‘Yes, I do. And then Mikhail dying too? No wonder Della takes all those sleeping pills. I wouldn’t want to be awake either. Poor Aunt Gayle. She grieved Mikhail so much. I kept thinking, Hello! What about me? Am I chopped liver or something? I didn’t understand.’
‘Now you do. Ball’s in your court as to what you do with it.’
She blew out a breath. ‘I have been a brat, haven’t I?’
‘Yep.’
Jill huffed a laugh. ‘I’ll do better.’
‘Good.’ Eyes still closed, Scarlett kept talking, partly to keep herself awake and partly to keep Jill distracted from the terror that would return once she started thinking about Gayle’s current situation. ‘I will throw you a bone, though. Gayle’s heart attack was indirectly triggered by the team’s efforts, so you were right about that. Your concern was well placed. Just not well acted upon.’
‘How do you know that, about her heart attack?’
‘I was listening at the door yesterday when Gayle told Marcus about the letter she was reading that day. The letter writer threatened to “take away” somebody that Marcus loved just like he’d taken away somebody she loved. Her husband had reportedly committed suicide in prison. Gayle read the letter when Mikhail was missing. Given their past experience with kidnapping . . .’
‘Holy shit.’ Jill sighed, frustrated. ‘That was the worst timing ever. I wish I’d given her the letter when I got it. At least she wouldn’t have had to worry about Mikhail.’
Scarlett rolled her head, opening her eyes so that she could see Jill’s profile. ‘What do you mean? When did you get the letter?’
‘The week before. Gayle had missed a few days at work because she was so tired – I guess that was a warning sign for the heart attack. I’d locked the mail up in my desk because she wasn’t there. The Ledger has a clean desk policy, you know. But I had a big project due for school, so I took a few days off in between. I didn’t give her the letters until the day I came back. That was the day she had her heart attack and then later we found out about Mikhail being dead. I know that Mickey was alive when the letter arrived in the mail. If I’d given it to her then, she wouldn’t have been so shocked.’
Scarlett frowned. Something wasn’t right about that, but her tired brain wasn’t sure what. From her pocket she fished out the folded papers that Stone had printed for her earlier that day.
‘What’s that?’ Jill asked.
‘Stone’s story about Woody McCord, the husband of the woman who wrote the letter.’ Getting her second wind, Scarlett rose and paced while she read to herself. She didn’t want to share any more with Jill until she knew where she was going with this.
After a minute, she stopped pacing and turned the paper over to write the key dates on the back. ‘What day did you actually receive that letter, Jill?’
Puzzled, Jill scooted to sit on the edge of her seat, her brow furrowed. ‘Thursday. I remember because Halloween was the next day and I was going to a party with Mikhail and his friends. We went to the party store to pick up our costumes.’ She looked away. ‘He didn’t run away until the weekend, but the party was the last time I saw him alive.’
‘I’m sorry to dredge this up, but it’s important.’
‘Why?’ Jill frowned. ‘How do you know?’
‘I feel it.’ Scarlett made a face. ‘Too weird, I know, but I’ve learned to trust my gut. Usually my gut remembers stuff my conscious mind has forgotten.’
Jill gave her a look. ‘Maybe you are a super-cop,’ she said with mild sarcasm.
Scarlett shook her head, ignoring the girl’s attitude. ‘No. That would be Deacon. The guy remembers everything. He kills at Jeopardy. I’m just good at Wheel of Fortune.’ She looked at her page of scribbles. ‘If you received that letter on Thursday, it had to have been mailed Monday or Tuesday. Wednesday at the latest.’ She wrote that down too.
‘Okay,’ Jill said. ‘So? What does all that mean?’
‘So . . . I don’t know yet.’ Scarlett rearranged her scribbles into a timeline.
Mon. 10/27–Wed. 10/29: letter written/mailed by Leslie McCord
Wed. 10/29: McCord tells his attorney and prosecutor that he will name names
Thurs. 10/30: Letter received at Ledger by Jill via USPS
Thurs. 10/30: Woody McCord found hanged in his cell (murder or suicide???)
