Through the Evil Days: A Clare Fergusson/Russ Van Alstyne Mystery

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  “Not necessarily,” Hadley said. “Hanging on to power inside requires money, loyalty, and the prospect of getting out someday.” MacAuley cocked one of his bushy gray eyebrows at her as if to say, Look who’s gettin’ smart! “I was in the Department of Corrections for two years, Dep. I know what I’m talking about. LaMar’s looking at a federal charge. That means mandatory sentencing, no parole, and he’ll be doing time in one of the federal high-security prisons in Pennsylvania, away from all his homies in the New York system. It’s not—what did you say, Flynn? Not a stretch to think his organization could fall into pieces. Travis could get away with it. Especially if Davies is willing to side with him.”

  Flynn joined them, cradling his mug possessively. “Great. We have a good working theory of what happened and how. But we’re still in exactly the same place we were Friday: looking for Annie and Travis, trying to figure out where they’re keeping Mikayla. Meanwhile, she’s gone five days without her immunosuppressant drugs.”

  “We’ve already hit every known meth head in the area,” Hadley said. “They all just pointed to each other when we asked who Annie Johnson might be staying with.”

  MacAuley studied the whiteboard for a long moment. Then he circled Jonathan Davies’s name. “Here’s where we go. This guy says he doesn’t know what goes on in LaMar’s organization, but he knows names. You’re gonna head down to Albany and squeeze him until he gives up someone. Then we’re gonna squeeze that guy, and so on until somebody gives up Roy and Johnson.”

  “Us?” Flynn said.

  “We’re going to Albany again?”

  “I’ll hook you up with Detective Patten,” MacAuley said. “I’d go myself, but I can’t risk getting stuck down there in this storm.” He frowned at them. “You got civvies? Change into them. Davies won’t take you seriously when he sees a couple uniforms. And bring a toothbrush, in case. If the weather keeps on crapping on us like this, stay in Albany.” He pushed away from the whiteboard. “I’ll go set things up with Vince Patten. Check in with me after you’re changed.” He picked up his mug. “Next time, Flynn? Not so much creamer.”

  After MacAuley had left the squad room, Hadley went to one of the tall, old-fashioned windows that overlooked Main Street. The place looked like a frozen-over ghost town; no lights, no cars, no movement except for the unrelenting rain, encasing everything in ice drop by drop. “He wants us to go to Albany in this?”

  Flynn snorted. “What movie title does this put you in mind of?”

  “Lost in the Andes?”

  He shook his head. “They Were Expendable.”

  3.

  The sound of cursing woke Clare up a second before the latch rattled and the storage room door opened. She hadn’t believed she would actually fall asleep on a wooden floor with her hands duct-taped behind her back, but the cool gray light spilling through the vents proved she had been wrong.

  The tattooed man—Hector DeJean—stalked past them, headed for the generator. The incessant roar of the machine was gone. Except for the big guy’s angry muttering, it was silent.

  Silent and cold. It worked. Beside her, Russ stirred, opened his eyes. He blinked at her sleepily. “Whuzzat?”

  Hector grabbed one of the canisters of gasoline and unscrewed the nozzle. He upended it into the fuel tank. Clare could hear the glug-glug-glug as the tank filled. He flipped the starter and yanked the cord. He did it again. Then again. Nothing happened. “God-fucking-dammit!”

  “What’s the matter?” Travis hung in the doorway. “We can’t be outta gas.”

  “No, we’re not out of gas. Jesus.” Hector unscrewed a spark plug. “It’s not the plug. The hoses are tight.” He looked at the shelves. “You got a tool kit around here? I might be able to figure out what’s wrong if I open ’er up.”

  “Lemme see what I can find in the kitchen.” Travis gave Clare a lingering look that made her flinch involuntarily before he pushed back from the door and disappeared.

  Russ nudged her beneath the blanket. You okay? he mouthed.

  She nodded, relieved to see his eyes were clear and alert. Sit up? she asked.

  He shook his head once, then shivered exaggeratedly. She got that. It’s cold. Might as well stay under the wool blanket while they could.

  Travis returned with one of those ten-piece-in-one plastic-framed tool kits.

