Lena began, “I wouldn’t say—” just as Frank answered, “Yes.”
“I imagine she’s fairly confident,” Wagner said. “Women don’t get through medical school being demure.” She frowned. “They won’t like that.”
Molly said, “I’m her nurse at the clinic. Sara’s the most levelheaded person I know. She wouldn’t do anything to compromise the situation, especially with children there.”
Wagner looked at her crew. “What do you think, boys?”
The one who held the cell phone to his ear said, “No doubt they’ll have a problem with her.”
The other added, “They’ll need to get rid of that adrenaline soon.” He started to nod. “I’ll go with them keeping the woman.”
“I concur,” Wagner said, and Lena felt her blood run cold.
Molly said, “You don’t think they’ll…”
Wagner’s incredulous tone was sharp as a tack. “They’ve killed four police officers and shot at children, severely wounding one of them. Do you think they’ll draw the line at sexual assault?” She turned her attention toward Frank. “You were in there, Detective. What did they come for? What else will they want?”
He shrugged, and Lena could feel his anger and confusion. “I don’t know.”
Wagner started to interrogate him. “What’s the first thing they did?”
“They shot Matt. They shot up the station.”
“Would you say that their primary goal was to shoot Detective Hogan?”
Even though Lena had heard Nick giving someone details over the phone, she was surprised the woman knew Matt’s name.
Wagner prompted, “Detective Wallace?”
Frank shrugged again. “I don’t know.”
“You know more than we do, Detective. You were there. What did they say?”
“I don’t know. They were yelling. Well, one of them was yelling. He started slapping Marla around. I went to the back of the station to call Nick.”
Lena chewed the tip of her tongue. She had never liked Marla, but there was something horrific about beating up an old lady. Considering all they had done, Lena should not have been surprised, but still, hearing about Marla took her anger up yet another notch.
“Wait a minute,” Frank said. Judging by his look, a lightbulb had gone off in his head. “He asked for the Chief. The one who said his name was Smith. He told Marla he wanted to see the Chief. She told me, and I found Jeffrey and…” He had spoken in a rush until he got to Jeffrey’s name.
Somehow, Wagner made sense of what he was trying to say. “They asked for Chief Tolliver but they shot Detective Hogan?”
“I…” Frank shrugged. “I guess.”
She looked around the room, finding Pat Morris over by Lena. “You’re Morris?”
He nodded, obviously uncomfortable with being singled out. “Yes, ma’am.”
She gave him a disarming smile, as if they were old friends. “You were there from the beginning?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And what did you see?”
“Same as Frank.”
Her smile thinned slightly. “Which was?”
“I was at my desk typing up a report,” Morris began. “The Chief came into the room and I asked him a question about how to get to the D-15 screen. I’m not that great with computers.”
“That’s fine,” Wagner soothed. “And then?”
Lena could see Morris swallow hard. “And then Matt came in the front door. Marla said something to him, like ‘There you are,’ then Dr. Linton screamed.”
“Just screamed?”
“No, ma’am. She said, ‘Jeffrey,’ like she was warning him.”
Wagner took a breath, then let it go. She pressed her lips together and Lena noticed her lipstick had smeared a bit. “So, we could have a case of mistaken identity.”
Frank said, “How’s that?”
“The shooter thought Detective Hogan was your Chief.” Wagner looked around the room. “I know this is a silly question, but is there a particular perp your Chief put away who might be capable of doing something like this?”
Lena racked her brain for cases, wondering why she had not done this before. There were plenty of people she could think of who were angry enough to want to kill Jeffrey, but none of them had the balls to do it. Besides, it was never the big talkers who acted on their threats. It was the quiet ones, the ones who let their anger burn in the pit of their stomachs until it exploded, who actually showed up with a gun.
“It was worth a shot.” Wagner addressed the group again. “Either way, mission accomplished for our two shooters. They came to kill Tolliver and as far as they know that was done in the first two minutes. Their escape was blocked by our helpful dry cleaner here, who ran into the street with his shotgun. I would guess their primary goal right now would be to get out of the building without being killed.”
“Amanda?” Nick said. He walked through the room holding a rolled-up blueprint in his hand. “Ventilation plan.”
“Good,” she told him, spreading the schematic out on the table. She studied the layout of the ventilation system for a moment, tracing a shaft along a section of the back wall. “This looks like the best spot,” she decided. “We can go through the drop ceiling in the conference room to access the duct and slide a Minicam through to get a bird’s-eye of what’s going on.”
Frank said, “Why can’t we just go through the ceiling?”
“The tiles break too easily. We don’t want dust falling down and alerting them to—”
“No,” he interrupted her, his voice excited. “The drop ceiling goes the whole length of the station. You could just climb over that back wall and drop down and—”
“End up killing everyone in there,” Wagner finished. “We’re far from last resorts at this point, Detective Wallace. What we want now is video and sound coming out of that room. Our first step toward controlling the situation is knowing what they’re up to.”
