Straw Men (26 page)

Milsevic.

Christensen saw him clearly now, the dark puppeteer behind a drama more complex and disturbing than anyone had imagined. For years people had danced and died at the end of his strings, and yet he'd risen to power on an unblemished record of honorable service. With Kiger's impending retirement he was about to seize the most powerful law-enforcement job in the city. How far would a man as ambitious as Milsevic go to protect his dark secrets?

He slowed to sixty-five as he veered right onto the Route 28 entrance ramp, then hit eighty as he merged into light traffic, announced by the engine's throaty howl. A few miles to the southwest, Christensen saw Downtown Pittsburgh's stunning skyline. Just ahead, the Highland Park Bridge crossed a muddy river that had never seemed wider.

Christensen tugged Teresa's file across the front seat and flipped open the cover. He knew her neighborhood, but needed the street address. He'd seen it once on an old police report, and he sifted the papers as he drove. At the same time, he dialed his cell phone, reciting the home phone number he'd scribbled on the outside of her file.

He hung up when her answering machine picked up. Within minutes, he was across the bridge and climbing up Baker Street, headed for Morningside Avenue. He checked the address again as he turned the corner. Her house was a block ahead on the left.

Teresa's Mercedes would have stood out like a beacon among the Dodges, Chevys, and Fords along the street, but Christensen didn't see it. He cruised past the address, trying to imagine her in the sturdy brick Victorian that stood there. The house was surrounded by a small yard, one of the few on the block with more than just a narrow concrete walkway between the lots. It was bigger than those around it, and more elaborately upgraded—the result, no doubt, of a long-ago infusion of untraceable cash.

Christensen turned left at the end of the block and left again into the narrow alley that ran between the neighborhood's main streets. The pavement passed among ramshackle garages, trash cans, and a patchwork of chain-link fencing. He recognized the Harnett house because of the yard and eased the Explorer to a stop.

The back door sat at the center of a redwood deck, not far from a covered hot tub. A backyard spa in claustrophobic Morningside? Bet that got the neighborhood grapevine buzzing. He lifted his foot from the brake and the car drifted forward, but something caught his eye. He stopped again and studied the house's rear door. Was it open?

Christensen backed up about ten feet, squinting at what looked like a small gap between the door's edge and the dark inside. He left the engine running and set the parking brake, clipped his cell phone to his belt, and opened the driver's-side door. He tested the gate at the edge of Teresa's yard, but it was held shut by a small combination lock. From there, though, he could see the back door standing open. Not much, maybe an inch, but definitely ajar.

Christensen looked both ways, up and down the alley, making sure no one was watching, then vaulted over the fence and into the yard. If Teresa was inside, where was her car? And if she wasn't, why was the back door not closed and locked? He reached for his phone to call Kiger, then reconsidered. If Teresa was inside and desperate, the last thing she needed was police intervention.

Christensen walked as softly as he could, but the deck creaked and groaned as he climbed the steps and crossed to the door. The key was in the lock. Christensen looked down. A torn white envelope lay at his feet. It was stained a deep rust color in places, and beside it stood a terra cotta planter that had recently been lifted or moved. The outline of its base was etched on the deck in the same rust color. Whoever was inside had let themselves in, apparently with a hidden key.

Christensen knocked lightly, then pushed the door open wider.

“Teresa?”

Wider still.

“It's me, Jim. You here? Teresa?”

He stepped into a utility room left toasty by the water heater on his left. A washer and dryer were on his right. Straight ahead, a wooden door led, he assumed, into the main part of the house.

“Teresa?” he called, louder this time. He rapped hard on the white door and it swung slightly open with his touch. “It's Jim. Anybody home?”

Christensen shouldered through the swinging door and stepped into Teresa's kitchen. His stomach suddenly clenched—this was where it happened. He felt a soft breeze as the door swung shut behind him, then the bite of unforgiving steel at the back of his head, the cold, insistent pressure of a gun barrel. He stood like a statue, frozen by fear as he recognized the wet smacking sound coming from just behind him.

