Using all her strength, Annie threw the clump of brick as hard as she could. She felt a flash of triumph at a loud metallic clatter.
The shots came swiftly, one, two, three, flashes of brightness no more than twenty feet away.
Hyla Harrison held her cell close to her lips. “Ten thirty. Milton Construction. Ten seventy-five. Ten eighty-four. Ten forty-three.” She moved silent as a wraith through the swirling fog, repeating her call. She’d left her shoes near her scooter. Her feet were wet and cold, but she stepped quietly, lightly as a feather falls. “Ten thirty. Milton Construction. Ten seventy-five. Ten eighty-four. Ten forty-three.” The warnings were explicit: danger/caution, location, shooting, crime in progress, urgent/use lights and sirens. It was only when she was sure the message had been received loud and clear, Lou Pirelli barking, “Ten ninety-three, ten ninety-three,” that she added, “Assailant armed and dangerous. Shots at Annie Darling. Stalking Annie Darling with gun. Officer off-duty, unarmed.”
Lou’s voice was shocked. “Unarmed? Wait for us.”
Hyla didn’t answer. She couldn’t be sure of the location of the shots, but she felt if she kept going slightly to her left, she would find him. How many bullets did he have left? Did he have an extended magazine? Or a supply in his pocket? One step, two, three…
“Hey, Annie. I got a deal for you.” There was a burble of panic in Brad Milton’s deep voice.
Hyla stiffened. Over there. She moved cautiously from behind a tree.
The fog shifted. Brad Milton stood hunched in a tight posture only a few feet from Annie’s Thunderbird, his head swiveling back and forth, back and forth. Perhaps he heard the crackle of a twig near him. He turned, saw her.
Hyla lunged for cover, shouted, “Police. Hands up. You’re surrounded. Police. Throw down your weapon.”
He raised his arm. Rapid gunshots, harsh, cracking like a whip.
Max hummed as he placed the ball behind an especially challenging curl in the indoor carpet, worthy of a Pete Dye course. His cell rang. He tapped the ball, which promptly veered off onto the floor. That was probably about as well as he would do on an actual Pete Dye course. He leaned over his desk and retrieved the phone. He noted the caller ID. “Hey, Mari—”
The reporter’s raspy voice was an octave high. “Scanner. Shots. Brad Milton Construction. Annie’s there. Oh, God, Max, he’s shooting at her.”
Shots. Hyla’s shouts. Thrashing in the underbrush.
Annie knelt behind a wheelbarrow. Hyla was off duty. Annie felt a welter of conflicting emotion, gratitude that Hyla was there, guilt that she was in danger. Annie understood what must have happened. Hyla had followed Annie, dogged her path from the Hathaway house to the agency to this isolated place of terror. How like Hyla, so stiff and serious, wanting to help Billy, trying to think how, offering what she knew to Annie. Hyla pondering that decision in her careful way and deciding she might have set more in motion than she had intended. Hyla out of uniform. Unarmed. Trying now to save Annie.
The fog seemed to press down on Annie, a living entity, heavy, dark, unrelenting.
Annie blinked back tears. Hyla had done her best, yelling that the police were here. But they weren’t. In this mist-heavy, forsaken place, three of them were frozen in time, Hyla and Annie and Death.
Max gunned the Maserati, his hands clenched on the wheel. Despite the fog, he careened around curves, picked up speed on straight stretches, plummeted through the swath of gray, watching, ready to brake, willing anything and everything out of his way. Annie. He had to get to Annie. Brad Milton. That out-of-the-way, remote clearing. Max felt numb. He should have known. Brad had been glib, quick to claim that he and Everett had ironed everything out. Why would Everett have backed off? Everett was small natured, petty. There had been no agreement. Brad faced financial devastation. So he killed Everett and then Gretchen and Maggie, and now Annie was in dreadful danger. The police were on their way. But Brad had a gun. The Maserati jolted in the ruts leading to Brad’s buildings. Ahead of him, Max heard the wail of sirens. He ached inside.
