“You’re one of mine,” Hiram said. His arctic eyes glittered. “You’re the one who went after her this morning. After my Lucy.”
Engel touched his elbow, but Hiram shrugged him off.
“Yes, sir,” I said. The picture of the unknown woman and the article about the crossings seemed to burn in my duffel bag. I wanted to ask him about them. Wanted to ask him about his relationship with the Tates and how much Ben knew about MoMA and the land. But not here. Not in front of the journalists.
Hiram read the name tape on my uniform. “Special Agent Parnell.” He cocked his head. “You saw my lawyers earlier today, I believe.”
I lifted my chin. Here it came. “Yes, sir.”
The reporters closed in around us, lifting microphones. The lieutenant and Mac waved them back.
A wild light shone suddenly in Hiram’s eyes, like a match touched to a wick, a flame burning behind glass.
“Come see me,” he said. “In two hours. We need to talk.”
“You stepped in some shit,” Mac observed as the two of us and Clyde rode up on the elevator.
I shrugged.
“Word is,” she said, “the railroad wouldn’t give the police permission to search Ben’s office.”
“That’s right.”
“But I’m guessing you went anyway.”
“Fools rush in,” I said casually. But inside I was wondering how I’d pay the bills if Hiram fired me. People talked about hiring vets. But outside of security and law enforcement, a lot of times it didn’t go beyond the talking stage.
Mac nodded as if she knew what I was thinking. The composure was back in place, her body still except for her right foot, which tapped the floor with a life of its own.
“At least you’ve got a set of balls,” she said.
“Standard Marine issue.”
She laughed. “Look, if he wants to fire your ass for doing your job, we’ll find a place for you.”
I finally met her gaze. “For this investigation, you mean?”
“Sure. And more, if you’re interested. As I said earlier, I read about that case you handled last February. It was great work. You should be looking at your options.”
“And here I was thinking I didn’t have a mom anymore.”
“One reason they call me Mama Mac when they think I’m not listening. They also call me Mad Mac. I have the finesse of a bull in a china shop.”
“Well, thanks, but I’d prefer it if you stayed away from my china.”
Mac’s voice turned soft. “You remind me of my daughter. Spine like a piece of rebar. And a sense of honor welded so strongly in place it will break you before you realize you’re using it as a shield instead of for support.”
“Maybe you should be having this conversation with your daughter instead of me.”
The elevator came to a stop and the doors slid open.
“Wish I could,” Mac said as she held the elevator door for a pair of uniforms getting on. “But it’d be at her gravesite. Honor makes a crappy shield.”
Way to step in it, Parnell. “I’m so sorry,” I murmured.
“So am I.”
We stepped out into pandemonium. The main hallway was crammed with detectives, uniforms, FBI agents, and TSA officials, all hurrying somewhere or conferring in clumps or talking on the phone, a finger stuffed in one ear as they struggled to hear over the din. A hand-lettered sign taped to the wall with an arrow pointing toward the end of the hallway said simply, LUCY ROOM 2A. That would be the command center, where all the key players from every law enforcement agency involved would converge.
Mac and I walked in silence to the incident room, where I handed over Mauer’s data. While she stayed in the room to check in with her team, Clyde and I went back out into the hall. I stopped one of the detectives hurrying past.
“Detective Cohen?”
“At his desk, I think. In the squad room.” He sped past.
I threaded my way through a maze of offices and headed into the homicide warren. This place—with its disorder of desks, stacks of binders and old coffee cups, the smells of wet carpet, spilled sodas, sweat, ink, and overloaded wiring, with the television set rumbling a steady stream of news behind the hum of conversation and trilling phones—was the heartbeat of Cohen’s life. When he came home at night, he still vibrated with its energy. Cohen’s devotion to his job, when he could have been riding on family money, was part of what had persuaded me to allow him into my life.
As I walked in, I spotted Cohen standing by his desk, tapping his pen on a stack of papers while he talked on the phone. His expensive suit—one of a never-ending supply he received from a mother who’d been hoping for a trial lawyer instead of a cop—was wrinkled but clean; he must have stopped by the house to change. When he saw me, he kept talking but waved me forward.