“That's breaking and entering, sport,” Milsevic said, working his gum. “Afraid you've got some explaining to do.”

“I'm looking for Teresa,” Christensen said softly.

“I'll bet,” Milsevic said. “You've got to figure a guy who vaults over a locked gate and sneaks in the back door is looking for somebody.”

Gone was the contrite man Christensen had seen at Harnett's grave a few days before. The man behind him was very much in control. But why was he here? Looking for David's ledger? Come to finally kill Teresa eight years after his first attempt? As Milsevic marched him slowly into the living room, Christensen realized he had a weapon of his own: he knew the truth. But would it work on a man apparently without conscience?

“I might just as well ask what
you're
doing here,” Christensen said.

Milsevic leaned in close enough that Christensen could smell the nicotine. “You might, but I don't really have to answer, do I?” He repeated the question, his voice suddenly as sharp as a blade. “
Do I
?”

“No.”

“You're forgetting this is still an open investigation. So I'm the one entitled to ask the questions here, don't you think?”

Except you're on leave,
Christensen thought, but he answered, “Yes.”

The police captain patted Christensen down, then pushed him toward a sofa that stretched beneath the bay window at the front of the house. “Sit.”

Through the window's half-closed plantation shutters Christensen could see what he wished he'd noticed as he cruised past the house: Milsevic's dark-blue, department-issue cruiser parked across the street. He turned and confronted a large handgun much different from the service piece Milsevic had used in Panther Hollow. Kiger had probably kept that one pending a review of the shooting. This gun looked at first as if it had two barrels, top and bottom. The bottom barrel had the words SIG-Sauer on it. The top was embossed with the words “LaserShot Sighting System.” Christensen knew nothing about firearms, but his mind flashed on a forgotten detail from the night Brenna was shot: the tiny red dot that flickered across her face just before it happened.

Even off-duty, Milsevic was dressed like a politician—dark suit, crisp white shirt, a subdued maroon rep tie. Through the shirt, Christensen could see what looked like a pair of nicotine patches affixed directly to Milsevic's chest. A wide mirror hung horizontally above an upright piano behind him, and in it Christensen could see the perfectly tailored shoulders of his suit jacket. Not the clothes a desperate man might wear to ransack a house. What
was
he doing here?

Christensen sank deeply into the sofa's cushions. Milsevic lowered the gun, but didn't holster it.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Talk.”

“I came by to check on Teresa. She was just at my office at Harmony, maybe thirty minutes ago, pretty depressed. She left without saying good-bye. With everything that's gone on, I got worried.”

“So you drove all the way over here and busted into her house just to see if she was OK?”

Christensen nodded. “I saw the back door open. I came up to check on her.”

“You thought maybe she might put her head in the oven or something?”

Christensen shrugged. “I wondered. She had a gun. I saw it in her purse when she was at Harmony. I didn't know what to think. And then when she took off … If she was going to hurt herself, I figured she'd come here.”

Milsevic crossed his arms, resting the gun against his left bicep. He was holding it by the black handle, his index finger still on the trigger.

“Funny,” he said, fishing a foil packet from his shirt pocket. “Teresa didn't sound depressed when she called me.”

Christensen felt disoriented. “She called you? When?”

Milsevic glanced at his wristwatch. “Twenty-five, maybe thirty minutes ago.”

“From where?

Milsevic shook his head. “Pay phone somewhere. Asked me to meet her here to talk, told me to use the key out back to let myself in. Next thing I know, you're coming across the fence. Guess we'll sort this out when she gets here, but in the meantime…” He nodded toward his gun. “I'm sure you understand.”

Christensen wished he did. Had Teresa lured Milsevic here so she could face him down in the place where, for her, this nightmare began? Or was he now snared in an even more tangled web? Christensen's stomach knotted as two images surfaced in quick succession: Milsevic and Teresa as sole survivors of the Tidwell conspiracy, and the two of them as lovers. Could they somehow be working together?

“Teresa called you here to talk?” Christensen asked.

Milsevic nodded.

