shirt and white pants held out her hand. “I’m Maxie, Maxie Walters.”
“Okay. I’m supposed to meet Renee.”
“Yes, she called me. She had a family emergency. Her mother had a little fender bender—nothing serious,” she said quickly. “But you know moms. Renee’s going to try to get here, but she didn’t want you to have to delay or postpone—especially when we got the inside scoop the sellers are cutting the price five thousand tomorrow.”
“That doesn’t hurt a thing.” He stepped inside, scanned the high-ceilinged foyer he’d admired on the video tour.
“I’ve just been familiarizing myself with the property. It does have some lovely features. Original hardwood floors, and I think they did a terrific job refinishing them. And don’t you love the open feel of the entrance?” she continued as she gestured him ahead, closed the door.
“Yeah, the house has a good feel.” He wandered the living room—staged well, he thought as he’d seen every level of staging—and imagined that big-ass screen on the wall.
He liked the sight line, straight back to the kitchen with the wide breakfast counter, and the dining area, to the wide sliders that opened onto the back deck he wanted for his own.
“So you work with Renee?” He didn’t know why he asked. He knew everyone who worked with Renee.
He turned toward her. Blond and blue, mid-twenties, about five-four, and a hundred fifteen. Good muscle tone.
“We’re friends,” she said as she led the way toward the kitchen. “Actually, she’s been my mentor. I only got my license three months ago. Granite countertops,” she added. “The appliances are new. Not stainless, but I think the clean white suits the space.”
Her voice, he thought. Something about her voice. He stopped on his way to that beckoning deck, turned with the breakfast bar between them.
“Do you cook, Reed?”
“Not really.” He thought the flirty smile she sent him just didn’t fit the space between her nose and chin.
She stepped up to the counter. “You’re a police detective. That must be exciting. Not married though?”
“No.”
“It’s a great house for a family, when you start one.”
She shifted. He couldn’t see her hands, but her body language … Every instinct went on alert. The eyes, the hair, even the shape of the mouth with that slight overbite were all different. But the voice.
It clicked, just an instant too late. She’d already brought up the gun. He dived for cover, but she caught him twice, in the side, in the shoulder.
He hit the refinished hardwood behind the granite breakfast counter hard, with stupefying pain exploding through his body.
“Some cop.” With a laugh, she strolled around the counter to finish him off with one to the head. “You did a better job protecting some idiot kid way back when than protecting yourself now. Say goodbye, hero.”
He saw her face change from eager to shocked. Now he had his gun out. He fired three times, forced to use his left hand as his right couldn’t hold his weapon.
He heard her scream, thought he hit her, thought at least one shot hit before she used the counter to block. Before he heard her running for the front door.
“You motherfucker!” She screamed it as she ran.
He had to drag himself across the floor, brace the weapon as he cleared the counter. She’d left the door open. He heard the sound of a car starting, tires squealing.
She could come back, he thought. If she came back … Teeth gritted, he pushed himself to sit, back to the counter, gasping against the pain as he fought for his phone.
He passed out, felt himself fade. He didn’t know how long. Struggling to breathe against the pain, he pulled out his phone.
He started to hit nine-one-one, then thought of Essie and her family.
She answered on the second ring. “We’re coming! Five minutes.”
“No, no. Don’t. Stay back. I’m shot. I’m shot.”
“What? Reed!”
“Need ambulance. Need backup. Fuck me, passing out again. Need BOLO…”
“Reed! Reed! Hank, stay here, stay with Dylan.”
“Essie, what—”
But she was running, the phone in her hand, and her weapon in the other. “Officer down, officer down!” she shouted into the phone.
Hank picked up his son, gripped Puck’s leash. And prayed.
She made the last quarter mile in under two minutes, running full out while people working in their yards stopped to gape.
“Police officer! Go inside. Go inside.”
She didn’t stop running until she hit the porch of the brick house. Weapon out, she cleared the doorway, swept her weapon toward the stairs leading up, then over.
And saw Reed.
“Please, please, please.” She checked his pulse first, then leaped up to grab cloth napkins artfully folded on the set-for-company dining room table.
When she padded them, put pressure on the wound in his side, the fresh pain shot him to the surface.
“Shot.”
And in shock, she thought. “Yeah, you’re going to be all right. Be still. An ambulance is coming. Backup’s coming.”
“She could come back. Need my weapon.”
“Who? Who is she? No, no, no, stay with me. You stay with me. Who did this?”
“Hobart, the sister. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. Patricia Hobart. Driving—”
“You stay awake. Look at me! You stay with me, goddamn it.”
