The phone in her hand rang, making her jump. The device clattered to the countertop, and she grabbed it up. Same number.
“Who is this?” she demanded.
“Aunt Mia!”
“Sam!” Her heart spasmed. “Where are you?”
“Listen carefully.” It was the man’s voice again. Icy fear shot through her veins. “You’re going to follow instructions without talking to anyone except me, you got that?”
She gripped the phone in her hand and sagged against the counter.
“Are you listening?”
“Yes.” Her voice was a whisper, barely audible above the ringing in her ears. He had Sam.
“No cops. No lab rats. No one hears about this call, ever, or Sam gets hurt. You got me?”
“Yes.” He’d said lab rats. Did he know she was at the Delphi Center? He must. Maybe he was watching. Maybe he was in a car with Sam right this instant, and they were sitting out in the parking lot. But how would he have gotten through the security gate? That didn’t make sense—
“Write down this case number.”
She snatched up a pen as the caller rattled off the digits. Then she stared with disbelief at the number she’d written. The Ashley Meyer case. Dear God, who was this? Was Sam with some violent psychopath?
“Where is that evidence?” the voice demanded.
Mia could hardly breathe. It felt as though a giant hand was closing around her throat.
“Where is it?”
“It’s—I don’t know.” Wrong thing to say. “Wait, it’s here. In the evidence refrigerator, right here in the lab.”
“Go get it,” he said. “Now, while I hold. And don’t talk to anyone.”
Mia’s hands shook as she placed the phone atop the file. She didn’t need the case number—she knew it by heart. She knew all of her case numbers by heart. They were her cases. Her feet felt leaden as she crossed her workroom and pulled open the glass door etched with a double helix. He wanted her to tamper with evidence. Never in her life would she have dreamed she’d do such a thing, but she was doing it right now.
Her armpits were damp as she walked through the lab where three of her colleague stood at tables, staring into microscopes. One looked up. Two. They’d seen her. Whatever she was about to do, there were witnesses.
Mia reached for the door of the walk-in refrigerator and pulled it open. Could they see her hands trembling? The skin between her shoulder blades burned, and she felt three laser-beam gazes boring into her as she stood before the shelves lined with evidence bags and rape kits. Her movements were robotlike as she combed through the bags, checking labels. And there they were, right where she’d left them Sunday night—the bags containing Ashley Meyer’s clothes, her shoes, and the duct tape used to bind her. Hardly breathing now, Mia collected everything and returned to her office, careful to avoid eye contact with her colleagues. She couldn’t look at them, and she knew her distress was written plainly across her face.
The phone was waiting for her, the seconds of the call ticking away on the screen.
“I’ve got it.” Her voice sounded raspy.
“All of it?”
“Yes. It’s three bags.”
“Combine it into one. Put everything under your coat and walk out.”
“Where am I—”
“Keep the line open. No cops. Anyone follows you or you speak a word to anyone, Sammy is dead.”
The words paralyzed her. But then their meaning sank in. She dropped the phone and sprang into action, ripping open the seal to the largest bag and stuffing the two smaller ones inside, on top of the shoes. She couldn’t look at the blood-covered sandals. Ashley Meyer’s sandals. Sandals that probably had her killer’s blood on them, along with hers.
Sam, Sam, Sam. Please be okay. How had someone taken him from school? He had to have been at school. It wasn’t even two o’clock yet, and in the photograph, he was standing right in front of the sign.
Pulse racing, Mia rode the elevator downstairs and stepped into the lobby she’d walked through only a few minutes ago. Ralph stood guard at the entrance. He gave her a nod that she returned numbly. Her gaze veered to Sophie. How would she explain her abrupt departure? Mia’s mind groped for an excuse. She was feeling ill. She’d forgotten an appointment—
Sophie’s head bobbed. She was on the phone, thank goodness. On impulse, Mia veered right and headed for a side exit that faced the picnic tables. Ralph’s gaze met hers as she reached the door. Did he look suspicious? She imagined that he had X-ray vision and could see right through the coat folded over her arm.
