“Yeah. Alley comes off it.”
“What are the nearest cross streets?”
“To Bolton?” Rick shrugged. “Radisson’s to the east. And west, that’d be, uh …”
“Swarthmore,” said Kat softly. It came to her like a lightning flash of memory: The name of the street. Its significance.
Bolton and Swarthmore. That’s where my partner went down. Drug bust went sour, got boxed in a blind alley …
Kat swung around to look at Adam. “My God, that’s it. That has to be it!”
Adam shook his head. “What are you talking about?”
“There was a cop killed there! In that alley!” She glanced at Rick. “When did Mandy quit her job?”
“I told ya. Six months ago—”
“I need the exact date!”
Rick went into the front office, pulled out a ledger book. “Let’s see. Last call she logged was October second.”
“I have to make a call,” snapped Kat, pulling out her cell phone.
Adam was shaking his head, trying to catch up with her leaps of logic. “A dead cop? How does that fit in?”
“It was blackmail,” she said, punching in the phone number. “That’s where Mandy’s money was coming from. She saw a cop get killed in that alley. And she was squeezing the killer for cash …”
“Until he refused to be squeezed any longer,” Adam finished for her.
“Right. So he arranges to have a little poison slipped her way. Courtesy of the local drug dealer, Nicos … Hello? Ed?”
The voice on the other end of the line sounded harassed. “Kat? I’ll call you back, I’m already late—”
“Ed, one question. That cop, Ben Fuller. The one who arrested Esterhaus. Where was he killed?”
“Somewhere out in Watertown.”
“The date?”
“That’s two questions.”
“The date, Ed!”
“I don’t know. October sometime. Look, the parade starts in twenty minutes and I gotta get out to the limo—”
“Was it October second, Ed?”
A pause. “Could’ve been.”
“I want you to find out one more thing.”
“Now what?”
“The name of Ben Fuller’s partner.”
“I’d have to check—”
“Then do it.”
“Yes, ma’am!” growled Ed and hung up.
She looked at Adam. “It was Ben Fuller who died in that alley. The police called it a drug bust gone sour. I think he was murdered. By another cop.”
They stared at each other, both of them shaken by their conclusions. By what they had to do next.
Adam took her arm. “Let’s go. We’re taking this straight to the police commissioner.”
“He’ll be in the parade. So will everyone else.”
“Then we head for City Hall. The sooner we unload this bomb, the sooner we can stop watching our backs.”
“You think he knows we’re on to him?”
“Are you kidding? Ed’s probably griping to everyone in earshot about his ex-wife and her wild theories. The word’ll be out.”
“Hey!” called Rick, as they headed out the door. “What’s all this with the cops? Am I gonna have trouble?”
“Not to worry,” said Adam. “You, Rick, are of absolutely no interest to anyone.”
“Oh. Well, that’s good,” said Rick.
They left the office and headed down the stairs. Their descent had suddenly taken on the panic of flight. We know too much, Kat thought. And it could get us killed.
By the time they reached the ground floor, her hand was sweaty against the banister. They emerged from the building into the gloom of an impending storm. From the Atlantic, black clouds were roiling in, and the very air smelled of brine and violence.
Adam glanced up and down Bolton Street, his gaze quickly surveying the shabby buildings, the windblown sidewalks. Across the street, a man emerged from a bar, hugged his coat, and trudged away. At the intersection, a car stood idling, music booming from its radio. So far there was no sign of danger. Still, Kat was glad when Adam reached for her hand; the warmth of his grasp was enough to steady her nerves.
They started up the street. Her car was right around the corner, on Radisson. As they reached it, the first fat drops of rain were beginning to fall.
Kat pulled out her keys; Adam reached over and took them out of her hand. “I’ll drive,” he said. “You look shaken up.”
She nodded. “Thanks.”
He unlocked the passenger door and helped her in. Then he circled around and slid into the driver’s seat, bringing in with him the comforting scents of damp wool, of skin-warmed aftershave. He pulled the door shut. “We’ll get this over with,” he said, “and then I’m taking you home.”
