Buried (Detective Ellie MacIntosh) (14 page)

It was when he pulled up. The first thing he’d seen was a boy about ten years old, walking a puppy in a grassy pet-designated area. Then he noticed the parking lot was full of minivans and realized it was a family oriented complex, and as a bachelor, you’d think he would have just turned around and left, but instead he found he kind of liked the idea of all the happy families, even if the place was kind of a zoo at times.

Go figure.

His upbringing had been much more about being painfully quiet. If his old man noticed him it was never good, and like any very self-reliant creature, he’d learned early to stay still and in the corners.

Wood mouse
.

That was him.

They were stealthy little animals, striving to live in an environment where virtually everyone wanted to kill them one way or another. On that note, he knew exactly how to survive.

Dreams were for the damned.

It wasn’t so much a dream as a memory of that night when he was shot. He knew it was a result of not being able to remember exactly in a conscious stream because of the trauma, but it was all there, locked away in his brain.

Ellie MacIntosh had taken off her shirt when those two bullets pierced his chest. Lying there, gasping, blood pouring from potentially fatal wounds in his torso, he’d still noticed the little lacy black bra she wore under her conservative blouse. She’d whipped the garment off over her head and crouched there over him, pressed the fabric to those bullet holes to staunch the bleeding, her commentary a profane litany of how he should just hang the hell on, not give the fuck up, and what the shit had he thought, walking into two bullets that way …

Even dying, he’d wheezed out a laugh.

When he woke and discovered he was still alive, he laughed even harder, though it had really hurt.

If there was one thing he could say for himself, he could be a bad influence on anybody.

Without looking at the clock, he called her. “MacIntosh.”

She sputtered. In books he’d always thought they made it up, but not so; she actually sputtered. “What … when … have you … you lost your mind? Do you know what time it is?”

“Danni Crawford says this could be related to organized crime. Not directly, but her idea caught my attention.”

“It’s three in the morning.”

“I have trouble sleeping.”

“Apparently so do I since you entered my life.” She exhaled and he could picture her up on one elbow, hair tousled and her eyes sleepy … wearing a T-shirt or a thin-strapped negligee … no she wouldn’t go for that. Nothing too girlie. Maybe just
nothing
.

Jason liked that image best.

MacIntosh. Wearing nothing. Nice picture in his brain.

He’d been off work for a little too long if he was indulging in phone fantasies about his partner. Or maybe just celibate a little too long.

“Danni’s got a theory, and since she was involved with Chad, it might be what you are looking for.”

“Have you been drinking?”

He had, but not for a few hours. He wandered out onto the balcony off his apartment even though it wasn’t exactly warm out, but it wasn’t too cold either. The fresh air cleared his mind a little. “Not much.”

That wasn’t exactly the truth. In general he’d been drinking too much since going off the pain meds, but it was more boredom than anything else.

“Jesus, Santiago, go to bed. I’m interested in what you have to say, but I’ll be a lot more interested after a cup of coffee in at least four hours.”

“I thought we were supposed to be on the cop angle of this investigation.”

“We are, but—”

“I had dinner with Danni and we talked about Chad and she has an interesting angle on maybe why both he and Fielding were targeted. Grasso called me and said he’d gotten a similar tip, but a different name.”

“Like what name?”

Someone said something in the background. Male voice, a low rumble of sound. Grantham, no doubt.

They were in bed.

Of course they were.

She was right, it was late.

Damn
.

Jason ended the call. Churlish of him maybe to not at least say good-bye, but formalities weren’t his thing.

In his boxers, he went back inside to the kitchen. The entire contents of his refrigerator still consisted of an outdated quart of milk, two jars of pickled peppers—though why he’d opened the second one before the first was finished he had no clue—a few condiments, and one lonely hot dog swimming with nitrates and nitrites.

