Stride picked up her robe and threw it at her. She clutched it to her chest and smelled it. “We’re going upstairs,” he said. “Put it on.”
Sonia tied the robe around her waist, letting her breasts wobble free. She grabbed for Stride’s belt and sank to her knees in front of him. He wrenched away and looked down into her dilated eyes. “What are you on?”
She giggled. “A little Diet Coke and a little regular coke,” she whispered.
“Son of a bitch. How much did you take? Do you need to go to a hospital?”
Sonia stuck out her tongue. “Come on, Jonathan. For old times, huh? I’m wet, and you’re hard, so why the hell not?”
Stride felt the bones in his hand stiffen like a club. He hated Sonia at that second and hated that she had anything to do with his past. He jerked his hand back and knew that in the next instant he would slap her and watch her tumble backward, her cheek tattooed red with his fingerprints.
“No, Jonny.”
He turned and saw Serena standing beside him. She was unbelievably calm as she shook her head.
He swore and turned away. He watched as Serena knelt down in front of Sonia, who gave him a crooked grin. Sonia closed her eyes and rocked back.
“Where is Kathy Lassiter?” Serena asked her in a mellow voice.
“I told you, she’s not here.” Sonia opened her eyes and waggled a finger at Stride. “She borrowed my car. She didn’t want you to find her.”
“Where the hell was she going?” Stride demanded.
“To meet Mitchell Brandt. She said she had to stop him before he ruined everything.”
FORTY-ONE
Serena sat for a long time in the frozen silence without starting her car. She wrinkled her nose. A faint aroma of fish lingered in the leather seats, and she wrote it off to the smoked fish she had bought at Russ Kendall’s last week. She opened the window, trying to dispel it, but the smell had already made its way inside her nose and lodged there. The wind whistled into the car and brought crystals of snow with it.
Jonny was gone. The alert for Mitchell Brandt and Kathy Lassiter had spread through the city, but she wasn’t part of the chase. Her frustration gnawed at her. This was the time she regretted giving up her shield, when she felt cut off from the adrenaline rush as it began. She had to watch his car peel away from the curb and not follow him. She hated it.
She was worried about Jonny, too. He was surrounded by lies and secrets, and she felt guilty because some of the lies were her own. She wondered again if she was making a terrible mistake by keeping him in the dark.
Was the man in shadows just a blackmailer?
Or was he a predator whose evil went far deeper? Someone who raped. Someone who killed.
Someone who was following her.
She was uneasy, because the feeling was back. She was being watched. She didn’t know where he was, but he was close to her again, and time felt short. Her unease trebled as she realized the streets were empty. All the cops were gone, and she was alone. Was that what he wanted all along?
Serena jumped as her cell phone let out a jangling ring. She thought, It’s him.
But it was Dan Erickson.
“He wants the money tonight,” Dan said. “I’ve got it.”
“We should bring in the police right now,” Serena advised him.
“I hired you because you were a homicide cop,” Dan retorted, his voice hoarse with anger. “You said you could deal with this guy. Now you’re telling me to throw away my life by making this public?”
“We don’t know who we’re dealing with.”
“I don’t care. I want this over. He says this is the final hit. He’s on his way out of town.”
“He’s telling you what you want to hear,” she said.
“You’re not listening to me. We’re doing this my way. If this guy so much as smells a cop, the photo of me and Tanjy goes to the papers. Do you understand what that means?”
“Completely.”
“Then get down here to pick up the money.”
“Where’s the drop?”
“He said he’d let you know.”
“I don’t like this.”
“This isn’t about you,” Dan said.
He hung up.
Serena threw the phone down and gripped the steering wheel, which felt like ice. Dan was right. This was business, and she couldn’t make it personal. She had a job to do, period. Make the drop. Just like before.
She turned the key and started the car. Her heart stopped.
Shattering noise exploded inside the car like a bomb. Rap music screeched from the speakers, so loud and painful that she felt the beat in her chest and instinctively pressed her palms against her ears. She reached for the volume switch and turned it so hard and so fast that the plastic knob broke off in her hand.
