“Stand back.” Munson pointed DeLuca away, then walked Ardith, gun to head, closer to them. One step at a time. Jake calculated as the man approached. Not close enough. Assess risk-benefit. Do not take unnecessary chances.
“Show me. Show me the cuffs.”
Jake did. Damn it.
“Now. Take his gun and radio.” He pointed to a file cabinet across the room. “Put them in that drawer.”
“Screw you,” DeLuca muttered. “You’re only making this wor—”
“No, sir,” Jake said. Never give up your weapon. “That’s not how this is gonna work.”
*
Okey dokey, then, Jane thought. Guess they don’t want to be interrupted. She moved away from the door and took a few steps down the hall, zipping up her jacket and fingering her cell phone. She should call Tuck. And Alex again. Unlikely anyone would bother her in the hall. Plus, she needed to get answers. These people had them. Maybe she could sit in one of those chairs in the hallway, stall until the meeting was over. They’d never know she was the one who’d knocked.
*
“You want to see how this is going to work?” Munson clasped Ardith closer. His voice was a hiss, a whisper. “I don’t want to shoot her. Or you. But you know I will.”
Jake and DeLuca exchanged glances. Protect the hostage. D took Jake’s gun, then his radio, and put them into the drawer.
Ardith was crying now, silently, shaking.
“Now you, Detective,” Munson said. “Your equipment, too. Into the drawer.”
“You can’t shoot both of us,” Jake said.
“Watch me,” Munson said.
76
“Hang on, D. Wait. Don’t do it.” Jake knew D couldn’t draw fast enough to shoot Munson before the prick killed Ardith. In any event, D couldn’t risk the shot. But some innocent person was outside the door. Cuffed to the couch, Jake’s only play was to try to reason with the guy.
He kept his voice low. “Munson. What if my partner refuses? You think you can shoot all of us?”
Silence.
Maybe this would work. “You shoot Mrs. Brannigan, we’ll witness a cold-blooded murder. Detective DeLuca will blast out your knee. And you’ll be in Cedar Junction till the next millennium. Is that your final decision?”
*
Jane looked at the door again. Listened. Didn’t seem like anyone was yelling anymore, right? Good. Maybe she should try one more time.
A good reporter never gives up.
If they yelled at her this time, she’d leave. They’d never know who it was, so what did it matter? And if they let her in, she could apologize. Everyone hates reporters anyway.
She knocked again.
*
“Go away,” Jake yelled. Damn it. If he warned whoever it was to call the police, Munson would shoot. If he said come in, he was inviting another potential victim. “This is the police! Go away!”
Ardith jumped at his voice, clamped her lips together, her mouth a white line.
Munson smiled. “Excellent choice, Detective,” he whispered.
Munson, Ardith, desk, DeLuca’s gun. And no more time.
*
Whoa. That was Jake. Jake’s voice. What the hell was he doing in there?
Jane stepped back from the door, edging up the hall. He didn’t know it was her, that was certain. She paused halfway down the hall. Took out her phone. Should she call the police? Jake was the police.
She stood in the empty hallway. In. Or out? Out. Took two steps away, headed for her car. Stopped. Was Jake in trouble? What the holy hell was going on?
Should she call 911? Jane ran a few steps, on tiptoe, then opened an office door. And say what? The police needed help?
Damn it. Sometimes they do.
*
Munson dragged Ardith to the door, peered though the frosted window. “Okay, they’re gone. Hallway’s empty. Didn’t we tell everyone to stay home today, dear Ardith? They should have followed instructions.” He yanked the woman close to him again. “We’ll give them a moment to drive away.”
“You’re hurting me,” she said.
“Shut up,” Munson said. “My final decision? Into that drawer, Detective. Your gun and radio. Over to the couch.”
Jake watched D calculate. There was one possibility. D had to draw his weapon to put it into the drawer. But with Munson’s .38 plastered to Ardith’s head, there was simply no option. D, shaking his head, apparently coming to the same conclusion, put his weapon and radio in the drawer.
