All Day and a Night: A Novel of Suspense (Ellie Hatcher)

by Alafair Burke

  She was about to break the silence, when he gripped her hand more tightly.

  Ellie’s cell buzzed.

  “That better be Donovan,” Rogan said from the driver’s seat as she unclipped her phone. She nodded confirmation, then hit the speaker button.

  “Did you get hold of Siebecker?” she asked. There was no time for a greeting. They’d just passed a sign saying they were seven miles from Utica.

  “Yeah. He called as soon as he was out of court. It took a while for him to process the connection between Joseph Flaherty, Bill Sullivan, and Flaherty’s obsession with both the Sullivans and the park murders. The way he reacted, we may as well have been accusing Joseph and the Baby Jesus.”

  “But he’s on board?”

  “He is. You are officially authorized to act on behalf of the Oneida County district attorney.”

  Ellie had feared another round of debate with Max, but to her relief he had not only agreed with their assessment of the evidence, but had come up with the idea of asking Siebecker to authorize them to act on his office’s behalf within Oneida County.

  “He did tell me to relay one thing: he prays you guys are wrong.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time prayer came up short,” Ellie said.

  “Seriously, you guys. Be careful.” Even through the tiny speaker in her cell phone, she could hear the concern in Max’s voice.

  “Always,” she said. “And, Max . . . thanks.”

  “Anything for you guys.”

  She hit the end-call button.

  “Sounds like you two are doing all right,” Rogan said.

  “Well, at least he came through with Siebecker.”

  “You mind me saying something on those lines? I mean about you and Max.”

  Ellie considered Rogan one of the most important people in her life, and she assumed he felt the same. She also assumed that part of the explanation for that strong connection was the fact that they never talked directly about their feelings. She couldn’t remember a time when Rogan wanted to comment on a strictly personal matter.

  “Sure, we’ve got a few more miles.”

  “This case is just a case. It’s not worth blowing whatever you’ve got going at home.”

  “You’re the one who tried to explain to my significant other that for us it’s never just a case.”

  “Okay, it’s not ‘just a case’ in the same way an ADA might see it. But compared to stuff that really matters? Your health? Your family? Hell, yeah, this case—and all the rest of them—they’re just cases. I know you, Hatcher. You’ve got your back up. He pressed you to move in. I saw it when you were looking at apartments—finding this and that to complain about, trying to drag me into it to validate all your nitpicking. You don’t like to be pushed, and that man is pushing you.”

  “So maybe he’s the one you should talk to.”

  “I could have written that line for you before you said it, Hatcher. You don’t think Sydney pushes me? I’ve got palm prints on my back from all the pushing. And I’m better for it. Pushing isn’t the same as changing. She puts me on those stupid cleanses because she knows how angry I’d be at myself if I started looking like the Michelin Man—a much darker version, mind you.”

  She smiled at the notion.

  “All I’m saying is, we all need someone to call us out on our shit. You’ve got to learn how to let people into your life, Hatcher. Okay, I’ve said my piece.”

  She thought about Max cooking dinner for her in their kitchen, telling her she seemed to be searching for evidence that he was the one who was unhappy. She thought about the worry in his voice just now when he told her to be careful. It had made her want to turn back the clock to the previous night. To wake him up and apologize for her outburst at Otto. To take back all that anger. To tell him that they’d get past these conflicts about work.

  Now Rogan was verbalizing a fear she’d never wanted to acknowledge, not even to herself. Maybe she was one of those people who couldn’t do what came so simply to other people.

  “You devising a clever retort?” he asked. His smile was almost daring her.

  “Nope. I’m figuring out how to thank you for caring, without grossing us both out.”

  “Stop right there—I’ll consider myself thanked.”

  They passed a sign marking the Oneida County line. “Hey, look at that,” she said. “We’re in our newly appointed territory.”

  “First we were the fresh-look team, now we belong to Siebecker’s office. We’ve been passed around more than a joint at a Phish concert.”

  “Since when do you know about Phish?”

  “Never pigeonhole J. J. Rogan. Jeffrey James knows all.”