She looked at him. “I think I’d like that,” she said softly. “I’d like that very much.”
They smiled at each other. He reached down to put the key in the ignition. Her gaze was still focused on his face. Only vaguely did she register the shadow moving alongside the car, closing in on her window. She glanced to her right just as the door was yanked open.
A blast of chilly air swept across her face; colder still was the icy gun barrel pressed against her temple.
Kat jerked taut. “No! Vince—”
“Not a muscle,” growled Ratchet. “Got that, Quantrell?”
Adam sat frozen behind the wheel, his gaze locked on Kat. “Don’t,” he said, panic seeping into his voice. “Don’t hurt her.”
“Into the backseat,” Ratchet ordered. “Move it, Novak.”
On wobbly legs, Kat stepped out of the car and climbed through the rear door into the backseat. Ratchet slid in beside her and slammed the door shut. The gun barrel was still pressed to her head.
“Okay,” said Ratchet. “Drive.”
Adam turned to look at them. “Leave her alone! There’s no reason for this—”
“She knows. So do you.”
“So does the DA!”
“He doesn’t know crap. Far as he’s concerned, it’s a nuisance case. And his ex-wife’s a pain.” Ratchet clicked back the gun hammer. “Which she is.”
“No!” cried Adam. “Please—”
“Then drive.”
“Where?”
“Up Radisson.”
Adam threw Kat a desperate look. He had no choice. Then he turned and started the engine. As they pulled into traffic, she could see his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. There was nothing he could do; one false move and Ratchet would blow her away.
She said, “They’ll figure it out, Vince. Ed knows you were Ben Fuller’s partner. He’s already wondering what really happened to Fuller. How could you do it to your own partner?”
“He wasn’t a good sport.”
“Meaning what? He wouldn’t play along? Wouldn’t take the payoffs?”
“Goddamn Boy Scout. God, honor, country. That stuff doesn’t pay the bills. Ben and I, we just never came to an understanding. No common ground, see.”
“Not like you and Mandy Barnett,” said Adam.
“Hey, Mandy, I could sorta understand. Bitch saw an opportunity, she grabbed it. Trouble is, she started getting greedy. More money, always more.”
“So you had Esterhaus pass along some poison. Something you thought couldn’t be identified,” said Adam.
Ratchet gave a grunt of surprise. “He talked?”
“He didn’t have to,” said Kat. “We knew about his arrest. You were Fuller’s partner at the time, weren’t you? You would’ve heard all about Esterhaus. And his troubles.”
“Yeah. Those Miami boys.” Ratchet laughed. “He was scared to death of them.”
“So you two cut a deal. He got you the drug. And you didn’t call Miami.”
“Hey, it worked.”
“Except for one detail, Vince. Zestron-L killed a few too many victims. One body, the ME might overlook. But four? That was a trend.”
They pulled to a stop at a red light.
Ratchet glanced at the street sign. “Turn right,” he said.
“Where are we going?” asked Adam.
“The docks.”
Adam flashed Kat a backward glance. Keep your cool, it said. I’ll get us out of this somehow.
He turned right.
Three blocks east took them to the wharf. The rain-swept docks were deserted. A series of piers jutted out, most of them long since abandoned. A single fishing trawler rocked in the gray water, straining at its moorings.
“That warehouse up ahead,” said Ratchet. “Drive there.”
“The pier won’t hold the weight,” said Adam.
“Yes it will. Go.”
Adam pulled off the pavement and slowly guided the car onto the pier. They could hear the wood creak under the weight, could feel the thump of the tires over the boards. At the warehouse entrance, they rolled to a stop.
“Okay,” said Ratchet. “Out of the car.”
Kat stepped out. The wind whipped her hair and lashed her face with sea spray. She stood with the gun shoved against her back, her heart pounding.
“Quantrell! Open the warehouse door,” ordered Ratchet.
“Two more murders,” said Adam. “What’s it going to get you, Vince?”
“My freedom, maybe? Open the door.”
