The Dead Room dm-3

by Chris Mooney

  She wiped down the Glock with her shirt-tail and dropped it on the floor.

  Standing back behind the desk with her laptop, Darby used her shirt to pick up the shotgun. She dropped it next to Chadzynski, thinking about Sean Sheppard lying in a coma, brain dead, like her father.

  63

  Darby got down on her knees, warm blooding spilling out across the floor and touching her skin. She searched Chadzynski’s pockets. No flash drive but she found car keys.

  She switched to the shotgun she was carrying and opened the door. The police commissioner’s sleek black Mercedes sat a few feet away.

  There were no other vehicles in the car park.

  She turned on the gun’s tactical light and ran through the rain to the front of the building. The door and windows were boarded. She looked for a number – there, a sign above the door. She shielded her eyes from the rain and read the faded letters: DELANEY’S AUTOMOTIVE GARAGE.

  Sitting behind the wheel, the shotgun resting on the floor of the passenger seat, she started the car. The Mercedes had a GPS navigation system built into the console. Her location was displayed on the screen. Perfect.

  She drove away from the building, then turned around so she could watch it.

  The wipers thumping back and forth, she dialled Randy Scott’s mobile number.

  ‘Randy Scott.’

  ‘Please tell me you’re still at the lab.’

  ‘I am.’

  Sweet relief flooded her.

  ‘Darby.’ His voice was hesitant, nervous. ‘I don’t know if –’

  ‘Don’t talk, just listen. I need Dan Russo’s address.’

  ‘I don’t have access to the homicide database.’

  ‘I know, I’ll give you my password. Go in my office –’

  ‘I can’t. They’ve sealed it off.’

  ‘Who sealed it off?’

  ‘The commissioner was here earlier and she… she told us that you tampered with evidence. She has half the Boston police department looking for you and Coop.’

  ‘It’s bullshit. I’ll prove it to you. I have Chadzynski’s confession recorded on my phone. I’ll send it to you, then I’m going to lead you to her body. You and Mark. I want –’

  ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘Listen to me. I need you two here to secure the scene. First, I want you to go to the fingerprint database and give me the address that’s listed with Dan Russo’s name. Will you do that?’

  ‘Hold on.’

  Darby pulled out of the gate. The garage sat at the far end of a dead-end road. She looked at the tenement-type buildings and thought she was in East Boston or Chelsea. She suspected this was a neighbourhood used to gunshots. There was a good amount of distance between the garage and the buildings. With the rain, she doubted anyone had heard anything.

  Randy finally came back on the line and gave her a Wellesley address. She plugged it into the GPS.

  ‘I need you to write down an address,’ she said.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Darby gave it to him. ‘I want you to come here with Mark and photograph and document every piece of evidence. Go in through the side door and you’ll find a laptop computer on a desk; there are audio files on it. You’re to confiscate that immediately. Under no circumstances are you to let anyone touch it. Put it into evidence and don’t let it out of your sight. After you’re done, call the police. Tell them everything I told you.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘Can your phone accept audio files?’

  ‘As far as I know it can.’

  ‘I’ll send you the audio file of my conversation with the commissioner.’

  She hung up and called directory inquiries. There was only one listing for Russo. It matched the address Randy had given her.

  Darby drove, dividing her attention between the road and the phone. She sent a copy of her recorded conversation to Randy and Mark. She also sent a copy to Coop.

  64

  Jamie could no longer see clearly. Kevin Reynolds had wasted no time in hitting her after she’d refused to answer his questions about the whereabouts of his partner, Ben Masters. Reynolds had hit her face so many times her eyes had almost completely swollen shut. When she still refused to answer, he kicked her in the chest so hard her chair had toppled against the floor, where she screamed the word ‘stay’ the entire time.

  Thank God for Michael. Michael had kept his cool. Michael was still hiding, protecting his brother instead of trying to be a hero.

