Edge of Darkness

by Karen Rose

  She nodded, her cheek pressed into his chest. “Okay. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Anyway, I wasn’t even the first person to talk to the cops outside. Cosmo got there first. He gave them the thermos of coffee.”

  “Who is Cosmo?” Kendra asked.

  Steadier now, Meredith stepped out of her grandfather’s embrace. “He lives in the blue house across the street. He’s the neighborhood watch guy. He and Papa go way back.”

  “Our kids used to play together.” Sadness crossed Clarke’s face. “His daughter died recently. Now they’re both gone, both our kids. You’re not supposed to outlive your kids.”

  Quiet melancholy filled the room. “I’m sorry, Papa,” Meredith murmured. “Was that why you took a walk? To visit with Cosmo?”

  “Partly. He’s not getting around as well as he used to.” Again the small smile, this time accompanied by pride. “He said you make sure his refrigerator stays full and his garbage makes it to the curb every week.”

  Meredith shrugged uncomfortably. “He’s alone. It’s no trouble.”

  “It’s still kind,” Diesel said gruffly and Meredith smiled up at him.

  “I stock fridges, you coach pee wee soccer. Kenny helps at Mariposa. We do what we can.”

  Diesel blushed. He was such a charmer. Meredith didn’t know why Dani hadn’t snatched him right up.

  The mood needed lightening, and Kendra seemed to sense it first. “I am starving,” she announced. “I skipped lunch and had to smell the food all the way over here. Let’s eat before the chili gets cold and the ice cream gets hot.”

  “We can eat in the dining room,” Meredith said. “Diesel’s using the kitchen table.”

  Diesel gestured toward his computer. “I was kind of in the middle of something. You mind if I take my food and work some more?”

  Meredith studied his face. His jaw was set and she could see his mind was already back to what he’d been doing when Kendra had opened the front door. “Anything good?”

  “Maybe. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”

  Chapter Eight

  Cincinnati, Ohio

  Saturday, December 19, 8:50 p.m.

  Adam jogged to his Jeep, wishing he had time to squeeze in a trip to Meredith’s house before going to Voss’s. But Trip was meeting him in the parking lot so they could compare notes and talk strategy before visiting the man who was their best suspect.

  Glancing at his phone as he crossed the parking lot, he saw another two dozen voice mails and texts. He was interested in only one at the moment. He’d texted Diesel before he’d gone into the interview room with Colleen Martel, asking if Meredith was okay.

  He found Diesel’s reply as he was getting into his Jeep. Better than OK. We’re @ kitchen table. Drinking tea. Coloring.

  Adam nearly stumbled. What the fuck? Coloring at her kitchen table? Drinking tea? Those are the things I do with her.

  Mechanically he got into his car and buckled his seat belt. His first thought was that he knew Diesel wasn’t making a move on Meredith. Diesel was too hung up on Adam’s cousin Dani. So Adam wasn’t worried about Diesel himself.

  He was worried about Meredith. Her . . . intentions. Did she color at the table with every man who visited her home? It was supposed to be special. It was special. For me.

  Memories of his two evenings with Meredith Fallon had kept him going when he’d wanted to give up. But he also remembered the hurt in her eyes earlier that day. You can’t give me what I need. Or won’t. Had she told Diesel about him? About his . . . issues? His nightmares? His utter and complete failings?

  My utter and complete breakdown in her arms? It wasn’t among his proudest moments, that was for damn sure. But she hadn’t made him feel any less . . . of anything. She’d simply held him that night while he’d shaken apart in her arms.

  And then, when his panic had passed, when he was spent, she’d kissed him so gently. Like butterfly wings. And that had been it for him. He’d fallen so hard. So damned hard.

  Yeah. He’d been hard all right. Hard everywhere. He shuddered, unable to stop himself from reliving that night in his mind. It had been the best night of his godforsaken life. He’d let go with her. Finally just let go. I let myself trust her. She’d promised not to tell.

  Then she didn’t, came the calm voice in his mind. She promised.