“She say what about?”

“The weather.” Milsevic smirked and adjusted his tie knot.

“No, really. Did she say?”

Milsevic clenched his jaw tight. “Nosy son-of-a-bitch, aren't you?”

Christensen fought panic by recreating the scene in his Harmony office less than an hour before. Teresa's emotions were real. If they weren't, she was a psychopath worse than any he'd ever encountered. No, Christensen decided, she was setting Milsevic up. He had to believe that. His only choice was to make the same leap of faith Teresa made when she first came to him.

Christensen's eyes strayed to the mirror behind Milsevic's head. No sign of life in the street outside, but he already could see the final act of this tragedy reeling toward a bloody climax. A man as calculating as Milsevic wouldn't be caught off guard. Even if Teresa succeeded, gunning Milsevic down in the same place she'd been so violated, Christensen knew she'd destroy herself at the same time.

He studied Milsevic from across the room, could almost see the man triangulating the possibilities, assessing the threat. Christensen felt the moment coming like a final judgment. If he did nothing, he'd be a mute witness to the mayhem about to unfold. Or he could try to break Milsevic first.

“So, how goes the search?” Christensen asked.

“For?”

“The other guy, the one who actually attacked Teresa—” Christensen pointed to the kitchen. “—right in there. You're still assuming David hired someone, right?”

Milsevic smiled, apparently confident they were on safe ground now. “We're working it. Put the word out at Western Pen, Lewisburg, places where the contract-hit guys usually end up. Somebody out there'll want to cut their time by telling what they know. Those guys brag. Most of them would rat-fuck their mother for a reduced sentence.”

Christensen sat forward. Milsevic tightened his grip on the gun.

“You know what, though,” Christensen said. “Something about that whole thing bothers me.”

“That whole thing. What whole thing?”

“The David thing. I still buy the motive. He needed to stop Teresa before she talked to IAD. He was dirty, and she knew it. She knew he'd lied when he told the IAD investigators he was with her the night Vulcan Tidwell was killed. She had him, she knew she had him, and I think she was planning to take him down. The way things were between them at the time, that makes sense. So he wanted her dead. But this other thing doesn't.”

Christensen stopped, waiting to see if Milsevic took the bait. When he didn't, Christensen plunged on.

“Now, I'm no cop, so maybe I'm missing something. But how could David have staged Tidwell's shooting all by himself? That's really bugging me. Think about it. There were two bodies in that alley, Tidwell and the other drug dealer. David was a big man, but pulling that off by himself … seems impossible, doesn't it?”

Milsevic swallowed the gum in his mouth. His face was unreadable as he popped another piece from the foil packet and started to chew.

“And then there's this other thing that happened the same day,” Christensen said. “Two cops died, ambushed in Bloomfield. Boyle and Vance were their names. Some of the things Teresa's been remembering…”

He paused. Milsevic stared.

“You knew I've been working with her, right?” Christensen said. “Since Dagnolo and Kiger signed off on it, I just assumed you were in the loop.”

A shadow fell across Milsevic's face.

“I won't bore you with details, Captain. I'll just say she thinks David was involved in those killings as well. But again, same problem. Is that something the guy could have done by himself?”

“We already know what he was capable of,” Milsevic said. “Nothing would surprise me.”

“No?” Christensen looked Milsevic straight in the eye. “You know damned well David couldn't have done those things by himself. And we both know there were two people involved when Teresa was attacked a few months later. We
know
somebody other than David licked the stamp on that letter she got, and we know that letter was part of a plan to frame DellaVecchio for the attack. A complicated plan. One that needed at least two people to work.”

Milsevic chewed slowly, then tucked his gum into one cheek. “You've just got it all figured, huh?”

“A hired killer wouldn't be involved on that level, would he?” Christensen slid forward to the very edge of the couch. “Those are things only a partner would do. Somebody who had just as much to lose if IAD took Tidwell seriously, or if Teresa ever told what she knew. Maybe somebody with more to lose. You following my logic here?”

Milsevic took a half step back.

