Of course, he could have a car stashed somewhere else. Or—
“You don’t participate in many stakeouts, do you?” Dillon asked.
Sean glanced at him sideways. “I’m not a cop.” He tripled-checked the custom GPS and driving system he’d designed, making sure he’d compensated for the road hazards. The icy roads were not his friend, and he hoped his car would help him control any pursuit.
“I’m familiar with RCK. I’m certain there are many times sitting still for long periods of time is necessary.”
“I leave that to others. I’m the only one who hasn’t been in the military. When you enlist, they teach you to be a statue.”
“It’s called survival,” Dillon said. “Are you certain—”
“Yes. I’m certain.” I hope. “I have that feeling in the pit of my stomach that I’ve learned not to doubt.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
Sean glanced at his watch. “We have to leave in an hour to pick up Lucy in time.”
“Kate can pick her up.”
“No. Mallory’ll be out before then. I’d rather keep Kate out of this until we absolutely have to involve her. She shouldn’t be put in an awkward position between me and Armstrong.” Sean trusted the Kincaids—he’d be a fool not to—but none of them were trained bodyguards. And while Sean didn’t specialize in personal security, he’d had his fair share of protective assignments. He didn’t like the idea that Lucy was at the Medical Examiner’s Office without a guard, but if Mallory was here, he wasn’t there. Still, Sean was nervous—if he was wrong, Lucy’s life was at risk. He didn’t care what Dillon said about Mallory not hurting her; Sean didn’t believe it.
The bastard had a photograph of her in his office.
Sean had cracked the windows, even though the air was icy, to better hear a car approach. It was a quiet neighborhood. He closed his eyes and listened. Forced himself to be calm.
“You care about her.”
It was both a statement and a question. Sean suspected after the last few days with Lucy that he’d be getting the third degree from more than one Kincaid.
“Yes,” he said simply.
Dillon didn’t say anything else, and that made Sean nervous. What did Lucy’s brother really think of him? Was he assessing whether he was good enough for her? Whether he knew everything that had happened in her past? Whether he’d be scared away if the going got tough?
Dillon remained silent. Was it that easy?
Cold still air carried sound well, and Sean heard the car long before he saw it.
They were around the corner from Mallory’s private dead-end street abutting the woods, and Sean had positioned his car in such a way as to be able to see through trees and shrubs anyone coming from the ten or so houses up Mallory’s street.
A gray sedan.
Sean turned the ignition of his GT and the engine purred into life. “Seat belt,” he told Dillon. He glanced over. “I should tell you I race cars. Amateur racing, but I’m good. Don’t panic if it gets rough.”
He waited until the sedan had reached the corner, then shot forward to block it.
Mallory braked, immediately reversed twenty feet turning 90 degrees, then drove forward, right behind Sean’s car.
Sean anticipated the move and spun 180 degrees in pursuit.
“This is a residential neighborhood,” Dillon said.
“I’m not going to hit anyone. I love this car.”
But Sean would total it if it meant catching the fleeing bastard. He pressed the “2” on his GPS number pad.
“What’s that?” Dillon asked.
“Questions later.”
His GPS gave him a cutoff route, and the radar in the front of his car told the computer how fast Mallory was driving, and how fast Sean had to go to cut him off.
He made a hard left, leaving Mallory.
“What are you doing?” Dillon exclaimed.
Sean didn’t answer. His eyes glanced left and right, looking for any potential dangers. Kids. Animals. Bouncing balls. It was a weekday, near the time schools let out, which demanded caution.
He glanced at the map, made a hard right up a hill, cut through a dirt service road, then floored it when he hit the main street. He’d lost time on the dirt road, which had turned into a muddy slush from the weather. He suspected that Mallory had slowed, just a fraction, when Sean’s car was no longer in his rearview mirror, but he couldn’t count on it.
His back wheels slipped on a patch of ice, but Sean maintained control of his car. He slowed, looking up the street where he expected Mallory to emerge. No one was there.
“Shit!” Had he miscalculated? No—but he could have misjudged Mallory. The killer could have turned around or hidden somewhere—in a driveway, perhaps.
Then he saw the car turn and head toward him, slowing as soon as Mallory saw him. Was he surprised?
“You’d better be right about Mallory,” Sean said to Dillon.
“What do you mean?”
“Get out when I tell you.”
Sean turned the wheel hard to the right, using the ice in a controlled slide, relying on his intuitive knowledge and impeccable maintenance of his car to ensure he wasn’t going to hit a pole or jump the curb. He controlled his spin by keeping the tires in it, while his momentum kept the vehicle moving toward Mallory’s car. Because this was the main road into the neighborhood, it was wider than the side streets, giving Sean the room he needed to play chicken with Mallory.
Mallory had to slam on his brakes to avoid hitting them, and he skidded, going into his own short spin before heading back the way he’d come.
In one seamless move, Sean stopped the car, put it in park, pressed the seat-belt release, and opened the door. He had his gun out, using his door as a barrier. He fired two shots into each of Mallory’s rear tires. The car fish-tailed, turned, and stopped.
