by Karen Rose
He was unconvinced. “And I appreciate that. But I want to bring him down.”
Her expression softened. “I know,” she said as if they were the only two in the room. “But you can’t. Not anymore. You’re personally involved. If you don’t get him, people will say you protected him because of your friendship and that cops all stick together. If you do get him, it’ll be portrayed as a vendetta, bad blood between you, bad history because your fathers were complicit in hiding a felony. Either way, it will kill your career.”
Adam knew she was right. He knew it. But goddammit. He needed to see the look in Wyatt’s eyes when he realized he was totally screwed with no options left.
She hadn’t said another word, just watching him. Waiting for his reply.
Say something. Say anything. Tell her to go to hell. But he couldn’t do that. She was trying to save him. Risking herself in the process. Because that was what good bosses did.
Trip spoke into the silence. “You said that was the spin fifteen minutes ago. What’s it now?”
“Right now the department’s official position is the truth,” Isenberg said, but she was still watching Adam. “Thanks to Meredith Fallon.”
Adam’s eyes popped wide, then narrowed. “Meredith? What’s she done? If she’s left that hospital, I’ll—”
“Be sleeping on the couch for the foreseeable future if you continue to speak,” Isenberg said, lips twitching. “Relax. She’s fine. She’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.”
“Then how?” Adam asked.
Isenberg shrugged. “Your shrink’s been busy. She just got us the missing piece of the puzzle—how Wyatt connects to Andy, Linnie, and Shane.”
“Go, Merry,” Scarlett said with a grin. “And?”
“She knew the killer had to cross paths with Linnie at some point because he’d hired her for the college prostitution ring.”
Trip nodded. “Because Penny Voss saw her at one of her father’s parties. But we’re pretty sure Linnie was coerced. How did Wyatt manage that? What did he have on Linnie?”
Adam could suddenly see the path Meredith’s mind must have taken. Linnie had loved Andy, enough to escape with him when he ran from Indianapolis and changed his name. “The cover-up of the foster father’s murder,” he said quietly. “Resurrecting the case could have sent Andy to prison and he’d killed for her. Linnie wasn’t going to let him suffer for saving her.”
Isenberg nodded sadly. “That seems to be the right answer. Meredith found out that Linnie’s caseworker—the one who was about to move her to a different home because Linnie had reported her rape—has recently been fired because she did the same thing to another girl who ended up committing suicide. The caseworker is under investigation for taking bribes and involuntary manslaughter. Meredith called the detective leading the investigation. He didn’t answer her at first, not until I called his CO and requested their cooperation.”
“And?” Scarlett asked. “What did she find out?”
“Well, she found out that the detective had been quite busy all morning working with the prosecutor who handled Sandra Walton’s case. She’s the foster mother currently in jail for her husband’s murder.”
“The murder Andy Gold actually committed,” Trip said.
Isenberg nodded. “Mrs. Walton’s defense attorney requested a new trial. She’d seen the photo of Andy Gold on the news yesterday, and argued it showed he was violent. And if that didn’t fly, the defense attorney also offered that Mrs. Walton would provide evidence against Ms. Row, the caseworker, in exchange for a reduced sentence. The detectives spent the morning pulling together everything they had on the foster mother, the caseworker, and Linnie Holmes. Turns out one of the detectives fielded a request from a Cincinnati narcotics detective six months ago.”
Adam closed his eyes. “Wyatt Hanson.”
“Yes. Six months ago, Linnie was caught shoplifting with two other people. Apparently she’d fallen in with them when they’d shoplifted before and they’d watch out for each other and watch for cops or store security. The other two were known small-time dealers, but with connections to bigger fish that Narcotics had been hoping to bring down.”
“Narcotics thought Linnie also had connections,” Scarlett said. “But she didn’t.”
Isenberg shrugged. “We don’t know if she did or didn’t have connections. Hanson was called in to question them because he’d been trying to catch the bigger fish. I don’t know if he believed she was connected or not, but he knew Linnie was hiding something.”
“Something he could exploit,” Adam murmured and Isenberg nodded.
