She saw the question in his eyes and didn’t blink. ‘You want to know why I didn’t call you. I’m not sorry, sir. I can’t be sure of who might be listening to your calls.’
Her boss held her gaze for a long moment and Stevie knew he’d guessed that she didn’t trust him anymore. Guilt nagged, but she held firm. After another moment he looked away.
‘JD’s no longer watching Culp’s house,’ he said. ‘Bashears is.’
Stevie’s brows shot up. Bashears was one of the other homicide detectives under Hyatt’s command. ‘Why?’
‘Is there something wrong with my sending Bashears?’
She understood what he was asking. Don’t you trust Bashears, either? No, she didn’t. Which was hypocritical on its face. Bashears had been partners with Elizabeth Morton, one of Stuart Lippman’s dirty cops. A tiny part of her wanted to yell, Didn’t you suspect a thing?
She knew a lot of cops still said that about her with respect to Silas Dandridge. Bashears had been thoroughly investigated by IA, just as Stevie had been. Of course, IA’s integrity was far from a given at this point, so their stamp of approval on Bashears meant little.
‘Bashears is fine,’ she finally said. ‘It’s just that I thought JD was going to stand watch.’
‘JD had been. But then Rossi woke up and JD went to the hospital to question him.’
Stevie’s eyes widened. ‘Rossi’s awake? Has he said anything?’
‘Not yet. JD is probably just getting to the hospital.’ Hyatt glanced left when Quartermaine approached. ‘You’re taking them?’
Stevie had heard about Quartermaine – the female population at the precinct was all a-twitter with gossip about the new ME. The women who’d gushed that he gave Brad Pitt a run for his money in the looks department certainly hadn’t been wrong.
Tall, lean, and golden, he reminded her a little of Paul. She would have expected that to hurt, but it didn’t. She would have expected it to send a shiver of anticipation, sadness, anything over her skin. But it appeared her physical responses were only triggered when she was around Clay.
I can smell you. God. Or, it seemed, when she as much as thought of him.
Quartermaine nodded. ‘I’ve got my best techs on their way to retrieve the bodies. I’ll get on these autopsies ASAP, so that they can be released to their families.’
Hyatt closed his eyes briefly. ‘Thank you. I’ll be doing the notifications when I leave here.’
‘You can tell the families that the men felt no pain,’ Quartermaine said gently.
‘That’ll help,’ Hyatt said. ‘Thank you.’
Quartermaine turned his attention to Stevie, extending his hand. ‘Detective Mazzetti, I’ve heard so much about you. I wish we were meeting under different circumstances.’ He made a wry face. ‘But then again, we probably would have met over a body regardless, wouldn’t we?’
‘No doubt.’ Stevie shook his hand, the pain in her upper arm confusing her for a second. Oh yeah, the bullet from yesterday. Seemed like a year ago. And she’d torn out two stitches, rolling around on that bed with Clay. Which seemed like a second ago. She forced herself to look at the bodies of Hollinsworth and Locklear. ‘Thank you for taking care of our guys.’
‘Always.’ Quartermaine looked at Hyatt, his eyes sad. ‘I don’t envy you your task and I can’t make this better, but hopefully I can hasten the process so they can begin to heal.’
Heal. The word smacked Stevie hard as he walked away. ‘I used to do that,’ she murmured.
‘What?’ Hyatt asked.
‘Help people heal. Or I thought I was.’
‘You were. The grief groups you did with cops were one of the most talked about “secrets” in the department. I’ve had a number of inquiries from cops, wives, families, house shrinks – all wanting to know when the groups will start meeting again.’
‘I don’t even remember when I stopped doing them.’
‘Right after Silas,’ Hyatt said quietly.
Oh. Right. ‘I guess I was a bit of a mess after that.’
‘You think?’ he asked dryly and she managed a quick grin that instantly morphed to tears.
Embarrassed, she gave herself a little shake. ‘Perhaps I should reconvene the groups?’
‘Perhaps you should secure the oxygen mask on yourself before trying to help the passengers around you,’ Hyatt returned, gently, but firmly, making her watery gaze shoot up to his. ‘Not an order, Stevie. Just a suggestion.’
