Or is Teaghan trying to force a connection where there is none?
She glances down at the pump. Whir, suck, wheeze. Her milk drips into the collection bottle. Doctors say it’s the sweetest, most nutritious liquid in the world.
Mother’s milk.
Did Eleanor Cooke think about mother’s milk as she served her four children that awful Sunday evening? She was a mother, after all, who fed her babies and watched them sleep and get sick and recover and eat and grow. How could she bring herself to place a bowl full of poison in front of them and watch them lap it up?
Stop it, Teaghan tells herself. Stick to what you know.
And statistically speaking, what Eleanor Cooke did made sense. If you are murdered, there’s a 50 percent chance your killer will be somebody you know. Sometimes it’s a member of your own family. During her years on the Job, Teaghan’s seen enough domestic-violence cases that went right up to the edge and, if not for cooler heads prevailing or a knock on the door, could have gone real ugly.
Maybe Eleanor Cooke was pushed to the edge. Posehn’s wife, too. You never know what secret wars people are fighting.
But still…something feels off to Teaghan. Especially when she adds the Pancoast family to the mix.
What are the chances of three familicides within a two-month time span?
As she ponders, Teaghan gradually becomes aware of a sound, possibly in another apartment. Someone crying. A baby. Wailing. Geez, it’s almost 9:00 p.m. Won’t somebody pick the kid up and make it stop crying?
It’s only when Charlie emerges from the basement with a still-sobbing Christopher in his arms that Teaghan realizes…
Oh, hell, that was my baby.
CHAPTER 16
“Hey,” Charlie says. “Didn’t you hear him?”
“I was catching up on some work, and I still have more to do. You got him for the time being?”
A slightly pained look washes over Charlie’s face. “I’ve been with him all day. I was trying to catch a few hours of sleep so I could get my brain working again. I’ve only got a few days to finish that Manayunk piece, and they’re going to look at me like I’m crazy if I ask for another extension.”
“Yeah, well, I have work tomorrow morning, too. And I can’t just blow it off when I feel like it.”
Charlie recoils as if he’s been slapped by an invisible hand. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Teaghan realizes that her words were a bit harsher than intended. “Nothing. Never mind. I’ll take him.”
Christopher’s sobs increase in volume and intensity, as if he can understand exactly what his parents are saying.
And with his cries Teaghan feels the tug on her body. Her breasts suddenly feel like they’re about to burst. It’s really strange. The homicide cop in her wants to keep poking and prodding to find the secret connection between these three cases, but the mom in her wants—no, needs—to feed her baby right now.
“Give him to me,” she says, struggling to detach the pump without spilling milk all over herself.
“No,” Charlie says, “I’ve got him. You finish up. After all, you’re the one with the real job.”
“I never said that. Damn it, Charlie…”
But her husband takes her baby back downstairs to their bedroom to try to get him back to sleep.
Way to go, Teaghan. You won the battle, but your breasts feel like they’ve lost the war.
Maybe that’s it—maybe her hormones are so far out of whack that she’s seeing connections that aren’t really there. She can’t remember feeling this way about any other case. Teaghan operates on facts, not hunches. Hunches are for TV cops.
She thinks about going downstairs, taking the baby, and just giving him the breast already—and giving Charlie the break he clearly needs. Putting the cases on ice until tomorrow morning. It’s only her second day back on the Job. What, did she expect to crack this one sitting at her kitchen table?
Except…
Except that whenever a detective is in doubt, you talk to your partner. That’s why God (or at least the police commissioner, which may be the same thing) sends you out into the world in pairs.
Teaghan listens until she’s sure that Charlie and the baby are out of earshot. Then she plucks her cell phone from the kitchen table and enters Diaz’s number. It’s still early, especially for Diaz. How many times has he talked about staying up past midnight because that’s the only time he gets to enjoy a quiet house?
But after a few rings, Diaz doesn’t answer. Great.