The car fell silent. She breathed hard.
The reality sank in. He had been in her car.
She felt as if ants were crawling inside her clothes. Her skin rippled, and she rubbed her palms with her fingertips. When she realized the window was still open, she quickly closed it. She studied the front and backseats of the car to see what was missing, but nothing was disturbed.
He was playing head games with her.
This isn’t about you.
She drove away and kept her eyes on her mirror, but there was no one behind her. He had been here for a reason. When she glanced at the glove compartment, she knew without opening it that he had left a message for her there. Again. She had begun to think like him.
She pulled over to the curb and looked inside. Another white envelope was there, with a note in red ink:
Under the high bridge. Bring the money. One hour.
FORTY-TWO
Stride was in the Lincoln Park area, a rectangle of green climbing from the freeway that served as a hot spot for crime and drugs. Even the winter cold didn’t deter buyers and sellers. He did a circuit of the park and then began a slow survey of the nearby residential streets.
He was on and off his cell phone as he drove. He connected with the detective who was waiting in the dark inside Kathy Lassiter’s home, but Lassiter hadn’t returned. The uniforms outside did a search of the perimeter around the house and in the woods behind, but reported no sign of Mitchell Brandt or anyone else. Stride checked with the team outside Brandt’s apartment and got the same response. Throughout Duluth and Superior, squad cars were hunting for Brandt’s Porsche and Sonia’s Mercedes, but so far, Brandt and Lassiter had eluded them.
His cell phone rang again.
“This is Philip Proutz with the SEC, Lieutenant. My office said you were trying to reach me.”
“I am,” Stride said. “We have a situation here, and I could use some information.”
“Does this concern Mitchell Brandt?”
“Yes, but I’m more interested in someone else. Kathy Lassiter.”
Proutz took a long time to reply. “Why don’t you tell me about this situation you’ve got?”
“I take it you know who Lassiter is,” Stride said.
“Yes.”
“She’s primary outside counsel for Infloron Medical, isn’t she? So she would be among the first to know about the status of the company’s applications with the FDA.”
“Of course.” Proutz sounded pained. “Please don’t tell me she has a relationship with Mitchell Brandt.”
“We think she does. They’re both part of an underground sex club here in Duluth.”
“A sex club?” Proutz groaned.
“Did Lassiter know you were launching an insider trading investigation into Infloron’s stock sales? Or that Brandt was a target?”
“No, we didn’t know where the trail would lead us. We don’t alert the company or its counsel until we’ve gathered more information.”
“You weren’t focusing on Lassiter as the source of the leak about the FDA approval?”
“Not at all. She would have been way down our list. Think what you will of lawyers, Lieutenant, it’s ra
re for corporate counsel to be personally involved in this kind of criminal conduct. But we’d have looked at her and her law firm eventually, I assure you.”
Stride didn’t think they would have found the connection easily, not without access to Sonia’s member lists.
“Could Lassiter have been your anonymous informant?” he asked.
“If she was, she didn’t make the call herself. The phone call that alerted us to Mitchell Brandt’s trading activities came from a man.”
Stride tried to figure out who else could have unearthed the connection that tied Brandt, Lassiter, and Infloron Medical together. Anyone in the sex club would have known the two of them, but he didn’t see how they could have made the leap to an insider trading scheme that never made the papers.
“I’ve shown you mine, why don’t you show me yours, Lieutenant?” Proutz asked. “What’s going on?”
“Brandt and Lassiter are both missing,” Stride told him.
“Do you think they’ve fled the area?”
“I don’t know. I’m more concerned with Lassiter’s safety. Brandt assaulted her earlier this evening. Could he have been tipped off to your investigation?”
“I don’t see how that’s possible. My staff understands that confidentiality is essential in these matters. Unless it was someone on your end, Lieutenant.”
Stride counted in his head. Himself. Serena. Maggie. Teitscher. They were the only ones who knew. “That’s very unlikely,” he said. “Tell me something, if Lassiter disappeared, how hard would it be for you to make an insider trading case against Brandt?”
