by Karen Rose
Meredith glared at them. “I’m afraid to go near any of my clients. I can’t go home. I’m stuck here until Isenberg frees up someone to come get me. And Adam’s . . .”
“Alive,” Clarke said. “He’s alive, Merry.”
“But he might not have been!” She blew out an angry breath. “I can’t help him. I’m stuck here. I get that. I do. But I need to do something useful, for God’s sake.”
“Then figure it the fuck out,” Clarke told her, clearly having lost his patience. He sighed, then patted the bed next to him. “Come here, Merry. Let’s figure it out together.”
“No,” Meredith said, pouting now. “I don’t like you.” But she sat next to him anyway, laying her head on his shoulder. “I hate feeling so helpless, Papa.”
“I know, baby,” her grandfather murmured, stroking her hair.
“We’re all going stir-crazy,” Diesel said. “I don’t even wanna think about poor Mallory and those Chicago kids. Mallory, having to go through her story over and over.”
“And Shane and Kyle,” Clarke added. “Grieving and scared and stuck in a hotel room. I would have given them my gaming system, but it’s locked up back at the condo.”
Meredith patted his chest, loving that he cared so much for the boys and that he was so gently bringing her focus back where it needed to be. “I spoke to Shane an hour ago. He was awake and pacing and Parrish let him use his phone to call me.”
“The Feds have secure lines,” Diesel said. “No way to trace them to their location.”
“I figured that.” Meredith sighed. “He’s worried about Linnie, all alone out there. He’s worried she’ll freeze to death, which isn’t out of the realm of possibility. He’s chomping at the bit to do the interview. Adam had already called him about it.”
“What interview?” Diesel and Clarke asked together.
“Sorry, I forgot you weren’t there when we talked about it. Linnie won’t trust us to come out of hiding, but she will trust Shane. He’s willing to talk to the press, even though it’ll put him back in the spotlight. He’s still a target, too, as long as Linnie’s running free. I think Adam’s going to have Shane do a video on Colby’s phone and ask Marcus if he’ll upload it to the Ledger’s Web page.”
“I do all the uploading,” Diesel said. “Marcus isn’t bad with systems, but it’s not his strongest suit. Next time you talk to your lover boy, tell him I’m happy to help.”
Clarke snickered and held up a fist for Diesel to bump. “Nice multitasking. You’re helping her and teasing her all at the same time.”
“I do my best,” Diesel said with mock gravity, then shrugged. “I have my laptop with me, so I’ll be able to do whatever Adam needs done. You know, with respect to the video. I wouldn’t presume to offer anything more. Adam might hit me.” He winked at her.
Meredith rolled her eyes. “You guys are worse than middle schoolers.”
“We are middle schoolers,” Clarke and Diesel said together, then bumped fists again.
Meredith rolled her eyes and sighed heavily. “You guys.”
“Oh, come on,” Clarke said. “It’s part of our charm. Admit it.”
Her lips twitched, because it was true. “I admit nothing.” Which made her think of Shane again. Her sigh this time was a serious one.
“What was that for?” Clarke asked, jostling her shoulder. “You got stuff to admit?”
“Not me,” she said. “I’m back to Shane. He’s willing to do the interview or video or whatever, but I think drawing media attention to himself makes him more afraid than drawing the killer’s attention.”
“Because of what happened in Indiana,” Clarke said. “He told me that he lied to the police about what happened in the foster home,” he added when Meredith sat up, eyes wide. “When you and Kimble were ‘sleeping’ yesterday morning.”
Meredith glared at him. “We slept.” Mostly. Okay, a little.
“Gonna tell me what Shane said?” Diesel asked, eyeing them warily.
Clarke shrugged. “Andy and Linnie and Shane were friends back in foster care.”
Diesel’s expression hardened. “That can be a decent experience or a shitty one.”
“Theirs was the latter,” Clarke said, then pursed his lips, as if unwilling to say more.