Is her partner still angry because she took maternity leave? If so, well, way to be passive-aggressive, buddy.
CHAPTER 17
Wife home.
Boys and baby tucked in.
Time for a little “me time.”
When Ruth asks where I’m headed, I tell her.
Well, I don’t tell her exactly where. That would violate the idea of “me time,” right? The little mysteries are what keep a marriage alive.
So I tell her I’m headed to Lucky Strike to bowl for a while, which gives me an excuse to go to the closet for my bowling bag. I don’t have to search too hard, because I pulled the bag out earlier this afternoon while Ruth was still at work and got everything ready.
I’m a man with a plan. Always have been.
There is one sticky detail about tonight’s work, however: the odometer on the minivan.
A drive down to Lucky Strike in Center City is barely a mile; my actual destination is about thirteen miles away. Which means I’ll be adding at least twenty-six miles to the number, not just two.
Now, my darling Ruth is hardly ever in the minivan. Even when she is, I doubt she bothers to eyeball the digital odometer. Sure, it’s a small detail, but I really hate loose ends. Because what if one day she does happen to notice? And she thinks I’m having an affair or something? (When I could possibly have time for an affair is a question for a physicist, because it would require violating the space-time continuum.)
As I’m fretting over this and pretending to search the closet for my bowling bag, Ruth asks if I wouldn’t mind picking up a few things from the Wawa on the way home. Fresh milk for the kids, maybe some oranges and bananas? I smile, stand up, tell her no problem, then kiss her on the forehead. I tell her she can have anything she wants. Which is the truth.
She smiles at me sweetly, then goes off to take her nightly bath.
I put the bowling bag on our bed and unzip it. My actual bowling ball—a Christmas gift from three years ago—is hidden behind some shoeboxes in the back of my closet. Instead, the bag contains a revolver, which I purchased this morning from a dealer on Spring Garden Street—the same place where a lot of Philly cops shop, as a matter of fact.
Which is kind of funny, considering.
CHAPTER 18
Every family is unique and demands its own personalized instrument of doom. When the kids are older, we’ll play Clue, and I’ll teach them this important lesson.
Take Colonel Mustard, for example. He’s modeled after the classic British imperialist, a bushy-bearded military man of means. So a candlestick or a lead pipe just won’t do. No, this Great White Hunter deserves death by something more fitting, like a revolver. Or, even better, strangulation by rope. Fun fact: his name is a reference to the horrible choking gas used to kill hundreds of doughboys in World War I.
Not that I’ll necessarily tell my children this.
Anyway, when I selected my current target, I knew I had to up my game.
For a lying, corrupt union man like Pancoast, carbon monoxide was the clear choice. Let him choke on the toxic fumes that run throughout the pipes of the city he fleeced. For a rich bitch like Eleanor Cooke in Chestnut Hill, I needed poison to fill all of their bellies, just like they poisoned each other with incessant greed over the years.
But tonight a gun seems to make the most sense.
Because my target is a police officer.
D-I-A-Z.
CHAPTER 19
Detecti
ve Martin Diaz comes home late so often he genuinely can’t remember the last time he came home on time. Or what that even felt like and what he used to do when he got there.
Family moments seem to happen by accident, in passing. It’s what his wife has come to expect, and so have his kids. They understand Daddy’s a homicide cop, which means strange hours and long nights. And usually a moody dad the next day, especially if the case was particularly gruesome.
But over the past two months, the nights have gotten even later. And every time he sets foot in his own house, it looks more and more foreign to him, like he’s accidentally let himself into his neighbor’s place. Is this really his sofa? All of the food in the fridge—is that his, too? Who eats all this stuff?
Diaz pushes his key into the front door and flips the dead bolt, then steps inside, trying to make as little noise as possible. He doesn’t want to wake anyone up, because this is his transition time. A little quiet as he goes from being a murder cop to being a husband and father who’s very skilled at avoiding his family.
