by Karen Dionne
“I killed him,” Tiffany said again. “I loved him and I killed him. I killed Neil.”
Neil? Tiffany was confessing to murdering Neil Campbell, and not Lance and Guy? But Neil had died at his own hand, from the burns he suffered in the meth fire. Tiffany hadn’t gone to the hospital, had she? Tampered with his meds or his IV line or whatever else would cause him to suddenly flatline? Was she clever enough or diabolical enough to do something like that? Sarah supposed it was possible. Anything was possible.
“How did you kill him?”
“Gasoline,” she sobbed. “I killed Neil with gasoline. I filled a milk carton with gas and put it on top of the fridge. In the back, where he wouldn’t see it, and Hugo couldn’t climb up and get to it. I made a hole in the cap with a pin. Just a small one, small enough so the fumes could still come out, but Neil wouldn’t smell them.”
Sarah’s mind was reeling. “How did you know how to do it?”
Tiffany wiped her streaming eyes with her free hand. They were raw with tears and bright with craving. She must be going into withdrawal. “I read about how to do it online. I knew what would happen the next time he cooked.”
She cried harder. Whether for the death she had caused or for herself for having caused it, Sarah didn’t know.
“Neil hurt you, so you hurt him.” Trying to make Tiffany’s actions sound reasonable.
“I had to! But it wasn’t for me. I did it for Hugo.”
“For Hugo?”
“Neil was a bad man. I knew that even before—before—before he did what he did. I couldn’t risk Hugo being around that. I had to make sure it never happened again.”
“You took good care of him. Now it’s time to put the gun down so we can go out in the hallway and so he can see you. He needs you.”
Tiffany’s expression faltered. She lowered her hand.
“That’s good. Now put the gun on the ground and come out with your hands in the air. You can do this. One step at a time. Put the gun down.”
Tiffany took a step toward Sarah. The pistol dangled from her fingers. She let it fall to the floor and put her head in her hands. Her shoulders shook. She swayed, took another step, staggered and crumpled to her knees. Sarah ran over and grabbed her right wrist, snapped a cuff around it and moved behind her and pulled her arms back and fastened the other.
It was over. Sarah fought to control her breathing as she came down from the adrenaline high and walked Tiffany toward the door. That Tiffany was damaged goods was without doubt. A part of Sarah felt sorry for her. But what she’d done to Hugo was unforgiveable. No one should ever hurt a little boy. No one.
42
Goddard knocked on the wall beside the open doorway to Kath’s hospital room, then stuck his head in. He carried an art magazine in one hand and a vase of flowers in the other. Daisies. Kath’s favorite. The flowers she’d carried as her wedding bouquet.
Kath’s bed was by the window. Except for the two small bumps her feet made beneath the hospital blanket, she was hidden by the dividing curtain. Sophie was sitting in a chair in the corner—a green vinyl number that could have been a contender for the ugliest chair in the world. Possibly also the most uncomfortable. Sophie didn’t seem to mind.
“Daddy! Daddy! You’re here!” she called and jumped up as he strode into the room. He set the flowers and the magazine on the window ledge and bent to give Sophie a hug. Arianna was sitting in a chair beside her mother’s bed. He kissed her forehead, then moved to his wife. Kath opened her eyes and smiled at him. She looked utterly whipped. Goddard had honestly thought the birth would be easier than the last two because the baby had been so small, which only showed how little he knew. Kath’s labor had been long and the birth itself was tough. Probably because of her age.
“You look wonderful,” he said as he ducked beneath the IV line and moved to the head of the bed so he could smooth back her hair.
She smiled up at him. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Only the ones who’ve just given birth to my son.”
My son. He didn’t think he’d ever get tired of saying the words. He’d noticed Linden said them all the time: “He’s my son. My son.” Fierce. Tender and protective at the same time. Now he understood why.
His son was in the neonatal ICU down the hall. The nurses promised he was going to be fine. Goddard had peeked in on his way to see Kath. The ICU nurse had pointed out which baby was his as Goddard stood on the other side of the window in the hall and grinned as goofily as every other new dad. Nathan Christopher Goddard looked exactly like the others. Scrawny. Red. Wrinkled. Impossibly frail and tiny. Nathan. Nate. His son. Linden had had to practically kick him out the door with a promise that she’d get started on the paperwork as soon as Tiffany had been booked, but the moment he saw the baby, he couldn’t imagine why he’d wanted to linger.
“Did you find him?” Kath asked. “The little boy?”
“Who? Our boy?”
She laughed. “The one who was missing in the storm. Hugo?” She pointed to a portable radio that was almost hidden in the clutter on her nightstand and blushed. “I heard about it on the police channel. I know it’s silly of me, but I like to listen. I like to know what you do.”
