Edge of Darkness

by Karen Rose

  It occurred to Adam that Deacon and Scarlett had to have known Dale had been drinking. How could they have ridden in the same car and not known? Still, they hadn’t said anything. Deacon knew how Adam felt about Dale. Knew he’d need to see it for himself.

  “Lieutenant Isenberg and Special Agent Triplett,” Adam said, pointing at each one.

  “You don’t seem surprised to have been brought downtown, Mr. Hanson,” Isenberg remarked. “Why is that?”

  Dale swallowed hard. “Because I’ve been expecting you.”

  It was like a physical blow. “Since?” Adam managed to murmur.

  “Since yesterday morning when I saw Butch’s picture on the computer. And again last night. Stayed up all night waiting for the knock on the door.”

  Adam frowned, startled because they’d brought him in because of the rifle, not because of Butch, whoever he was. “Who is Butch?”

  “Butch Gilbert,” Dale said. “The guy that got shot downtown last night.”

  “Bruiser,” Adam murmured.

  Dale laughed again, a jarring, scraping sound. “That’s a good name for him. I didn’t know he was still around. Not until I saw the computer. I can’t read the paper anymore, but I can blow the print and pictures up on the computer if I use my peripheral. I’m not advanced that far. Yet.”

  Adam frowned. “Wait. You saw him online yesterday morning? We didn’t post his photo until the afternoon. The only group posting his photo yesterday morning was Chicago PD, as part of their murder investigation.”

  Dale gave a wan smile. “I watch the reports. Like to keep my mind sharp, even if my eyes are going. I nearly called you. A hundred times.”

  “Then why didn’t you call me if you knew who he was?”

  “I saw Wyatt in the photos with you at the crime scene. I figured he told you.”

  Which didn’t account for the hours before, when he knew Chicago PD was searching for the man. For murder.

  “Who is he, Mr. Hanson?” Isenberg asked.

  “Other than a lying, cheating, and now killing sack of shit on two legs?” Hanson huffed out a harsh breath. “He was a kid I didn’t think was so bad. Once.” He rubbed his forehead wearily and glanced at Isenberg. “You know I adopted Wyatt?”

  Isenberg nodded. “Detective Kimble told us.”

  “I found him, you know. Wyatt. Hiding in a closet, a scared little kid. His family was dead. Murder-suicide.” Dale paused, pain skittering across his face. “Or so I thought.”

  Adam frowned. “Or so you thought? What does that mean?”

  “My wife always wanted kids and we’d never been able to have any, and we’d been cleared as fosters before her cancer came back, so . . . I thought having someone to mother would make her happy. But she didn’t like Wyatt. She was afraid of him from the beginning. And then her cancer came back.” He shook his head with a sigh. “I needed to take care of him. I guess I needed the control because nothing I’d done could save my wife.”

  “Why was your wife afraid of Wyatt?” Trip asked.

  “She said he was mean and cruel and . . .” He drew a deep breath and shuddered it out. “I thought it was her sickness talking. I smoothed it over and I kept Wyatt. Now, looking back, I wonder what he did to her.”

  Adam stared. “What are you talking about? When was Wyatt mean and cruel?”

  Another sigh. “You remember Mrs. Hanson’s cat?”

  Adam nodded warily. He did, but only because of the way it died. “It was poisoned.” He felt sick. “You’re saying Wyatt did it?”

  “I didn’t think so at the time, but a few years later it happened to the neighbor’s cat, too. I searched Wyatt’s room and found a box of rat poison.”

  Adam drew a long breath, stunned. “You didn’t tell anyone?”

  “No. I took him to a counselor at church. Wyatt seemed better, so we stopped.” Dale rubbed his forehead fitfully. “Do you remember the day you two went to the state championships and you lost?”

  “Of course.”

  “You remember what else you lost that day?”

  Adam nodded slowly. “My baseball glove. My lucky one.” It had been a horrible day. He’d felt so helpless, angry that someone would steal something that wasn’t worth that much to anyone but him. “Are you saying that Wyatt took it?”

  “Found it under his bed. I threw it away.”

