“Well, that, too,” Nash admitted. “But he went along with it to save face. He didn’t want you to think he’d been surprised because he didn’t have control over his squad. Wyatt told our boss about talking with you after he left your office that night. He’s been looking for more responsibility, because he wants to climb the ladder. Hanson told a group of us that over drinks once or twice. He’s ambitious. Even talked about applying for a transfer into your unit, Lieutenant. Anyway, our boss allowed it. He’d already planned to assign someone. Figured it might as well be someone who wanted the task. That’s what he told me, anyway, after I heard about it.”
“Wyatt has always been something of an opportunist,” Adam said. “That he’d totally run with it is completely consistent. But how did you get here?”
“I heard he’d been added to the team and I asked to be added as well. Told my boss that my computer skills might come in handy and that taking down a prostitution ring would look good on all of our résumés. But it didn’t hurt that I could keep an eye on Hanson at the same time.”
“You said you followed Hanson,” Scarlett said quietly. “Where did he go?”
“It was only a few times. Each time he left in the middle of the night and didn’t go to a recorded crime scene, he went to a garage out in Batavia. It’s owned by a shell corporation. I’ve been trying to cut through the layers to find a true owner.”
“Did you report this?” Isenberg asked.
“Report what? That Hanson visits a garage? I don’t have any evidence that he’s done something illegal. Hell, he might even be having an affair.” Nash shook his head. “But I don’t know how he would have known that Mallory was at the hospital last night.”
“He knew, too,” Isenberg said. “Adam told him.”
Looking up from his phone, Trip cleared his throat. “I have something.” He looked at Adam with a frown. “Quincy just texted that the lab was able to raise the serial number off that rifle. It was recovered from a robbery thirty years ago, but was stolen from the arresting officers’ vehicle. The arresting officers were Dale Hanson and James Kimble.”
Adam gasped, a sick dread spreading within him. “Wyatt’s dad. And mine.”
Cincinnati, Ohio
Monday, December 21, 9:45 a.m.
“Oh, Shane,” Meredith said softly. She was looking over Diesel’s shoulder, watching the video Shane had made to reach out to Linnie. “He looks so tired.”
Diesel was grim. “Knowing that this could get him investigated for covering up a murder? He’s damn brave. I’m about to upload it to the Ledger’s Web site. It’ll get picked up by the rest of the media quickly. I normally wouldn’t ask a cop’s permission, but . . .”
“It’s Shane’s life we’re playing with. I get it. I tried calling Isenberg again, but I keep getting voice mail. I’ll try again.” Meredith dialed, surprised when the lieutenant picked up.
“I was about to return your calls,” Isenberg said crisply. “I was in a meeting. I knew you were wise enough to call 911 if there was an emergency.”
Meredith almost smiled. There had been a compliment in there somewhere. “Yes, ma’am. I’m here with Diesel Kennedy and we have two questions for you. The—”
“You’re still at the hospital, right?” Isenberg interrupted. “Where the officers I assigned can see you?”
Meredith walked to the door and waved to the officer on duty. He waved back and she returned to the table. “We are. I just made sure the officer knows we’re here in the waiting room. My grandfather’s nurse kicked us out, and Decker’s here with Kate, so . . .”
“Good. Tell me your questions. I have things to do.”
Meredith did smile then. “Yes, ma’am. Can I put you on speaker?”
“Do it,” she said, impatience edging the words.
“Okay. Diesel’s question first.”
“Oh, okay.” Diesel rubbed his head. “Adam asked Shane to make a video begging Linnie to contact him and asked the Ledger to upload it. You know about this, right?”
“No, but it’s a good idea. Please continue.”
“Well, we have the video here. Normally I’d never ask permission, but this is a special case. I want to be sure everyone’s still on board. Shane is risking a lot.”
“Hm.” Isenberg paused and Meredith’s phone buzzed with an incoming text. “I just sent Meredith my e-mail. Send it to me right now. I’ll look at it before I go into my next meeting. While he’s doing that, ask your question, Meredith.”
