Dead Center (The Rookie Club Book 1)

by Danielle Girard

  "Yeah. Unfortunately, just one."

  "Damn," he muttered.

  She sighed, feeling the same way. "Thanks for getting the warrant."

  "Yeah. Don't worry. I just wish it had helped more."

  "We'll nail him," Jamie said. "I'm going home for some sleep."

  "Okay. Have a good night and keep me posted."

  "Will do." Jamie ended the call, and found her car in the lot. Revving the engine, she lit a cigarette as she headed for home. She had a momentary thought about settling in for a quiet night of rest.

  Then she wondered where Tony had been all day, why he hadn't answered her calls. An image of him hanging in a closet made her shudder. He'd promised on Lana's grave that he wouldn't do it again. Not here, not in her house. Christ, not Tony.

  She sucked hard on the cigarette, drove too fast, and prayed he had kept his promise.

  Chapter 20

  Hailey was three blocks from the police station when her cell phone rang. She knew who it was without glancing at the phone. She was frustrated, angry. She felt the tension between them and hated it. Sighing, she reached over and touched the green circle. "Wyatt."

  "I'm on my way home," he said. "Can you please come for one drink?"

  "I should get home, Buck."

  "Twenty minutes. I want to talk about this. I want to explain."

  She hesitated.

  "It's Friday night. I won't get to talk to you again until Monday. Please."

  She glanced down at the clock. It was only nine. The girls would be in bed. John would be catching up on correspondence or reading The Economist. She could still be home by ten. He never went to sleep before eleven or so. "Okay, but just one drink. And just talk." The weekend belonged to her family. It felt like Buck owned her during the week, so she was adamant about weekends. Plus, the firmly drawn lines helped her keep the two worlds separate, and for whatever backwards reasoning, the rules also kept her from feeling too much guilt.

  "I promise," he assured her, sounding relieved. "I just want to talk. Thank you."

  She hung up, changed lanes, and waited at the turn signal. Behind her, the driver of a Camaro revved his engine. Friday nights brought out the worst. More of every crime happened on Friday night. Payday, the end of the work week, it was a heyday of lawlessness.

  Hailey just hoped there were no murders tonight, though she knew it would be someone else's turn. She already had one too many on her plate and until her partner was back, it felt like working the equivalent of four cases.

  She arrived at Buck's apartment at 9:20 and parked up the street from the entrance to the building. She normally parked across the park. If someone noticed her car there, she could point to a half dozen restaurants and bars she might be at. Here was too close. For a moment, she considered moving, but couldn't rouse the energy. After this week—Natasha, the Dennigs, Scanlan—she was ready to put the job aside. Ready to watch Camilla and Ali argue over whose turn it was with the Barbie car. Ready to spend some time on the couch with John, to watch a movie about horses or baseball, anything but murder.

  Hailey stared at the facade of Buck's building. It wasn't too late to go straight home. She'd promised him twenty minutes. She was angry, but didn't want the relationship to end, especially not like this. She locked her gun in the glove box, stood from the car, and set the alarm with the key fob. She put her purse over one shoulder and across her chest and walked to the apartment door.

  It was dark and the single old light over the doorway gave off only a pale amber glow. She was rarely here in the dark. Maybe one other time before this and it crossed her mind that it wasn't a very safe entryway. She pressed the buzzer for his apartment and heard the click of the door unlock. She stepped inside and felt her purse catch on something. She reached back, turned, and someone bulldozed her into the dark apartment stairwell.

  Before she could scream, a man was on her back. She fell to the floor. "Buck," she called out but her sound was muffled. The strap of her purse was coiled around her neck, tightened on her throat. She tasted the dust of the old rug, saw white stars in her vision as the strap cut off her air. She dug her fingers into her neck, struggled to pry the strap loose. She sucked a breath, tried to roll to one side.

  He pinned her down with his hips, held the strap like reins. Buck, she thought. Where was Buck?

  The strap loosened for a fraction of a second. She gasped a breath. Her eyes seemed to bulge in their sockets. Frantic, she reached down and clawed at his ankle, felt her nails dig into his skin.

