by Jason Parent
Tessa could taste the bile returning to her mouth. “I don’t… he wrapped everything in plastic and threw it into her trunk—”
“Where’s the car now?”
“He… we pushed it off the pier at the waterfront in Somerset. He sat Ms. Jackson behind the wheel, thinking it was funny. I guess he should have seat-belted her in. Where her lips were cut off, it kind of looked like she was smiling.” Tears stung in her eyes. “She didn’t have to die. She hadn’t even broken any of his rules.”
“I know, Tessa,” Reilly said. She came around the table and crouched beside Tessa, taking her hand once more. “I know.”
“So what happens now?”
“You’ll have to stay here for a while,” Detective Reilly said. “You’ll be safe here. You’ve done the right thing, Tessa. Try to be strong, okay?”
Strong? Tessa had never felt strong. She used to have Mother to protect her, to take the punishment for her. Now, she had only a stranger with a badge and a gun. Tessa hoped the detective would use them both when she found Father. If she found Father… “Promise me you’ll get him. He killed Mother, too, I think. And… there were others.”
“Others?” Detective Reilly looked surprised, but then she shook her head. “There will be time to discuss that later, once we arrest your father. I’ll be back, and we can discuss every detail you feel comfortable sharing. You have a long, tough road ahead of you, Tessa, but I promise things will slowly get easier from here on out, now that he’s out of your life.”
Detective Reilly stood. With a warm smile then an awkward closeness that almost passed for a hug, she left.
I’ll believe it when I see it. A sudden chill came over Tessa. Again, she was alone. Father knew where she was. Detective Reilly didn’t understand what he was like. Tessa wasn’t safe there or anywhere Father might look for her. She needed to go.
She slid through the doorway, grateful that the detective hadn’t thought to shut it, and followed Janet and Reilly back toward the lobby, ducking into doorways whenever she thought they might turn around. Living with Father had taught her how to move as quietly as a mouse.
Detective Reilly chatted with Janet in the lobby for a couple of minutes. Tessa wasn’t close enough to hear the conversation, but she caught the gist of it from their body language. The detective spun and hustled out the front door. When Janet came back toward the hallway, presumably to collect her charge, Tessa slipped into an empty office and waited for her to pass.
A minute later, Tessa was standing on the street.
Chapter 24
Within two hours, divers had located the vehicle, right where Tessa had said it would be. It would take several more hours to tow it out, hours Sam wasn’t about to waste waiting around and doing nothing. Masterson had already been released. He had claimed his things, and at that moment, he could be sitting at the gate for a flight to only God knew where. Sam certainly didn’t know where, but she had her corroborating evidence. If only she had been a bit quicker, Masterson would still be in their custody. Still, he would not be squirming away this time.
She called Sergeant Jake Rollins and told him she needed two warrants: the first for the arrest of Christopher Masterson and the second, broadly worded, for an all-encompassing search of 78 Winchester Street. With any luck, Masterson was the sentimental type who wouldn’t part with his knife, despite its incriminating nature. On the surface, he seemed too careful to do something so stupid, but he had obviously kept the knife after using it to slice and dice Gloria Jackson.
These sickos always need their trophies.
Sam hoped she would be able to serve both warrants at the same time. Masterson had to know she would be coming sooner or later, though. If he was smart, he would already be sipping umbrella drinks at a beach bar in Morocco or Brunei or some other watering hole where extradition to the US wouldn’t be likely.
“What new evidence should I bring to the judge’s attention?” Rollins asked.
“The daughter witnessed everything. She even confessed to helping Masterson carve Jackson.” Sam winced, only briefly revealing her disgust before stoning her heart. Tessa was a victim, too. Sam recognized that, but she would have to treat the girl as an accessory. Her job demanded she enforce the law, but she would seek as much leniency for Tessa as that law permitted when the time came to do so. With an abusive, controlling father, Tessa might even prevail under the “he made me do it” defense. At the least, it should mitigate her sentence. “The victim’s car is being exhumed as we speak. Tessa told us where to find it. With her story backed up by physical evidence, the warrants should be no-brainers. Let me know if you hit a snag.”
“Will do,” the sergeant responded and hung up the phone.
Sam rushed out to her car to go to Masterson’s house. As she turned onto Winchester Street, she slowed to a crawl and dimmed her headlights. She parked at the end of the block to wait for the warrants and backup.
Four officers, the minimum she’d requested, arrived not even ten minutes later. Sergeant Rollins exited one of the cars and held up some folded documents so she could see them.
Good work, Rollins. Sam popped open her door and went over to him. “I see you got the warrants.” Her tone almost sounded flirtatious, but her excitement had nothing to do with Rollins, despite how easy he was on the eyes. “Let’s go arrest his sorry ass.”
They returned to their respective vehicles and drove up to the house. A blue Crossfire was parked in the driveway. Sam and the drivers of the other two cars parked strategically—hers directly behind Masterson’s car and the other two at the end of the driveway. She got out of her car and watched the men climb out of theirs.
The three patrolmen and Rollins looked like giant apes, muscles straining the buttons on their shirts. As they followed her onto Masterson’s property and up to the front door, Sam felt like a celebrity with her team of bodyguards. It felt good, but the greater high would come when Masterson was stuffed into the backseat of one of those patrol cars.
