John was six-foot.
According to the autopsy report, the gunshot wound had an upward path of approximately fourteen degrees.
If John and his shooter stood close, the shooter was someone about John’s height. The gun would have been held at chest level, aimed up slightly, raised toward the heart. Increase the distance, and maybe the shooter extended an arm.
Then, the angle might’ve flattened for someone his own height. There was no stippling around the wound, so the gun wasn’t fired closer than twelve inches. If she took into account the blood spatter and the angle the slug made in the wall, there was a way to figure it out, but the measurements were complicated.
Using a small metal protractor and an old ruler on the photos, she couldn’t be exact. On top of the poor tools, Hailey had never been good at math. In theory, she understood how this was supposed to work, but she couldn’t do it. Not alone. Not without help.
She wanted to go over to ballistics and have them enter it all into the computer, run it. She wanted to fast-forward through the time it would take to have answers. Answers to questions she had waited more than a year to ask.
Nowhere in the file did the investigators make any supposition as to how tall the killer was, or how far away John had been from the bullet. But those details changed everything.
An intruder.
An average male.
Jim had requested the police leave their family out of it. For the sake of the grieving mother and the grieving wife, he had said. For the fatherless children. “For me. For all of us. Get what you need, ask your questions, and let us be.”
The police had done that. Of course they had.
Senator Wyatt had asked.
They’d gathered evidence and talked to everyone who’d been there.
But the police only talked to everyone who had been there in Jim’s version. In that version, Liz and the girls had been upstairs, getting ready for bed. Jim and Hailey were in the kitchen. John, alone, was in the study when the intruder had found him, shot once, and ran.
In Jim’s version.
She closed the files and took her copies, returned the box, and went home.
Hailey would have to ask for help, something she should have done over a year ago. Right now, the only answer she had was maybe.
Maybe it was Jim.
Maybe Jim had shot his son.
Dee was at the kitchen table when Hailey got home—now in her pajamas—working on her laptop. Printed spreadsheets covered the table. She removed her reading glasses and rubbed her eyes.
“The girls okay?”
“Not a peep. I looked in on them about an hour ago. Sound asleep.”
“I love watching them when they’re sleeping.”
“They are precious. I used to babysit John when he was their age.”
Hailey wondered if Dee had imagined she would have a family. If she’d planned one with Nick Fredricks. Maybe Hailey could find a way to ask.
She wondered how the evening had gone with Jim. Had they talked about Nick? No one knew them both better than Dee. “How did Jim and Nick get along?”
“They were both stubborn men with strong opinions, so they butted heads a fair amount.” Dee closed the laptop. “I heard your conversation earlier. It isn’t my business, but I want you to know that Jim and I were together when Nick was killed. But even if we hadn’t been, Jim isn’t a killer. He barely survived what he did to Dottie.”
“Nick knew about that.”
“I told Nick,” Dee admitted. “Jim hasn’t forgiven me for that.”
“Nick used it in a letter to threaten Jim, just a few months before he was killed.”
“I was cross with Nick for using that information,” Dee admitted. “It wasn’t appropriate. Nick sometimes had a different perspective on how to make things happen.”
“You think maybe Nick did that to someone else and got himself killed?” Hailey asked.
“I think it’s possible. I still think about it, even after all these years. Tom pointed it out the other night—I’d somehow ended up talking about Nick’s death again. I’m sure it drives him crazy.”
Did it bother Tom to hear about Dee’s lost love? Would he be threatened by something so far in the past? Hailey thought of Bruce, the other woman. Was he still threatened by John? It would make sense. She could no longer recall all the things that had driven them apart. John’s flaws had vanished in death. How could Bruce compete with that?
“But Jim didn’t have anything to do with Nick’s death. We were standing together when we got the news. I hadn’t seen Jim that upset since Dottie.”
Did that mean he wasn’t guilty? Maybe. In twelve years, Dee had to have asked herself that question over and over. If she believed Jim might have been behind Nick’s murder, surely she wouldn’t be here, living in his house.
But even as Hailey closed her eyes to go to bed, she felt like she didn’t know Jim Wyatt at all.
*
She arrived at the station at eight the next morning, after a sleepless night. In her notebook, she’d made lists of places she and the girls might stay so that they could get out of Jim’s house. Already, she’d put in a call to the woman who used to watch the girls when they lived in Berkeley.
Twice before she’d left the house, Bruce had called. Twice he’d sent text messages.
She’d ignored him.
Marshall’s door was closed when Hailey arrived, and she walked past, straight to her desk. Hal’s coffee cup wasn’t on his desk, but she didn’t see him in the department.
As her computer booted up, Marshall’s door opened. He peered out, his face angry.
He pointed to Hailey, curling his finger to beckon her in. Silent Marshall was bad news. Much better to hear him yell or curse. Anything but silence.
Hal sat in one of the old wooden chairs across from Marshall’s desk. The other was vacant. Marshall pointed to it and she sat.
Hal held his head in his hands. Hailey started to feel sick.
What did Hal do?
