… gotta go … gotta keep going …
He heard something else, something that had been there all along but was so drowned out by the wind he hadn’t distinguished it. A chopping noise. From overhead.
He stared up into space. It was a helicopter! But not a police copter. The huge channel number painted on the side glistened in the darkness. Someone was speaking to him through an electronic megaphone. He could barely make out the words.
“Mister Mayor!”
Yeah, that’s me. Mister Mayor—that was what the reporters in town always called him. So they not only knew where he was, but who he was.
“Mister Mayor!” The wind swept the words away, making them almost unintelligible. “Did you do it?”
Jesus God. They knew everything. And they had minicams. He knew the new infrared models didn’t need much light. He was on television! The whole goddamn stupid chase was on television. He saw the cameras, saw the blinking red lights. Two of them, at least. Hell, it was a better turnout than he had for his last press conference.
He heard some static from behind, barked commands from the cop cars. The police were trying to get the press to stay back. It wasn’t working.
“Pull your vehicle to the side of the road!”
He rolled up his window. What was the point? He had to figure out what he was going to do. What the hell was he going to do?
He’d never be able to lose them. And he was coming up to the tollgate. He couldn’t stop. What was he doing to do?
All these unresolved dilemmas were suddenly blotted out by the appearance of a semitrailer truck dead on the horizon. It was barreling toward him, seconds from impact. Small wonder; he was more in the semi’s lane than in his own.
The semi driver laid on his horn. He couldn’t possibly move that huge heavy truck in time. Barrett knew it was up to him. He twisted the wheel around, jerking his Porsche to the right. He lurched out of the path of the semi at so sharp an angle he was practically perpendicular to the road. He careened off the shoulder and onto a nearby embankment.
He saw the brick tollbooth just ahead, illuminated in his headlights. He smashed his foot down on the brakes, but it was too late, much much too late.
“I’m coming home, Jesus!” His hands rose off the wheel and covered his face. The white brick wall filled his field of vision and he screamed for just an instant before the thunderous impact silenced him and everything around him faded to black.
Chapter 9
HOMICIDE DETECTIVE MIKE MORELLI pulled his Trans Am onto Terwilliger and searched for the house. The hardest part was not reading the numbers on the curbs; it was keeping his sagging eyelids pried open.
“Jeez, Tomlinson,” he groaned at the man in the passenger seat, “how long have we been awake?”
“Twenty-five hours and counting,” Tomlinson replied. Tomlinson was Mike’s protégé, a detective in training.
“Christ. How many murders can one little town in the heartland have? First that poor schmuck in the bathroom at the River Parks. Then a homeless man living in a cardboard box under the West End Bridge. And now the mayor’s entire family. Who’s next.”
“It’s been a tough night.”
“That’s for damn sure.” Mike massaged his face. “I don’t understand it.”
“Oh, I do,” Tomlinson said matter-of-factly. “Sunspots.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sunspots. Lots of sunspot activity today. I heard it on the radio. Crime always soars during high sunspot activity periods. It’s like the full moon.”
“Do tell.”
“Has something to do with shortcircuiting the synapses in our neural networks. All those little ganglia go snap! Tempers flare, and suddenly you’ve got a crime wave on your hands.”
“This is a fascinating theory, Tomlinson. Perhaps you should write this up for one of the police journals.”
“It’s been done. Well, not in the police journals, but in other influential publications.”
“Like the ones they sell at supermarket checkout stands?” Mike cruised to the end of the street. “Ah. This must be it.”
Cars were parked all around an impressive two-story brick house on the north side of the street. Swarms of people were streaming in and out of the house. A crowd was huddled on the front lawn; some people were even taking snapshots.
“What the hell is going on?” Mike put the car in neutral and jumped out, leaving Tomlinson to park.
Mike grabbed the first available cop he saw. “Who’s in charge?”
A young fresh-faced cop, who obviously knew who Mike was and knew better than to mess around with him, snapped to attention. “Lieutenant Prescott, sir.”
Mike’s teeth ground together. “Jesus God. Why did it have to be Prescott?”
“I don’t know, sir, I just arrived a few—”
Mike cut him off. “Why hasn’t this crime scene been cordoned off?”
“I—I don’t know, sir. I guess Lieutenant Prescott—”
“Is what? Incompetent?” Mike stomped up to the front porch. “Where the hell is he?”
The young cop lifted a shaking hand. “Inside,” he whispered.
Mike pushed his way through the door, bumping into a large man wearing shorts and a T-shirt. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
The man seemed startled. “I just wanted to have a look-see. I live two streets down. Always wanted to see the inside of this place.”
Mike grabbed the man by the shoulders and shoved him forcibly toward the door. “Get the hell—”
He stopped when he noticed the man was hiding something cupped in his hands. “What is that?”
The man reluctantly opened his hands. “Just a little souvenir.” It was a pair of cuff links bearing the insignia of the mayor’s office.
Mike snatched the cuff links. “You’re taking evidence from a crime scene?”
“No, no, I found this in the mayor’s bedroom.”
