A sound passed her lips. Of despair and grief. One dredged from her very core.
She pressed her face into the pillow to stifle it.
Let it go, Mary Catherine. For the love of God. Move on.
But she couldn’t. M.C. balled her hands into fists. Dammit, she wanted to, but . . .
Angry at herself, she threw back the covers, climbed out of bed. The temperature had dropped dramatically overnight. She heard the wind whistling through the trees outside the bedroom windows. The clawing of branches on the glass. The cold front. The apocalyptic storm Sorenstein had been carrying-on about.
She snatched up her robe, found her slippers and stalked to the bathroom. After relieving herself, she brushed her teeth and ran a comb through her hair.
Then went looking for Erik.
The TV. in the great room was on. “Morning!” she called out, stopping in front of the seventy-inch flatscreen. The Weather Channel. A map of the U.S. showing the jet stream, the arctic air pushing all the way down to Florida where they predicted it to collide with a tropical low in the Atlantic before moving up the east coast. The meteorologists were waxing ecstatic over what would happen when the two systems met.
M.C. frowned, thinking of Sorenstein’s rant. “Let’s just keep fucking with Mother Nature. We’ll be like the dinosaurs. Extinct.”
M.C. shook her head. She refused to buy into Sorenstein’s doom and gloom. She couldn’t. She’d been to hell and had fought her way back. To launch herself willingly into that place of despair? Never again.
She found the remote and hit the mute button. The house went silent. Too silent. M.C. frowned and started for the kitchen.
She reached it. “Erik,” she said, stepping into the room.
But he wasn’t there. Not anymore, anyway. The newspaper lay open on the table, a cup of coffee beside it.
M.C. crossed to the table, glanced down at the paper. The Register Star.Main news, page two. A mention of Bello’s death. Her picture. Damn.She touched the cup; it was cold.
Where was he? His office, she thought. Or the music room. Sometimes when he was upset, he lost himself in the classics.
She checked both, came up empty and headed to the garage. Sure enough, no Jeep.
Where could he have gone so early? And why hadn’t he told her? Neither was like him.
Yesterday’s uneasiness crept over her once more. The memory of their argument.
“What if I don’t want to do this anymore?”
And now he was gone. Without saying goodbye.
What if it was over?
She plucked her phone from the robe’s deep pocket. She dialed him; her call went straight to voicemail.
He’d turned off his phone. He never turned it off. In case the clinic or a patient needed him.
He was shutting her out. Already.
It was her own fault. She deserved this.
“Hey, babe,” she said. “You must have been in super-stealth mode this morning. I didn’t hear you get up, dress or anything. How crazy is that?”
She sounded desperate. Panicky.
She cleared her throat, lowered her voice. “Are you okay? I just want you to know that--"
But she couldn’t say what he wanted to hear. So instead, she asked him to call her and hung up.
A moment after she ended the call, another came in. She answered. “Erik?"
“It’s Kitt. You sound out of breath. Are you okay?”
“I’m good. What’s up?”
“Sal’s called a pow-wow in the war room. Nine o’clock.”
Salvatore Minelli, her boss, Deputy Chief of Detectives. His calling a meeting meant one of two things: somebody had fucked-up big or something had gone big-time bad.
“What’s happening?” she asked, heading to dress.
“Storm preparation. This one’s gonna be a monster.”
9:10 a.m.
THE CITY BIGWIGS WERE preparing for the worst case scenario. Two feet of snow. Blizzard-force winds. The downed trees, power lines and traffic nightmares that went along with both.
Assets were being moved into the most at-risk areas. Power trucks. Plows. Once roads were impassable, it could prove impossible to get them where needed for days. An emergency operations center had been set up. All sworn officers were being activated, including detectives.
“It’s going to be grueling, people,” Sal said. “Storm’s E.T.A. is twenty-four hours from now. Make ‘em count. Dismissed.”