Rollins sent one officer around the back of the house. Cromartie, Sam thought, recalling the officer’s name. She prided herself on knowing her team. The other two officers were Ansari and Bostick. All were good cops and ready should Masterson put up a fight, which part of her wanted him to do.
Bostick leaned against the front storm door, propping it open. Sam peeked through a window but saw no signs of life inside.
“Christopher Masterson,” she said while knocking sharply on the door. “This is the police. Open up.”
Sam pressed her ear against the door. She heard a muffled bang, like the sound her shin made every time she hit it against the coffee table while stumbling around in the dark. Then nothing. She counted to fifteen in her head, much faster than seconds would tick off a clock. Who actually says “Mississippi” between the numbers? When she finished, she leaned against the railing, out of Sergeant Rollins’s way.
One shoulder butt, and he had the door nearly off its hinges. The portion of the frame where the latch had resisted was a splintered mess. Sam laughed quietly. No one had even checked whether the door had been unlocked.
“You stay here,” she whispered to Bostick. She shot her eyebrows upward and gestured toward the stairs, signaling Ansari to climb them. She and Rollins would clear the first floor.
Everyone drew their guns. Sam scanned the living room then led the sergeant through it and into the dining room. Rollins moved toward the kitchen while Sam started down the hallway.
After a few steps, she came to a closed door. She brought her gun in close to her body, stood to one side, and quickly turned the doorknob. Throwing open the door, she remained behind the protective shield of the wall. When no one popped out, she stepped into the doorway—a bedroom. Rollins strode past her to check the next room down the hall.
Now for the fun part. She glanced at the queen-size bed covered by a drab blue comforter. On the other sid
e was a closet, door firmly closed. There weren’t any other hiding places she could see in the room, but those two were popular and often deadly choices. She would have to make sure no one was using them before she could deem the room clear.
She knew no safe way to check under a bed for a suspect. Some cops flipped or kicked off the mattress, but that could be difficult and was ultimately pointless if the box springs were covered. Plus, the maneuver meant she would have to be close to the bed without knowing what lurked beneath it, inviting all sorts of injuries to her lower extremities. The thought made Sam’s skin crawl. She preferred to yank off the bedspread if it hung to the floor, clumping it between the bed and her feet to block a potentially dangerous suspect’s line of sight. Then she would step back, pretending to divert her attention from the bed, only to drop into a squat and peek beneath it. The whole process made her feel like a little kid afraid of the boogeyman, but at the same time, the rush of adrenaline was exhilarating.
Sam found nothing but air and carpet. She turned to the closet and sighed again. Fucking slats. The closet door was comprised of slatted wood placed at a down-and-outward slope. If Masterson were hiding behind it, he would be able to see her, but Sam wouldn’t be able to see him.
There’s no avoiding it. She reached for the knob with her left hand. Her right hand held her pistol tucked near her breast. She yanked open the door.
In the movies, a cat always jumped out. Sam used to wonder why Hollywood thought cat owners always locked their cats in the closet until one time when a black furball came screeching out at her. It had taken all her willpower not to shoot the fluffy demon.
Masterson’s closet contained no cat. No vicious killers were lurking there, either. Clothes. Just clothes.
Sam returned to the hallway. Sergeant Rollins came out of the far room, shaking his head. They headed back to the dining room, where Ansari was waiting for them.
“The second floor is clear,” he said.
“He’s not here? Fuck!” Sam pounded her fist on the table.
There’s still the knife. She headed into the kitchen to look for the weapon. When she spotted the knife block, she instantly noticed that one was missing. She didn’t need to guess which one.
“Well,” she said, walking back into the dining room, “this was exciting. Let’s get the word out. Ansari, radio in the suspect’s description, and get out an APB on him. Rollins and I will start tossing this place. On your way out, tell Bostick and Cromartie to get in here and help.”
Rollins flipped on the dining room light as Sam headed back into the hallway. The light illuminated most of the hall, and Sam noticed something different about the wall, probably nothing, having passed by the peculiarity before it even registered in her brain. About waist high, a black, greasy streak that had no logical reason for being there was smeared across the wall. Given the house’s otherwise pristine nature, the mark warranted her investigation. It looked as though a sneaker had scuffed the wall. Sam looked up and saw an attic door above the mark. She knew where her suspect was hiding.
“Wait, you two.” She pointed at the hatch with her gun. “Who is this guy, Jackie Chan?”
She didn’t see a dangling rope handle for a pull-down staircase like some attics had. She raised her hand, but the door was just out of reach. Rollins jumped up and pushed open the hatch. Above, there was only darkness.
“Give me ten fingers,” Sam said.
Officer Ansari interlocked the fingers of both his hands and bent at the waist to lower the makeshift step. She placed her foot inside the cradle, and with the grace of an acrobat, he raised her into the ceiling.
With the blundering of a clown, Sam fell toward the floor. “Fuck!”