  Adam shook his head. “Why? Why would he do that?”

  “It threw you off your game.”

  “But we all lost! Even Wyatt.”

  “But he looked better than you did that day. Of course, the next year he’d graduated and you played without him. You won. MVP.”

  Adam rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. How had he not known? How?

  “Who is Butch, exactly?” Isenberg asked, bringing them back on topic. “And how does he connect to your son?”

  “I like helping kids. Like you, Adam. I knew your life at home wasn’t great. So I tried to step up. It was the same for Butch. I met him through Wyatt, actually. Butch had been in a fire. A bad one. Left his face so badly scarred that it was really hard to look at him.”

  “You took him into your home?” Trip asked.

  “No. Wyatt took him into his. This was before he married Rita and the kids came along. You and him had parted ways on the force by then. He’d gone on to Narcotics and one day pulled Butch out of a burning meth house. Butch was, I don’t know, maybe sixteen at the time? He spent a lot of time in the hospital after that and Wyatt visited him, almost every day. I did, too. He loved baseball. His limbs weren’t burned too badly, so we played ball when he got out. Kid had attached himself to Wyatt like a limpet. Wyatt ended up getting him a job in my brother’s garage.”

  Garage, Adam thought dully. Nash had followed Wyatt to a garage owned by a shell corporation.

  “Your half brother, Michael Barber?” Isenberg asked and Dale looked startled.

  “Yeah. Why?” But when no one said anything his face fell. “Mike’s involved, too?”

  “We think so,” Isenberg said. “What’s the relationship between Mike and your son?”

  He shook his head. “I wish there’d been none. Dammit, you don’t know how many times I’ve wished I’d put my foot down and kicked that sorry sonofabitch out of my home. Out of Wyatt’s life. But . . . he was my family, so I didn’t. He was always getting into trouble. And I was always getting him out. Risking myself for him.”

  “Did you use your authority as a police officer to do so?” Isenberg asked.

  Dale shrugged. “God help me, I did. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

  No, Adam thought sadly. He’d known all along he was doing the wrong thing. He’d done it anyway. But challenging an old man’s moral compass wasn’t going to help anyone now. “Mike owns a garage and a used-car dealership?” he asked instead.

  “I didn’t know about the car dealership, but that’d be right up his alley. He’s a sleazy SOB, but he’s always been good with engines and gadgets.”

  Trip stilled. “What kind of gadgets?”

  “Appliances, motors, anything you could take apart and put back together.”

  “Like clocks and timers and triggers activated by cell phones?” Trip asked.

  The bomb. Adam had almost forgotten about it.

  Dale closed his eyes. “You’re talking about the device that was strapped to that young man on Saturday at the restaurant.”

  “I am,” Trip said. “Does Mike know explosives?”

  “Yes. He used to work road construction, blasting tunnels through mountains. He had his certification in ordnance management. My God. Did he kill that boy?”

  “We don’t know,” Isenberg said. “He tried to kill three federal agents and a psychologist, and to abduct a young girl last night, though.”

  Dale looked like he’d be sick. Adam brought hi
m a trash can, but he shook his head. “Not necessary,” he said. “I . . . don’t know what to think. Is Wyatt involved in this?”

  “We think so,” Isenberg said. “But we can’t find him. Do you know where he is?”

  “No. He doesn’t visit me anymore. But there was a pageant at Ariel’s school this morning. I saw it on Facebook. He always goes to her school things.”

  “Who’s Ariel?” Trip asked.

  “My granddaughter. She goes to the Gruber Academy. She’s seven years old.”

  Watching Isenberg text that information to Dispatch, Adam frowned at a sudden thought. “They have a little boy, too,” he said, “Wyatt and Rita, I mean. About two now? They call him Mikey, don’t they?”

  Dale’s mouth twisted. “Wyatt’s way of saying ‘fuck you’ to his old man.”

  “Why?” Isenberg said.

