Unseen (6 page)

“Will?”

He looked up, surprised to find Faith Mitchell standing in the doorway.

She asked, “What’s wrong? You look sick.”

The red light was flashing. Will loaded another pod. “You want one?”

“If I have any more caffeine today, my head will explode.”

“Emma keep you up?”

Emma was Faith’s ten-month-old daughter. Will knew the baby was with her father this week, but he listened to Faith like it was the first time he was hearing the news.

“Anyway.” Faith rounded out the litany of complaints about her baby’s daddy by asking, “What do you think about coincidences?”

Will recognized a trick question when he heard one.

She said, “Like, you’re working an undercover case one minute and the next minute you’re sucked into another Lena Adams shit-storm.” She held out her hands in an open shrug. “Coincidence?”

“We always knew it was possible I’d run into her.”

“We
did
?” She raised her voice high on the last word, like she was questioning a toddler.

Will turned his attention back to the coffee machine. He slowed down his movements, feigning uncertainty so that Faith would take over.

Instead of taking the bait, she told him, “Sara called me about fifteen minutes ago.”

Will concentrated on filling the water tank precisely to the mark.

“She knows the state investigates officer-involved fatalities.”

He loaded up the next pod.

“She wanted to know what was going on with Jared.” Faith paused a moment, then added, “She didn’t want to bother you with it, but we both know she’s terrified of you getting mixed up with Lena, so …” Faith shrugged. “I told her I’d look into it.”

Will cleared his throat. “That should be easy. Amanda’s putting you in charge of the investigation.”

“Well, great, but I didn’t know that when I told Sara. I was lying to her. Just like I was lying when I agreed that it’s a good thing you’re working undercover God-knows-where and you’re not going to get sucked into this, because I’m not sure if you know this, but Sara is terrified of you being around Lena.”

Will checked the kitchen drawers for sweeteners. He found two pink packets and tore off the tops.

Faith said, “You know Sara thinks Lena’s responsible for her husband’s murder. I pretty much agree with her, by the way.”

Will tapped the sweetener into the mug.

“She’s also going to think it’s Lena’s fault that Jared was shot, which, considering her history, is a real possibility.” Faith paused again. “Actually, it’s a pattern now. I saw it back when you were investigating Lena Adams a year and a half ago. People who get close to her end up dead. Sara’s right to be scared. Jared’s just the latest casualty.”

Will tossed the trash into the garbage can. Stainless steel, just like the appliances. He wondered if Amanda had used her own money.

Faith needled, “Jared, Sara’s stepson by her dead husband who she thinks Lena got murdered.”

The red light started flashing on the coffee machine. Will
pressed down the handle on the pod. He tried the weather thing. “I think it’s going to rain today.”

Faith groaned. “You’re a dumbass, you know that?”

He grimaced, mostly because he couldn’t contradict her.

“It’s not the case that’s going to piss Sara off, it’s the cover-up.” Faith paused, but only for breath. “Actually, it won’t piss her off. It’ll hurt her. Devastate her. Which is a hell of a lot worse than her being mad. People get over being mad.”

Will scooped up the three mugs in his hands. “Amanda’s waiting.”

Faith trailed him out of the kitchen. Will hunched his shoulders against the disappointment radiating off her, but she was blissfully silent as she followed him to Amanda’s office. He knew better than to think this was over. Faith was probably itemizing in her head all the different ways she was right about this.

Sadly, there was nothing Will could say, because Faith
was
right. Sara wouldn’t be angry. She would be hurt. She would be devastated. And then she would probably inventory the steaming load of crap Will had brought into her otherwise normal life and decide it wasn’t worth it. His Dickensian childhood. What had happened to his family. His ardent desire not to discuss either topic no matter how gently Sara pressed. There just wasn’t much to recommend him. Will had almost been kicked out of high school. He’d been homeless. He’d barely graduated from college. And this didn’t even touch on Will’s hateful wife, who had evaporated off the face of the earth the minute he’d filed divorce papers, yet still somehow managed to leave the occasional nasty message tucked under the windshield wiper of Sara’s car.

Caroline was still at her desk. She helped Will move the mugs around, taking the one with cream. He realized he’d screwed up the orders at the same moment he realized he didn’t care.

