by Karen Rose
“Yes,” he gritted.
“Good. Write down this address. I’ll be waiting.”
He flipped the page he’d been writing on and took down the address. “You’re filth.”
“Well, birds of a feather, Mr. Madden. Birds of a feather.”
He stared at the address, then made his decision. Kristen’s life would not be ruined by his actions. He ripped the paper from the notepad and stuffed it in his pocket. Then opened the glass cover of his gun rack. He’d killed so many. At this point, what was one more?
She handed him the cell phone. “How’d I do?”
Drake smiled. “Perfect, just perfect.” He slipped a hundred-dollar bill in her coat pocket. “Buy yourself something nice. And be sure to give your mother my love.”
“Thanks, Uncle Drake.” She rose up and kissed his cheek.
Jacob waited until Drake’s niece was out of the limo. “She has promise, that one.”
“She does.” He smirked. “It’s almost showtime, Jacob.”
Saturday, February 28, 2:45 P.M.
Mia and Spinnelli burst into Kristen’s house. Jack and his men were searching for any clue as to where she’d been taken. The room was a shambles and blood stained her blue-striped wallpaper. Controlling her panic, Mia knelt next to Abe’s brother and pressed her fingers to his throat. His pulse was steady. Thank God.
“Which one of you called me?” Spinnelli demanded. An officer stepped forward.
“I did, sir. I found Officer Reagan unconscious and called for an ambulance. This other guy has no ID and he’s dead. Reagan’s gun is gone.”
Mia looked up. “And McIntyre?”
“No sign of him or his cruiser. We’ve searched the house and the shed in the back. He doesn’t respond to radio communication. One of the neighbors saw Miss Mayhew leave in the cruiser. She said there was a big man with her. Hat hid his face. Nobody else saw anything.”
Spinnelli swore. “Did you ask her why she didn’t call the police?”
“She said there’d been so many police around the last week, she didn’t give it a second thought,” the officer said grimly.
“Did anybody hear a damn gun?” Mia demanded.
“She said there’d been so much pounding here the last few days, she didn’t think a thing about that either.”
Jack’s face was tight. “I checked with Aidan’s CO. He carries a Glock .38. This guy was killed with a .22.”
“Kristen just bought a .22.” Mia hit the redial on her phone, with no more success than the last ten times. “Shit, where’s Abe?”
“Did you call the hospital?” Jack asked as Spinnelli knelt to check the dead body.
“They’re looking for him,” Spinnelli said. “Apparently this Timothy guy was terrified when he saw Abe and they had to remove him from the ICU. Abe’s got him somewhere else, calming him down so he can talk to him.”
Mia tilted her head, listening. “Quiet. That’s Kristen’s cell phone.”
Spinnelli pulled the dead guy’s coat, tipping him over. “It’s in his pocket.” He flipped open Kristen’s phone. “Yes?… This is her phone… This is Lieutenant Marc Spinnelli of CPD. Who are you?” He listened, then jumped to his feet. “Was there anything on the fax machine when you guys came in?”
The officers looked at one another. “No, sir.”
“No,” Spinnelli said, “she didn’t get it. Can you send it again? Quickly? Thanks.” He looked at Mia. “That was the Lake County coroner. He called Kristen with the name of the man who ID’d Leah Broderick’s body, then faxed her a photo ID. It was Owen Madden.”
Mia closed her eyes. “Then she knows.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “And whoever has her knows, too.”
“And assuming that’s Conti….” Spinnelli didn’t finish the thought.
He didn’t have to. Conti wanted the killer. Now he had him. And he had Kristen, too.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Saturday, February 28, 3:00 P.M.
“Are you okay now?”
Timothy nodded, but Abe was unconvinced. All he’d been able to learn was that Timothy had seen something that had terrified him. Every time they got close to the truth, Timothy would begin trembling so violently he couldn’t speak. Abe was getting ready to call Miles. But of two things he was certain. This man had a strong affection for Kristen and Vincent, and he was not capable of being their vigilante killer. The nurse’s assessment had been completely accurate. Timothy was a high-functioning man with Down’s.
High-functioning. That was the same phrase Kristen had used to describe Leah Broderick. There were no coincidences.
