by Lisa Gardner
“Not to mention,” Quincy inserted dryly, “that thirty years ago computers were large, awkward machines. Her father probably didn’t even have one in the house—it would’ve been at his office. So if sixteen-year-old Sandra was looking to run and needed to grab something quickly, she’d have had limited options. Maybe she found a printout of her father’s illegal business accounts in his home office. Or, say, an incriminating photo from his bookshelf, or a trophy he saved from one of his crimes.”
“Killers really do that kind of thing?” Cal asked.
“Killers really do that kind of thing,” Quincy answered. “And in the case of organized crime, keeping such a memento in plain sight can also serve as a reminder to your underlings of just what you’re capable of—never a bad management strategy.”
“Do you cook?” Shelly asked Cal.
“Other than cheese?”
“That’s what I thought. Okay. You take the bedroom; I’m going to start in the kitchen. You like to think like the target, so good luck. As for me, I’m going to think like a cook. Given all the recipes Sandra posted online, food is what she loved. Meaning, if she wanted to keep something close, kitchen is the best bet.”
“Weird,” Cal said.
“I know. Which is exactly why no one else has found it yet.”
Quincy disappeared first, jogging down the road, rifle in hand, till he was lost from sight. They gave him five minutes, then Shelly received two clicks on her radio, the signal for all clear. She and Cal made their advance, Shelly still trying to shake her nerves.
She was a woman who’d once raced into a burning building. No reason for a dark, humid night to put a quiver into her hands. Even if just hours earlier she’d listened to sudden gunfire, the screams of experienced officers caught unaware.
She noticed Cal wasn’t exactly breathing calmly beside her.
“It’s okay,” she found herself telling him. “We get in. We find our evidence. We get out. And we end this thing.”
“I’m not nervous,” he said curtly. “I’m angry.”
“Because of your team?”
“Nah. Because I’m terrified. Frankly, that pisses me off.”
“Agreed,” Shelly said, and they approached the house.
No sign of Quincy. Proof he was good at his job, she supposed. Crime scene tape was still intact on the door, another good sign. She’d resealed it after her and Cal’s earlier visit. Now she slipped out her knife, cut the fresh tape, cracked open the door.
The smell had definitely not abated. She and Cal both took a moment. A last gulp of fresh air before heading inside.
Shelly went first. Cal followed. Closed the door behind them. Then they were both swallowed into the hot, rancid gloom.
—
THEY USED FLASHLIGHTS, beams held low, out of sight of the windows. Again, stealth mission. If there really were evil henchmen running around—and God only knew at this point—no reason to give them a heads-up.
Cal turned left for the bedrooms. Shelly didn’t envy his task. She went for the kitchen.
It would be helpful to know what they were looking for. Picture it in her head, then look for it in the space. She liked Quincy’s idea of a memento. Say, the slug from the first guy David Michael Martin had ever killed. That would be an easy thing for a sixteen-year-old girl to snatch from her father’s study. Better yet, keep hidden during the months she lived on the streets.
That was the piece of the puzzle that bothered Shelly. Sandra hadn’t just run away at sixteen; she’d ended up homeless, forced into prostitution if the dead pimp was any hint. So what could a teenager steal from her own father that she could hang on to while living hand-to-mouth?
Shelly started with the spice jars. Sandra had racks of them hanging above the stove. Very quaint and country looking. Now Shelly took them out and, beneath the beam of the flashlight, shook each one experimentally. She started with the more exotic spices. Anise. She didn’t even know what you cooked with anise, making it a good secret receptacle in her mind. But no such luck.
After the spices, she crossed to the freezer. According to Henry, his mother liked to stash cash in the ice box, a common enough trick. So common, Shelly doubted Sandra would’ve used the same spot for her most secret possession. But it also felt stupid not to look.
Freezer was clear.
Pantry.
Pots and pans. Crock-Pots, drawers of cooking utensils filled with items Shelly didn’t even realize were cooking utensils. And then . . .
