Edge of Darkness

  “Hey, Adam!” Trip called. “I got the codes.”

  “The gate codes,” Adam explained to Hanson. “Trip had to get them from Mrs. Voss because Mr. Voss isn’t answering his intercom. Come on. We’ve got a warrant to serve.”

  “What does the warrant cover?” Hanson asked.

  “Everything,” Adam said with satisfaction. “His little girl told us enough to get us unlimited access to his house, office, car, and bank records.”

  “Then I’m right behind you,” Hanson said. “Good job, Adam.”

  “Wasn’t me. Meredith Fallon got the goods.”

  “Hope he didn’t change the codes,” Trip said when Adam and Hanson got to the gate.

  Trip radioed Deacon, who was with Scarlett at the back gate. “Back gate code is 0915.”

  “Got it,” Deacon replied. “Let’s do it.”

  “Front gate code is 0713.” Trip punched it in, and everyone breathed in relief when it began to swing open. Having to call for an armored truck to push through the gates would have taken time.

  Adam radioed Deacon. “We’re open here.”

  “Us, too,” Deacon said. “We’re driving through right now.”

  Adam got back in his car and followed the team through the front gate to the wide, circular driveway. On the porch, Adam tapped his radio. “Going in,” he said. He knocked hard and waited. Nothing. He knocked harder. “Mr. Voss! Police. We need to talk to you.”

  Nothing.

  “Now what?” Hanson asked.

  Adam pulled the house keys from his pocket. “We go in.”

  Hanson blinked. “Where did you get the keys?”

  “His wife gave them to Isenberg.” Which you’d have known if you’d been at the briefing. He opened the door and was immediately hit with a blast of heat. And then . . .

  “Oh God.” Adam immediately regretted having eaten the protein bar because the smell . . . “Shit.”

  Trip grunted his agreement, loosening his tie. “Makes my eyes fuckin’ water.”

  The radio crackled. “Adam?” Deacon asked.

  “Somebody or something is very dead,” Adam said. Covering his mouth with a handkerchief, he entered the house and checked the thermostat. “Heat’s on eighty-eight.” He looked around the corner into the living room. “And there is the master of the house.”

  Sprawled on a leather chair was Broderick Voss, a tourniquet still tied to his left arm, the needle still in his vein. “Fucking hell,” Adam muttered. “Voss is dead,” he said into the radio. “Come on in. We need to search for anyone else who might be here, living or not.”

  “Coming around to the front,” Deacon said and the radio went quiet.

  Trip had crouched next to Voss’s body, studying the fingers of his right hand, which were drawn into a claw where they dangled off the arm of the chair. “Full rigor, so he’s been dead at least twelve hours. We know he was alive as of yesterday afternoon because he spoke in front of a room full of political donors.” He turned to look at the gas fireplace behind him, where the flame burned strong. “The heat being on high and a fire in the fireplace is gonna fuck with the time of death.”

  Adam nodded. “I know. I hope Dr. Washington will be able to get us something close.” The ME was damn good, so if anyone could, it was Carrie Washington. “We can’t assume he’s the only body in the house,” he added, “especially since he’s had all these parties lately. Trip and Nash, take the upstairs. Hanson, you and I can search this floor. Deacon and Scarlett will take the basement. I’ve got to make some calls.”

  Walking outside, Adam pulled the front door closed behind him and motioned to two of the uniformed officers. “Each of you stand watch at one of the gates. Nobody comes in unless I clear it, okay? Thanks.” The two cops nodded and took off at a jog.

  His first call was to Carrie Washington’s office. Carrie herself answered, surprising him, and when he’d informed her that they’d found at least one body and the circumstances, she said she’d be there personally.

  “Make sure you keep all doors and windows closed, okay?”

  He gave the closed front door a scowl. “Hurry, please. We’d like to open some windows. It’s foul.”

  “I understand,” she said. “See you soon.”

  His next call was to Quincy, who sounded out of breath when he answered. “Need you here at Voss’s house,” Adam said. “He’s dead.”

