As the train’s warning tone shattered the air, Abby ran faster. Far away she heard Page on the radio calling for an update, but pulling the radio from her back pocket would only slow her down.
Again the warning tone, and now it deafened her.
Sporty lurched for the tracks and tripped, sprawling headlong on the rails. Abby didn’t dare look toward the screaming train as the ground vibrated with the approaching engine.
She leaped forward and grabbed the backpack in both hands. Her momentum jerked Davis off the tracks and into a tumble with her.
She closed her eyes and in one horrific second thought of Ethan and Murphy and what irony it would be to be smashed beneath the wheels of a train trying to save a man who was most likely a killer.
WHEN ABBY OPENED her eyes, she saw the train wheels scant inches from her face. She heard screaming, but every noise sounded far away to her ringing ears. The smell of hot metal and oil burned her nostrils.
Lil’ Sporty tried to jerk away, but she tightened her grip. In her periphery, the tan-and-green uniform of a deputy leaping off the platform and running to help gave her the impetus to pull herself up and straddle the crook, keeping him secure in her grasp.
“Let me go!” He struggled, but his protests seemed far away.
Two deputies appeared on either side of them, and she heard a mixture of voices blending together.
“You okay?”
“—almost roadkill . . .”
“People filming . . .”
Ears still ringing, Abby pulled her cuffs from their case and corralled Sporty’s wrists, nearly slipping on blood. It took a second to realize it wasn’t hers but his.
“I’m okay. He’s under arrest.”
Page arrived, huffing and puffing. “Abby, that was too close.”
He and one deputy grabbed Sporty while the other helped Abby to her feet. She looked to her left and saw how close the big train car had come to smashing them both to nothing. Her thank-you to God came out in a whisper.
Page handed her a bottle of water as she sat on the train platform and willed her breathing and heart rate to settle down. The ringing had stopped and voices were clearer now. She almost didn’t take the water, fearing her hand would shake too badly. I’m in control. I’m fine.
“That was close,” Page repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. “I thought you both were flat cats. You sure you don’t want to get looked at? That train almost had you. That is not the kind of injury paperwork I would ever want to file.” The normally unflappable Page seemed shaken, and that gave Abby pause.
“Sorry, Sarge. I just reacted.”
“We have to take Davis to the ER.” He pointed as he continued. “A cut opened up pretty deep on his forearm. Might need stitches.”
“I saw that,” Abby said after steadying herself with a sip of water. She looked down at her own hands and splashed water to rinse off Sporty’s blood.
“But I’m okay.” She rolled her shoulders and ignored the scream of pain. In the middle of an important investigation, the last thing she wanted was injury time off. Next to her, her scraped and twisted handheld radio had not fared so well and would need to be replaced. She hadn’t rolled on her gun side, so the Sig was fine.
“Has he said anything?” she asked.
“Nah, we got the wrong guy; he didn’t do nothing.” Page imitated the appeal in a falsetto voice and the deputies laughed. Abby could have kissed him for the mood lightener.
“I told him he’s under arrest for a bench warrant,” Page said. “I’ll call you as soon as we hit the station with him.”
Abby walked back to her car slowly, ascertaining the extent of her injuries. Like the radio, her Windbreaker was history. Knowing that there would be lots of scrapes and bruises under her shirt, she decided she’d be fine after a hot bath and a couple of Advil. Her heart caught in her throat with surprise when she saw Bandit standing on his hind legs at the half-open window, tail wagging furiously.
Grinning, Abby pulled the little guy up and out of the window, holding him close.
“Ah, you missed me?” She got licks and more wagging and stood holding him with all aches and pains forgotten.
Her phone rang. She noticed four voice mails from the same extension.
Deputy Chief Kelsey Cox, acting chief of police since Chief Augusta was on vacation, wanted to talk to Abby in a big way. Probably something to do with the media Page had told her about. Switching Bandit to one arm, Abby tensed for the onslaught.
“Hart, where are you? Why aren’t you answering your phone?”
“I was out with CCAT arresting a suspect.” Abby frowned, wondering why Cox hadn’t gotten that information from someone on her staff.
“The station is crawling with reporters, and you have not even filed a preliminary report. How did they find out about the governor’s connection so quickly?”
Abby bit her tongue. Kelsey Cox had almost as many years with the PD as Woody. She had been one of the first female patrol officers allowed to work the field in a black-and-white, and now she was the department’s first female deputy chief. But she and Abby had a history of butting heads.
It started when Abby promoted to homicide. Cox was jealous and it showed. Then a lieutenant in patrol, Cox was vocal about not believing Abby deserved to move to homicide.
“You haven’t paid your dues,” she’d hissed to Abby one night.
“What dues are those?” Abby asked.
“You should have twenty years under your belt before you have any business thinking you can solve homicides. You’ll fall on your face and victimize people all over again.”
Abby never doubted she’d be a good homicide detective. She’d used practically every bit of free time studying investigations with one goal in mind: to eventually solve her parents’ murders. When she ignored Cox, she incurred the woman’s wrath. It wasn’t just Abby who had a problem with Cox. Other women on the force complained that she was disposed to being cold and calculating with female officers. “Hates competition,” one had complained. Since Abby already had reason to believe that, she did her best not to antagonize.
