by Lisa Gardner
I ran the knife down the front of his shirt. The blade popped off the first button, the second, the third. Purcell wore a dark T-shirt underneath, topped by the requisite gold chain.
I planted the tip of the knife at the top of the thin cotton fabric and began to tear.
Purcell stared at the blade in rapt fascination. I could see his imagination kicking into gear, starting to realize everything such a large, well-honed blade could do to him. While he sat with his hands tied on his very own property. Helpless. Vulnerable.
“I’m not going to kill you,” I said, slicing down the black T-shirt.
Purcell’s eyes widened. He stared at me uncertainly.
“That’s what you want, isn’t it? Dying in the line of duty. A suitable end to an honorable gangster.”
Last shirt button. Pop. Last inch of T-shirt. Shred.
I used the blade to peel back his shirts. His stomach was unexpectedly pale, a little thicker around the waist, but defined. He trained. Not a big guy. Maybe a boxer. He understood fitness mattered in his line of work. Got to have some muscle to lug unconscious bodies down to the basement and strap them to the table.
Gotta have some size to snatch a struggling six-year-old girl.
The knife eased back his shirts, exposing his left side. I stared at his bare shoulder in fascination. The goose pimples that rippled across his flesh in the cold. The way his nipple formed a round bud right over his heart.
“You shot my husband here,” I murmured, and I used the blade to mark the spot. Blood welled up, forming a perfect red X against Purcell’s skin. The razor-sharp blade made for a nice, clean cut. Shane had always taken his equipment seriously.
“Next shot was right here.” I moved the blade again. Maybe I cut deeper this time, because Purcell hissed low, quivering beneath me.
“Third shot, right here.” This time, I definitely went deep. When I raised the KA-BAR knife, the blood welled at the edge of the blade and dripped down onto Purcell’s stomach.
Blood in the clean white snow.
Brian dying in the clean bright kitchen.
The mobster was shaking now. I gazed into his face. I let him see the death in my eyes. I let him see the killer he helped make.
“Here’s the deal,” I informed him. “Tell me where my daughter is, and in return, I’ll remove your restraints. I’m not giving you a knife or anything that crazy, but you can take a shot at me. Maybe you can overpower me, in which case, my bad. Maybe you can’t. In which case, at least you go down swinging instead of dying trussed up like a pig in your own front yard. You have until the count of five to decide. One.”
“I don’t snitch,” Purcell snarled.
I shrugged, reached up, and mostly because I felt like it, lopped off a giant piece of his thick brown hair. “Two.”
He flinched, didn’t back down. “Gonna fucking kill me anyway.”
Another section of hair, maybe even a bit of ear. “Three.”
“Fucking cunt.”
“Stick and stones may break my bones …” I wadded up a big fistful of dark hair at the top of his forehead. Getting into the spirit of things now, I pulled up hard, so I could see his scalp lift. “Four.”
“I don’t have your daughter!” Purcell exploded. “Don’t do kids. Told them in the beginning, don’t do kids.”
“Then where is she?”
“You’re the fucking cop. Don’t you think you should know?”
I whacked with the blade. I got a lot of hair and definitely some scalp. Blood bubbled up red. Dripped onto the icy ground, turned pink against the snow.
I wondered if I would ever make it through another winter, where fresh snowfall wouldn’t make me want to vomit.
Purcell howled, shuddering against his restraints. “You trusted all the wrong people. Now you hurt me? I did you a favor! Your husband was no good. Your police officer friend even worse. How’d I even get into your house, you stupid cunt? Think your old man would just let me in?”
I stopped. I stared at him. And I realized, in that instant, the one piece of the puzzle I’d been missing. I’d been so overwhelmed by the trauma of Saturday morning, I’d never contemplated the logistics. I’d never analyzed the scene as a cop.
For example, Brian already knew he was in trouble. His weight lifting, the recent purchase of the Glock .40. His own jumpy mood and short temper. He knew he’d waded in too deep. And yeah, he’d never open the door to a man like John Stephen Purcell, especially with Sophie in the house.
Except Sophie hadn’t been in the house when I’d returned home.
