The Rookie Club Thriller series Box Set

by Danielle Girard

  “He refused,” Hailey guessed.

  Dee’s fingers trembled as she touched the locket again. “He refused.” She wiped her eyes. “It’s ancient history now,” she said. “Tom says I need to focus on the future and try to put it behind me.” She retrieved a prescription bottle from her purse and shook out two small yellow pills. “It’s harder than it should be.”

  Hailey wondered what the medication was.

  Dee took the pills with the water sitting on the table in front of her.

  Maybe it was something to help her sleep.

  Hailey wanted to find a way to reach out to her, but Dee gathered her things and walked from the kitchen as though they’d been discussing the weather. “Good night,” she called as she headed down to her basement apartment.

  “Good night, Dee.”

  *

  Hailey spent much of the night awake, staring at the ceiling. She couldn’t shake the story of Dottie’s death, and she didn’t know what to do with it.

  She was desperate to talk to Hal.

  But how could she? Doing that would betray Jim, betray John.

  Her relationship with Hal used to be so simple, so honest. She had trusted him with everything.

  Until the affair with Bruce had started.

  She didn’t know how to tell him. They didn’t share those kinds of things, never had. Even through Hal’s divorce, they hardly spoke of relationships outside of work. What Hailey knew about his ex-wife, Sheila, had come from other sources.

  She’d wanted to support him, to be helpful—but she didn’t know how. In the end, they’d never had a real conversation about Sheila.

  So how could Hailey possibly tell him about an affair?

  And why would she?

  John’s death made things that much more complicated. Now she held Jim’s secrets as well.

  The letter Jim received when the shot was fired in the front hall—the letter in the white FedEx envelope with the anti-NRA button pinned to the clear plastic—that linked him to Nicholas Fredricks.

  That linked Jim to the other deaths.

  Which linked Jim to their investigation.

  Which meant she had to tell Hal. Immediately.

  Would Hal believe Jim’s story?

  Hailey believed Jim because she had to. Since John’s death, Jim was the only person she could speak with openly.

  Getting Hal to trust Jim would be more difficult. Their job brought a natural distrust of people with money and power. It wasn’t simply a matter of jealousy. It was that people with money and power used it to try to control the police. And they did things like pick which investigator they wanted on a certain crime—the way Jim had called in a favor so Hailey would land on the Dennigs murder.

  She also knew that John’s death added to Hal’s distrust of Jim. An unsolved murder was not something people took lightly—especially people like Hal. Whatever Jim did—whether he called the inspectors daily or let the police handle the investigation without interfering—it all looked suspicious to Hal.

  Just as it would have looked to her if she were in his shoes.

  It didn’t help that she’d bailed on having a drink with him to go out with the Rookie Club.

  Those were her first thoughts when she woke, feeling both groggy and panicked.

  Her cell phone battery was dead. She’d forgotten to plug it in the night before. The alarm hadn’t gone off. Jim was already gone when she came downstairs, so she’d missed her chance to talk to him.

  Nicholas Fredricks had known about Jim’s childhood shooting incident, and he’d used it to manipulate Jim into changing his politics. Which meant he’d probably used the same tactic on others. The case file on Fredricks’s murder suggested Fredricks was known for playing fair, but what he’d done to Jim wasn’t fair.

  Maybe Fredricks had squeezed someone too tight. But Fredricks had been dead twelve years. Any information about who he’d worked for was long gone by now.

  The note Jim had received when he was shot made reference to the old correspondence with Fredricks as well as “an old special,” the gun that was used to shoot Jim.

  The logical conclusion was that Nicholas Fredricks had told someone else about Jim’s past.

  That person was their best suspect in all of these deaths.

  Now, she had to figure out who that was.

  Hailey arrived at the station and was heading up to her desk when Hal caught her in the stairwell. “You get my message?”

  “You get mine? About Regal?”

  “Not now,” he said. “Did you get the message I left this morning?”

  She shook her phone. “No juice. One of the girls must have taken my car charger.”