  Rogan had just hit Genesee Street when Ellie’s phone rang again. She recognized Michael Ma’s number because she’d been dialing it all day.

  “Mike, you said you’d get back to me this morning.”

  “I know. I got called out. I’ve been on my hands and knees in a parking garage four levels below ground—and not in a fun way, in case you’re wondering.”

  “Please tell me you’ve got the Donna Blank results.”

  “Give me two seconds. I literally just walked into my office, but, yeah, it’s right here.” She heard paper rustling and hit the speaker button on her phone so Rogan could hear, too. “Well, whatever secret spidey senses you were testing were right: I’ve got a familial match between the DNA on that straw you brought me and the skin cells beneath Donna Blank’s fingernails.”

  “Yes! Does it tell you the genetic overlap? Is it consistent with a father’s saliva on the coffee stirrer, and his son’s skin under Blank’s nails?”

  “Both male. Fifty percent DNA overlap, which is consistent with father-son. Wait, can you hold on a second?”

  “I gotta run, Mike.”

  “No, not you.” He was talking to someone in the background. “Can’t you see I’m on the phone? Yeah. About Donna Blank . . . No, with NYPD . . . What are you talking about—Utica?”

  “Mike,” she barked. “Is there a problem?”

  “Um, unclear.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Depends on why you were keeping this on the down low. Promise you won’t kill me. I was underground. Like, literally underground. Not figuratively like most people—”

  “Mike! Focus!”

  “I wasn’t here when it happened.”

  “When what happened?”

  “I’ve got an eager-beaver numbskull of an intern here. Apparently he saw the results come in, and figured he’d take it upon himself to notify the investigating detective. Lo and behold, that apparently isn’t you anymore. Did you know the case got moved to Utica?”

  “Yes, but—oh no, please tell me you can stop it.”

  “It’s all by e-mail. The results already got sent. But don’t worry—no one but you knows who that straw belongs to, right? Just call the detective in Utica. It went to someone named Will Sullivan.”

  “When? Ask the numbskull intern: When did he send it?”

  “He says fifteen minutes ago.”

  She hung up without saying goodbye and pulled up the number for Mike Siebecker at the DA’s office.

  Rogan flipped a mid-block U-turn and opened up the engine. They had to get to Will Sullivan’s house fifteen minutes ago.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTY-THREE

  Parked down the street from Will Sullivan’s house, they had no way of knowing if he was home. The driveway was empty, but the attached garage was closed.

  Ellie’s cell phone rang. It was Mike Siebecker.

  “Hatcher.”

  “Still nothing,” he said. Siebecker had left an urgent message on Sullivan’s voice mail, supposedly about his testimony in a pending gang shooting case. The plan had been for Siebecker to have the detective come to his office at the courthouse. Instead, they were still waiting for him to return the call.

  “You made it clear it was important?”

  “Yes, as much as I could without tipping him
off.”

  “It’s been almost twenty minutes since you called him.”

  “You never know,” Siebecker said. “He could be in the middle of something.”

  “Right, like tracking down a forged passport for his son to get the hell out of Dodge.”

  “I’m working on the affidavits for an arrest warrant as we speak. Jesus, I still can’t believe it. Bill Sullivan. A killer. And Will, covering it up.”

  “It could be more than covering up, Siebecker. Will was the one who flagged Flaherty as a suspect in Brunswick’s murder in the first place. Why would he do that if Flaherty knew the truth about Bill and Donna Blank? If we had questioned him—”

  “So you think Will was planning to shoot Flaherty?”

  “Just call as soon as you hear something?”

  “Of course.”

  She shook her head as she disconnected. “So now what?”

  Rogan pulled his key from the ignition. “We knock on the door.”

  Carrie hadn’t been inside Mr. Sullivan’s house since two Christmases ago, when she and her mother joined Bill and his father for supper. She’d never had occasion to lie in any of the beds.

  She let out a giggle.

  Next to her, Bill rolled toward her and draped one arm across her exposed chest. “I think I nodded off.”