  “Because I heard a rumor that the meth house he pulled Butch out of was Wyatt’s. I didn’t want to believe it, but I asked him. He denied it, but I was never sure. I did know that Butch had been working with meth and shouldn’t have been around my grandchildren. So I told Rita and she got upset. Told Butch he couldn’t be around the kids. That was two years ago and Wyatt hasn’t forgiven me. He cut me off from the kids. Named his son after his uncle and not me. I have to sneak around to see my own grandchildren. I can only see Ariel at school, and only because I’ve made friends with the custodian and he lets me watch her on the playground. And that was only while I could drive myself. I haven’t seen either of them in over a year.”

  “Did you tell anyone else about the rumor you’d heard about Wyatt and meth?” Isenberg asked, no sign of compassion on her face.

  Which was as it should be, Adam thought. He’d always seen Dale Hanson as a father figure, a truly good man. But he hadn’t seen him for what he really was—a sad man who twisted events and truths to make himself feel better about his world.

  But that’s not me. The thought and its accompanying relief hit him squarely in the chest. He wasn’t his father and he wasn’t Dale Hanson. He was far from perfect, but he’d made himself into a man he could at least look at in the mirror.

  A man that Meredith trusted.

  Dale was looking to Adam expectantly. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell on my own son.”

  Adam had no compassion for him either. “Even if your own son was making poison that killed other people’s sons?”

  Dale’s face hardened. “I thought you’d understand.”

  “I don’t. I don’t understand any of it. I don’t understand how you could know your brother stole a rifle from your cruiser and not report it—and him.”

  Dale flinched, taken aback. “What?”

  “That’s actually why we brought you in,” Isenberg said. “The rifle stolen from your cruiser thirty years ago has resurfaced. It was found in the SUV that a man matching your half brother’s description was driving. It’s been used in two homicides, including Butch’s. Why didn’t you tell someone thirty years ago that you believed your half brother had stolen it? That was a felony offense.”

  “He’s my brother,” Dale said, as if daring anyone to call him on it. “My family.”

  “And a killer,” Adam said, losing his patience. “And if he’s not, then Wyatt is. Which it sounds like you suspected already.”

  “No. I didn’t,” Dale denied.

  Adam squinted at him. “You said you wondered now if the scene in which you found him really was a murder-suicide. You said that.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way!”

  “Then how did you mean it?” Adam demanded. “And why didn’t you call me when you saw Butch’s photo in the paper? He killed two innocent women—that we know of—this weekend alone. We don’t know what he did in the hours since you first saw his photo.” He thought of the three cars the college prostitutes had driven, all parked in Dale’s half brother’s used-car lot. “He could have killed three more. At least. We could have avoided all of that, if you’d only called me when you first saw his photo. Dammit.”

  Dale gave him a look of wounded incredulity. “After all this time, after all I did for you, you talk to me like this? I expected you, of all people, to have my back.”

  Adam didn’t blink. “I guess you expected wrong.” As a child, he’d clung to the affection and acceptance Dale had offered. As an adult, he recognized the strings attached that he hadn’t even known existed. “At this point, I’m not sure how we—hell, how I—can trust anything you’ve said. Ever.”

  The door opened and Deacon stuck his head in. “Lieutenant? A word, please?”

  It had to be important. Deacon would never interrupt otherwise. Adam waited quietly, emotionally drained and not wanting to waste any more energy on Dale Hanson than he already had. He still had to confront Wyatt.

  Wyatt, who he’d thought had been his friend. Had he ever really known him?

  Wyatt, who appeared to be involved. Had Wyatt actually killed people?

  It was likely that Wyatt’s uncle Mike had attempted to abduct Mallory last night and hurt Meredith and Kate when they’d come to Mallory’s rescue. Had Mike shot at the van, too? Had he shot Bruiser? Andy Gold?

  Who had set Andy’s house on fire, killing a family of four?

  Which of these had Wyatt done?

  I knew him. Mallory’s whispered words echoed in his mind. She’d known Mike. Wyatt’s uncle had raped Mallory repeatedly. God. And Mike had accompanied a cop.

  Wyatt. Was he the cop who’d raped Mallory? Who, instead of arresting her captor, had betrayed her when she’d so desperately reached out for help? It hurt to even consider. That the man he’d called friend could have done such a thing. But he had to think about it.

