Down the street, an engine revved. “Don’t.”
A blonde drove by in a convertible Mercedes—cherry red. Her hair held back by what Hailey knew was an Hermes scarf because she had one in her own closet—one not unlike the woman’s, one she’d never worn.
“Why don’t you sit down for a minute so we can talk, I’ll make it quick,” Bruce suggested. “Or we could go somewhere else.”
“I don’t have time.” She checked the time on her phone. Forty-five minutes before the girls were released from school.
“A minute,” he repeated, reaching out to touch her.
She pulled out of his reach. “One minute.”
As she came around to the passenger side, Bruce leaned across to release the door handle. She sat on the cool vinyl seat. The car smelled of pine air freshener and a male smell—deodorant or aftershave.
But it didn’t smell like Bruce’s—at least not the one she knew. She had the urge to lean in and smell him. But she had been at his house last night.
He was with someone else.
Maybe Bruce changed his scent for whoever he was with now. She felt sick.
How long had it been going on? She was cold. She didn’t care. She did but she couldn’t. She needed to focus on the girls then the case. Keep them safe and save her job. “What did Marshall say?”
Bruce shifted sideways in the seat. “Can we talk about last night first?”
“There’s no need.”
“We need to clear the air. About us.”
“There is no us, Bruce.”
“We need some time alone, just the two of us.” He ignored her words. He did that when he didn’t like what she said. He always had. Why hadn’t it frustrated her before?
“It’s been a minute.”
“You’re angry about last night.”
“No. I was… surprised, but I’m okay. Really.”
“It wasn’t anything serious. Just a woman I sometimes spend an evening with…”
She stopped him. “It’s not because of last night. I’m glad you have someone, Bruce. Really, I am. You deserve it.”
And it was true.
How many times had she left Bruce and gone home to John, wishing Bruce would meet someone? That he would force an end to the relationship so that she didn’t have to.
“Why are you doing this, Hailey?” He leaned forward, lowered his voice. “John is dead. Nothing is going to bring him back.”
Hailey looked at Bruce, at the narrow slope of his nose and the wide arc of his brow, his greenish eyes, the lips she’d felt a hundred times.
It wasn’t there.
She didn’t feel it anymore. Not the same way. “I’m sorry.”
He tensed. He has a right. He had been patient, waited.
It didn’t change anything. She didn’t want to be with him. Not anymore. “Maybe we should talk later.”
“No.” He blew out his breath.
She ran her nail down the crease in her pants, traced the tear-shaped drops from the rain. “I need to go.”
“Marshall thinks you know something about John’s death.”
Her fingers froze. Her throat tightened. “What?”
“Hal Harris thinks your father-in-law might’ve been involved.”
Her mouth went dry. “Involved in killing his son? His own son?” She fought to swallow. “That’s outrageous.”
Damn Hal. Damn him. She fumbled to open the door.
Bruce grabbed her shoulders, held her. “Wait.”
She twisted to free herself. “Let me go.” She couldn’t talk about this, couldn’t face him. What could she say?
She knew Jim had nothing to do with John’s murder. At this point, it was the only thing she knew.
“Hailey, wait. Please wait.”
“I can’t, Bruce. I can’t.” Hailey loosened his grip and took hold of the door handle.
Cracked the door open. Then glass shattered.
Gunfire exploded from behind. Hard pellets struck her neck and head. She dropped to the floor, fumbled for her weapon.
Tires squealed on the asphalt.
She released the safety and ducked from the car. Using it as a shield, she aimed in the direction of the tires. A long set of skid marks trailed away from the house—ten maybe twelve feet.
The car was gone.
“Shit.” She dug through her purse for her phone. That bullet almost hit her. They weren’t aiming at Bruce. They were aiming at her. “I’ll call for backup.”
She looked at Bruce. He didn’t move. His eyes were wide, stunned. His hand clutched his neck. His face went white. His pupils ballooned. The left was larger than the right. “Bruce?”
She gripped his hand, fingered his neck.
His hand went limp in hers. Darkness pooled in his palm, dripped between their fingers. “No! Bruce!”
His eyes fell closed and his entire body went slack.
Chapter 24
If Hal was going after Price, he needed probable cause. A retainer wasn’t going to be enough to make an arrest.
Ideally, they could match Price’s DNA to the rebar outside James and Tawny Robbins’s apartment.
But this wasn’t CSI.
DNA took weeks. He’d have to settle for some of Gordon Price’s fingerprints in Rendell’s office. He called the lab for Roger.
“You just missed him,” the tech said said. “He was here almost twenty hours and left to get some sleep. He left a report for you—results on some cork.”
“Must be from Fredricks,” he said.
“I’ve got no idea. I didn’t work it.”
“That’s okay.” The cork could wait. Right now, he wanted to get his hands on Gordon Price. “I’ll come by for that later. I’m calling on the scene from today—the Rendell murder.”
“Yeah, we’re working that one now.”
“You have any hits on prints?” he asked.
“Yeah—Naomi’s working that. Hang on.”