“Get out of here!” Mike shoved him right through the door and down the front steps, then whirled around and stomped into the living room. He found another police officer talking on the phone.
“Sure, honey, I should be home by eight—”
Mike pushed down the interrupt button and canceled the call.
“Hey, I was talking—” A flash of recognition lit in the man’s eyes. “Lieutenant Morelli!”
“I assume you dusted that phone for prints before you rubbed your sweaty little paws all over it?”
“Well—”
“Goddamn it, why didn’t you use your car radio?”
“Well, I—I mean, Lieutenant Prescott—”
“Of course. Lieutenant Prescott. Do you think Lieutenant Prescott is going to be able to save your ass once I put you up for suspension?”
“Well, sir—”
“Goddamn it!” He grabbed the man by the lapels. “Why isn’t there any paper on the floor?”
“I guess we didn’t see the point.”
“The point?” He grabbed the officer’s head and pushed it down. “Look at that floor! There’s probably been about a thousand or so people stomping through here. Any blood or footprints or other trace evidence has been destroyed. This crime scene is contaminated.”
A voice sounded behind him. “Look, Morelli, if you have to play the tough guy, why don’t you pick on someone your own rank?”
Mike whirled around. “Prescott!”
Prescott was a fair-haired, somewhat stocky man, almost a head shorter than Mike. What he had lost in height, Mike thought, he made up in swagger.
“What the hell is going on here, Prescott? Why hasn’t this crime scene been secured?”
Prescott smirked. “Relax, Supercop. This one’s in the bag.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We know who did it. And we’ve got him in custody. Our esteemed mayor was seen fleeing the scene of the crime, blood all over him. And everybody saw him trying to escape last night. We’ve got him cold.”
&nbs
p; “You stupid little prick. That doesn’t matter.” He stepped forward till he was practically hovering over Prescott. “If you screw up the crime scene, we could lose everything. This whole case could be thrown out of court.”
“That isn’t going to happen,” Prescott said calmly.
“Says you.” Mike glared at him. “What the hell are you doing here, anyway? Last I heard, I was the head man in Homicide.”
“As I understand it, you were busy interviewing vagrants under the West End Bridge. Obviously, someone needed to take charge of this case immediately.”
“So Chief Blackwell sent you?”
“Think higher.”
Mike swore silently. “The council.”
Prescott touched his nose. “Bingo.”
Mike’s jaws clenched together so tightly he was afraid he might pop a filling. This went to the very heart of why he hated Prescott—besides his obvious incompetence. Prescott had never risen through the ranks like the other men in his department. He had been brought in from another county, not by anyone in the police department, but by special appointment of the city council. He was their man. Whenever they wanted something done, whenever they needed some information, they called Prescott.
“And why is the council involved in this?”
“That shouldn’t be too hard to figure out, even for you. And soon as word came down that the mayor’s family had been murdered, and the mayor himself was being hunted by the police, the city council called an emergency meeting and took charge of the situation. They contacted me directly and asked me to handle the initial investigation.”
“To preserve the evidence? Or destroy it?”
“I resent your uninformed implication—”
“All I know is what I see, Prescott. I’m standing in the middle of a totally botched crime scene. Any evidence that may have once been here is worthless.”
“I told you already, we have the killer in custody. We don’t need your Sherlock Holmes routine this time, Morelli. We’ve already got our man.”
“Yeah, well, I just hope you don’t lose him”—he leaned right into Prescott’s face—“by being such a goddamn incompetent fuck-up!”
The police officers on duty froze. Everyone knew about Lieutenant Morelli’s temper, but this was extraordinary even for him. The entire room fell silent. Except for a soft whirring noise.
Prescott grinned back at Mike. “Smile. You’re on Candid Camera.”
Mike turned slowly and saw the truth. The cameraman from Channel Eight had caught the whole exchange.
“This is a crime scene!” Mike barked. “Get out of here!”
The camera continued to whir.
“I’m going to take that goddamn camera and smash it—”
The cameraman ducked and scurried out the door.
“Good. And as for you, Prescott, you’re off this case.”
Prescott’s face contorted. “You can’t do this.”
“Just watch me.”
“You don’t have the authority.”
Mike’s face flushed an angry red. “I’m still the head of Homicide. You are my subordinate and you are off this case!”
“I’m going straight to Blackwell with this. And beyond.”
“You do that.”
Prescott glared at Mike for a few more moments, then stomped out of the house.
“All right,” Mike said, addressing all the uniforms in the area, “we’re turning this into a real crime scene starting right now. I want paper on the floor immediately. Covering all walkways.” He pointed to the officer closest to him. “That means you. And I want you all to keep your grubby hands off everything till the print team has a chance to dust. Then we’ll let the trace evidence team see if they can possibly find any remaining traces of hair or fiber or blood or DNA. I want pictures of the whole house, from every possible angle, especially where the bodies were found. And I want all unauthorized personnel out of here!”
“Mike.”
It was Tomlinson. “What is it?”
He pointed through the front windows. “I think there’s something going on outside you should know about.”