Mia pushed through the door, and it whooshed shut behind her. Freezing air whipped through the skirt and blouse she’d worn to court as she set out toward the parking lot. She realized her back was sweating. And her neck, her chest, her palms. Her breath was ragged. If she bumped into anyone she knew, they’d probably think she was having a seizure. She clutched the bundle to her stomach and walked as briskly as she could on rubbery legs. The parking lot came into view at last. She spotted her car.
Was he there, watching her? Her gaze combed the rows of vehicles, and nothing seemed out of place. But she wasn’t a car person. She’d never paid much attention to who drove what around here. The Aveo was parked on the near end under a security light. In case she’d had to work late tonight, she’d been following Ric’s safety advice.
At the thought of him, her chest squeezed. This was Ric’s murder case, his evidence she had hidden under her coat. How would she ever explain this?
You speak a word to anyone, Sammy is dead.
Mia quickened her pace until she was almost running. Her heart hammered against her sternum, and she kept expecting someone to yell “Stop!” or “Freeze!” or “Drop the package!” But the only sound was the squawk of grackles in the nearby woods as she pulled open the door and slid behind the wheel of the rental car. She nestled the bag on the floor in back and threw her coat over it. Then she retrieved her cell and rested it in the cup holder. Should she put the phone on speaker? What if the guard stopped her and overheard something? She’d never been stopped leaving the Delphi Center, but anything could happen. Still, she put the call on speaker so she wouldn’t miss some vital instruction. Her hands shook wildly. It took three stabs before she could get the car key into the ignition.
Finally, she was backing out of the space, exiting the parking lot, following the winding road to the gate at the edge of the compound.
“How we doing?”
She flinched and glanced down at the phone. “I’m about to pass the gatehouse. Don’t talk.”
The gate opened even before she reached the tiny concrete building, and the guard waved her through with a friendly nod. She’d never thought about how simple it was to walk evidence right out of the lab. It was simple because people knew her. They trusted her. She trained her gaze on the road as she glided through the gate. Only after she’d entered the highway did she realize she was holding her breath.
She glanced in the rearview mirror, but the road behind her was empty.
“Okay, I’m through the gate,” she said. “Now what?”
He gave her some simple directions that left her more dismayed than ever, because she had no idea where they would lead her.
“Where’s Sam? I want to talk to him right now!”
“You do what you’re told, he’ll be fine.”
“Don’t you dare hurt him! Do you hear me? If you touch one hair on his head—”
“Shut up and drive.”
Her gaze shot to the mirror again. Was he tailing her? She was on a two-lane highway and didn’t see a soul.
She needed to call 911. Ric. Someone who could help her put a stop to this. But she didn’t see a way out. A slimy knot of fear formed in her stomach as she came to the juncture in the road and made a left, as instructed. Every instinct screamed for her to change course. She had the sickening feeling that she was driving to the scene of her own death, but she didn’t dare deviate from the instructions. S
am had one lifeline, and she was it.
Low, thick clouds gathered along the western horizon as she sped down the highway. At last, a weathered wooden sign came into view: PARSON’S ANIMAL FEED. She tapped the brakes and looked around desperately. The place seemed deserted. There was no one there. No one. She gazed down at the phone in her lap.
“Okay, I’m here. I’m turning.” She rolled to a stop in front of a rusty gate. Clipped to it was a faded NO TRESPASSING sign. “Now what? There’s a gate.”
“Push it open.”
Mia got out of the car and immediately stepped into a patch of mud. She tromped up to the gate and pushed it back until it was perpendicular to the fence. She looked around for something to hold it in place—a rock, a brick, anything. What if she needed to make a hasty exit with Sam? She didn’t want to be trapped if the gate should swing shut. She kicked off her heels and crouched down to wedge one of them between the gate and the mud. Then she picked her way back to the Aveo in her stocking feet.