  “Fuck,” Quincy said. “How? For how long?”

  “Looks like he OD’d and I don’t know yet. Long enough to smell really bad. But the heat’s cranked up and the fireplace is going. What’s your ETA?”

  “Fuck,” Quincy said again, frustrated. “I took a break to grab a bite. You’ve kept me running today.”

  “Sorry?” Adam said sarcastically, then sighed. “Look, I really am sorry, but I would appreciate you getting here ASAP.”

  “Fine,” Quincy said wearily. “As soon as I can.”

  “Tha—” Adam started, but Quincy had already ended the call, so he dialed Isenberg.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  “Voss is dead,” he told her, giving her what they knew. “Carrie’s on her way. Hopefully we’ll get a decent TOD.”

  She sighed heavily. “I was kind of hoping that you wouldn’t find him at home.”

  Adam understood. “I hoped the same because we hadn’t heard from him, even after sticking cops in front of his house. I figured if he was home, he’d be pulling the strings somehow. But that’s not the case. He’s been dead since this morning. At least.”

  “So he didn’t shoot at you.”

  “And he didn’t kill Bruiser,” Adam added. “He is connected, though. Jolee and Linnie were here. And he’s connected to Meredith.” Voss had threatened Meredith, terrified his child, and assaulted his wife. “And . . . I get the feeling he was hiding something big. Hopefully his financials will tell the story.”

  Another pregnant silence. “Do you have something you want to tell me, Adam?”

  That I know Voss was being blackmailed? “That I want to? Nope.”

  She actually growled at him. “That you’re going to tell me?”

  “Whatever it was won’t help at this point, but his financials will.”

  “That’s why you wanted them on the warrant? You knew we’d find something?”

  “I had a strong hunch.”

  She growled again. “I have a headache,” she said, sounding cranky.

  Adam took a look around him to make sure no one was within hearing distance. “Lynda,” he said quietly. “I did get a tip. But it just confirmed what we knew—that Voss was hiding something so big that he tried to scare Meredith away from his daughter.”

  “I get that. I do. But . . .” Another sigh. “You just got your head on straight and things are going so well for you. I don’t want to see you torpedo your own career because you fucked up and took information you didn’t have a warrant to see.”

  She’d always had his back. “I won’t fuck it up,” he promised. “You have my word. Even if I didn’t have my head on straight, I wouldn’t do that to you.”

  Again the silence. Then another sigh. “Okay. I’ll let it go. For now.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Get those financials, Adam.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Gotta go.”

  He ended the call and drew in a last breath of fresh air. Time to deal with Voss.

  Cincinnati, Ohio

  Sunday, December 20, 8:20 p.m.

  He quickly texted Mike. Where r u?

  Downtown. Searching for ur runaway hooker.

  Your runaway hooker. The jab irritated the fuck out of him. He and Mike needed to come to an understanding about who was the boss. And it wasn’t Mike. Have a job for u.

  The reply was quick and flippant. I live to serve.

  He rolled his eyes. For a
guy who’d already fucked up twice today, Mike was being an arrogant asshole. Use a rifle. Take night goggles. Stay far away. Sending u descriptions of targets. He typed furiously for a minute, then hit SEND.

  A slight pause. Thot u didn’t trust me w/that one.

  He didn’t, but he didn’t have much choice. Am busy. Don’t fuck it up. Here is location. He pasted a map link, then hit SEND and waited for Mike to assess the map.

  The reply took about a minute this time. Why rifle? Will b difficult shot.

  He smirked. U r the best. U said so urself. Too hard?

  Fuck u. Why rifle?

  He considered his answer. Because targets r accompanied by a shot better than u and me together, he finally typed. Stay back and have escape ready.

  OK, fine, Mike replied, the huff of irritation nearly audible in the text.

  He shook his head. Hopefully Mike would get the job done this time.

  Cincinnati, Ohio

  Sunday, December 20, 8:20 p.m.