Adam reluctantly set his shoulder against the sliding panel. “You killed Fuller,” he grunted, pushing against the door. “And Esterhaus. And Mandy Barnett.” Slowly the panel slid open, revealing a seemingly impenetrable darkness. “Where’s it going to end?”
“With you two.” Ratchet waved the gun. “Inside.”
There was no arguing with a bullet. They stepped out of the wind’s assault, into the gloom. The darkness smelled of dust and sea rot.
“Sykes will figure it out,” said Adam. “He’ll find us—”
“Not for a while. See, this particular warehouse belongs to Vito Scalisi. And his sentence runs another eight years. By the time they open the building again, the rats’ll have taken care of things. If you catch my drift.”
Meaning our bodies, thought Kat with a rush of nausea. Quickly she glanced around and saw, through the shadows, a jumble of old crates, wooden pallets. Overhead, ropes dangled from a catwalk. And high above, rainwater dripped steadily through a hole in the roof. There were no other exits, no way out.
Adam was still trying to buy time. “People saw you at the burial, Vince—”
“I was there in the line of duty.”
“They saw us, too! They’ll put it together—know you followed us—”
“Me? I went home to bed. This damn virus, you see.” He raised his gun. “Both of you, against the wall. Don’t want to have to drag you. Not with my bad back.”
Adam moved close to Kat and wrapped his arms around her. She felt his breath warm her hair, felt his lips brush the top of her head. “Get ready,” he whispered. “When I move, you run.”
In bewilderment she stared up at him, and saw the unbending command in his gaze: Don’t argue. Just do it.
“Skip the tender farewells, okay?” barked Ratchet. “Against the wall.”
With a nudge, Adam pushed her away, placing himself between her and Ratchet. Calmly, he turned to face the gun.
“You know, Vince,” said Adam. “You’ve neglected a few vital details. The car, for instance.”
“Getting rid of the car’s easy.”
“I’m talking about my car.” Adam took a step forward, so small it was scarcely noticeable. “An abandoned Volvo at the cemetery …” He took another step toward Ratchet. Toward the gun. “It’ll raise a lot of questions.”
“I can take care of that, too.”
“And then there’s the matter of Mandy Barnett’s boyfriend.”
“What?”
“You think she kept her little gold mine a secret?” Another step. “You think he didn’t ask where all her drugs, all her cash, was coming from?”
Ratchet was poised on the verge of finishing off the whole bloody business, but new doubts had been stirred. His hand wavered, the gun barrel dropping a fraction of an inch.
Adam was still ten feet away, too far to make his move. But he might not get a better chance.
Kat, standing behind Adam, could almost sense the tensing of his muscles, the last coiling up before the spring. Dear God, he’s going to do it.
Adam’s body would take the first bullet, and probably the second as well. By that time she could be on Ratchet. It was a last-chance gamble, one they were almost certain to lose, but the alternative was to go down like sheep in a slaughterhouse.
She leaned forward, poised like a sprinter on the balls of her feet, waiting for Adam’s move. Any second now …
The ringing of Ratchet’s cell phone suddenly seemed to trap them in an instant’s freeze-frame. Pure force of habit made Ratchet glance down at the phone on his belt. In that split second of inattention, Adam sprang.
He was halfway to Ratchet when the first shot exploded. The thud of the bullet into his flesh scarcely slowed his momentum. Before Ratchet could even squeeze off a second shot, Adam hurtled against him. Both men toppled to the ground.
Kat scrambled forward to help, but the men were rolling over and over in a confusing tangle of limbs, grappling for the gun. Another shot went off, this one wild—the bullet whistled past Kat’s cheek. Adam’s hand shot out to grab Ratchet’s wrist. He managed to grunt out: “Run!” before Ratchet, roaring like a bull, flung him aside.
Kat attacked, clawing for the gun, but Ratchet had too firm a grip. Enraged, he swung at her, his fist slamming into her jaw. The blow sent her flying. She tumbled across the floor to land in a pile of damp burlap. Through eyes half blinded by pain, she saw Ratchet turn and walk over to look at Adam, who now lay motionless.