  Reynolds had kicked again and again – in the stomach, in the shins; he had slammed his foot down against her hand and broken several of her fingers. Finally her mind snapped from the excruciating pain and she admitted to killing Ben Masters. It shamed her, admitting this. Reynolds wanted details. Wanted to know how she had killed him and where she had buried him. She came close to saying it. She was delirious with pain and could no longer think clearly. And in the midst of all of this her mind clutched the brass ring, the only thing that was keeping her alive: the location of Ben’s body. She had to convince Reynolds and Humphrey to take her out of the house so they could drive to the location of the body. Once the house was empty, the kids would be safe, and Michael could call the police.

  Jamie lay sideways against the floor, struggling to breathe. She was pretty sure Reynolds had broken several of her ribs.

  ‘Take… you,’ she said.

  Reynolds stood somewhere in front of her. She could hear his sneakers pacing the carpet near her head, and he was breathing hard – not from the physical exertion but from anger.

  ‘Take,’ she said again. ‘Take… ah… ah… you.’

  Humphrey said, ‘She’s speaking.’

  Jamie cracked an eye open and saw Reynolds’s blurry shape leaning close to her.

  ‘What’s that, hon?’

  ‘Take… you… ah… there.’

  ‘I want you to tell me where he is.’

  ‘Take… take… you.’

  Humphrey said, ‘Let her take us there, Kevin. What’s the harm?’

  ‘I still don’t believe her,’ Reynolds said. ‘I think she’s got him stashed away somewhere. I’m smelling a trap. This cunt is real crafty, was going to ambush me this morning. Ain’t that right, sweetheart?’

  Reynolds leaned in closer. ‘You were a cop. You know who Ben is, don’t you? Your husband told you, I know it. Ben’s worth more to you alive than dead. You call one of your friends on the force and tell them what you saw in the basement?’

  Jamie licked her lips. It took a great effort to speak. ‘No.’

  ‘You’re more stubborn than your husband. But I’m aiming to fix that.’

  Jamie thought she heard a car door slam shut.

  Humphrey said, ‘Clean-up crew is here.’

  ‘Tell them to pull into the garage,’ Reynolds said. ‘I want to load her into the van.’ Footsteps walked past her and then she felt Reynolds grip the back of her chair and pull her up into a sitting position.

  Now she felt his breath, heavy with booze and cigarettes, against her ear. ‘I’m going to get you to talk. I don’t care how long it takes or what I have to do, one way or another, you’re going to tell me every little detail.’

  65

  Darby took the corner too quickly. The tyres skidded across the wet pavement as she pulled on to a long suburban street full of big homes and nice lawns. Lots of space between the houses, lots of the windows dark. She drove out of the skid and heard the GPS’s computerized voice giving her the directions. The house she was looking for would be on her left, less than half a mile up the road.

  Tearing down the street, she saw a brown van parked in a driveway. Through an open garage door, she took in the quick movements of three men dressed in suits and carrying big plastic tackle-boxes and large briefcases. Her attention was fixed on the man lighting a cigarette by the van’s open door – the man who had checked her car for bugs, the head of Chadzynski’s Anti-Corruption Unit, Lieutenant Warner.

  Warner saw the Mercedes and looked
puzzled but not afraid – puzzled as to why his boss, the police commissioner, had decided to come here.

  Concerned now, he stared at the Mercedes’s tinted windows as he jogged across the front lawn. Darby tucked the SIG underneath her thigh, pinning the gun to the seat. Then she hit the gas.

  The car bumped over the pavement and then tore across the front lawn, spitting up grass and dirt.

  Warner turned, the cigarette dropping from his mouth, and started to run.

  Darby hit the back of his legs. He bounced up over the bonnet. His head slammed against the windscreen, showering the glass in a web of cracks, and she saw his cheap suit disappear above her as he tumbled across the roof.

  Gripping the wheel with both hands, she slammed on the brakes and drove out of the skid to prevent a head-on collision with the car parked at the top of the driveway. She slammed into it sideways in a screech of crushing metal and exploding glass.