“Well, it’s about Shane.” She told Isenberg what they’d learned from the Indianapolis social worker. “I’ve called the detective who appears to be instrumental in Bethany Row getting fired, but I haven’t heard back from him.”
“Send me his number. I’ll call his CO. It could make a difference.”
“Thank you.” She did as requested. “I just sent you the detective’s info.”
“I just got the video. Give me a minute.” They could hear Shane’s voice, tinny on the other end of the line. When the video was over, Isenberg sighed. “Upload it, Mr. Kennedy. Thank you for including me in your decision this time.”
Diesel bit back a smile, because once again there’d been a compliment riding on the barb. “You’re welcome, Lieutenant.”
“Just one thing,” Isenberg said. “Make sure you have our switchboard number scrolling across the screen. Also to ask for Detective Kimble. Can you do that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it.” She hesitated. “Stay with Diesel, Meredith.”
Something in her voice had Meredith frowning. “There’s a cop on this hallway.”
“I know. And I hand-picked him. Still, stay with Diesel. It will make Adam feel better. In the future, if you get my voice mail, leave me a message.”
She ended the call, leaving Meredith and Diesel staring at each other.
“That didn’t sound good,” Meredith murmured.
“No, it didn’t.” Diesel quickly made the changes Isenberg requested, then tapped a few more keys. “It’s up. Cross your fingers.”
“I am. I want this to be over.”
“I know. Let’s do our part. I’ll keep working at Bethany Row’s e-mail server and you try the Indy detective again.”
Meredith gave his massive arm a friendly pat. “Thanks, Diesel. You’ve been an amazing help the past couple days.”
“You’re an amazing help every day, Merry. Least I can do.”
She gave him another pat, then sat down to call the detective again.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Monday, December 21, 9:45 a.m.
“Pull into the driveway, Rita,” Linnea said quietly, holding the gun at an angle that couldn’t be seen by the older man fussing with a string of lights in front of his already overdecorated house. “Do not stop to talk to him. Just wave like you always do. No more tricks.”
Because Rita had driven around aimlessly for an hour before Linnea grabbed her purse and found her address on her driver’s license. Rita lived only minutes from the Gruber Academy, but had apparently been hoping to need to stop for gas—and help. But luckily, the woman had had a full tank. Still, it had taken them another hour to get back.
“How would you know what I always do?” Rita asked angrily.
“Smile, ma’am. Smile like you always do. Now put down the garage door and turn off the engine.” She waited until Rita had obeyed. “I know you always smile and wave, because you seem nice. I don’t know how you can be nice, but I heard you with your daughter this morning. You sounded real. Like you’re a good mother.”
“Then why are you doing this?” Rita asked for the twentieth time.
“I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you. Let’s go inside.” She waited until Rita had taken the baby from the car seat before taking him from her arms. “I’ll hold him.” She held up her gu
n, knowing she’d never hurt the baby with it, but hoping Rita couldn’t see that. “This way you’ll think twice before using the phone.”
They walked into the house, a nice two-story, but not grand. Nowhere near the luxury of Voss’s home. Odd that he lives like this, she thought.
But he did indeed live here. Linnea’s heart stuttered when she saw him in the family photo on the bookshelf, then beat so hard she thought she’d pass out. Yes, this is the right place. Keep your cool and get this done.
And then she saw the next photograph and had to lock her knees to keep them from folding on her. He was wearing a uniform. A uniform.
He’s a cop. Oh my God. Stunned, she could only stare. He’s a fucking cop.
Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. Now so many things made sense. He was a cop. He could break the rules without consequences.
I have to be ready to face him. I have to be ready to kill him with the first shot. I have to be ready to be hunted by his policemen friends once I’ve done the job. I have to be ready to be arrested. Maybe shot on sight.
But she was already ready to die. So nothing had really changed.
Not true. It was even more important now that she take him out. It would mean one less cop preying on the helpless and innocent.