“Not impossible, but difficult,” Proutz admitted. “It depends on how well they covered their tracks. Without evidence of how the information leaked, it’s hard to prove that Brandt actually had material nonpublic information when he made the trades. Usually we play one conspirator against the other by making deals.”
That meant Brandt had a motive to make sure that Lassiter was never seen again.
“I’ll keep you posted, Mr. Proutz.”
“Please do.”
Stride hung up the phone, and it rang again immediately. This time it was Teitscher.
“Are you anywhere near Enger Park?” he asked.
Stride was heading north on Lincoln Park Drive. The two parks connected near a bridge over Highway 53. “Less than five minutes,” he said. “Why?”
“We got a 911 call from a motorist in the area. He heard a woman screaming near the Enger tower.”
FORTY-THREE
Two cars were parked in the snow on the shoulder of the winding road that circled around the base of the Enger Park hillside. One was Brandt’s Porsche, and the other was Sonia’s Mercedes.
Stride parked his Bronco behind the two cars, blocking them in. He unlocked the glove compartment, grabbed his Ruger, and got out of the truck. Overhead, a comma-shaped moon came and went behind swiftly moving clouds, silhouetting the five-story bluestone tower that crowned the summit of the hill. He smelled snow massing to the west. In the valleys of the stiff wind, he heard someone moving far away, but the sound blew around him and he struggled to pinpoint its direction.
Enger Park was the highest land in the city, serene and beautiful, and he hated it. The rolling slopes of the golf course were across the street from him, deep with snow and crisscrossed with ski tracks. But for Stride, it was never winter in Enger Park. It was always August, ten years ago, in the grip of a heat wave that made him feel as if the entire state had melted and washed down the Mississippi to spill out in the humid air of the Gulf. Even at two in the morning that summer, standing in the fairway with Maggie, his shirt was soaked with sweat. At their feet was the girl, cocoa-skinned, tattooed, butchered, and nameless. Looking at her made him angry, and his anger only grew as the months passed and the investigation froze up like the lakes. No matter how much time passed, no matter what season it was, the girl was still there, forever haunting the park. He saw her in his dreams to this day. It was the same for Maggie.
He studied the golf course long and hard, watching and listening. Brandt and Lassiter weren’t there. He slipped a flashlight out of his pocket and lit up the snow around the two cars, which were parked side-by-side. The footprints told the story. Brandt came around the rear of his Porsche, using long, angry paces. Lassiter was standing by the driver’s door of Sonia’s car. They struggled, and the tracks became a maze. There was an oversized snow angel where one of them had fallen and cherry-red blood spots in the slush.
Her footsteps sprinted away up the hill. Brandt’s shoes followed in her path. Stride led with his gun and chased the tracks along the road that twisted up toward the tower. The tamped-down snow was a mess of tire ruts and boot marks. He followed the thin beam of his flashlight, searching for the fresh prints. Stands of young trees pressed in on him from both sides. Power lines drooped overhead, and he heard electricity snapping through the lines like bacon frying.
Above him a woman’s voice cried. “No!”
And then, “Stop! Help!”
Stride veered off the road and into the trees that led straight up to the summit. The snow clawed at his thighs, and he pushed his way through spindly branches that snagged his leather jacket and cut his face. The forest was claustrophobic. He could see only the web of trees obstructing his path, and all he could hear was the crack of wood breaking and his own labored breathing. Five minutes passed as he fought his way up the hill. Then ten. He was taking too long. When he broke from the trees into a small clearing, he had to stop and balance his hands on his knees, sucking in air.
He vowed in his head that he had smoked his last cigarette.
He saw two bodies moving, running, near the tower. They were still far away. “Help!” the woman shouted again.
Stride pointed his gun high into the air and squeezed off a shot. The explosion was loud in his ears, and then it echoed wildly, passed back and forth around the hillside. He saw the taller shadow freeze. Stride started running again.