“Out!” he commanded Dillon. Mallory might shoot him, but according to Dillon, Mallory wouldn’t shoot at Kincaid. Sean was counting on that.
Mallory was out of his car, his gun drawn, and then glanced over as Dillon opened the passenger door. “Mick,” Dillon called out, “it’s over. We know about the parolee project. We know about your connection to Frances Buckley. The FBI is getting a search warrant for WCF and Buckley’s house right now.” Dillon crossed in front of the car, putting himself in the line of fire.
“Dillon!” Sean called out. What was he thinking? Sean wanted Mallory distracted. He didn’t want to give the guy an easy target.
Mallory shook his head. “You understand what we face, Kincaid.”
“I do understand. But this is not the way.”
“You have no proof.”
“We have more than you know. There’s only one thing I don’t understand. Why the elaborate game of luring Morton here? It would have been so much easier for you to kill him in Denver. Does it have something to do with Ralston going to Seattle? Morton had something you wanted, didn’t he? What was it?”
Mallory was thinking. Sean couldn’t give him time to think. He stood up, gun aimed at Mallory’s head, and approached the car.
“Don’t,” Mallory said, turning his gun toward Sean.
“You going to kill me in cold blood? Dillon, too? You fucking prick. You have a picture of Lucy in your house. How dare you!”
Mallory tossed his gun out and put his hands up. Sean hadn’t known what to expect, other than Dillon’s psych-out, but he hadn’t expected it to be this easy.
“I want to talk to Lucy.”
“Fuck no,” Sean said. “Assume the position. Dillon, search him and cuff him.” Sean tossed Dillon a set of handcuffs.
“You’re not a cop,” Mallory said.
“I think you know exactly who I am,” Sean said. “You did a background check on me. Someone tried to pull my data, now I know who.”
Mallory slowly turned around and put his hands on the car hood.
Sean said, “I’m still alive. Does that mean I passed your test?”
r /> “The jury’s still out on you, Rogan,” Mallory said quietly.
Dillon searched Mallory, found another gun, and handed it to Sean. He then cuffed Mallory and had him sit on the curb. Sirens were in the distance—the gunfire had most certainly alerted authorities.
“Dillon, I have to get to Lucy, in case there are others involved who aren’t as friendly with the Kincaids as Mallory.”
“No one will hurt Lucy,” Mallory said.
“Excuse me for not believing you,” Sean said, then turned back to Dillon. “You okay here?”
Dillon nodded. “Mick and I have some things to talk about.”
Mallory stared at them. “Dillon, I have tremendous respect for you, which is why I didn’t shoot. But we’re not talking.”
“I can help you.”
“Maybe I don’t want help.” He added softly, “Maybe I’m relieved it’s over.”
THIRTY
It was a quarter to three when Lucy received a text message from Sean.
Your chariot is running late. I have good news. Don’t leave without me, princess.
She smiled. Sean was a romantic at heart. And after the last few days, she really appreciated his attention.
The intake clerk entered the file room where Lucy was working. “Two police officers are here to see you.”
She hesitated. Was it Cody? Had he brought a friend? He hadn’t called her back; was this unannounced visit his idea of getting back to her?
“Did they say why?”
“No.”
“Can you get their names for me?”
The clerk looked at her oddly, then shrugged and left.
Lucy took her time restacking the papers she’d been sorting and filing and carefully placed them back in the in-box. Her hands were steady, but her heart thudded so loud her ears were ringing. What did they want? Were they good guys or bad guys?
And were the bad guys really bad?
When she thought about it, was she more upset that Prenter was dead or that she’d been used to kill him? What about the other parolees? Too many states no longer had an extensive parole system. They didn’t track parolees, and they rarely detained anyone for parole violations anymore because the prisons were so overcrowded. Unless the parolee had committed a new crime, he rarely went back inside.
Correction. Unless he was caught committing a new crime. Another person had to be raped or robbed or killed before the parolee went back in.
The phone beeped and startled her. She picked up the receiver and the clerk said, “Detective Light and Officer Raleigh.”
“Thanks, tell them two minutes. I have to log these files.”
She hung up and bit her lip, relieved that she didn’t have to confront Cody right now but curious about why a detective wanted to talk to her. Could Cody have told his boss about his suspicions? Whether or not he’d implicated Lucy, they could be following up on the Prenter murder.
Lucy had no feelings for the criminals who’d been killed, and that unnerved her. Was she that heartless? Sean had said she was the most compassionate person he knew, but she didn’t see that in herself. Not when she didn’t have even a sliver of grief for the dead felons.
The criminal justice system was far from perfect. Victims were often revictimized in the legal process. Parents of dead children were dragged through the mud during the investigation, their lives dissected by a judgmental society who cast blame on the families for the fate of their children. The media sat in wait outside their homes, outside the schools their kids attended, talking to friends and family, wanting to know how they felt, what they were doing the minute their child disappeared, why they weren’t with them twenty-four/seven.