Resolutely, she turned to find Rita standing in the middle of the room, hugging herself. “What are you going to do to us?” Rita asked.
“If you behave yourself, nothing. For now, I’d like you to make me some tea.”
Rita blinked at her. “Tea?”
“Yes, tea. I like tea. I’m a hooker, not a barbarian.”
Rita nodded stiffly. “Of course.”
Linnea followed her into the kitchen, watching her every move. Rita did as asked, then she and Linnea sat on their sofa. The toddler squirmed and Linnea tightened her hold.
“Tell him it’s okay,” Linnea said quietly. “Right now. In your nicest, sweetest Mommy voice.”
“Mikey, sit nicely for the lady and Mommy will get you a cookie,” she said brightly, and the boy settled down. “Why are you doing this?” she asked once again.
“Because your husband murdered my best friend.”
Rita gasped, hand flying to cover her mouth. “You lying whore.”
“You got the whore part right, but that was because of him, too.” Linnea looked down at the toddler sadly. “I’m not going to say any more because you’re too young to know that your daddy is an evil man.”
Rita’s chin lifted. “You lie.”
“No, ma’am.” She shifted the baby to her knee, holding her gun in the same hand. The safety was on, but she hated taking a chance with him. The tea beckoned, though, and Linnea needed something to soothe her stomach. “When does your husband get home?”
Rita looked away. “I don’t know.”
Linnea sipped the tea, welcoming its warmth. “It doesn’t matter. In a minute I’m going to text him with your phone and ask him to come home. I’ll tell him Mikey is sick.”
“And then?”
“And then I’m going to kill him.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Cincinnati, Ohio
Monday, December 21, 9:45 a.m.
“I don’t know,” Deacon murmured as he, Adam, and Scarlett stood in front of the glass in the observation room. “Your dad’s an asshole, Adam, but he’s not a criminal.”
Jim Kimble sat on the other side of the glass, ready to blow a gasket. “Maybe not,” Adam murmured back, “but Dale Hanson isn’t a criminal, either—and he’s a truly nice man.”
“He was,” Deacon agreed. “I remember him taking us to your ball games, when you and Wyatt were on the team. Then we’d go out for ice cream. I liked him.”
Adam had more than liked him. “Dale was a much better father to me than my own ever was. I hate that he’s been pulled into all this. I mean, did you see him?”
“Of course we did,” Scarlett said gently. “Deacon and I brought him in.”
Adam cursed silently. He knew that, dammit. He’d seen them escorting Dale into the interview room next door. “I know,” he said, fighting to keep his frustration out of his voice. Because Scarlett and Deacon didn’t deserve it. “I mean, he’s almost blind. Macular degeneration. No way he could have fired a rifle now. Years ago, maybe. He was a crack shot when we were kids.”
“I remember him taking us to the firing range once with Uncle Jim. It was you and me and Dani and Wyatt. We were, what, about sixteen?”
“About that. Dale did tear up the targets that day. Every shot in the kill zone.”
“I remember,” Deacon said, “because it was the coolest thing ever. Watching that man fire a rifle was almost . . . like music. He was good.”
“But not a killer,” Adam choked out.
Deacon started to argue, but Scarlett gave him a quelling look that had him pursing his lips. “How long have you known Wyatt and his father?” Scarlett asked.
“His father, a long time,” Adam answered. “Since I was old enough to remember. He was my father’s partner on patrol. We did cookouts and parties and all kinds of things with Dale and his wife, before she died.”
“But not Wyatt?” Scarlett asked.
“Wyatt was adopted when he was about thirteen. His biological father had gone on a shooting rampage. Killed everyone in the house, then turned the gun on himself. Dale found Wyatt hiding in a closet. Took him to social services, then he and his wife fostered him. Ended up keeping him. Dale’s a good man.”
“Let’s hold to that thought while Isenberg and Trip talk to your dad.” Scarlett bumped shoulders with him encouragingly. “Maybe there’s a good explanation for how that rifle went from their possession to a killer’s hands.”