There were a series of clicks then a pause before someone else picked up. “This is Naomi.”
“Hey, it’s Hal. You doing prints from the Rendell murder?”
“That I am. About halfway through.”
Hal circled the back of the station and turned into the parking lot driveway, his wipers squeaking against the dry glass. “You find a match to a Price? Gordon Price?”
“Hang on.” There was a pause and Naomi started listing names. “Tammy Myers.”
“She’s the secretary,” Hal said.
“Darryl Strong, Mitch Jackman, Thomas White, Angel Desantos…” She stopped and whistled. “Here we go. William Gordon Price. That the one?”
“That’s him.”
“Nice clean set on that guy,” Naomi said. “He was there recently.”
“That’s just what I needed. Thanks.”
“No problem, Inspector.”
Hal drove from the lot, dialing Hailey’s number from habit.
He ended the call, hoped it didn’t ring on her end.
Made a call to dispatch to request backup at Price’s apartment.
“I’ve got someone in the area.”
“Tell them to wait a couple blocks off. I’ll radio when I’m there. Don’t let them proceed without me.” Hal turned on his lights and blared the siren as he raced towards Price’s apartment.
In the department Taurus, the lights were hidden under the passenger’s sun visor and the reflection of the lights on the windshield always made him dizzy.
Hal spotted Price’s street, pulled to the curb, shut off his lights.
Halfway there, his phone buzzed. A text from his neighbor Ken. Sheila’s here breaking shit.
Damn it. Talking to Sheila was the last thing on his list. One damn day without a call—not even twelve damn hours. His cat. Poor Wiley w
as probably terrified.
Hal texted back. Would you get Wiley?
Already did.
Thx.
Sheila would have to wait.
The patrol car drove past.
Hal radioed for his backup car, told them to stay put. It was early still, a little before six. Price might not be home. If he was, they didn’t want to spook him.
On either side of Price’s tired-looking duplex two single residences that had been totally rebuilt. Maples and a birch tree lined the curbs. The garden on the south side of Price’s was elaborate—a bushy English-style garden like in the magazines Sheila loved.
Sheila. Christ.
His radio crackled as the officers awaited instruction. Hal told them to hold their position while he walked past. He, at least, was in civilian clothing.
If Price saw the patrol officers, he might make a run.
Hal didn’t want a chase, especially since Price had access to guns.
Hal walked past, taking note of which door entered unit B, Price’s. His was the south unit. Hal circled the house, taking note of the overgrown side yard and the windows that faced it.
Through the one full-sized window was a room with a futon, extended. Sheets were in a crumpled ball in its center. Along the far wall stood a low cheap, white dresser and next to it, a shiny, black beanbag, covered in discarded clothes. Jeans, blue button-down, socks and boxers on the floor.
On the dresser was scattered change, slips of paper and a few bottles—beer and a tall clear one that was maybe vodka or gin. Hal couldn’t see the label. Nothing like a wallet or keys to confirm whether or not Price was home. Farther back was a frosted window. Bathroom.
In the back was a door with a glass square, the glass patterned so that the inside wasn’t visible. Hal saw no motion from inside. Exit points—front door, back door and the two windows: bedroom and bathroom. Four exit points and only three officers.
Hal rounded the other side of the house, which he figured belonged to apartment A because lace curtains covered the windows and overgrown ferns were strung from macramé hangers, hooked into the ceiling.
On the street, Hal crossed to the patrol car.
Hal introduced himself to the two officers. “Not sure this guy is home. Supposedly, he has a thing for working nights.”
“So it might be about breakfast time for him.”
“Here’s hoping,” Hal said, leading the way back to the duplex as he explained the layout. They grew quiet as they approached.
“Ting,” Hal said, addressing one. “You cover the back door. I’ll ring the bell.” Hal glanced at the other officer’s name tag. “Bard, you watch the side windows from here.”
If Price fired, it would be his third gunfight this week. He wanted this guy unaware. “Take it real slow, guys. I don’t want this guy to come out shooting.”
The first officer went to the back of the house. Hal counted slowly to fifteen then nodded to Bard and rang the bell.
No reaction from inside. Hal rang again.
There was a faint click, like a door opening. Then came groans from an old wood floor. The sounds grew closer.
“Who is it?”
“I’m looking for Gordon Price.”
“Why you looking for him?”
“I’ve got some questions.”
“Price ain’t here,” the voice said a moment later. “You’ll have to come back later.” There was a short pause where Hal thought Price might be waiting to see if they left, but a few seconds later, he heard the distinct slapping sound of bare feet on the hardwood.
“Running!” Hal shouted, jumping over the banister past Bard. As he started around the house, he turned back. “Stay there!”
Hal ran to the large bedroom and stopped. Moving slowly, he leaned across to look inside. The overhead light shone in the room, but otherwise, it looked the same as when he’d last seen it. He moved toward the back of the house and had almost reached the corner when he heard Ting shout, “Freeze!”
Ting held his gun drawn on Price, who stood in a pair of navy plaid underwear, his hands in the air. Hal was pleased to see that they were empty. Even better, one was wrapped in a white bandage.