He’s dead, she thought. He’s dead. Fueled by grief, by rage, she staggered to her feet. Even as blackness gathered before her eyes, she struggled desperately toward the warehouse door, toward the far-off rectangle of daylight.
Just as she reached the doorway, Ratchet turned to her, raised his gun, and fired.
The bullet splintered the frame, and fragments of wood stung her cheek. She flung herself through the doorway, into the driving wind.
With Ratchet right behind her, a few seconds’ head start was all she had. Still dizzy from the blow, she was moving like a drunken woman. The car was parked a few feet ahead. Beyond it stretched the pier, barren of any cover. Running was futile. It would be a single shot, straight into her back.
No escape, she thought. I can’t even see straight.
Just as Ratchet came tearing out of the warehouse, Kat ducked around the rear of the car. He fired; the bullet pinged off the rear fender. Kat scurried alongside the car and yanked the passenger door open. One glance told her the keys weren’t in the ignition. No escape in there, either—the car would be a trap.
Ratchet was moving in for the kill.
She heard the creak of the planks as he moved along the other side of the car, circling to the rear. Ahead there was only the warehouse, another dead end.
She took a deep breath, pivoted away from the car, and leaped off the pier.
THE STOMACH-WRENCHING PLUNGE HURLED her into icy water. She sank in over her head, into a frightening swirl of brine. She floundered to the surface, gasping, her eyes and throat stung by the salt. One breath was all she managed; the zing of a bullet through the water sent her diving once again into the depths.
Frantically she stroked her way under the pier and surfaced again to cling at the foundation post. Windblown waves churned and thrashed against her face. Her hands had already gone numb from cold and fear, but at least her head was now clear. She glanced toward land, saw that the only way to shore would mean a clamber across exposed rocks. In other words, suicide.
She looked up through the gaps in the planks and spied Ratchet at the other edge of the pier, scanning the water. He knew she wouldn’t swim away from the cover of the pier. He also knew the water was frigid. Fifteen minutes, h
alf an hour—eventually she’d die of hypothermia. For him it was a simple waiting game. One she was sure to lose.
Numbness was creeping up her feet. She couldn’t bob in this icy bath forever. Neither could she risk climbing those rocks. She had no choice—she had to do the unexpected.
Treading water with her legs, she managed to pull off her jacket. She tied the sleeves together, trapping air in the body, and tossed the jacket away, toward the edge of the pier where Ratchet was crouched. Then she dove and began to swim frantically in the other direction, into open water.
The sound of gunshots told her the ruse had worked. Ratchet was too busy firing at her jacket to see that she was swimming away from the cover of the pier. She surfaced for another breath, dove, and kept swimming an underwater course parallel to shore, surfacing, diving again. She could hear Ratchet still shooting. Sooner or later, though, he’d realize he was aiming at an empty jacket and he’d turn to scan the open water; she had only a few precious seconds to put as much distance as possible between her and the warehouse pier.
She surfaced a fifth time and saw that she’d pulled even with the next pier, where the trawler was moored. She turned toward shore and began to stroke for all she was worth, aiming for the trawler.
The gunshots had ceased. She came up for air and glanced in Ratchet’s direction. He was pacing the pier now, his gaze scanning an ever-growing perimeter. She ducked under the surface and kicked wildly. When she came up again, the stern of the trawler was only twenty feet away. From the gunwale hung a rusty chain ladder—she could pull herself aboard! With escape so near at hand, she began to swim with abandon across the surface, drawing closer and closer to the trawler. Finally she reached up; her fingers closed around the first steel rung.
A gunshot rang out, ricocheted off the trawler’s hull. He had spotted her!
Soaked, exhausted, she could barely pull herself up onto the next rung. So little time—already Ratchet was dashing back up the warehouse pier, toward shore. Another few seconds and he’d be on the next pier, cutting off her escape. She reached for the next rung, and the next. Water streamed off her clothes. The wind kept banging the ladder against the hull, bruising her fingers. She grabbed the edge of the gunwale and hauled herself up and over.