Marshall ran his finger under the rim of his collar, took the knot in his fist, and pulled it loose. Then he twisted his hand under it to undo the top button. All the while, he stared at her. “Harris came in this morning to request a transfer.”
“A transfer?”
“He wants a new partner.”
Hailey felt a blush spread across her cheeks.
“Isn’t that right, Harris?” Marshall pressed.
Hal lifted his head, sat up straight, and nodded. “That’s correct, Captain.”
“You know about this?” he asked her.
Hailey shook her head, couldn’t find her voice.
“You’re okay with it?”
No. Of course she wasn’t okay. How could she be? How could Hal ask for this? How could he not give her a chance to explain? She studied Hal. The same Hal from last night. His expression was angry, but flat. Unreadable.
Marshall launched himself from his chair. “Somebody better start talking,” he barked.
Someone outside his office dropped something. It broke. A string of curses followed.
“This isn’t reality TV or a fucking soap opera. You don’t just come in here and tell me you ‘don’t like your partner.’” He strung out the final words, using the mocking tones of someone whining. “You’d better have one hell of a reason.”
Hal sat up. “I have reason to believe Inspector Wyatt hasn’t been forthcoming about our recent cases. I can’t have a partner who lies, Captain.”
She felt as though Hal had struck her.
Marshall knocked his chair to the back wall and leaned across his desk. “You said that, Harris. But it doesn’t mean shit until you tell me what you’re talking about.”
Hal shook his head and looked down.
“What about you, Wyatt? You want to explain what he’s talking about?”
“I’m not sure, sir.” She searched for a story, something harmless to confess. This was her reputation, her career.
“You’re not sure,” Marshall snapped. “So I’m supposed to get IA up here so we can dick around for the next month with microscopes up our asses?”
Nothing made Marshall angrier than the idea of having Internal Affairs in his department’s business. He pounded his fist on the desk, turned his back, and kicked the chair. It bounced off the wall and landed on its side.
He pressed both palms flat on his desk and lowered his voice. “I am not breaking up this team unless one of you has formal charges to bring against the other.” He sighed and looked at each of them in turn. “You are my best team. This Dennig case is all over the goddamn papers. I’ve got City Hall and the chief on my ass twenty-four seven to solve this thing. Hell, even the mayor is calling from Sacramento. What do you want me to tell them? ‘Sorry, Harris and Wyatt aren’t getting along?’ Do you have any idea what kind of shit storm that would cause?”
Marshall pulled his chair back beneath him and sat down. “Either of you got something to say?”
Hal shook his head.
“No, sir,” Hailey said.
“Then, get out of here.”
They both rose, but Marshall stopped Hailey. He waited until Hal had left the room and closed the door behind him.
“If you’re holding something back, Wyatt—anything—I’ll see that you can’t get a job writing parking tickets in the Tenderloin. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get the fuck out of here.”
Hailey left. Just a few steps out of Marshall’s office, the door slammed behind her, glass rattling, the captain cursing behind it.
Hal wasn’t at his desk. Hailey sat, numb and shaky. Hal was ready to turn her in.
He was like family.
Had been like family.
Marshall’s door flung open and he came out. His second button was undone, his tie gone completely. “We’ve got a one-eighty-seven at the Bank of America Center.” Another murder. He pointed to Hailey. “Hedge fund manager.” He looked at a piece of paper. “Guy’s name was Harvey Rendell, runs Rendell Funds. You and Harris are on it. They found the same kind of button with the anti-NRA slogan. Get over there now and keep the connections under wrap. I want to know what the fuck’s going on before the press does.”
He walked into the center of the department’s desks and turned a full circle with his hands on his hips. “Where the hell is Harris?”
“I’ll find him.” Hailey texted Hal with the details and retrieved her purse from her desk drawer.
Marshall waited a minute, and when Hal didn’t appear, he shook his head, mumbled something, and walked back toward his office. “I want an update in an hour,” he said before slamming his door again.
“Haven’t seen him like that since the press caught Krantz boozing on the job,” Kong said from his desk.
“Don’t ask.”
Hal was waiting in the hall. He dangled a set of keys casually and didn’t meet her eye. How long could they go on like this? She tried to find a way to open the conversation.
He started down the hall. “I’m driving.”
She followed him, but he was moving fast. He entered the stairwell ten feet ahead of her. The door closed before she could reach it.
When she stepped into the dank, cement stairwell, Hal was already a full flight down.
He made no attempt to let her catch up.
Chapter 20
The car ride was unbearably silent. Hailey was desperate to make amends. But how?
What could she offer Hal? He’d already said he didn’t want to work with her.
She’d always been the one the others envied. How many people complained about lousy partners? She’d never had that with Hal. They’d always had a strong friendship, as well as mutual respect. They’d always had such easy synchronicity. He’d been her best friend, and then her family.
Hailey considered calling Jamie. They’d known each other since they were rookies, and the sex crimes inspector was both sharp and empathetic. But she’d been through enough. What Hailey needed was a sounding board, but how could she talk to anyone when there were too many things she couldn’t say?
Too many secrets she had to keep.
