“See you later,” I say. “I love you.”
“Love you too, Jack.”
“Love you more.”
“No, I love you more. See you to night.”
He makes a kissing sound and I grin and make a kissing sound back, then we hang up. I glance at Herb, who does a good job of ignoring me by occupying his mouth with a chocolate power bar. Herb insists he snacks on these for energy, even though he has more than enough energy already stored in the extra eighty pounds of fat he carries around.
“That probably doesn’t have much fiber in it,” I offer.
Herb licks some chocolate off his fingers. I once asked Herb what the difference was between power bars and regular candy bars, and he told me that power bars had more calories.
“For energy,” he’d said.
When he had his heart attack a while back, he was the only one who seemed surprised.
“I thought we had an unspoken agreement, Jack.” He’s taken on a superior tone. “You don’t question my eating habits, I pretend to ignore it when you make kissy-face on the phone.”
“I don’t make kissy-face on the phone.”
“Yes you do. And for your information, this power bar does contain fiber. It’s in the caramelized peanuts.”
I snort. “The wrapper has more fiber.”
“I’m eating that next.”
This long-dead horse has been beaten many times, so I change the subject. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking about the last crime scene?”
Herb’s turn to snort. “Yeah. Welcome to amateur night.”
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. “What kind of shooter grinds the engraving off the bottom of his bullets? Think about the misfires.”
“He should be more worried about shooting himself in the face while he’s filing it down. A pro would simply pick up his brass.”
“A pro would also know we would find the slug. Hell, anyone who watched TV knows the word ballistics.”
I left the cartridge with Rogers to take to the crime lab. He ID’ed it by sight, without needing to use acid etching to bring out the markings. A .338 Lapua Magnum. A caliber specifically designed for sniping, and hopefully unique enough to be able to track. I have a team doing just that.
“And did you see his hide?” Herb shakes his head. “Can you imagine the guy, squatting in a bush, facing the sidewalk?”
If you want someone dead, it’s relatively easy to ring his doorbell and shoot him in the chest when he answers. Much easier than shooting him from two hundred yards down the street at a scheduled time.
“This isn’t just about the death,” I say. “This is a game. A bunch of knuckleheads playing soldier, getting their kicks shooting sex offenders long distance.”
I leave the next part of my thought unspoken—that a knucklehead could kill you just as easily as a pro. In some cases, they’re even more dangerous. Soldiers are taught patience and discipline. An amateur takes unnecessary chances and makes big mistakes, exposing more people to risk. This TUHC group might be easier to track down than an expert hired gun, but they might also hurt a lot of innocents before that happens.
My phone rings again. I find it on my seat without taking my eyes off the road.
“Daniels.”
“Is this Jacqueline Daniels?”
A female voice, rote and professional.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“This is the Heathrow Facility, you’re on the list of people to inform.”
The Heathrow Facility is a maximum security center for the criminally insane. I’ve sent a few people there over the years. The arresting officer is always called if one of the inmates dies. They’re also called when an inmate is released, or escapes.
“Who is this regarding?” I ask.
“Alexandra Kork.”
A feeling overwhelms me, like the shower has gone from hot to cold. Kork is one of the most dangerous people alive. I’d met her under another name, and her entire family consisted of psychopathic killers. She almost murdered me, and several people I cared about, in horrible ways.
“What about Kork?” The words are hard to get out, sticking in my throat like chicken bones. A dozen thoughts run through my mind at once, the most pressing being Please don’t tell me she escaped.
“Alexandra Kork died this morning.”
I blow out air through my mouth, and my shoulders sag.
“It appears to be a suicide,” the woman continues. “She set herself on fire with some aerosol spray.”
That sounds like Kork. She’d kill herself in a horrible way like that.
“Are you sure it’s her?” I ask. “One hundred percent sure?”
“The body was badly burned, but we confirmed it with dental records.”
I picture Alex’s face, pretty as a model’s when I met her. Not pretty at all after we tangled. She’d gotten close, fooled me completely, made me doubt myself unlike I ever had before.
One of the things I’ve learned as a cop is that everyone considers themself the hero in the story of their life. Even bad guys who killed children and blew up hospitals believed they were good guys. Everyone can justify their actions. Everyone believes they’re in the right.
Kork was different. She knew she was the bad guy, that her actions were evil. It didn’t bother her at all. Or maybe it did. Maybe she finally realized what an awful person she was, and couldn’t cope with it.
“Ms. Daniels? Are you still there?”
“Yeah.”
“There’s no next of kin listed. Would you like us to release her remains to you?”
“No. The state can bury her. Thank you for calling.”
I hang up and pop a few more antacids.
“Are those mint flavored?” Herb asks.
“Alex Kork is dead,” I tell him. “Suicide at Heathrow.”
“World is a better place without her in it. Gimme one of those antacids.”
I pass the roll to Herb, thinking about the last words Alex had said to me.
“You beat me this time. But it isn’t over.”
It’s over now, Alex. You’ve haunted me in countless nightmares, but you won’t haunt me anymore.
Not ever again.
6:21 P.M.