  “You read the paper this morning?”

  She’d gone to bed late, woken up late. “No,” she said, dread slowing her down. “Why?”

  “Come on.” He started down the stairs.

  “What’s going on?”

  Somewhere above, a door clanged open.

  “I’ll take care of it, Captain,” came O’Shea’s voice.

  “Now,” Marshall said with a grunt. His voice echoed in the hallway.

  Hailey didn’t miss the anger in his voice.

  Hal pressed his finger to his lips, pulled her along.

  “What’s going on?”

  Hal shook his head, continued down the stairs, past the door to the main level, and down toward the basement. He tugged on the door, which was locked, and instead pulled her into the small hidden alcove under the stairs. They waited until the voices silenced.

  “Press conference out front in ten minutes.”

  Hailey leaned against the cold wall. Jim would have woken her if he knew something. He wouldn’t have wanted her to be blindsided. “Press conference? For what?”

  “Fredricks, for one. And they caught Carson’s shooter.”

  None of that warranted hiding under the stairs. “How’d they get Carson’s killer so fast?”

  “Guy called to confess.”

  “Okay. It’s weird, but you didn’t pull me down here for that. What’s really going on?”

  “Someone leaked the shooting—the senator’s shooting.”

  Jim.

  How had Jim missed it? Why hadn’t he contacted her?

  He’d had more to drink last night, but someone would have warned him—someone at the office, or Dee. “Do you have your phone?”

  “He already knows. He called me a half hour ago when he couldn’t reach you.”

  The air caught in her throat. “What did he say?”

  Hal hesitated, scanning her face, the unanswered questions in his eyes. “He asked that you call him after the conference.”

  Jim’s shooting would have the press digging up the past. Of course they would want to link this shooting to John’s death. She imagined the headlines. Father shot one year after son. The killer missed this time. “How’d it get out?”

  “It’s a good question. Marshall’s going nuts looking for you. He wants you there.”

  She was about to be the centerpiece of a damn press conference. Why hadn’t she charged her phone? She’d stayed up too late. Drank with the Rookie Club, then with Jim. What if they made her speak?

  “We’d better go,” he added.

  She grabbed his arm, stopping him. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  He turned back, his expression grateful. Too grateful. She had let him down. How many times had she given him only part of the truth? And now she was going to do it again.

  She looked away. “I have a lead that you’re not going to like.”

  “Okay.”

  Hailey forced herself to meet Hal’s gaze. “Jim got a letter—a while back—from a guy who didn’t support his politics…”

  Hal raised his brow.

  “I just found out about this letter last night,” she said.

  “What’s this letter got to do with us?”

  “The guy quoted Jung.”

  “Jung,” he repeated.

&nb
sp; “Right.”

  “So he got a letter from the same guy who sent the note with the warning shot?”

  She shook her head, measuring it out. “No. This letter came thirteen years ago.”

  Hal blew out his breath.

  “From Nicholas Fredricks,” she said.

  “Shit.”

  A door slammed above them, and Marshall came into the stairwell, cursing. Hal turned and climbed the stairs, three at a time.

  “Marshall,” he shouted as she followed. “She’s here. I got her.”

  “Thank fucking God,” Marshall hollered down the stairwell.

  “Hi, Captain,” Hailey called up.

  “Where the hell have you been, Wyatt?” he barked. He was breathing heavily and already tugging at his tie. “Forget it,” he went on. “Let’s just get out there before the press starts reporting more bullshit about the police not being cooperative.”

  Hal held open the door as they entered the lobby. On the front steps of the hall, a mob of cameras and reporters shouldered one another to close the extra millimeters of space between them.

  Homicide Inspectors O’Shea and Kong stood on the far side of the microphone, along with Ryaan Berry of Triggerlock. O’Shea nodded to her. There would be new pressure around John’s murder investigation. More questions, more theories, more dead ends. How long would she have to go through this?