Her admission took him by surprise. Goddard had always assumed Kath didn’t want to know the details of work. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe it wasn’t that she was disinterested. Maybe he was the one who’d shut her out.
“Yes, we found him. He’s fine.”
“I’m so glad. I hated the idea of anything happening to him. Or to you.” She closed her eyes.
“Girls, your mom’s tired. Why don’t you go check up on your little brother?”
“Come on.” Arianna took Sophie by the hand and led her away. Goddard watched them leave. He couldn’t remember the last time Arianna had willingly done anything with her younger sister.
He sat down in the chair Arianna had vacated and took his wife’s hand. Held it and thought about the changes the day had wrought, about what the future held for him and his family, as Kath drifted off into a well-deserved sleep.
43
Holder pulled up in front of Claire’s mother’s apartment building and honked. Two times. The signal that it was him. The front door opened and she hurried down the sidewalk. She was dressed all in black, which was appropriate seeing as they were going to a funeral, though Holder doubted the preacher was going to appreciate her miniskirt and fishnet stockings.
“Hey, baby,” she said as she got in.
“Hey yourself.”
He checked his watch and pulled away from the curb. They’d just make the service in time if he hit the lights right. It was hard to believe that a week ago, Seattle had been smothered in snow. Today the sky was blue and the sun was out. It didn’t seem like the right kind of day for a funeral, but he supposed the dead didn’t mind.
Tiffany wasn’t coming. Thanks to the kidnapping charges and the obstruction of justice charges and the drug charges and the accessory to murder charges and whatever else the police thought to throw at her, she was going to be staying inside for a very long time. But Claire had gotten it into her head to go in her friend’s place. No matter that, at least in Holder’s estimation, Tiffany had a big share of the guilt for these deaths. Holder had agreed to go along, partly to keep an eye on Claire, and partly because someone had to go. Better him and Claire than nobody. That just wouldn’t have been right.
He pursed his lips. Funerals always made him feel uncomfortable. He supposed that was the point. Don’t think you’re sitting pretty, wearin’ a suit an’ tie and with your hair combed driving around with your girl in your car, the dead seemed to say. Won’t be long, and you’ll end up like this. He thought about Tiffany missing all the fun stuck in her jail cell. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose someone. Even less to have a hand in their death.
He realized Claire had been talking. “What you say, babe?”
She shot him a look. “Just that it’s so sad. The
y were going to buy a house, you know? Get married. Her and Neil and Hugo, like a family.” Holder didn’t reply. Whatever Campbell had promised, he doubted Tiffany would have got her fairytale ending. Claire’s tone worried him. Like it was time for her and Holder to do likewise. He pretended not to notice.
They got to the church five minutes late. Inside, it was almost empty. They slid into a pew at the back. Besides him and Claire, there was a large man with manic white hair sitting up front, and further back, a redheaded woman with a tight ponytail, a man sitting beside her.
He hoped when it was his turn, his life would’ve made more of an impact. The audience was almost outnumbered by the caskets.
Two boxes. One for Lance, one for Guy. A double funeral. The caskets were identical. Dark wood, white satin lining, the top half open so people could see the bodies while the bottom half was covered with flowers. Holder was surprised the caskets were open. He knew both brothers had been shot in the head. Undertaker must’ve done a hell of a job. Both men were blond and stocky, wearing matching suits and ties. No doubt they’d been different when they were alive. Different hopes and ambitions, different loves. Whatever. But in the end, everyone went out the same.
Beside him, Claire started to cry. He took her hand. He knew it was hard. He was a cop. He was used to seeing dead bodies. Or as used to it as a person could be. These might be her first, although she couldn’t have known either man well. Might never have met Guy at all. She squeezed his hand, laid her head on his shoulder. Holder let her keep it there, though he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it.
Thing was, he knew she was high. He’d known it the minute she walked out her apartment building’s front door. She had the look. Smiling, bouncing happily down the sidewalk, the neurons in her brain working overtime. He’d specifically asked her not to come to the funeral stoned, told her it was disrespectful, that Tiffany wouldn’t like it, but she’d gotten high anyway. He worried she’d do something to embarrass him at the service, or worse, draw attention to him. When a person was high, there was no telling what they’d do. Look at poor Tiff.
Thankfully, the minister kept the service short. Maybe he figured it wasn’t worth much effort because the crowd was small. He finished with a prayer and invited the audience to come to the front.
“You wanna go up?” he asked Claire.
She shook her head. “Let’s just go.”
“Come on. We should go up. Pay our respects. For Tiffany.”
He took her by the hand, pulled her to her feet and started toward the altar. The other mourners must’ve viewed the bodies before the service because they all headed for the back. Holder turned his face to the side as he and Claire squeezed past the redheaded woman and her companion. The woman had “cop” written all over her. He was pretty sure he’d never seen her before, but after his recent fake arrest, he couldn’t risk her recognizing him and blowing his cover.
