“Was her grandson informed?”
"Grandson?" the orderly asked, his eyebrows caving into a frown. "Beverly doesn't have any kids."
"She does. She has a grandson who is a professor at Rutgers. Doug. He visits her all the time. I--” The rest of the words died on her lips as her adrenaline went screaming back into overdrive.
“Doug?” The orderly shook his head. “Nah, he’s just a volunteer from a nearby church. You know, the kind that come around and visit people who don't have anybody to visit them. Nice guy. In fact, he was here just before we locked the place down."
Nausea rolled over her as she struggled to think clearly. She pulled out her phone and saw an email from Carlos with an image attachment. When she opened it, Andrew Mathews’s driver’s license photo appeared.
Sure, Doug had a receding hairline, wore glasses, and he had a bit of a belly, but all that was easily faked.
There was no mistaking the face now that she had a clear image.
Doug and Andrew were one and the same.
Her head spun as she tried to make sense of it all. Andrew had been here already…come and gone, and her father was still alive and breathing. Which meant, either he hadn’t been able to get close to him before the lockdown, or her father wasn’t the immediate target.
She whipped around toward him and bent low to meet his gaze.
"Dad, I know this is hard, but I need you to try your best to remember. Did anyone come to see you today besides me?”
George considered her words for a long moment and then pulled a closed fist from beneath his blanket.
"He told me to give you this."
He held out his hand. Somewhere in her subconscious, she knew she shouldn't take what he was offering her. It could've been anything. A handful of anthrax. Some sort of miniature explosive device. But somehow, what she found cupped in her palm a second later was a thousand times more terrifying.
A gleaming, black chess piece.
The pawn.
32
Lucky radioed ‘Los as she ran, heart thudding in time with her footsteps.
He and his team were probably in place already. It had only been fifteen minutes or so since she’d seen Andrew leaving Stonybrook. They could've gotten there in plenty of time to stop whatever it was he’d been planning. But the growing dread inside her told her different.
When he didn’t reply, she switched the radio out for her cell phone, not slowing her steps as she blasted by the security desk toward the doors. Renault was briefing Hernandez and Taylor, and she let out a sigh of relief.
"Passing this location off to you,” she called to them. “Don't let anyone else in or out until you hear from me. Suspect is likely armed and dangerous."
Renault clearly sensed the urgency and had the doors unlocked for her by the time she reached them. The phone pressed to her ear continued to ring until it went to voicemail.
"This is Detective Figueroa. I can't take your call, so leave a message."
"God damn it," she snarled into the phone, "call me. He's already there or on his way, so watch your back."
Slowing for a second, she tapped out a quick text reiterating the information she had. Then, she rushed out onto the sidewalk and radioed dispatch to request additional units.
“Suspect is confirmed in the area and should be considered armed and dangerous,” she added. “Any incoming officers should be on the lookout for a white male, brown hair, five seven, hundred and forty-five pounds, possibly balding, possibly with a mustache or facial hair. Image to follow.”
She queued up the picture ‘Los had sent on her phone, and forwarded it to dispatch before picking up her pace again to a flat-out run. By the time she rounded the corner, her skin was already slick with sweat. She eyed the few storefronts and busy streets with one hand resting on the butt of her gun.
To this point, their man had taken each victim and moved them around the "board". But now, for the first time, he seemed to be planning to take one of his virtual opponent's black pieces rather than moving his own. Did that mean two murders would happen here? Maybe no murder at all, but a kidnapping?
She wanted to sprint down the street until she located her partner, but it was more important to be methodical than it was to be fast, right now. Missing something could mean the difference between life and death for some poor soul. She could almost hear ‘Los’s voice in her head.
“Patience is a virtue, Luck.”
She continued to move slowly but steadily down the sidewalk, her gaze shifting left and right, sticking for a moment on every face. Andrew could be here right now, just twenty yards away.
Watching.
Waiting.
It made the most sense to wait until dark to strike, as he had in the past. The streets were still bustling…the city was still bathed in summer sunshine, and would be for at least another two hours. There would be witnesses everywhere and nowhere to hide in broad daylight.
She eyed the multi-level cement parking garage in the distance and her pulse leapt as she picked up her pace, trying not to let the pressure make her frantic. With multiple floors, exits and stairwells, not to mention parked cars to wedge between and under, it was a veritable labyrinth, and dimly lit, to boot.
Carlos and his team had likely deduced the same.
Her phone buzzed at that moment, and she peered down at the backlit screen. Finally, a reply from ‘Los.
Roger that. I’ve got six on the streets and five of us posted on different levels of the parking garage + Flynn posing as attendant in the booth to watch for our guy coming or going. Clear so far. Where are you?
She closed her eyes for a second, willing herself not to crumble. Her father was all right, and so was ‘Los. If they could nail this bastard here and now, they could make sure that everyone else on the block would be, too.
Her hands had stopped shaking and she felt a sudden sense of calm as she tapped out her reply.
Side entrance. Coming in. What floor are you on?