“Andy changed his name when he ran from Indianapolis to Cincy,” Meredith said, because she trusted Diesel. And because an idea had just taken root in her mind, one she’d need Diesel’s help to carry out. “Linnie came with him, because Andy was her protector, but maybe also because she felt guilty, too, for what he’d done for her. Linnie was assaulted by the foster father and Andy killed him.”
Diesel’s eyes popped wide. “No shit. Good for him. How?”
“He hit the man with a frying pan. Shane didn’t explicitly say this, by the way, but it was heavily implied.”
“Kyle wouldn’t let him say much when Isenberg and Kimble were questioning him,” Clarke said. “Kyle’s prelaw. He protected Shane.”
Meredith nudged her shoulder into his. “Adam, Papa. Not Kimble.”
“Fine,” Clarke grunted. “Adam.”
“Adam and Isenberg didn’t use this information against Shane,” Diesel murmured.
“No. Adam wouldn’t and Isenberg’s not the crusty old hammer that everyone thinks she is. She showed those kids real compassion. To Penny Voss, too. I’m an Isenberg fan.”
“Me, too,” Diesel said. “So what happened with Shane and Andy? Andy wasn’t sent to prison because he ended up here. Did he run or was he never even charged?”
“The second one,” Meredith said, “because Shane lied to cover for him. The rapist’s wife confronted Linnie later, when Andy had been taken in for questioning and wasn’t there to protect her. She accused Linnie of seducing her husband and attacked her with a frying pan. Shane made sure one of the kids was recording it, then stepped in to protect Linnie, but not before the wife got in a few good whacks. Broke Linnie’s arm. The wife was charged with the murder and Andy was set free. Wife goes to prison, Andy changes his name, comes here for a fresh start, hopes to have a life with Linnie. Shane goes to Kiesler University on a full scholarship.”
Diesel nodded, his gaze sharp. “And somewhere in that timeline, Linnie got the attention of whoever killed Andy on Saturday.”
Meredith had always known that Diesel was incredibly perceptive. “Yes. She was part of his college prostitution ring. Linnie was forced to cooperate.”
Diesel’s jaw tightened and he swallowed hard. “And Shane’s afraid the media will latch on to this and find the connection to his murder cover-up.”
Meredith nodded. “Yes.”
“But I am the media and you’re telling me.” Diesel lifted a sarcastic brow. “Why?”
“Oh, I like him,” Clarke said to her. “You sure you don’t want him instead?”
Diesel blushed to the tips of his ears. “Jesus, Clarke.”
She laughed. “Papa! Don’t worry about this busybody, Diesel. You’re safe with me.”
“Please continue about Shane,” Diesel said firmly. “Why tell me?”
“Well, Shane didn’t tell me as a therapist, so there was no expectation of confidentiality, and he told this guy here.” She tilted her head toward her grandfather. “So (a) I don’t feel as if I’ve violated any confidences, and (b) I need your help. And (c) I trust you.”
Diesel blushed again, but happily. “Thank you. What do you want me to do?”
Meredith frowned, aligning her thoughts. “I’m thinking about the connection between Linnie and the killer and also about how to give Shane some breathing room with the media, because it will get out. Especially if the wife serving time starts squawking.” She bit at her lip thoughtfully. “There was a social worker Shane feared. She had red hair like mine and when Shane first saw the article, he thought she might be me.”
&nbs
p; “But the paper listed your name,” Clarke said.
“Andy changed his name,” she said with a shrug. “I think Shane was afraid the social worker had, too. He was relieved when I wasn’t her. Whenever the foster kids would complain, they’d be sent to another home and nothing would happen to the foster parents. If it was a sexual assault, like Linnie’s, this woman would paint the victim as a slut.”
“Which would go in the record and set the child up for more abuse at the next home unless she’s placed in therapeutic foster care or is the only minor in the next home,” Diesel said, his expression hardening again. “If the kids at the next home find out she was promiscuous, they become predators and she becomes the weakest member of the pack.”
“Exactly.” Meredith sighed. “Shane believed the social worker and the foster parents were in cahoots.”
Diesel scowled. “Getting payola from the foster parents to look the other way?”