Shots rattled. Annie covered her ears. She trembled. She wanted to run for the woods, plunge into the trees, slam to earth behind a fat-trunked live oak, escape from a man who was ready to blindly kill and kill again. He must be hoping that Hyla lied, that once again he would be safe if only he killed some more. There was no sound from Hyla. Had bullets ripped into her flesh, stained the plaid shirt?
A branch crackled nearby.
Annie’s heart lurched. He must be very near. If she could find anything to serve as a weapon… She swept her hands inside the rough interior of the wheelbarrow. Nothing. She hated to leave the spurious sense of safety from the wheelbarrow, but she had to find a weapon. She moved in a crouch, one step after another. There—straight ahead—a greater darkness in the fog, the waist-high stack of used bricks. She reached out, hefted a brick. She was not strong enough to throw the five-pound weight very far. Perhaps ten or twelve feet. That might bring Brad close enough to see her.
Hyla had called and shouted to help Annie. Then the terrible crack of gunfire and awful silence.
Annie took a deep breath, whirled like a shot putter. The brick arced away toward the woods, opposite where she’d last heard Hyla, and thudded heavily to the ground.
Heavy running steps sounded near, so near.
Annie grabbed another brick.
Here he came. Breathing heavily, Brad pounded out of the fog only a foot or so away.
Brush crashed off to one side. Hyla’s voice rose in a brusque commanding shout. “Police. Drop your weapon. Police.”
Brad swung toward the sound of Hyla’s voice. He looked huge, head butted forward, big shoulders hunched. His hand rose, lifting the gun, pointing the barrel toward Hyla.
Annie scrambled toward him. He was too big, too strong for her to bring down, but she had to stop him from firing. Hyla had come after her…
His breath came in huge rasps, masking her approach.
Desperately, she lifted the brick, crashed it down on his right hand.
The gun spun from his hand as he grunted in pain.
Hyla exploded out of the mist, running toward them, her feet pounding on the hard ground.
Brad flung a long arm toward Annie, knocking her away. She fell backward, rolled to one side, tried to get up.
Shouting, Brad started for her, then stopped, chest heaving. He swung away in search of the gun, swearing in a harsh monotone.
Red lights whirling, cars squealed into the clearing, men erupted, lights shone. “Police. Hands up. Police. Drop your weapons. Police.”
Brad was down on one knee, reaching for the gun.
Without hesitation, Hyla propelled herself forward, dropped a thick strand of vine around his neck, and yanked as she slammed a knee into his back.
Maddened as a pricked bull, he twisted and bucked, heaving Hyla to one side.
Lou Pirelli, stocky and strong, and Coley Benson, young and tough, slammed Brad to the ground and held him until he was shackled.
“I’ll sue the police.” Brad’s voice was hoarse and his eyes wild. “I try to deal with a trespasser and I get attacked. I don’t know what’s going on…”
15
Milton can play any tune he wants to, but we got him for attempted murder and that’s enough until we prove the rest of the case. But”—a sigh—“I have to get the so-call chief involved.” He clicked the phone. “Mr. Farrell.” Lou Pirelli was polite even though his face registered disgust. “We’ve solved a triple murder case and now must arrange for the release of a man arrested in error.”
“Listen, I got busted pipes to deal with.” Farrell’s querulous voice blasted over the speaker phone in the station break room. “If you got questions, ask the mayor. He said there wasn’t nothing for me to do. Or handle it yourself.”
Lou’s face brightened. “Sure thing, sir. We have everything under control.” He was crisp, forceful. “With your approval, we’ll provide the mayor with an update at the app
ropriate time.”
“Yeah. That’s the way to handle it. Thanks.” The call ended.
Lou clicked off the phone. His look of satisfaction slowly seeped away. “Okay, we charge Milton, start rounding up evidence, enough that even the circuit solicitor will agree. But Billy’s still out in the cold. You know what will happen”—he looked at Annie and Max on the other side of the long green table—“the mayor will take credit and conveniently forget he insisted on charging Jeremiah. He won’t reinstate Billy.”