They had a clear picture of their perp, with a dozen cops crawling the area already and more to come. So far, no one had seen him. Soon, they'd have enough uniforms on site to evacuate the whole block, if need be. All they had to do was make sure that he didn't get past them before then.
She made her way to the side entrance of the parking garage and stood by the door. What to do now? She should go around the block to the main entrance and wait for backup—already, she could hear the sirens in the distance. But then ‘Los’s face flitted through her mind.
She hesitated, sparing a glance at her silent phone. Her reply was left unread.
God damn it.
She rested her hand on her gun and toed the heavy door open. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the relative darkness when she stepped inside. She cocked her head and listened.
All was quiet and she began to move down toward the attendant's booth in the distance, scanning her surroundings as she went. Suddenly, there was a flash of movement to her right and she wheeled around, drawing her pistol and clicking off the safety in one motion.
"Police," she called. "Come out and show me your hands."
Silence again, and whatever she'd seen was gone.
She sucked in a breath full of exhaust fumes and took a tentative step toward the movement. Maybe it was just a rat or something. She was almost feeling silly now, so sure that this was all going to happen right here, right now. For all she knew, Andrew had seen what a plum location the garage would be and purposely decided against coming because he knew it would be the most logical place for them to focus on.
"Hello?"
The muffled sound of footsteps against the cement floor a moment later had her stopping short again. She reached for her radio with her free hand and something big crashed against her midsection.
"Oof," she grunted as the wind left her in a whoosh.
She stumbled and bounced off a nearby vehicle, her gun skittering from her hand. She tumbled, barely managing to break her fall as
she clutched the bumper of the car and scanned the floor for her weapon.
"I knew you'd come."
She pushed herself to standing again just as her assailant renewed his attack, this time, clocking her in the mouth with a closed fist.
She was slumped against the hood of a sedan, head spinning, when she finally caught sight of him.
Andrew Mathews.
"Couldn't help yourself, could you?" he asked, a mocking smile tugging at thin lips that were nearly buried under a waxed mustache. Wearing a baseball cap backwards and without his balding prosthetic or paunchy belly, he looked at least ten years younger than Doug, but the eyes were the same.
She was about to open her mouth to scream when something silver flashed in the air, just inches from her face.
"Ah, ah, ah, Ella. No screaming,” he said as he pressed the knife against her cheek. “I don't want to have to mess up that pretty face."
He was so close, now, she could smell his sour breath and she gagged. The sound of sirens grew louder and she forced a tight smile to her face.
"That's why you left the pawn piece with him for me to find, isn’t it? To lure me to this space on the board so you could kill me and then go back and murder my father?” She held his gaze, just praying he would want to talk. Hoping his need to punish her family and twist the knife a little more would buy her some time.
"I considered it,” he said with a nod, never taking his gaze from her face. “Then, I started visiting the nursing home. After a while spent with King George, watching him drooling and rambling half the time, I realized death would be a mercy. But if I took you out? There would be suffering. When he remembered you were dead, at least.”
He trailed a finger over her bloodied, throbbing lip and she resisted the urge to bite it off.
“I’m the victim here, you know."
"Your mother broke the law. She got herself put in prison and you paid the price. That wasn’t my father’s fault.”
He squeezed her face so tight, her teeth cut into her cheeks and she gasped.
“It was his fault,” he snarled. “My mother was a saint. She did what she had to do to take care of me, and got in over her head. Your father wanted to make a name for himself so he made an example of her.”
He was shaking with rage and she wondered if she pushed him too far, but a second later, he released her and took a step back. She didn’t waste time on words. She jerked her knee up as hard as she could and rammed it between his legs with all her might.
He stumbled back, cupping himself as the knife clattered to the floor.
“Help!” she hollered, lunging for her gun a few yards away. She’d just closed her fingers over it when he let out a roar and charged her.
He tackled her to the ground, hard, but after a bone-jarring fall, she managed to roll away and get her trigger finger in place.
“That’s it, Mathews. Put your hands where I can see them,” a low, male voice called.
She craned her neck to see Flynn moving toward them, fast.
Andrew met her gaze and, for a second, she thought he was going to ignore the directive. Hell, part of her hoped he would. All she needed was a hint of a reason to pull the trigger…
He raised both hands and stared down at her, an eerie calm seeming to come over him. Apparently, Andrew didn’t want to die today.
She pushed herself to her feet and stepped toward him. “You have the right to remain silent,” she muttered, hands shaking as she squeezed the butt of the pistol tighter to steady them. She continued to read him his rights and Flynn slipped the cuffs on him.
She’d just finished Mirandizing him when two squad cars tore up past the booth and up the slight incline, a moment later. Both screeched to a stop side by side a few yards away. The wailing ceased but the lights continued to flash as four officers stepped out onto the cement and headed toward them.
A door opened and closed to her left, sending an echo through the garage, but she kept her gaze locked on Andrew.
"Flynn, if you can radio the others to come on in. Let them know we've got our man," she said, her voice deceptively calm. Inside, there was a riot going on.
It was over.
It was finally over.