  The pressure loosened momentarily. She struggled left, then right. The strap crushed her throat again. Her vision blanked. She choked, struggled to scream. She blinked, saw black as she started to lose consciousness. Blood surged in her face like a pounding drum. Black. It was all black.

  She heard a click above her.

  "Hailey?"

  She fought to scream, but the sound caught in her throat, faded out.

  She heard Buck again.

  I'm here. I'm right here. Help me.

  Black swam across her vision. Then bright white lights. She heard footsteps and tried to yell.

  Louder. Someone was coming.

  The strap went slack. She sucked in air, panted. Tried to move. Couldn't.

  More running.

  A sound like a hand hitting glass. The door clicked opened, slammed closed.

  Buck's voice. "Christ. Christ."

  His touch was cool. His hand tingled against her skin.

  She looked at him. Spots in her vision blocked his face. She tried to smile.

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter 21

  When Jamie woke on Saturday morning, Tony was still asleep. He'd been asleep when she arrived home the night before, too. At ten-thirty, she left for errands, leaving a menu to a local pizza place and a check with a note. When she returned home at four thirty, Tony was gone—no note, no message. The check sat untouched on the counter. The backpack he'd brought with him sat beside the couch. The blankets he'd used as covers were in a heap at the far end of the couch, the pillow on top. He was obviously coming back, but where would he have gone? With no car, no knowledge of the area. He might have had money but she couldn't imagine he'd gone sightseeing. And it was impossible to picture him looking for a job in the state he'd been in. The library seemed unlikely. The only thing left was alcohol. He had gone somewhere to drink and the thought of him out there, drunk and still drinking, made her a little sick to her stomach.

  She spent a quiet evening alone, ate a Lean Cuisine chicken teriyaki, washed it down with Coke. It was a typical Saturday night, but somehow worrying about Tony left her feeling more hollow than usual. She was used to being alone. What she wasn't used to—and didn't want to get used to—was worrying about someone else.

  When the phone rang at nine, she snatched it up, hoping to hear Tony's voice. Even drunk, it would have been a relief.

  "It's Tim."

  Jamie sank back down. "You're out?"

  "Yeah. I got released about an hour ago."

  She didn't respond, couldn't think of anything to say.

  "I wanted to thank you for the help with Ed Goldman and everything."

  "Sure. You're welcome."

  There was a pause. "J, can I see you when this is over?"

  She shook her head, cleared her throat. "I don't think so, Tim."

  "How about the phone? Can I call you?"

  It was a bad idea.

  "Please. Just once in a while?"

  "I guess. I can't promise I'll answer," she added truthfully.

  "Okay," he said. "Thanks."

  There was a pause. "You're welcome" didn't sound right.

  "I'll talk to you soon, then."

  "Bye, Tim."

  "Bye, J."

  As she hung up, nostalgia caught in her throat.

  She stood and found her cigarettes, lit one. The smoking didn't help. Trying to distract herself, she logged on to the computer to catch up with the cases the online group was wor
king. A few others were logged in, and the group spent an hour corresponding about the case in Chicago. When they were done, Mary Dodgson, a forensic psychology Professor, IM'd her privately to ask about Devlin.

  JVail How'd you hear about that one?

  The screen remained blank for thirty seconds and for a moment, Jamie assumed Mary must have gotten up from the computer.

  MDod We got the update from you this morning.

  Frowning, Jamie stared at Mary's words.

  JVail I wasn't on this morning.

  Jamie watched the cursor blink on the screen. Waited for a response. Nothing came. She heard the ping of a new e-mail and changed screens. When she saw Mary's e-mail address, she opened the letter.

  The e-mail simply listed a Chicago phone number.

  Her pulse humming, Jamie dialed the number from her cell.

  "Jamie?" Mary asked.

  "Yeah. It's me."

  "We were on for more than hour this morning. Are you okay?"

  "It wasn't me, Mary. I've been out most of the day. Didn't log on until just now."

  Mary paused. "Someone have access to your computer?"

  Jamie thought about Tony. It didn't make sense. He didn't even know anything about Devlin. "What time?"