Lucy wanted to scream at the stone-throwing media who created fear on which criminals fed. Predators wanted to tear apart society, to have mothers and fathers separate because of their missing child; to have neighbors gossip; to have the police question fathers about having too much or too little affection for their sons and daughters. Question friends about how much attention they give. Question family, casting doubts, making brothers turn against brothers, wives against husbands, fathers against sons, mothers against daughters.
Sisters against sisters.
Lucy had been seven when her seven-year-old nephew—and best friend—Justin was kidnapped from his bedroom in the middle of the night. She was the youngest Kincaid; Nelia was the oldest and gave birth to Justin when she was in law school, but later graduated and became a corporate attorney. The middle sister, Carina, then in college, had been babysitting for Nelia that night.
Lucy was only a child herself, but the hateful accusations that grieving Nelia had thrown at Carina in the days that followed Justin’s murder had been burned into her soul. Lucy heard the whispers that her brother-in-law Andrew had been sleeping with another woman the night Justin was kidnapped. Then, the gossip that Nelia had known about the affair and didn’t care. That she worked late every night so she didn’t have to see her husband.
Nelia had left San Diego and the family, and though over time she’d begun to talk to most of them, nothing would ever be the same.
But the worst was when Nelia looked at Lucy and Lucy felt the regret pouring off her sister in tangible waves of agony.
Why was it Justin and not you?
She’d never said it, and she’d never admit that the thought crossed her mind, but Nelia had never spoken to Lucy since Justin’s murder eighteen years ago. Not one word.
The file room door opened and Lucy whirled around. “Lucy, they’re still waiting,” the clerk said. “I took them to the employee break room because the conference rooms are being used.”
“Okay, sorry, I’m coming.” She took a deep breath. She didn’t know how long it would take for Sean to arrive, but she could face the police. If they wanted to arrest her for setting up Prenter, she could argue with them long enough to give Sean time to get here.
Lucy didn’t like relying on anyone other than herself, but sometimes just knowing someone was there, if she needed it, was enough to get her through the hardest times. But she could do this alone.
She stepped into the break room. One uniformed officer and a plainclothes detective stood to the side. Both were black, the detective tall and skinny, the cop tall and broad-shouldered. She felt smaller than she was.
“Hello, I’m Lucy Kincaid. I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” she said with a smile, and hoped she didn’t seem nervous.
“We understand, Ms. Kincaid. I’m Detective Light, this is Officer Raleigh. We’re investigating a possible suicide that’s hit the department very hard. It’s one of our own.”
Her skin burned, as if bathed in microscopic shards of glass.
Cody hadn’t called her back.
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you that Officer Cody Lorenzo died last night.”
Her knees buckled and she reached for the table. Slowly she sat down and shook her head. No words came, though she had a hundred questions weighing down her tongue.
“You once had a romantic relationship with Officer Lorenzo, correct? His partner said you remained friends.”
She nodded, still unable to speak.
Detective Light sat in the chair across from her. She couldn’t read his expression. She could barely see anything, as if the room was fading away in front of her.
Cody was dead?
“When was the last time you saw or spoke to him?” Detective Light asked quietly.
“Yesterday,” she whispered. She cleared her throat. Her hands were on the table in front of her, frozen. She stared at her short, unpainted fingernails attached to her long fingers and remembered her last words to him.
“Why would you think I could be capable of doing such a thing?”
She’d been so upset, so angry with Cody that he’d thought she’d intentionally set up Prenter, she hadn’t even accepted his apology. She’d walked away knowing he was remorseful, but she hadn’t cared. She couldn’t see past her own emotional pain and overwhelming feeli
ngs of betrayal. That he’d used her act of desperation when she’d killed Adam Scott against her. Had she wanted him to feel guilty? Had she walked away hoping he’d feel bad about his assumptions?
She hoped she wasn’t that shallow. Cody had remained one of her closest friends, even though she hadn’t been able to marry him.
“Ms. Kincaid? Are you all right?”
She nodded, though she was far from all right.
A minute later, Officer Raleigh placed a Styrofoam cup of water in front of her. She sipped automatically but tasted nothing.
“What did you talk about yesterday? Was it personal?”
“No—it was about WCF.” When they looked blankly at her, she explained. “We both volunteer at Women and Children First, a victim’s rights advocacy group.”
Raleigh said, “I’ve heard of it.”
Lucy couldn’t tell them about the dead parolees or Prenter, but what if that had something to do with Cody’s death? She couldn’t withhold information if it kept a killer free.
She asked, “You said possible suicide?”
“We’re still investigating. We haven’t made any official determination, but there was a suicide note.”
“Cody didn’t commit suicide,” she said flatly.
“Why are you so sure?”
“He’s Catholic.”
“That’s not always—”
“He wouldn’t do it to his mother. His dad died of a heart attack when he was sixteen, long before I met him; his brothers and sisters all moved out of the area. He wouldn’t do it to his mom. He wouldn’t.” She put her hand to her mouth and swallowed a sob.
Officer Raleigh unfolded a piece of paper. “This is a copy of the suicide note. The investigators are comparing handwriting samples.”
Lucy took the paper and placed it in front of her. Dark spots on the paper, copies of the bloodstain, marred the bottom corner.
Mortal Sin Page 25