  Marshall scratched at the skin beneath his collar and craned his neck as though to relieve the pressure. “Okay,” he said, raising his palms to the crowd.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” Marshall fingered his neck where a trail of red on the skin looked like the path of tiny fire ants. “The body of Nicholas Fredricks was disinterred yesterday by Inspectors Wyatt and Harris as part of an ongoing investigation that I am not, at this time, at liberty to discuss.”

  The crowd began to lob questions.

  A shooting on the block of the police department was big news. Why hadn’t Hailey thought to check the paper? Or her phone?

  Because she had been distracted by Jim’s story, by the confrontation with Dee, by the discovery about Regal Insurance… She was distracted.

  “In the matter of the shooting that occurred yesterday at twenty-one hundred hours down the street from where we’re standing—” The cameramen swung to film the street, though any evidence of the crime was gone. “We received a phone call early this morning from a suspect who has claimed responsibility for the two murders. At this time, the suspect is in custody.”

  “Is this shooter responsible for the other deaths?” asked the ABC correspondent, a thin blonde whose lips were lined in the exact rose hue of her sweater. She glanced down at her notepad. “Hank and Abby Dennig of Pacific Heights and Colby Wesson of Placerville?”

  Hailey froze. Did the press know about the buttons found at each of the scenes? They had managed to keep that out of the press until now. She wanted to look at Hal but didn’t dare.

  Face forward, keep a blank expression.

  Don’t give anything away.

  As soon as the reporter’s voice faded, an onslaught of other questions flew through the air.

  Marshall waved both hands, palms down, into the crowd as though to flatten their voices with the heels of his hands. “Please.” He pointed to another reporter, halfway back in the crowd.

  “Guardian here. What about the shooting of Senator James Wyatt a few nights ago? Do you have a suspect?” he called out.

  There it was. Jim’s shooting. She hoped to hell that wasn’t leaked by someone in her own department. What if she was wrong, and this did have to do with Jim? She’d never heard the story of Dottie before last night. Liz didn’t even know about it.

  What else might Jim be hiding?

  “Do you believe the senator’s shooting is related to these others?” ABC asked. “And is there a possibility that the shooter in custody is responsible for these other deaths?”

  “At this time, we have not confirmed any connections,” Marshall said evenly, smoothing his tie. “But we have not ruled them out, either. Inspectors on both cases are working in close cooperation … as we always do,” he added, motioning to Hal and Hailey on one side of him, Kong and O’Shea on the other.

  “One more question,” Marshall said, steering his gaze away from the Guardian and ABC.

  “Isn’t Inspector Wyatt the daughter of Senator Wyatt?” the Guardian yelled out. “How does that impact your case?”

  “Do you feel personally threatened, Inspector Wyatt?” added ABC.

  Marshall frowned and glanced over to Hailey, nodded her to the mic. “I am Senator Wyatt’s daughter. Daughter-in-law, actually. For that reason, I am not on the team investigating the shooting incident at his home.”

  “She’d probably love to see him in cuffs,” joked a reporter Hailey didn’t recognize. CBS, maybe.

  “And no, I don’t feel threatened,” Hailey responded, focusing on the line around ABC’s full lips. “I have total faith in the department’s ability to find whoever is responsible for shooting Senator Wyatt, and I have faith that my partner, Inspector Harris, and I will find the killer who took three lives last year.”

  “Wasn’t your husband also shot by an intruder in Senator Wyatt’s home last February?” the Guardian reporter called back. “That case was never solved. Do you still have faith that the department will find his killer?”

  Hailey held his gaze, though her legs were unstable beneath her. For months after John’s death, reporters and newspapers had pressured her to do an interview. What a story it was. Homicide inspector’s husband murdered in his parents’ home. Case unsolved. It had everything the press loved—tragedy, human interest, intrigue, death, and an opportunity to point to the police’s failure.

  Hell, it could be a movie.

  Even now, over a year later, the press still called O’Shea to ask about any new developments. Every time, he made sure she knew, brought her up to date on what angles he and Kong were working.