Wagner motioned her team closer, and they bent over the map, planning their point of entry. Lena watched them for a few minutes, trying to follow their jargon as they ran down the supplies they would need. She noticed Nick standing to the side, a hard look on his face. How he had left this kind of action was beyond her. There had to be more to the story of the Whitfield hostage situation than Frank knew. There was always a darker truth behind those sorts of rumors. God knows what kind of shit people had made up about Lena when she left the force.
Beside her, Pat Morris shifted against the table holding the coffee machine. He whispered to Lena, “You following anything they’re saying?”
She shook her head.
“They seem to know what they’re doing,” Morris told her, and though Lena agreed, she did not comment.
“It’s so weird,” Morris continued, his voice still low. “The shooters, they can’t be much older than my little brother, and he’s still in high school.”
She turned to him, warning bells going off in her head. “You’re serious?” she asked. “How young? How young did they look?”
He shrugged. “They gotta be older, but they looked eighteen at the most.”
“Why do they have to be older?” Lena asked. She noticed that Wagner and her team had grown quiet, but she didn’t care. “Slight builds? Androgynous?”
Morris shifted uncomfortably under the pressure. “I don’t know, Lena. It happened so fast.”
Wagner broke in. “What are you thinking, Detective Adams?”
“The last case I worked on before I left,” Lena said, the lump rising in her throat making it hard for her to speak.
Nick slammed his fist into the table, saying, “Goddammit,” and Lena imagined the horror on his face mirrored her own. He had worked the case, too, and seen the damage firsthand.
“Oh, no,” Molly said. “You don’t think…”
Wagner’s tone said her patience was running low. “Let’s cut the suspense, folks.”
“Jennings,” Lena finally said, the name bringing the ta
ste of bile to the back of her throat. “A pedophile who’s good at getting young men to do all the dirty work.”
Chapter Eight
Monday
Jeffrey helped the paramedics carry Robert down the front steps. He was still refusing to get onto a stretcher for his own hardheaded reasons, and every time Jeffrey tried to talk to him, Robert just shook his head, as if he could not speak.
Jeffrey offered, “I’ll be by the hospital as soon as Hoss gets here.”
Robert shook his head for the hundredth time. “No, man. I’m okay. Just make sure Jessie gets to her mama’s.”
Jeffrey patted his shoulder. “We’ll talk tomorrow when you’re more up to it.”
“I’m okay,” Robert insisted. Even when they loaded him into the back of the ambulance, he only said, “Make sure you look after Jess.”
Jeffrey walked back to the house, but he did not go in. Instead, he sat on the front steps, waiting for Hoss to show up. Clayton Hollister was the town’s sheriff—had been as long as Jeffrey could remember—and when he’d called about the shooting, Jeffrey had learned that the old man had literally gone fishing. Hoss was heading back from Lake Martin, which was about half an hour’s drive away. When Jeffrey had offered to go ahead and help process the scene, his old mentor had told him to hold up. “He’ll still be dead when I get there.”
Two sheriff’s deputies stood outside talking to Robert’s neighbors, both of them knowing better than to go inside the house until the boss arrived. Hoss ran his force with an iron fist, a management style Jeffrey had never taken to. Jeffrey knew the old man would be doubly attentive on this one; Robert and Jeffrey would likely be career criminals right now except for Hoss’s early intervention. He had ridden them hard when they were teenagers, hawking their every move. Even when Hoss wasn’t around, his deputies knew that the two boys were his special project, and they were just as vigilant as the sheriff, maybe even more so.
At the time, Jeffrey had resented the man’s prying—he already had a father, even if Jimmy Tolliver spent more time in jail than he did at home—but now that he was a cop himself, Jeffrey understood the favor Hoss had done him as a kid. There was a reason both Jeffrey and Robert had chosen law enforcement as their careers. In his own way, Hoss had led by example. Though who knew what the hell Robert was up to now.
Sitting on the front porch watching the deputies, Jeffrey kept running back over Robert’s story, trying to make sense of what he and Jessie had said. Something wasn’t adding up, but that shouldn’t have been surprising, considering Jeffrey was back in Sylacauga. He hated this Podunk town, hated the way every second that passed here seemed to be sucking the life out of him. He had been an idiot for coming back, and even more stupid for dragging Sara along with him. Nothing here had changed in the last six years. Possum and Bobby were still spending every Sunday together, waxing nostalgic by the pool while Jessie got drunk off her ass and Nell added her bitter quips to the mix. Sara being here had made things worse than he could have imagined.
Despite his idiotic admission last night, Jeffrey could not decide exactly how he felt about Sara. She had managed somehow to get under his skin, and part of him had asked her to go to Florida in the hopes that he would be able to fuck her out of his system once and for all. Normally, the women he dated bent over backward to please him, which generally got old after a few months and became a good justification for moving on to the next one in line. Sara was not like that. On the surface, she was the kind of woman he always thought he would end up settling down with: a perfect combination of sexuality and self-confidence that made it impossible for him to get bored. It was a case of being careful what you wished for, though, because underneath it all, she was a lot of work. She had her own opinions about things and her mind was not easily changed. To make matters worse, her mother obviously thought he was the Devil incarnate and her sister had pegged him instantly for the kind of player he’d been all his life. She had actually laughed in his face when she opened the door to Sara’s house yesterday, giving him a knowing up-and-down look, telling Jeffrey his reputation preceded him.