She was already gone. Purcell had been standing in the kitchen alone, holding Brian at gunpoint. Sophie had already been taken, by a second person who must’ve come with Purcell. Someone Brian would feel safe greeting at the door. Someone who had access to the troopers’ pension. Who knew Shane. Who felt powerful enough to control all the parties involved.
My face must have paled, because Purcell started to laugh. The sound rattled in his chest.
“See? I tell the truth,” he growled. “I’m not the problem. The men in your life are.”
Purcell laughed again, the blood dripping down his face and making him look as crazy as I felt. We were two peas in a pod, I realized abruptly. Soldiers in the war, to be used, abused, and betrayed by the generals involved.
Others made the decisions. We just paid the price.
I set the knife down behind me, beside the shotgun. My right arm throbbed. Using it so much had caused the gunshot wound to bleed again. I could feel fresh moisture trickling down my arm. More pink stains in the snow.
Not much longer now, I knew. And like Purcell, I was not afraid. I was resigned to my fate.
“Trooper Lyons is dead,” I said.
Purcell stopped laughing.
“Turns out, you killed him two hours ago.”
Purcell thinned his lips. He was no fool.
From the back waistband of my pants, I pulled out a .22 semiauto I’d found taped to the back of the toilet tank in Purcell’s bathroom. Strictly a backup weapon for a guy like him, but it would still get the job done.
“I’m guessing this is a black market weapon,” I stated. “Serial number filed off. Untraceable.”
“You promised a fair fight,” Purcell said suddenly.
“And you promised to let my husband go. Guess we’re both liars.”
I leaned close. “Who do you love?” I whispered in the bloody snow.
“No one,” he replied tiredly. “Never did.”
I nodded, unsurprised. Then I shot him. Double tap to the left temple, classic gangland hit. Next, I picked up the KA-BAR knife and matter-of-factly carved the word “snitch” into the dead man’s skin. Had to obliterate the three Xs I’d formed earlier in his chest, which would’ve led a savvy detective such as D. D. Warren straight to my doorstep.
My face felt strange. Hard. Grim, even for me. I reminded myself of that tidy basement with its lingering scents of bleach and blood, of the pain Purcell would’ve happily inflicted upon me, if I’d given him the chance. It didn’t help. I was meant to be a cop, not a killer. And each act of violence took something from me that I would not get back again.
But I kept moving, because like any woman, I was good at self-inflicted pain.
Final details: I returned to the house long enough to help myself to Purcell’s cleaning supplies. Working with paper towels and bleach, I obliterated all traces of my blood inside the home. Then I traded my boots for his, tramping around in the mud and snow until my footprints were gone and only Purcell’s remained.
Lastly, I retrieved Brian’s Glock .40 from my duffel bag and wrapped Purcell’s right hand around the pistol grip to transfer his prints. Purcell’s .22 went into my duffel bag, to be tossed in the first river I passed. The Glock .40 went inside Purcell’s house, taped to the back of the toilet as he’d done with the first firearm.
Sometime after the sun rose, the police would find Purcell’s body tied to the house, obviously tortured,
now deceased. They would search his house, they would discover his basement, and that would answer half their questions—a guy in Purcell’s line of work was bound to die badly.
While searching Purcell’s house, they would also discover Brian’s Glock .40. Ballistics would match the slug that killed police officer Shane Lyons to that firearm, providing a theory that Purcell had once entered my home and stolen my husband’s gun, which he later used to kill a highly respected state trooper.
Purcell’s murder would go to the back burner—just another thug meeting a violent end. Shane would be buried with full honors and his family would receive benefits.
The police would search for the weapon that shot Purcell, of course. Wonder about his murderer. But not all questions were meant to be answered.
Just like not all people were meant to be trusted.
One-seventeen a.m. I staggered to my feet, made my way back to the truck. I downed two bottles of water and ate two power bars. Right shoulder burned. Tingling in my fingers. A hollow sensation in my gut. A curious numbness to the set of my lips.
Then I was on the road again, shotgun on my lap, bloody hands at the wheel.