Christensen nodded toward the house's front door. “My guess is David didn't have the stomach for what he wanted done here. So he gave a house key to his partner. The partner's the one who let himself in and hid somewhere in the house. He's the one who caught Teresa at the sink and crushed her skull. He's the one who dipped DellaVecchio's shoe in Teresa's blood to leave that convenient shoeprint. He's the one, Captain, who bent down and whispered in her ear.”

Milsevic leveled the gun again. There was no pretense now, just the dead-eyed stare of a man without a soul. Christensen felt the danger. The clock was running, racing toward a showdown he knew no one would win. He needed to strip Milsevic of whatever defenses he had left before Teresa showed up.

“
You never rose,
”
Christensen said. “She can still hear his voice, Captain.
Your
voice.” He waited a beat, let that sink in. “That line from the Springsteen song:
Got to learn to live with what you can't rise above.
Teresa knew everything, not just about Tidwell, but about Boyle and Vance. That's what she couldn't live with. They were friends, academy classmates for God's sake. Husbands. Fathers. When Teresa realized you and David had cut them down to protect yourselves … that was the truth she couldn't rise above. That's what she was about to tell IAD.”

The muscles in Milsevic's square jaw rippled. Christensen bore down.

“You weren't out bar-hopping with David the night Teresa was attacked. You were right here, making sure she'd never tell what she knew, making sure all the clues pointed in the right direction. I'm guessing you volunteered. She'd pissed you off, hadn't she? The way she used you to punish David, fucked you just to get back at him. Killing her was something that had to be done, but this was your big chance. You wanted to humiliate her the way she'd humiliated you.”

Christensen pointed at the kitchen entrance just behind Milsevic. “If she'd died in there, end of story. When she didn't, well, it didn't really matter, did it? Her memories were gone, and you were in charge of the case. By the time your investigators had all the clues they needed to find DellaVecchio, David had Teresa's memories primed and ready. With you covering for David, it was perfect. Except…”

Milsevic's vacant eyes missed what Christensen saw in the mirror—a glint of polished black rolling past the house. Christensen couldn't be sure it was Teresa's car, but he knew it was time to go for broke.

“Thing is, now Teresa can
prove
it,” he said. “David kept a ledger. She found it yesterday, along with the cash. You were all in it together, five cops taking payoffs from Tidwell, including Teresa. The only ones left are you and her.”

Christensen tried hard to look into Milsevic's eyes instead of at the barrel of the gun. “But you know what's really gonna nail your hide to the wall, Captain?”

He tugged the folded photocopies from his shirt pocket, opened them flat, and fanned them wide enough that Milsevic could see the matching sprays of DNA markers. “It's those little genetic calling cards you've been leaving behind. On the envelope you mailed to Teresa. On the apartment roof the night you took that shot at Brenna. On a wad of your gum I picked up that day in Panther Hollow.”

Christensen refolded the pages.

“Like I said from the start: you can mess with memories, but you can't mess with DNA.”

Milsevic's gun hand was as steady as ever. Suddenly, he smiled his winning smile. “We all make mistakes. What matters is how you recover from them.”

“You didn't recover. You covered up.”

“Thanks for the sermon.”

“Brian, it's over.”

Milsevic stepped closer. “So true, Jim. So true.”

With his free hand, Milsevic grabbed Christensen's hair. He wrenched his head back and banged it on the windowsill behind the couch. Christensen felt the skin split at the same time he felt Milsevic wedge the heel of his tasseled loafer into his crotch and step down hard. The cop gently worked the wide barrel of the gun into Christensen's left nostril. Milsevic's eyes were two dark portals, empty and terrifying. Christensen knew there'd be no appeal.

Then, the moment froze. Milsevic's eyes shot open wide, an electric terror, and he eased himself back in stunned silence. Beyond the gun barrel and Milsevic's steady grip, Christensen could see Teresa looming above them both, her hand outstretched as she pressed something to the base of Milsevic's skull. She seemed calm, a vision of harnessed rage.

“My turn,” she said.