Sylver and Gold

by Michelle Larkin

  “Since Bill was their friend, they should share the same fate. Kind of brings this thing full circle, don’t you think?” Reid could see the skepticism dying in his eyes. Was he actually falling for this load of crap?

  “Have to admit, I had other things in mind for these two,” he said wistfully, studying each of the Golds on the bed with unconcealed lust. “But seeing as this is your first time, I’ll leave it up to you. The secret to sawing digits successfully is finding a good set of earplugs. You want their screams to be muffled enough so your eardrums aren’t damaged, but not so muffled that their screams are drowned out completely. Because, let’s face it, where’s the fun in that?”

  “I didn’t bring earplugs,” Reid said, pretending to look disappointed.

  “As your mentor, it’s my job to think of these things. Here, I brought you a pair.” He lowered the knife from Mrs. Gold’s throat and reached into his shirt pocket.

  This seemed as good a time as any to tackle him and confiscate his weapon. She hadn’t yet devised a plan for the other guy. Looked like she’d just have to improvise. Maybe she could talk to Gil, convince him not to retaliate on Matthew’s behalf.

  She waited until Matthew’s hand was in his pocket before stepping around behind him. In one fluid motion, she grabbed his wrist, swiped her leg in front of his, and shoved him down hard, face first, onto the floor. Caught totally by surprise, his arm was still across his chest with his hand inside his shirt pocket when he landed. It was his forearm, she guessed, that broke the impact of his fall with an audible crack. He howled in pain.

  Unrelenting, she dug her left knee into the center of his back and pinned his arm to the ground with her right knee, sliding the blade from his grasp with ease. Without handcuffs—bringing them would have undoubtedly blown her cover—she had no way to restrain Matthew and protect herself against Gil, who had emerged from the bathroom and was now charging like an angry bull.

  * * *

  London sprinted to the front door, ahead of Boyle. Locked. She jogged down the steps and scanned the ground. There, tucked against the house, was the same fake rock they’d been using to hide keys in since she was a kid. Nice to know some things never changed.

  She was already unlocking the door when Boyle caught up and set the skateboard down in the grass. They waited as Marino, Boggs, O’Leary, and Garcia jogged over. Everyone—save for London and the lieutenant—was winded, red faced, and sweating profusely from the three-mile trek. Boyle set his hand over the top of hers. “Wait,” he whispered. He turned to the men behind him. “Catch your breath before we go in.”

  “Let me go in. I’m fine,” she whispered. She couldn’t wait one second longer. Reid was in there alone with the killer, and the lives of her parents were on the line.

  “We go in as a team,” he said sternly. He waited a beat and pointed to one side of the house. “Marino, you take the right. Boggs, left. Meet around back. O’Leary and Garcia, you’re with me.”

  “What about me?” London asked, feeling a rising panic to do something.

  “You stay here until I tell you otherwise.” He pointed to the earbud.

  Still breathing hard, Marino and Boggs jogged away and disappeared into the darkness.

  * * *

  She kicked the knife under the bed, stood, and yanked the killer to his feet, holding his body in front of hers as a shield. He was small, weak, and—like a rag doll—easily maneuvered, especially now that his arm was broken.

  She slipped her arm around his neck, effectively putting him in a chokehold. “Come any closer, and I’ll break his neck.”

  Gil stopped in his tracks, obviously perplexed as to how to reach her. He met Matthew’s gaze, beseeching. “What I do, brother?”

  “Kill her,” he replied through clenched teeth.

  Gil shook his head. “But she’ll kill Matthew, and then Gil will have no more brother.” Tears were already coursing down his cheeks. “Gil will be sad without Matthew.”

  “Gil, go sit in that chair.” Reid nodded to a tufted chair in the quaint sitting area of the bedroom. “You sit there and stay there. Do not get up. Do you understand?”

  “Gil understands,” he said, still crying as he obediently followed her instructions.

  Boyle rounded the corner, gun drawn. Boggs, O’Leary, Garcia, and Marino entered the room on his heels, breathing heavily and soaked in sweat.