Annie finished a last bite of a golden hot glazed donut, welcomed a pulse of energy and, yes, the lift might be a temporary sugar high, but she needed all the bolstering she could get. It would be a long time before she forgot the fog and the fear. She would never forget the debt she owed to Sgt. Hyla Harrison, one arm now in a sling to ease the discomfort of the shoulder bruised when Brad shook her off. And, of course, there was Max. She slid a tentative glance toward him. He was pale, his face set in tight lines, his dark blue eyes haunted. As soon as they left the station, he would be very explicit about the foolishness of walking into a lion’s den.
She reached out, touched his arm. “I was sure it was Leslie.”
His gaze was grim. “You should have called me.”
“I would have called, I swear, if I’d had any idea I’d stumbled close to the truth. Honestly, it never occurred to me that Brad was the murderer.” She took a deep breath. “I know I’m lucky.” Her voice was small.
His face softened. “It wasn’t just luck. If Hyla didn’t respect you, she would never have told you about the boat. And, being Hyla, she realized she had to be sure you didn’t do something dumb.”
Annie didn’t think Max was excelling at tact. But whatever Hyla’s motivation, Annie was grateful. However, she knew that Hyla would simply shake her head and mutter that she’d just been doing her duty.
Annie was quite willing to pay respect where respect was due. “Thanks to Hyla, Brad Milton’s under arrest for assault with a deadly weapon. I’ll bet they find tire prints from his electric car at Better Tomorrow and at Henny’s and Maggie’s and somewhere near the Hathaway house. His fingerprints may be on the green bike he used the night he killed Everett. If the bullets that killed Maggie match the gun he shot at Hyla and me, that’s all the proof anyone needs.”
“Yeah, we got him.” Lou sounded confident. “We’ll fill in the chinks. But that won’t get Billy his job back.” He heaved a sigh. “Now I got to call the mayor and tell him what’s happened. He’ll prance like a peacock.”
Annie sat up straight, her expression eager. It might be the sugar but she had an idea. “That’s the answer. Achilles’ heel.”
Lou looked worried. “You feeling okay? Maybe you should go home and rest.”
“Attention.” Annie beamed at her husband and the stocky police sergeant. “The mayor has a news conference scheduled at four o’clock. He’ll want to look good, right? Here’s what we can do.” She talked fast.
When she finished, Max gave a fist pump. “It’s a great idea. But Annie and I can’t make the pitch. Cosgrove loathes both of us.”
Annie looked thoughtful. “Laurel?” Men from nine to ninety responded to her beauty and charm.
Max slowly shook his head. “He knows she’s my mother.”
Annie was reluctant to pass over Laurel. But Max was probably right. “Okay, we need someone with a strong personality who is well known on the island, preferably rich. Cosgrove loves rich. Someone who is impossible to divert once started. A friend of Billy’s… Oh, yes. Yes!” She reached for her cell. “The mayor won’t know what hit him.”
Blue sky and a balmy afternoon reminded Annie anew why a South Carolina barrier island was undoubtedly the most glorious place in the universe to live. The morning’s fog and chill were just a memory. She nosed the Thunderbird into a parking slot a couple of blocks from the station. Cars lined the curbs on either side of the station. The lot at the park across the street was full. She picked up oversized sunglasses, slipped them on, and turned to Max. “Would you recognize me?” She wore a straw hat from last spring with daffodil yellow ribbons tied beneath her chin.
Max grinned. “Sweetie, I’d know you in a burlap bag. Especially a short burlap bag.”
She laughed. “Would the mayor recognize me?”
He tilted his head. “Most men—”
“Max.” Her tone was warning.
His gaze was innocent. “If you want a primer on what men look for, I’m your guy. Actually, Cosgrove will only have eyes for the TV camera, so you’re probably safe enough. How about me?” He tapped the brim of his baseball cap. A paint-splashed blue cotton shirt hung untucked over age white jeans. He’d burrowed in the hall closet and found an old pair of cowboy boots.