“Let’s try this again. You used to work at the diner where Kristen eats?”
In agony the young man closed his eyes. “Yes,” he whispered.
“Timothy, did you know a woman named Leah Broderick?”
Timothy nodded. “Yes. We went to church together. Sometimes we’d go to socials at the community center together.”
“Was she your girlfriend?”
He frowned. “No. Just my friend.”
“Okay. So when did you last see Leah?”
He looked down at his knees. “A long time ago. She’s dead now.”
“Can you tell me how she died?”
Timothy picked at a stray thread on his slacks. “She killed herself.”
They’d been looking for trauma. The suicide of a loved-one was an event traumatic enough to trigger intense emotion. “I’m sorry.” Timothy said nothing so Abe pressed on. “Did she have family?”
Timothy paled. “Yes.”
“Timothy, look, I know you’re scared, but this is important. It could keep Kristen safe. Did Leah have anyone in her family named Robert Barnett?”
“I don’t know. Her mom died of cancer. It was just her dad, but that’s not his name.”
“Did you know her dad?”
Again Timothy began to tremble. “He was my boss.”
Abe’s heart stopped. “Your boss? At the diner? Owen is Leah’s father?”
Miserably Timothy nodded.
“Timothy, what did you see? Please tell me.”
“The freezer. I’d go to his house and he had ice cream in the freezer, so I went in the freezer.” He began to rock himself. “Two men. They were dead in the freezer.”
Oh, God. Timothy had seen the two Blade members dead in Owen’s freezer. “Did Owen know you saw the dead people in the freezer?”
“No. I ran, so fast. Ran to the bus.”
“It’s okay, Timothy. It’s okay. He won’t hurt you. Can you tell me where he lives?”
Abe dialed Mia as soon as he hit the hospital lobby.
“Where have you been?” Mia demanded.
“Talking to Timothy.” Abe took off at a run for the parking lot. “Mia, Kristen’s friend Owen is Leah Broderick’s father.”
There was a beat of silence. “I know, Abe. Owen is Robert Barnett.”
The connection, finally. But Mia was too quiet, too contained. His heart began to race even faster and it had nothing to do with his sprint. “Mia, what’s happened?”
“Abe, Kristen’s gone. Someone took her from her house.”
He’d reached his SUV and stood frozen, his hand clutching air. “Oh, God.” Conti.
“She knew it was Owen, Abe. Whoever took her knew it, too, along with Owen’s address. Marc and I are on our way to Owen’s house now.”
Abe made himself take a breath, then another. Made his hands open the SUV door. Conti could have her anywhere, but it would be poetic justice to take her to the place his son had died for his revenge. “I’m closer. I’ll meet you there.”
Saturday, February 28, 3:30 P.M.
Kristen looked around. The warehouse was filled with huge stacks of crates, forty, fifty feet high. Some of the boxes were stacked on themselves, others on silver racks that stretched to the ceiling. The brand names on the boxes were familiar due to the hours of investigating Conti’s business when she was prosecuting Angelo for the murder of Pa
ula Garcia. This was Jacob Conti’s turf. And she was a sitting duck.
They’d driven the cruiser only a few miles before pulling out of sight where Conti’s limo waited. Edwards had left her with the mocking stranger, getting into the limo. A few minutes later, a young woman got out, wearing a satisfied expression. A minute after that Kristen was forced into the limo where Jacob Conti regarded her with a reptilian stare. She hadn’t looked away, which seemed to amuse him.
But now she was here, amid the boxes. It was no use pulling at the ties that bound her wrists and ankles. Drake Edwards had done a thorough job. It was no use trying to scream. The gag kept her silent. Something was going to happen soon. It was clear from the way Edwards chuckled as he left her here.
“Richardson!” The shout came from a familiar voice.
Owen. I was bait, she thought. They’ve lured him here.
“Richardson, I’m tired of your games. Come out and let’s get this over with.”
She was torn. Owen Madden was a killer.
He was my friend. But he’s killed thirteen people. Assuming the final three were dead—Hillman, Simpson, and Terrill. There was no reason to believe otherwise.
Still, she didn’t want him to fall into Conti’s hands.