Sophie, here I come.
41
“It’s Hamilton,” Bobby said, pulling D.D. out of Leoni’s garage and already jogging back to their car.
“Hamilton?” D.D. narrowed her eyes. “As in State Police Lieutenant Colonel?”
“Yep. Has access, has opportunity, and knows all the players involved. Maybe Brian’s gambling problem started the ball rolling, but Hamilton was the brains of the operation—You guys need money? Hey, I happen to know where there’s a huge pot of cash, just sitting there …”
“Between him and Shane …” D.D. murmured. She nodded, feeling the first tinge of excitement A name, a suspect, a target. She climbed into the car and Bobby pulled away from the curb, already racing toward the highway.
“Yep,” he said now. “Easy enough to work out the logistics of setting up a shell company, with Hamilton pulling strings to cover their tracks from the inside. Except, of course, all good things must come to an end.”
“Once the internal investigation kicks into gear …”
“Their days are numbered,” Bobby filled in for her. “They have state investigators sniffing around, plus, thanks to Shane and Brian continuing to gamble excessively, they also have various mobsters wanting a piece of the pie. Hamilton, of course, grows concerned. And Brian and Shane go from being partners in crime to highly expendable liabilities.”
“Hamilton killed Brian, then kidnapped Sophie so Tessa would confess to shooting her own husband and be framed for defrauding the troopers’ union?” D.D. frowned, then added, “Or an enforcer did it. The kind of mobster Brian had already pissed off. The kind of guy willing to do one last piece of wet work in order to get his money back.”
“The kind of guy who’d mail photos of Shane’s family as a warning,” Bobby agreed.
“That’s the thing about the brass,” D.D. said with a shake of her head. “They’re big on ideas, but don’t like to get their own hands dirty during implementation.” She hesitated. “Following that logic, where is Sophie? Would Hamilton risk personally holding a six-year-old girl?”
“Don’t know,” Bobby said. “But I’m betting if we drop on him like a ton of bricks, we can find that out. He should be downtown, at the scene of Lyons’s shooting, hanging out with the colonel and other brass.”
D.D. nodded, then suddenly grabbed Bobby’s arm. “He’s not downtown. Bet you anything.”
“Why not?”
“Because Tessa is on the loose. We know it. He knows it. Furthermore, he would’ve heard by now that Trooper Lyons’s shotgun and M4 rifle are missing. Meaning he knows Tessa is armed, dangerous, and desperate to locate her daughter.”
“He’s on the run,” Bobby filled in, “from his own officer.” But then it was his turn to shake his head. “Nah, not a guy as experienced and wily as Hamilton. Best defense is a good offense, right? He’s going for Sophie. If she’s still alive, he’s gonna get his hands on her. She’s the only bargaining chip he’s got left.”
“So where’s Sophie?” D.D. asked again. “We’ve had a statewide Amber Alert for three days. Her picture is plastered all over the TV, her description on the radio. If the girl’s around, we should’ve gotten a lead by now.”
“Meaning she’s someplace buttoned up tight,” Bobby mused. “Rural, no close neighbors. With someone assigned to keep her under lock and key. So a place that is inaccessible, but well supplied. A location Hamilton trusts not to be compromised.”
“He’d never stash Sophie in his own house,” D.D. said. “Too close to him. Maybe she’s at a friend of a friend? Or a second home? We saw the pictures of him hunting deer. Does he have a hunting lodge, a cabin in the woods?”
Bobby suddenly smiled. “Bingo. Hamilton has a hunting cabin near Mount Greylock in western Mass. Two and half hours away from state headquarters, tucked in the foothills of the Berkshires. Isolated, containable, and distant enough to provide him with plausible deniability—even if he owns it, he can say he hasn’t been there in days or weeks, particularly given all the activity that’s required his attention in Boston.”
“Can you get us there?” D.D. asked immediately.
Bobby hesitated. “I’ve been there a couple of times, but years ago. Sometimes he invites troopers over for hunting weekends, that kind of thing. I can picture the roads …”
“Phil,” D.D. stated, pulling out her cellphone. “You get on the Pike. I’ll get us the address.”