  “I told you that I was fine,” Meredith said as Kate pushed her in a wheelchair through the hospital hallway, Mallory trailing behind. Since they were already in the hospital and they’d redonned their wigs, they’d decided to visit Agent Troy. “I do not have a concussion, just a damn bump. I can walk perfectly fine.”

  “Hush,” Kate said. “You’re lucky they didn’t keep you overnight for observation.” She looked over her shoulder. “You okay back there, Mal? You look a little green.”

  Kate stopped them outside Troy’s room and Meredith drew Mallory around the chair so that she could see her face. Mallory’s face was pale, panic filling her eyes. “You having trouble being in a hospital again, honey?” Meredith asked her.

  Mallory swallowed hard. “I thought I’d be all right, but this is bringing back a lot of very bad memories.” Because the monster who’d held Mallory captive for six long years, forcing her into online child pornography, had tried to kill her when she finally escaped. She’d spent several days in this very hospital last summer, recovering.

  Kate bit her lip. “I’m sorry, honey. I should have sent you back out with Clarke.”

  Meredith’s grandfather had refused to budge from her side until the doctor said she was okay, but once that happened, he’d hightailed it out the door, saying he’d smoke his pipe while walking Cap. He didn’t like hospitals any more than the rest of them.

  Meredith knew that Mallory would not have been comfortable leaving her and Kate, even though she seemed to like Clarke very much. It was still too soon for her to be comfortable alone with strangers, but that would come in time.

  Meredith squeezed Mallory’s hand. “Papa and Cap are turning into Popsicles out there. Let’s just say hi to Agent Troy and then we’ll go.”

  Kate knocked lightly, then pushed open the door and— “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  Quincy Taylor stood next to Troy’s bed and he looked . . . furious. So did Troy, actually. Both men blinked hard when they saw them in the doorway.

  “Can I help you?” Troy asked.

  “You have the wrong room,” Quincy snapped at the same time.

  Meredith looked from Quincy to Troy. It didn’t take a shrink to know the two had been arguing. “It’s Meredith.” She pointed to the fake hair. “This is just a wig.”

  Kate leaned over her shoulder. “Kate and Mallory, too. We just came to say hi, but we can come back.”

  “We didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” Meredith added awkwardly.

  “You didn’t.” Troy forced a smile. “Come in. Why are you in a wheelchair, Meredith?”

  “Bumped my head.” She glared over her shoulder at Kate. “But I’m fine.”

  Quincy grabbed his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. “That’s good to hear. If you’ll excuse me, I was just leaving anyway. I have to get back to work.”

  Kate pulled the wheelchair out of the doorway and they gave him room to leave. Then Kate pushed Meredith into the room and marched straight to Troy’s bed, where she began giving him a stern lecture. But Mallory stopped only a foot inside the room and rested against the wall, eyes closed. Trembling. She was fighting a panic attack.

  “Hey,” Meredith whispered. “You’re doing great.”

  “I’m a coward,” Mallory said from behind clenched teeth.

  “You are the furthest thing from a coward on this planet,” Meredith declared.

  “I can’t even look at the hospital bed.”

  “Well, this isn’t exactly anybody’s happy place,” Meredith said dryly, relieved when Mallory’s lips twitched. “Before I interrupted you, what were you thinking about?”

  “Oh.” She looked away, embarrassed. “I was thinking about Cap. Sometimes I just pretend I’m petting him. Which sounds dumb, I know.”

  “No, it doesn’t. It sounds very smart. Mallory, look at me.” Meredith waited until the girl’s dark eyes were open and focused. “You know what PTSD is, right?”

  She nodded. “It’s what happens to soldiers.”

  “It also happens to victims of crime.” They’d discussed this in therapy so many times in the past, but Mallory never remembered. “It doesn’t matter what caused the trauma. When it happens to you, your brain gets locked there. The emotions you felt at the time, they return and then—”

  “I’m there,” Mallory interrupted in a small voice. “I’m back there. And I always tell myself that I’ll never go back there, that I’m strong. That I survived.”

  “You are,” Meredith said fiercely. “You did.”

  “But I keep going back there,” Mallory said, her voice pitching higher.