Traffic was backed up because of the rain, which fell in sheets as they made their way, lights flashing, toward the Bank of America Center across town. Hal honked to hurry the particularly slow drivers out of his path.
One guy in a five-series Mercedes flipped them off, and Hal blared his horn.
“You’re going to write him a ticket? Do we have time for that?”
“Asshole flipped off a cop.”
One asshole to another.
If things didn’t change between them, a transfer would be the only option. She wanted nothing to do with Hal when he was this angry. And he obviously didn’t want anything to do with her.
A few blocks from the department, his cell phone rang. “Harris,” he barked.
Hailey could tell from his expression that it was Sheila.
“I can’t talk now,” he said. “It was.” Pause. “No, I mean it. Can I call you later?”
She saw the shame in his face. Damn it. He’d slept with her.
Would he have done that if he hadn’t been so angry with her? Why should she care who he slept with?
But she did.
Not because she wanted to be with Hal. It had never been like that. But because he was the only adult on the planet she trusted.
He doesn’t trust you.
That was on her.
When he hung up, Hailey turned to face him, searching for the right thing to say. The anger etched into his cheeks and brow shut her down before she could say a word.
He flipped on the radio and changed the channel by jabbing his thumb at the buttons as traffic crept forward. A few minutes later, Hal grew impatient and turned on his siren so that people moved slowly out of his path. Traffic thinned out as they crossed Market Street, and the more speed they gained, the calmer Hal was.
Hailey felt angrier.
Hal had actually asked for a transfer. No one did that. It was career suicide—for both of them.
He wasn’t entitled to know everything about her life. She didn’t know everything about his. His father had been accused of accepting bribes, and Hailey had never asked Hal to defend his father. Never pressed him.
It was his business, not hers.
Now he had the Captain watching them. That was screwed up. God, she needed old Hal back.
They needed to break the awkward silence. “Hal.”
“What?” he snapped.
“Please Hal,” she tried again, her voice softer. “We need to talk.”
“I got nothing to say.”
“You’re behaving like a child,” she said. Immediately, she wished she could take the words back.
“Sorry I’m not up to your standards.”
“Shut up, Harris. Just shut the hell up.”
“Don’t you—” Hal barked back as Hailey’s cell phone rang. An East Bay number.
They both stared at it. Hal shrugged.
“Wyatt,” she said, half expecting to hear Marshall, even though the call was coming from the wrong part of the bay.
“This is Bert Tomaso from Oakland PD, calling on Donald Blake.”
“Thanks for calling back, Bert.” Hal looked over, eyeing the phone. “I’m here with my partner, Hal Harris.” The words came out a little rougher than she’d planned.
She punched the speaker button and held the phone between them.
“Hi, Hal,” Bert said.
“This is Bert Tomaso from Oakland PD, regarding the shootings of Donald Blake’s family,” Hailey told Hal. “Bert. We’re here.”
“Sorry I didn’t call sooner. We’ve had quite a week over here.”
“Sixteen gang-related shootings in three days,” Hal said. “I read about it.”
“Yeah. A real mess,” Tomaso sighed and Hailey realized she hadn’t seen a paper in almost a week. “I hear you guys are working something related to the B
lake family murders.”
Hailey told Tomaso about the case, and Hal added that they’d learned Blake and his wife had been victims of the B&E committed by the dead gunrunner, Jeremy Hayden.
“I don’t know anything about the B&E, but I still think about that murder case. You guys have one of those? One that won’t leave you alone?”
“I’ve got one of those,” Hal said. “A personal one.”
“The Blake family. Wife and kids,” Hailey said, cutting him off. “They were killed July of 2013, right?”
Hal shook his head. “August 2nd.” Of course he’d remember.
“Right,” Tomaso said. “Good memory.”
“We got a copy of the file,” Hailey said, “but we wanted your take on it.”
“There’s a lot that’s not in the file, so it’s better we talk.”
“What do you mean?” Hal asked before Hailey could.
“Between you and me, Blake’s car was forced off the road,” Tomaso said.
“Forced off the road? You mean, before the shots?” Hal asked, pulling to the curb so he could give the call his full attention.
“Right,” Tomaso said. “My theory is that two or three cars worked together to run the Blakes into the neighborhood where they were shot.”
“Was the theory that—” Hailey started.
“You think Donald Blake was a specific target,” Hal asked, cutting her off.
“Him or someone in his family, absolutely. My captain didn’t agree. Didn’t like what that would’ve implied. Better that we don’t get people thinking they might be kidnapped off the highway and shot. Know what I mean?”
“He still there—that captain?”
“No,” Tomaso said, the relief obvious in his voice. “Long gone.”
“You were saying?” Hailey prodded. “About the car.”
“Right,” Tomaso continued. “The damage to the car corroborated my theory, and I had a homeless who witnessed it. Said it was a black car, that it tapped the bumper while another tan one rode alongside.”
Her breath caught. “A witness?”
“Had,” Tomaso said. “She disappeared two days later. No trace. Her cart, all her stuff was there, but she was gone.”
The Rookie Club Thriller series Box Set Page 47