Jake flashed on Hennessey. Almost wished the guy were here to blast this asshole to hell. But no one was around to save his butt this time. And Ardith Brannigan—was she in on Lillian Finch’s murder?—was good as dead.
“Mrs. Brannigan, you don’t think this man is going to let you live, do you?” Jake began.
“If you know something he wants kept secret?” DeLuca said. “Tell us. Then we’ll all know. Then you won’t be the only one.”
Munson slammed the file drawer shut with an elbow. Ardith Brannigan winced, stumbled, regained her balance.
“Now, Detective DeLuca? You are going to escort us out of here. Walk us to the parking lot. And wave good-bye.”
“Not a—”
“Or wave good-bye to this fine lady right now, if that’s your decision,” Munson said, returning to the door. “Sorry, dear.”
He clicked open the knob.
*
Jane closed door of the empty office behind her, gritting her teeth at the squeak of a hinge, the scrape of the door over the carpeting. The room was dark, no windows. An outer office, judging by the club chairs and couch. Trying not to breathe, she pressed her face close to the mottled glass, tried to see into the corridor.
Yes. Someone might be coming out of that room across the hall. She could make out shapes close to the window, moving.
Would it be Jake? What was he doing in there?
The yelling she’d heard. Do it. Shut up. Do it. Hadn’t been Jake’s voice. Something was very wrong.
Brannigan was dead, Lillian Finch was dead. There’d been a horrible fire at Lillian’s house. Ella had been inside. Was Jake here about that? Why?
She grabbed her cell to call 911. No. If she talked, even a whisper, she might be heard. She stabbed the off button. And the dispatcher couldn’t trace a cell call. She squinted, surveying the murky room. No phone. Damn it. Jane couldn’t call for help without being discovered.
She’d have to hide. She had to wait.
She also had to see.
Jane clicked the door open. The tiniest bit. And plastered herself to the wall.
*
DeLuca didn’t have a chance. He must know it. Jake watched Munson open the office door, wave DeLuca toward it. As soon as they arrived in the parking lot, Munson would shoot him. Or maybe he’d drive him somewhere, shoot him there. Away from the Brannigan, away from his marked territory and away from any connections. There was no way he could leave DeLuca alive.
Munson had made a smart move, taking their weapons. Splitting them up. Now Jake was powerless. Both wrists were cuffed to a fricking couch, his weapon stashed in a drawer across the room. He couldn’t reach the phone on the desk. Sure, someone would find him here. Eventually. He’d be able to testify about what he’d seen. But Munson—about to walk out the door—would be long gone.
And D would be dead.
“DeLuca,” Jake said.
“I know,” D said.
77
Jane couldn’t move. Couldn’t risk it. From her place against the wall—light switch stabbing her in the back through her jacket—her line of sight was a narrow sliver.
She couldn’t see the office door across the carpeted hall. She’d have to listen for the click of the latch. Listen for footsteps.
When whoever it was got close enough to her, she’d have them in view. Briefly. Long enough to know the score. If it was Jake and all was well, she’d stay hidden, and he’d never know she was there. Nor would anyone else.
In t
hat case, she’d leave, come back later. Make an appointment. All by the book.
Her eyes hurt from having to look sideways. Her neck was complaining. But she couldn’t risk a move.
Footsteps. A door closing.
They were coming.
*
Should he yell? Try to move the couch? Somehow yank the couch across the carpet to the drawer where the guns were? With both hands handcuffed? That’d never work. Incredible that he had his damn handcuff keys, the spare ones, tucked in his wallet. Fat lot of good that’d do now.
Supe was going to kill him. And—it crossed Jake’s mind—maybe he deserved it. His partner was about to be murdered. An innocent person was being abducted, maybe killed, too.
He’d blown it.
*
“Still time to change your so-called mind, Munson.”
Paul DeLuca’s voice? Jane was sure she was right. Munson must be Collins Munson, the Brannigan hotshot Ella had mentioned. His name was all over the files she’d found in Ella’s kitchen. Was he the one sending the wrong children? Had Jake and DeLuca found out about it? That’s why they were here?
