The Dead Room

by Chris Mooney

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  The Dead Room

  Chris Mooney is the author of five previous thrillers, of which Remembering Sarah was nominated for the prestigious Edgar Award for Best Novel. The Missing and The Secret Friend, the first two outings for CSI Darby McCormick, are both available as Penguin paperbacks. Chris lives in Boston with his wife and son.

  The Dead Room

  CHRIS MOONEY

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  First published 2009

  1

  Copyright © Chris Mooney, 2009

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-0-14-193149-4

  For John Connolly and Gregg Hurwitz

  Day 1

  1

  Darby McCormick stepped over the dead bodyguard as she ejected the two empty thirty-round magazine cartridges from her Heckler & Koch sub-machine gun. By the time the cartridges hit the floor she had loaded two fresh clips.

  Sweat running down her face and back, she moved to the side of a door and tried listening for movement underneath the low and steady thump-thump-thump of the helicopter blades coming from the roof.

  She couldn’t hear anything but knew Chris Flynn would be heading this way any moment. Downstairs in the main bay, crouched behind a stack of wooden crates as Flynn’s two bodyguards fired rounds from their automatic weapons, she had caught sight of Flynn rushing up the set of stairs just before her SWAT partner had cut the power to the warehouse. She ran up the opposite rickety balcony stairs to the first floor to intercept Flynn before he could make his way to the stairwell, his only means of escape.

  Darby felt confident he hadn’t reached it yet. She swung around the corner, looking down her weapon sight at the long hallway lit by dim light bleeding through the windows. Still too dark. She flipped the night-vision goggles down across her eyes.

  The darkness inside the warehouse room disappeared in a green ambient glow of light. She moved down the corridor, making her way to the stairwell.

  A door slammed open and then she saw Flynn standing behind a frightened woman with his forearm wrapped around her throat, the muzzle of a Glock digging against the side of her head. A single eye peeked above the woman’s shoulder. No single body part was exposed.

  Shit. No way to get off a clean shot. She didn’t want to kill him, just wound him before he could reach the copter. Her orders were explicit: capture Flynn alive. Dead, he was worthless.

  ‘I know what you assholes want me to do,’ Flynn screamed, his voice echoing through the stifling hot air. ‘I’m not going to say shit.’

  Darby inched her way down the hall. ‘I’m here to protect you, Mr Flynn. The cartel –’

  ‘Stop right there and drop your weapon.’

  Darby stopped but didn’t lower her weapon. ‘The cartel will kill you, Chris. You know too much. They can’t afford to keep you alive. We can offer you protection in exchange for –’

  ‘I’M NOT PLAYING AROUND HERE. DROP YOUR WEAPON RIGHT NOW OR I SWEAR TO CHRIST I’LL KILL HER.’

  Darby had no doubt the 38-year-old American banker would do it. He had strangled his girlfriend of twelve years to death when he found out she had talked to the Boston police about Flynn using his cheque-cashing company to launder nearly half a billion dollars in cocaine profits for the Mendula family, a Columbian drug cartel.

  Flynn lurched forward, using the woman’s body as a shield. The woman stumbled, the heels of her shoes scraping across the floor as she clutched Flynn’s arm. Her long black hair covered most of her face. She wasn’t dressed like any of the warehouse employees. She wore rhinestone T-strap pumps and a white business suit professionally tailored for her tall, curvy frame.

  SWAT can track the copter, Darby thought. They might be able to move people into place by the time it touches down.

  ‘Please do what he say,’ the woman cried in broken English. ‘Two babies at home. I want to go home and see babies.’

  Darby spoke in a loud, clear voice. ‘Okay, Chris, you’re in charge. I’m backing away from the stairs.’

  ‘Now drop the gun.’

  Darby still hesitated.

  ‘Let the hostage go and you have my word.’

  The woman yelped, a harsh, choking sound.

  ‘I’ll do it, I swear to Christ –’

  ‘Okay, Chris.’ Darby lowered her weapon, then released the clip for the shoulder strap.

  Flynn inched towards the stairs. The FLIR night vision provided excellent clarity and contrast. She could make out the tiny, worm-like scars on Flynn’s bald head, could see the woman’s diamond rings and the intricate details of her bracelet.

  Darby dropped the HK and kicked it down the corridor to her right. If Flynn decided to fire, she might be able to duck down there. She wore a bulletproof vest underneath the camouflage, metal armour plates on her shins and legs. You better hope he doesn’t try for a headshot.

  ‘Your turn,’ Darby said.

  ‘I still don’t trust you.’ Flynn stepped closer. ‘Get on your knees – and no sudden movements.’

  ‘I’ll do whatever you want as long as you promise not to harm the hostage.’

  ‘Then do it, nice and slow. You pull any shit and I’ll kill her, understand?’

  ‘I understand.’ Darby knelt and slowly moved her hands up by her face.

  ‘Stay right there,’ Flynn said. ‘Stay right where you are and I’ll let her go.’

