Edge of Darkness

  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 BuzzBoys. 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, December 19, 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. Bu
t 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 protein 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 of. “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 told only 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 u, 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 his 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 youn
g 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 one another 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.