  “Me, too,” she said.

  “That laugh was a nice sound to wake up to. Please tell me it wasn’t about—this.”

  She turned to face him. “Definitely not. I was just thinking about that time we were at your old house, when I came home freshman year for Christmas.” She giggled again, and he kissed her on the lips. “Remember? When I was supposedly helping with your college admissions essay?”

  His smile grew larger. “Dad got off work earlier than I expected.”

  “We were in your bedroom, but my clothes were in the kitchen.”

  “I managed to throw them in the oven.”

  “And I hid naked in your closet for two hours until he fell asleep. I don’t think I ever got the burnt pizza smell out of my T-shirt. Speaking of which, where is your father? Should I be scoping out my hiding spot?”

  “Honestly? I’d like to think Dad would be happy about this by now.”

  “What do you mean, by now?”

  “Nothing. Just, in a lot of ways, this is something we should have figured out a long time ago.”

  “You make it sound like your father hasn’t approved in the past?”

  “It’s nothing like that. I mean it, Carrie. I’m tired of us pretending we’re just friends. We wind up like this for a reason.”

  “You don’t think I know that? It was always you who was pulling away, and I never understood why. I assumed you weren’t ready to settle down, or maybe I wasn’t exactly the ideal political partner or something.”

  He gave her a sad squint. “Don’t you know me better than that?”

  Part of her wanted to go back to his comment about him wanting to think his father would be happy for them after all this time, but she didn’t want to ruin the moment.

  She jerked at the sound of the doorbell, then covered her mouth. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “I feel like two teenagers getting busted by your dad again!”

  He was out of bed, stepping into his pants, when his cell phone began to buzz against the nightstand. “Nope, must be some kids selling magazines, because speak of the devil.” He held up the screen. It was his father. “Hey, Dad . . . I’m actually at your house. It was supposed to be a surprise . . . That close? Okay, I’ll see you in a couple of minutes.” He made a funny, panicked face and pointed at his bare wrist. Time was of the essence.

  The doorbell rang again as she pulled her dress over her head. She didn’t need to live here to send whoever it was away. She could still hear Bill’s voice on the phone as she headed into the hallway.

  “Sure . . . No, I’m not going anywhere . . . Dad, what’s wrong? . . . Just tell me.”

  She started to turn back to make sure everything was okay, but there went the doorbell again. She’d get rid of these nuisances and then find out what Bill’s father had called about.

  Ellie craned her neck, nearly pressing her right ear against the front door. She hadn’t been sure after the second time she pressed the bell, but with that last chime, she’d definitely heard footsteps.

  This was a stupid move. They had taken a gamble that Will Sullivan was a good enough man not to take a shot at them, though they’d strapped on Kevlar to be safe. It was an educated guess, but one with deadly consequences if they were wrong. She unholstered her Glock.

  She listened as the footsteps approached the front door. She held the Glock at her chest and took one step away from the entrance, using the exterior of the house for cover. She saw the doorknob begin to rotate. No sounds of locks turning. That was good. If he was holed up in there, expecting the police, the bolt would have been secured.

  The door opened and Carrie Blank’s head peeked out. She said hi automatically, then stopped herself at the sight of Ellie’s drawn weapon. “What in the—”

  Ellie felt herself exhale and lowered her gun. “Is Will around?”

  “No, but he just called. Is everything okay?”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “I don’t know.” She turned, and Ellie saw a long corridor inside the doorway. “Let me see if Bill—”

  “Bill Sullivan’s here?” Ellie asked. Carrie looked back toward her from the hallway. Just as her eyes widened at the sight of the Glock pointing past her through the door, an arm grabbed her across the front of her chest and spun her in Ellie’s direction. Bill Sullivan was now behind Carrie, using her body as a shield. His left arm was wrapped around her, pinning her own arms to her sides. His right hand held a chef’s knife to her throat.

  Carrie’s eyes darted to her left, as if she was searching for something down the hall. Someone.

  “Drop the gun,” Bill ordered.