  “That’s it?” Hector asked.

  “Dude, one of my cousins is the mechanical guy. If you want, you can call him and ask to borrow his tools. Except, oh, the phones aren’t working.” Travis dropped the plastic kit on top of the fuel tank. He turned and kicked at Clare’s backside.

  Russ rolled to his back and reared up into a sitting position. “You touch my wife again and I’ll cut your goddamn leg off.”

  Oh, good. He’s talking in complete sentences. The thought floated over her terror that Travis was going to finish what he started last night.

  Travis squatted down, grinning. “Hate to tell you, dude, but you’re not in any position to stop me. If I want to take your wife into the bedroom and play hunt the sausage with her, you can’t do jack shit about it.”

  Russ rocked forward in a scramble of knees and blanket and lurched to his feet, a chest-deep growl that Clare had never heard coming from between his clenched teeth.

  Travis jumped back. “Shit!”

  “Oh, for chrissakes.” Hector grabbed Travis’s shirt and yanked him backward. At the same time, he rammed Russ with his shoulder. Russ staggered back, thudding into the wall. Hector pointed a wrench at him. “Cool it. No one’s going to diddle with your woman.”

  “Sorry,” Travis said. “It’s just so much fun to play whack-a-cop.”

  Clare got herself into a seated position and scooted back until she was pressed against the wall. She leaned against Russ’s leg, knowing it made her look weak, knowing Travis knew she was afraid of him. But—she realized as she watched him glancing warily at Russ between offering spurious suggestions for fixing the engine—Travis was now afraid of Russ.

  “This isn’t happening.” Hector threw the wrench down in disgust. “At least not with this crap set of tools.”

  “So whadda we do? It’s like fifty-something degrees in the house.”

  Hector crossed his arms and looked at the canoes hanging over his head. “Shit if I know. The church camp’s not heated, either.”

  The missing girl’s father was up here at Cooper’s Corners, Russ had said. Fixing up a sprung pipe at a church camp. He must have had Mikayla with him the whole time.

  “What about”—Travis glanced at them, then turned away—“the other place?”

  “I don’t want to take Mikayla there.”

  “Dude, we’re not going to get much farther. The roads are gonna be nothing but ice.”

  “Our place has heat.” All three men in the storage room turned to stare at Clare. “We have two woodstoves. No electricity needed. Plenty of wood.” She looked up at them. “You can go to our place.”

  Travis and Hector looked at each other. Travis jerked his head toward the door. They both went back into the house, kicking the door shut behind them.

  Russ bent over, squatting until his head was near hers. “What the hell was that all about?” He kept his voice low. “Sending them to our cabin? With Bob Mongue holed up there, helpless? How’s that going to make things better?”

  “Lieutenant Mongue has a gun and the use of both his arms. We’re stuck here in a slowly freezing storeroom with our hands duct-taped behind our backs. I don’t see how it could make things worse. I’m buying you time to come up with a solution.”

  They had the realization at the same moment. “The tool kit,” he whispered, as she hissed, “The screwdriver!” Russ was at the generator lifting the screwdriver out of the jumble of cheap tools by the time she had struggled to her feet.

  “Turn around,” he said. “Let’s get you loose first.”

  “No. Give it to me.” She turned around. “We won’t have much time. You have the upper-body strength to
pull it apart if we get a few holes into it.”

  He didn’t argue. She felt the brush of his fingers, cold and swollen like hers, and then the screwdriver was in her grip. She pressed it backward, feeling the resistance of the tape.

  “Harder,” he whispered.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” she said and then shook her head, because what kind of stupid thing to say was that? This time she jabbed, hard, pushed and kept pushing, and then she was through. She jerked it back out and did it again. Then again. The fourth time, she felt something firmer, and Russ hissed in pain. She pulled the screwdriver out. “Sorry,” she whispered.

  “Keep going,” he said, his voice low. She managed three more holes and one more stab into his hand before they heard the footsteps headed toward their room. Clare dropped the screwdriver back onto the generator and let Russ push her back against the wall. When Travis and Hector opened the door, he was facing them, shielding his wife protectively and—not coincidentally—keeping his wrists out of sight.