MARY
“WHERE’S THAT PSYCHOTIC CAT you have?”
Mary Streng stares hard at Alex Kork. The woman who broke into their house is taller than Jacqueline, with broader shoulders. Her body is angular rather than curvy, and Mary can see the muscle striations in her bare forearms. Alex has straight black hair, shoulder length. This woman might have been pretty once, but the left side of her face, from her chin to her missing eyebrow, is a knot of pink scar tissue, puckered with patchwork skin graft zigzags and pockmarks from countless stitches.
“At the vet,” Mary answers. “Bitten by a dog.”
Alex winces. No—it only looks like a wince because the ruined half of her face stays immobile. It’s actually a smile.
“That’s a shame. Such a cute kitty, being mauled by a big, bad canine.”
“He’ll be fine,” Mary says. “The dog isn’t expected to recover.”
Alex sits on the sofa next to Mary. She’s tucked her gun—a small-caliber revolver—into the back of her jeans, which rankles Mary.
I’m an old lady, and she doesn’t consider me a threat, Mary realizes.
It’s true, and it hurts. Sharp as her mind still is, her body has grown old and weak. Osteoporosis is shrinking her. Rheumatoid arthritis has turned her hands into agonizing claws. Her figure, once a perfect hourglass, is now shaped more like the box the hourglass came in. What she would give to be young again, just for a minute, to show this young punk—
“Are you sizing me up?” Alex asks.
Mary lowers her eyes.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you, Mom. Or I’ll start knocking you around.”
Mary stares at her, projecting defiance instead of fear. Alex’s face twitches into a half smile. Up close, the scars are white and look
like rubber.
“I know you used to be a cop,” Alex says. “I bet this really makes you feel helpless.”
Mary doesn’t answer. Jacqueline has told her all about Alex and her nightmarish family. Like most cops, her daughter kept her fears hidden away. But Mary knew that Jack feared Alex. And now she can see why. This scarred woman sitting next to her doesn’t have a soul. Something, some vital part, is missing from Alex. The part that makes her a human being.
Mary had only seen it once before, more than forty years ago, on the Job. A homeless man had killed his friend over half a bottle of wine. Mary had hit the offender with her billy, over and over, but he wouldn’t go down. He just continued to stare at her with those black, bottomless eyes. Eyes without a trace of humanity. Eyes that dared her to kill him.
The same eyes Alex has.
“I bet it hurt,” Mary says, “when my daughter tore your face off.”
Mary doesn’t see the blow coming—it’s too fast. But she feels it, the fist connecting with her mouth, the explosion of pain in her lips, her head snapping back. She had been punched before, in the line of duty, but never so hard or so viciously.
Then Alex is standing over her, running a hand through Mary’s gray hair in a warped parody of kindness.
“Maybe later I’ll show you how much it hurts,” Alex says.
And Mary Streng realizes she’s going to die.
It isn’t as scary as she thought it might be. She’s lived a long, full life. She’s done everything she ever set out to do. She’s made some mistakes, of course. Some big ones. A failed marriage. A child out of wedlock, put up for adoption when she was still a teenager. A feud with her mother that never got resolved before she died. But Mary managed to forgive herself, to learn from her errors, to keep on going. She knew she could meet death—even an unpleasant death—with grace and dignity and no regrets.
But this isn’t just about her. Alex also wants to kill Jacqueline.
That scares Mary to the core. Mary would die for her daughter. She’d also want to die if her daughter were killed. Parents aren’t supposed to outlive their children, and Jacqueline is too good a person to be murdered at the hands of this lunatic.
She has to warn Jacqueline. Has to make sure Alex can’t get her.
“Do you bake?” Alex asks.
“What?”
“I know it’s a stereo type, that all old women bake. But do you?”
“Yes,” Mary says.
“What do you bake? Cookies? Bread?”
Mary doesn’t like these questions. They seem too intimate. She forces herself to say, “I make pies.”
“What kind of pies?”
“Peach. Cherry. Apple. I was going to make an apple pie today, for after dinner.”
“You’ve got all of the ingredients?”
Mary nods.
“Okay, let’s do it,” Alex says. “Let’s make a pie.”
Alex takes Mary’s hand, leads her into the kitchen. Mary doesn’t understand where this is going, what Alex’s ulterior motive is. But she has no choice other than to let it play out.
“What do we do first?”
“There’s some dough, in the refrigerator.”
Alex opens up the large stainless steel door and takes out a bowl with a wet towel covering the top. Mary stares at the gun in the back of Alex’s jeans. She needs to get closer.
“This the dough?” Alex asks.
Mary nods. “Yes.”
“It’s done rising, or what ever?”
“Yes.”
“What else do we need?”
“Apples. Brown sugar. Lemon juice. Flour.”
“You want to lend a hand here, Mom? This pie isn’t going to make itself.”
It’s silly. Mary has been slapped, punched, and threatened, and she stayed stoic. But a simple act of baking makes her eyes well up with tears.
Maybe it’s the perversion of a normally enjoyable activity. Mary loves to bake. It’s one of the simple joys of life. But being forced to by this murderer makes the whole experience seem tainted, dirty.
