by Gregory Ashe
“What the hell is going on?” His brows drew together. “Where’s Gray? What do you know that I don’t?”
Hazard shot a look at Somers. Somers nodded, so Hazard said, “Where were you last night?”
“Albany, New York.”
“Bullshit.”
Darnell’s broad face contracted; his voice was thick as he said, “Guys, what is this? I don’t understand what’s happening here. I was in Albany for work. I got into St. Louis, I don’t know, around 9 or 10. I drove home. Traffic on I-70 was terrible; there was an accident. Then I stopped for something to eat, so it was probably midnight, maybe one by the time I got here.”
“Darnell,” Somers said, “it’s really important that you’re totally honest with us right now. A lot depends on it. Lives depend on it.”
“I am being honest.”
“No,” Hazard said, jabbing a finger at him, “you are a fucking liar. And you know what happens to liars? Every fucking lie eventually comes apart, Darnell. Jesus Christ. Did you really think you could get away with this?”
“Did something happen to Gray?” Darnell’s gaze moved to Somers. “Did he get hurt? You can’t think I had anything to do with that; I couldn’t hurt him.”
“You automatically assume something happened to him,” Hazard said. “That’s very interesting.”
“Of course that’s what I assume. He’s a police officer. That’s all I think about when he’s at work: he could get shot, he could get killed, some crazy drunk could push him down a flight of steps. I can’t breathe sometimes because I know he’s in so much danger, and there’s nothing I can do about it. You show up here, you’re . . . you’re making accusations, and I don’t know what happened to him. So will you just tell me?” The last words exploded out of Darnell, and then he hinged at the waist, his face ashen, supporting himself on his knees.
“Great fucking performance,” Hazard said.
“It’s not a performance,” Somers said, and the blond man looped an arm around Darnell, helping the bigger man sit. “Call an ambulance.”
Darnell’s head dropped forward, his chin against his chest, and he was taking gasping breaths like he couldn’t get any air.
Hazard made the call.
“Oh God,” Darnell said. “Oh my God.”
“Hey,” Somers said, “stay with me, ok? Stay focused, Darnell. Gray’s ok. You’re going to be ok too, all right? You just need to breathe. Try to relax.”
“Oh shit,” Darnell said, one hand pressed to his chest, “oh shit that hurts.” Sweat had broken out across his waxy features, and then he gave a sigh. His arm dropped back into his lap. He was still breathing, but it was those awful, erratic breaths.
“Jesus Christ,” Somers said. “How long did they say?”
“They didn’t. Darnell, can you hear me?”
Somers was shaking his head, but Darnell answered in scratchy whisper, “Yeah.”
“You lied about Princeton Law. Princeton doesn’t even have a law school.”
Darnell’s head came up; his eyes were half-closed, and he mumbled, “Scared. Dumb thing to say.”
“He said that when we were about to arrest him,” Somers explained. “I said something stupid about him playing a lawyer on TV, and he came back at me with that. It shut me up pretty fast.”
A smile ghosted across Darnell’s lips. “Wanted to look good for Gray.”
“And this?” Hazard said, drawing the SquibSquab business card from his pocket. “Another lie?”
“Startup,” Darnell said. “Guys, I’m really tired.”
“I know,” Somers said. “I need you to stay awake until the ambulance is here.”
Darnell nodded, but he might have just been bobbing his head. “Just a startup. I work—” One big hand lifted and then fell again. “Phone.”
Patting the man down, Somers located the phone and pulled it out. Darnell unlocked it and tapped the screen a few times. He passed it to Somers, and Somers passed it to Hazard. On the screen, Darnell’s personal contact info was displayed, including an email address and a work address both connected to a company called Astrolabe/Welkin in San Jose, California.
With a grunt, Hazard passed the phone back.
“You don’t know where Gray might be?” Somers said. “He told me he needed to do something with the move.”