Unbelievably, the tension in Amanda’s office was thicker than when Will had left. Amanda’s jaw was set. Denise Branson’s body
was rigid, her hands clenched into fists. The pissing contest was far from over.

Amanda’s tone could’ve cut through steel. “Major Branson, this is Special Agent Mitchell.”

Oddly, Denise Branson smiled warmly at Faith. “I worked with your mother when I was a rookie. I hope she’s enjoying her retirement?”

“Yes.” Faith shook the woman’s hand. “I’ll tell Mama you asked after her.”

Branson continued, “Evelyn was always the consummate professional.” She still didn’t look at Amanda, but they all took her meaning. “I’m sorry I don’t have time to look her up while I’m in town.”

Faith’s perfunctory smile and lack of response made it clear she wasn’t going to be so easily charmed away from Amanda’s side.

To break the awkward moment, Will passed out the coffees. Amanda held the mug to her lips, then recoiled when the smell hit her. Branson noted the gesture and placed her mug on the desk.

Amanda said, “Let’s try to keep this brief. We all have work to do.”

Will waited for the women to sit, then leaned against the windowsill, feeling—literally—like the odd man out. He was used to being surrounded by women, but there was something about this particular group that made him feel the need to cross his legs.

Amanda began, “All right, let’s start with this officer-involved …” She searched for the appropriate word. “… hammering.” She smiled on this last bit, though Will had seen firsthand why the observation wasn’t funny. “Denise, any leads on why Adams and Long were targeted?”

“We have some theories.”

They all waited, but Branson didn’t share them.

“All right,” Amanda said. “We’ll need to review all recent case
files, talk to their partners and team members and see if they can come up with any—”

“We’ve already done that,” Branson interrupted. “No one stood out. They’re police officers. They don’t get thank-you notes for arresting people.”

Amanda did not demure. “And yet they were targeted for a reason.”

“We’ve reviewed all of Adams’s cases going back twelve months. Same for Long. They’ve been doing mostly routine stuff. No dangerous work. Nothing that would draw this kind of attention.”

Amanda smirked. “Fascinating you were able to reach that conclusion in less than six hours.”

“We’re a crack team down in Macon.”

Amanda analyzed the woman. So did Will. Branson obviously relished the game, but her lips quivered at the corner when she was hiding something. It was almost as if she was fighting a smile.

Amanda asked, “You’ve met Charlie Reed?”

“That’s your forensics guy?” Branson shook her head. “Didn’t have a chance. Per your request to my chief, the house was sealed immediately after Jared Long was taken to the hospital. It didn’t seem like a good use of my time to drive over there and wait for your boys to mosey on down.”

“Thank you for your cooperation, Major. I’m sure it will help our investigation run more smoothly. Too many cooks and all that.” Amanda stopped to offer a canned smile. “The lab knows to rush any trace Charlie finds. He’ll report directly to me, and I’ll share anything relevant with your department. Faith is taking point on the investigation.” She told Faith, “Let’s be sure to keep Macon in the loop.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Faith took out her notebook and turned to a fresh page. “Major, what can you tell me?”

Branson had obviously come prepared. She told Amanda, “Go ahead and pull up those photos on the zip drive.”

Amanda raised an eyebrow at the order, but she still complied, moving the mouse around, looking at the TV set as if she expected something to happen. The screen stayed static. “Why isn’t this working?”

Will kept silent, but Faith asked, “Is it on?”

“Of course it’s on.” Amanda picked up the remote and pressed the red button. The screen flickered on, then a photograph came up. Will guessed he was looking at Jared Long’s employment photo. He’d met the young man once before. Long was a handsome kid with the kind of charming self-confidence that made him a natural leader. From all reports, he was a lot like his father.

Branson provided, “Jared Long, Lena Adams’s husband. He’s a motorman, been on the Macon force seven years. Good at his job. Likes being on the bike. No red flags. Stellar officer.”

Faith mumbled, “Unlike his wife.”

If Branson heard the comment, she chose to ignore it. “Long is out of surgery as of half an hour ago. It’s touch-and-go, but that doesn’t change anything on our end. An officer was shot. Another was almost murdered. Someone put the hit out. Next picture, please.”