  Carrie sucked her breath in. She hadn’t realized that her lifelong friend was the person who had grabbed her.

  “I can’t do that, Bill. You know that.” Ellie was still on the porch, just beyond the doorway, but tried to project her voice to the back of the house.

  Carrie’s entire body stiffened as Bill pressed the flat of the blade hard against her neck.

  “Do it!” he yelled.

  He doesn’t have a gun, Ellie told herself, or he’d be holding it to Carrie’s head. She couldn’t let that equation change. She slowly lowered her weapon. When it was at her side, she threw it into a hedge beside the porch, and then raised her hands in front of her.

  “Keys!” he said.

  “What keys?”

  “You got here, didn’t you? Give me the car keys. Now!”

  “They’re in the car.”

  “Stop lying.”

  “I swear I’m not lying. Look at what I’m wearing. Pants without pockets. I took off my jacket for the Kevlar. Where the hell am I keeping keys? I’m parked two houses to the south. Gray BMW.” She was saying too much. He was going to realize she hadn’t come alone. “I’m not even on duty. This was my own hunch. Keys above the visor. Take my car and go.” She recited the license plate from memory, because those are the kinds of details that stuck in Ellie’s head.

  “Get in here. On the sofa. Sit.” He pulled Carrie one step back into the hallway. “Slow.”

  Ellie did as she was ordered, moving carefully. As long as Bill felt like he was in control, they were going to be okay. Coming to the house without backup had been a risky move, but the plan had been for Rogan to wait at the back door while she’d knocked on the front. They’d remembered Will Sullivan’s comment about living in a house where he didn’t lock up. The only question now was whether Rogan was already in the house, or whether he would wait to take Bill down at the car. Everything would be fine. She sat in the center of the sofa, hands still in front of her.

  Carrie was trembling so hard that Bill was having a hard time keeping the knife steady against h
er throat.

  “Your duty belt. You’ve got cuffs, and don’t try to tell me you don’t, or I’ll kill her. Put them on.”

  Ellie had no choice but to comply. She had to hope that she’d thrown her gun without enough force to bury it in the branches.

  As Ellie clicked the second manacle around her own wrist, Carrie began to whimper. “Why are you doing this? Bill? Please. Stop. Please.”

  No, no, no. The only way they walked out alive was to remain calm. “Carrie, take a breath,” she said.

  “Why, Bill, why?”

  “Please, Carrie, I need you not to hate me.”

  “Bill,” Ellie said firmly. “How can you tell her not to hate you when you’re treating her like this. You’re scaring her. I’m cuffed, like you wanted. Just let her go, and you can walk outside. Take the car and leave.”

  This wasn’t working. Carrie started to cry, and Bill tightened his hold on her. She was going to get them both killed if Ellie didn’t find a way to shut her up.

  “He’s doing this because of Donna,” Ellie said suddenly. “You were right about Donna having a plan about your college fund. She made sure your friends didn’t apply for that scholarship.”

  Carrie looked confused and then let out a cry. Ellie had hoped that the shock of realizing her best friend was a murderer might scare her into submission. Instead, she began to cry uncontrollably, the weight of her sobbing body pulling against Bill’s embrace.

  Now it was Bill trying to calm her. “Carrie, stop. It’s—I don’t want to hurt you. Please. Donna—that was an accident. She—she knew I had a problem. We’d used together a couple of times. She was going to tell everyone. I was just trying to keep her from leaving. We fought, and we were both high out of our minds, and then I grabbed one of dad’s guns, just to scare her. She reached for it. It went off. Dad came home from graveyard and found me curled in a ball on the closet floor. She’d been dead for hours. What was I supposed to do?”

  The more he talked—the more he tried to get Carrie to understand—the more inconsolable she became.

  “Don’t you see—I’ve tried to do the right thing from that moment on. I didn’t go for the scholarship. I never used a single drug again. I went away to Cedar Ridge. And I had to learn how to forgive myself. But then I made the mistake of telling Joseph Flaherty, just to hear myself say it out loud. I figured he was too insane to understand.”