Struggling to keep his eyes open, Darnell said, “His apartment. Both of us are moving. Nico was going to meet him with the other truck.” Darnell’s eyes flitted closed; when they came open again, they were glassy. “He really likes you. Talks about you all the time.”
“That’s right,” Somers said. “He talks about everything all the time. Can’t get him to stop.”
Distant sirens broke the stillness. The sparrow was back, fluttering down to peck at the gravel again. The hot, summer air shifted, and Hazard could smell pine sap.
“He’s been really stressed lately,” Darnell said. “Working too hard.”
“It’s a tough job,” Somers said, but he shot a glance at Hazard, and Hazard knew what he was thinking: things had been slow for months in Wahredua. The normal, day-to-day stuff, sure, but nothing that could genuinely be considered stressful.
“We had a big fight,” Darnell mumbled to himself. “I went in his bedroom without asking. How are we going to live together if I can’t go in the bedroom?”
Somers shot another look at Hazard, but this time, Hazard didn’t know what to think.
“He’s just being Gray,” Somers said. “Buy him another dozen roses, and he’ll drag you into the bedroom and won’t let you leave.”
Darnell’s lips twitched in a smiled. “He likes roast beef.”
“That’s good,” Somers said. “Tell me some other stuff he likes.”
Hazard hunkered down, squatting on his heels, and watched Somers do what he did best while the sirens drew closer.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
JULY 3
WEDNESDAY
11:43 AM
WHILE THE PARAMEDICS AND EMTS loaded Darnell into the ambulance, Hazard and Somers stood to one side.
“It’s not your fault,” Somers said.
Hazard nodded.
“No,” Somers said. “I don’t want you beating yourself up about it. You would have handled any other suspect the same way, and you would have been right to do it.”
“But he wasn’t any other suspect, John. He’s our friend.”
“And we’ve got a reason to believe one of our friends is a serial killer. Until we know differently, we’ve got to handle this the way we’d handle any case.”
Hazard nodded again.
Somers tugged his chin, swinging his head. “Say it, please.”
“I know,” Hazard said through gritted teeth. Wrenching his head free, he added, “I don’t have to feel fucking good about it, though.”
“No, but you’re not allowed to beat yourself up about it either.”
Frannie Langkop, who had spiky gray hair and looked like an old piece of leather, came across the gravel toward them. “Most likely a heart attack,” she said.
“Great fucking diagnosis,” Hazard said.
“Asshole,” Frannie said.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Hazard said.
“What’s his deal?”
“He’s sulking,” Somers said.
“Couple of my boys used to sulk. I’d get out the paddle.”
“Hey,” Somers said, “there’s an idea.”
“Do you need something?” Hazard said. “Or did you just want to take a spare minute to advocate child abuse?”
Frannie grinned. “God, you’re really on one today. One of you guys going to ride with him?”
“I will,” Hazard said.
“No,” Somers said, a hand flat on Hazard’s chest. “You’ll just beat yourself up more. I’ll go.” He fished out his keys and handed them to Hazard. “Come on, Frannie, before I have to borrow your paddle.”
> “I’ll drop the Mustang at the hospital,” Hazard said.
Somers gave a wave of acknowledgment without looking back.
As the ambulance pulled out of the lot, Hazard went first to the U-Haul. He knew he needed to pull down the gate and lock it, but instead, he stood there, studying the jumble that Darnell had already loaded. Then he left the truck and climbed the steps to Darnell’s doublewide.
Inside, the trailer had been almost completely emptied: the living room had a Beanie Baby unicorn on a shelf and a bundle of cords on the floor; those looked like they went with the TV. The kitchen had a bucket, a sponge, and a bottle of Pine Sol; Darnell had probably planned on scrubbing the place down over the next day or two. A couple of extra trash bags hung over the lip of the sink. The refrigerator, when Hazard checked it, was empty except for a box of baking soda—expired November 2009—and the freezer had a gel ice pack, the kind you might use in a lunch box.