Fortunately, as Cox promoted, she’d been assigned to other areas: patrol, then community relations. But two months ago she was promoted to deputy chief of the investigations division. Abby thought the bad blood was behind them.
Apparently not.
“Chief, I did file a preliminary about an hour and a half ago.”
“How did the press find out about this homicide? Why did they know that it involves the governor before I did?”
Abby had no answer. She’d done her job and she was not about to whine about Murphy, who she guessed was the leak. And if she did say something about Murphy, Cox would overreact. She might even have Murphy arrested for some nonexistent penal code section.
Would serve him right was the peevish thought that crossed Abby’s mind. But then she realized that Murphy didn’t know about the governor’s connection when he was on scene, so if he did talk to reporters, it was only about the homicide.
All she said was “I haven’t had time to speak to the press.”
“Well, you need to handle it.” She disconnected.
Abby sighed. They were bound to cross paths eventually, but why did it have to be now? She called her lieutenant, who had a calm, level head and was adult enough to deal with Cox without making the incident a subject of gossip.
“I read your preliminary. I’m not sure why Cox didn’t,” Jacoby said. “Whatever, I’ll take care of it. Just update me when you get in.”
Abby thanked him and tried to relax in the car, but her shoulder burned. She needed a hot shower and a change of clothes.
She sat in the driver’s seat for a minute, Bandit in her lap, feeling no urgency to get to the station. She needed time to decompress, get rid of the jitters resulting from almost getting squished by a train. The last thing she wanted to do was deal with the press while she waited to interview her suspect.
The press brou
ght Murphy to mind. Anger that he’d rush to some reporter to talk about her homicide bubbled up.
After I told him no, what kind of ego he must have to head right out and call them.
Shaking her head, Abby set Bandit on the passenger seat. When she did, her eyes glanced across the flyer. Murphy’s missing girl. A Woody phrase came to mind, and in spite of everything, Abby smiled.
“Just mud in the tires.”
The press would have found out about the governor’s great-aunt eventually. Murphy was a jerk, but he didn’t create the press problem. And he was also a jerk who cared about runaway girls. Her gut told her he was genuine about that. She’d set Murphy’s card on the dash and now picked it up, thinking not about him but about the girl he was looking for.
Abby had wanted to run away from a couple of group homes. She’d been so angry about losing everything that meant anything to her that she acted out a lot, and foster homes never felt warm or comforting. But fear was always stronger than anger. Fear of where she’d run to had always stopped her.
She decided to cut the PI some slack for the girl’s sake, and only the girl. She put the car in gear and headed back to the station, yawning as her jacked-up adrenaline waned and the fact that she’d been up since three in the morning began to take its toll. She stopped at the locker room to clean up. Because she was called out so often in the early morning, she kept a couple changes of clothing at the station. While she didn’t rush, knowing Page would not be back yet, she had no time for a shower because she’d want to stay under the water forever. So she settled for a new polo shirt and some clean slacks. Her shoulder didn’t look as bad as it felt, and even after her nasty slide, the skin hadn’t broken. But she knew she wouldn’t be wearing a tank top anytime soon. Bruises weren’t attractive.
By the time she stopped at property and exchanged her mangled radio for a new one, it was a little after noon. Lunchtime emptied out the homicide office, so Abby strolled into a quiet work area. They were already down two bodies. Detectives O’Reilly and Carney were away at an FBI school and had been gone for two weeks. They’d be back next week. That left three teams and Abby, currently without a partner. Long Beach averaged about sixty homicides a year, but homicide also handled kidnappings, critical missing persons, and officer-involved shootings, so everyone stayed busy.
Homicide shared one large room. Abby’s desk and the empty desk that would serve her next partner were in the best spot—the back corner next to the window. It was as quiet and as semiprivate as could be in an open room and was Abby’s because her first and only partner in homicide, Asa Foster, had had the most seniority in the detail. Abby’s clearance rate assured she’d keep the space.
I do my job well. Why can’t Cox just admit she was wrong and move on?
She set Bandit down on the visitor chair next to her desk and then stepped to the coffee station. Making a face at what smelled like burnt and stale coffee, she emptied the carafe and put together a fresh pot. Just as she pushed the Start button, she heard the sound of footsteps.
“Good job, Abby. I got a text from Page. He’s 10-15 from Community.” Her boss, Lieutenant Jacoby, strode her direction, using the ten code for “in custody” so Abby knew Page was finished at the hospital with Sporty. “The press is still driving us crazy,” the LT continued, “but press relations is on top of things.”
“Sorry about that.” Abby faced him and folded her arms.
Jacoby shook his head. “Not your fault; it goes with the job. And I’ve spoken to Chief Cox. I wish she wouldn’t micromanage and would just let people do the jobs assigned to them. But then I also wish I’d win the lottery. She’s busy now preparing for a big press conference.”
“I haven’t interviewed the suspect yet.”