“Place your hands on top of your head,” Ting directed as Bard joined them.
“What the hell is this about?” Price demanded with a sucking sound. A retainer filled the front of his mouth then he flipped it and bit it back into place.
“You worked for Harvey Rendell?” Hal asked.
“I’ve worked for a lot of people, man.”
“Thirty-first floor, Bank of America building,” Hal said. “He pays in cash. We found your fingerprints in the office.”
“Sounds like I’ve been there, then. I’d have to check my records.”
Hal had him and he was going to savor it. “How about Hunters Point? You done some work up there, lately?”
Price’s gaze narrowed, but he said nothing.
“How’d you hurt yourself, Gordon?”
“I cut it working on my car.”
“Sure you did.” He turned to Ting. “Let’s escort Mr. Price downtown. I’ll meet you at the station.”
Price started to squawk, but Ting cut him off. “You heard the inspector. Move nice and slow.”
He took a couple of steps then stopped, looked down at his shorts. “You going to take me in like this?”
“We’ll get you some pants when you’re in the car,” Bard told him. “Move out of line and we can take you downtown in your skivvies. Break up the routine, right Ting?”
“Damn straight.”
Hal blew out his breath.
Every cop needed takedowns like this one. Easy, straightforward.
Seemed like they happened less and less.
Hal watched the officers put Gordon Price in the back of the patrol car. While Bard went back in for clothes, Hal called the station about getting a warrant for Price’s place.
He took a few minutes to savor the relief. It was the first time in this case he’d made progress without getting shot at.
Now he just had to handle Sheila.
Chapter 25
Hailey woke to a piercing bleat. The hospital. She jumped from the chair. A painful crick pinched her back from sleeping in the chair.
Across the room, Bruce was motionless. Tubes ran into his nose, an IV in his arm. He looked fragile, sick.
The sight made her nauseous, terrified.
Above him, the machines hushed and beeped. His chest rose and fell softly beneath her hand. The room went quiet. Then the bleating noise again. The heavy drum of her pulse trumpeted the pain in her back.
She punched the red call button.
“Yes.”
“Something’s wrong. The machines—” She felt helpless, sounded helpless. “I need a nurse. Right now.”
A heavyset nurse with tight red curls entered the room. The freckles were so dense across her cheeks that she had tan skin with white dots rather than the other way around. Abby, her nametag read.
The bleating had stopped again. “Something was beeping.”
“Looks like the pulse ox slipped off,” the nurse said, lifting a small black clip and replacing it on Bruce’s index finger.
“Was that the beeping sound?” Hailey asked.
“Shouldn’t have been.”
The bleating started again. Hailey searched the screen about Bruce’s head, trying to make sense of the lines and numbers.
“It sounds like a phone,” the nurse said said. “That ring—I think it’s your phone.”
Hailey’s cell phone sat on top of her purse, on the floor beside the chair. Three missed calls from Hal. Hal had called. What did that mean? Would he forgive her?
She was afraid to call him back.
But she would.
As long as it wasn’t the
girls. The girls were safe. Dee had taken them to a hotel for the night. Hailey wondered what they’d think about going with Dee, but Camilla had sounded ecstatic on the phone and all Ali could talk about was how they were going to order room service and watch Kung Fu Panda 3. Dee had booked them in a suite at the W. Hailey was sure it was nicer than any room she’d ever stayed in. They would have a blast. And be safe.
That was one less thing to worry about.
The nurse shifted Bruce’s head on the pillow and checked his breathing tubes and blood pressure monitor.
When she was done, she turned to Hailey and put her hand on her arm. “He’s doing well.”
“I’m sorry about calling you in here,” Hailey said. “I guess I’m sort of out of it.”
“It’s no problem. Let us know if you need anything else. Dr. Baker should be in again in a few hours.”
Baker had performed the six-hour surgery to remove the bullet, which had struck only a fraction of an inch from his fifth cervical vertebrae.
Instead, it had punctured his right lung and done damage to some nerves. There was a good chance that there would be no permanent damage, but no one would know until he woke up.
“He will wake up, though?” Hailey had asked.
“We have no reason to believe he won’t,” Baker had told her after the surgery. “There was no cranial injury, his vitals are good.” He must have seen her looking at Bruce’s breathing tube. “A little extra oxygen is all that is. We’ll remove it once he’s awake.”
“So, we just wait?” Desperation filled her own voice. Jim had been shot. Then Hal at Hunters Point and Bruce was shot in her place. That bullet was meant for her. She had just gotten off the phone with Jim. Only moments earlier.
How could that be coincidence?
Dr. Baker nodded. “We just wait.”
“Did you retrieve the bullet?”
“We couriered it over to the San Francisco police lab,” he said. “Standard protocol for shootings.”
“You didn’t happen to notice anything odd about it, did you?” she asked.
The doctor frowned, shook his head. “I’m not into guns myself.”
“Of course.” She was disappointed. She wanted answers. She wanted them this minute. What was she hoping for?
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