Alex acts normal the whole time. She rolls out the dough. She slices the apples. She’s chatty and cheerful and asks many questions about the process. But she never lets down her guard and gives Mary a chance at the gun.
Jacqueline loathes baking, has no patience for it. Mary hasn’t baked with her daughter since she was twelve years old. That fact makes this experience even worse. Mary should be bonding with her daughter, not with a psycho.
“Why do you bake if it makes you so sad?” Alex asks.
Mary wipes her face with the back of her hand, furious with herself for showing weakness.
“Or are you just upset because this is the last pie you’ll ever make? There’s a last time for everything, Mom. At least you can savor it, knowing it’s the last time.”
“The oven is done preheating,” Mary says. “Put the pie on the bottom rack.”
Alex obeys. Then she pats the excess flour off of her shirt and laughs at the cloud it makes.
“You never baked with your mother?” Mary asks.
“I might have. I don’t remember. When I was small, Father tied her to a beam in the basement and whipped her until she died.” Alex pops a stray apple slice into her mouth. “He made me help him, made me beat her.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been horrible.”
“Not really. He let me rest when I got tired.”
Alex turns away, looks past the living room, out the large bay window facing the street. “Does Jack still drive that shitty Nova?”
Mary doesn’t answer, sees a car coming up the driveway.
Not Jacqueline’s.
Oh, no. It’s Latham.
Mary takes a deep breath, ready to scream out a warning, but Alex is on her, tearing at her house dress, pulling off a sleeve and shoving it past her split lips, wadding it into her mouth. Then the gun is out again, pressed up against Mary’s temple, and they both wait in silence for Latham to come in.
6:42 P.M.
JACK
LEAVITT STREET BUZZES with activity. As in the previous crime scene, cops and onlookers surround the house, a walking, talking wall. The media already arrived, two news vans sending live feeds to their networks. I park in the center of the street, since nothing is getting through anyway. Herb extricates himself from my car with much grunting, but I refrain from making any jokes involving power bars or extra energy.
It’s dark now. Dark and cold. The streetlight in front of the house isn’t working, but there are enough emergency vehicles with their headlights on to provide adequate illumination.
We push through the crowd, duck under the cordon, and head for the house. This one is bigger than the two-flat we just left, a single-family home with a giant bay window in front. Through the open blinds I can see cops milling around inside. Herb and I don our booties and go in, seeking out Detective Bobalik to get an update.
She directs the crime scene from the front room, standing a few feet away from Chris Wolak’s body on the floor. I pause, taking everything in. Ten, maybe twelve police officers in the room, most of them CSU. Decor is retro Norman Bates, stuffed ducks and pheasants and animal heads adorning the walls and shelves. A computer desk, the monitor showing porn. A large leather sofa. A framed picture of a smiling man holding the antlers of the buck he shot. An entertainment stand, TV, DVD, stereo. I examine the bay window, find the bullet hole, see the crowd outside looking back at me.
Bobalik is short, wearing glasses, and has really good hair, the kind that moves when she moves.
“I want ALS done before the ME arrives,” she says to her team. “Bruen, organize the door-to-door. Let’s move, people, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life here.”
I walk to her, my hand extended in greeting, and then her head explodes.
It looks a lot like someone kicking a pumpkin. The top of her scalp comes off, spins through the air, and bounces off the TV. A fine mist of blood rises up around her shoulders and h
angs there even after she crumples to the floor.
“Down!” I yell.
A tug at my waist. Herb tackling me even as I dive for the carpet.
Another shot.
The bullet rips through Bruen’s chest, blood erupting from the exit wound, splashing the wall several feet behind him.
Screaming. From in the house. From the street outside.
I look right. Herb on the floor, between me and the window.
The carpet below me is cold and damp.
Another shot.
A CSU member falls, the round slicing through the sofa he hides behind, taking a hunk out of his neck.
I look left. The victim, Chris Wolak, face-to-face with me, except there isn’t much face left. A white male, in his thirties, a hole in the back of his head, just like Rob Siders.
I’m lying in his blood.
Another shot.
A detective. On the floor next to me, only a few feet away. The bullet enters his hip, exits up through his neck. A long way for a slug to travel through tissue.
We’re not safe on the floor.
I scream, “Get away from the window!”
A uniform stands up, runs for the hallway.
Another shot.
A miss.
He makes it to the end of the hall.
Another shot.
He dives to the floor.
No—he doesn’t dive. Blood volcanoes out of his back.
Herb gets to his feet, attempting to make the same run.
“Herb!” I yell.
He gets two steps down the hall.
Another shot.
The bullet smacks the wall, stripping off wood paneling.
Two more steps.
Another shot.
Over Herb’s head, destroying a dome light.
Two more steps, and he’s next to a door.
Another shot.
Herb falls through the doorway.
“Herb!”
Silence.
I roll, away from the vic, hands tucked to my chest.
Bump into Bobalik. Roll over her.
Another shot, tearing up the carpet where I was a second ago.
I continue rolling, angling toward the window.
Then I ram into the wall. The wall the window is on.
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