  Reid looked from one sweaty face to the next, hoping she wouldn’t have to administer CPR to a fellow detective. “Took you long enough,” she said, frowning. At Boyle’s insistence, each member of the team had strapped a department-issued GPS tracking device to their ankle. She’d thought it was overkill at the time but now appreciated the wisdom behind Boyle’s decision. “Were you guys taking a nap or what?”

  “The minute you arrived here,” Boyle said, “all the traffic lights between here and downtown went haywire. Traffic was at a standstill, so we had to come on foot.”

  “From where?” she asked. “Tahiti?”

  Oddly enough, Boyle was the only one not out of breath. Until very recently, he had also been the only one in their group who smoked a pack a day.

  “Hillcrest Street.”

  Hillcrest was over three miles away. She studied Boyle suspiciously.

  Marino was bent over with his hands on his knees. “Our selfless leader cheated,” he explained between breaths. “Stole a kid’s skateboard…Got Mug to pull him and coasted the whole way here. Rest of us…had to run…to keep up.”

  “Barely broke a sweat,” Boyle added proudly, holstering his firearm.

  O’Leary, red faced, turned and threw up in a potted ficus tree.

  “You guys should really think about joining our morning workouts.” She handed the killer off to Garcia, who appeared a smidgeon less close to cardiac arrest than the other three. “Where’s Gold and Mug?”

  “Downstairs.” Boyle withdrew his handcuffs and brought Gil to his feet. “Told Gold to stay put. Didn’t know what we’d find up here.”

  “Speaking of the Golds,” Reid said, turning to Boggs and Marino. “Can you two untie these nice folks and see if they need us to call a bus?” Brad and Patricia Gold appeared unscathed, but sometimes it was hard to tell with old people. They could be fine one minute and then dropping dead from a heart attack the next.

  Marino and Boggs nodded in unison. O’Leary, however, was sprawled out on the floor, facedown.

  “Maybe we should call a bus for him.” She pointed to the floor as she stepped over O’Leary’s body.

  “I’m good,” came O’Leary’s muffled response as he gave her a thumbs-up. “Just need a minute.”

  Beatrice and Marge appeared just a few feet away, shoulder to shoulder. You got him, dear, Beatrice said with a wink.

  “We got him,” Reid confirmed with a nod in their direction. “And the Good Guys take the lead,” she went on when the other detectives cast questioning glances in her direction.

  Marge smiled. Thank you, Detective Sylver.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Welcome for what?” Garcia called out behind her.

  She locked eyes with Boyle. He was studying her intently from across the room. “For holding down the fort until you got your lazy asses here,” she replied.

  Coat in hand, Reid stepped into the hallway, switched on the lights, and jogged down the stairs. She found London waiting in the foyer. Mug stood obediently by her side. “He’s in custody,” she said with a reassuring smile. “Your parents are fine.”

  Mug trotted over to greet her and bounced around excitedly, his signature tennis ball lodged firmly in his mouth.

  “Thank God.” London sighed, visibly relieved. “I wasn’t sure we’d get here in time.”

  “You can go upstairs and see them if you want.”

  London set her hands on her hips and gazed up the staircase. “You’re sure they’re okay?”

  “Positive.” She glanced at her watch: 11:46 p.m. The killer had warned her that her secret would be re
vealed at midnight. The dreaded hour was fast approaching.

  “What’s up?” London asked.

  She shrugged into her coat. “Tell you in the car.”

  “We don’t have a car. We left it on—”

  “Hillcrest. Yeah, I know.” Damn. She couldn’t be around Boyle and the others if the email came through. One way or another, she had to get out of here.

  “We’ll call a squad car to come get us and drop us at the precinct,” London offered.

  But Reid just shook her head. She felt like a caged lion and started to panic.

  “Did you happen to see the carriage house out back?” London asked.

  Unable to think, Reid just stared at her.