  "About ten a.m. Chicago."

  That was eight o'clock in California. It couldn't have been Tony. At eight o'clock, they were both still asleep.

  "What's your password?"

  Jamie frowned.

  "I mean, is it easy to guess?"

  "It's my birthday." Fear danced up her spine.

  "Birthdays are easy to get."

  "Christ," Jamie breathed.

  "It makes sense now," Mary commented.

  "What does?"

  "You—or whoever was pretending to be you—asked some pretty basic MO questions. I wondered if you were just trying to get a fresh perspective. I think I even commented on it, and you responded that you'd had a long night."

  Jamie considered that. "But whoever used my ID has to be on the list, right?"

  "Not necessarily."

  "How else would someone know about it?"

  "That's the scary part."

  Jamie's throat tightened. "What do you mean?"

  "You ever Googled yourself?"

  Jamie frowned. "What? No."

  "Are you online right now?"

  "Yeah."

  "Go to Google and type in your name."

  Jamie launched a new screen and navigated to Google, entered her own name. "I get about forty-seven thousand responses."

  "Sorry. Put quotes around it."

  Jamie did it. "Forty-nine." She scanned the first one. "San Francisco Sex Crimes Inspector Jamie Vail." She clicked on the link. The San Francisco Chronicle Web site came up and she read a brief article about the hearing on one of her more recent cases.

  "You there?" Mary asked.

  "Yeah. I found me. It's an article on a case."

  "Keep scrolling."

  "What am I looking for?" She scanned the next few entries—all newspaper articles—then clicked to the next page.

  "You'll find it, but basically, the bulletin board we use is public. That means anyone can apply to join us. They have to come through the moderator to get in. That's how we keep out the unwanted element, limit it to police officers and forensic folks."

  Jamie listened, still scanning the list. So far only one link didn't refer to her.

  "But the main page lists who's online at any one time. So if you signed up with your name, anyone who Googles you will find it there."

  Just then Jamie saw her full name next to the screen ID "JVail." She hit the link, watched as the log-in page for their chat group came up. "It takes them right to the chat group's log-in screen."

  "Right. It gives them your ID and if they've got the password, they're in."

  A dead weight sank in her gut. "I made it too easy." Thoughts trampled across her mind. "Mary, you were probably talking to her killer."

  The line was silent for a moment. When Mary spoke, her voice was nearly a whisper. "I thought about that. It's why I had you call."

  He'd been there. There had to be something she could use. "Is there an abstract for the session?"

  "No. I'm the one who usually logs the sessions, but I didn't. The conversation was sort of roundabout and off topic. I'll e-mail the others and ask if anyone else logged it."

  Christ, had Devlin's killer been online using Jamie's ID? She tightened a fist. But why her—why not Hailey? Maybe they had searched Hailey Wyatt, too. Maybe the chat group was the opening they found. "Did anything stand out?"

  Mary paused. "I was trying to think. A lot of it was what we'd read. Whoever was using your ID did mention she was promiscuous. Oh, jeez—how could I forget?"

  Jamie felt herself tense. "What?"

  "He said that she'd slept with your husband."

  Jamie didn't respond.

  "I'm sorry," Mary added.

  She started to say that it was okay, but couldn't bring herself to do it. "He's my ex now."

  Mary gave her a moment, then said, "You should consider that, Jamie. Who knew about that incident? Sounds like someone within the department."

  Jamie nodded, dread pooling in her limbs. "I was thinking the same thing."

  "Have you brought in a suspect? I thought he mentioned that you'd been looking at a cop."

  She thought about Scott Scanlan. He was someone to consider. "What did he say about that?"

  "Just that you'd pulled in one suspect who you held but who didn't look good for it." She stopped. "You thinking it might be him?"

  "I don't think so." Tim had only been released tonight. He wouldn't have access from the city jail.

  Mary seemed to consider this. "He didn't let on any real emotion about the suspect. That's why I didn't really consider it out of character for you except for a few questions about who the group would recommend looking at based on the scene."