Mon. 11/3: Leslie McCord ODs on pills (estimated by ME)
Wed. 11/5: Gayle reads letter, has heart attack; Mikhail’s body found; Marcus shot
Thurs, 11/6: Leslie’s body found in her home per police report
Reviewing the dates, Scarlett saw what she’d been missing. What it means, she thought, is that Leslie McCord wrote a letter referring to her husband’s death before he died. She looked up from her notes to meet Jill’s curious gaze. ‘It means I need to see that letter.’
‘Another gut feeling?’
‘Yeah. Do you know the combination to your aunt’s safe?’
‘No. She wouldn’t trust me with that. I tried to break in once, to see if I could, but I couldn’t.’
Scarlett bet that Diesel could. ‘Come with me. You can’t stay here alone. It’s not safe.’
Jill frowned, but got up. ‘Why did you tell me to earlier?’
‘Because I was too tired to think. I’m not tired anymore.’
Scarlett jogged back to the main waiting room only to find a full-fledged argument in progress. Marcus and Diesel were nose to nose. Deacon had returned, and he and Scarlett’s father were trying to calm the two men down.
‘What’s going on here?’ she demanded. ‘Is it Stone?’
Diesel’s huge chest was pumping like a bellows. ‘No, he’s still in surgery.’ He shoved a finger into Marcus’s chest, a futile gesture considering they all still wore vests. ‘Maybe you can make this asshole here see reason. I sure can’t.’
Marcus’s jaw was tight, his fists clenched much as Jill’s had been. Scarlett gently pushed Diesel aside, covered Marcus’s fists with her hands, tucked them under her chin, and waited for him to calm down.
Thirty seconds later he’d moved in, trapping their hands between their bodies, dropping his forehead to hers. ‘He called.’
‘Who?’
‘The man who has Gayle,’ he murmured.
Oh shit. She had to draw a breath, because her temper was starting to flare hotter than Diesel’s. She closed her eyes for four pounding beats of her heart, then opened them, promising herself she’d stay in control. For Marcus. ‘Let me guess. He wants a trade.’
‘Got it in one,’ Diesel said, still furious.
Marcus lifted his head, his nostrils flaring as he tried to control his temper. ‘Shut up, Diesel. I mean it.
‘Let me guess,’ Scarlett said again, so calmly she stunned herself. ‘You want to do it.’
Cincinnati, Ohio
Wednesday 5 August, 9.15 P.M.
‘Oh, she’s smart, Marcus,’ Diesel snapped out. ‘Or maybe not, considering she’s thrown her lot in with a guy with a goddamn death wish.’
Marcus ground his teeth so hard that a pain spiked up his skull. He couldn’t deal with Diesel now. He needed to focus on Scarlett, who’d done the long blink and was now staring up at him with a clinical expression he knew was costing her dearly. ‘Diesel, I swear to God, if you don’t shut up . . .’
‘You’ll what?’ Diesel said, holding his arms wide. ‘You’ll hit me? Go ahead. I’ll hit back and maybe knock some fucking sense into your head!’
‘Um, excuse me?’ A nurse stood in the doorway looking upset. ‘Do I need to call Security?’
‘No,’ Marcus said.
‘No, ma’am,’ Diesel muttered.
Scarlett still held his fists in her hands. ‘All right,’ she said quietly. ‘Will someone who is sane please tell me what I missed?’
Deacon cleared his throat. ‘Well, we’re thinking the caller had to be Sweeney because Stone described the shooter’s body size as consistent with the man we saw in the photo with Alice. Sween
ey said he has Gayle and for Marcus to meet him at the entrance to Shawnee Lookout Park at midnight. He’ll then allow Gayle her freedom, in exchange for Marcus. Marcus wants to do it, with a plan that he hasn’t come up with yet. Diesel says he’s a fucking fool. I’m somewhere in between the two.’ He glanced at Scarlett’s father. ‘Is that pretty complete, sir?’
‘Yeah, I’d say so,’ Jonas said.
‘And if we had a plan?’ Scarlett asked evenly. Too evenly. She was holding herself together so tightly that Marcus thought she’d crack in two.
He knew how she felt. He wanted to . . . hit something. Preferably Diesel.
‘Depends on the plan,’ her father said. He laid a tentative hand on Marcus’s shoulder. ‘Have you calmed down enough to think about this, son?’
Marcus shook his head. ‘Not yet.’
‘At least you’re honest,’ Jonas muttered.