  That promise had been keeping him calm—and sober—for almost a year now. No, she hadn’t told anyone. That wasn’t who Meredith was. She didn’t divulge secrets. Which was why she was in this mess in the first place. If she’d reported the fucker for stalking—

  Not her fault, the calm voice broke in. You cannot blame the victim.

  A sharp pain in his hands made him realize that he’d been sitting in his cold Jeep, clutching the steering wheel in a death grip. For several minutes, actually. Starting the car, he cranked up the heat and kept scrolling, looking for Meredith’s reply. His heart started galloping a mile a minute when he saw it, sent less than five minutes after Diesel’s text.

  I didn’t say anything abt u to D. He’s being annoying. Sorry.

  Knew u hadn’t, he texted back. That’s not u. See u later.

  A knock on his window startled him. Trip stood outside, stomping his feet, trying to stay warm. Adam unlocked the passenger door and Trip hopped in.

  “Warm,” Trip said with a little moan. “Hate the cold.”

  “Then why do you live here?” Adam asked, trying to divert his focus.

  “My parents are here.” He shrugged. “I’m the youngest. I was lucky to get a post in my hometown and my folks are getting up there in age, so I stay. For as long as I’m able.”

  Adam met his gaze, surprised and touched by the confession. “Me, too. Mom’s got a bad heart.” He made a face. “So does my dad, but his is just asshole-bad.” He winced then, wishing he’d kept that truth to himself. “What do you know about the bomb?”

  “Three pipe bombs filled with TATP, taped together, simple blasting caps, with a cell phone trigger. The vest’s pockets were stuffed with nails and BBs.”

  “TATP, like the Paris bombers used.”

  Trip nodded. “The explosion itself would have taken out the front half of the restaurant’s dining room, plus any vehicles parked immediately on the curb outside. Any person within a five-foot radius would have been killed. Anyone within twenty would have been killed or at least critically injured with the shrapnel, no question.”

  Adam drew a shaky breath. Meredith and Mallory had been less than five feet away, and at least thirty other diners had been within that twenty-foot radius. “Holy God.”

  “Yeah. Might have gotten a partial print from the bomb’s guts, but it may not be usable. Latent’s working on it.”

  Adam knew better than to get his hopes up, but still . . . “You’ll let me know?”

  Trip looked a little offended. “Of course. We’re partners. Anyway, the connection to the cell phone was simple. Three wires, no dead man’s switch.”

  “Thank God for that. Andy would have been dead in the street and the shooter in the SUV would have still had a clear shot at Meredith. What about the cell phone?”

  “It’s a burner.”

  “Of course it is.” Adam had a sudden thought. “What was the number?”

  “For the burner?” Trip checked his notes. “Here.” He shined his phone’s flashlight on the paper. “Midway down, on the left, if you can read my writing. Why?”

  Damn. “I was hoping it would be the same number that called the restaurant’s hostess, but it’s not.” He told Trip about Colleen Martel.

  “A two-hundred-buck tip,” Trip said. “Whoever did this expected the phone to be destroyed. No loose ends. Although the hostess is a loose end, as are her cell records.”

  “Maybe he was hoping she’d be killed in the blast. That no one would look at her cell phone.
The hostess podium was about fifteen feet from Meredith’s table. What about the TATP? Where did it come from?”

  “Somebody’s basement?” Trip shrugged. “It’s easy enough to make. Just acetone and peroxide, both legal to purchase anywhere. There was a lot of it in those pipes, though. A few grams could blow off a finger. There was close to two pounds in the pipes. It’s highly unstable, so the bomber was taking a risk just working with it. For that reason alone, I’d have to say the bomb maker had experience.”

  “There was no ‘signature fuse’ or anything that would ID the bomb maker?”

  “Nope. The only thing is, TATP is so unstable, only a lunatic would store it for very long. We could track any large purchases of acetone or peroxide. Quincy is figuring out how much of the raw materials the bomb maker would have needed.”

  “Was there a number in the cell phone’s log?” Adam asked.

  “Yes. Untraceable. Another burner.” He pointed to his notes. “That’s the number.”