A red pickup whisked past her on the highway, and a new wave of panic hit her. This was a quiet country road. And she couldn’t have looked more out of place in her business clothes, without a coat or shoes, returning to her soup-can-sized car. She looked like a woman in trouble, and for the first time in her life, she wished Texas didn’t have a reputation for neighborly drivers. The last man who’d stopped to help her had ended up dead.
Mia’s throat closed. She felt dizzy. Was this the same man? She didn’t fully understand what this was about, but she knew the person behind it had an ice-cold heart filled with deadly intent.
Mia gunned the little car through the narrow opening and bumped over the pitted gravel road toward what had to be her destination, a dilapidated factory. The building was made of gray corrugated metal and seemed to be listing slightly to one side. On the second story, a pair of tall, paneless windows seemed to stare down at her.
Where was the caller? Where was Sam? Or was she here by herself and Sam was hidden somewhere far away? She didn’t know what to hope for, so she hoped for a miracle as she pulled the Aveo up to what looked like the front entrance.
“Go around back.”
She snatched the phone from her lap as her gaze flew around frantically. He could see her.
“Where are you?”
“That’s not important. Go around back, and get out with the package. Be sure you have everything.”
Mia steered the car around the building. At the back was a rusted Dumpster and a loading dock with a metal door. Beside the Dumpster was a brown metal cube with a gray finger of smoke curling up from it.
And she understood.
Her breath backed up in her lungs as she rolled to a stop. Her pulse pounded. She watched the curl of smoke. She bit her lip. She couldn’t do this.
She pulled the evidence bag into her lap and stared down at it. How many hundreds of bags like this had she unsealed during the course of her career? How many times had she signed her name to reports and evidence receipts? How many times had she held up her hand and taken an oath to tell the truth about something that could put someone behind bars for a lifetime? What she did right now could cast a shadow over every case she’d ever touched.
“Sam’s waiting.”
The voice chilled her to the core. With a trembling hand, she put the phone into the cup holder. A calm settled over her. Sam was six. He was her blood. She thought of Amy, and the pain was so sharp it took her breath away.
Mia climbed out of the car. The gravel was cold and hard under her bare soles as she walked across the lot to the incinerator. The rusted metal door stood ajar, and a stripe of orange glowed. On the ground lay a pair of long metal barbecue tongs, and she knew they’d been left there for her. She picked them up and used them to pull open the metal hatch.
A pile of logs burned inside—and something else, too, judging by the acrid fumes. Her cheeks heated as she stood before the fiery pit. She said a silent prayer for Ashley. And for Sam. And for herself. And then she tossed the bag into the maw of hell.
CHAPTER 9
I’m pulling in now,” Ric said as he whipped into a space in the Delphi Center parking lot.
“We’re downstairs,” Jonah told him. “And the night guy’s expecting you.”
Ric cut the engine and took a moment to yank off the tie he’d had on since the funeral. All day, he’d felt as if he was suffocating, although he doubted it was only because of the tie. Throughout the service, the burial, and the wake that followed, Ric had been acutely aware of the many gazes of other police officers and the bitter disappointment he read on their faces. Frank Hannigan had gone into the ground, and Ric was no closer to making an arrest than he had been when he’d first caught the case. Every badge at that funeral knew that with each day that ticked by, the chances of anyone ever making that arrest dwindled.
Ric tossed his tie onto the backseat on top of his suit jacket. Maybe tonight would help. This case was way short on physical evidence, and he needed to develop every piece of it he could.
He climbed the steps. The guard pushed open the door as Ric passed through the tall Greek columns. Despite the fact that he was expected, the guard took his police ID and gave it a thorough inspection. Then he went behind the empty reception counter and entered something into the computer before pulling a visitor’s badge from Sophie’s desk and handing it over.
“Ballistics is on G-three.” The guard jerked his head toward the elevator bank. “Right this way.”
“I bet I can find it.”
But the guy trudged along beside him in his rubber-soled shoes. When the elevator opened, Ric stepped inside and jabbed the button. Nothing. The guard reached in and, with a pointed look at Ric, flattened his hand on a panel before pressing the button. G-3 turned green.