‘What exactly did Sweeney say?’ Scarlett asked. ‘Exactly.’
Marcus let go of one of her hands to fish his phone out of his pocket. ‘I recorded it. It came through as Gayle’s caller ID.’
Scarlett pressed her free hand against his chest. ‘Jill doesn’t need to hear this.’
‘I’m staying,’ Jill said stubbornly. ‘Play it, Marcus.’
‘The audio isn’t bad,’ he murmured in Scarlett’s ear. ‘I won’t show her the video.’
Surprised horror filled her eyes, her manufactured calm gone. ‘Holy God.’
‘Yeah,’ Marcus said grimly. He hit PLAY and squared his shoulders, preparing himself to listen again.
‘Hello?’ Marcus winced at the sound of his own voice, full of hope. ‘Gayle?’
Hearing the twisted chuckle again felt like someone was grabbing his heart right out of his chest.
‘No, Marcus, this isn’t Gayle. But she’s with me. You’ve caused me a great deal of trouble recently. Let’s cut to the chase. I want you to meet me at Shawnee Lookout at midnight. It’s a cliché, I realize, but I’m on a tight schedule. Meet me there and I’ll put Gayle in your car and she’ll be free to leave.’
‘Like everyone you butchered at the Ledger was free to leave?’ Marcus asked coldly.
‘That was payback. Like I said, you’ve caused me trouble. Meet me or don’t, but if you don’t, Gayle dies. Oh, and don’t involve the authorities.’
Marcus clicked it off, not wanting to hurt his mother again with the next line. ‘That’s pretty much it.’
‘Play the rest of it, Marcus,’ Della said wearily. ‘It doesn’t matter anymore.’
Marcus sighed. ‘All right.’
Ken Sweeney’s voice filled the room once again. ‘You know what happened when your mother involved the authorities twenty-seven years ago. Let’s not repeat history, shall we?’
‘How do I know Gayle’s still alive?’
‘Ask her yourself,’ Sweeney said silkily.
‘Marcus.’ Gayle sounded frail. ‘Don’t you dare do this. I—’ She was abruptly silenced.
‘Midnight,’ Sweeney said.
The line went dead.
‘What was the video?’ Scarlett mouthed.
Marcus leaned in, filled his lungs with the scent of wildflowers. ‘He’s got Gayle in a cage. She’s tied up.’ He hesitated. ‘He’s taken her clothes.’
‘Blindfolded?’
He swallowed hard. ‘No.’
Scarlett blew out a breath. ‘Okay. So I think we can all agree that he’s not going to let Gayle go. We need to figure out how to find out where she is. Before midnight.’
Jill covered her mouth with her hand, stifling a whimper.
Lisette got up from the sofa where she’d been numbly sitting since finding out that Cal and the others were dead. She put her arms around Jill and rocked her where they stood. ‘You got any ideas, Detective?’ Lisette asked brokenly. ‘Because I can’t think.’
‘That’s part of his strategy,’ Scarlett said. ‘Decimate your morale so that your concentration and focus are fractured.’ She looked over her shoulder at Deacon. ‘You’ve tried to trace the call?’
Deacon had slumped into the chair next to Faith when it had become clear that Marcus and Diesel weren’t going to kill each other. ‘Vince is working on it. He’s not hopeful. He knows it wasn’t really Gayle’s phone. If it had been we’d have traced it by now. Sweeney routed it through a spoofing service to make it come up as Gayle’s number. The phone is a throwaway.’
That was about what Scarlett had expected. For him to have used Gayle’s actual phone would have been far too easy. ‘What about that hard drive I gave you? The copy of McCord’s files? Did Vince find anything on that?’
Deacon lifted a brow. ‘The one you told me to tell him you’d go through yourself?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Hell. Like Vince ever listens to me. What did he find?’
Deacon shook his head wearily. ‘Nothing that would lead us to Ken Sweeney.’
Bowing her head, Scarlett rubbed her temples. ‘Diesel, can you crack a safe?’
Everyone did a double-take at that. ‘Did you say “crack a safe”?’ Marcus asked carefully.
‘I did. Can you, Diesel? If you can’t, we’ll get a team over to Gayle’s right now, but that might take time we don’t have.’
‘Why?’ Diesel asked helplessly.
