She looked at the bar top, imagining what lay behind it.
“He had a weapon on him, a nine,” Donovan said. “But it doesn’t look like he got off any rounds. It’s still in his hand, though.”
To Dwight, she said, “This is overkill for a robbery. And from here, at least, I don’t see any shell casings.”
“There aren’t any. At least none we’ve found.”
“Then they took their time, picked them up.”
He put the envelope away. “Come on, let’s walk.”
They went back out to the tape, ducked under, moved out of earshot of the uniforms.
“Any actual comment will come from the public information office, understood?” he said. “Everything we told you is on background.”
“Understood. But if you’re going to try to downplay what went on in there, Dwight, forget it.”
“I’m not trying to downplay anything. I just wanted to talk to you before things got crazy. Since you knew one of the victims, I thought you might be able to bring something to bear on all this.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“And you’re not holding back anything I’m going to end up reading in the paper, are you?”
“Not at the moment.”
“And if you think of something that might help, you’ll let me know, right?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I need to get back in there.”
Once he was inside, she took out her cell, called the newsroom, got transferred twice before Rick Carr picked up. She told him where she was, what had happened.
“Six?” he said. “That’s hard-core.”
“It is.”
“I’ll send Photo out and alert everyone here. You can start dictating what you have to Alysha. She’ll write it tight, get it up online, and we’ll update through the day. I’m assuming A-One printwise tomorrow, of course.”
She looked toward the bar. Donovan was still outside. He gave her a quick thumbs-up and went back in.
“Hang on, I’ll transfer you to Alysha,” Rick said. “Give her what you have so far.”
More photo flashes inside. She pictured the bodies on the floor, thought about the other killings she’d covered over the years, the random, senseless shootings and stabbings. She’d lost count along the way. And now six more lives ended. And for what?
You’ll drive yourself crazy asking that question, she thought. And never find an answer.
Sixteen
Devlin was heading south on the New Jersey Turnpike, five miles north of the Philly exits, when he saw the white state police cruiser in his rearview. It moved into the passing lane, no siren or lights, but coming fast, other cars getting out of its way.
He slowed, wondering if he’d been speeding without knowing it, had triggered a trooper’s radar. In the mirror, he watched the cruiser swing in behind him. It closed the distance, and the rollers began to flash.
Devlin signaled, steered onto the narrow shoulder, braked to a stop. He shifted into neutral, switched on the hazards, left his hands on top of the wheel.
The cruiser came to a stop behind him, half off the shoulder. The late-afternoon sun glared its windshield, but he could see two silhouettes inside. They would be calling it in, running his plates, checking for warrants.
Another cruiser, lights flashing, pulled in behind the first. Traffic slowed in the passing lanes as drivers began to rubberneck, wondering what was going on, whose day had been ruined.
He waited, keeping his hands in sight. In the rearview, he saw the doors of both cruisers open. When the troopers got out, they had guns in their hands.
Devlin looked up when the two detectives came into the room. He was in a state police barracks somewhere near Atlantic City, but that was all he knew. The troopers who’d stopped him had handcuffed him at the scene, but hadn’t told him anything. They’d ridden in silence to the barracks, led him into this room—just a table and four folding chairs—and left him alone, still cuffed. There was no clock on the wall, but he guessed he’d been here for more than an hour.
The two wore suits and ties, with badge holders around their necks. Philly cops. One was in his early forties, tanned and fit; the other older and heavier, sallow, carrying a green folder.
The younger one came around behind him without a word. Devlin leaned forward, let him unlock the handcuffs. The older one didn’t look at him, took a seat on the other side of the table, opened the folder.
“Sorry about that, Raymond,” the younger one said. “These Jersey troopers can be a little overcautious.”
Devlin rolled his shoulders to uncramp them, rubbed his wrists. They were red and welted.
“I’m Detective Malloy, Philadelphia Police Department.” He pocketed the cuffs. “Can I get you a cup of coffee, soda? I think there’s a machine out there.”
“No. Just an explanation.”
Malloy took the chair opposite. Devlin flashed back to Riviera Beach, another harshly lit room.
“Aren’t you supposed to introduce your partner?” he said.
The older one looked at him for the first time, unamused.
“Sorry,” Malloy said. “This is Detective Mendoza.”
Mendoza slid the open folder across to Malloy. He looked at it, raised a paper-clipped page to read the sheet beneath. “Couple things we were wondering about, Raymond. Maybe you can help us out.”
“If I’m under arrest, shouldn’t I get a Miranda warning?”
“Under arrest?” Malloy looked up from the file. “Right now, we’re just talking.”
“If I’m not being detained, then I’m free to leave, right?” Wanting to know what was going on, but letting them see he wasn’t intimidated.
“You live in Florida?” Mendoza said.
“Part of the time.”
“You have a Florida driver’s license.”
“I do.”
“Who do you know in Pennsylvania?”
“Why?”
Malloy half smiled. “That’s a simple question, Raymond. Why get nervous?”
