SWAT Standoff

by LENA DIAZ,

  She nodded. “We need the cavalry on this. But they won’t help us without knowing the special circumstances. And that means revealing that we read the note. We’re trapped in a catch-22.”

  “It’s only a trap if we try to wiggle out of it. Fold the paper and put it back exactly the way we found it. We’ll come clean, admit that we touched it, but that we used gloves and tried to leave it the same way that we found it so we could maintain the integrity of the evidence. Then we’ll face the consequences.”

  “The consequences are that we’ll be removed from the case. No way am I going to let that happen. After reading what that note said, are you seriously going to stand there judging me and say that you wished we had waited hours for a medical examiner to give us a report? Really?”

  He blew out a deep breath. “Okay, okay. You’re right. In this instance, it’s good that we read it. But covering it up after the fact—”

  “Is exactly what we both agreed to do before we read it. You aren’t exactly pristine in this little endeavor. So, are we in this together or not?”

  Without waiting for his reply, she refolded the note, leaving both sentences clearly visible instead of hidden like they were before. Then she slid the edge between Randy’s thumb and pointer finger to keep the paper from falling. “There. Anyone looking at the body can clearly see what the killer wrote. There’s no reason to admit that’s not how it looked when we got here.”

  “What if the way the killer folded and staged the presentation is significant to the crime? It could be an important clue to figuring out his identity.”

  “We’ll pursue that angle on our own. If we find it’s truly significant, we’ll figure out a way to let others know.”

  Disapproval seemed to seep from every pore as he frowned down at her like an archangel ready to release his wrath.

  “Let it go, Blake. I’m not going to screw up this investigation. But I’m not going to be kicked off it either.”

  He looked like he wanted to argue more, but the sound of a siren in the distance had him swearing beneath his breath instead. “We need to get out of here. Respected police officer or not, you’re about to be tossed over my shoulder and hauled out of this barn if you don’t get moving.”

  “Meaning you’re going to let this go?”

  He gave her a curt nod and offered a hand to help her up.

  Relieved that he’d given in, she took his hand and climbed to her feet.

  “Don’t forget the gloves.” He motioned toward her hands.

  She rolled the latex down her wrists, turning them inside out before shoving them into her back pocket.

  He shook his head. “They’re lumpy now. Someone might notice and ask about it. I don’t want you to get fired, too. I’ll put them in my pocket. If anyone finds out, it won’t matter. They can’t fire me twice.”

  “No.” She grabbed the gloves and shoved them down her bra. “No one’s getting fired. Including you.”

  His eyes had widened as he watched her hide the gloves. Now he cleared his throat and seemed to have difficulty lifting his gaze to look her in the eye again. “What do you mean, that includes me?”

  “Detective Waters? Detective Sullivan?” The words were muted, coming from a considerable distance away. The uniformed patrolman she’d spoken to on the phone must have arrived and was looking for them.

  “I’m saying,” she said, lowering her voice, “that the only other person here who knows that Dillon fired you is me. And I sure don’t want to work this case by myself. I need your help. You can’t help me if you’re a civilian.”

  He pulled her to a halt. “In addition to tampering with evidence—”

  “I wouldn’t call it tampering, exactly. We discovered something extremely important and made sure it can be shared and acted upon quickly.”

  “In addition to tampering,” he repeated, “now you want me to lie and pretend I wasn’t fired?”

  “If that’s what it takes to save our friends, our coworkers, then absolutely, yes. Lie.”

  She was all about having a conscience. But this was a heck of a time for him to be wrestling with it. Again.

  She put her hands on her hips. “Seriously? You really have to think about this one?”

  Her phone buzzed against her hip. She blew out an impatient breath and took the call. “Detective Waters.” She listened for a moment, then said, “Yes, I heard you calling to us, Officer Lynch. We’re heading toward the parking area now.”

  She ended the call and shoved her phone back into her pocket. “Well, Blake? You’ve had time to think about it. Not that you should need it.”