Her jaw clenched. ‘You’re saying I should see a therapist.’
He gave her an exasperated look. ‘No. I’m saying you should see a podiatrist. Goddamn, Stevie, for a smart cop . . .’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Even if that leg of yours were a hundred percent, you won’t come back to duty until the house shrink says so.’
‘I can deal with the shrinks,’ she insisted, her chin lifting on its own.
‘Because so many of them are your friends, because so many of them respect your grief work, you think that they’ll float you? Bzz.’ He imitated a game show buzzer. ‘Wrong answer.’
Her cheeks heated because that was precisely what she’d been thinking. ‘Whatever. Back to Scott Culp leaking intel to Rossi. What’re you going to do about him? Did you tell Culp’s boss?’
Hyatt exhaled. ‘You’re one of the most stubborn cops I’ve ever “commanded”, and I use that term loosely. Fine, we’ll table the head shrink for now. I didn’t go to IA. I went to Yates.’
She blinked, surprised. Then it made sense. Assistant State’s Attorney Yates was Grayson Smith’s boss. ‘He’d be the one to handle an investigation outside the police department.’
‘Especially if IA is compromised. Which, sadly enough, has happened before. Yates is opening a formal, but sealed, investigation. All hush-hush.’ He lifted a shoulder with a carelessness that was a total sham. ‘And I poked a little. Went to Carla Culp’s Facebook page. She’s Scott’s ex-wife. Seems she just got back from a photo safari in Africa. And she drives a nice shiny Mercedes and has a rock on her finger big enough to put your eye out. Real estate records show she recently changed her address to one of the better zip codes in Potomac.’
Stevie whistled softly, impressed both by the information and by the fact that Hyatt knew how to get onto Facebook. He wasn’t the most technically savvy guy. ‘She remarry rich?’
‘She didn’t remarry at all. Culp’s still paying her alimony.’
‘Oh.’ Stevie tilted her head, thinking. ‘When did she buy the fancy house?’
He smiled. ‘Now there’s the cop I remember. She closed on the house about a month after Silas went down and Lippman’s list came out.’
‘Culp wasn’t on Lippman’s list. But maybe his ex-wife could prove he should have been?’
‘My thoughts exactly. Yates is drafting subpoenas for the ex-wife and her shopping buddies in case they don’t cooperate.’
‘I’d like to be there when she’s questioned. I want her to put a face with the crimes her husband’s done and that she’s enabled by not coming forward. I also want to be there when we question Scott himself.’
‘I’d like you to be there, too. I want to see if there’s any regret at all in Culp’s eyes when we tell him that Rossi used his intel with the intent to murder a seven-year-old.’
Stevie’s stomach turned over. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to take a look at the scene in the back bedroom before we head over to Culp’s house.’
She’d gotten ten feet away when Hyatt’s voice came rumbling at her back. ‘Remember what I said about putting the oxygen mask on yourself first, Stevie.’
She jerked a nod. ‘I will.’
Sunday, March 16, 2.05 P.M.
Sam Hudson approached Dina Andrews’s desk in the ballistics department with heavy feet and a sense of impending doom.
She looked up when his shadow fell over her keyboard. ‘You got my message?’ she asked.
‘Yeah. The gun I gave you this morning turned up a match.’
‘It’s a cold
case. The rifling matched a bullet taken from an unidentified Caucasian male found floating in the Severn River in May, just under eight years ago.’
I couldn’t have done this. I would remember dragging a body to the Severn River.
Still the feeling of impending doom loomed. ‘Do you have the ME’s report?’
‘No. I just pulled the police report. You’ll need to go to the ME’s office for the pathologist’s report. Sam, are you all right?’
He nodded. ‘Just fine. Thanks for running this, Dina.’
‘You’re welcome.’ She studied him. ‘You know who left the gun for you, don’t you?’
‘No, I don’t. Only that it had to be someone who knew where I lived.’ Which was true. They’d sent the envelope to his mother’s address and he’d once lived there.
‘I have to report my findings, you know. I can’t just forget about this.’
‘I wouldn’t expect you to. But can you give me a few days? I need to get a feel for who left it for me. I have a good relationship with the folks in the neighborhood.’