His gut reaction was to prove them all wrong. Maybe that was the problem—and the root to his attraction. Jeffrey wanted their approval. He wanted people to think he was a good guy, the kind of guy who came from a nice middle-class, God-fearing family that stood on the right side of the law. That seemed like a lost cause now. Sara was looking at him the same way everyone else in Sylacauga did, like he was just as bad as his father.
“Hey,” Sara said, sitting down beside him on the steps.
He moved away from her. “How’s Jessie?”
“Passed out on the couch,” Sara told him, folding her arms around her knees. Her tone was reserved, like they were strangers.
“Is she on something?”
“I think her adrenaline gave out and whatever she took earlier finally caught up with her.” She stared at him, seemed to be studying him.
“What?”
“We need to talk.”
Dread washed over Jeffrey, but of the thousand things that came to his mind, what she actually said was more shocking than any of them.
“You changed the crime scene.”
“What?” He stood up, putting himself between Sara and the crowd on the street. He knew he had done nothing wrong, but still he felt defensive. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You left the door open.”
“The back door? How else were you supposed to get in?”
Sara tucked her chin into her chest, the way she did when she was trying to keep her calm. “The armoire,” she said. “You opened the door. You put the shirt back in.”
He remembered now, and for the life of him he could not understand his own actions. “I just—” He couldn’t find an answer. “I don’t know what I was doing. I was upset. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Sara spoke matter-of-factly. “A man holds a gun to his wife’s head, shoots at him, and Robert runs to the armoire, grabs his gun, and shuts the door?”
Jeffrey tried to think of a logical explanation. “He probably shut it without thinking.” Even as he spoke, Jeffrey knew he was grasping at straws. The timing didn’t work.
Sara stood up, brushing dirt off the back of her pajamas. “I’m not going to be an accomplice to this,” she told him, and it sounded like a warning.
“An accomplice?” he repeated, thinking he had heard wrong.
“Changing the crime scene.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he said, heading back inside.
She followed him like she did not trust him alone in the house. “Where are you going?”
“I’ll close it back,” he answered, walking into the bedroom. He stopped in front of the armoire. The door was already closed.
When he looked at Sara for an explanation, she said, “I didn’t close it.”
Jeffrey opened the door again and stood back. He took another step back and as they both watched, it closed. He laughed with relief. “See?” He duplicated his actions with the same result. “The floor must be uneven,” he explained, testing the floorboards. “When you step back here, it closes.”
A flicker of doubt crossed Sara’s eyes. “Okay,” she said, like she still was not sure.
“What?”
“Was the safe locked?”
He opened the door again, finding a black gun safe on the top shelf. “Combination lock,” he said. “He could have left it open. They don’t have kids.”
She was staring at the dead man on the floor. “I want to sit in on the autopsy.”
Jeffrey had somehow forgotten about the body in the room. He turned now, and looked at the corpse. The man’s blond hair was matted with blood, partially concealing his face. His bare back was riddled with blood and brain, the laces of his untied tennis shoes stringing across the floor. Jeffrey never understood how people could think a dead person was just sleeping. Death changed the air, charged it with something thick and unsettling. Even with his half-opened e
ye and slackened jaw, there was no mistaking that the man was dead.
Jeffrey said, “Let’s get out of here,” leaving the room.
Sara stopped him in the hallway. “Did you hear me?” she said. “I want to sit in—”
“Why don’t you do it yourself?” he interrupted, thinking this would be the only way to shut her up. “They don’t have a coroner here. The guy who runs the funeral home does it for a hundred bucks a pop.”
“All right,” she said, but the guarded look on her face was far from reassuring. Jeffrey knew if she found anything out of place, from a pattern wound to an ingrown toenail, she’d throw it back at him that she was right.
“What do you think you’re going to find?” he demanded, then remembering Jessie was in the next room, he lowered his voice. “You think my best friend’s a murderer?”
“He already admitted to shooting that man.”
Jeffrey walked toward the front door, wanting to get out of the house and away from Sara. Typically, she followed him, unable to let it go.
She put her hands on her hips, her tone the same she probably used to talk to her patients. “Think about their story, Jeffrey.”
“I don’t have to think about it,” he said, but the more Sara talked, the more he did, and he did not like the conclusions his mind was drawing. He finally asked, “Why are you doing this?”
“The time frame doesn’t jibe with what we heard in the street.”
Jeffrey shut the front door, not wanting their conversation to be overheard. Through the narrow window, he could see the deputies talking to the ambulance driver who had just pulled up.
Sara said, “There was a lag between the scream and the first shot.”
He tried to remember the sequence, but could not. Still, he said, “That’s not how it happened.”
“The shot was a few beats later.”
“What’s a few beats?”
“Maybe five seconds.”
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