Ric shook his head as the doors closed. The security here was unreal. You’d think they were cultivating anthrax or something. But what the hell did he know? Maybe they were.
When the doors parted, he faced a long gray corridor lined with cinder blocks. Following the sound of gunfire, he strode through the tunnel, noticing the downward slope. Thirty feet underground? Fifty? This building looked big from the outside, but given the subterranean levels, it was a monster.
He reached a glass window and saw Jonah on the other side, standing beside a stocky guy who was shooting a pistol into a test-firing chamber. Ric tapped on the glass and both men glanced up. Jonah opened the door and made some quick introductions.
The head of the Delphi Center’s Firearms Identification Unit wore army-green tactical pants, ATAC boots, and a black golf shirt. His name was Scott Black, and Ric immediately pegged him for an operator. Former SEAL would be Ric’s guess, but then, he seemed pretty chummy with Jonah, who’d done a stint in the Army. Maybe he was an ex-Ranger.
Jonah wore the same clothes he’d had on at the funeral, minus the coat and tie, and Ric noticed tiny black flecks on his white sleeves. Gun oil. That shirt was toast, but judging by the smile on Jonah’s face, he couldn’t have cared less.
“Check this out,” his partner said. “It’s an FN Five-seven. Don’t see these every day.”
“Good thing, too,” Ric said. The gun was nicknamed the “cop killer” because of its ability to penetrate Kevlar.
Black passed the pistol to Ric. He admired the olive drab finish, the tightly checkered grip, the tactical light beneath the barrel. Ric had never seen one of these up close, but he knew a lot of SWAT guys who liked them.
“Nice,” Ric said, although everyone in the room knew that was a gross understatement. He handed back the weapon.
“We were just killing time. Scott ran down that brass from the Hannigan crime scene.”
“You matched the gun?”
“The shell casing.” Black opened a cabinet and put the pistol away alongside an impressive array of handguns. “I ran it through IBIS.”
“The ATF database?” Ric asked.
“Right. We’re working on our own database, but it isn’t operat
ional yet, so we still have to go outside to get our comparisons.”
“And you got a match?” Ric glanced at Jonah and saw the gleam in his eye. His partner wouldn’t have called him all the way out there just to look at some cool toys.
“Take a look.” Black led him across the room to a computer workstation. He tapped a mouse, and the image appeared on flat-screen monitor on the wall beside him.
“Picture on the left is from the shell casing recovered on the shoulder of Old Mill Road,” Jonah said.
The screen was about twice as big as his TV at home. It showed a circular shell casing with marks from the firing pin. “That’s most likely from the round that hit Hannigan.”
“On the right’s another image from your crime scene. This cartridge case was recovered from the ditch. Identical markings.”
“Probably the round that hit Mia,” Jonah said.
Ric gritted his teeth as he stared up at the screen. The idea of someone putting a bullet through that soft flesh of hers made his blood boil. A few inches to the left, and Ric could have been at two funerals today.
“Here’s the third one.” Black tapped a few keys, and a new image popped up, nearly identical to the other two, only this one was slightly grayer. “This was in the database. Same firing pin marks. Also, whatever weapon ejected the shell casing at your crime scene ejected this one, too. The extractor marks match.”
“Where’s it from?” Ric looked at Jonah and knew he wasn’t going to like the answer.
“Fort Worth,” Jonah said. “I put in a call right before you got here.”
“What kind of case?”
“Homicide. Groundskeeper at a country club turned up with a bullet in his brain. They found him on the side of the road. Shell casing was recovered from the ditch right next to him. It’s an open file. Six years old.”
“Also, I took a look at the bullet collected by the ME at autopsy,” Black said. “It was a little misshapen, but I ran some tests. Your murder weapon is going to be a forty-caliber Glock. Besides the rifling marks on the projectile, we’ve got the shells. The Glock uses a flat-tip firing pin, which leaves a distinctive mark on the primer of the casing. Most firing pins are round and leave a round dimple on the primer. You recover any candidates yet?”
Unforgivable Page 9
