“No, they didn’t,” Isenberg said. “But they might reopen the investigation now.”
Jim’s eyes bugged in shock and rage. “What the fuck? It’s been thirty years! Why would they open that can of worms again?”
“Because this rifle was found at the scene of a shooting last night,” Isenberg said sharply. “And it’s been used three times in the past two days. Once to target your son.”
Jim straightened in his chair. “Did he accuse me? That bastard. And you believe him? You’d take the word of a washed-up—”
“Stop right now,” Isenberg said sharply, then drew a breath and let it out. “Detective Kimble did not accuse you,” she said more calmly.
“Bet he didn’t defend me either,” Jim grumbled.
“You’d win that bet,” Adam muttered.
Deacon snorted. “Once an asshole . . .”
“Shh,” Scarlett scolded. “I’m trying to listen.” She bumped Adam’s shoulder again. “I wanna hear Isenberg tear him a new one.”
Adam smiled at her reflection in the glass and Scarlett smiled back. But Isenberg had pulled her composure back on like a cape and was coolly regarding his father.
“This rifle,” she said, “has been used in two murders this weekend alone. Now, I’d like to know where your vehicle was when it was stolen. You’re not immune just because you’re retired. An investigation could result in the loss of your pension.”
Jim’s nostrils flared. “Bastard kid of mine,” he muttered, but his eyes flicked around nervously. “I stand by what’s in the report.”
“He’s lying,” Scarlett murmured.
“Of course he’s lying,” Deacon said with an eye roll. “The question is, why?”
Isenberg’s eyes narrowed. “Are you protecting someone?”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Jim stared straight ahead mutinously.
“Well, we have your old partner in the next room. We’ll see what he has to say. Whoever tells me the truth first gets my recommendation for leniency with IA. And with the prosecutor.”
“My wife is sick,” Jim said when Isenberg moved to leave the room. “If I lose my pension, she’ll lose her insurance. You’d do that?”
Adam felt the blood drain from his face. His mom had to maintain her insurance. She’d die otherwise. He started for the door, but Deacon and Scarlett each grabbed one of his arms and held him in place.
“Trust her, Adam,” Scarlett said softly. “Trust Lynda to do the right thing.”
“Okay.” Adam nodded, forced himself to relax. “You can let go. I’m okay.”
Isenberg appeared unruffled at the prospect of Tammy Kimble losing her medical care. “No, Mr. Kimble. You’d be doing that.”
Jim looked away, shaking his head. “You’re as big a bitch as everyone says.”
Isenberg actually smiled, but it was her coldest and most ruthless smile. Had Adam not trusted her implicitly, he’d be terrified right now. He just hoped his father was.
“Thank you, Mr. Kimble. Are you going to insult me some more or are you going to tell me what I want to know? Because I will follow through.”
“Bitch,” Jim muttered. “It was parked in Hanson’s driveway. He’d gone home to see his wife. She was sick at the time.” Defiantly, he looked at Isenberg then at Trip. “She had cancer and she’d called him because she needed a doctor. We’d both rushed into the house to help her, and after we called the ambulance, I told Hanson I needed to move the cruiser ’cause we’d get written up if the medics saw it in the driveway, because we were on duty.”
“Surely they would have made an exception for that,” Isenberg said quietly.
“We didn’t want to find out for sure. I went out to the cruiser and found the trunk pried open. Looked like a crowbar. The rifle was gone, along with a couple other guns.”
“What did you do?” Isenberg asked.
Jim shrugged. “Dale was scared for his wife, so I didn’t tell him till later. I just returned the car, damaged. Made a big production when I ‘realized’ the rifle was gone.”
“When did you tell your partner?”
“Later that night, when his wife was out of the danger zone. She ended up dying, but it took years. Every time she’d call, he’d run to her side.”
“Did he want to tell the truth about the rifle?”
“Hell no.” He rolled his eyes. “Because we both knew who took the damn rifle.”
“Care to share?” Trip asked sarcastically.