In fact, Diaz is so used to opening the door into an empty living room that it genuinely takes him by surprise when he sees his whole family—Franny and the three kids—sitting there around the dining-room table in the dark.
“Close the door,” a voice says.
Who the hell is that?
Diaz squints until he sees the silhouette of a stranger now visible. And he’s holding something to his wife’s head. The blood in Diaz’s veins runs ice-cold. This can’t be happening. Not to him, not in his own home. This is the dark, awful stuff of nightmares. It’s not supposed to happen in real life.
Then Diaz reminds himself: I’m a police officer. I’m the guy you call when faced with situations exactly like this one.
“We don’t have much,” he says, “but you’re welcome to whatever you like. I’m not going to stop you.”
“Shut up,” the voice says, “and close the door.”
Diaz complies, pushing the door shut with a calm, fluid motion to let the stranger know that he’s not going to try any funny business. This is most likely a home invasion, takeover-style. Not unheard of but unusual up here in the near-suburbs of Fox Chase. Most times, you have idiots knocking over the row homes of drug dealers, expecting to walk out the front door with either product or cash (or both).
“It’s gonna be all right, Franny,” Diaz says, reassuring his wife that he’s in charge.
Franny says nothing. She just stares at him, frozen in shock.
“You’re out quite late, Detective,” the voice says. “Didn’t your shift end hours ago?”
“So you know I’m a police officer.”
“Of course I do.”
“Then you probably realize how foolish this is.”
“I’ve had a gun on your family for the past hour. Who’s the foolish one in this situation? Mmm?”
Diaz struggles to see exactly who he’s dealing with. Is it just this punk, or does he have accomplices elsewhere in the house?
The closer Diaz looks, however, the more he’s confused by the situation. This guy doesn’t look like your usual street tough in a hoodie or a junkie aiming to snatch your silverware so he can buy a baggie of heroin. Maybe his eyes are playing tricks on him, but to Diaz, this guy looks like Mr. Joe Average White Dude.
“Tell me what you want,” Diaz says calmly.
“I want you to tell us where you’ve been since the end of your shift.”
“You don’t know anything about me or my job.”
“Your partner, Detective Beaumont, that’s B-E-A-U-M-O-N-T, reported home on time. But then again, she’s a new mother. I suppose she hasn’t had time to grow bored with her spouse.”
CHAPTER 20
The realization is like a slap in the face. This is no punk, Diaz thinks. This guy has been stalking him. Both him and T. But how? And more important, why? Even worse, the guy seems to know one of Diaz’s guiltiest secrets. That crack about the spouse can’t be random.
So there’s no choice, Diaz decides. There will be no talking this guy down from the ledge. He’s come here for something, and it’s not the silverware.
Diaz reaches for his gun, but Joe Average presses his weapon to the side of Franny’s head.
“Don’t,” he says, almost like a bark.
His whole family jumps. His baby daughter starts crying. Oh, hell, the children. Not that Diaz has forgotten about them. He’s just been praying like crazy that they could be magically whisked away from the scene, safe and unharmed. His twin boys and his baby girl.
Diaz immediately shows the stranger his palms. “Look! I’m unarmed. Don’t hurt them, please.”
“You’re the one who hurt them, Detective.”
“I don’t know what you want.”
“To make things right.”
The more Diaz looks at the guy, the more he thinks he knows him. Okay, maybe know is too strong a word. But there’s something familiar about him.
Meanwhile, Joe Average pulls the gun away from Franny—but then points it at the back of his daughter’s head.
“Please!” Franny cries out. “Don’t! You said you wouldn’t hurt them!”
“And I won’t,” the stranger says, “if you do exactly what I say.”
Franny nods.
Diaz can’t stand this. He so very, very badly wants to run toward them and leap over the dining-room table, tackle this monster, and pummel him to death with his fists. But Diaz knows he can’t possibly move fast enough to stop a bullet. And no matter what stupid things he’s done over these past two months, his family’s safety will always—always—come first.