“I’m not. Am I the target of an investigation?”
“You been through this before?” Mendoza said. “Or is that something you heard from some lawyer, told you exactly what to say?”
“I’m beginning to think I need one.”
“Why? You have something to hide?”
“No. Just on general principles.”
Malloy looked at the file again. No one spoke.
Silence, Devlin thought, the most basic interrogation technique. Say nothing, hope the other person will blurt out something to fill the vacuum. He sat back, ready to wait them out.
Without looking up from the folder, Malloy said, “You’re a veteran. Allow me to thank you for your service.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I was ROTC in high school. By the time I got done with college, though, law enforcement looked like a better idea. Twenty years later, no regrets.”
“Good for you. I’ll ask again: Am I under arrest?”
“You want to be?” Mendoza said.
“If the answer to my question is no,” Devlin said, “then I think I’m free to go. And that’s what I’m going to do unless someone starts telling me why I was pulled over and cuffed, and why I’m sitting here.”
“This will only take a few minutes, Raymond,” Malloy said. “Okay if I call you Raymond? Like I said, you might be able to help us here. You know a Colin Roarke?”
He looked from Malloy to Mendoza. The older man was watching him. “Yes.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
He met Malloy’s eyes. “Yesterday.”
“And you were at his apartment, is that right? You were staying there?”
“Last night, yes. How did you know that?”
“Security camera,” Malloy said. “Outside his apartment building. We talked to the super there, pulled the tapes. He told us a vehicle he didn’t recognize had been parked there overnight. We ran the
plates, thought you’d be a good person to talk to, so we put out a BOLO. That’s why the troopers pulled you over.”
“Why did you pull the tapes? What happened?”
Malloy didn’t answer.
“What were you doing there?” Mendoza said.
“Visiting. We’re old friends. Did something happen? Where is he?”
“You had keys to the apartment?”
“They were spares. He gave them to me. I left them there. But no more answers until you start coming up with some yourselves.”
Malloy turned to Mendoza. The older man shrugged. “Your call.”
Malloy swiveled the open folder around, slid it across the table. Devlin saw photographs inside. He looked at the top one and knew then what had happened, why he was there.
They’d moved to a break room at the barracks, Devlin sitting on a folding chair, elbows on his knees, holding his Styrofoam coffee cup with both hands. Through an open door he could see a long hallway that ran down to the dispatcher’s desk. They’d talked for another half hour in the interview room, then Malloy had brought him out here. Mendoza had left them alone.
Malloy was at the coffeemaker. He poured himself a cup, ripped open a packet of sugar and dumped it in, took a stirrer. He dragged an open metal folding chair across the floor, sat near Devlin.
“I’m sorry. He was your friend. This must be tough. I know it was years since you’d seen him, but still.” He sipped coffee.
Devlin had told them about driving up from Florida. Nothing about what had happened with Bell. It would only complicate the situation. They could find that out on their own.
“Lou was a little brusque in there,” Malloy said. “It’s just his nature. Security tape shows you leaving the apartment this morning, about an hour or so after Roarke. He was gone before you woke up?”
“He was.”
“So you didn’t talk to him?”
“No.” Not even a chance to say goodbye, Devlin thought. He wondered where he’d been at the time of the shootings. On the road, probably somewhere in New Jersey, heading north. Not far away.
“Your gas station and IHOP receipts match what you told us. If we wanted, we could check the tollbooth cameras on the turnpike, but there’s no need for that, I don’t think. It’s pretty clear you were where you said you were.”
“Where’s my truck?”
“We had it towed to the lot here. Not safe to leave it out on the highway. Might cause an accident.”
“My keys?”
“Dispatcher has them. But let me ask you, was Roarke into anything that might have put him in danger? Any enemies you knew of?”
“I thought you said it was a robbery.”
“That’s the assumption we’re under, the most likely scenario. But it’s better not to rule anything out at this stage. I like to poke around a little, talk to people who knew the victim. Could be Roarke was a target. Someone had a grudge.”
“And took out five other people as well?”
“Standard narrative for this type of crime is a couple of lowlifes looking for a quick payday, with more balls than brains. They go into a place loaded for bear, panic when they see the bartender has his own piece. Maybe they’re wired on something. Meth, coke, who knows. Personally, in this case I doubt it.”
“Why?”
“I’ve got them on video.”
Devlin straightened. “Inside the bar?”
“No, not inside. Factory across the street was out of business, but still had working CCTV, believe it or not. There’d been some vandalism, so the owners put in cameras, including one on the outside wall. Angle’s not great, but we have a clear shot of two men going in, then coming back out again. Less than four minutes inside, by the time code. They did a lot of damage in that time. And they looked just as calm coming out as they did going in. No rush, considering what they’d just done.”
“What are you saying?”
“Nothing. Odd timing, though, isn’t it? You come all this way to visit an old friend, first time in years, and he gets killed in an armed robbery the next day?”
“You really trying to fit me into this somehow?”