Amanda clicked the mouse. She stared at the screen, waiting for the image to change. “Oh, for the love of—”

Faith said, “Hit the space bar.”

“That won’t work.” Amanda tapped the space bar. The picture changed. The new photo showed an older man with a pockmarked face and squinty eyes. He was dressed in an orange prison jumper. There was a placard under his chin with his name and inmate number.

Branson supplied, “Samuel Marcus Lawrence, the first assailant who entered the house, DOA shortly thereafter. He’s our first shooter. Mid-level thug with a couple of assaults that put him inside for two and three years, respectively. Early parole for good behavior, times two. He told anyone who’d listen that he was an ex–Hells Angel but there’s no evidence he ever patched in.”

Faith kept writing in her notebook as she asked, “Drugs?”

“Meth. He had more sores on his face than a backseat whore.”

Amanda said, “Either way, he’s dead now.” She tapped the space bar again. Another mugshot came on screen. The man was about the same age as the first, with gray hair and the faded tattoo of a cobra’s head folding into the turkey gizzard of his neck.

“Fred Leroy Zachary,” Branson provided. “He did eight years for assault with a deadly, then pulled a full dime off a kidnap and rape. Known around town as a muscle for hire. He’s alive, but just barely. His jaw was broken. Spine fractured. Ribs broken. Whole body’s in a cast. Mouth’s wired shut. He can’t talk, and even if he could, his lawyer won’t let him.”

Amanda said, “Well, you can’t accuse Adams of not being thorough. What did she have to say for herself?”

Branson turned cagey again. “Not much. Doctors said she was in shock. They had to treat her at the scene. She sketched out the highlights—one armed male breached the house. Long was shot in the back. Sawed-off shotgun, so the pellets spread. Adams took the hammer out of Long’s tool belt and defended herself. A second armed male came at her. There was a struggle, but she managed to neutralize both intruders.”

Branson seemed to be finished. Amanda asked, “That’s it?”

“Like I said, Adams was under medical care for severe shock. She saw her husband get shot. Fought for her life. His life, too, come to that. We’ll go back at her later, but from where I’m sitting, she’s earned some breathing room.”

Amanda silently steepled her fingers together underneath her chin. Faith kept writing in her notebook, but Will could practically see her ears perk up. There was a big piece missing from the end of the story. Either Lena had lied about Will being at the house or Branson was lying about what Lena had told her.

Amanda said, “Faith will go back at Adams. She’s had enough breathing room, I think. We need to know exactly what happened
last night. You may not like it, but it’s our case and that’s how it’s going to be.”

Branson’s jaw tightened, but she gave a single nod of agreement.

Faith broke the tension this time. “Major, maybe you can fill in some basic details for me?” She turned to a fresh page in her notebook. “We’re talking a residential area?” Branson nodded. “A shotgun goes off in the middle of the night. Anybody see anything? Hear anything?”

Branson apparently shared Amanda’s habit of answering questions she didn’t like in her own sweet time. She paused a moment longer than necessary, then said, “The neighbors weren’t sure at first. It’s a fairly rural area. Just past midnight, you hear a shot, maybe it’s poachers, a car backfiring. The area’s heavily wooded. Houses are on five-acre lots. We’re not like y’all here in the city, stacked up on top of each other like rats.”

Faith nodded, ignoring the dig, or maybe agreeing with it. “Who called the police?”

“A neighbor who lives four doors down. You’ve got her name and statement on the zip drive if your boss can figure out how to open it.” She glanced Amanda’s way, then turned back to Faith. “There’s two other cops on that street. One’s married to a paramedic, the other lives with a firefighter. That’s the only reason Long didn’t die at the scene. His heart had stopped by the time they got there. They took turns working on him until the ambulance arrived. Took almost twenty minutes.”

Amanda said, “If Long comes around, Faith will interview him to see if his statement matches his wife’s.”

Branson waited another long moment. The corner of her lips quivered, then curved into a smile. “Aren’t you curious how I know for a fact that your boy over there was in that house last night right when the murders went down?”

Will supposed he was the boy in question. He thought about the hammer, the way the blood was still warm when he grabbed
the metal with his bare hand. The sworls of his fingerprints in the dried blood would’ve been like a neon light to a cop as seasoned as Denise Branson.