A bookshelf of cookbooks. Dog-eared, food splattered. From the thin, yellow-edged Favorite Crock-Pot Recipes to the classic Joy of Cooking to a three-ring binder filled with recipes Sandra had personally clipped and saved from magazines. The collection was clearly well loved and well used. Personal.
This was it. Shelly knew it, without a moment’s doubt. These cookbooks were to Sandra what Telly’s journals were to him. Her joy and her salvation, but also the source of her resolve. Every meal she cooked, every moment she created for her family, she reinforced the image of Sandra Duvall. The woman she wanted to be. Not her father’s daughter after all.
Shelly took them all down. An impressive stack. Then she worked from the top, moving quickly now, aware of the passing time as she flipped each page, faster and faster. Searching for inserted pages, maybe even cut and pasted over a recipe, into a recipe. Say, a list of ingredients for chocolate mousse that suddenly included names of business associates. Or a description of searing chicken that was interspersed with bank accounts, wire routing instructions, something.
Book after book after book.
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
Cal came in, mouth open, breathing ragged. He took a look at what she was doing, then, without a word, crossed to the refrigerator, opened the freezer, and stuck his head in. Trying to clear his head, she thought. Or numb his sense of smell after an hour in a slaughterhouse.
She didn’t need to ask if he’d found anything; he would have told her immediately. Just like he didn’t need to ask her as she flipped her way through the last book.
“Has to be here,” she muttered, closing up the Crock-Pot recipes, staring at the now-completed pile. “This is Sandra Duvall,” she stated.
Cal didn’t say anything. Kept his head in the freezer.
“These are her books of worship. Frank would never bother them. Nor Henry, or her father, or a hit man.”
“I like cookbooks,” Cal muttered from the freezer. “There are some really good ones monks wrote on cheese making. Couple good pioneer ones, too.”
Shelly stared at the pile. Glanced around the kitchen. She was right. She knew she was right. So what was she missing?
Her gaze went to the empty bookshelf. A perfect shell.
Of course, because even if someone did think to toss Sandra’s cookbooks, who would think to search the space . . .
She stuck her hand in, patting the bottom, the sides, the top, and then . . .
A crack. Sharp, nerve rattling. Followed immediately by another.
“Down, down, down!” Cal yelled.
As more gunshots lit up the night, the kitchen window exploded.
“Quincy!” she cried into her radio, dropping to the floor, yanking out her sidearm.
But there was no answer.
Chapter 39
FIRST THING QUINCY DID on perimeter patrol was identify and search all sources of possible cover. The Duvalls had an expansive lot, well over an acre would be his guess; not a big surprise in this area. Clear-cut, rolling lawn would’ve been nice. But no, they’d let most of the property naturalize. Clumps of trees here. Wild bushes there. Not to mention the stand of fir trees next to the garage, or the overgrown row of rhododendrons obscuring most of the left front. All perfect hiding spots for an intruder, just biding his time before cracking off a shot.
He walked with the butt of the rifl
e pressed against his shoulder, end pointed down.
In conditions such as these, Quincy’s best tool was his own ears. Adjusting to the rhythms of the night, the hoot of the owl, the buzz of crickets. Noises that soothed when all was well, then fell sharply silent at the slightest disturbance.
He was breathing too hard. If the thermostat had dipped at all, it was only to the nineties. Meaning his shirt was glued to his torso, beads of sweat were running down his cheeks, and every inhalation of the thick, muggy air required effort.
It’d been a long time since his active-duty days, but he remembered his training. Measured breaths. Slow inhalation through the nose. Slow exhalation through the mouth. It enabled the breather to bring more oxygen into the lungs, steadying the heart rate, loosening limbs. His job was to be prepared but not tense. Tensions cramped muscles and burned unnecessary energy, until when the moment finally arrived, the guard was too wrung out to respond.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Sweep the trees. Back of the house. Under the rear deck. Listen to the crickets. Walk up the bedroom side of the house, noting the flickers of light through the windows—Cal’s search—then around to the front of the house, sweep the rhododendrons. Repeat. Except maybe in reverse order. Or walk up and down the same side of the house, then the other, then the other.