God, I hope so, Adam thought, but his gut was telling him otherwise. And then the familiar voice coming through the speakers had him flinching.
“What the fuck is this all about?” his father demanded as Isenberg and Trip entered the room and took their seats at the table. “Why did you call me down here?”
Isenberg had decided that she and Trip would conduct the interviews since Deacon and Adam were obviously biased, in different ways. She was saving Scarlett as a pinch hitter should the need arise.
Isenberg had also confirmed Nash’s claim that Wyatt hadn’t been the Narcotics lieutenant’s first choice for her team. She’d asked Nash to wait upstairs in the briefing room in case they needed his help and he’d agreed. She’d informed Wyatt’s boss that Wyatt was a “person of interest” in their investigation and the head of Narcotics cooperated fully because Wyatt had disappeared and wasn’t answering anyone’s calls.
IA was now involved and that sent Adam’s gut on another torturous roll. Internal Affairs had been anathema in his house. His father and his buddies would actually spit after saying “IA.”
“We need to ask you a few questions,” Isenberg said. “I’m—”
“Lieutenant Isenberg,” Jim Kimble interrupted mockingly, his lip curled into a sneer. “I know who you are. What I want to know is why you’ve hauled me down here like some common thug.” His eyes narrowed. “What’s that useless son of mine done now?”
Adam winced and Deacon actually growled. Scarlett was visibly taken aback. As was Trip, on the other side of the glass, although he controlled his surprise quickly, his expression flattening to merely bored.
Nicely done, Adam thought. Trip was solid.
“S’okay, D,” he said aloud, giving Deacon’s shoulder a pat. “Not anything I haven’t heard before.”
“Nash was right,” Deacon muttered. “We did abandon you. I abandoned you. I let that miserable fuck of a father tell you that you were weak for taking a mental health leave. I let him tell you that you were useless.”
“He would have said those things regardless,” Adam said practically. “You know it.”
Deacon shook his hea
d hard. “I should have stopped him.”
“Let it go, D,” Adam murmured. “You’re here right now. And that’s everything. Let’s listen now, okay?”
Deacon just growled in response, which made Adam want to grin. But he didn’t because Isenberg had motioned to Trip, who unzipped the rifle case he’d carried in and put the rifle on the table. It was tagged and unloaded. Trip had made it a point to triple-check.
“We have a few questions about this,” Isenberg said, indicating the rifle.
Jim Kimble frowned. “What? It’s not mine. I don’t own that model.”
“This isn’t just any rifle,” Isenberg said. “This rifle was used in a robbery thirty years ago. You and your partner, Dale Hanson, stopped the robbery and confiscated this rifle.”
Jim’s eyes narrowed. “It was stolen,” he said curtly. “Out of our cruiser.”
“Where was it parked when the rifle was stolen?” Trip asked in his deep rumble.
Jim’s eyes shifted to the Fed. “I don’t know you.”
“Sorry,” Trip said, clearly not sorry at all. “I’m Special Agent Triplett, FBI.”
“And?” Jim asked belligerently. “Is that supposed to impress me? What does the FBI want from me?”
“The FBI wants you to answer my question,” Trip said levelly. “Now would be good.”
“The rookie’s good,” Deacon murmured.
Yes, he is, Adam thought.
Jim’s expression turned stony. “It was parked in front of the diner where we’d had lunch. Just like the report says.”
“I don’t think so,” Trip said. “Neither did IA when they put you and your partner on unpaid leave to investigate.”
Adam’s eyes widened. He hadn’t known about that. But then . . . “I think I remember this. He was home for a long time and there was a lot of yelling. And drinking. My mom cried a lot. I was five.” Which would have been the same year the rifle went missing.
“The math computes,” Deacon agreed with a nod. “I didn’t know, either.”
Jim’s face turned red at the mention of IA and their investigation. “That was bullshit,” he snapped. “Those IA SOBs never found nothin’.”