  I have to figure this out. Wyatt was linked to Bruiser. No, Butch. Butch, who’d killed Tiffany and her mother. He sucked in a breath, the truth once again hitting like a sledgehammer. Butch, who’d killed Paula. While I watched.

  Adam’s stomach churned. Wyatt had watched, too. Had he known that Paula was going to die? No, he couldn’t have. But if Butch had killed her? Butch, who was Wyatt’s friend? Had Wyatt known? He stood there at my side, watching.

  At a minimum, they knew Butch had killed Tiffany and her mother the exact same way. Butch’s prints had been found on Tiffany’s clothing. Had Wyatt known he was going to kill the mother and daughter? Adam had to believe it was strongly possible.

  “How long has Wyatt hated me?” Adam asked dully, not wanting the answer, but needing it.

  Dale huffed bitterly. “From day one, I think. And you never knew. Hell of a cop you turned out to be.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Cincinnati, Ohio

  Monday, December 21, 10:30 a.m.

  Hell of a cop you turned out to be. Adam looked away, the barb striking deep.

  Trip tapped the table and caught his eye. Stop, he mouthed.

  Adam’s lips curved, appreciating the intervention. He rubbed his palms over his face. His mouth was so dry and he was starting to ramp up. He’d started visualizing all the liquor stores on his way home, hating himself more with every moment that passed. Weak. You’re goddamn weak.

  So don’t be. You don’t need the booze. But he did. He needed—

  Trip tossed him a pack of gum, his expression knowing. Adam took a piece, ignoring the smug look that crept over Dale’s face.

  “Always thought so,” Dale remarked lazily. “You thought you were better than the rest of us. Than your daddy. Than Wyatt. But you’re as much a drunk as your daddy is.”

  Adam stared at him, genuinely puzzled. Don’t engage. Do not engage. “What are you talking about? I never thought I was better.” Dammit. He’d engaged.

  A shrug. “MVP of your team, college graduate, detective before you were thirty.”

  Adam continued to stare. He’d barely squeaked by in all of his classes. Deacon was the brilli
ant one. All Adam had been good at back then was hitting a damn ball. “So was Wyatt. The detective part, anyway.” But Wyatt had had a four-year head start. Adam had been fast-tracked. His career had continued on the rise until he’d transferred to Personal Crimes. When everything had gone to shit. When Paula was murdered.

  Wyatt had stolen his lucky glove to throw him off a baseball game. Adam had already considered that Tiffany and her mother were killed in that manner to distract him. Had Paula been killed for the same reason? Oh my God. Oh my God.

  Trip knocked on the table again, this time simply arching an eyebrow.

  Right, Adam thought. Stop it. He shot Trip a wry smile, earning him a sober nod as Isenberg returned to the table. Deacon waited at the door, arms crossed over his chest, looking pissed off in general.

  “Mr. Hanson,” Isenberg said formally, “we may have some bad news for you. A body was just found behind a dry cleaner’s about two miles from the hospital where the shoot-out took place last night. The victim has no ID, but his clothing and the locations of his wounds match those of the shooter we confronted in the hospital parking lot.”

  Dale sagged into his chair, stricken. “Mike’s dead?”

  “We think so. Did he have any tattoos or scars?”

  Dale put his right hand over his heart, as if about to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. “He had a tattoo here. A Celtic cross in flames.”

  Wonderful, Adam thought numbly. A killer, a rapist, and a white supremacist to boot.

  “Then yes,” Isenberg said, “the body we recovered is that of your brother. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  Dale just sat there staring at her, hand still on his heart. “He can’t be dead.”

  “I’m very sorry, sir,” Isenberg said politely. “We’re done here, so if you’d like, one of my officers can take you either home or to the morgue to do an ID.” Isenberg extended her hand. “Detective Bishop and I will walk you up front and get you a ride.”

  Dale took her hand. “How did he die?”

  “Probably not from the wounds he received during the shoot-out at the hospital,” Isenberg said, “but the ME will have to make that determination after the autopsy. Please come with me now.”