“Hanson ran her prints and came up with a match to those lifted from stolen items pawned outside of Indianapolis. That’s when Hanson called Indianapolis PD, asking about Linnie’s past. The Indy detective sent Hanson his file on Linnie, which contained the report on the stolen items and the complaint she’d filed against Mrs. Walton, the foster mother who beat her with a frying pan. It also had the card of her caseworker, the one under investigation.”
“Did Hanson contact her, too?” Nash asked.
Isenberg frowned at him. “Be patient, Detective Currie. The Indy detective sent me his file and a copy of the caseworker’s cell phone log.” She slid a piece of paper, covered in phone numbers, to the middle of the table. Three entries, all the same phone number, were circled.
Adam sucked in a breath. “The same number that called the hostess at Buon Cibo.”
“And,” Trip added, “the number that called the bomb’s cell phone trigger.”
Isenberg’s grin was wolfish. “And after the second call, Ms. Row received an automated e-mail from her bank account stating ten thousand dollars had been deposited. It’s circumstantial now, but Indy PD is sending us her bank statements so that we can include them with Broderick Voss’s, whenever we receive them.”
“Wyatt paid her for the dirt on Linnie, Andy, and Shane.” Adam was torn between fury at the caseworker and awe at Meredith for putting this together in the few hours since he’d left her that morning. “He found out that Andy had been arrested for murder.”
Isenberg sighed. “And probably threatened to tell the Cincinnati cops so that Andy would be extradited. Linnie couldn’t let Andy pay for committing murder for her. So she did what Wyatt demanded.”
Trip was shaking his head. “But why? Why go to all the trouble of setting Linnie up this way? There are, unfortunately, plenty of young women on the street who would’ve willingly worked for him. Why Linnie?”
“Why Mallory?” Adam asked rigidly. “Why Paula?”
“Because he can,” Nash murmured. “He gets off on the power. The thrill of manipulation. Who knows how many other victims he’s manipulated?”
“It’s all but killed Linnie,” Deacon said, jaw tight. “Dani was so upset that everything went south at the shelter yesterday. She said she ran tests on the blood samples she took from Linnie and her viral loads are frighteningly high. Her condition has gone untreated. She said that Linnie hadn’t eaten in a few days when she saw her at the clinic. She’ll never bring her loads down if she’s malnourished.”
“I hope she contacts us,” Scarlett said on a sigh. “But while we’re waiting, we need to find the sonofabitch who caused all of this.”
“Wyatt Hanson,” Adam gritted out, the sudden surge of fury a sucker punch to his gut. A clear picture of what he’d do when he found him slammed into his mind and it was not pretty. Isenberg was right. He was in no mental shape to hunt for Wyatt because if he found him, he’d strangle him with his bare hands.
He closed his eyes. “I think I do need a short break. A few hours, maybe. I’d like to go to the condo with Meredith. Any volunteers to guard my ass on the way?”
He opened his eyes in time to see Deacon close his, uttering a prayer of sincere thanks. “Took you long enough, you fucker.”
“Yeah, well, when I
learn, I learn. You won’t have to tell me again.”
“I hope not, Detective.” Isenberg stood, her signal for them to leave. “Deacon, Scarlett, take Adam to pick up Meredith and make sure they get to the condo safely, then I want you two to go to Wyatt’s house. He’s not there. My counterpart in Narcotics personally checked out the house this morning when Wyatt didn’t show up for his meeting with me. He didn’t go inside, because we didn’t have a warrant then, but he used a thermal imaging camera. There were no living people in the house at that time. I put a surveillance team on the house as soon as he didn’t show for our meeting this morning and he hasn’t been home. His wife came home a while ago, but so far no Wyatt. Search the house, question the wife, turn the place upside down.”
“Do we have a warrant now?” Deacon asked.
“You do. For anything and everything. If you find a safe, do what you have to do to open it. Trip, you and Nash go to Mike’s garage in Fairfield. It’s near the used-car place, and—luckily for us—has not been burned down. Find everything you can. Go. Be careful.”
Cincinnati, Ohio
Monday, December 21, 11:20 a.m.