The moment M.C. exited the meeting, she tried Erik again. When it again went straight to voicemail, she tried Kids in Crisis. They hadn’t heard from him but promised to have him return her call when they did.
Kitt frowned. “What’s wrong?”
M.C. forced a shrug. “Nothing.”
“Try that with somebody else, partner. Not me.”
“Erik and I had a difference of opinion.”
“About?”
M.C. just looked at her.
“Two days in a row? Wow, that’s rough.”
M.C. stiffened at the amusement in Kitt’s tone. “Glad my misery could lighten your day, partner.”
“Look, the man’s crazy in love with you. He’s a great guy, handsome and rich. You’ll work this out.”
“It might be over, Kitt. He said so." The words came out thick.
“You’ve had this discussion before.”
“This time was different. He wanted me to quit--” she spread her fingers, “--this. Suggested he and I just leave it all behind. Go away together.”
“Do it,” Kitt said simply. “Go.”
M.C. couldn’t believe Kitt would say that. Of all people, her partner should understand. She told her so.
“I understand, all right. I lost Joe twice. The job’s not worth it.”
M.C. shook her head. “I can’t do it. It’s not me.”
“I used to say that.”
“And you’re still here, aren’t you?" The words came out sharper than she intended. Sharper than was fair.
“Our situation was different, M.C. We lost Sadie and I lost my focus. It’s about balance. It’s about knowing, to the very center of your being, what’s important. With what I know now, I’d choose him. Hands down.”
“He needs something I can’t give him.”
“Or won’t?”
M.C. heard the challenge in Kitt’s voice. From anyone else, even one of her brothers, she’d get her back up. The famous Riggio temper would flare. And she would push back. Hard.
But Kitt, she owed her life.
“When it comes to love, I’m a frickin’ Typhoid Mary. Every relationship. And Dan . . . I couldn’t live through it." She shook her head. “Not again.”
She paused, then put voice to the words that had terrified her most. “He said he didn’t know if he could be with me anymore.”
Kitt’s expression softened with understanding. “He was in a bad place, right? Hurting. He didn’t mean it.”
“I think he did. The look in his eyes-- and this morning, he was gone. And his phone goes straight to voicemail.”
“He needs time alone. To think. To grieve. Give him some space, M.C. Erik’s not the type to go off half-cocked.”
M.C. opened her mouth to reply; she shut it as Kitt’s cell went off. “Lundgren." She paused, obviously listening. “Interesting. Thanks.”
She re-holstered the cell. “That was Frances.”
“He’s completed the autopsy already?”
“No. Just the initial inspection of the body. He found something he wants us to take a look at. A bruise.”
“Where?”
“Middle of Bello’s back.”
10:30 a.m.
THE MORGUE WAS LOCATED in the Public Safety Building, the same as the police department. Convenient, one-stop shopping. The autopsy room was cold. The body that had been Whitney Bello was laid out on the table. Frances’ assistant stood waiting; the young man’s expression far away.
M.C. got that. To stay sane, you did what you had to.
> Frances hadn’t made the first cut. “I wanted you to see this before I went any further.”
“You’re thinking it’s a game-changer?”
“Maybe.”
Frances Roselli was a cautious man. Meticulous. A maybe from him spoke volumes.
He motioned his assistant. They tipped up the body. There it was, a crescent shaped bruise in the middle of her back. An ugly purple, it stood out in bold contrast to the ghostly white of the skin around it.
Kitt looked at M.C. “What could have caused this?”
M.C. bent for a better look. Dark. Almost black. The outline clear. She frowned. It would have taken a vicious blow or intense, localized pressure.
She looked at Frances. “No other scratches or bruises?”
“Nothing other than what we discussed at the scene.”
“You have a theory?”
“I do, indeed, Detectives. If you’ll indulge me, I have a prop.”
Frances retrieved a plastic bag. Inside was a man’s shoe. Thick sole, sturdy heel.