Hazard trekked to the other end of the trailer, checking the rest of the rooms: the bathroom had a vinyl shower curtain printed with rubber ducks and a disposable bottle of hand soap; the first bedroom had a rolling rack with clothes on hangers, a lot of heavy jackets and flannel shirts; and the second bedroom had an office chair, the good kind with lumbar support, and a wireless router and a very expensive-looking laptop on the floor. Hazard could still see the impressions where a desk had stood on the carpet; he figured maybe Darnell had needed to catch up on some last-minute work.
Dropping into the chair, he examined the laptop on the outside first and noticed the sticker on the back. A barcode was printed above a serial number, and then DARNELL KIRBY printed in large letters. In Hazard’s opinion, that was a good sign that the laptop was company property; the sticker was peeling at one corner, the adhesive tacky and matted with grime. Hard to fake that kind of wear and tear. Not impossible, but not easy either.
Hazard opened the device, pressed the power button, and was greeted with a lock screen. The words Astrolabe/Welkin showed in a clear, sans serif font, and some sort of sketch—he assumed it was a very loose rendering of an astrolabe—took up the rest of the screen. When he tapped a key, a prompt came up, asking for the password for user kirbydarnell.
If this were all a fake, it was an elaborate one.
Hazard powered down the laptop, set it on the floor, and got out his phone. He searched flights between Albany and St. Louis; he found a single United flight that got in weekdays at 9:22 PM. Then he searched for Astrolabe/Welkin; news articles went back for almost five years. They did something with GPS and satellites, but the descriptions got vague after that. Still, the quantity of articles and the length of time they went back were further indicators that Darnell might have been telling the truth.
Hazard found a phone number for Astrolabe/Welkin, called, and when a young man answered, he said, “Yes, this is Robert Boyle with United Airlines. I need to speak to someone in your travel department.”
The young man said, “I’m sorry. We don’t have a travel department. If this is a solicitation—”
“No,” Hazard said. “This is about one of your employees who flew into St. Louis last night. He never picked up his checked bag, and the contact information he gave us isn’t working.”
“Give me just a moment,” the young man said.
The next voice that came on the line was a woman’s, raspy, and she said, “Bernice, Human Resources, how can I help you?”
Hazard repeated his story.
“What was the employee’s name?”
“Darnell Kirby.”
“Let me check,” Bernice said. But instead of the hold music, Hazard found himself listening to a keyboard clicking. Bernice hummed something that might have been bubblegum pop, but in her raspy register, it could have passed for a funeral dirge. “And what number did Mr. Kirby give you?”
Hazard read back Darnell’s number.
“That’s his personal cell number,” Bernice said. “He telecommutes, so he’s not in the area. We do have his travel on record. Flying Albany to St. Louis last night. Let me tell you what, Mr. Boyle: I’ll get in touch with his supervisor and pass this along. Do you have a number where I can reach you?”
“Of course,” Hazard said, and then made up a number and gave it to her.
When he hung up, he stared around the trailer and said, “Well, shit.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
JULY 3
WEDNESDAY
12:56 PM
AT THE HOSPITAL, Somers got shuffled from administrator to administrator. He provided Darnell’s information, what he knew of it, once, to an elegant young woman with what looked like designer nurse shoes. And then he did it again for a middle-aged black man in a suit. And then he was back with the designer-shoes girl, who kept touching her blouse and looking up at Somers through long lashes, and he had to give the information all over again. She asked several times for his phone number, and Somers decided the only route that wouldn’t end with his balls in a vise was to give her Hazard’s cell phone number.
When he finally finished, he got an update on Darnell—stable, but asleep—and checked his phone. He had a single message from Hazard: Mustang purple 14. Somers messaged back his thanks and headed for the parking garage. He found the car on the purple level, found the section marked fourteen, and found his keys under the rear floormat, driver’s side. As he pulled out of the garage, he called Dulac.
The call went to voicemail.
“Where are you?” Somers said. “I’m starting to get worried. I need you to check in, please. Oh, and we got a make-work shit job from Park, so get your butt over to Sexten. Bring sunscreen.”