Part of his brain—that very small part that’s still in active cop mode—picks away at the stranger’s face. Diaz knows he’s seen him before. But where? Was this some guy who caught a glimpse of him (and his badge) at a bar one night during the past few weeks? Put it all together?
“Mrs. Diaz,” the stranger says.
Franny does not respond. It’s as if she’s retreated to some other mental space. Maybe she thinks she’s dreaming, too.
“Franny.”
It makes Diaz furious to hear him use her first name. But this seems to snap her out of her shocked state.
She gasps. “What?”
“I want you to walk over to your husband and take his service weapon out of its holster.”
Franny slowly stands up, her joints clearly stiff from sitting and panicking for who knows how long.
“Now, Franny. I haven’t got all night.”
“Okay, okay.”
The blood in Diaz’s veins is running red-hot now. This guy, telling his wife what to do. It’s killing Diaz, because the guy’s face is familiar from somewhere. If he could just figure out where, maybe he’d have a shot at disarming him somehow. Turning the tables.
Franny clears the distance between the table and her husband. Diaz keeps his hands away from his body to allow her easy access to the gun. It’s a strangely intimate moment. His eyes search for hers, but Franny refuses to look at him. Either she can’t, or she won’t.
Diaz feels his chest tighten. This can’t be happening. Why is this man doing these horrible things to his family?
“That’s it,” the stranger says. “Unbutton the safety strap, and take it out.”
She does.
“Now, take a few steps back.”
She does.
Wait.
Family. The very word jogs a memory in Diaz’s brain. He remembers the last time he saw a family in this kind of situation. And they were all dead from carbon-monoxide poisoning in separate rooms in a house on Christian Street in South Philly. Teaghan knew something was funny about that crime scene. If only he had listened to her instead of trying to lecture her.
“Now, I want you to point it at your lying, cheating husband.”
“What?”
At that moment, Diaz remembers. He knows where he saw the stranger’s face.
“And shoot him in the heart.”
CH
APTER 21
Boy, this has been an uncomfortable couple of hours.
I really thought Detective Diaz would have been home a lot sooner. I mean, how long can an extramarital dalliance take? What, did they stop for pizza and milkshakes afterward?
I swear, I didn’t mean to snoop into his personal life. I was simply curious about the two homicide detectives tasked with the Pancoast case. Were they smart cops? Lazy cops just showing up for the paycheck? Not that I was all that worried. I had thought everything through to the smallest detail. I’m a full-time stay-at-home dad; I have to be a detail man.
And part of that attention to detail is knowing who it is you’re up against.
Detective Teaghan Beaumont is apparently just back from maternity leave, which explains the way she moved at the Pancoast crime scene. And the beautiful glow in her cheeks—only new moms have that kind of radiance. I remember how sore Ruth was after each of our children was born; it’s a heck of an ordeal, natural childbirth.
But I also remember how beautiful she was.
With his partner off to become a mom, Detective Diaz was temporarily partnered with one Theresa McCafferty, who was three years older and a shameless boozehound. Also a shameless flirt.
Most cops knew to steer clear of this particular train wreck. But Detective Diaz, well, I suppose he felt he was owed some attention. Anyone else might find Detective McCafferty a bitter pill to swallow. But to Detective Diaz, she was just what the doctor ordered.
How did I learn all of this, you ask?
Fair question.
Sure, I’m a stay-at-home dad. But I used to have a job outside the home, and I still have contacts in that world. Which come in handy from time to time. (Plus, Facebook is great at filling in the gaps.) And let’s just say that Detective Diaz wasn’t doing much to cover his own tracks.
The thing is, Detective Diaz soon began an ill-advised and very public affair with Detective McCafferty. Perhaps they thought they were safe, carrying on in cop bars and at McCafferty’s Northern Liberties apartment. But the thing about cop bars is, they’re full of cops.
The House Husband Page 4
