Through the Evil Days: A Clare Fergusson/Russ Van Alstyne Mystery (Clare Fergusson and Russ Van Alstyne Mysteries) (45 page)

“What the hell’s going on in there?” Flynn hissed, and at the same moment, the back door opened. One, two, three people came out, one of them carrying a large bundle. In silhouette, it looked like the O’Days and DeJean, but she couldn’t be sure. Unlike the Feds and the state tac duo, MKPD officers weren’t issued night-vision glasses.

DeJean was a big man, but the two agents were tall, too, and these three, side by side, gave her no measuring point. They crossed the side yard and continued toward the road. As they walked past the front corner of the house, the ambient lantern light and the angle of their backs met and the letters
FBI
blazed out at her.

“It’s them,” she whispered. Beneath a knit cap, she could make out a bit of DeJean’s shaved bald skull. The edge of a quilt, wrapped around the bundle in his arms, flopped over his burly shoulder.

“Easy to recognize,” Flynn agreed. “Once you’ve met Hector DeJean, you’re not likely to forget him.”

It came to her, just like that, the thing she had heard an hour or two ago and dismissed. “Flynn. Remember what Tom O’Day said when we were passing around the briefing sheets? He told the staties DeJean didn’t look like his mug shot anymore because he was bald.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“That was the most recent mug shot on record. There aren’t any new pictures of him in VICAP.” The massive New York database of criminal offenders.

“Yeah…”

She looked at him. “If there aren’t any current photos of DeJean on file, how did Tom O’Day know he was bald?”

12.

Lyle was standing in the parking lot of Napoli’s Liquor, cuffing a perp, when Harlene called him. It had been as crazy a day as the past two, despite the snow easing up. The volunteer fire company was run ragged with overburdened chimneys bursting into flame and kerosene heaters igniting. Folks stuck in their houses for the past three days decided the break in the weather was just the time to stock back up on water and milk, with a corresponding rise in fender benders as they slid into each other on the way to the store. And a few geniuses, like the guy Lyle was steering into the backseat, realized the massive power outages meant a lot of security systems weren’t working. He probably would have gotten away with cleaning out Napoli’s till and carting off a trunkful of booze if he hadn’t decided to load up on coffee brandy while on the job.

Lyle slid into the driver’s seat and picked up the mic. “Dispatch, this is fifteen-thirty, come back.”

“Fifteen-thirty, message from fifteen-twenty-five, over.” Usually, Harlene would have just patched Eric through, but there wasn’t enough bandwidth to manage car-to-car right now.

“Dispatch, go ahead, over.”

“Officer has custody of Wendall Sullivan, wanted for questioning on ten-fifty, over.”

Lyle’s eyebrows shot up. “How’d he manage that? Over.”

Even through the staticky connection, he could hear Harlene’s smirk. “Auto accident. What else?”

*   *   *

Wendall Sullivan looked like he’d been dragged through the bushes backward since Lyle had seen him last. He sat slumped over in the interrogation room, his clothes filthy, his hair greasy.

“Jesus.” Lyle turned away from the window. “Where’s he been hiding? The town dump?”

“Close. I thought we might have squatters back in those condemned buildings on Beale Avenue when I saw him.” Eric handed Lyle the accident paperwork. “He was at the incineration plant outside Glens Falls. Warm, and nobody around.”

“If you can stand the smell. Has he lawyered up?”

“Not yet.”

Lyle looked in the window again. He could almost see the waves rolling off Sullivan. “You sure you don’t want to handle his questioning?”

Eric slapped Lyle on the shoulder. “Oh, no. He’s all yours, Dep.”

“I do not get paid enough for this job.” Lyle opened the door and was assaulted by the scent of decaying garbage. He waved it away as he sat opposite Sullivan. “Wendall. Long time no see.”

Sullivan looked up at him. “Can I get something to eat? I’m starving.”

“We’ve got a meal coming in for you from the diner. You’re going to have to wait until you’re at the county lockup for a shower, though.”

Sullivan sniffed at himself. “Is it bad? I kind of got used to the smell.”

“The ability of the human brain to adjust to things is a marvel, that’s a fact. For instance, you adjusting to being back in prison.”

“I didn’t touch that girl! I didn’t do nothing to her!”