He found a rough trail and made faster progress as the path snaked around the bands of trees, climbing steadily higher. His boots slipped, and his knees burned, and his chest was shot through with pain, but the tower grew ever larger as he closed in on the summit. He heard trampling footfalls nearby, but when he cast the beam of his flashlight to his left, he caught a glimpse of a buck in midbound, antlers bone-white, fleeting gracefully toward the cover of the woods. A few yards later, the ground leveled off underneath his feet.
He stopped, waiting for his breath to come back and the dizziness to right itself in his brain, then stepped silently from the trees. He was in the hibernating gardens around the memorial tower. The stone monolith loomed sixty feet above his head, and the moon glowed on the mottled stone and dark window squares like a checkerboard. Where the slope fell away, he could see the city encircling the black lake. He turned all the way around, studying the emptiness of the park. Naked trees, picnic benches, snow-capped grills, fire pits, deer tracks and footprints. Brandt and Lassiter were nowhere to be seen. He listened for their movements and heard nothing. Lassiter wasn’t screaming now. She was hiding, or silenced by Brandt’s hand clapped over her mouth, or dead.
In his memory, he saw the Enger Park Girl again. Limbless and anonymous. She was silent, too.
“Don’t be a fool, Brandt,” he called. His voice was picked up by the wind and whisked away. He edged closer to the base of the tower. His fingers brushed the stone. He switched off his flashlight and let his eyes adjust to the night, and then he began a slow march around the circumference, his back protected, his Ruger pointed at the trees. At each bend in the octagonal shape, he paused before taking the next quiet step.
Far below him, sirens were drawing near. Brandt had to hear them, too.
He almost tripped over Kathy Lassiter’s body slumped against the rock on the north side of the tower. Her brown hair spilled messily over her face, and a dark stain of blood trickled in three streaks over her ear and along her cheek.
Stride bent do
wn and pressed two fingers against the warm skin of her neck. She was semiconscious and alive. As he turned her over on her back, she moaned and stirred. Her limbs flailed, and her eyes fluttered open. She couldn’t see him clearly, and she screamed as she saw his shadow over her and beat her fists against his chest. He clutched for her wrists, trying to calm her.
“It’s okay, it’s okay.”
“No!”
Too late, he realized she wasn’t looking at him but over his shoulder.
A cold strap wrapped itself around his neck and choked off his air. He felt himself being dragged backward, the leather biting into his skin and tightening around his windpipe. His gun dropped nose-down into the snow. When he took a breath, his lungs found nothing there, and his body seized with panic. He clutched for his neck, trying to squeeze his fingers under the edge of the belt, but Brandt had him in a death grip. His fingernails drew blood on his own throat. Part of his mind felt detached, like a spectator at his own funeral, and there was no pain at all. He found that odd. No pain.
His foot found a solid piece of ground, and he launched himself backward, colliding with Brandt’s chest and tumbling them both off their heels. They landed heavily, body on top of body. He felt the grip on his neck loosen as Brandt’s wrist lost its hold on the strap. When he breathed in, his chest swelled, and he clawed at the belt and ripped it away, sending it twirling like a piece of ribbon. Below him, Brandt cursed and rolled him off with a violent shove. He got to his feet, but Stride hooked his ankle as he ran and spilled him onto his face.
Brandt was fast. Stride reached for his cuffs and Brandt’s right hand at the same time, but before he could reach either one, Brandt spun and knocked him sideways. The force of the blow dizzied Stride. He grabbed a fistful of Brandt’s coat and hung on as the man pushed himself to his knees.
A flash of light and sound blinded and deafened both of them. Nearby, way too close, a bullet buried itself in the earth and stirred up a cloud of wet snow. Stride and Brandt both ducked and flattened themselves into the ground. When Stride glanced back, he saw Kathy Lassiter, standing and swaying, his own gun bobbling in her unsteady hands. He followed the dancing path of the barrel with horror, and as he watched, fire burst from the gun again, and the sound wave cracked through his ears, and he could feel the heat of the next bullet as it streaked past his cheek and sparked off the metal leg of a picnic bench. A couple inches more, and it would have drilled through his eye.
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