  The two men seized Russ by the upper arms and marched him toward the door. He braced his boots against the floor, struggling to resist the two-sided pull. The men yanked, hard, and Russ stumbled forward.

  “Wait!” Clare lunged toward the men. “What are you doing with him?” Travis kicked his leg across hers and, overbalanced, she thudded face-first onto the floor. She shrieked, rolling sideways too late to save the baby from the blow.

  “Clare!” Russ twisted violently, breaking Travis’s hold, knocking into him shoulder-first, sending the man stumbling against the wall.

  There was a loud click. Mikayla’s father pressed a .44 semiautomatic to Russ’s head. Clare lay where she had fallen, pain radiating from her midsection, a scream, a moan, a plea for mercy locked behind her teeth. Russ stared at her, wild-eyed, absolutely still except for his chest, heaving for air.

  “I’m going to check out this place of yours, Van Alstyne. If you cooperate, your wife’ll be fine except for a little bump. If you don’t…” He gestured toward Travis, who looked at Russ with loathing. “I think it’s a good idea to have a hostage in our back pocket. Just in case. But a hostage who makes trouble is worse than none at all. You don’t want us to have no hostages at all, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Now say good-bye to your woman. If you behave, you’ll get to see her again.”

  No he won’t. Clare could see the despairing truth echoing in her husband’s eyes. Once DeJean made sure the offer of the cabin wasn’t a trap, he would kill Russ. He was too dangerous to keep around.

  His gaze dropped to her abdomen. “The baby—”

  “Is fine.” She forced herself to believe it. “We’ll be fine.”

  His voice dropped almost too low for her to hear. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, love.”

  “I know.” She looked straight at him. “Hold on.”

  He nodded. “Don’t let go.”

  Travis grabbed Russ’s arm again. “I like ‘see you later, honey,’ myself, but whatever. Let’s go.”

  4.

  Kevin had a baggy rollneck sweater and a pair of jeans he kept stashed in his locker for emergencies. He drew a Smith & Wesson .40 from the Weapons Locker—his usual service piece wouldn’t fit under anything but a trench coat. Hadley’s Glock 19 was small enough for concealed carry, but she hadn’t replaced her backup civvies the last time she had changed at the station, so they had to swing by her house before heading for Albany.

  It was their fourth day at home, and her kids were so desperate for novelty they swarmed Kevin as soon as he stepped inside. He had to explain that his clothing didn’t mean he was off duty. The dining room table was littered with board games, cards, watercolor sets, and drying artist’s paper. It looked as if Mr. Hadley had moved them on to building birdhouses, if Kevin was reading the half-assembled pieces of wood right.

  When Hadley descended the stairs in a curve-hugging turtleneck and low-waisted jeans, Kevin did a double take. God, she looked hot. The blazer she shrugged on hid her gun but not her figure. Friends, he reminded himself. Don’t get greedy.

  The kids blocked them from the front door. “Can’t we go with you?” Hudson begged.

  “We’ll be good,” Genny added.

  “No.” Hadley frowned at them. “Absolutely not. If you’re getting bored, Hudson, you can get to work on your social studies project, and Genny, you have to make a book box for Reading.”

  They made sounds like deflating bagpipes.

  “And stop whining.”

  Time to unveil his backup plan. “Tell you what,” Kevin said. “I’ve got a portable DVD player that runs on batteries. I’ll let you guys use it, but you have to get your school work done first. Deal?”

  “Deal! Deal!”

  Hadley looked at him like he was crazy. “We don’t have time to swing by your place and come back here. We’ll be late meeting up with Detective Patten.”

  He opened the door. “It’s okay. It’s in the back of my Aztek.” He jogged down their porch steps—it looked like Mr. Hadley was salting regularly—and grabbed the grocery sack he had filled with DVDs and the player. Hadley was still staring at him when he got inside and handed the goodies over to her grandfather. She didn’t say anything until they were buckled in themselves and rolling—slowly—down the street.

  “You already had it in your SUV.”

  He shrugged. “I threw it in the car this morning. You told me your power was out. I remember what it was like being stuck at home with my brothers, screaming with boredom. I figured Hudson and Genny could try the DVD player instead of re-creating Iroquois torture techniques, which is what my family did.”