I removed the evidence bags from my duffel and placed them on his desk—the photograph, the article, the MoMA folder, and the gun. I added the CD and the stills from the TIR video.
Cohen pointed to the evidence bags. “Ben’s?” he mouthed, and I nodded. To whoever was on the other end of the phone he said, “Yeah, keep running it. I want to know what we’ve got.”
He dropped his phone in his pocket and his butt in the chair and gave me a weary smile.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey. Any word on the blood test?”
“Not yet.”
I sank into the chair next to his desk and gave Clyde the all clear. My partner once again greeted Cohen with a rapture usually reserved for a long-lost brother, then crawled under Cohen’s desk and stretched out as much as he could in the confined space.
Cohen lifted his feet out of the way. “You big mutt.” He picked up the CD and popped it into his computer. “Any surprises here?”
“Not really. Looks like she was hurt, as Deke said. And unable to move, as he also said.”
Cohen watched the video in silence, then ran through it a second time. When he reached the part where the animal appeared, he hit pause.
“What is that?” he asked.
“That’s the ‘not really’ part. I brought you some stills. Maybe you can get someone from the Fish and Wildlife Service to take a look.”
He nodded and finished watching. After a third time through, he shut down the program and studied the stills. Then he picked up the clear evidence bag holding the photograph of the woman. “Any idea who this is?”
I shook my head. “It was locked in Ben’s desk with the other things I brought, including that photo of Samantha and Jack Hurley. I’ll see if Hiram Davenport knows who she is—he told me to stop by.” I left out my fear that he’d likely fire me.
Cohen picked up the picture of Samantha and her assistant. “A day trip by two artists to an art museum. Why lock it up?”
“Why indeed? Unless you think there was more to their relationship.”
“We just cut Hurley loose with a promise we’ll be looking into those illegal sales he made. Like I told you, his alibi is so-so—his girlfriend swears he never left her side and she’s got the used condoms to prove it. Not exactly an interview with the pope. But so far there’s nothing that links him to any of the crime scenes. You find anything that DPC might want to hide?”
“Not really.” I filled Cohen in on what I’d found in Ben’s office. And what I hadn’t. “No appointment calendar, no business cards, nothing to indicate who he might have seen lately or planned to see.” I tapped the bag holding the newspaper article. “This piece suggests that the rivalry between Hiram Davenport and the Tates goes back at least thirty years, when Hiram bought out one of Alfred Tate’s lines and got the cement factory as part of the deal. I’m guessing it was a hostile takeover. I’ll look into that. But more immediately relevant is the fact that Hiram lured away Tate Enterprises’ chief litigation lawyer six months ago and gave her a top spot at DPC.”
Cohen’s eyebrows shot up. “Veronica Stern?”
“None other. Has Stern said anything?”
“Not muc
h. But she hasn’t lawyered up, either.” He picked up his pen, jiggled it between his thumb and forefinger. “They towed her car here and forensics is going over it. We’ve taken DNA swabs, and she gave us permission to search her home and garage and a tool shed, which has so far turned up zilch. She was adamant with the officer who brought her in that she knows Lucy by name only and that she has no idea how or why the clothes got in there, or who would have phoned in a false tip. But my spidey sense says she’s sitting on something.”
“Like what?”
He sucked in air, blew it out. “No idea. Bandoni and I will start the interview in about ten minutes. Anything strikes you as odd or off, I’d like to know.”
“Of course. What else do you have?”
He tossed his pen on the desk. “We’ve got nothing. Half the civilized world is looking for that little girl, and the other half is telling us it was space aliens. Feds are working the terrorist angle, but they’re pulling up empty lines. Neighbors didn’t see anything. Hurley says Samantha mentioned a stalker, but he never saw anyone, and her friends never heard about it. We’re working to track her movements during the last week, hoping CCTVs caught something. The tech guys are going through the family’s social media accounts and e-mail, but they haven’t picked up a lead with any legs. Could be Hurley’s lying about a stalker in order to redirect the heat.”