Meredith nodded. “Money is the usual reason. How Linnie ended up in the killer’s prostitution ring is a big question. Why and how?”
“It could have nothing to do with what happened in Indiana,” Clarke cautioned.
“Except that he’d dug into Linnie’s background,” Meredith said. “He knew that Andy would kill for her and that grabbing Shane would bring Linnie out of hiding.”
“Because she can identify him,” Diesel said.
Meredith nodded. “I think so.”
Diesel pulled his laptop from its case. “Where do you want to start?”
Meredith crossed her arms over her chest, the feel of the steel between her breasts grounding her thoughts. “The social worker,” she decided. “Because she knew what had been happening in that foster home and she didn’t stand up to protect Andy or Linnie. And when the wife was charged, tried, and convicted, she didn’t tell the truth then, either.”
Diesel’s fingers were poised over his keyboard. “What’s her name?” he asked.
“Bethany Row.” She took her grandfather’s hand. “Thanks, Papa.”
He’d lain back against the pillows, looking suddenly worn and tired. “For what?”
“For helping me refocus. You’ve always done that for me.”
He grunted softly. “Maybe Adam will do it for you now.” One side of his mouth lifted. “I got me a girlfriend. I need to call her.”
“Oh, Papa, I’m so sorry! I didn’t think to call her.”
“S’okay,” he murmured. “You were a little busy. I called her last night. She’s on her way up here. She’ll be staying for Christmas.” He opened one eye in challenge. “She’s staying in my room,” he added, like a teenager defying his parent.
Meredith wasn’t able to bite back her smile. “You two have your sexy time, old man. I won’t judge, because I’ll be having my own.”
Diesel snorted, then paused his typing to hold out his fist for Meredith to bump. “Doc gets one million points for the win. Game over. Please, let it be over.”
Clarke groaned. “He’s right. You win, Merry. I give up.”
She bumped Diesel’s fist. “I accept your capitulation, Papa. Let’s get to work.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Cincinnati, Ohio
Monday, December 21, 7:35 a.m.
Linnea stood behind a tree on the edge of the school’s property, close enough to hear the parents talking to their children, but far enough away that no one noticed her. They were mostly minivan-driving mommies who appeared frazzled, in a holiday-induced hurry, and annoyed that the school hadn’t started winter break the Friday before.
Must be nice if that’s the only thing you worry about, Linnea thought sourly.
The moms would park in the lot in front of the school and walk their children inside, their child’s hand tightly clasped in their own. Some had a baby on one hip. All treated their children like they were precious. Something Linnea had never known.
God, she envied those little kids.
She was so absorbed in wondering what their lives were like that she almost missed the dark-haired lady pulling a toddler out of the car seat in a Toyota minivan.
“Ariel! Sweetheart, don’t dawdle. I have errands to run this morning.”
Linnea’s gaze jerked to the little family—the mama, the little boy, and the pretty little girl, currently dragging her feet. “I don’t feel good, Mommy. Can we go home?”
The mother hefted the toddler to her hip. “No. You are going to school, young lady. You’ve been acting oddly all weekend. What’s wrong, honey?”
Even scolding, the woman’s concern for her daughter came through. How could this be his family? He was cruel and hateful. The mom seemed lovely and sweet.
“Nothing, Mama.” Head hanging, Ariel rounded the van, shuffling her feet.
“Ariel? Does this have anything to do with your performance in math class?”
Ariel’s mouth dropped open. “But how—”
“Miss Abernathy called me on Friday to tell me that you hadn’t returned the letter she sent home. I was hoping you’d tell me yourself.”
Ariel’s lips quivered. “I’m sorry, Mama. I can’t do that math.”
“Well, we’re not going to worry about it today. Maybe we’ll ask some of the big kids in church if they’ll come help you with your math over the break. What do you say?”
Ariel blinked owlishly from behind her round glasses. “You’re not mad?”
“No. I wasn’t very good at math, either. And your daddy wasn’t mad either. Let’s go inside before we turn into Popsicles.”
With a giggle, Ariel obeyed, and they walked together, swinging their clasped hands.