The officers from the squad cars moved in to flank her as Flynn radioed the others. She holstered her pistol and moved toward Andrew as one of the officers took his arm.
“Poor, brilliant, broken Ella. Always has all the answers and everyone hates you for it." His voice dropped to a whisper as he craned his neck closer. "Only, this time…you were only half right."
He grinned and then lunged toward her, nearly breaking free of the two uniforms who held him.
She watched in silence as they dragged him toward the squad car.
"Don’t listen to him," Flynn muttered. "You did good. He's a psycho, he's just rambling and trying to bait you."
But as the stairwell door opened and closed again, a sickening feeling settled over her.
She wheeled around to see a pair of uniforms crossing the garage toward them.
"What floors were you two on, Bennetti?" she demanded.
"We were both on three,” he replied, slowing to a stop in front of her. "Why, what's going on?"
She ignored his question. “What about the others?”
“Flynn was at the bottom of the ramp at the booth, by the street, Combs and Smith took the second floor. Figueroa wanted the guys inside the garage in pairs.”
Except, there had only been five of them searching the different levels.
He’d gone alone.
Her vision blurred, shrinking to a pinprick of light as fear snaked through her. She could feel the pulse in her neck. Hear her own heartbeat, a low thud in her head. Her tongue was thick and clumsy in her mouth, but she forced herself to speak.
"So what floor did ‘Los take?"
“This one.” Bennetti’s face went an ashy gray. "He’s not here?"
Lucky yanked the radio off her belt and depressed the call button.
"’Los?"
She released the button and waited, fear wrapping her gut in an icy fist.
Nothing.
"Detective Carlos Figueroa, do you copy?"
Static crackled back at her and she began to walk, the hand clutching the radio dropping to her side.
"’Los?" she tried to yell, but the sound came out like a hoarse whisper, rusty and harsh.
She moved faster, peering between each car, bending low to look beneath them as she walked through the garage, the clip clip clipping of her boots on the cement breaking the ominous silence.
"Spread out," she called behind her. "Two of you circle the block and see if you can find him."
Walk the grid, she told herself. Don't think about what it is you're looking for. Just think about finding it.
Red car.
Black SUV.
Motorcycle.
Alcove and elevators.
Next row.
"’Los, can you hear me?" she called. The words burned her throat raw and she held the radio up to her mouth again. Her fingers trembled so badly, it took two hands to push the call button. "This is three one seven, anything yet? Over."
"Negative."
"Negative."
“Negative.”
“Negative.”
A long pause before the last reply.
"Negative."
Her legs began to propel her forward again, but she couldn't feel them anymore. The buzzing in her head reached a fever pitch and she had to remind herself to breathe.
It was going to be all right. She and ‘Los would be laughing about this later on. Maybe she'd go back to McDougal’s with him and teach him how to play pool. Hell, maybe she'd finally do what he'd been bugging her to do and talk to some of the others. He’d be so—
She saw his shoes, first. Black leather, scuffed and worn. He kept polishing them instead of getting new ones because they were lucky.
“Lucky shoes, partner named Lucky, what could go wrong?”
The sound that came out of her wasn't a scream, but it reverberated through her whole body. A low, guttural groan, the sound of a mortally wounded battleship as it finally gave way and sank into the sea.
She dropped to her knees beside him and grabbed him by the shoulders. "’Los? ‘Los. God damn it, open your fucking eyes." Hot tears spilled down her cheeks and splashed onto his pale face, but he remained motionless.
Nonononono...
"Help," she called, her voice a whisper. She swallowed a breath and tried again. "Help! Help! Officer down!"
She kicked her legs out in front of her and dragged him by his shirt onto her lap, desperately searching his still-warm neck for a pulse.
"Please don't do this to me, ‘Los. Please don't fucking do this."
She cupped his face with her free hand and tried to stop the tremors. She probably couldn't feel a pulse because she was shaking so bad. The sound of rushing footsteps reached her and she looked up to see two blurry shapes standing over her.
"Give me room, Luck," a low, male voice commanded.
Flynn.
His tone was firm and calm, and she released ‘Los's neck instinctively as Flynn replaced her hand with his.
"Ambulance is three minutes out," another voice murmured.
"Anything?" Lucky said, staring at Flynn's grim face. "Do you feel anything at all?"
He didn't respond but she could see the muscles working in his throat.
"Start CPR, then. What the fuck are you doing?" she shouted, scrambling to move Carlos's head from her lap and get out of the way. "Start chest compressions, god damn it!"
She swiped a hand over her tear-soaked face to clear her vision, but it only made them sting more. The wail of sirens sounded again, but she barely heard them. Almost in a trance, she stared at her blood-slicked hands.
So much of it.
She looked down at Carlos again and saw the pool around him. It had been almost invisible, but now she could see it gleaming wetly, drenching his black button-down shirt.
Something inside her disconnected, then. Later, when she would look back on it, she would see herself from above, like a spectator. Slumped shoulders straightening, reaching for the gun at her hip. Taking one last look at ‘Los's face before walking, then stalking, across the lot.
Lucky Break (Lucky Strickland) Page 21