“Driving a late model Honda Civic. White. Maine plates. Shit, shit, I can’t—”
“You can. Hear that? Hear the sirens? Help’s coming.”
And her hands were wet with his blood. She couldn’t stop the blood.
“Plates, the stupid lobster.” He gasped it out, fighting to stay with her. To stay alive. “Four-Seven-Five-Charlie-Bravo-Romeo.”
“Good, good, that’s real good. In here! In here! Hurry, goddamn it. He’s bleeding. I can’t stop the bleeding.”
The EMTs pushed her aside, laid Reed flat, got to work.
Cops, weapons drawn, rushed in behind them.
She held up her left hand, felt Reed’s blood slide down her wrist. “I’m a cop. We’re cops.”
“Detective McVee. It’s Bull. Jesus Christ, that’s Reed. Who the fuck did this?”
“The assailant is Hobart, Patricia, mid-twenties, brown hair, brown eyes. She’s driving, or was, a late-model white Honda Civic, Maine lobster plates. Four-Seven-Five-Charlie-Bravo-Romeo. Get it out. I don’t know her address—lives with grandparents. Get it out. Get that bitch.”
“Detective,” one of the officers said. “There’s some blood, leading out. She could be hit.”
She looked back at Reed and dearly hoped so. “Alert hospitals and clinics. Two of you clear the house. And let’s move, let’s move!”
* * *
Patricia moved. And fast. The son of a bitch shot her. She couldn’t believe it! She hoped he died screaming. She couldn’t stop to check, but the bullet had gone in just under her left armpit. And she thought, hoped, right out again. A through-and-through they called it, she remembered as she blinked away tears of pain and fury.
If he lived long enough, the bastard would identify her. Plus she knew she’d bled on the way out, and that meant DNA.
She pounded a fist on the steering wheel of the stolen car as she pulled into the sweep of her grandparents’ driveway.
She needed her cash, her fake IDs, some weapons, her go bag. She’d have to leave the stolen car behind, just take her own until she could ditch it.
She’d planned for this, she thought. She’d planned for it. She just hadn’t expected to hit the road with a bullet wound.
She raced into the house, up the stairs.
It should have gone perfectly, she told herself. She’d cultivated the asshole cop’s Realtor, going through some of the same houses he had. Had drinks—girlfriends!—with the clueless bitch. And she’d been right there, sipping hard lemonade, when the should-be-dead guy contacted dumbass Renee about the house.
Simple after that. Go over Sunday morning, get the code for the lock box, and then kill stupid Renee, take her files on the house, and so on. Then just wait.
But he’d made her. How the hell had he done that?
She let out a weeping whine as she doused the hole under her armpit with peroxide, padded it.
She’d felt it, just in the set of his body, the way he’d studied her face.
He was probably dead, probably dead, she assured herself as she pulled on a fresh shirt, pulled out her go bag, dumped more cash, more IDs into it.
She’d have made sure of it. She knew he’d be carrying—off-duty weapon, she wasn’t a moron. But she’d hit him twice—right side, right shoulder.
How the hell could she be expected to know he’d manage to get his gun out and shoot with his left hand?
How the hell could she know that!
She took two more handguns, her combat knives, a handmade garrote, plenty of ammo, even took the time to grab another wig, some more facial appliances, some contacts, more bandages, and some of the pain pills she’d culled from her grandparents’ supply.
It seriously pissed her off she wouldn’t cash in on the sale of the house, the life insurance policies when her grandparents finally croaked. But she had more than enough to keep her going for years.
Wincing at the pain, she shouldered the bag and started downstairs.
“Patti? Patti? Is that you? Grandpa’s done something to the TV again. Can you fix it?”
“Sure. Sure, I can fix it,” she said when her grandmother thumped out with her walker.
She pulled out a nine millimeter, shot her grandmother, center of the forehead. She went down with a soft whoosh of air.
“All fixed!” she said brightly, then walked into their bedroom, where the overheated air smelled of old people. Her grandfather sat in his recliner, smacking a hand on the remote while the TV screen buzzed with static.
“Something’s wrong with this thing. Did you hear that noise, Patti?”
“I did. Bye-bye.”
He looked up, squinted behind his bifocals.
She shot him in the head, too, let out a happy little laugh. “Finally!”
She was in and out of the house inside ten minutes—she’d practiced, after all—leaving two bodies behind her.
Keeping to the speed limit, she drove to the airport, left her car in long-term parking, jacked a nondescript sedan, and was on her way.