‘There’s a letter in her safe that I want to take a look at.’
Marcus frowned. ‘You mean the letter that Leslie McCord wrote? Why?’
‘Because she wrote that letter several days before her husband was killed. Jill said the letter had arrived a week before Gayle read it.’ She took a piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to him. ‘It might be nothing, but it’s better than sitting here listening to the seconds tick by.’
Marcus read through the timeline, then read it again. ‘You’re right. Something’s off. Can you get the letter, Diesel?’
Diesel glanced at Jonas Bishop and Deacon uneasily. ‘Maybe.’
Scarlett’s control visibly snapped, and, whirling on Diesel, she jabbed her forefinger up in his face. ‘Neither my father nor Deacon will arrest you,’ she hissed. ‘But I will fucking kill you myself if you don’t give me a straight answer. Can you crack the goddamn safe or not? Yes or no?’
Eyes wide, Diesel nodded once. ‘Yes.’
She grabbed his arm and shoved him toward the door. ‘Then go do it,’ she cried, exasperated. ‘Now.’
Diesel took off at a fast jog.
‘Diesel!’ Scarlett yelled. She ran to the doorway, then turned back to the group, rolling her eyes. ‘Jill, give Deacon your house keys. Deacon, please go with him, and call me with what the letter says when you get it. I’m going to stay here and try to figure out a damn plan.’
Deacon was instantly on his feet. ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He dropped a kiss on Faith’s mouth, still open in surprise. ‘Call you as soon as I can.’
One could have heard a pin drop after Deacon left. Scarlett’s mother sat with her mouth open in shock, and her father was biting back a grin. Marcus found himself aroused despite his worry. It was like a balloon had popped inside his chest, so much pressure releasing.
Once again, she’d cleared his mind, allowing him to think.
Scarlett shrugged. ‘Sorry, Mom. This is me.’
‘Of course it is,’ her mother said. ‘I’m just . . . Wow. I guess I don’t have to worry about you on the job anymore.’
‘No, ma’am.’ Scarlett rubbed her hands together. ‘We need a plan, Mr O’Bannion.’
His lips curved with pride. ‘Yes, we do, Detective.’
‘One that doesn’t involve you trading yourself.’
‘I’m open to suggestions,’ he said mildly.
She scowled at him, then swallowed hard. ‘I’m really mad at you, you know. To even consider it.’
He pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. ‘I know. But she’s Gayle and she’s scared. And so am I.’
She pulled away to sit at a table in the corner. ‘We need a way to track Sweeney, but we don?
??t even know who he is.’
Lisette sat down across from her. ‘I spent the two hours before . . . well, before the shooting searching every database I have for Ken Sweeney. He doesn’t exist. Nor does Demetrius Russell.’
‘They’re using aliases,’ Scarlett said, ‘which is no shock. Kate said the same. She tried tracking the car Alice was driving. It’s stolen. When I left, one of Tanaka’s guys was working on breaking into both Alice’s and DJ’s phones, hoping to find contact information or addresses or anything at all.’
Marcus sat down next to Scarlett. ‘Don’t be mad, but we need to assume we’re not going to find Sweeney in the next two hours.’ He pulled up a map of the park on his phone. ‘We need a plan that gets me in and out of Shawnee Lookout alive.’
She nodded. ‘Alive is good.’
Cincinnati, Ohio
Wednesday 5 August, 10.15 P.M.
Ken packed the last of his old photos in a box to go in his suitcase. He was taking only what he couldn’t replace. The photos, the first dollar he and Demetrius had made. His MVP trophy he’d earned playing football during his senior year at college. He’d packed his mother’s diamond earrings, the tiny ones that had no monetary value. Just sentimental. There was no other jewelry. He’d sold it all years ago. Before he and Demetrius had started the business, of course.
He’d needed the money way back then because he’d wanted to keep his family’s home. Which was why he and Demetrius had started the business in the first place.
He’d packed a few changes of clothes, enough cash to get by for a while without raising any flags while going through airport security. He had a bank check he’d use to open an account once he got there. He’d already transferred funds from the other accounts into the offshore account he’d opened years ago under his alias. His rental house was pre-paid for the next six months from that same account.
‘I think I’m ready,’ he murmured.
‘Were you going to say goodbye?’