“Imagine our Ms. Bello, face down, partially in the water. How she ended up in that position we don’t know. But I believe she wasn’t alone. I believe her companion placed his foot here--”
He illustrated with the shoe. The outside edge of the heel mirrored the crescent shape of the bruise.
“Son of a bitch,” M.C. said.
“The fact the bruise is localized and darker along the outside edge,” Frances went on, “makes sense.”
Kitt agreed. “The riverbank sloped down. His weight was on his heel, so he didn’t fall in himself.”
“Which explains her hands,” M.C. said. “She fought, tried to claw her way out.”
“Exactly." Frances and his assistant repositioned the body on the table. “Is it enough to classify her death a homicide? No. But it’s enough to raise doubts this was an accident.”
M.C. thought of Erik. “Which means drugs may or may not have been part of the equation. I want that tox report now.”
“Two weeks, Detective. You know the drill. But autopsy will offer us more information. Give me a couple hours with her, I’ll see what I can uncover.”
The moment they exited the morgue, M.C. dialed Erik. As before, she got his voicemail. “Call me back,” she said. “I have news about Whitney.”
She hung up to find Kitt watching her. “It’s going to be okay.”
“Is it?”
Kitt grinned. “Want to take out your nerves on someone deserving?”
“Bello’s boyfriend?”
“You’re reading my mind, partner. That prick was holding back, let’s exert some pressure.”
M.C. offered to drive and as they eased out of the parking garage, M.C.’s cell went off. She hit the hands-free. “Riggio.”
“This is Sanchez, from communications. We just got a call-in from a Parks and Recreation employee. Vehicle abandoned in Anna Page Park, engine running.”
“We’re Violent Crimes, Sanchez. Try Field Services.”
“Lieutenant Bell said to call you first, that you’d want this.”
She and Bell had worked together before he’d been promoted to head of communications. M.C. frowned. “He say why, Sanchez?”
“Negative, Detective. Just wanted me to tell you the vehicle’s registered to one Erik Sundstrand, National Avenue, Rockford.”
10:50 a. m.
THE SIGHT OF ERIK’S JEEP, driver’s side door open, engine running, nearly brought her to her knees. M.C. slammed out of her Explorer and crossed to the responding officer.
“Detective Riggio,” she barked out, stopping directly in front of him. “Talk to me."
He was young and looked nervous at having a detective in his face that way. He shifted his gaze from her to Kitt, then back. “Got the call from the park ranger. Came in about two hours ago. Found the vehicle, open and running. He called out, searched the immediate area, checked the closest restrooms. No sign of the vehicle’s owner."
“Have you touched anything?”
“Negative. Took a visual survey of the interior and surrounding vicinity."
A moment later she and Kitt stood beside the Jeep.
Kitt looked at her. “Can you do this?”
Her heart was beating so hard she thought it might burst out of her chest. “Yes,” she said evenly. “I’m fine. Absolutely.”
“Then prove it. Keep your shit together."
They searched the Jeep. Nothing to suggest any kind of struggle or violence. Nothing personal had been left behind--no wallet, cell phone, not even a pack of gum. Erik disliked feeling constricted while driving and almost always removed his coat, either tossing it in back or laying it across the passenger seat. Its absence suggested he’d slipped it on, then climbed out of the car. As if to greet someone.
Then he’d disappeared.
Who could he have been meeting? And why here?
“Let’s get Sorenstein and company out here,” Kitt said. “They can process the scene.”
“Let’s just leave. Go away.”
Maybe he had done that? Made a fresh start.
Without her.
No, that was crazy. She realized her hands were shaking and stuffed them into her pockets. That was just talk. A man like Erik, one with so many responsibilities, didn’t do that. Couldn’t do that.
“M.C." Kitt said, interrupting her thoughts. “You said Erik was upset last night.”
“Yes."
“Despondent?”
“I guess. Bello’s parents called, they blamed him. He took it hard.”
“And then you argued? Over your relationship? He asked you to marry him again.”
