“Can you get downstairs?”
“Yes.” To Brenna, Christensen said, “Press harder.”
“Is the front door locked, sir?”
“Yes.”
“If you can get safely downstairs, then, I want you to unlock that door. We’re probably about two minutes away. Got that?”
“Unlock the door,” he repeated.
“But not if you’re still in any danger. Do you feel like you’re still in danger, sir?”
“I’ll meet them downstairs,” Christensen said as he backed out from under the bed. “We need a paramedic.”
“On the way. Just hang tight.”
Christensen laid the phone next to Brenna, leaving the line open, and crawled across the floor to the window. He pressed himself against the inside wall and stood up, twisting the miniblind rod until the louvers pinched shut. He crossed the room and opened the bedroom door.
Taylor stood alone in the dark second-floor hallway, his face reflecting his terror. Christensen picked the boy up before he could look into the bedroom. He carried him past the room where Annie still slept, down the creaking wooden stairs, saying “Everything’s OK, buddy, everything’s OK,” and wishing it were true.
Chapter 15
“There.”
Christensen pointed to the splintered oak headboard about a foot above the mattress on Brenna’s side. Milsevic moved closer, and at the same time popped something into his mouth. He noticed Christensen watching him and held out a foil-backed tray of plastic bubbles.
“Nicorette?” he said.
Christensen shook his head. Milsevic knelt down near the bullet hole and chewed his gum. A female detective named Heffentreyer already had excavated the lead-gray blob for the crime lab, leaving behind only a pulpy scar.
“Jesus,” Milsevic said. “We got bad juju here. Definitely not a stray bullet. What time did you say this was?”
“Just before ten-thirty,” Christensen said. ‘The detective already took our statements, you know. The paramedics are done with Brenna. It’s after midnight and I’d like to get things calmed down around here.”
“Right. Sorry,” Milsevic said, glancing at the punctured window across the room. His eyes traced the bullet’s path to the headboard, then he added another piece of nicotine gum to the wad in his mouth.
“That’s not exactly a therapeutic dose,” Christensen said. “You’re chain chewing.”
“We’ve all got vices,” Milsevic said. “What’s yours?”
Christensen ignored the question and glanced at his watch. The police captain offered a sympathetic smile.
“I’m not crazy about being out this late either. My cell phone went off and I thought, ‘What the hell?’ But with everything going on lately, the chief just wanted some administrative oversight on this one. So here I am. I’ll be out of your way ASAP.”
For the first time Christensen could recall, Milsevic wasn’t impeccably dressed. Dark-blue turtleneck under a distressed leather jacket. Black pants. No socks. Soft leather moccasins that looked more like bedroom slippers. He’d arrived fifteen minutes earlier looking like a man who’d been rousted from bed and dressed in the dark.
“Real quick, I need you to go over something again.” Milsevic crossed the room to the window and twirled the miniblind rod until the louvers were fully open. “Detective Heffentreyer told me this blind was closed when she arrived, but she said you told her it was open when the shots were fired. Is that correct?”
“Correct.”
“Who closed it?”
“I did.”
“When?”
“After I called 911.”
“But before you ran downstairs to let the patrol officers in?”
“Right.”
“Why?”
Over Milsevic’s shoulder, Christensen could see the crime scene photographer on the roof of the apartment building across the street. His camera’s blue flash lit Heffentreyer and a uniformed officer as they stood behind a brick façade that rose several feet above the building’s roof line. Milsevic twisted the rod and the blind closed, obliterating Christensen’s view of what was happening.
“What’s the big mystery?” Christensen said. “It was the only way to see into the room, and I wanted to shut it. As long as that blind was open, we were sitting ducks.”
“Pretty smart. So you just walked over and closed it?”
“We were under the bed at that point. I’d called 911 and needed to get downstairs to let the patrol officers in. I crawled over to the wall and stood up next to the window and closed the blind. That’s all. I don’t get what you’re after.”
Milsevic shifted his cud into one cheek and smiled. “Just trying to tie up some loose ends, is all. Detective training 101.”
“Well, look, can we do the rest of that tomorrow? I’ve got two kids here that are confused as hell, and Brenna’s pretty rattled. I need to spend some time with them.”
“Of course,” Milsevic said, “but try to understand our position.” He pointed to the window. “There’s somebody out there with a gun, looks like a nine-millimeter from the size of the hole. They’ve obviously got bad intentions. Anybody dies, ’specially somebody high-profile, we look bad.”
“Even if it’s the woman who unleashed the Scarecrow?” Christensen said. “That might get you elected mayor in this town.”
Milsevic smiled. “I don’t care if it’s Perry Damn Mason, know what I’m saying? So just bear with us while we make sure everything’s kosher.”
“Just keep an open mind about it,” Christensen said. “That’s all I ask.”
Milsevic stood up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t even pretend DellaVecchio’s not on your short list on this, OK. He’s out. He’s a notorious loose cannon. I’ve even had people tell me they think he’s got a grudge against Brenna. I’m guessing nothing would make you people happier than to prove he was involved, and if he is, I hope you nail his hide to the wall. But if he isn’t—and be honest, shooting’s not his style—this whole thing’s even scarier.”