“No worries. It won’t go off until tomorrow. Cox decided the best course of action was to coordinate with the governor’s press relations so it won’t be rushed from our end. Apparently Rollins wants to make a statement about his aunt. He made that decision as soon as he heard the news. If your knucklehead turns out to be our guy, it will just be icing. The governor and his staff are preparing to fly down as we speak. Now tell me about this suspect.”
Abby leaned against her desk, trying to ignore the jolt that coursed through her with the knowledge that Rollins would be here soon, on her turf.
“The witness, Murphy, gave me a description of the suspect that matched a known burglar who made the list I’d put together after the first murder.”
“I remember that list. A couple of the most obvious choices alibied out.”
“Yep. Lil’ Sporty wasn’t picked up at the time because he wasn’t an obvious choice. But today he had items in his possession listed as loss from the first murder and he was trying to flee the city. Maybe he was afraid Murphy could ID him. I have a good feeling he’s our guy, but I need to talk to him.”
Jacoby smiled broadly. “Outstanding. Great to hear it. And—” the smile faded and he shoved his hands into his pockets—“I have news . . .”
Bandit shifted in the chair Abby had put him in and emitted a yawn that sounded like a yodel.
The lieutenant arched his eyebrows and stepped forward to look down at the little dog, bemusement on his face. “You put in a card to go to K-9 detail?”
“Ha-ha.” She rolled her eyes at the joke. “He belonged to my victim from this morning. I didn’t have the heart to leave him at the shelter.”
Jacoby frowned. “Just when I think I can’t be surprised. Anyway, I wanted to tell you who your new partner is.”
Abby sighed and forced her shoulders to relax, working to keep her face neutral. She didn’t want a partner, but she’d been down that road with Jacoby already. So she’d hear the name he’d give her and do her best to deal with it.
“Who?”
“We went with Roper. He was the most squared away.”
She nodded.
“He was going to wait the standard two weeks, but I pushed that forward and he’ll be contacting you today. With a serial murderer in the city and one of the victims related to the governor of the state—” he held his hands out, palms up—“we are going to be up to our necks in press for a while. Gunther probably already called you. Let’s hope Sporty is our guy. Call me as soon as you hear from Page.”
“Yes, sir, but . . .”
Jacoby was halfway out the door. He turned back. “Yes?”
“I’ll nail this guy because he needs to be stopped, not because of the press or the governor.”
Her lieutenant gave her a salute and left.
Abby sat at her desk, looked across at the empty desk that would be empty no longer, and relished the last bit of privacy she’d have. She didn’t have anything against Roper, or any of the officers who’d put in cards to come to homicide; she just discovered since Asa left that she liked working alone. He’d been gone four months now. The process to replace him had moved slowly and she’d grown accustomed to working solo.
Partnering with Foster the last two years had been like working alone. He’d been a great teacher the first two years, imparting a lifetime of wisdom to Abby. But for the last two years it was as if a switch had turned off. His wife died after a long battle with cancer. He began drinking, often coming to work half in the bag. He clashed with superiors over little things. She’d covered for him more than she worked with him. When he finally did retire, the rumor mill said it was because he was given an ultimatum: retire or be fired and lose your pension.
Abby tried not to listen to rumors. Because Asa was one of the two who’d rescued her when her parents were killed, her affection for him went deep. She’d ignored the drinking, chalking it up to his wife’s death and a thirty-year career of seeing too much death and human debris. By the time he’d started drinking, he’d already taught her so much. He always said she was a sponge, the best trainee he’d ever had. Asa had been ready to retire when she transferred to homicide but stayed to train her.
Thinking of Asa brought Jacoby’s comment about G
unther to mind. Walter Gunther was the local police beat reporter. He was old-school and a drinking buddy of Asa’s. Gunther always reminded Abby of a character from one of Raymond Chandler’s novels. She could picture him at an old-fashioned typewriter, chomping on a cigar and typing his story with two fingers.
A glance at her desk phone told her five messages were waiting, and she bet they were all from Gunther. She ignored them for the time being because she didn’t have anything to tell him.
The phone rang and she saw it was Sergeant Page.
“We’re coming in with Lil’ Sporty. He got eight stitches in his forearm.”
“Has he said anything?”
“Nope. Other than whining about his arm, he won’t talk. Still hard to believe he may be good for two homicides. He’s such a little weasel.”
“He fits the description and he was nervous enough. Shoot me a text when he’s in an interview room and I’ll be right down.”
“10-4.”
Abby hung up on Page and then punched in the number for the lab to see if the tech had found anything useful.
“I was just about to call you,” the tech said before Abby even said hello. “Got nothing from the window but smudges. Guy must have been wearing gloves.”
“Same as the other crime scenes. The wit did say he saw at least one glove.”
“I haven’t read your narrative yet, but that makes sense. These two crimes are as close to identical as they get. Serial killer.”
“Can you give me anything? Shoe size maybe from the dirt on the floor? I do have a suspect on his way for an interview.”
“I can estimate. Size seven or eight.”
“Which fits with a person of small stature.”
“Yeah. The guy coming in is a good suspect?”
“CCAT and I picked up a cat burglar who fits the physical the wit gave.”
Something like a snort came through the phone. “You’re the best. You’ll get a confession, I’m certain.”
Drawing Fire Page 6