He picked up a paper coffee cup, stared into it, then crushed it. A trace of coffee dribbled onto his lap, and he swore and pulled a napkin out of his desk.
“What about the dead man who was shot outside the kiln?” I asked. “Any hits on the sketch?”
Cohen wiped at the coffee spill. “Not so far. We found enough of him to print, but the prints didn’t match anything in the system. We also found a casing we hope is related to the case. Hard to be sure with the bomb blast, but ballistics says the large-caliber gun that killed him doesn’t match the gun used on Ben and the twin boys. So either the shooter had more than one weapon, or we’ve got more than one shooter.”
He dropped the napkin in the trash and picked up the clear evidence bag holding Ben’s gun.
“That was locked in his desk with the photos and the article,” I said. “There was a bottle of whiskey in there, too. And his military medals. Maybe that’s what Hiram didn’t want us to find.”
Cohen frowned. “Says something to his state of mind, I guess. We’ll run the gun. But a .40 cal? This won’t match, either.”
“And the bodies in the kiln?”
“Both male. We got an ID on one because we have his prints on file for trespassing and loitering. Frank Kaye. Been homeless since the time of Moses.”
I found my hand reaching for the comfort of Clyde. “Trash Can.”
“What?”
“Frank Kaye was known around the hobo camps as Trash Can. He was a harmless old man, never came out of his drunken stupor long enough to hurt a fly. He used to hang at Hogan’s Alley when he was in Denver. He must have relocated to the cement factory.”
“And stumbled on the killer,” Cohen said. “Then maybe got whacked because he saw what he shouldn’t.”
I remembered the face I’d seen through the plastic before the bomb blew. “Could the ME tell if Kaye had been tortured?”
“It looks like it, Syd. I’m sorry. Bell said that, near as she can tell given the condition of the bodies, both Kaye and the other man in the kiln were tortured.”
I laced my fingers around my bad knee, brought my chin up. Compartmentalize. It’s how you survive.
Cohen set the gun back down on his desk. I swore he’d aged ten years since yesterday. I’d seen it before. The skin beneath his eyes went gray and he’d get a thousand-yard stare that said he knew trouble was out there, just waiting to jump him if he let down his guard. His shoulders would drop until I found myself looking for the weight of the world he seemed to be carrying.
Yet, each time he managed to bounce back. Right up until the next bad case.
He rolled his neck until it popped. “I can’t get a read on Stern. She’s about as warm as a deep freezer. But she pays her taxes, hasn’t ever taken a sick day at work, dresses like she’s got Grace Kelly as a wardrobe assistant. She donates time and money to the local art community. Doesn’t even have a parking ticket. Bandoni’s digging into her records, but if I put her in front of a profiler with what we’ve got so far, he’d laugh me out of the room. And we’re still looking for a link between her and either Ben or Samantha.”
“Maybe she crossed paths with them at an art event. Samantha’s got work hanging in galleries—don’t those places have openings and fund-raisers?”
“You’re asking a murder cop about art?”
“It can’t be all bullets and babes,” I said. “As for Stern, she’s completely by the book. No heart, according to those who work with her. But she’s the best at what she does. Maybe that makes her appealing to a certain type of man. One more interested in conquest than occupation. If Ben is that type, she might have caught his eye.”
“Occupation? Is that your word for a relationship?” He held up a hand. “Don’t answer that. So you’re thinking Ben might have relished the challenge? Former military man who’s bored with the day job after leading troops into battle?”
It wasn’t where I wanted to go, but I kept circling back to it. The photo I’d seen in Ben Davenport’s employee file was that of a man who had bad days. Maybe a lot of bad days. I got that and I didn’t want to hold it against him. But maybe persuading a woman like Veronica Stern into his bed had helped him make the transition from combat to corporate life.
“She’s not bad looking,” I said, going for understatement. “Pair that with the aloof, hard-to-get angle, and a man could get hooked. Even if she doesn’t acquiesce, he could get possessive. Is Stern married?”