Changing out patterns, avoiding routine. If someone was watching, Quincy wanted them to at least have to work for it, so he kept his movements irregular and his body in a low crouch.
He’d just paused once more by the corner of the garage. The same spot where Sandra’s father’s photo had been taken, what, weeks, months ago? A question occurred to him: If the man had been standing right here, in front of the garage, who’d taken the photo? Clearly it couldn’t have been taken from the house. It would have been from somewhere in the fenced-in yard. Say, where another clump of rhodies overgrew the corner of the split rails?
He’d just taken the first step forward, when crack.
He dropped.
No thought. Just instinct. He was exposed, in the middle of the driveway, yards from the nearest cover. So he dropped, face-planted into the asphalt as a second shot cracked out and the bullet pinged off the ground next to his ear.
He needed cover. Now. He needed an angle of sight to return fire. Now. He needed to get home to his wife and child. Now.
Belly crawl. Rifle held in front, worming his way around the warm asphalt to the line of fir trees bordering the garage. There was a reason the army loved to make recruits spend so much time wriggling around on their stomachs. It did come in handy.
Three more shots. Crack, crack, crack. He flinched. Ducked his head, even as it occurred to him these shots were different. From in front of him, not behind. Cross fire? Two shooters pinning him down?
A fresh crack, the sound of a window shattering. He could hear Shelly calling his name. But he couldn’t answer. Inching forward, all his weight pressing against his chest, his arms, he could barely draw a breath.
Then he was there. Edge of the asphalt, into the mulch. He rolled. Four quick turns and he was behind the first tree, breathing hard and wishing the trees were younger, bushier, rather than tall, leggy towers, devoid of lower limbs.
He finally got his hand on his radio. “Two shooters,” he reported breathlessly. “Do not leave the house. I repeat, do not leave the premises. You will be caught in the cross fire. Call for backup. We need SWAT.”
“Roger that.” Then Shelly was gone from his radio, but instead he could hear the lower murmur of her voice through the shattered window, fifty feet away.
He was bleeding, he realized. Blood rolling down his cheek. A wet spot somewhere on his left shoulder. A burning sensation from his right forearm. Genuine hit? Damage from ricochet? He couldn’t tell, and now wasn’t the time for inventory.
First shots had come from somewhere near the end of the driveway. He was sure of it. Someone approaching the property, making out Quincy, and then opening fire. A suspicious neighbor, thinking they’d spotted an intruder? He didn’t think so. A neighbor would at least call out first, give some kind of warning.
That still didn’t explain the second shooter, coming from the area of the garage. Up in one of these trees? But again, they were skinny and lacked lower branches. A bitch to climb. So some other high vantage point, then.
His gaze went to the roof. There, next to the chimney. A shadow where a shadow shouldn’t have been.
Quincy cursed under his breath. Of all the stupid mistakes. He’d never looked up, never thought about the damn roof. And now here he was, his whole team pinned down and he himself bleeding like a sieve. Idiot, he thought. Though again, now was not the time for listing mistakes.
Slowly, he raised his own rifle, adjusting it against his left shoulder. He grimaced slightly, but whatever the damage was there, the wound felt more superficial than deep. Or maybe that was shock and adrenaline doing the talking. Bringing up the scope, he zeroed in on the shape. Definitely a man. Definitely a rifle. But the majority of his form was blocked by the chimney. Smart shooter. He’d chosen his position with care.
Just then, six rapid cracks of gunfire. Not from the roof, but from behind Quincy. Each shot burying itself into the front of the house, the kitchen area, where he’d last heard Shelly’s voice.
Quincy whirled around, tried to identify this threat, while behind him the figure on the roof returned fire. Snap, snap, snap.