Damn it. She still couldn’t see them.
Then she could.
Three people, DeLuca, certainly, who seemed to be walking slowly in front of—a man in a tweed jacket. And a woman. Crying? Yes. The woman—who was she?—was crying.
Holy shit. Jane clutched her phone. The man—Munson? Had a gun to the woman’s head. Why was DeLuca walking with them?
Where was Jake?
No gunfire. No screams. No commotion. So Jake wasn’t shot. Was he—well, where the hell was he? And why? He’d told her to stay away. Not that he knew it was her.
Now here was DeLuca, walking with a guy carrying a gun. Why wasn’t Paul doing anything to stop that man?
If Jake was okay, why wasn’t he doing something to stop him?
Was DeLuca—in on this? DeLuca?
She took a step forward, on tiptoe, holding her breath. Watched the trio stride down the hall. The woman tripped in her patent leather heels. The tall man’s arm clamped around her, pulled her back into place. The gun.
As Jane peered after them, baffled, terrified, and completely unsure, DeLuca turned his head for a brief glance back at the office they’d all just left.
Jane had never seen such a look of anguish.
*
All his fault.
Ricker, dead, because of him. And now, DeLuca was in deep shit, and Ardith Brannigan, and it was his fault again. Jake tried to stand, thrashing, yanking the idiot cuffs and the idiot couch, which didn’t move an inch.
“Damn it!” he yelled. “Damn it! Damn it!”
He closed his eyes, briefly, in disdain. Save your breath, he thought. Maybe no one would ever come uncuff him. Maybe that would be better.
*
That was Jake! Jake’s voice. He was yelling. He wasn’t dead. Jane took a chance, swiveled, peered down the hallway. The front door was closing. She saw a flash of daylight, then three silhouettes, then the front door swinging closed.
She raced to the end of the hall, tote bag slamming against her back, tripping, stumbling, almost falling in her frantic haste to get to Jake.
Wait. She stopped, bending almost double with her sudden decision. What if someone else was in that room?
She could hear only the sound of her own breathing.
If she went in, she might be in trouble. If she didn’t, Jake might be in trouble. If she did, they might both be in trouble.
“Jake!” she yelled. Fine, it might be the exactly wrong thing to do, let whoever was in there with Jake know she was there but—she dialed 911 as she ran to the office.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
Yeah. That was the question.
78
“Operator, I’m at the—at one-twenty-five Linden Street. Jake!”
“Jane!” His voice was loud, and strong. “It’s okay, get in here!”
She grabbed the doorknob, twisted it, pushed. Jake was on the couch. No one else in the room.
“Ma’am?” the dispatcher’s voice crackled through her cell phone. “What’s your emergency?”
“Jake! What—?”
“In my pocket, Jane.” Jake held up both hands. He was cuffed to the arm of the couch? “My wallet, back pocket. The key.”
“Ma’am, you’ve got to tell me—”
She dropped her tote bag to the floor, raced to him.
“All units,” Jake yelled. “This is Jake Brogan. Officer down. Officer down. Jane, let me talk.”
She held the phone against his cheek as he twisted onto his stomach, letting her lift his leather jacket and grab his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans.
“In here?” She punched the phone on speaker, then flipped open the wallet, looking for—and there it was, a tiny silver key tucked into a credit card slot. She held it between two fingers. “This?”
“At one-twenty-five Linden, Forest Hills, officer down, officer in trouble, all units, all units, you copy, dispatch?” Jake sat up, cocked his head toward the handcuffs. “Do it, Jane. Hurry.”
*
He could have kissed the hell out of her, but he didn’t have time. Jake yanked his wrist out of one of the cuffs, then the other, clicked them back on his belt and threw himself across the room. Slammed open the file drawer. Grabbed his weapon, tucked D’s into the small of his back.
“Yes, sir, we copy. Dispatch out.” The phone went silent.