“No, but I’m gonna,” Jim said with a scowl. “Because I’m not letting him take me down with him for this. Dale has a half brother. Mike. Always good for nothin’.”
“Can you describe Mike?” Isenberg asked.
“Yeah. About five-ten, used to be skinny. Haven’t seen him in years. Dark hair, but it was thinning even then.”
“What about a last name?” Trip asked.
Jim shook his head. “Never knew. Never wanted to know. Kid was bad news.”
“His size matches with Kate’s description of last night’s shooter,” Deacon said. “I wonder if your father knows Bruiser.”
Adam had just been wondering the same thing.
So had Isenberg, apparently, because she put the Kiesler University surveillance photo of Bruiser in front of Jim Kimble. “Who is this?”
“I dunno,” Jim said. “I’ve never seen him. That’s the truth. Can I go now?”
“Sure,” Isenberg said. “But be careful. Whoever’s running this show is tying off loose ends. Wouldn’t want you to be one of them.”
“Right,” Jim said curtly. “I told you what you wanted to know. I got no need to worry about IA, do I?”
“I dunno,” Isenberg shot back sarcastically. “I might ask Detective Kimble what he thinks. After all, he’s the only one targeted by this killer who’s survived.”
He glared at Isenberg. “I bet he’s sniveling about that, too. Son of mine’s a disgrace. Goddamn pussy, takin’ crazy leave. Cops these days are all gone soft. In my day, we just sucked it up.”
Adam winced, because even though he’d heard it before, it still hurt.
Trip stood, squaring his shoulders in a way that seemed to fill the room. “That son of yours is a damn good cop,” he said with cold disdain. “Which I can’t say for you.”
That felt good to hear, Adam had to admit. More than balanced out the bad.
Isenberg drew another deep breath and let it out. “You know, Mr. Kimble, my team and I just saw a video of the event that prompted Detective Kimble to take mental health leave. I’d show it to you, just to see if there’s any scrap of human decency in you, but I won’t use that poor child’s death as a weapon. So . . . you’re free to go. Watch out for bullets, because there’s another rifle out there somewhere. Killed a retired cop just this morning.”
Jim went still. “I heard about that on the news. John Kasper in the churchyard, right? I was sorry to hear that. He was a good cop.”
“Oh my fucking God,” Deacon growled. “I want to kill that fucker.”
Adam put a hand on Deacon’s shoulder. “Easy. He knows I’m back here. He’s just trying to get a rise out of me, and I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.”
“Yes,” Isenberg was saying bitterly. “John Kasper was such a good cop that he sold Detective Kimble out. Told the sniper that my detective was going to be there, in that churchyard. That bullet was not meant for Kasper. It was meant for your son. So by all means, go. And hope that whoever’s after Detective Kimble doesn’t start worrying about what you’ve just told us.”
“Wait.” Jim stood up unsteadily. “You can’t just let me go out there unprotected.”
Trip smiled coldly as he stored the rifle and zipped the case. “If you’re scared, you can snivel about it to the front desk. I’m sure they can help you put in a formal request for police protection. Or
you can just suck it up. Have a nice day.”
Cincinnati, Ohio
Monday, December 21, 10:05 a.m.
The door to the observation room had no sooner closed than Isenberg huffed in irritation. “Adam, I swear to God,” she said. “Your father is a—”
“Total dickwad,” Trip interrupted, breathing hard.
Adam chuckled. “I did try to tell you on Saturday when we were talking about Voss.”
Trip shook his head. “Man, you said he was an asshole. You didn’t say I’d want to punch him in his fucking mouth.” He turned to Isenberg, looking sheepish. “I’m sorry that I just interrupted you, Lieutenant.”
Isenberg snorted a laugh. “That’s okay. ‘Dickwad’ is a better word than I’d chosen.”
Adam’s smile faded. “Seriously, thank you both. I know I could not have gotten that information from him. And I do remember the time he was suspended. It was not a good time in our house. I remember my mother crying a lot and asking if he cared more about what happened to Mrs. Hanson than to us. I didn’t understand then.”