  The Mercedes came to a jarring stop. Darby was thrown against her seatbelt. She unbuckled it, quickly threaded the shotgun strap over her head and threw open the door.

  Warner was on the front lawn. She could see him trying to get to his feet. She brought up the SIG and hit him twice with a double tap.

  She swung her weapon to the garage, to a man in a dark suit standing in a doorway at the top of the steps. He let go of the blue tackle box in his hands and reached underneath his suit jacket for his sidearm.

  Two shots to the chest and he went down, collapsing back inside the house.

  She was about to move into the minivan parked in the garage when she saw a second man aiming a Glock.

  Darby ducked behind the minivan as he fired. The windows exploded, glass raining down on her, and he kept firing. She counted the shots as she inched her way along the back bumper. She waited until she heard him running.

  The door slammed shut. Darby came up and fired two shots against the door.

  Sweep the garage.

  Clear.

  She moved up the steps and checked the doorknob. Locked. She hit the button to close the garage door and then killed the lights.

  Switching to the shotgun, she blew off the hinges. Then she blew out the doorknob. She kicked the door down and swung to one side.

  Muzzle flashes came from inside the hall. She swung the shotgun around and fired. Someone screamed and she pressed the trigger. Click. She pumped more rounds into the shotgun, then came around and fired again and again as she moved inside the house.

  66

  The hall, about twenty feet long, led directly into a brightly lit kitchen of beige tiles and oak cupboards. One man lay dead on the floor and another one was crawling away, trying to hide behind the kitchen island. The shotgun blast had shredded most of one leg.

  Darby fired another shot at his chest and swung her attention to her right, her weak spot – the half-closed wooden door. She kicked it open and ducked to the side, expecting gunfire. Silence. No movement. She swung around and saw a ceiling lamp hanging above a small room with a bench built into the wall.

  She ducked into a small room. She couldn’t use the shotgun in a hostage situation – no accuracy. She threaded the Remington’s strap across her shoulder and switched back to the SIG. Six shots left in the clip and a fresh one jammed in her pocket.

  The shotgun resting against her back, Darby turned and checked the hall. Clear.

  She looked at the man lying on the floor, bleeding out. He didn’t move. Had to make sure he was dead. She fired a round into his back. He didn’t move. One of her shotgun rounds had hit a plastic toolbox similar to the one she used for her forensics kit. Through the broken plastic she saw cleaning supplies – towels, latex gloves and small bottles of bleach leaking on to the tiles.

  She stepped over the dead man’s body, her boots sliding across the bloody floor, and stuck close to the wall as she crept towards the kitchen, thankful that the house was lit up.

  Past the kitchen, she saw a living room. Light on in there. TV in the far-right corner, a long sofa and chair. Across from the kitchen island, an entranceway, probably for the dining room. Both good hiding spots – unless they were concealed upstairs. She wished she had her tactical vest. Wished she could kill the lights and go through this strange house with night vision.

  Warner was dead. Two of his partners were dead. How many others were in here?

  Too quiet.

  Where were they hiding?

  Have to go in hot. Fire fast and make it count.

  She kept moving, hands steady on the SIG.

  No room for error.

  Legs steady.

  No room for error.

  Movement.

  A man spun around the corner of the living room. Darby hit him in the chest. She fired three more rounds as he stumbled. One round went too high and hit the TV screen, exploding the glass.

  She caught a blur of movement to her left as another man dashed into the kitchen. No time to spin around and fire; she dropped to the floor. Rapid-fire went over her head – the type that came from an automatic weapon.

  The shotgun slammed against her back. Spent shells dropped against the floor as she swung her leg around and, using all her weight, kicked her assailant behind his knee.

  Kevin Reynolds was knocked off balance. He crashed backwards against one of the kitchen island’s bar stools. She brought up the SIG, fired a round into his stomach and spun her weapon to the foyer. Clear.

  Darby scrambled to her feet and stood back against the wall. She felt her mobile phone vibrating inside her pocket as Reynolds screamed, writhing around the floor in pain. His weapon, a Glock with an extended magazine, lay only a few feet from his face. He saw it. His hand crept across the floor.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said.