  “My parents can spare a car for an officer in need. Come on,” London said, already heading toward the kitchen. “I know where they keep the keys.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “A Rolls-Royce?” Reid asked. “You want to steal a Rolls?”

  London set her hands on her hips. “We’re not stealing it. We’re borrowing it. It’s my father’s all-time favorite car.”

  “All the more reason to borrow a different car.” She lifted a plush fabric cover to peek at the second car in line—a sleek silver Aston Martin Valkyrie. Nope. Still too expensive. Next up was a canary-yellow Zenvo TS1 GT, a car so expensive she’d never even heard of it. Last in line was a candy-apple-red Mercedes-AMG One. Shaking her head in disbelief, she walked back to London. “Don’t your parents have any normal cars?”

  “My parents aren’t normal, so the answer is no.”

  Reid checked the time again: 11:54 p.m. Felt like a bomb was about to go off.

  “We have no car of our own here, you don’t want to call a squad car, and you keep checking your watch like you have somewhere to be.” London opened her arms, gesturing at the insanely expensive cars around them. “Lookie here: cars. Problem solved.”

  Reid shrugged. “We did just save their lives.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  “And I’m sure they won’t mind if my drooling hundred-pound mastiff rides in the back seat of their million-dollar car.”

  “Who doesn’t love a little drool? Besides, I never rebelled as a teenager, so this is my chance to shine.” London grinned broadly. “Gotta love karma.”

  * * *

  This was the one time—the only time—in her life that Reid refused to get behind the wheel.

  London dangled the keys. “You sure?”

  “Yup. Your rebellion. You drive.” She opened the rear passenger’s side door and motioned for Mug to jump in, which, of course, he was all too happy to do. She winced as he climbed atop the moccasin-tan leather seats. “Don’t burp, fart, or sneeze. And keep the drooling to a minimum,” she ordered, shutting the door like it was made of eggshell.

  The moment her body made contact with the passenger’s seat, she fell head over heels for the car. It enveloped and supported her in all the right places, like a warm embrace from the Pillsbury Doughboy himself. “Oh. My. God.”

  “Right?”

  “It even smells like fresh-baked cookies in here.”

  “Every Rolls-Royce Phantom is custom-made,” London explained. “No two are alike. My father loves the smell of cookies coming out of the oven, so the manufacturer teamed up with Yankee Candle. They wove the scent into the fabric of the car.” She inhaled deeply. “Still just as fresh as the day he bought it.”

  Mug farted loudly in the back seat.

  London cracked the windows. “Mr. Irvington, if you’d be so kind as to open the door, please.” The carriage house door instantly slid aside.

  “Who’s Mr. Irvington?” Reid asked, confused.

  “That’s the name my father gave the carriage house. Each car is equipped with voice recognition. And the carriage house door is programmed to respond to Mr. Irvington.”

  Reid rested her arm on the cushioned armrest as London started the ignition. “How many miles are on this thing?”

  London glanced at the odometer. “Eighty-six.”

  “Thousand?”

  “Eighty-six miles.”

  “And he’s had this car for how long?”

  “Twelve years.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Please do not use foul language in my presence,” said a woman’s voice with a British accent over the car’s speakers.

  Reid sat up. “Who the hell is that?”

  “Mrs. Fitzpatrick.” London pulled out of the carriage house and glanced at Reid like she was a total idiot. “The car.”

  “Your father named the car Mrs. Fitzpatrick?”

  “Of course. Doesn’t everyone name their car?”

  “Not everyone.” She shrugged. “But when they do, they’re usually more common names like Fred or Betsy.”

  “Mine’s Mother Trucker,” London admitted with a mischievous smile. “I drive a Silverado.”

  “What if your parents think the car’s stolen? We should let Boyle—”

  “No need. I left a note.”

  Curious what such a note would say after they hadn’t spoken in ten years, she asked, “What’d you write?”

  “Borrowed Rolls. London.”

  Well, if the killer didn’t give Mr. Gold a heart attack, maybe that note would do the job.