Linnea moved as soon as they were out of sight, approaching the minivan with her pilfered antenna, planning to pop the door locks.
But again she didn’t have to. The door was unlocked. What was this with suburbanites? It was like they felt insulated from crime.
Linnea climbed behind the back bench seat, crouching so that her head was out of sight. Minutes later, Ariel’s mommy came back, toddler still on her hip. She quickly buckled the baby into his car seat, then slid behind the wheel.
Linnea ducked, not breathing until the woman had started the engine and they were off.
Now what? She could conceivably crawl toward the front if she could roll over the bench seat without being seen, but that seemed unlikely. Or she could fold down one of the seats and crawl over it, if she were very quiet. Or . . . She smiled as Ariel’s mommy popped a CD in and choir music exploded from the speakers.
Perfect. Five minutes later, once the woman was on the highway, aggressively singing along, Linnea pulled the release lever for the smaller seat section, caught the seat as it popped forward, and quietly lowered it. Then she slipped from her hiding place, threw herself between the captain seats, and grabbed the woman’s phone off the center console.
She had the phone pocketed before the woman gasped in fear.
“Don’t do anything stupid, ma’am,” Linnea said quietly, showing her the gun. “I have nothing to lose, but I don’t want to hurt you or your little boy.”
“Wh-who are you?” the woman whispered.
“Your husband’s worst nightmare. Just drive to your home, ma’am. And don’t try anything, please. I don’t want to hurt your son, but I will if I must.”
Cincinnati, Ohio
Monday, December 21, 8:45 a.m.
Adam joined Isenberg, Scarlett, and Trip at the small table in Isenberg’s office. He’d showered and changed into yet another clean suit in the locker room while Deacon stood watch outside the door. No one came in or out. Deacon was still pissed at him, but there was no cold shoulder. Deacon wasn’t made that way.
Hell, Deacon was actually pleasant to Adam’s father, who’d made Deacon’s life every bit as much a hell as he’d made Adam’s, just in very different ways. For now, Deacon was acting as
Adam’s personal bodyguard, watching everyone who passed by with suspicion.
Deacon closed Isenberg’s door and pulled the shades at their boss’s request.
“I told Detectives Currie and Hanson to come at nine and nine fifteen, respectively,” she said, “so we have only a few minutes until they arrive.”
“Why?” Trip asked.
“Because we want our ducks in a row before we let those guys in on any more confidential information,” Deacon said grimly.
Trip frowned. “We think they’re involved? Really?”
“No,” Adam said. “I don’t think they’re involved. I can’t. But . . . I can’t not. Hell, I still can’t wrap my mind around the fact that somebody has tried to kill me twice now.”
Trip’s eyes narrowed. “Am I a suspect?”
Adam shook his head. “Mallory’s rapist was white. So was the shooter last night.”
Trip’s huff was sarcastic. “So being black saved me? That’s ironic.”
Adam winced, wishing he had better words. “Well, that and the fact that you would have been only nineteen or twenty and away at college when Mallory’s assault happened and you were at Quantico when Paula was killed . . .” He blew out a breath. “I can’t see you hurting anyone like that, but I can’t see Wyatt and Nash doing it either. I just can’t.”
“That’s what we’re here for,” Scarlett said. “An objective look at all of this so that we can clear our people and bring them back in.” She drew a breath. “That was a hard video to watch, Adam.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry I had to ask you to. All of you.”
Isenberg shrugged. “At least we were prepared for what was going to happen,” she said briskly. “In my opinion, the murders of Paula and Tiffany and her mother are linked. Whether it’s the same doer or a copycat, I don’t know. Even if it is a copycat, that you’ve had two attempts on your life in as many days tells me that killing Tiffany and her mother in that exact manner was meant to distract you so that you wouldn’t properly investigate Andy Gold’s murder and link it to Mallory. Who knew about that video?”
“The guys in our unit. I mean, Nash and Wyatt were next to me when it happened, but the other guys in the bullpen heard Paula’s scream. Or . . .” He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, his hands shaking. “Or her attempted scream.” It had been a terrible sound.