“You were a kid,” Isenberg said. “I guess I understand his reasons, but his behavior was and is unacceptable. God only knows how many people have been killed with that rifle over the years.” She tilted her head. “Do you remember Dale’s half brother, Mike?”
Adam closed his eyes and tried to think back. “There was one guy that came with us to the target range a few times. His name was Mike, but I don’t remember a whole lot about him. Just that he seemed . . . too cool. Like the teacher that wants to be cool for his students. Except Mike was . . . I don’t know. I didn’t like him. I remember that.”
“When was this?” Deacon asked. “I don’t remember him.”
“Because you were off at college. Wyatt was in the police academy and I was living at home, going to UC.” He bit at his lip. “It was strange, though, as I recall.”
“Strange how?” Scarlett asked.
“Well, Mike and Wyatt knew each other. Really well. Like they’d spent a lot of time together in the past. I went with the two of them to the shooting range a few times. Mike was good. He gave us pointers. I learned a lot from him.”
“And became a sharpshooter,” Deacon said.
Adam almost smiled at the brotherly pride in Deacon’s voice. “Yeah. So did Wyatt. And then, you know, life happened. He finished the academy and got a job with CPD. Made new friends. I went to school, then the academy. We were partners at the beginning. I learned a lot from him, too.”
“Whatever he has or has not done has nothing to do with you,” Isenberg said, once again reading his mind.
“I know. But I can’t process this. He doesn’t live large. Doesn’t spend money he shouldn’t have. Lives in a normal house, normal neighborhood. He’s a husband and father.”
“And a friend,” Isenberg said softly. “Hopefully he’s still all of those things and there is another explanation for all of this.”
“But you don’t think so.” Adam’s heart physically hurt. “And neither do I.”
Scarlett made an unhappy sound and looked up from her phone. “Guys, the owner of Barber Motors is Michael Barber. I mean, Michael is a popular enough name, but . . .”
“Goddammit,” Adam whispered. “If Dale’s involved . . . God. I don’t know what I’ll do. That man was more a father to me than my own for more years than I can count.”
Deacon’s hand came up to clamp Adam’s neck again. “Come on. Let’s talk to Mr. Hanson. See what’s what.”
Isenberg was considering him. “You want to be in there with us?”
Adam sighed, then nodded. “Yeah. I would. Thanks.”
Cincinnati, Ohio
Monday, December 21, 10:10 a.m.
He got into his SUV, winded after jogging the half mile from Nash Currie’s home in the middle of fucking nowhere. I need to ramp up my workouts. Because a half mile shouldn’t have winded him. Of course, he was running on very little sleep. Hopefully that would change soon and everything would be back to normal.
He’d stashed the rifle he’d used that morning and the gun he’d used on Mike last night in the shed behind Currie’s farmhouse. Emboldened by the fact that the house was a full mile from the nearest neighbor, he’d even set up a “target range” in the woods behind the shed before hiding the rife. He’d fired at a tree half a mile away, leaving his casings behind so it would appear that Currie was a respectable shot—one who could have shot at Kimble that morning.
Waiting for his heater to warm up, he checked his phone, frowning at the barrage of new messages and voice mails. A few were from Isenberg, probably because he hadn’t shown up at her summons. Bitch. A few were from his boss in Narcotics, which made him frown. His boss didn’t usually call his cell phone. He normally texted or e-mailed.
Tension tightened his skin. Something was wrong.
Because the rest of the messages were from numbers he didn’t know. He clicked on one of the voice mails.
“This is Lisette Cauldwell from the Ledger. We’d like to get a statement on the recent CPD bulletin naming you as a person of interest. Please call me back at 513-555-6220.”
He sat frozen for a moment. What the fuck? Person of interest? What the fuck?
He shook himself into action, bringing up the CPD Web page, then stared at his phone screen in shocked disbelief. I’m done. I’m fucking done. Because the face staring back from the CPD Web page was his own.