The bedroom door creaked slowly open. Brenna stepped into the room, a heavy patch of gauze covering her left ear and much of the left side of her head. Taylor was clinging to her hand, as he had been for the last ninety minutes. The paramedics were still stitching her scalp when Milsevic showed up, so Brenna hadn’t yet seen him.
“What’s he doing here?” she asked.
Christensen shrugged. “We were just talking about that. He wanted to see the bedroom.”
“I’m here because I was asked to be here,” Milsevic said. “I don’t like it any more than you. But let us do our job. This is freaky shit—pardon my French, young man—and we take that very seriously, OK?”
“Really?” Brenna said.
“Really.”
Brenna’s left eye twitched, a stress reaction. “Then let me ask you something, Captain. Didn’t you promise me you’d tell the Harnetts about that phone message I got two weeks ago?”
The color flowed from Milsevic’s face, but he recovered quickly. “I don’t follow you,” he said, moving his gum from one cheek to the other.
“Jim talked to David Harnett. You never told them.” Brenna nodded toward the window. “I get a threatening phone call from somebody who knows a fairly obscure detail about the attack on Harnett’s wife, and you don’t think that’s important enough to tell them?”
“Since when do we broadcast details of an ongoing investigation?” Milsevic said.
Brenna crossed the room, closing the gap between her and Milsevic. Taylor trailed behind his mother, holding tight to the belt of her robe. “Not even to a potential victim? Not even to personal friends who might b
e in danger?”
Milsevic didn’t back down. “So I guess this all becomes part of your conspiracy theory, right? All these sleazy cops trying to railroad your client again. Well I got news for you, lady. My ass is on the line here, too.”
“And you’re just here to make sure it’s covered, aren’t you?”
Milsevic stepped away, actually turned around to compose himself. When he turned back, he looked straight at Brenna. “I won’t be baited, but I will tell you this: Our minds are very open at this point. Mine is, at least. You’ve come up with this DNA evidence, and that’s a tough thing to get around. We’ll see if it holds up. But you’ve been bitching for years that the original investigation was too narrow. Well, OK. Maybe it was. Maybe you’re not the only one who could’ve done better on the first go-round.”
Milsevic and Brenna glared at one another.
“What are you saying, Captain?” she said at last.
“You got a second chance to do your job right, Ms. Kennedy. Just give me the same chance.”
Brenna’s eyes softened. “But why didn’t you mention the phone call to the Harnetts?”
“I have my reasons.”
The comment seemed weighted, and it brought the conversation to a dead stop. Milsevic looked suddenly self-conscious, as if he’d said more than he intended. “I’m gonna get out of your way now,” he said. “I know you’ve had a long night. Try to get some sleep.”
He cocked a thumb over his shoulder, toward the bedroom window. Beyond the closed blinds, another blue flash tore the darkness across the street. “We’ll make sure you’re informed of any significant developments. I’ll let myself out.”
Brenna sat on the bed as soon as Milsevic left the room. She reached for her favorite goose-down pillow, but came up empty. It was on its way to the crime lab, along with the headboard slug and the one that had creased her skull, pierced the pillow, and ended up on the floor under the bed like a dropped M&M. Taylor sat beside her, looking to Christensen for reassurance. Christensen looked to Brenna for the same, but she looked away.
“Bren, you can walk away from all this,” he said.
She shook her head. “Like it or not, I’m in the middle of it.”
He knelt at the edge of the bed. “No, Bren, we’re in the middle of it. Again.”
“I know,” she said.
Christensen waited for a sign, some expression or words that suggested remorse at having brought her family to the edge of tragedy. What Brenna said, though, was, “What do you think Milsevic’s up to?”
Annie burst through the bedroom door, energized after pestering the cops and paramedics downstairs for the past ninety minutes. The alarm clock distracted her. “12:48! Wait till I tell Julie. This is the coolest night ever.”
Then Annie’s eyes found the headboard of the bed. Her unshakable bravado crumbled, if only for a moment, as she stared open-mouthed at the shattered wood. Tonight, reassurances wouldn’t be enough. He needed to focus on both kids during the next twenty-four hours, to give them the tools they needed to understand and deal with the trauma.
“This was a pretty scary night, huh, guys?”
Taylor nodded. Annie shrugged.
“What say we go downstairs to make some hot chocolate before we all go back to bed? I’m buying.”
“Marshmallows?” Annie said.
Christensen nodded. “Taylor? You in?”
The boy shook his head.
“It’s OK if you want to stay here with your mom. I’ll bring it up to you.”
“Then marshmallows for me, too,” Taylor said.
“Check. Back in a jiffy,” Christensen said. “Want one, Bren? You should be part of this.”
She offered a distracted nod.
“Four HoChos,” Christensen said, pretending to scribble on an order pad. “I’ll bring them up and we can all sit here in bed and talk.”
Annie bolted through the bedroom door and down the stairs. Christensen heard her drop to the landing with a thud, then jump the remaining six steps to the first floor. She was already rattling pans downstairs before he was even through the door. Behind him, he heard Taylor’s melancholy voice.
“Mom?”