  He reached for it.

  Darby shot his hand. Reynolds screamed and she slid into the top part of the foyer, aiming her weapon at the stairs. Clear. She swung around and checked the living room. Clear. She returned to the kitchen and kicked his weapon away. He grabbed her ankle with his good hand, and she kicked his head and broke his nose. He wailed, his legs thrashing, knocking over more stools and a small table with a vase. The sound of the crashing glass and his screaming covered her footsteps as she bolted across the kitchen expecting gunfire.

  No shots, and now she was inside the living room checking all of her blind spots. She saw only the dead man. Back to the kitchen. Reynolds had propped himself up on his forearm. Blubbering, he tried to crawl across the floor, heading for the blasted door leading to the garage.

  Darby kicked the back of his head. Eyes moving around the kitchen and foyer, she whipped the handcuffs off her belt. She dropped them on Reynolds’s back, then grabbed both of his hands and cuffed him.

  She yanked Reynolds by the back of his hair, wanting to snap his neck.

  ‘How many others are in here?’

  He wouldn’t answer.

  Darby stood up and fired a round into his ass.

  Reynolds howled in pain, the sound masking her footsteps as she doubled back through the dining room. Darby turned the corner and aimed her weapon at the top of the stairs.

  Dim light came from an opened door to the right. A bathroom across the top of the steps. To her left, covered in shadows, a closed door.

  Reynolds kept screaming as she moved up the steps, watching for movement, for shadows. Her eyes darted from the room with the light to the hall hidden behind her, her weak spot. Check there first. She moved from the wall and leaned her weight against the steps, still paying close attention to the light. She reached the top, saw the closed bedroom door. Next to it, an opened bedroom covered in darkness. She wished she had a tactical light and a stun or a smoke grenade.

  Too exposed out here. She dived into the bathroom.

  Someone was crying – a woman. The sound was coming from the bedroom to her left, the one with the light.

  Hostage.

  Across the hall she saw a fourth door leading into a bedroom covered in shadows. A bed and toys on the floor. She
moved against the bathroom wall, near the doorway, and glanced quickly to an opened door in the middle of the hall. A lock and broken wood lay on the floor, the room beyond it pitch black.

  Someone could be in one of those bedrooms, she thought. If she went out into the hall to deal with the hostage, she’d be exposed. Someone could swing around the corner from one of those bedrooms and fire a shot into her back.

  No one had fired when she’d dived into the bathroom.

  The woman’s scream was a strange, strangled sound, as if she was fighting hard to breathe.

  Punctured lung, Darby thought, and swung around the doorway.

  A badly beaten woman was tied to a chair propped up against the wall. Standing behind her was a man dressed in a black shirt and white collar – a Catholic priest. A .32 revolver was gripped in his hands.

  The priest fired, the round splintering the wood above her head. She crouched against the floor as he moved the gun to the woman.

  Darby returned fire. The shot hit his shoulder. The priest fell back against the door behind him, slamming it shut. She fired again and saw the priest stumble against the lamp on the nightstand as she pushed herself back into the bathroom.

  No gunshots. She checked the bedroom to her right. No movement. She ran to the hostage, slammed the door shut and kicked the priest’s revolver underneath the bed. Checked the master bathroom. Clear. The bedroom door had a push-button lock. She hit it with her fist.

  The priest had lost his glasses during the fall. He lay on his back, squirming, his shaking hand pressed up against the gunshot wound to his left shoulder. Both shots had hit him high on the chest and he was bleeding out on to the carpet.

  The woman’s head hung forward, limp, her scalp marred with what appeared to be surgical scars. Blood trickled from her swollen lips. Blood covered her T-shirt and shorts. Blood on the chair, blood on the carpet and walls. A tooth on the rug.

  Darby wiped the sweat dripping down her face. She stepped up to the woman and with her eyes on the priest said, ‘I’m a police officer. You’re safe.’