  Jamie considered Marchek. Tim's arrest had made the news, but would he have access to the fact that Devlin had slept with Tim while Tim and Jamie were married? It seemed far-fetched but not impossible.

  Mary interrupted her thoughts. "I've got to go, but I'll dig up what I can remember and e-mail it to you."

  "Thanks, Mary."

  "And change that password."

  "I'm doing it now."

  After hanging up, Jamie changed her passwords on the chat group and her personal e-mail. She had no way of knowing if someone was in her e-mail and the realization was terrifying. She left a message for Hailey and lit a cigarette. She was tired, but she couldn't imagine going to bed. Couldn't fall asleep now. Not with the notion that someone had gotten access to her personal information. What else did he have? Did he know where she lived? Just how close was the killer?

  Jamie shivered and stubbed out her cigarette. Forcing herself up, she checked the doors and windows.

  As she mounted the stairs toward her bedroom, Jamie had the haunting sense that someone was watching. And more than ever, she wished Tony would come home.

  Chapter 22

  Jamie had finally drifted into sleep when something woke her. Startled, she sat up in bed. Her heart clashed in her chest. Her head pounded. She yanked the robe off the chair and pulled it over her shoulders, crept to the window and looked out, saw nothing. She turned her ear to the door. Was it inside?

  She glanced back outside as a shadow crossed the grass. Adrenaline burned in her gut. Tony?

  Tightening the tie on her white terry-cloth robe over the T-shirt and sweats she slept in, Jamie stepped into a pair of suede moccasins, pulled her holster off the back of the bedroom door, and started downstairs. She caught her reflection in the hallway mirror. Like a cross between Martha Stewart and Annie Oakley.

  She drew her gun, flicked the safety off. Gripping it in her right hand, she held it barrel down, her finger off the trigger. At the bottom of the stairs, she turned off the inside lights and stared out the dining room window into the backyard. The shadow
was gone. She flicked on the outside lights, wishing she'd spent the money to have them upgraded to motion sensing. With a quick breath, she opened the back door, gun in front of her.

  She heard Barney's claws click on the stairs and soon he was beside her. "Nice of you to wake up."

  He growled into the dark.

  "Be my guest."

  Barney didn't move.

  Jamie stepped out onto the small back deck and surveyed the yard. She was almost never out there. What little grass there once was had been displaced by the weeds. Like the tougher gang marking its territory, the weeds had won out here. A lone tree stood in one corner—a maple, she guessed, though she'd never been good at that kind of thing. Bushes dotted the yard like green islands about to be washed over by a sea of brown weeds. The little potting shed looked partially drowned by the weeds around it. It's green corrugated roof was dark with leaves and dirt.

  Nothing flowered. Even with all the rain, the green was limited to a few bushes and the tree. It was a sad yard. She turned back inside and saw the same thing. Weeds outside and inside a sea of brown boxes littered the rooms. Jesus, how pathetic. Barney moaned as though understanding, and she patted his head.

  She locked the back door when she heard the sharp ping of glass breaking on the front porch. A man howled. She ran across the house, peering out into the dimly lit front. Through the small window beside the front door, she saw Tony on his knees. He lifted a piece of crooked glass toward his lips.

  Jamie holstered her gun and yanked the door open. "What the hell are you doing?"

  His tongue out, he poured brown liquid into his mouth.

  She grabbed the piece from his hand, skimming it across the insides of her knuckles. She dropped the glass as blood pooled in her hand. "Shit."

  Tony reached for another piece, but Jamie grabbed his arm, smearing his skin with her blood.

  The smell of whiskey was overwhelming, and she was both nauseated and desperate at once.

  Tony twisted his arm away, but she tugged back harder. "Stop it. Jesus Christ, Tony. Fucking stop it!"

  He looked up at her, green eyes bloodshot. Dark circles shadowed the skin beneath his eyes. She clutched his arm, dragged him toward her. Blood dripped down her white robe. She ignored it, held Tony. His arm felt spindly in her grasp. As he turned to look back at the broken glass, she noticed the way the light cast shadows in his cheekbones. Jesus, he was thin.