He turned and saw the boy lay his head in Brenna’s lap, facing up into his mother’s eyes. She stroked his hair, tucking a curled red strand behind his ear. Christensen moved on down the hall, but stopped at the top of the stairs to listen for Taylor’s follow-up. It came in a voice wavering with uncertainty and need: “If anything happens to you, and you guys aren’t married, can I still live with Jim?”
Chapter 16
Sleep? Not a chance. Christensen felt like a man on a knife’s edge. He’d paced until dawn, thinking, rethinking, wondering if he’d done the right thing by keeping Teresa’s secret. He was certain at times that he’d had no choice, and just as certain at times that he’d risked everything, professionally and personally, by keeping his mouth shut.
At one point he dozed and dreamed. He was running toward a thin blue line, chasing a disappearing horizon as darkness overtook him. His lungs burned. His legs ached. But he pushed on, miles to go, exhausted by both the distance and the sudden, aching pressure of responsibility. He looked back for Molly, for Brenna. Gone. Both gone. He dared not stop. No one left to carry on. Just him, and so he ran.
Finally, at 8 a.m., he woke Brenna with a kiss. “I haven’t told you everything either,” he said.
He explained how Teresa had come to him for help two weeks before, and why he’d kept that from her until now. “I did the right thing, Bren, or what I thought was the right thing, for everybody involved. I couldn’t put any of us in that situation, or put myself between her and you.” He touched the gauze bandage taped to the side of her head. “Now I’m starting to wonder if maybe we’re all on the same side, if there’s a common enemy none of us understand.”
When he was done, Brenna touched his face, then pulled him into a long and resolute hug. For a moment, he sensed her genuine appreciation for his dilemma. Then she said, “If Teresa’s backing off her story, then Dagnolo better not try—”
He pulled away, startled that her tactical mind already was in overdrive. “Bren, please. Don’t push it. There’s too much at stake. This has to stay between us.”
“But—”
He walked to their bedroom door. “Just leave it alone, OK? I told you so you’d know, because of what happened last night. But what happens next isn’t up to me, or you, or Dagnolo. It’s up to Teresa. The next move is hers. Understood?”
Breakfast was a frosty affair. He persuaded Brenna to keep the still-sleeping kids home from school so they could all spend the day together. She also agreed to follow his lead in helping Taylor and Annie cope with last night’s trauma. They took the phone off the hook after the third reporter’s call, and by midmorning all four lay on their bellies on the floor of their living room, chins propped on their elbows. It was boys against girls in a therapeutic game of Pictionary, which Christensen saw as a way to give the kids an avenue for subconscious expression about the shooting without making them feel like lab rats.
Christensen rolled what could be his final roll of the die. A four.
“Showdown,” Taylor said. “We get this one, we tie. We don’t, we lose.”
Annie menaced Taylor with the one-minute sand timer. “Ready, shrimpo?”
Christensen would interpret Taylor’s drawing, guessing what the boy was trying to express. Taylor gripped his pencil, his face a study in concentration. He was to draw something from the least abstract of the categories, Person/Place/Animal, but he’d frowned deeply when he pulled his card. Whatever he was supposed to draw, the idea obviously confounded him. But now he was ready. He nodded at Christensen, his teammate, then looked at Annie.
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“Flip it,” he said.
The sand flowed. Taylor drew a dot not much bigger than a pencil point, then turned the paper toward Christensen.
“That’s it?” Christensen asked.
Taylor nodded.
“A period?” he tried.
Taylor shook his head, motioning with his hands to keep the guesses coming. “A flea? An atom? A grain of sand?”
Taylor checked the sand timer, then drew a large X over the dot. He set to work again, drawing a circle. Inside it, he added two dots for eyes, one for a nose, a line for a mouth.
“A face? Smiley face? Charlie Brown?”
Taylor waved him off, held up one finger for him to wait. With his pencil point, he began making tiny dots beneath the face’s eyes. He left a tiny spray of them on both cheeks, then pushed the paper toward Christensen.
“Whiskers? Pimples? Zits?”
Taylor pulled the paper back to him and added a few more dots. These dots were darker, bridging the nose. The boy checked the timer again, then tapped the paper impatiently with his eraser.
“Eyes? Creature with fifty eyes? Alien?”
Taylor’s face twisted in panic. He repeated his last clue, this time jabbing the face with his pencil point and leaving a few heavy dots and a couple of slight punctures. He added a crown of curly hair on top of the head as an afterthought, then checked the timer again. Ten seconds, tops.
“Acne? Skin disease? Chicken pox?”
Annie rolled her eyes at Brenna, who immediately stopped fingering her bandage. “Total losers,” his daughter said.
Taylor’s own face was a frustrated mess. He held up the paper and pointed his pencil at the angry dots across the face. Five seconds. Christensen tried once more.
“Warts?”
That put Taylor over the edge. He stabbed the face, obliterating it with holes the width of his pencil. Then, as the last of the sand drained into the bottom of the timer, he slashed the paper into confetti. Christensen glanced at Brenna, who shouted “Time!” with a bit too much satisfaction. She and Annie exchanged a high five.
Straw Men Page 9