A ping. Metal. Blacked-out truck, Quincy realized. Parked just across the street and barely visible. But the roof shooter’s third shot found home, shattering glass. The next instant, the truck’s engine roared to life, and the vehicle careered away.
One shooter down, one to go.
But when Quincy turned back around, the roof was empty.
—
HE KEPT TO THE TREE LINE, following it all the way to the rear of the house. Then, there he was. Even half-expecting him, Quincy found himself tightening his grip on his rifle, breath hitching in his throat.
The boy stood ten feet back, rifle loose in arms, face obscured in the dark. Sharlah had been right. The boy had painted himself up so that now only the whites of his eyes showed against the night. It made for an eerie sight. As if the boy were less than human.
“Telly Ray Nash,” Quincy said evenly.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” the boy said. He didn’t sound angry as much as firm. “You need to be home keeping my sister safe.”
“Safe from whom?”
“You’re the expert, you figure it out. I got bigger priorities, like keeping myself alive.”
“You left us that picture of Sandra’s father. You wanted us to learn about him.”
“Did it help?” the boy asked. He sounded genuinely curious.
“His name is David Michael Martin. He ran a criminal organization. Or at least he did until he died. But you know that, don’t you, Telly? You’re the one who met him here.”
Slowly, the boy shook his head. He was still scanning the area around them, on alert. “She met him. She said she wouldn’t. She said she had nothing she needed to say to him. But I knew . . . Family is family. Even if you hate them, it’s hard to let go.”
“Sandra invited her father over.”
“I overheard them talking, then snuck out the front to take that picture, just in case.”
“What did he want?”
“I’m not sure. He kept telling her he was dying. She told him to go ahead and do it then. He didn’t need her permission.
“But he wasn’t trying to ask her forgiveness. Sounded to me . . . He was trying to warn her. When he died, he wouldn’t be able to protect her anymore. Except, I didn’t know what that meant.”
“What happened?” Quincy asked.
Telly shrugged. “Old man died. Just like he promised. Sandra got the note. Crumpled it up, threw it away. That was that.”
�
�Except it wasn’t over. Her father was telling her the truth.”
Telly looked around again, searching the woods. “I got pictures. I found them. In my backpack. Pictures of Sharlah. Except someone had drawn a target around her head.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing. I wasn’t sure what they meant, who they’d even come from. I was still trying to figure it all out and then . . . I came home one afternoon and there was a baseball bat in the middle of my bed. Brand-new. Tags still on. With a note. ‘Instructions will follow.’”
“They wanted you to kill your parents, or they would kill Sharlah?”
“I guess. But why, how? I didn’t understand.” Telly’s voice broke. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“Did you take the bat to Frank or Sandra?”
The kid shook his head. “I checked on Sharlah instead. I already had some information, so one day, I waited at the library and there she was. . . . She looked happy. Really happy. She had that dog, the German shepherd. And I read about you two—you and your wife. Former law enforcement. I figured whoever left the notes, they had to be bluffing. Because no way you two would let something happen to Sharlah.”
Quincy waited.
“I put it all away,” Telly whispered. “The notes, the bat. I tucked them in the garage. . . . Pretended it never happened, and then . . .”
“This morning . . . ,” Quincy prodded, though he thought he already knew the rest. He wanted to hear it from Telly. And keep the boy talking. SWAT should have been on its way. Given Quincy’s current condition, blood on his cheeks, more blooming across his shirt, he certainly wasn’t in the best shape for apprehending an armed suspect.
“I came home from my morning run and I found them. In their bedroom. Both shot, just like that. Frank . . . He never even got up. Never had a chance. Frank, who could fix anything, and man, if you could see him with a gun. And then Sandra . . . Henry told me she was an even better shot than Frank, but guess I’ll never know, ’cause she didn’t make it out of the bedroom either. They were gunned down. Just like that. Neither of them stood a chance.”