He eschewed the milk, chose the hot dog, and threw it into the microwave, tossed a couple of peppers on top, and ate it in about three bites, standing by the sink. Then he got a glass of water and went out to the balcony again. Sleep was probably not going to be an option for the rest of the night … he knew the signs. He’d seen the shrink that the department provided for officers shot in the line of duty, but besides “the dream” he was pretty sure he didn’t carry around a lot of baggage from that experience.

The killer shot him, he shot the killer. End of story.

The trouble sleeping was not a product of that event. He’d had that going on pretty much his whole life.

Settling into a chair, he propped his feet on the railing and brooded at the empty courtyard. Having insomnia had its advantages; he did his best thinking at times like this, when the world was dark.

So Danni thought maybe Chad had stumbled across something that was linked to Fielding’s murder. Garrison Henley.

Cops linked to corruption? It wasn’t a new story. The temptation was always there. Drug dealers made a ridiculous amount of money and police officers were paid pennies in comparison. Equal danger and unequal pay. The Henley name was pretty prominent, but Chad had apparently gotten some sort of information that implied organized crime might have contributed a bit to the family fortunes.

Were the two killings blackmail gone bad?

Fielding and Brown, however, were not that kind of law enforcement. There were officers Jason trusted and those he didn’t, just like any other facet of life. If asked, he would have said he trusted them.

But someone had tipped off Grasso. Which meant they knew Metzger asked them to keep an eye on the investigation.

Who? Jason thought as he slouched down. It was a damn good question.

The moon was a crescent in the sky and he stared at it, thinking, wide awake, the rail cold under his bare ankles.

Chapter 13

The porch swing moved and her skirt flowed across the weathered boards. The morning was clear and pleasant, though she gathered her sweater around her as she slowly pushed with her foot.

The rings screwed into the rafters creaked a little.

Murder.

The word really hadn’t come up.

Was that good or wasn’t it? She wasn’t sure.

He was back, and they weren’t talking. He suspected. She knew he did. A part of her had wanted him to know, to realize the lengths she would go to, the sacrifices she was willing to make.

But he said … nothing.

*   *   *

Maybe paybacks
were
hell.

Jason rolled over and searched for his phone, finally finding it on the side of the bed with a groping hand, his mind not quite functioning properly. Finally, he must have fallen asleep.

“What?” His voice sounded like he’d ingested a pail of rocks, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Santiago.”

The sound he heard was a rush of breath and then … nothing.

Like absolutely nothing.

He didn’t understand as he looked at the display, but that was definitely Danni Crawford’s number according to his phone.

“Hey, Danni? You there?”

Maybe she’d dialed him accidentally. God knew he’d done it before. He was awake now, sitting on the side of the bed. He ended the call and when he dialed her again, it went straight to voice mail. Leaving a message for her to call him back, he set aside his cell and contemplated the chances of falling back to sleep.

Slim to none at a guess.

Forget it
. He stared out the window. The sun was coming up anyway, the low glow giving shape to the building across the street.

But he couldn’t forget it.

It was probably a misdial, but she’d looked pretty shaky when they’d had dinner, and considering what she’d told him, he just had a bad feeling.

Cleared for it or not, he tugged on his jeans, pulled on a T-shirt, and picked up his keys. A few minutes later he was out the door and headed down to his car.

He’d find nothing, he told himself as he slid into the familiar cradle of the seat for the first time in two months and slipped in the key. Danni would be as annoyed with him as MacIntosh had been earlier if he just showed up at this hour of the morning, and so what? She worked the night shift. No harm, no foul.

Right? He was worried about her.

When he pulled up at her house, he saw her patrol car in the driveway. Nothing unusual. It was still pretty early but people were up, getting their kids ready for school, and the lights on around were reassuring until he realized that as he walked up the neat sidewalk, the front door to her house wasn’t quite closed.

Maybe she’d not quite gotten it shut. He knew firsthand she’d been tired and distraught. In fact, he’d urged her during dinner to think about a little vacation. Someplace tropical. But she’d just smiled sadly and said she and Chad were both saving for a trip to the Bahamas. Or had been.