  How she prayed it didn’t start all over again.

  “Are you considering the possibility that his death is also related?” the Guardian reporter shouted.

  Marshall put his hand up and stepped forward again. Hal motioned her back toward the building.

  “That’s all we have time for now,” Marshall said.

  Hal led her to the elevator. She usually took the stairs—the old elevators rattled and Hal always seemed uneasy in small spaces.

  She had no energy for walking.

  Marshall slid in beside them, as did O’Shea and Kong. Hailey stood pressed to the cold steel back wall of the box.

  “Damn piranhas,” O’Shea said. “Always digging up the dead. Over and over, I tell you,” he went on, with the hint of Irish brogue that appeared when he was performing, as he was now.

  She and O’Shea were never close. Maybe that was why Marshall assigned him to John’s shooting. Since then, she avoided him as much as possible. The good news was that he tended to avoid her too.

  “You’ll brief her on the shooter suspect,” Marshall said to Hal, ignoring O’Shea. Hal nodded, and Marshall clapped once as the doors opened on their floor. “Good. Let’s get to work then.”

  As he stepped off the elevator, Hal pressed his palm to the bare skin of his scalp. She tried to read his expression. Was he thinking about the letter Jim had gotten from Nicholas Fredricks with the same wording as the letter that had accompanied a bullet thirteen years later?

  Because she was.

  That and a dozen things Hal didn’t even know about—Dottie’s shooting and the fact that Dee was dating Tom Rittenberg, but she’d been in love with Nick Fredricks.

  How Hailey wanted to tell Hal all of it, lay everything out so he could help her work through it.

  But how could she? How could she tell him all of the ways in which her family might be involved and still ask him not to jump to that conclusion? Not to insist that it all related to Jim.

  Because it didn’t. It couldn’t.

  She and Hal
needed to talk about the letter Jim had gotten and form a plan. “We’re on this shooter guy?”

  Hal nodded. “You mean the guy who killed Dwayne Carson? Guy named Robbins. He’s over at General with a gunshot wound to the head.”

  Gunshot. “Wait. What gunshot wound? I thought none of us got a good shot off on him.”

  “No one did,” Hal confirmed. “At least not in the alley.”

  “So who shot him?”

  “Guess Robbins had a disagreement with one of his boys—a kid named Kenny Fiston—after he offed Carson. They shot it out in his apartment up in Hunters Point, around ten o’clock last night, around an hour after Carson died. Fiston’s dead and Robbins took a bullet to the brain. Lucky for him, it was a little bullet.”

  “It doesn’t usually take a big one.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s also lucky, ’cause it caught his skull at just the right angle. Circled inside the skin, but never penetrated the cranium.” Hal raised his brows. “That’s some luck, eh?”

  “You’re saying Robbins took a close-range shot to the head and is alive to talk about it?”

  “That’s what I’m saying. Kid’s fine. Little flesh wound is all. Well, some good bleeding ’cause it was his head, but no permanent damage.”

  She frowned. “Who called the ambulance?”

  “Neighbor.”

  “It’s unbelievable,” she said.

  “I know. Doctor over at General said he’d never seen anything like it.”

  “And now he wants to confess to murdering Carson?”

  Hal shook his head. “Yeah, like maybe Robbins found Jesus last night, wants to do his penance, and get started on a new life.”

  “Maybe he realized how quickly friends can turn on you and decided he’d be better off inside,” Hailey said. “What do you know about the friend?”

  Hal leaned back on his heels and recited from memory. “Name’s Kenny Fiston. Friends called him Fish. Three priors for firearms: illegal possession and intent to sell. Served ten months for one, eighteen for another. The last charges were dropped in exchange for information.”

  Hailey tried to fit Kenny with Dwayne Carson. They had similar backgrounds, were close to the same age. Ryaan had said that Triggerlock had only identified the low-level guys. Hunters Point was the projects. If they’d shot it out there, Fish wasn’t running the guns—he was another street kid being used. “Who was his attorney?”