‘I can give you forty-eight. I’ll submit my report at the end of my shift Tuesday.’
Sam took the police report she’d retrieved. ‘Got it. Thank you.’
He waited until he was out of the building before letting his knees give way. Lowering himself to a bench, he read the report. The body had been found half-submerged, entangled in a beaver dam in the state park. The victim was a Caucasian male, approximately forty-five years old. Height, approximately six feet. Weight, approximately 185 pounds.
Sam made himself breathe. His father had been forty-five years old when he disappeared. He’d been six-one and roughly 180 pounds. No. It can’t be. It can’t. But what if it was?
There was a gunshot entrance wound at the base of the unidentified man’s skull. Whoever this man had been, he’d been executed. I couldn’t have done that. I would’ve remembered.
But he didn’t remember. He’d lost a day and a half. Just . . . gone.
Holy God, what have I done?
Sunday, March 16, 2.15 P.M.
Parked behind an old gas station at the end of Maynard’s street, Robinette watched the ME’s van pass by, the dead cops’ bodies presumably inside. Hopefully Maynard had shown up already. Hopefully he had Mazzetti with him. So far only two vehicles had left – the ME van and the pickup truck belonging to Maynard’s partner, Paige Holden. The latter he knew because he’d used the minutes he’d been waiting to do a little reconnaissance, keeping it old-school.
Leaving the Tahoe behind the gas station, he’d slipped through the trees on foot, venturing only close enough to Maynard’s house to see the license plates of every vehicle parked outside through his binoculars. Back at the Tahoe, he’d run all the license plates. As expected, most were registered to city or federal agencies. A few were privately owned, none by Maynard. But if the way the guy had hidden his house under layers of shell corporations was any indication, the PI wouldn’t have registered a car in his own name to begin with.
Robinette crossed his fingers that Maynard was in one of the vehicles. If he wasn’t, it was only a matter of time before he returned to his home to survey the damage.
A moment later, a sedan passed by – a large, bald white man at the wheel. Robinette recognized him from a city function they’d both attended – Lieutenant Peter Hyatt, Mazzetti’s boss. Hyatt carried no passengers, so Robinette stayed put.
Following Hyatt was a black Escalade, windows so heavily tinted that he couldn’t see who was inside. Robinette sat up straighter. Because he’d had done his homework on Stevie Mazzetti, Robinette knew two of her friends drove Escalades – Agent Carter of the FBI and Grayson Smith of the prosecutor’s office. Both had visited her in hospital and at home.
Agent Carter was the primary investigator on Henderson’s restaurant job. He must also be primary on these homicides because parked in front of Maynard’s house had been a Chevy Suburban, registered to Ford Elkhart, the son of ASA Montgomery. Who, according to Robinette’s sources, was Carter’s new girlfriend.
It was unlikely that Carter was in the black Escalade. Didn’t mean that Maynard definitely was, but chances were better than good. Following his instinct, Robinette put the Tahoe in gear and pulled out a discreet distance behind them.
Sunday, March 16, 2.15 P.M.
‘I’m sorry,’ Stevie said softly.
Clay looked to the passenger seat where she sat staring out the window. They were driving from his house to Culp’s. He’d been surprised when she’d climbed into the Escalade, but Hyatt had solved the mystery.
‘Detective Mazzetti has asked to come with me,’ he’d said, ‘but I think she’ll be safer in Agent Carter’s vehicle. Don’t you agree, Mr Maynard?’
Clay did, but hadn’t wanted her to ride with him. It would have looked bad to refuse, however, especially as she was already buckling herself in – while scowling at her boss.
Wasn’t it wonderful to be loved, Clay thought bitterly. She’d been silent through the drive, I’m sorry the first words she’d spoken.
‘Don’t be,’ he said. ‘It’s just stuff.’ He thought of the vase, shattered into a hundred pieces on his bedroom carpet. Irreplaceable stuff.
‘Irreplaceable stuff,’ she said, echoing his thoughts. Still staring out the window. ‘But that’s not why I said I was sorry, even though I’m sorry about that, too.’ She drew a breath. ‘I don’t know what I said to you to make you so upset with me. On the boat, I mean. But I did make you upset and you didn’t deserve that. So I’m sorry. Then I was frustrated and . . . embarrassed, and I lashed out at you. So, I’m sorry for that, too. You didn’t deserve that either.’