There was no doubt he had a knack for putting his foot in it sometimes, but it really seemed like there was no subject that didn’t bounce back to her lover’s murder.

“Danni?” He knocked first, seemed the right thing to do, but that damn feeling that something was wrong hung on and he pushed the door open a crack.

It was the rug. There was only the slightest rumple, but it was there; like someone stepped on it and slid a little.

And someone who smoked had been in her house.

But Danni didn’t smoke.

It always amazed Jason that people who had a cigarette habit didn’t realize it was pretty evident to others and this was not just a hint of it. Someone had smoked a cigarette in her house, and recently.

He reached into his coat and settled his hand over the handle of his service weapon and widened the doorway with his foot. “Hello?”

Nothing. There was a curious knot in the pit of his stomach.

Burglary?

No. It didn’t look too much like anything had been disturbed. The television was still mounted to the wall in the tiny living room, and at a glance her computer seemed to still be in the case where she’d left it on the coffee table.

Normal.

Or was it?

That metallic smell … the bunched carpet …

The dead body.

Like a bad dream, Jason found nothing seemed to work as he went around the corner into the little kitchen. Knees—pure rubber. She wasn’t holding her gun any longer, the weapon next to her sprawled body.

She was without a doubt dead, eyes open, mouth slightly parted, her eyes glazed.

This cannot be happening
.

Someone had a giant hand around his heart, squeezing it.

Ironically, he felt … alone.

So damn alone. She sure wasn’t there with him. Not her, just what remained of her physical presence on this earth.

But fuck him. Was there anything worse than dying alone?

Wait a minute. Is there anything worse than dying?

Phone. Pocket. Concentrate
.
You are a homicide detective
.

Crouching down, he studied the scene with a practical, impartial eye.

Why hadn’t she fired? Broken arm? Could have happened when she fell … it was possible. It was galling, he remembered it too well. The uncooperative muscles, the increasing weakness, and the smell of blood cloying and a distraction.

Use the other hand.

Awkward … impossible, at least in this case.

It was easier actually to reach across, and her fingers had found the right pocket, probably slipping on her blood-soaked clothing, but the object in her hand was her phone. She somehow had managed to get it out.

It was eerie to see his number in the display.

He hung his head and took in a deep, shuddering breath.

*   *   *

Carl was drinking
a cup of coffee and toasting a bagel when the call came in. It was a nice fall morning, a Sunday with crystalline blue skies and he was off duty, which should be a good thing, but he was wondering just what the hell he was going to do with his day …

He glanced at his phone, saw the name, and answered, his cup slapping down on the counter so fast dark liquid sloshed out. Metzger didn’t call personally unless it was something weighty. “Chief?”

“We’ve got another officer down.”

What?
“Line of duty?”

“No.”

“Who?”

“Crawford.”

Okay. This is starting to get interesting
.

“She was killed at her home. Let’s play a game now, okay?”

When Metzger took that tone, it was always better to just agree. “Okay.”

“It is called: Guess Who Found Her.”

Carl took a second. “Santiago.”

“What the hell was he doing there? I’m not sure what’s going on, but it isn’t good. Dammit, Carl, the timing is always too perfect. No witnesses.”

Grasso gazed out the French doors toward the sunny backyard. He wished he hadn’t closed the pool up so soon because it always made it seem like winter was hovering. He asked, “I take it this call means you are more convinced than ever it might be professionals, and more specifically, maybe we trained them.”

“I don’t know.” Metzger’s voice was testy. “In fast, out fast, quiet, good shots … it narrows the field. The crime scene unit said not one bullet in a wall. She was hit with every shot. Quite frankly, it could be organized crime or a drug cartel, but these are uniformed cops, not detectives. Crawford didn’t even work the same beat as Fielding. Why would anyone hit her?”