“Stay in here. Do not come out.” Jake said. The radios. He tossed one to Jane, put the other in his jacket pocket. “I’ve got backup on the way. I’ll call you when—”
He yanked back the curtains, looked out the window. Past the low hedge and the stand of hemlocks to the parking lot. Only two cars. One was Jane’s. The other a Mercedes. No Munson yet. They had to be taking Munson’s car. This was the only parking lot.
He twisted the latch, pushed open the window, then clicked up the storm window.
“What are you—who was—?”
“Tell you later. Close the window after me. Stay here.” Would he have time to stop them? Would D and that asshole still be in the parking lot? Would Ardith Brannigan be alive? Would D?
*
She had no idea what was going on. None.
“Jake!”
But he was out the window. The curtains fell back into place.
“Be careful!” she said.
He was gone. Moving the curtains, she slid the storm back down, then clicked the frame shut as Jake had instructed. She looked outside. Couldn’t see him.
“Be careful,” she whispered.
79
The damn trees were in the way, his line of sight obstructed. Well, good. That meant they couldn’t see him, either. All he had now, besides the Sig, was the element of surprise. And he had that only once.
Jake ducked low, running, following the line of thick shrubbery to its end. A strip of lawn, then the big hemlocks, then the parking lot pavement. He could see the three of them now, walking, arriving at the edge of the parking lot. They couldn’t see him. Nor would Munson be looking.
He took a breath, darted to the stand of hemlocks lining the parking lot. The three were headed for the dark blue Mercedes. Munson behind, holding his weapon on D and Ardith. At least she wasn’t clamped to him anymore. Still, if either of them tried to run, Munson could shoot in an instant. Both of them.
Jake’s window of opportunity would be tiny. Minuscule. Probably impossible.
What was his responsibility here? Save the victim? Even if she was accomplice to a murder? She was innocent until proven guilty.
Or save his partner?
How could anyone make that decision?
Jake had confidence in his marksmanship—but a one-shot deal at a moving car with two innocent people and one asshole? Even at short range, no way. He couldn’t let them get into the car.
It was down to timing. And luck. So far today, neither had been that great for Jake.<
br />
The three were getting closer to Munson’s car.
Backup was on the way. Jake listened for sirens. Nothing.
*
She had to see. Jane pulled back the curtain as she’d watched Jake do. She listened for sirens, squinting as if that could make her hearing more acute. Nothing.
Out in the parking lot—at the far end—she could just make out the people she’d seen in the hall. DeLuca—what did that mean? The woman. The man with the gun. Munson. Did he still have the gun? It was too far away to tell.
She didn’t see Jake. The trees were in the way.
Jake had thrown her a police radio. What was she supposed to do with that?
A sound. Damn. Her phone. She put down the radio, hit the green button on her cell. Was it Jake? It couldn’t be. She looked out the window, crouching below the sill, just in case, so she couldn’t be seen.
“Jane. Tuck. Sorry about the delay. We had to get my car. We’re almost there. Almost at the Brannigan. Wait for us, okay? Lots to tell.”
“Tuck—wait—don’t—”
“We’re in traffic, kiddo. Gotta go. See you in five. Maybe sooner.”
She hung up. Tuck. She’d call her back. Stop her.
Out the window. Nothing. Damn the trees.
She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath. She was terrified, trapped. And had no idea who the good guys were.
*
One chance. And it was now. He was behind a bush. Five steps away.
“DeLuca!” Jake aimed at Munson, fired.
Missed.
*
A gunshot. It was. Jane peered over the windowsill. Could not see a thing. Tears came to her eyes. Jake.
*
Munson turned, fired back.
DeLuca grabbed Ardith, twisting her away, yanked her into cover behind the car.
“Down!”
“No!” she cried.
Jake flattened himself against the wet grass, fired again.
Munson clutched his leg. Screamed. Fell to the concrete.
Jake flew the five steps to the parking lot, kicked Munson’s weapon away from him.
The Wrong Girl (Jane Ryland) Page 34