He appeared between the stacks, a dark figure half a warehouse away. It was clear when he saw her. His gasp echoed in the cavernous quiet, the pounding of his boots like booming cannon fire as he ran to her. He ripped the gag from her mouth.
“Owen, it’s a trap. Run.”
Saturday, February 28, 3:30
Abe shot the lock off Owen Madden’s front door. The house was quiet, not a sound. Still, he moved cautiously, his weapon drawn.
He cleared each deserted room, then walked past the kitchen table and stopped. A fishbowl sat in the middle of the table, filled with folded pieces of paper. Thirteen oneby-four-inch strips were lined up next to the fishbowl, each with a typed name, one for every body in the morgue, plus strips for Hillman, Simpson, and Terrill. There was a stack of bullets and a picture of Leah Broderick. Abe recognized her from the pictures Jack and Kristen and Julia had circulated yesterday. A cup of coffee sat next to the pile of bullets. It wasn’t yet cold.
A notepad sat in front of the fishbowl, the page facing him empty. Abe flipped back a few pages and recognized the flowing handwriting from the Kaplan note. The first page in the notebook started out, My dearest Kristen. He felt the rage bubble and shoved it back down. Madden had put Kristen in danger and still had the nerve to use endearments.
He kept moving, finding the door to the basement. He took each step one at a time, his finger alongside his trigger. If Conti was waiting below, he’d be a prime target coming down the stairs like this. But there were no shots, no sounds of any kind as he reached the basement floor. Three male bodies lay lifeless, bound to tables. Each had a bullet hole in the forehead. His eyes took a quick trip around the room, noting the Craftsman vise, the bullet molds, the neatly stacked slabs of marble, the rolls of rubber standing like rolled-up carpets. There was a device of some kind in the corner and he approached, still careful. There was a fine layer of dust around the six-foot-tall box with a Plexiglas front and a pair of built-in gloves so that the user could work behind the Plexiglas. He peered in and saw a finished grave marker that read simply LEAH BRODERICK.
There was a freezer in one corner, a big chest model. He lifted the lid. It was empty. There was no one here.
Conti had taken Kristen elsewhere. Viciously Abe put aside the rising panic that threatened to choke off his very breath and made his way back up to the first floor. He walked around again, stopping to stare at the photo on top of the television. Genny O’Reilly Barnett, older, more mature. She was Owen’s mother. Then back to the table where he again flipped the pages of the notepad. Three pages were filled, but the fourth stopped midway, midsentence, as if Owen had been interrupted. Frowning, Abe turned the fourth page, noting fringed remnants of a fifth page torn out. He ran his finger over the empty page, his pulse quickening. It was one of the oldest tricks in the book. Please, God, let it work.
Lightly, he fanned a pencil over the empty page and watched another handwritten note appear. He recognized the address. It was on the lake, at the port.
It was a warehouse. Conti’s. His old boss in Narcotics was certain that Conti used the merchandise in the warehouse as a cover, to hide shipments of drugs. But not one police search had turned up a single gram of illicit substances and Conti continued to walk around, a free man, cloaked in respectability and wealth. Until now.
“Thank you,” he murmured and pulled out his phone. “Mia, meet me at Conti’s warehouse at the port.” He rattled off the address and ran for the door. “Send for backup.”
“Abe, wait for me. Don’t go in alone.” Her voice was urgent and Abe heard male mumbling in the background and Spinnelli took the phone.
“Abe, don’t you go in that warehouse until backup arrives. That is an order.”
Abe said nothing. Kristen was in there, he was certain of it. He’d do anything he had to do bring her out alive. And untouched. His hands trembled as he jumped behind the wheel of the SUV. God, please let her be untouched.
“Abe,” Spinnelli spat. “Did you hear me?”
Tires squealed as he raced away from Madden’s house like a bat out of hell. “Yeah. I heard you.”
Saturday, February 28, 3:45 P.M.
Owen looked up from slicing the bonds at her feet. “You knew?”
“Since about an hour ago.”
He straightened. “Who did this?”
“Jacob Conti.” Kristen stood, rubbing her wrists. “He objected to the murder of his son.”