“Not especially. I’ll be straight with you. I buy most of your story. Other parts, not so much. I’m not saying you were involved in what went down, but I think you know more than you’re telling. Or at least you have some ideas about it.”
Devlin set his cup on the table. “Then you’d be wrong.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Malloy stirred his coffee. “We’re still trying to track down next of kin. He have any family you know of?”
“He was a widower. That’s all I knew. If they had kids, he never mentioned them.”
“It’ll be a while before they release the body. Hopefully we’ll find someone before then. What will you do now?”
“Head home, I guess,” Devlin said. “No reason for me to stay around up here.”
“I can’t stop you. You’re not being detained, and you’re certainly not under arrest, but I’m going to want to talk more, maybe bounce some things off you.”
“I’ll help if I can.”
Malloy leaned forward. “Let me be clear, Raymond, so there’s no mistake. This is what we call a red ball, all the way. Six homicides, innocent victims, most likely, and five of them whose only crime was needing a drink to get started for the day. That can’t stand. I plan to close this, and soon.”
He took a business card from his jacket pocket, held it out. Devlin took it. “My number’s on there. If you’re Colin’s friend, you’ll want to help us get the men that killed him.”
Malloy stood, went to the counter, poured his coffee into the sink. “But if I think you’re withholding information from me—anything at all—and I find out about it?”
Devlin waited.
“Then you’re going to need that lawyer after all.”
Seventeen
Devlin woke before dawn. He lay in bed in the warm darkness of the motel room, and it all came flooding back over him—what had happened, where he was, the photos.
He’d checked in the night before, after leaving the trooper barracks. He needed time to think, process what had happened already, what might happen next.
After he showered and dressed, he made a cup of coffee from the portable brew pot in the room. He hadn’t eaten since lunch with Brendan, but he wasn’t hungry. He wanted a drink.
There was a wooden folding chair leaning against the wall in the closet. He took it outside to the second-floor walkway and shook it open, sat and sipped coffee, looking down at the parking lot. The neon sign by the entrance proudly advertised COLOR TV and IN-ROOM PHONES. The motel was one of what seemed like dozens on this stretch of South Jersey highway. The Ben Franklin Bridge was only a few hundred yards away, traffic already funneling into the city, headlights on. To the east, the coming day was a blue-pink glow on the horizon.
He coughed, his breath fogging in the cold air, drank coffee. He knew he should be feeling something more—a sense of loss, of caution, of danger. But there was only numbness.
You can’t just sit and wait, he thought. There was only one way to read it. Someone had sent Bell to kill him. Then, when it had gone bad, they’d sent someone else after Roarke.
On the other side of the river, the glass-and-steel skyline of downtown Philly was catching the first light of day. The twenty-four-hour diner across the highway switched off the lights in its sign. Its parking lot was already half full. Near the entrance he could see a blue newspaper box.
He set the cup on the walkway, went down the steps and out to the highway, waited for a break in the traffic, then sprinted across. Horns beeped angrily at him.
He slid four quarters into the box’s coin slot, opened the hinged front, and took out a paper. The shootings were on the front page, a bold headline over three columns. He saw the familiar byline—TRACY QUINN, DAILY OBSERVER STAFF.
There was nothing in the story he didn’t already know. It was continued on an inside page
, with a photo of the front of the bar, police cars on the street, the sidewalk roped off with crime scene tape. A separate story listed the victims. He saw the name Roger Leland, remembered the thin man in the Phillies cap Roarke had told him about, who’d once been an Air Force captain, then a prisoner of war.
He took the paper with him.
Tracy was at a table in the lunchroom, eating wilted Caesar salad from a Styrofoam container, when Alysha Bennett sat down across from her.
“Yum,” Alysha said. “You get that from the truck?”
“Yeah, I never learn.” She pushed damp lettuce around with a plastic fork. The room smelled of stale Chinese food and burnt microwave popcorn.
“Rick says I’m free for whatever you need.”
“I’m hung up waiting on callbacks, but I could use some help working the phone.”
“Great story today. They were talking about it at the noon meeting.”
“Then I still have a job for the rest of the week at least.”
Alysha nodded at the salad. “If you want to ditch that, I have some extra yogurts in the fridge. Blueberry, I think.”
“Thanks. I guess I’ll stick with it.”
“You still run every day?”
“Allegedly. Not today.”
She’d woken up early, eager to get into the office and start working the second-day story. The night before, she’d finished off the bottle of wine on an empty stomach to help her sleep. For breakfast, she’d forced down a bowl of tasteless oatmeal.
“What kind of distance you do?”
“A mile up, a mile back,” Tracy said. “But the first one’s uphill, so it’s a killer.”
“That’s serious. You better watch yourself, running out there on the road, middle of nowhere.”
“Safer than the city.”
“You hope. Speaking of killers, where are you on the follow?”
“Major Crimes is dodging me,” Tracy said. “Waiting for their press office to put together a release, I imagine. Preferably one that includes an arrest.”
“Profiles on the victims?”
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