When they reached the caskets Claire squeezed his hand tighter. In his head, Holder said a prayer. Not for the men who had been murdered, but for Claire. For all the junkies trying to get clean and the single moms raising up their kids and the people who were struggling to make a living without catching a break. There wasn’t any shortage of people who needed help. Holder’s buddies at County would’ve laughed if they found out he had a spiritual side, but whenever he had a good day at work, whenever things had gone especially right, he felt like he was partners with The Big Guy.
“Baby?” Claire asked. “You okay?”
He opened his eyes. “Never better. Come on—le’s get outta here.”
They walked back up the aisle through the empty church. The minister was waiting in the foyer. As he shook their hands and thanked them for coming, Holder spotted a stack of N.A. flyers behind him on a table. When the minister turned them loose, he walked over and grabbed one of the flyers for Claire and stuck it in his back pocket.
“Ready, baby?” she asked.
“Ready.” He took her by the elbow and guided her out the door.
44
The snowstorm that had shut down the city was barely in evidence as Rick and Sarah enjoyed their long-postponed dinner date at last. Technically, it was a lunch date at a café a short walk from the church where the Marsee brothers’ funeral had been held instead of the romantic dinner Rick had originally planned, but he was okay with that. Sarah was a hard person to pin down, and not just because of the erratic hours imposed on her by her job. He knew enough about her background to understand why she had commitment issues, just as he understood that if their relationship was going to go forward, he needed to cut her some slack. He didn’t mind that her choice of restaurant had been determined by her work, either—or not enough to gripe about it, at any rate. He was just happy she was sitting on the other side of the table from him at last.
Sarah seemed to know what he was thinking because she reached across the checkered tablecloth to take his hand. “Thanks for coming to the funeral. Goddard couldn’t—new baby and all—but I felt like someone had to represent the department.” She sighed. “And thanks for understanding. These past couple of days have been intense.”
Rick’s first thought was that her entire life had been intense. Sarah was the kind of person who felt everything more strongly than most, she often took things too much to heart and wound up getting hurt. But he kept his opinions to himself. Sarah was a deeply private person. She didn’t like to be made to feel as though he knew her better than she did herself. Even though he often did.
“It’s my job to understand,” he said lightly, and they both laughed. Rick was “Dr. Richard Felder” when he was on the job. A psychiatrist.
“I was thinking,” he said as he continued to hold her hand. “Now that your case is resolved, maybe we could go away this weekend. I’m thinking Sonoma.”
He didn’t tell her that Sonoma was where he’d grown up. He didn’t want her to get the wrong idea. He wasn’t thinking of a get-to-know-the-family weekend, though he had so many relatives in the area and Sonoma was such a small city that avoiding running into one of them could present a challenge. More of a this-is-where-I-grew-up, hope-you-love-it-as-much-as-I-do weekend.
“I’d like that,” she said, and smiled again. She pulled her hand away to check her watch. “Sorry. I’m going to have to cut this short. The funeral ran longer than I thought it would. I have to pick up Jack.”
“Let’s pick him up together.” It was a risk. Sarah hadn’t yet introduced him to her son. But it felt like the right time to make the next move. “The three of us could go to the park, shoot some hoops.”
“Really? You’d do that?”
“Really.” He smiled. Most people responded well to his smile—a slightly rakish, lopsided grin that complemented his outdoorsman looks that he’d taught himself when he first started working by practicing in front of a mirror. “I don’t have anything scheduled for the afternoon.”
He didn’t say what he was really thinking: I’ll go anywhere as long as it’s with you. Too much, too soon. But that was okay. Dr. Felder was a patient man. Sarah could have all the time she needed.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to my editors, Cath Trechman and Miranda Jewess, for your keen insights, and to the rest of the Titan team for their hard work in bringing out this book; to my agent, Jeff Kleinman, for his assistance with this and my other novels (Freezing Point, Boiling Point), and to Scott Anderman, Jim Doherty, Allison Leotta, Rich Peach, Kathleen Ryan, and Diane Vogt for your most valuable advice and assistance. Most off all, thanks to my husband, Roger. I couldn’t have done it without you!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Karen Dionne is the internationally published author of the science thrillers Freezing Point and Boiling Point. She is co-founder of the online writers community Backspace, and organizes the Salt Cay Writers Retreat held annually on a private island in the Bahamas. Karen is a member of the International Thriller Writers, where she served on the board of directors alongside thriller luminaries Dougla
s Preston, Lee Child, Steve Berry, Joseph Finder, Peter James, and R. L. Stine as Vice President, Technology. Karen has been honored by the Michigan Humanities Council as a Humanities Scholar for her body of work as an author, writer, and as Backspace co-founder.