“Divorced. We’re checking out the ex. Let’s say she did decide to sleep with Ben. Then, once the challenge is gone, he moves on to the next target. Or maybe goes back to his wife. Stern’s betrayed and enraged and decides to slaughter the family. She takes the little girl because—to her way of thinking—Lucy should be hers.”
I stared out the window on the other side of his desk. His gaze followed mine. Outside, a gloomy landscape of clouds and skyscrapers brooded in the gray light. The din of horns sounded distantly through the glass.
“It doesn’t work,” I said.
“Because she’s five feet five and a hundred pounds soaking wet?”
“Because the Davenport deaths were ugly. Hands-on and messy. I can barely put Stern and messy in the same sentence.”
“So she had a partner. Someone else who slept with her or who wants to sleep with her.”
“What about the person who called it in?” I asked.
“He didn’t give a name. And he used a burner phone.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And that’s not a flag?”
“Of course it is. But it’s not automatic proof of malice. People use prepaid phones when they’re trying to sell something and want to remain anonymous, or if they have bad credit and can’t get a phone plan. The Feds are trying to chase it down, but if the caller was setting up Stern, he will have used the phone once and ditched it. It’ll be a dead end.”
I rubbed Clyde’s outstretched paw gently with my foot. “I guess you’ve considered the possibility that the killer might be someone she’s rejected. He targets Ben for getting what he couldn’t, then fingers her for the crime.”
“First place Bandoni and I went. It fits with shooting the men and taking the women. And with the quotes. We’ll see what she says. And if we believe her.” He propped his feet on a half-open drawer of his desk and leaned back far enough I had to stop myself from grabbing his chair. He laced his fingers behind his head, elbows spread wide. A classic Cohen pose when he was thinking. To anyone who didn’t know him well, he looked relaxed. But his freighted eyes betrayed him.
“Tell me about the crossing number,” he said.
I told him about taking out the Xs, and
that the crossing had been converted to an overpass back in the eighties. That it was close to where Samantha had been murdered.
“No shit?” Cohen dropped his feet, and the front wheels of his chair slammed down on the carpet. Clyde shot out from under Cohen’s desk, then gave him a dirty look when it was clear there weren’t any bad guys around that needed chasing.
“Sorry, fur ball,” Cohen said. Then to me, “Maybe he was signaling intent by writing that number in the kiln. Maybe he planned to kill Samantha when the hazmat train came through, but she fought back and he had to change his plans. So how would he know about an old crossing number?”
“Maybe he worked for the railroad years ago.”
He picked up the article. “So, 1982. We’d be talking someone in their, what, fifties? Or older. Crime like this would be hard for someone that age to pull off.”
Clyde had stretched out at my feet, safely away from Cohen’s chair. But now he came up fast. Something blocked the lights, and I turned in my chair to face Cohen’s partner, Len Bandoni.
“You two done making goo-goo eyes at each other, maybe we can get to work,” he said. “We got Stern in Room 3.”
Cohen’s partner was not my number-one fan. I didn’t think he ever fully accepted my version of events surrounding the skinhead shoot-out five months earlier. Cohen hadn’t, either, for that matter. But they had different opinions as to whether what I’d done had been wrong or right. Bandoni fell so far on the side of the line that put me in the wrong that—until now—he’d managed to avoid me entirely. Which made things tough for Cohen. Which, in turn, made me dislike Bandoni even more.
“Jealous?” I asked him. “Cohen never gives you goo-goo eyes anymore?”
Bandoni snorted. “You haven’t shot any of the witnesses yet, have you, Parnell? Flashed your little railroad badge and tried to arrest half of metro Denver?”
“This morning,” I said. “While you were finishing your first donut.”
He stuck a finger in one ear, dug around. “Something’s making noise. Like a gnat, maybe.”
Cohen rolled his eyes. “Let’s get to work, partner.” To me he said, “You know where the observation room is, right?”
Dead Stop (Sydney Rose Parnell Series Book 2) Page 15