  He cursed viciously. “Okay. I’ll do it. But I don’t like it.”

  “That much is obvious.” She narrowed her eyes in warning. “I can’t believe you even hesitated.”

  They started off again toward where Officer Lynch was waiting.

  “We’re heading down a slippery slope,” he gritted out. “One lie always leads to another. This could get really complicated, really fast, and jeopardize the court case later on. It might blow up in our faces and have all kinds of unforeseen repercussions.”

  “I’m not worried about a court case or repercussions. I’m worried about my friends’ lives.”

  “Your friend Dillon wanted me off the force. I’m trying to do right by him.”

  “Yeah, well. Do right by helping me save his life. You can ask him to forgive you later.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  A few minutes later, they stepped out of the woods beside Chris’s blue pickup. She motioned for the patrolman who was standing by his car, bar lights flashing red and blue.

  “There’s one more thing we have to decide,” she whispered.

  “Wonderful.” Sarcasm practically dripped off his words. “Can’t wait to hear it.”

  She pressed the flat of her hand against his chest, her throat suddenly tight. “How are we going to break the news that a lunatic murdered Randy and is holding three more members of our team and the police chief hostage?”

  Chapter Seven

  Blake headed up the long concrete walkway beside Donna, his flashlight off even though it was close to two in the morning. The outside of Mrs. Carter’s cottage was lit up like midday, with security lights framing both sides of the path and carriage lamps all across the wall of the front porch. Motion sensors had flooded the front and side yards with light the moment he parked his truck in the gravel out front.

  Even now he could see lights coming on inside, probably because the motion sensors were hooked up to some kind of alert that had awakened the owner. Knowing cops in general and their intense need to protect their loved ones from the evil they encountered on a daily basis, Blake figured it was a safe bet that Randy was the one who was responsible for all these gadgets at his mother’s home.

  “How long before your mother gets here to sit with Mrs. Carter?” he asked.

  “Probably five or ten minutes.” She stopped. “We should wait. What was I thinking? I can’t do this on my own. I can’t tell her... I can’t do this.”

  She turned back toward the truck, but he grasped her shoulders and gently forced her to face him. “Donna, you can do this. You’re not alone. I’m with you, and I’m not going anywhere.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t understand. Randy was like a brother to me. I’ve known him my whole life. We went to school together, from pre-K on. We went to prom together because neither of us had dates. It was one of the best nights of my life, because we were two friends just having fun, you know? No pressure. No weird goodnight kiss or worries that someone was going to want more than I wanted to give. He lived in this house his whole life. When...when we were little, we played in the backyard. He’d steal my dolls, and I’d steal his Matchbox cars.” She sniffed, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “How do I tell her he’s gone? I have to wait, let my mother t
ell her.”

  He slowly shook his head. “We can’t wait. Mrs. Carter is standing in the doorway right now, watching us through the storm door.”

  Her eyes widened, and she shot a quick look toward the house. “Blake, you have to tell her. I’m sorry. Let me go. I—”

  The creak of the storm door shattered the quiet. “Donna? Sweetie? Is that you?” Mrs. Carter stepped out onto the porch, tying the sash around her blue terry cloth robe. Matching blue fuzzy slippers protected her feet.

  Donna gave Blake a pleading look.

  He squeezed her shoulders. “It will be better coming from someone who knows her, who loves her, who loved her son.”

  “Donna? Who’s that with you, dear?”

  She drew a deep breath. Then another.

  “Donna?” Blake asked.

  “Okay. Okay. I can do this.”

  He dropped his hands from her shoulders.

  When she turned to face the house, she pasted a smile on her face. “Mrs. Carter, so sorry to bother you at this insane hour of the morning.” She hurried up onto the porch and took Randy’s mother’s hands in hers.

  Blake climbed the steps and stood a few feet back, waiting.

  Mrs. Carter stared up into Donna’s eyes, her faded blue eyes searching Donna’s. Like all law-enforcement family members, this woman was no stranger to the police life and had to know that a 2:00 a.m. visit from the police—without her son present—wasn’t a social visit.