Lyle decided to skip over the storage-locker porn nest for the time being. “Here’s what we’re gonna do, Wendall. You tell me everything you know about what happened to Mikayla Johnson. And I’ll personally testify as to your assistance and cooperation at your sentencing hearing.”

Sullivan spread his hands against the surface of the table. “I swear, I wasn’t looking for her or nothing. I talked with her some, on the job, that’s all. It was when I found out her name that I realized she was somebody. I had heard it before, I mean. This guy I owed a few favors to, he’d put it out wanting to know where this girl was. There was gonna be money for anyone who knew anything. So I got in touch with him.”

“Jonathan Davies.”

Sullivan’s eyes went wide. “You know about him?”

“Yeah. Did you tell anyone else about Mikayla?”

“Jonathan, he sent me to this other guy. His name was Roy something. I told him what I knew, and that was it. I went home and I never saw him or the girl again. I just wanted some extra cash.”

“And you owed Davies a favor. Do you know who he works for?”

Sullivan nodded. “Yeah. But I don’t get into any of that stuff. Davies found a guy inside to keep me safe when this crew from downstate wouldn’t leave me alone. That’s all.”

Lyle ran over the timeline in his head. Mikayla was released to the MacAllens’ custody in September. “When did you start working for Maid for You?”

“Huh? September. Why? I swear, I been keeping clean. I hardly ever even talk to kids if I see them on the job.”

Something that had been percolating in the back of his mind since Saturday finally bubbled up. The crew leader of the cleaning team.
We’re fully bonded, but, you know.
“Wendall, how did you get past the criminal background check for the job?”

“It wasn’t nothing illegal. It was the Feds who arrested me back when I was a teenager. They kinda took an interest in me after I got out, I guess. They told me I oughta apply for the job. Said they’d make sure my record showed up clean.”

Lyle sat very still. “Who were these Feds?”

Wendall shook his head. “I’m not supposed to say. They cut me a break. Not many people’ll do that for … someone on the list.”

Lyle leaned forward. “Wendall.” He kept his voice steady. “Who are the federal agents who told you to apply for the job at Maid for You?”

Sullivan flopped his hands. “Whatever. You can get it from my old arrest record sooner or later, right? They were a married couple. Tom and Marie O’Day.”

13.

Clare had been driving forty minutes when the call came through on Russ’s radio. Despite the roads, which were, as Kevin Flynn had promised, treacherous, it was a pleasant enough trip. Oscar was curled up in the passenger seat, filling it to overflowing, while Bob had actually nodded off in the back.

The real reason for her peace of mind was the fact she was finally doing something useful. And unlike earlier, when taking Bob to the hospital would have meant abandoning Mikayla, she had confidence that the law enforcement professionals would be able to shut down the meth house and get the girl out safely.

Once she had Bob seen to, she was going to get an ambulance and EMTs and head back up to Inverary Lake. She might meet Russ with Mikayla on the way, but she couldn’t help but think that minutes counted at this point.

“Chief Van Alstyne, Millers Kill Police, this is State Police Dispatch Troop G, come in. Chief Van Alstyne, Millers Kill Police, this is State Police Dispatch Troop G, come in.”

The voice was shocking after the long radio silence. Clare almost shimmied across the yellow line. She corrected with a jerk and grabbed the mic. “State Police Dispatch Troop G, this is Chief Van Alstyne’s, uh, vehicle. Over.”

There was a pause. “Who is this?”

“I’m his wife. He’s, um—”

“Tell them he’s responding to a possible hostage situation near Inverary Lake,” Bob said. “Tell them he’s out of radio contact.”

Clare repeated the message.

There was another pause. “Please hold for further information.”

Clare laid the mic in her lap so she could keep both hands on the wheel. “What do you think they want with Russ?”

“Dunno. Where are we?”

She glanced at the odometer. “About halfway to Ticonderoga. The Essex County deputy said it was usually a forty-minute trip, but I’m afraid in this weather…”

“Not to worry. I’ve got my happy pills. Take all the time you need.”

The radio squawked to life again. “Mrs. Van Alstyne, the deputy chief of the MKPD wants to speak with you. I’m patching him through.”

A moment later, she heard a rough voice, so small and far away it could have been broadcasting from the moon. “Reverend?”

“Lyle? What is it?”

“Where are you?”

“On Route 8, heading from Inverary to Ticonderoga. I’m taking Lieutenant Mongue to the hospital.”