  “You know that today is the first time you’ve acknowledged that?”

  Mallory grimaced. “Because I’m a coward.”

  “No, because you’re smart.”

  Dark eyes widened. “What?”

  “Look, if you know a stove is hot, are you going to touch it?”

  “Well, maybe once,” Mallory allowed.

  “Right?” Meredith smiled at her. “That stove is gonna hurt. And what smart person wants to hurt? Thinking of yourself as being a victim hurts, because you have to give that thing that happened to you a name. Makes it more real.”

  “Doesn’t matter if I give it a name or not. I can’t make it unhappen.”

  “True. But what if you could get to a place where thinking about it didn’t throw you back? What if you could tell your story like it happened to someone else?”

  “I do!”

  “Not really, honey. If you did, it wouldn’t hurt so much.” She cupped Mallory’s cheek. “If petting Cap makes you happy, why haven’t you asked for a dog of your own?”

  Mallory blinked, as if the thought had never occurred to her. “I could have a dog?”

  “You’d have to ask Wendi, of course, but . . . why not?”

  “I can’t feed a dog. I don’t have any money. I can’t even feed myself.” Again her voice pitched up, and once again she clamped her lips together and began to breathe.

  “I think we can find a way for you to afford a dog.”

  “I’m not taking any more charity,” Mallory said through her teeth. “Especially not from you. I take from you. Everybody takes from you. And you just keep giving.”

  Oh, mercy, Meredith thought. I really need to get this girl a new therapist. I’m way too close. She’d never suspected Mallory hid all those emotions. “Okay. Wow.”

  “And now I’ve hurt your feelings,” Mallory said wearily. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, you didn’t hurt my feelings. But you did surprise me. How about we figure this out once we get out of the hospital that was giving you hives five minutes ago.”

  Mallory’s eyes widened comically. “I forgot. I forgot I hated this place.”

  Meredith’s lips curved. “I know.”

  Mallory glanced to her right, where
Kate and Troy waited silently. Her cheeks darkened with sudden shame. “I forgot about them, too. They heard everything.”

  It was true, and Meredith considered saying that Kate and Troy wouldn’t think less of her, which was also true, but probably no more helpful. Briefly she considered admitting to her own insecurities, but that wasn’t appropriate, either. Until she transitioned Mallory to another therapist, there were still professional proprieties.

  Plus, Meredith had never experienced what Mallory had. None of them had. The girl’s abuse had been broadcast over the Internet, her privacy stolen along with her innocence and sense of self. Now, her healing had been witnessed as well.

  Way to go, Fallon. Nice job. She opened her mouth to reply, but was saved by Troy.

  “Mallory, would you come over here, please?” he asked.

  Slowly Mallory complied, stopping when she got close enough to grip the bed rails.

  Troy caught Mallory’s gaze and held it. “I did hear what you were saying. But there’s no shame in it. What you’re feeling isn’t different than anyone else would feel after what you went through. You think none of us are scared, that we don’t have to deal with our pasts and our panic? Just because we’re cops doesn’t mean we don’t suffer from it, too.”

  Mallory lifted her chin. “It’s not the same as mine.”

  “You’re right, but it’s never the same. The crimes aren’t the same and the way we deal—and heal—isn’t the same.”

  Mallory started to protest, but stopped, narrowing her eyes. “‘We’?”

  “Do you think I’m a coward, Mallory?” he asked, holding her gaze.

  “No,” Mallory replied without hesitation.

  Troy smiled a little. “I’m betting you’re thinking, fine, none of these guys really understand, because they’ve never been a real victim of a violent crime. Is that fair?”

  “Yes. Well, maybe except for Faith. She has a scar.” She pointed to her throat. “Here.”

  Faith had been a victim of a violent crime. Meredith knew all the details. She knew that Faith still had nightmares, some that she didn’t even tell Deacon about, because she knew it would hurt him. Meredith also knew that Faith wasn’t the only one of their group to have been victimized. And from the expression on Troy’s face, she saw it was also true for him.