  She laughed. “Good call.” She let the smile on her face die down to a softer kind of look than usual. “Thanks, Flynn.”

  Despite the worsening conditions, the ride down to Albany was a little more relaxed than last time. Kevin had weighted the four-wheel-drive vehicle down with cinder blocks in the back, which was lousy for fuel economy but good for the traction. They talked about his mother considering a run for Congress, and how Hudson was doing in middle school. They debated the merits of superhero movies, and recommended DVDs, and wondered if Eric McCrea was going to be able to patch up his marriage and if Harlene’s husband was going to get her to retire. They did not talk about Syracuse, or her ex, or the sense of cool dread that seemed to be slowly glazing over the department with every day the girl remained missing and the chief stayed out of touch.

  The city itself was a mess—traffic lights out along with the rest of the power grid, drainage grates dammed with ice that spread in thickening floes across the streets, a constant wail of police and fire sirens.

  “Look at this place.” Hadley rubbed condensation from her window as Kevin slowed to a halt for a firefighter signaling a downed line across the road. “It looks like that postapocalyptic flick where everything froze.”

  “The Day After Tomorrow.” He backed up until he could turn around. Plows had been trying to keep up with the freezing rain on the Northway, but here in Albany they seemed to have ceded the roads to the storm. He hadn’t seen a Public Works truck since getting off 787. He could feel his tires floating over the ice, searching for traction. “Let’s hope we don’t get eaten by wolves while we’re here.”

  They eventually found the Albany PD’s South Station, a graceful hundred-something-year-old brick building that looked like a larger version of the MKPD shop. Two uniforms were trying to push a squad car out of its ice-and-slush-covered parking spot, so Kevin took the time to back his Aztek in to the curb, trusting that would help him get his vehicle free when it was time to go.

  Detective Vince Patten met them at reception. Patten was about as opposite from Lyle MacAuley as a man could be—barrel-chested, bald, and swarthy where the deputy chief was lean, thick-haired, and pale. “Call me Vinnie,” Patten said, signing them in. “All my friends call me Vinnie!” He steered them toward the stairs. “Good to meet you. MacAuley treating you all right? Let me t
ell you about your deputy chief back in the day. We were partners, did he tell you that? Two upstate boys in the big, bad city—and lemme tell ya, New York in the sixties and seventies was mighty bad.” He led them to a desk and handed a file to Hadley. “Here, hold that, will you, sweetheart? Take a look at this.” He picked up a photo cube and rotated it. “We both made detective at the same time. This was our first day outta uniform.”

  Kevin stared in a kind of fascinated horror at the wide-lapeled leather coat and flared perma-press pants on a shaggy-haired MacAuley. Patten had an Afro—an Italiafro?—and wore a corduroy suit.

  “They looked like Starsky and Hutch,” Hadley whispered as they headed toward the interrogation rooms.

  “What has been seen cannot be unseen,” Kevin intoned.

  “Think we’ll look that weird in thirty years?”

  “Kind of an incentive to stay in uniform, isn’t it?”

  Jonathan Davies and his lawyer were waiting for them. Kevin would have pegged Davies as a smarmy frat boy even if he hadn’t been briefed on the guy. He definitely had money to throw around—his attorney was an older woman in a severely conservative hairstyle and a thousand-dollar suit.

  She cut right to the chase as soon as Patten had introduced them. “My client has agreed to come in and assist in your investigation despite the fact that Detective Patten threatened him yesterday.”

  Patten spread his hands. “What, with a newspaper story?”

  “Linking my client to a drug kingpin being held without bail on a double homicide charge.” She focused on Kevin and Hadley. “Here are the ground rules. My client has immunity for anything he says in this room. My client’s name will be replaced in your reports by a pseudonym.”

  “Look,” Kevin began, “we can’t—”

  The lawyer rolled on as if he hadn’t spoken. “My client will not testify against Tim LaMar or any of his associates. You, as proxy for the DA of Washington County, will agree to keep his name off any witness lists that have been or may be developed during this investigation.” She slid papers toward them and tossed a pen on top. “Sign here.”