  Flynn stopped near the bottom steps of the stairwell. The corridor’s hot, musty odour mixed with the unmistakable scent of the woman’s Chanel No. 5.

  He released the hostage. Darby heard the woman run up the steps, tripping in her ridiculous shoes.

  Flynn didn’t follow. He stepped forward, his handgun raised.

  Fear flooded her body, turning her skin slick and cold. Darby didn’t see her life flash before her eyes and all that bullshit; she did what she’d been trained to do.

  She jerked her head to the side as Flynn fired. The shot hit the wall. Her hands came up lightning quick. One hand clutched his wrist, the other wrapped itself around the Glock’s muzzle and twisted it back so that it pointed at his stomach.

  Sh
e yanked him towards her. Flynn stumbled, caught by surprise. He couldn’t gain his footing.

  Darby pulled the nine from his grasp. She turned it around in her hands and shot him in the thigh.

  Flynn fell to the floor, screaming. She spun the nine to the hostage standing on the stairwell landing. The woman was holding a sub-compact Beretta pistol with a laser sight.

  Darby fired twice, hitting the woman in the stomach. The woman stumbled back against the wall and Darby fired two more shots.

  Flynn was scrambling across the floor. Darby threw him down on his stomach, dug her knee into his spine and yanked his arms behind his back. She grabbed a pair of Flexicuffs from her tactical belt as the lights came back on.

  Darby flipped up her night-vision goggles, blinking sweat away from her eyes.

  ‘Goddamn,’ the hostage said, staring at the dark red splotches on her white suit jacket. ‘These paintballs really do sting.’

  The man playing Chris Flynn groaned. ‘Quit your bitching, Tina. I’ve been killed three times over the past two days.’ He rolled on to his back. ‘Christ, McCormick, I think you bruised my spine.’

  A fireplug of a man with a brown crew cut and a worn sun-blasted face stepped into the hall – John Haug, the SWAT instructor for the Boston Police Department. He snapped his fingers and pointed to the doorway.

  ‘McCormick, with me.’

  2

  Darby trailed a few inches behind Haug, as the adrenalin rush of the training exercise – the first part of her final SWAT exam – started to evaporate and give way to a bone-crushing exhaustion. For the past three days she had grabbed fistfuls of sleep while conducting round-the-clock surveillance on the warehouse.

  The first week of her SWAT training, she had started each morning with a ten-mile run under a blistering August sun on Moon Island. There were eight other recruits. All men. For the rest of the morning she carried out close-quarter combat exercises and firearms training. Late afternoons were spent crawling through old sewer tunnels wearing blacked-out goggles to test the limits of her claustrophobia. She completed night-time diving exercises in Boston Harbor and abseiled from a Black Hawk helicopter. One recruit broke his foot. Two other men suffered physical injuries and dropped out. The five remaining members graduated to ‘The Yellow Brick Road’, a punishing gauntlet designed to crush the human body.

  Dressed in a military flak jacket and combat boots, wearing a backpack loaded with thirty pounds of sand and with an assault rifle strapped across her chest or held above her head, she ran in the sweltering heat until her legs buckled. She picked herself up and ran some more. She crawled through mud. Climbed ropes and nets and scaffolding. She trod water dressed in her SWAT clothing and tactical gear. When she removed herself from the stream, the sand-filled backpack now twice as heavy from the water, she ran until she collapsed. When the fun ended, she was treated to a boxed lunch – two bottles of water, bread and an apple – and ate it along the way to the firing range, where she shot at targets until the muscles in her forearms cramped. The training ended at 10 p.m. After a quick shower, she slumped into her cot at the all-male bunker and woke at 4 a.m. to start the process all over again.

  The second phase of training, Darby knew, was also designed to break one’s mental spirit. Without proper sleep, the body couldn’t heal. The physical toll tore down the mind’s protective walls and lead to frustration, anger and, in some cases, dementia. Two more men dropped out. They couldn’t hack it. The final three made it to the live training exercise.

  Haug walked quickly down the final set of stairs. Her SWAT partner lay on his back smoking a cigar, his chest and one shoulder covered with blood-red paint. He saw her and waved. The members of Haug’s SWAT team who had been brought in to play the roles of Chris Flynn’s bodyguards smoked cigarettes and cigars and talked among the crates and shelves. They didn’t look at Haug; they were looking at her. She felt their glares drilling into her skin.

  They’re pissed I killed them. She grinned.

  Haug stepped into the car park. Sweat had soaked through his grey T-shirt. He fitted a thick wad of chewing tobacco in the pocket of his cheek. As usual, it was impossible to read his face. The man lived behind an emotionless mask carefully crafted from his years as a marine.

  He walked briskly around the side of the warehouse, his tactical boots crunching against the gravel. The hot air throbbed with crickets.

  ‘The woman you killed,’ he said after a long moment. He looked straight ahead into the darkness surrounding the woods. ‘What made you think she wasn’t an actual hostage? What tipped you off?’