  “Hurt or dead?” Mrs. Carter’s voice shook as she waited for Donna’s reply.

  Donna slowly shook her head. “Oh, Mrs. Carter. I’m so, so sorry.”

  The elderly woman let out a small cry and started to crumple. Blake rushed forward and caught her in his arms before she could fall. Donna pulled open the door, tears freely rolling down her cheeks now as Blake carried the woman inside.

  After settling her onto a baby-blue flower-patterned couch, he tucked one of the throw pillows beneath her head. Donna covered her with a cream-colored afghan that she’d grabbed from a side chair.

  The old woman’s eyes were closed, but she wasn’t asleep. Tears streamed down her face, and her shoulders shook with silent sobs. Donna settled on the floor in front of the couch, holding one of the woman’s hands while she gently stroked her hair and whispered soothing words.

  Not sure how to help, Blake glanced around the small room. It was neat as a pin, as was the kitchen, visible through an arched opening.

  “Tea. You should make her some tea,” a feminine voice called out from somewhere behind him.

  He turned to see a woman standing on the porch with gray-streaked blond hair cut to frame a face that could have been a twin to Donna’s, except for the twenty or so years separating them.

  Blake hurried to open the door for her. “Mrs. Waters, pleasure to meet you. I’m Detective—”

  “I know who you are.” She smiled as if to soften her words. “Call me Miranda, Blake. Do you know how to make hot tea?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Her brows arched up.

  “Yes, Miranda,” he corrected.

  She smiled and patted the side of his face. “She takes two sugar cubes and a dash of cream. I take mine black.” She gave him a shooing motion and hurried to the couch, where she hugged Donna. She then took a seat on the coffee table and took Mrs. Carter’s other hand in her own.

  Feeling relieved to have something to do, Blake went into the kitchen and tried to remember how to make hot tea. It had been years since he’d seen his mom make it, and thankfully it was as easy as he remembered. Randy’s mother was obviously quite fond of the stuff. She had a teakettle on the stove, which he filled with water and turned on to boil. A teapot and service sat on the counter, along with an assortment of tea bags, sugar cubes in a delicate bowl and a tiny empty pitcher that he guessed was for the cream.

  After searching through the refrigerator, he gave up figuring out what container might hold cream and went for the milk instead.

  “Need any help?”

  He turned with the quart of milk poised to pour into the little pitcher. Donna stood in the opening, shaking her head when she saw the milk.

  “Half-and-half,” she said, taking the milk from him and heading to the refrigerator. After exchanging the quart of milk for a pint-size container that looked like a miniature milk carton, she filled up the little pitcher. “There. All ready, except for the water.”

  “Thanks,” he said as she replaced the container of half-and-half in the refrigerator.

  “You did great on your own,” she said. “Just figured I’d check on you. I don’t recall you being a tea drinker.”

  “Not my thing,” he admitted. “But I’ve suffered through a few cups in my day. Mom laced tea with whiskey and honey when we had sore throats. The only reason I gave in was the whiskey.”

  She smiled. “I would have done the same thing. I never liked tea either.”

  The kettle on the stove started to whistle. Blake moved toward it, but Donna gently pushed him out of the way. “I’ve got this.” She turned off the stove and poured hot water into the teapot. She added a second cup to the tray. “There. Mom and Mrs. Carter can exchange stories about Randy over an entire pot of tea. They’re already talking about the silly things he used to do as a kid. Mom’s a miracle worker. I’m glad she came.”

  He glanced past her, relieved to see that Randy’s mom was sitting up now, beside Donna’s mom on the couch. Their heads were close together as they talked, and Donna’s mom was holding the other woman’s hand.

  “She seems like a no-nonsense lady, your mom,” he said. “Strong and kind. Like you.”