He disconnected and dropped the phone on the seat next to him, only to hear it buzz a moment later. At the next red light, Somers checked the message.
It was from Dulac, and it said: Sorry, can’t call. Busy with a lead. Talk soon.
Busy with a lead? What the hell did that mean?
Then the light turned green, and Somers had to drive. He turned over the short message from Dulac, but he couldn’t figure out what Dulac might be investigating. The problem was that they didn’t have any leads. Hazard’s guess, that Darnell might have been behind the slayings, had turned out to be incorrect. Somers imagined Hazard was still corroborating Darnell’s information, but Somers didn’t need confirmation; he had seen the truth in Darnell’s face, heard it in his voice.
The problem, though, was that they didn’t have alternative suspects. Susan was dead, Wesley was in jail, Mitchell had been kidnapped, and now, if Somers had understood Hazard correctly, Nico was missing too. At least Somers had gotten a text from Dulac; he didn’t want to have to add his own partner to the list of people who had vanished in this case.
When he got to Sexten, he saw four cruisers and six uniformed officers. The sun was high overhead; heat shimmered above the Mustang’s hood. The gravel lot was almost too bright to look at, and broken glass glittered alongside flecks of mica and quartz. When Somers rolled to a stop and opened his door, he tasted dust rolling up from the gravel and the hot, green smell of trampled timothy. He changed clothes in the back seat of the Mustang, pulling on jeans and a t-shirt that he kept in the trunk, and tried not to groan as he spotted Russell and the scrawny third guy from the jail among the uniformed officers.
As Somers walked toward the knot of cops, he tracked the signs of tension: Carlson, young and slim with dark hair, stood with her arms folded; Nickels stood next to her, and she kept reaching up to check her flat, buzzed hair. Russell and the other guy from the jail stood a few yards away. Russell was talking in a low furious voice, while the other guy interjected the occasional, “Fuck, man,” and “fuck yeah,” and “fucking out of line.” Sounded like he used the same thesaurus as Hazard. In the center, like grandparents stuck at a toddler’s party, Norman and Gross stood together.
“Grid pattern,” Somers said as he approached.
“I told you, you dumbasses,” Nickels said.
> “What’d you fucking say to me?” the guy from the jail said. He was about the same size as Russell, and like Russell, he had a lot of bark. When Somers looked at him, the guy crossed his arms and glared at the gravel.
“That’s right,” Nickels said.
“All right,” Somers said. “It’s hot, none of us wants to be here, and we’ve got a job to do. Let’s do it. You.”
“Yarmark,” the guy said.
“Help Officers Norman and Gross mark the grid. You guys already sketched it out?”
“Duh,” Norman said.
“Russell,” Somers said. “You help them too.”
“Well?” Gross said, looking at the two younger officers. “Go grab the stakes out of our car.”
Russell and Yarmark started walking.
“Run, shit for brains,” Gross roared.
Russell and Yarmark ran.
“Fucking disgraces,” Norman said. “You should’ve seen the two of them as soon as they got here. Wanted to measure their dicks, piss all over everything.”
“Yeah, they’re young, and they’re dumb,” Somers said.
“Somers,” Gross said, worrying at the buttons over his pot belly. “That’s not a figure of speech.”
Somers’s eyebrows shot up. “They really wanted to . . .”
Norman nodded.
“God damn. Ok, just make them work hard. Run them into the ground.” Then, to Nickels and Carlson, Somers said, “Anybody bring water?”
“Bottle in the car,” Nickels said.
“Me too,” Carlson said.
“What about dumb and dumber?” Somers said, jerking his thumb at Russell and Yarmark, who were now sprinting out into the field, chased by shouts from Gross and Norman.
“Who the fuck cares?” Nickels said.
“I care,” Somers said. “And you should. They’re cops. They’re your brothers. You can hate them. You can kick their asses if they deserve it. But we’re all on this side of the line, and that means we’re a team.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair and added, “I shouldn’t have to tell the two of you that.”