Owen looked down at her and she wondered if she’d ever seen that cold, determined look in his eyes before. No, but she’d honestly never looked. He was Owen, her friend. He owned a diner. He made fried chicken and cherry pie.
He’d ruthlessly killed thirteen people.
“If it wouldn’t have put you in danger, I’d do it again.”
“And for that you’ll pay.”
Unsurprised, she and Owen turned to find both Jacob Conti and Drake Edwards standing at the end of the row of boxes. Edwards had spoken and now came closer, a semi-automatic in his hand and a predatory leer in his eye.
Kristen’s blood ran cold. Abe, please know I’m gone. Please come find me. Please.
“Drake, search him for weapons. Then let’s go somewhere where we’ll all be more comfortable, shall we?” Conti said smoothly.
Edwards patted Owen down, retrieving two large semi-automatics, one from his shoulder holster, the other from his back waistband. He then forced them to walk until they reached the wide corridor where forklift trucks normally went about creating the huge stacks of boxes. At the end of the corridor were large loading bays, deserted. All was quiet now.
Owen stopped. “Kill me here,” he announced. “I’m not going any farther.”
“You’ll do what we say,” Edwards snapped.
“You’ve got me now,” Owen said as if Edwards hadn’t spoken. “Let her go.”
Conti’s lips curved. “And lose the best part of my revenge? I don’t think so.”
Again Kristen saw Edwards’s predatory leer. And understood. Owen had killed for her. Now she’d be used to make him suffer.
Edwards chuckled. “You gotta love smart women, Jacob. She’s figured it all out.”
Owen paled, but said nothing and Conti laughed. “You see, just killing you wouldn’t be enough. You’re going to suffer as you made my son suffer. Drake will have her and you will watch. Then Drake will kill her and you will watch. Then… you’ll wish you were dead.”
“Come, Miss Mayhew.” Edwards took her arm and horrified, Kristen yanked away. Edwards’s expression grew dark and he grabbed her arm hard, his fingers digging into her flesh. “I said come.” He pulled her to him and she struggled, pushing at his chest, twisting her head when he would have kissed her.
Conti laughed again. “So, Drake,
will she be as entertaining as Richardson?”
Edwards grabbed her shoulders and shook her until she saw little white lights in front of her eyes. “I think so, Jacob. I like them with a little piss and vinegar.”
Kristen blinked hard, trying to still her swaying senses, thinking it was a trick of her imagination when Owen went down on one knee and Edwards jerked. He hung there for a split second, a neat little hole in his forehead, then crashed to the floor. Before she could draw her next breath Conti’s arm was locked around her neck, his gun at her temple.
Owen was still on one knee, a small gun in his hand. He must have hidden it in his boot. He was breathing hard, his eyes narrowed and deadly and Kristen realized she was indeed looking at the man who’d ruthlessly murdered thirteen people. She looked at Edwards’s body from the corner of her eye and her stomach heaved.
Fourteen people.
“You sonofabitch,” Conti snarled. “Throw down the gun or she dies.”
“He’s going to kill me anyway,” Kristen said. “Get help. Please.”
Conti shoved the gun harder into her temple. “Shut up. The gun, Madden. Now.”
Owen dropped the gun on the floor.
“Now stand up and kick it this way.”
Owen obeyed. Then there was another shot and Owen fell to the floor, writhing in pain, his knee bleeding. But he uttered not one cry. She remembered the words of the Lake County coroner. He was indeed as stoic as a Marine. A sharpshooting Marine.
“Now watch her die, Madden.”
Kristen closed her eyes, preparing herself, wishing she had just one more day with Abe. He’ll find me here, she thought. Shot just like Debra. Oh, Abe, I’m so sorry.
And then, Abe’s voice boomed. “Let her go, Conti.”
Kristen sagged. Abe. Conti jerked her so she stood on her own two feet, his gun still at her temple. Abe stepped out from behind a stack of boxes near the loading bay, his own gun drawn.
“Why would I do that?” Conti called back.
“Because I’ll kill you where you stand if you harm one hair on her head.” He approached slowly. “Let her go.”
Conti retreated a step, dragging her with him, calling the names of several men in an authoritative voice.