  Adam nodded in satisfaction. “That’s the number that called the hostess.”

  Trip’s eyes gleamed. “We have a link. The call time in the log is seconds before the John Doe was shot. Obviously the shooter tried to detonate and, when he failed, he shot him.”

  “Then tried to shoot Meredith.”

  “Hostess-Girl is really lucky the guy didn’t try to shoot her as he drove by.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s not feeling so lucky right now. I’m exploiting that to get her to do an ID of the man who called her.”

  “This Voss guy?”

  “I hope so. He’s the only lead we have so far. I only know that he’s the CEO of BuzzBoys. Nothing on his personality, other than he’s a sociopathic stalking asshole.”

  “Not a bad place to start. You also know he has a kid under Meredith’s care.”

  “Yes, that’s true. I wonder what he did that he doesn’t want Meredith to know.”

  “If it was criminal, she’d have to tell, right? The safety of the child comes before their privacy or confidentiality.”

  “True again.” He Googled Broderick Voss and children. Then swore when the search results came back. “Fucking hell. He’s got an alibi for the time of the shooting. He was speaking to a whole room of people. Political fund-raiser.” Adam scrutinized the photo of Voss smiling at the crowd. The man’s suit alone had to have cost two grand. “Although, if I was that rich, I certainly wouldn’t want my hands dirty. Just because he has an alibi—”

  “Doesn’t mean he didn’t do it,” Trip finished.

  “Exactly. He certainly has the money to contract it out.”

  Trip had his own phone out, Googling. “Looks like his fund-raiser was for some state senator’s reelection fund. Maybe the man has an interest in politics himself?”

  Adam nodded. “And while politicians can weather most scandals these days, any scandal involving a child is still poison.” He scrolled through the images served up by the search engine. “Here’s a picture of his family last Christmas.” He turned the phone for Trip to see. “Pretty wife, adorable little girl. She looks about four, maybe five in this picture, which is about a year old.”

  Trip was nodding. “He and the missus had a bunch of those photos made over the years. But nothing’s showing up for this year.”

  “I wish we knew what Meredith knows about this little girl. Otherwise, we’re walking blind into this interview with Voss. On the other hand, we can truthfully say we didn’t get his name from her.”

  “I say we’re ready for round one with Mr. Voss,” Trip said, opening the Jeep’s door. “I have the address. I’ll meet you there.”

  The low ring of Adam’s cell startled him. The caller ID startled him more. Diesel. A text notification popped up at the same time, also from Diesel. Answer my call.

  Shit. The man had just said Meredith was all right. Adam gave Trip a sign to wait and answered. “Diesel. What’s wrong?”

  “She’s fine,” Diesel said quickly, but his voice was off. Half excitement, half dread. “I need to see you, stat.”

  “What is it? Tell me, for God’s sake.”

  “No,” Diesel said firmly. “In person.”

  “Okay, but Trip’ll be with me.”

  A slight hesitation. “Fine. Use your blue-light special and get here fast.”

  Kiesler University, Chicago, Illinois

  Saturday, December 19, 8:20 p.m. CST (9:20 p.m EST)

  Shane Baird left the library, immediately shivering against the biting wind coming off Lake Michigan. He’d barely cleared the library door when his cell phone began buzzing like it was having a seizure. Hunching away from the wind, he pulled it out of his pocket and saw an explosion of texts, all from his friend Kyle.

  The latest in a string of texts caught his eye.

  Dude. Call me. Freaking the fuck out here.

  Frowning, Shane jogged back to the library and leaned against the brick wall, out of the wind. Quickly he swiped at his phone screen down to the first of the texts.

  Some guy just stopped by. Looking 4 u. Spidey senses off the Richter scale. Guy was all big and mean looking. Dressed cas but was packing. WTF? Why he looking 4 u? Call me! There were five other texts, all from Kyle, becoming increasingly agitated because Shane hadn’t called.

  Shane’s breath froze in his lungs, old memories playing like a shitty movie reel. Hand shaking, he called Kyle’s cell. “I just saw your text.”