Bobby hit the lights, roaring for the Mass Pike, the quickest route for cutting across the state. D.D. dialed BPD headquarters. It was after midnight, but nobody in the state or Boston force was sleeping tonight; Phil answered on the first ring.
“You heard about Trooper Lyons?” Phil stated in way of greeting.
“Already been there. Got a sensitive request for you. Want full background on Gerard Hamilton. Search under his family members’ names, too. I want all known property addresses, and after that, a full financial workup.”
There was a pause. “You mean the lieutenant colonel of the state police?” Phil asked carefully.
“Told you it was sensitive.”
D.D. heard a tapping sound. Phil’s fingers, already flying across the computer keyboard.
“Ummm, if you want some unofficial info, not even water cooler talk, more like urinal gossip …” Phil started, as he typed away.
“By all means,” D.D. assured him.
“Heard Hamilton’s got himself a mistress. A hot Italian spitfire.”
“Name?”
“Haven’t a clue. Guy only mentioned her … derriere.”
“Men are pigs.”
“Personally, I’m a pig who’s in love with his wife and needs her to survive four kids, so don’t look at me.”
“True,” D.D. granted. “Start digging, Phil. Tell me what I need to know, because we think he might have Sophie Leoni.”
D.D. hung up. Bobby came to the exit for the Mass Pike. He careened up it at seventy miles per hour and they went squealing around the corner. Roads were finally clear of snow and there wasn’t much traffic at this time of night. Bobby hit one hundred on the broad, flat highway as they soared toward western Mass. They had a hundred and thirty miles to cover, give or take, D.D. thought, not all of which could be traveled at top speed. Two hours, she decided. Two hours till finally rescuing Sophie Leoni.
“Do you think she’s a good cop?” Bobby asked suddenly.
D.D. didn’t have to ask who he was talking about. “I don’t know.”
Bobby took his gaze off the fast flying darkness just long enough to glance at her. “How far would you go?” he asked softly, his eyes dropped to her belly. “If it were your child, how far would you go?”
“I hope I never have to find out.”
“Because I would kill them all,” Bobby said flatly, his hands flexing and unflexing on the wheel. “If
someone threatened Annabelle, kidnapped Carina. There wouldn’t be enough ammo left in this state for what I would do to them.”
D.D. didn’t doubt him for a minute, but she still shook her head.
“It’s not right, Bobby,” she said quietly. “Even if you’re provoked, even if the other guy started it … Criminals resort to violence. We’re cops. We’re supposed to know better. If we can’t live up to that standard … Well then, who can?”
They drove in silence after that, listening to the throaty growl of a flat-out engine and watching city lights wink by like bolts of lightning.
Sophie, D.D. thought, here we come.
42
Lieutenant Colonel Gerard Hamilton was my commanding officer, but I would never say I knew him well. For one thing, he was several levels above me in the food chain. For another, he was a guy’s guy. When he did hang out with the troopers, it was with Shane, and he often included Shane’s partner in crime, my husband, Brian.
They’d catch Red Sox games, maybe a hunting weekend, or a field trip to Foxwoods.
In hindsight, it all made perfect sense. Shane’s little excursions. My husband tagging along. Hamilton, too.
Meaning, when Brian started to gamble too much, get in too deep … Who would know how badly he needed money? Who would know another option for getting rich quick? Who would be in the perfect position to prey on my husband’s weakness?
Shane had never been big in the brains department. Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton, however … He’d know how to bring Shane and Brian along. Skim a little here, then a little there. It’s amazing how people can rationalize doing bad things when at first you start out small.
For example, I didn’t plan on killing Shane when I got out of jail, or murdering a gangster named John Stephen Purcell, or driving through the freezing night to my superior officer’s hunting cabin with a shotgun on my lap.
Maybe Brian and Shane told themselves they were merely “borrowing” that money. As union rep, Shane would know all about the pension account and available balance. Hamilton probably knew how to get access, what kind of shell company would be most appropriate for defrauding retired state cops. In the old boys’ network, it was probably a matter of a single phone call.