  Darby had anticipated the question. ‘I wondered what a well-dressed woman would be doing working at the warehouse at such a late hour.’

  ‘You didn’t think she was the owner? During the planning sessions, I told you the owner’s wife saw to the day-to-day operations of the warehouse and often worked late hours.’

  ‘You also said that Ortiz was a frugal son of a bitch.’

  ‘Your point?’

  ‘That woman was wearing a Cartier love bracelet.’

  Haug’s head whipped around, eyes wide and brow furrowed. ‘You recognized her goddamn bracelet?’

  ‘And her Christian Louboutin pumps,’ Darby said. ‘Those shoes cost about eight hundred bucks. The bracelet, around three grand. I don’t know about the suit she was wearing but it looked expensive. What is it? Gucci? Armani?’

  ‘I strike you as a guy who knows shit about clothes?’

  ‘The way you dress? No, sir.’

  Haug jogged up the road leading to the restricted site for bomb disposal.

  ‘The intel you gave on the cartel didn’t state whether the ringleader was a man or a woman,’ Darby said. ‘After Flynn released her, she didn’t run into another room. She didn’t scream for help. She ran up the stairs leading to the roof – same destination as Flynn. I thought that was odd, so, after I shot Flynn, I turned to the stairs and there she was holding a Beretta. I take it she was the head of the cartel.’

  ‘She was.’

  ‘So the plan was for her to play the hostage role and, once Flynn released her, if he hadn’t killed me then she would when I went to cuff Flynn.’

  ‘That was the plan.’

  ‘How many of the recruits got shot?’

  ‘You’re the only one who pulled it off.’

  ‘That’s what happens when you send in a woman to do a man’s job.’

  Haug spat a dark blob of tobacco juice and turned left on to a new road.

  In the distance Darby saw the small ranch building where she had lived for the past two weeks. She could see the glowing lights coming from the locker room and bunker.

  ‘Why are we heading there?’

  ‘Some guy is here to escort you back to the city on the orders of the police commissioner,’ Haug said. ‘Don’t ask; I don’t know the details.’

  Darby had an idea. She was the head of Boston Police Commissioner Chadzynski’s Crime Scene Unit, a specialized group comprised of the department’s top investigators and forensic specialists. CSU was assigned to violent crimes and missing persons.

  Haug spat again. ‘I know you fought like hell to earn a spot on this programme. Your shooting skills qualified you – you’re the best in the group, no question. And I’ll admit to having a lot of reservations about accepting you. In my experience women don’t have what it takes to be SWAT officers.’

  ‘Glad I proved you wrong.’

  ‘You’re the second woman I’ve ever trained. The first broad was a world-class cunt.’

  Haug didn’t look to see if he’d insulted her. He didn’t care if he had. The man spoke his mind and didn’t give two shits whom he offended. She found his attitude refreshing.

  ‘This broad demanded her own locker room,’ Haug said. ‘Kept bitching about the workouts, that she wasn’t as strong as a man and didn’t have the same endurance and stamina. All that happy horseshit. The truth was she couldn’t hack it. That didn’t stop her from trying to fil
e a discrimination lawsuit, which the court rightfully shoved up her ass.

  ‘You, on the other hand, didn’t request anything special. You slept, ate, showered and dressed with the boys. You worked out the logistics on your own. You didn’t burden me with whatever feminine problems you had, and on top of that you survived pretty much everything I threw at you. And not once did you bitch or buckle. You kept your yap shut and your ears open. You worked your ass off.’

  Haug spat again. ‘Heard you’re a doctor. Got a degree from Harvard in criminal psychology.’

  Darby nodded.

  ‘Never had a doctor – or a forensics fellow, for that matter – do what you did back there. They teach you to shoot like that at Harvard?’

  ‘I’ve put in a lot of practice at the firing range.’

  ‘It shows. You took down all of the bodyguards, you prevented Flynn from reaching the chopper and the way you took him down was pretty goddamn impressive. You remember what I told you about firing your weapon?’

  ‘Every bullet has a lawyer’s name on it.’

  ‘Right. Now if what happened here tonight had been an actual hostage situation, you’d breeze right through Internal Affairs like shit through a goose, but that doesn’t mean some lawyer won’t come after you. Lawyers don’t give a crap about what’s right, or that you risked your life. When blood is spilled there’s money, and these lawyers will crawl up your ass and hibernate there until they’ve leeched every last penny. You’re quick on the trigger, so you best keep that fact forefront in that thick Irish head of yours, understand?’

  ‘Understood.’

  Haug held open the door to the front office. ‘You can watch my back any day of the week, McCormick.’

  3

  Darby dropped off her field gear and weapons at the vacant front desk and walked rubber-legged into the locker room.

  Her lab partner, Jackson Cooper, sat on one of the benches bolted to the floor between rows of steel-grey lockers. The hard, knotted muscles in his back and shoulders moved underneath the dark blue fabric of his short-sleeved polo shirt as he thumbed through a wrinkled issue of Playboy.