  “Oh shit,” Kyle said on a relieved whoosh of breath. “I thought you were . . . I dunno. Dead or something. Where the fuck have you been?”

  “In the library basement, studying. No cell bars down there. What happened?”

  “I’ll tell you what happened. That guy scared the motherfuck outta me.”

  “What guy?” Shane’s voice pitched higher, panicked. Was it a cop? This can’t be happening again. It just couldn’t. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  “Okay, fine.” Kyle loudly sucked in a breath and let it out. “Okay,” he said again. “I’m on desk duty tonight. At Lamarr.” The residential hall where Shane had lived until the beginning of this semester. The hall where they’d met and bonded over video games and a mutual love of nachos and sci-fi. Kyle had been his first friend in Illinois, when he’d been so damn lonely. “This guy came in, about twenty minutes ago. He was trying to look, I dunno, young or something. Like he belonged here. As if. He had to have been thirty and looked like he should have been in a boxing ring. He was no college kid, I know that. He smiled and that made him look even scarier. He said he was just visiting a friend and could I give him the dorm number? I said no, but I could call the student and say he was waiting in the lobby. He looked really pissed and for a second . . . hell, Shane, I thought he was gonna hit me.”

  Shane made himself breathe. “You said he asked for me? Me specifically?”

  “Yeah. I told him that you didn’t live here anymore. He asked for your address and I told him I didn’t know it. But he didn’t believe me.” Kyle made a choked sound. “He said I was lying, that he knew we were friends. He said he saw us together on Facebook. Dude, who the fuck was that guy?”

  “I don’t know.” Shane swallowed hard. “Swear to God.”

  “Well, he knows you. I told him that I wasn’t allowed to give any information on a student and I hit the panic button under the desk. He got all mad then and I thought I was dead, right there. Seriously. I managed to tell him that the campus cops were on the way. He gave me a really long look and told me to be smart. That’s all.”

  “What does that mean?” Shane could hear his own panic.

  “I think he meant for me not to tell the campus cops what went down.”

  “Did you?”

  “Hell yeah, man. He got caught on the security camera, clear as day. Any lip-reader would know he asked for you. I’m just giving you a heads-up that the campus cops are go
ing to try to find you. Are you . . .” Kyle hesitated. “Are you in trouble, Shane?”

  “No! I . . . I have no idea who he was or what he wants. I’ve never had the cops after me. Ever. I study and work and go to class. My social life is playing D&D with you. Jesus.”

  But he had had the cops after him once. Not him exactly. He’d been a person of interest because his friend back then had been a wanted man. He’d lied for Jason then and he’d do it again. Even though Jason Coltrain had changed his name to Andy Gold and hadn’t returned any of his texts, e-mails, or calls in more than a year.

  So much for solidarity, he thought sadly. He understood why Andy had cut him off. He hadn’t agreed with Andy, but he’d understood. Of the three of them, Shane had the best opportunity for the life they’d all dreamed of while they survived foster care. Andy didn’t want his own past hurting Shane, which had sounded ridiculous then.

  Now? If someone dark and scary was looking for Shane . . . Andy, what have you done?

  “Shane?” Kyle prompted. “You still there?”

  “Yeah,” Shane croaked. “Give me a sec. Gotta check something.” He opened a browser and typed in Cincinnati. He hadn’t gotten to the double “n” before a number of hits popped up. Shooting in Cincinnati. Bomb attack prevented in Cincinnati.

  Oh God. Andy. What the fuck have you done? Heart beating like a cannon, he clicked on the first link—an article in the Cincinnati Ledger.

  The photo of a shot-out window made his thudding heart stutter. The photo of the victim’s face made his knees go weak. He slid down the wall, barely registering the feeling of cold concrete on his ass. “Oh no,” he moaned quietly. “Oh God.”

  “Shane?” Kyle demanded. “What is it?”

  “There was a shooting today. In Cincinnati.”

  “I know,” Kyle said slowly. “I thought you’d have seen it by now. It’s been all over the news all day.”

  “I was studying all day. Turned my phone off. What . . . what happened?”

  “Why?”

  “Just tell me, okay?”