  Reid’s watch alarm started beeping as they drove from the carriage house. It was now 12:01 a.m. Her moment of truth. She withdrew the phone from her coat pocket and logged into her email account. Nothing. Guardedly optimistic, she let out a breath. Maybe the killer had been bluffing.

  “What’s going on?” London asked, suddenly serious as she waited at the end of the driveway.

  “Do me a favor, and check your email.” She handed the phone to London. “Your work email.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “If it’s there, you’ll know it when you see it.”

  London put the Rolls in Park and tapped on the phone as Reid looked on from the passenger’s seat.

  There, at the top of the list, was an unopened email from Matthew T. Killer with a subject line that read: Det. Sylver’s Secret.

  “Open it,” Reid said, feeling her face flush with anger. “Please,” she added, reminding herself it wasn’t London she was angry with.

  London tapped on the message.

  To Everyone at the Boston Police Department:

  As I’m sure many of you know, the average BPD homicide detective has a success rate of about 47 percent a year. Detective Sylver, however, has managed to solve 100 percent of her cases every year for the past thirteen years. What accounts for this discrepancy? Follow the links below to find the shocking answer.

  “Reid”—London looked over at her—“I’m so sorry this happened.”

  “Can you send me a copy?”

  London tapped on the screen and then handed her the phone. “What now?”

  “Just drive.”

  London put the car in gear and pulled onto the street. She reached across the seat for Reid’s hand and held it tight. “Might not be as bad as you think.”

  “I can’t wear those rose-colored glasses right now, London.”

  “I’m just saying, you haven’t even watched the videos yet.”

  To prove her point, and maybe to satisfy her own morbid curiosity, she slipped the phone from her coat pocket, brought up the email, and tapped on the first link.

  It was an audio clip of her conversation with London in the parking lot of the animal hospital, just after Mug was taken.

  “You want to know how I solve every case?”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. How?”

  “I talk to the dead.”

  The clip went on for several minutes, revealing all the personal details of the visit from London’s nana.

  When the clip reached the end, Reid sat there, stunned. “I’m sorry you got caught up in this.”

  “It’s nothing we can’t handle. We’ll both be fine,” London assured her.

  “Should I play the rest?”


  “Might be a good idea to scroll through both the audio and video files,” London said, composed as ever. “See if there are any of us from last night.”

  Reid swallowed hard. Shit. She hadn’t even thought of that. “How about we come up with a game plan first?”

  “What kind of game plan?” London asked on the seat beside her.

  “If there’s a video or audio clip of us, you know…”

  “Having the hottest sex of our lives?” London finished, seemingly amused. “At least, it was for me.”

  “Me, too. If that’s in here somewhere, and everyone from the department sees it, it’d make me feel better if we hatched an escape plan.”

  “Oh, I get it now.” London nodded in understanding. “Like, fleeing the country and never returning so we wouldn’t die on the spot from embarrassment.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Sure, I’m game. Can I go first?”

  “Have at it, but I must warn you. My plan’s good.”

  London raised an eyebrow. “You go, then.”

  “We get facial reconstructive surgery, create new identities—I know a guy—and relocate to England to assume our new careers as detective inspectors.” Everyone had a pipe dream. Mastering the British accent and working as a detective in England was hers.

  London frowned. “But isn’t fleeing the country and getting facial reconstructive surgery kind of redundant?”

  “It’s to go along with our new identities. Can’t have new identities with the same boring faces.”

  “Okay. That’s true,” London said perkily.

  “You have something better?”

  “Mine’s easier, less expensive, and probably less painful.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “We pack enough food and supplies to last us, hop aboard my houseboat, and sail the world. Mug comes, too, of course.” He lifted his head from the back seat at the mention of his name.

  Reid nodded. “Not bad.”

  “Thanks.”

  “If you threw in a skimpy bikini, I could be down with that plan.”

  “Done.”

  Reid lifted the phone from her lap and took a deep breath to steady herself. Another moment of truth. This time, however, she felt braver with London by her side and their backup plan in place.