Mike peered through the front windows. Prescott was still on the scene, standing on the front lawn, talking to several reporters and minicams.
“I don’t believe it,” Mike murmured. “He’s giving a goddamn press conference!”
Mike rushed out the front door just in time to hear the tail end of Prescott’s remarks.
“… because Lieutenant Morelli’s conduct has been questionable for some time, and this latest incident will only intensify the ongoing investigation. Rest assured, however, that the guilty man is in custody—”
Mike plunged between Prescott and the cameras. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Just answering a few questions for the folks at home,” Prescott said wanly.
Mike faced the reporters. “Turn those cameras off. I said off!”
The cameramen wordlessly obeyed.
Mike whirled on Prescott. “I told you you were off the case!”
“So I’m off. Doesn’t mean I can’t answer a few questions.”
“You idiot. You can’t tell people who’s guilty before there’s been a trial. You’ll get the department sued, not to mention prejudicing the whole investigation.”
“I keep telling you, there’s no investigation. We have the killer in custody.”
“You stupid—Prescott, you’re on probation.”
“What!”
“You heard me. You’re suspended until further notice. Don’t come to the office. And don’t talk to the press!”
Prescott’s eyes narrowed. “I have a lot of friends, Morelli.”
“Well, you’d better, ’cause if you’re still in my face five seconds from now, you’re not going to have a job.”
“We’ll see.” He whipped around and stomped down the driveway.
“Sorry about that disturbance,” Mike told the reporters. “We’ll give an official press conference this afternoon in time for you to make the five o’clock news. Thank you.”
Mike hustled back to his car to call in the forensic teams. Jeez, what a day. At this rate, he’d have his first heart attack before he made captain.
Maybe it was sunspots, after all.
Chapter 10
HARD AS SHE TRIED, Deanna Meanders found she could carry only three of the four bags of groceries at once. She could go inside and ask Martha to help, she supposed. Argue and cajole and finally order her out. Martha would be put out and argumentative (“I’m not your slave!”); she’d say something that would irritate Deanna, Deanna would say something back, and they’d kill a couple of hours being crappy to one another.
Nah, she’d get it herself.
It was already after seven. Deanna had had a hell of a time getting out of the office. Mr. Coughlin dumped yet another one of his emergencies on her at the last possible moment. “We’ve got to have this faxed to San Diego before six!” And as well she knew, when he had an emergency, everyone in the office had an emergency. “We all have to pull together.” Translation: no one goes home till I do. “Emergencies come with the territory.” Translation: I put it off till the last minute.
When she finally escaped, she made an unavoidable run to Bud’s for groceries. And now she was late, damn it. It wasn’t so much that she worried about Martha; she was sixteen—old enough to look after herself. But the later Deanna got home, the less time she had to spend with her. Martha got older and older and busier and busier, and as the time passed they grew more and more distant.
Being a single mother was hell. Sometimes it seemed like all she ever did was work and worry, and neither did her much good. Certainly Martha didn’t appreciate either. “How come you can’t come to school today for the play like the other mothers?” Or, alternately: “Mother, get a life of your own, okay?” Sure, she was just a typical teenager. But it still hurt. Martha thought her mother had all these choices, that she could decide for herself what to do. T
he truth was, she had no choices. She had to work to keep this family unit afloat. Martha depended on her, whether she knew it or not. Not to mention the fact that, the second Deanna screwed up, that son of a bitch she divorced would be right back in her face trying to get custody again. And she couldn’t let that happen. No matter what.
Deanna walked toward the front door. The windows were open, and she could hear voices inside. Including one that wasn’t supposed to be there. Quietly she crept up to the window.
There he was. Buck, the banished boyfriend. Well, if not exactly banished, certainly keenly disapproved of. He hadn’t shaved, like always, and he was wearing those loose green fatigues, like always. He looked like someone you’d expect to hit you up for a quarter downtown. And this was Martha’s one true love. God, life was cruel sometimes.
Deanna hadn’t known what to do the first day she came home and found Buck in her living room, feet on the sofa, snuggling up to Martha and drinking a beer. A beer, for God’s sake! Did they meet at school? No, turns out Buck isn’t in school. He got expelled a long time ago and he never went back. Not to worry. He had plenty of money. Except that worried Deanna even more—how did a high school dropout with a crummy no-talent job manage to have so much cash all the time?
Deanna had never uncovered Buck’s true age. He claimed to be twenty, but she suspected he was older. What did it matter? Twenty was too old to be seeing a sixteen-year-old. Martha hadn’t really dated before, and now she was going with some guy old enough to … well, to drink beer, among other things.
Deanna considered this pairing totally unacceptable, but at the same time, she knew what would happen if she made a big thing out of it and forbade Buck to come around any more. Tempers would escalate, lines would be drawn, and this budding romance would turn into some Romeo-and-Julietesque grand passion. Deanna knew quite well how headstrong Martha could be. She’d rebel, and soon she’d run off with him, maybe even get married. Or worse, get pregnant. And Martha’s whole future would be ruined.
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