As she had started to rise, a sharp pain shot through the back of her head. The blow left her reeling, and she rolled back through the opening. Fortunately, Ansari and Rollins were there to catch her before the hardwood floor could break her fall. Her gun slipped out of the holster she’d forgotten to snap and rattled across the floor like a spinning quarter.
When the officers stood her on her feet, she put her hand to the back of her head. She ran her hands through a mat of bloody hair, trying to gauge the size of the wound. Dizzy, Sam thought she might have a concussion. Her best guess was that Masterson had punted the back of her head.
She picked up her gun but couldn’t even see straight enough to aim it. “Get that son of a bitch,” she hissed.
Rollins pointed his gun at the ceiling and cocked his head, listening for movement. “We need to get you to a hospital. We can flush him out—”
“No.” Sam shook her head then stopped moving when another lance of pain ripped through her skull. “No hospital. It’s just a cut.”
A crash came from above, the sound of glass breaking. That was followed by thumping footsteps.
“He’s on the roof!” Sam yelled. “Go after him.”
Rollins boosted Ansari into the attic. A scream came from the direction of the backyard. With the sergeant’s help, Sam stumbled toward the sound’s origin.
When they went out the back door, Bostick was crouched over Cromartie, who had dark blood gurgling from a wound in his side.
“It was definitely Masterson,” Bostick said, his voice fraught with worry and anger. “He took off running that way.” He pointed toward their left. “Officer Ansari is chasing him.”
“Go,” Sam said. Bostick didn’t need to be told twice. He sped off to join the chase.
Rollins keyed his radio. “Officer down. I repeat, officer down. Send emergency units to 78 Winchester Street immediately. All available units should be sent to said location. The suspect, Christopher Masterson, is a white male approximately five-ten, one hundred sixty pounds. He’s on foot, pursued by Officers Ansari and Bostick. Suspect is armed and dangerous. I repeat: suspect is armed and dangerous.” The sergeant returned his radio to his belt and gestured at Cromartie. “How is he?”
“Not good,” Sam replied. She was sure he’d already lost more blood than a human could stand to lose, and she was grateful that he was unconscious. “He’s not going to make it.”
“Christ,” Rollins said, stomping the ground. He shook his head and fumed quietly while they waited for the paramedics to arrive.
As she listened to Cromartie breathe his final breaths, Sam blamed herself for the death of the good man they would soon lose. One man armed with only a knife had somehow outsmarted her and the four officers under her command. She wasn’t sure what she could have done differently, but death occurred only when she was less than perfect. Whatever her failing had been, she was disgusted by it. And if she couldn’t figure it out, Internal Affairs would be sure to fill in the gaps for her.
At least if Ansari and Bostick managed to come back with Masterson, Sam could avenge Cromartie. She hoped they would shoot Masterson or at least rough him up a bit, but not kill him. She wanted a go at him first. Masterson had crossed the final line from killer to cop killer. Like the rest of her blue-blooded friends, Sam took the death of one of her own personally. She doubted Masterson would survive to see a trial, and she didn’t care. Justice would be done.
Chapter 25
“Michael? There’s someone at the door for you.”
Helen’s voice carried up the staircase like a fart through a colon. Its hoarse smoker’s tone made Michael cringe every time he heard it. She sounded as if she had more than just a foot in the grave. At fifty-seven and with her nasty habit, her death probably wasn’t far off. If Greg died first, Helen would have no one but Michael to care for her should her health fail.
Maybe that’s why they took me in. The Plummers had no children of their own. Michael usually thought Helen and Greg fostered him out of some weird sense of Christian duty, as if they felt they had to give back to the world or something stupid like that. They didn’t seem to really enjoy having him around, not that he’d always made it easy for them. At
least they never touched him. More than one of his foster friends had been sent away only to return to the orphanage soon after with dirty secrets they would never be able to wipe clean.
Michael rolled his eyes as that raspy voice again hollered for him to answer the door. Happily engrossed in the latest Assassin’s Creed, he didn’t want to be disturbed. He had no friends, except maybe Sam, who would have called before coming over. So he was pretty certain whoever was at the door wasn’t there for him. Besides, if fate saw fit to constantly expose him to death and destruction, he would prefer to see it played out in a digital world. And if someone was at the door for him, it couldn’t be good.
Reluctantly, Michael paused the game and tromped down the stairs. Maybe it was Willie the mailman with more comic books—Willie, who was still alive and kicking. Or the DCF investigator. He wasn’t looking forward to that conversation, but if it was the investigator, he was early. Helen had spent most of the day trying to make the house look what she called “presentable.” As far as he could see, the place looked exactly the same as it had that morning.
When he pivoted around the banister at the bottom of the stairs, he couldn’t believe who was standing in the middle of his living room. Tessa Masterson was chatting with Helen and Greg as if the three of them were good friends or something.
“So nice of you to join us,” Helen said. “Jaime was just telling us that you have a few classes together.”
“We’re happy to finally meet someone like you.” Greg cleared his throat. “A girl, I mean. We were starting to wonder if Michael was one of those—”
Michael leaped off the last step. “Thanks for that, Greg.” He turned to Tessa. “So, Jaime, what brings you here?”
“I thought we could study together for our math midterm,” Tessa said coolly. “You know I could use the help.”