“What? Oh, Christ, was he shot?”

“I didn’t know he cared,” Bob murmured from the backseat.

Clare keyed the mic again. “He has a broken leg. Lyle, what is this about?”

“Did Russ meet up with Knox and Flynn?”

“Yes. And a couple of federal agents and a deputy. I told the Troop G dispatcher—”

The radio squealed as Lyle overrode her signal. “Those federal agents are dirty. They arranged for Mikayla Johnson’s kidnapping.”

“What?” She was so surprised she forgot to key the mic.

Lyle went on. “I need you to turn around, Clare, right now, and get to Russ and warn him.”

“Are you sure?” Oh,
that
was a smart question.

“I’m sure every witness against Tim LaMar has either died or won’t talk. I’m sure the O’Days have been working on the LaMar case for years. I’m sure they put an informant in the MacAllens’ house to cover their tracks. I
believe
they’re on LaMar’s payroll.”

“Grease.” Bob sounded disgusted.

Clare let the mic dangle. “That’s what Travis said in the garage, when he was getting into their car. He said something about the grease keeping him clean. I didn’t know—honestly, I thought he was talking about something mechanical.”

“Grease is a dirty cop who fixes things for a mobster. Greases the skids.”

“Clare? Have I lost you?”

She had left Lyle hanging. She picked up the mic again. “Just a second, Lyle.” She glanced in the rearview mirror. “Bob, I can’t take you to the hospital and warn the rest of them in time. Do you—”

“Turn around,” he said. “Another couple hours isn’t going to make a difference with my leg. If MacAuley’s right, those agents aren’t just trying to clean up this LaMar guy’s messes. They’ll have to protect themselves now.”

“But—surely they wouldn’t harm fellow law enforcement. Would they?”

“If Russ or his people make the connection, it means disgrace and ruin and the rest of their lives in federal custody in Otisville. I wouldn’t gamble on what they’d be willing to do to prevent that.”

She keyed the mic. “Lyle, I’m turning around. Please send help if you can.”

“I’m working on it. Good luck. MacAuley out.”

14.

When Russ saw the Feds walk past the side of the house with Hector DeJean, he thought,
Son of a gun. They did it.
He was frankly amazed. He’d done his share of negotiations, but he’d never just waltzed into a hostage situation and come out with the perp tied up in a big bow. They must have been right about the medical angle. DeJean must have figured it was better to see his kid to safety than risk her life in a standoff.

DeJean was carrying Mikayla, wrapped up in a quilt, which meant the O’Days hadn’t restrained him yet. He frowned. Better to have cuffed DeJean and had one of the agents carry the child. Of course, that meant they had to stick together; one to hold the girl and the other to be ready in case DeJean got violent. And the plan, once they reached the bridge, was for Marie O’Day to come to his position and brief him on what they saw in the house. The plan, he was realizing, wasn’t well thought out. He should have taken Kevin’s walkie-talkie when offered. In his defense, he had expected to be storming the house in order to rescue the Feds by now.

He was going to have to go back up the road and meet them instead. He wondered if the emerging stars gave enough light for anyone to spot him from the house. He couldn’t see where the Feds were, but he knew his night vision wasn’t what it used to be. Better not to chance that one of the meth brewers had younger, more light-sensitive eyes. He shifted out of the snow hollow he had dug for himself and began combat-crawling toward the bridge.

The first hint of something going wrong was when Marie O’Day failed to intercept him. With the benefit of infrared goggles, she ought to have seen him coming up the edge of the road. Stretched out against the ice and snow, his heat signature would look like a blowtorch. He didn’t expect to run into her right off the bat; allowing both agents to stick close to DeJean was the point, after all. But he was well over halfway between his surveillance position and the bridge, and he had heard nothing from either agent. His opinion of the pair was going down quicker than the temperature.

He was almost to the bridge itself when he heard a whispered “Chief! Is that you?”

“Kevin? Where are you?”

“Down in the stream bed.”

Russ hit the corner of the tiny bridge and let himself roll over the side to slide down the bank. He landed on his ass with an audible thud. Hands reached to help him up. “Knox?”

“Here, Chief.”

He stood up. He could see his two officers well enough, which meant he should have been able to see the federal agents and DeJean. If they had been somewhere around where they were supposed to be.