‘You have nothing to be sorry for,’ he said quietly, even though within him a tornado screeched. ‘You were honest with me from the beginning. I was the one who tried to change a leopard’s spots.’
She shifted in her seat and he could feel her stare. ‘What does that mean?’
‘You don’t want a relationship. You were very clear on that point. I don’t know if that means with anyone or just with me. Forever or just for now. But that doesn’t matter. I tried to change your mind. I was wrong to try.’
‘You weren’t wrong to try. You just picked the wrong girl.’ Her voice was rough and she abruptly turned back to the window. ‘You . . . you won’t try again, will you.’
It was a statement, not a question, uttered with a desolate certainty that broke his heart one more time. ‘No. You have my word.’
‘I won’t—’ Her voice shattered. She’d hidden her face from him, but he could hear her tears. ‘I won’t cut you off from Cordelia. She’ll be at Daphne’s as often as I can get her there. Just so you know.’
It was the crayon drawing, he understood. She’d been so stunned to see it on his refrigerator. He wasn’t certain that even now it had sunk in with her that the first intruder had torn it as a message. She was a target and they’d keep coming until they brought her down.
Over my dead body. That hadn’t changed.
‘Thank you,’ he said evenly. ‘She’s a sweet kid. I appreciate it.’ Yet he didn’t think he’d be seeing Cordelia anymore after this. It would eventually break him into bits.
They lapsed back into silence, the hum of the tires on the road and Stevie’s quiet weeping overpowered by the relentless pounding in his own head. It had started as a dull throb when he’d walked through his ruined house, but now he could barely think over the pain.
When he saw a CVS, he pulled the Escalade into a parking place right next to the door. ‘I’ll be five minutes or less. Keep your head down. I mean it.’ He hopped out and locked up.
But ten minutes had passed before he returned, half of which he’d spent staring at the shelf of condoms. He’d finally chosen a box, tossing it into his shopping basket grimly. He’d wasted enough time on Stevie Mazzetti. As soon as this was over, he planned to meet someone new and he was not using those disgusting chocolate flavored condoms that had somehow woun
d up in the boat’s nightstand drawer.
Paige had friends she could set him up with and Daphne had been trying to get him to notice one of Joseph’s VCET agents for weeks. Lou probably had an entire list of possibilities, too, complete with photos. He’d pick one and start over.
Hair of the dog that bit you, after all. But even as he paid for them, he knew he wouldn’t be using them. He knew he wouldn’t let any of his friends fix him up with other women. He knew he’d be throwing the box away when it hit its ex-date, probably unopened.
He slipped the plastic sack with the condoms into his gym bag, then tossed the sack with almost everything else he’d bought on the console next to the driver’s seat. Settling behind the wheel, he found the pain reliever and two bottles of water. He took four of the damn pills, then passed the pill bottle along with one of the waters over to Stevie. ‘For your head.’
She took the medicine gratefully. ‘How did you know?’
‘All that crying has to have left you with a headache.’ He handed her the walking cane he’d also bought. ‘Height adjustable. No sparkles. There’s a can of matte finish paint in the bag so we can keep you from being a beacon. The other stuff in there is yours, too.’
She peeked inside the sack. ‘Tissues and a Hershey bar.’ She huffed a sad chuckle. ‘And a bag of frozen veggies for my face. You thought of everything.’
He put the Escalade in gear. Yeah. He was so damn thoughtful, he made himself puke. ‘They’re not peas. They only had broccoli with cheese sauce in those single-serving microwave bags, but it’ll have to do. Let’s go to Culp’s.’ The sooner they plugged all the BPD leaks and caught those who wanted Stevie dead, the sooner he’d be on his way. On to the next woman.
The thought really did make him want to puke.
By the time he stopped at Culp’s curb, the pounding in his head had met the churning in his stomach and were fast friends. His body ached, but he’d survived worse. Or so he told himself as he helped Stevie from the Escalade. Stevie wanted to be there when Hyatt confronted Culp, which was her right.