“I thought you were going to contact my husband in ‘a minute,’” Rita said stiffly. “It’s already been over an hour.”
Linnea hadn’t yet contacted him, because every time she thought of facing him she wanted to puke. He’s a cop. But she was not going to give voice to her insecurities, so she shook her head instead.
“He’d know my voice. Either he wouldn’t come at all, or he’d take me out with a rifle before I could pull the trigger.”
Rita’s chin lifted. “My husband is a police officer.”
“Yeah. I know.” And Linnea still reeled from the shock. Shifting the toddler to her other shoulder, she continued her gentle swaying. He’d fallen asleep an hour ago, but that wouldn’t last forever. She was going to have to make a move soon.
Several short bursts of vibration startled her, followed by another volley of buzzes. Someone was texting Rita’s cell phone. A lot. Maybe it’s him. Maybe he knows I’m here.
Good. Let him come. Although it was likely he’d send his police friends instead. They’d take her into custody because she really wouldn’t hurt the little boy. They’d never believe her story. About one of their own? Never. And then I won’t be able to kill him.
Carefully holding the child and the gun, she slipped Rita’s cell phone from the pocket of her coat and glanced at the screen.
Rita. Call me! What’s going on? CALL ME!
Followed by: RITA, r u OK? CALL ME! Wyatt’s on the news! Channel 12!
Linnea’s pulse rocketed. “Please turn on the TV. Channel 12.” She motioned with the gun when Rita didn’t move. “I said ‘please,’ Mrs. Hanson.”
Rita reached for the remote in a way that raised Linnea’s hackles.
“Don’t think about throwing that at me,” Linnea said calmly when Mrs. Hanson’s arm reared back. “I don’t want to harm your son, but like I said before—I have nothing to lose.”
Rita blinked, sending tears down her face. “You’re vile.”
“Yeah, well, you’re right about that. The television, Mrs. Hanson. Please.”
Rita switched it on and found the news station. And gasped.
Linnea’s eyes widened.
The headline box at the bottom of the screen said: CPD detective wanted for questioning in string of recent murders. The rest of the screen was filled with a photo of Wyatt Hanson. It was the same photo that sat on the family bookshelf.
It must be his department photo, she thought numbly. Then the reality of the words sank in. “Turn it up,” Linnea demanded. “Now!” she added when Rita didn’t move.
Rita fumbled with the remote, her hands shaking. “It’s a lie. It’s a lie.”
“Turn it up,” Linnea repeated, enunciating each word. “I’m losing patience.”
The remote was now shaking as Rita gripped it hard, but she managed to turn up the volume. The photo of Hanson halved in size and moved to one side of the screen, the other side taken up by a podium, behind which stood a woman in her early fifties with short gray hair. She wore the same uniform that Wyatt wore in the photo. The caption beneath her name identified her as Lieutenant Isenberg.
“It is with great regret,” Isenberg said, the click-click-clicking of cameras in the background, “that we tell you that we are currently searching for one of CPD’s own detectives, Detective Wyatt Hanson of the narcotics division, as a person of interest in the series of slayings that began on Saturday with the murder of Andy Gold.”
The photo of Hanson moved to the far corner of the screen and Andy’s face appeared where Wyatt’s had been.
Linnea’s chest tightened. “Andy,” she whispered.
“It’s not true,” Rita insisted.
Linnea felt the stirrings of pity for the woman. “I’m sorry, but it is.”
“Since Mr. Gold’s murder,” Isenberg went on, “we’ve seen at least ten more murders, here and in Chicago. These deaths are related.”
“Ten more?” Linnea murmured, stunned. Who? How?
“A family of four died in a house fire Saturday night—a fire that was the work of an arsonist. Mr. Gold lived in the house’s basement apartment. We assume the arsonist meant to destroy evidence that linked Mr. Gold to another person of interest, Linnea Holmes. But,” the lieutenant added quickly, “Miss Holmes is not a suspect. I repeat: she is not a suspect. We believe she has valuable information on the killers’ motives. I say ‘killers’ in the plural because we know of two other men who were involved. Mr. Butch Gilbert was killed Sunday afternoon and Mr. Mike Barber was killed around midnight last night.”