He was a “person of interest” in his own damn case.
How? How had they gone from “it’s a cop” to “it’s Wyatt Hanson”?
More importantly, how could he fix this? How could he redirect the attention back to Currie? Or was it too late? No. Stop it. That’s quitter talk. I don’t give up. Ever.
What had he missed? Mallory hadn’t described him—he would have known that last night. They hadn’t found Linnea. That would have been all over the scanner.
He leaned his head back against the seat, mentally checking the list of everything Adam and his merry band had learned last night. Not Mike’s blood. There was nothing to compare it to because Mike had never been arrested, even though he’d deserved it far more times than he could count.
Mike escaped arrest because I saved his ass every single time, the fucker.
There was nothing on file to connect him to Mike. His heart skipped a beat. Except the rifle. The one he’d used to kill Andy Gold and that Mike had used to off Butch. The rifle whose serial number had been filed away by Mike years ago.
Quincy Taylor had been planning to try raising the serial number. He must have succeeded. I should have gone to the lab last night and sabotaged the rifle. But dealing with Mike had seemed more pressing. Then wiping out Mike’s used-car dealership.
His shoulders sagged. The rifle would connect Mike to his father. And to Adam’s father. He wondered if the cops had talked to his father yet and what his father would say.
He took a chance and dialed his father’s landline, listening to it ring and ring. And ring. His father wasn’t home. His father was always home. He was too blind now to drive himself. Someone had picked him up. Couldn’t have been Rita. He’d forbidden her to have anything to do with the old man since they’d had a falling-out. Sanctimonious old prick.
Dale would tell the cops everything he knew, just to get back at him. And the old man probably already had. And then he’d probably told everyone how Adam fucking Kimble would have done everything so much better.
“Fuck you, John,” he snarled aloud. Fuck you for pushing Adam out of the way. Fuck you for having a conscience at the worst possible time. But that didn’t change reality. Kimble was still alive and probably leading the charge against him.
So what do I do? Cut and run or stay and fight?
He looked at his face on CPD’s Web site once again and had to accept the bitter truth. He wasn’t going to be able to
pull this one out in the bottom of the ninth like he had before.
He needed to run. Fortunately, he’d been planning for this moment for decades. Living an upstanding life within his police officer means meant he hadn’t spent the money he’d been pulling in hand over fist. Not like Mike had, which had kept his uncle cutting corners and skimming to get by.
Fucking Mike. Goddammit.
Focus. He had millions stashed away in his offshore accounts. He needed access to some of that cash. Now. And then he needed to get over the border before his status changed from “person of interest” to “wanted for murder.”
He would have loved to hurt Adam Kimble one final time but he couldn’t afford the time nor the risk. Once he got away and settled? There were always paid hits.
I can afford it. Because it was no longer about stopping or even distracting an investigation. This was payback. I have to leave everything behind. And Kimble got to stay.
Pulling the SUV back onto the country road, he headed for home. His alternate passports were in his home safe. At least Rita wouldn’t be home. Today was her weekly appointment with her hairdresser. No answering questions with near-truths and almost-lies. No messy good-byes.
He’d find a new home and start over.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Monday, December 21, 10:10 a.m.
Dale Hanson sat up in his chair when Adam came into the interview room. He smelled like a brewery and clearly hadn’t slept. He looked sad and a little drunk. A lot guilty and upset. But not at all surprised. More resigned.
“Adam.” He pushed aside a half-drunk cup of coffee. “I didn’t expect to see you. I thought it would be the other two. Deacon and the girl.”
Adam frowned, compelled to demand respect for Scarlett. “She’s not a girl. She’s Detective Bishop. And she’s a damn good cop.”
“Whatever.” Dale blinked as Isenberg and Trip entered the room. “Who are they?”
Adam took the chair nearest Dale and wished like hell for a drink. Just the fumes coming off the older man were fucking with his self-control. It was like Dale had bathed in booze with his clothes on.