  “I don’t know how strong I am right now. I’m barely holding it together.” She waved toward the tea tray. “Want to carry that for me? Not that I can’t do it. But I’m not so much a feminist that I’m threatened by letting a guy do the heavy lifting if one’s around.”

  In answer, he carried the tray into the other room.

  The two women on the couch barely seemed to notice him as he left the tray on the coffee table. They spoke in low whispers, and he distinctly heard Mrs. Carter mention Randy’s name while smiling through her tears.

  “We’re going to head out, Mom, Mrs. Carter.” Donna hugged both women, whispered something to Randy’s mom, then nodded at Blake.

  They quietly made their way outside and down the steps. Blake waited until they were at his truck before he asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to stay here with your mom? I can handle things back at the station.”

  She shook her head but didn’t say anything as she climbed into the passenger side.

  They’d just rounded a corner, the cottage disappearing from sight in the rearview mirror, when she grabbed her door handle. “Pull over.”

  He looked through the windshield but didn’t see whatever had her alarmed. “I don’t see anything. What’s the—”

  “Pull over. Now.”

  He yanked the steering wheel and jerked the truck to a stop on the shoulder of the road. “Donna—”

  She threw the passenger door open and barely made it into the bushes before she started retching.

  Blake jumped out of the truck, leaving the engine running and the headlights on to light the way as he rushed toward her.

  “Don’t,” she gasped. “Leave me alone.” Her whole body shuddered as she retched again.

  Ignoring her order, he crouched behind her and pulled her hair back from her face.

  Apparently too sick to yell at him again, she threw up over and over, until she started to dry heave. When the storm finally passed, she shook her head and pushed his hands back, letting her hair fall around her face.

  Blake moved to the side and gently tilted her chin to look at him. “Is it Randy? Or are you sick?”

  She jerked her head back, forcing him to lower his hand. She blink
ed several times, drawing quick, shallow breaths. “Sh-she... Mrs. Carter, she asked me...” She shook her head and swiped at the tears now flowing down her cheeks. “I knew he was dead. I mean, I saw his broken body, saw the blood. But I didn’t... I don’t think it hit me that he’s really gone, that he’s...dead...until his mother asked me to help her plan his funeral.”

  Her shoulders shook as sobs suddenly racked her body, even worse than the dry heaves from moments earlier.

  Blake swore and scooped her onto his lap. She stiffened at first, but then threw her arms around him and buried her head against his chest. His heart seemed to crack as he listened to her crying, felt her hot wet tears soak into his shirt. If her friend’s murderer had appeared in front of him right then, Blake would have ripped the man’s throat out with his bare hands for causing Donna such pain.

  He rocked her against him, gently rubbing her back until she quieted. Then, as if she’d suddenly realized where she was, she shoved at his chest.

  “What are you doing?” Her eyes widened. Then she jerked her face to the side and cupped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, my gosh. I have to smell terrible.”

  “I don’t care how you smell.” He lifted her in his arms and stood.

  Still keeping one hand cupped over her mouth, she said, “I told you not to carry me. I can walk perfectly fine.”

  “Your whole body is shaking, and you’re way too stubborn to admit when you need help.”

  In spite of her protests, she didn’t try to push herself out of his arms; she let him carry her the rest of the way to the truck. After settling her in the passenger side, he reached for the seat belt.

  She tried to grab it out of his hand, but he simply finished clicking it into place. Then he snagged a clean rag and a bottle of water from the box of supplies he kept behind the seat.

  He held them out to her without a word.

  “Thank you,” she said grudgingly as she took them.

  “You’re welcome.”

  He slowly walked around the back of the truck, giving her privacy and enough time to rinse out her mouth. When he hopped into the cab and shut his door, she pulled hers shut, too, and looked straight ahead through the windshield. Her cheeks were flushed, and he knew her well enough to realize that she was probably embarrassed that he’d been there to witness her being sick. Which of course was silly. She could be sick in front of him a hundred times, and it wouldn’t bother him. What would bother him was if she needed him and he couldn’t be there to help her.