“Mike?” Rita whispered, her face growing deathly pale.
Photographs of the two men popped up on the screen. Linnea’s stomach roiled at the sight of the men who’d raped her. Both were dead. Good, she thought fiercely. Then she looked at the baby sleeping on her shoulder. Mikey. From the look on Rita’s face, she realized the baby must have been named after the man who’d been killed at midnight.
“As I said, there have been ten related to this case. Retired police officer John Kasper became the most recent victim this morning. Two murders were committed in Chicago on Saturday night. Tiffany Curtis and her mother, Ailene Curtis, were killed because Tiffany had loaned her car to a friend of Andy Gold and Linnea Holmes.”
“Shane,” Linnea breathed.
“Mr. Shane Baird was hunted by Butch Gilbert, who apparently killed the two women in his efforts to ascertain Mr. Baird’s whereabouts. We are not certain why he was in pursuit of Mr. Baird, but we do know that Mr. Baird had left for Cincinnati after hearing about Mr. Gold’s death. He has told us he came to try and find Miss Holmes. In his effort to locate her, he recorded a video this morning, imploring Linnea to contact the police for her own protection, since we have reason to believe that Detective Hanson is still a threat to her. Since its upload to the Ledger’s Web site, the video has been seen over a million times, broadcast online and over TV airwaves all over the world. We’d like to show the video in the event Linnea is watching this broadcast now.”
The screen then filled with Shane’s face and Linnea found herself leaning toward it.
Shane cleared his throat awkwardly. “Hi, Linnie,” he said with a frighteningly earnest expression. “It’s Shane. I’m here in Cincinnati. I need to see you. I miss you. I want you to stay alive. The police are looking for you—but not to hurt you or put you in a cage. They want to help you. They have been so kind to me and Kyle. Well, you don’t know Kyle yet. He’s my friend from Chicago, who dropped everything to help me get here on Saturday night.” Shane’s eyes clouded with pain. “The men who hurt you, Linnie, they killed Kyle’s girlfriend, Tiffany, and her mother, just because Tiff loaned us her car. They thought they could get her to tell them where I was. They wanted me so they co
uld get to you. I want them to pay for what they did. To you and Tiffany and her mother and Andy, to all the other people they’ve hurt or killed. Detective Kimble is the lead detective on this case. He has been so kind, Linnie. These are good people. So, please, trust them. I know you’re scared, but I need you to trust them. For me?” His eyes grew bright with tears. “Because I have to bury Andy in a few days, Linnie,” he whispered. “I need you by my side when I do it. I can’t do this alone. Please, contact Detective Kimble.” Shane blinked, sending tears down his face. “I promise the police will do everything they can to help you. I promise. And you know I’ve never broken my word to you. So do this for me and for Andy.”
The video ended abruptly. Throughout, Detective Adam Kimble’s name and the CPD switchboard number had scrolled across the screen. The gray-haired lieutenant reappeared on-screen, looking straight at the camera. “Linnie, if you’re listening, you are not a suspect in these murders. But we do fear you are in danger. Please call us.” She broke eye contact with the camera, her gaze roaming the gathered reporters. “I’ll take questions now.”
“You can mute it now,” Linnea said quietly.
Rita did so, staring at the television in shock. “It’s not true,” she whispered, but with none of the conviction she’d held earlier. “It can’t be true.”
Linnea stood, the baby still cuddled on her shoulder. With Rita’s phone, she dialed the number at the bottom of the screen. She wanted to do the right thing. For Andy, for Shane, for all the other victims.
And for myself.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Cincinnati, Ohio
Monday, December 21, 11:25 a.m.
By the time he’d almost reached his neighborhood, his panic had faded and he was thinking more clearly. Slowing the SUV, he pulled onto the shoulder to consider his next steps. As a person of interest, they’d have his house under surveillance. But he needed to get into his house, dammit. He was not leaving without his passports or the access codes to his offshore accounts.