“No one should pay any attention to us.” She glanced at her watch. “Five minutes to four.” She felt a flutter of anxiety. Everything was set in motion, but she and Max had to remain in the background. She gave him a jaunty salute. “Let’s go.”
A half dozen TV cameras ranged in front of the police station. Annie thought it likely that news crews had arrived on the ferry from as far away as Savannah and Charleston. Lou Pirelli had sent out bulletins to all the coastal stations, alerting them that the solution to a triple murder would be announced at the mayor’s four o’clock news conference on the front steps of the Broward’s Rock police station.
The front door opened at precisely four o’clock. By this time a crowd of perhaps fifty had gathered, including many downtown shop owners who had put out Back Soon signs, boat captains with no charters that foggy morning, retirees glad for a break from dominos, and high school students attracted by the television crews. Annie and Max stood behind a group of twittering girls.
Mayor Cosgrove, natty in a gray pinstripe, lavender shirt, and yellow tie, bustled outside. Lou Pirelli, freshly shaved, his curly dark hair neatly brushed, looked impressively muscular in his crisp khaki uniform. His eyes skittered around the crowd. He saw Annie, made a quick thumbs-up.
Annie grabbed Max’s arm. “Everything’s set.”
Cosgrove cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen.” He lifted his rounded face, beamed at the cameras. “I am pleased to announce—”
A horn powerful as a sub’s klaxon boomed as a maroon Rolls Royce slid to a stop in the middle of the street. A chauffeur in matching purple livery came from the driver’s side to open the rear door.
Emma Clyde, bristly hair bright silver today, stepped out. Her lavender caftan with dashes of gold swirled as she swept toward the front door. Stubby fingers clutched four rolls of parchment. She nodded regally in passing as the crowd drew back, affording her passage.
The TV cameras swung toward her.
The mayor’s face drew down in a petulant frown. “Here now…” His voice was drowned out by rising murmur from the onlookers.
“Mayor Cosgrove.” Emma might have been greeting a royal personage. She reached the end of the walk. Without hesitation, she climbed the steps, turned to face the cameras, standing beside him. In her eye-catching dress, her square face serene and imperious, she was the focus of every gaze.
“Excuse me,” the mayor sputtered.
Emma held up a stubby hand and a ruby ring glittered in the sunlight. “Your Honor, it is my pleasure as the director of the Broward’s Rock Good Government League to present you with a special award to recognize your achievement and that of Broward Rock’s exemplary police chief, Billy Cameron—” She paused, lifted her head, looked around. “Chief Cameron? We need Chief Cameron.”
Billy Cameron, in the navy suit that he wore to funerals, walked forward. Big and impressive, his broad face looked hesitant.
The mayor stared in shock.
Emma turned toward Cosgrove, her blue eyes steely though her face formed in a smile. “Don’t be modest, Mayor Cosgrove. Your accomplishment for the island of Broward’s Rock shall stand through the years, a moment marked by triumph. Now, now, now, let me finish. As one of the myriad voters—”
<
br /> Cosgrove stiffened, his plump face abruptly intent.
“—on our lovely island, I hope you will enjoy your moment in the sun. And”—she gestured toward Billy—“come up here, Chief Cameron. Without your excellent work behind the scenes, justice could not have triumphed.”
Once again she faced the cameras, a big woman with an aura of command. “The League wishes to thank Mayor Cosgrove and Chief Cameron for today’s apprehension of Bradley Milton, a suspect in the murders of island residents Everett Hathaway, Gretchen Burkholt, and Maggie Knight.” Emma unrolled one of the parchments, held it up to obscure the amazement on the face of the porcine mayor. “Whereas, Mayor Cosgrove cooperated with Chief Cameron in a plan to convince Bradley Milton that the police thought another suspect guilty, thereby making it possible for investigation to proceed sub rosa, the League presents a certificate of honor to Mayor Cosgrove.” She thrust the certificate at him.
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