“Yes. But--”
“How despondent was he, M.C.?”
She realized what Kitt was intimating and shook her head. “No. There’s no way he would . . . no."
“Kill himself? Are you sure of that?”
He’d felt he failed Whitney. Had said he didn’t think he could go on the way they had been.
And she hadn’t even thrown him a scrap.
“I’m positive,” she said, though she didn’t like any of the possibilities running through her head. They all took her somewhere she didn’t want to go.
“There are other options, M.C. Erik’s a powerful and wealthy man. A target for those who might want to profit from hurting him."
One of those places. God, no. Not yet. “Maybe he’s hurt. He likes to run. Especially when he needs to work things out. Maybe he fell. Broke his leg or--”
“If he went for a run, why leave his vehicle running?”
It didn’t make sense. She knew it but wasn’t ready to fully face it.
“I grew up on this side of town. I know this park. There’s a trail along a--”
A large retention pond. Not two hundred yards away. Over the hill.
Whitney Bello had drowned.
“How despondent was he, M.C.?”
M.C. reacted to the thought and ran for the hill. Kitt called after her, but she didn’t stop until she topped the hill. The pond, it’s surface as smooth as glass, mocked her.
What did you hope to see, Mary Catherine?
She brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. She had to slow down, get a grip.
Do it, Mary Catherine. Focus.
She reached the edge of the pond, scanned the perimeter. Nothing. She started around it, eyes darting back and forth. The sun broke out from behind a cloud. Something winked at her from the weeds.
She went to it. An iPhone 5. Or what was left of one. It’d been smashed. Or stomped. And tossed.
Erik had an iPhone 5.
She sank to her knees. Kitt came up beside her. “You don’t know that it’s his."
M.C. agreed, though that was a lie. In her heart, she knew. The premonition. Her dread.
“I called in Canataldi and Baker."
M.C. looked up at her and frowned. “Why? We’ve got this."
“I’m handing it over, ." It’s the smart thing to do."
“
That’s bullshit. "She got to her feet. “I’m okay. My shit’s together."
“It’s not, M.C." You’re not. Besides, we’re working Bello."
“We’ll hand her to them. This is Erik, for God’s sake! I’m not--”
Kitt caught her hands, looked her dead in the eyes. “Let it go. It’s done."
Furious, she freed her hands and stalked back to the scene. Canataldi and Baker had arrived. Neither of them looked her directly in the eyes.
Typhoid Mary. Get involved with Mary Catherine Riggio and it ended badly for you. Always.
She marched up to them. “You tell me you’ve got this. Look me in the eyes and tell me that. No fucking up."
“We’ve got this, Riggio,” Baker said. “I promise you."
Canataldi concurred. “For you, Riggio. We’ll locate him."
“I found a smashed iPhone near the pond. It could be Erik’s. "She cleared her throat. “We need to know the last call he made and received. The cell tower pings."
“We’ll take care of it."
This was Erik. How did she let go?
“I want to know everything,” she said. “Every step of the way."
“Absolutely."
“I’ll be on you like white on fricking rice. Don’t even contemplate slacking off or giving up, because I’ll kick your--”
“We won’t. "Baker laid a hand on her shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze. “You have my word."
2:25 p.m.
THE NEXT SEVERAL HOURS were a nightmare. Baker and Canataldi questioned her, then questioned her again. Personal questions. About her and Erik’s relationship, the events of the night before and about his state of mind.
As of this moment, no one had heard from him. Every possible contact had been called, from the various divisions of his company, SunCorp, to the members of the many boards he sat on. His personal calendar had been clear for this morning. Warrant to access mobile phone tracks had been given and delivered to Erik’s carrier.
The weather had begun to turn. The wind had kicked up, the sky turning an ominous slate gray.
The squad room went silent as M.C. entered. Suddenly everybody was too busy to even look up. News travelled fast in the ranks; bad news travelled faster.
Storm Season ~ One Storm Page 3
