No reason to point that out to Enoch, though. “What about Mrs. Oberlin? That case is still open. And for it to happen so quickly after Steve Morris’s murder is suspicious, to say the least.”
“I’m a cop,” Enoch said with a shrug. “Nobody has any reason to suspect me. Cops never suspect other cops of committing crimes.”
These cops will.
But there was no sense in saying that, either. “I guess we just wait for Mr. Allen to get home from work.” I glanced at Mrs. Allen, sitting pale as a statue next to me. “When does your husband get off work?”
She glanced past Enoch, at the clock just visible through the door into the kitchen. And inexplicably, her lips curved.
Enoch’s eyes narrowed, and he whipped around, but it was too late. Mr. Allen—or I had to assume it was Mr. Allen; I’d never seen him before—launched himself through the air and at Enoch. The gun went flying, and hit the carpeted floor with a thud, but didn’t discharge. The two of them landed in a tangle on the coffee table, which broke under the strain. I managed, just barely, to snatch Carrie and the seat out of the way in time to avoid being crushed.
“Gary!” Mrs. Allen shrieked.
“The gun,” I yelled as I swung the seat out of the way of the heaving bodies. “Get the gun!”
Carrie was screaming, too, of course, her shrill sounds mingling with the sounds of fists thudding into flesh and male grunts. I scrambled toward the door. Mrs. Allen scrambled toward the wall, and the gun. Mr. Allen was on top of Enoch, and was holding his own pretty well, I thought, in spite of being fifteen years or more older than Enoch, and not in as good condition. It was rage, no doubt. Rage for his dead daughter, and rage that Enoch had held his wife at gunpoint. Rage—depending on how much of the conversation he’d overheard—that Enoch had planned to slaughter us all and pin Steve Morris’s murder on him.
Enoch was shaking off the surprise, though, and as I stood there, he recovered enough to flip Mr. Allen off him. And suddenly he was on top, raising his fist to pound it into Mr. Allen’s face.
Nancy Allen scrambled to her feet, gun in hand, and took in the scene. Her face contorted in fury, and before I could call out anything whatsoever, she switched her grip on the gun, and slammed the handle into the top of Enoch’s head with all the strength she could muster.
Twenty-Three
“It’s been a hell of a day,” Charlotte said thirty minutes later.
After Mrs. Allen hit Enoch, I put the baby down away from the carnage, and walked over and took the gun out of her hand. “I’ll take this. I don’t trust you not to shoot him.”
She gave me a look, but didn’t say anything. Down on the floor, Enoch had collapsed on top of Mr. Allen, who was wheezing under the weight of Enoch’s larger body.
“Gary!” Mrs. Allen bent to grab Enoch and haul him off her husband, but I stopped her.
“Get the handcuffs off his belt first. If he wakes up when we start to move him around, it’s better if we cuff him first.”
She managed to unhook the cuffs, but it took both of us to get them around Enoch’s wrists, and secure. Her hands were shaking, and I’m sure mine were, too.
That done, we grabbed Enoch by the shoulders and rolled him off Mr. Allen, who drew in a deep, shuddering breath. He was looking florid, and Mrs. Allen dropped to her knees beside him with a cry. “Gary! Are you all right?”
He clearly wasn’t all right, but I’ve asked stupid questions under duress, too, in the past, so I didn’t say anything about it. “I’m going to call for help,” I said instead. “Anything in particular you need me to tell them? Heart attack? Broken bones?”
He shook his head. “I’m just out of breath.”
His voice wheezed, and his chest was still rattling a little, but he was starting to sound better. And having Mrs. Allen on her knees next to him, holding his hand and dripping tears on his shirt, probably helped as much as having the weight of Enoch removed.
I stepped behind the sofa, to where I could see Carrie and Enoch at the same time, and pulled out my phone.
Rafe was in the middle of a SWAT maneuver, so I figured it was no point in calling him. I tried Grimaldi, but she didn’t answer, so in desperation, I dialed Paul Jarvis’s number.
“I need some help,” I told him when he picked up.
“Mrs. Collier?” He sounded wary.
“I’m over at the Allens’ house on Fulton Street. Natalie Allen’s parents’ house. I need you to come here and arrest Carl Enoch for murder.”
There was a pause. Not a very long one, I have to say. Points to Jarvis for recovering quickly.
“I knew it!” he said, his voice laced with quiet triumph.
“I tried to call Gri… um… Chief Grimaldi, but I couldn’t get her on the phone. And Rafe’s at some sort of SWAT practice, so there’s no use trying to get in touch with him. But if you could try to let both of them know what’s going on, I’d appreciate it.”
“Everyone all right?” Jarvis wanted to know.
I glanced over the back of the sofa down on the mess on the floor. Bodies everywhere. “Everyone except Enoch. He’s out cold. But we put his own handcuffs on him, so he isn’t going anywhere. He’ll probably have a headache when he wakes up.”
“Maybe a concussion,” Jarvis said, sounding hopeful.
I agreed that it might very well turn out to be a concussion. “Mr. Allen had the wind knocked out of him, but he says he’s all right. No broken bones, no heart trouble. It probably wouldn’t hurt to send an ambulance, though, just to make sure everyone’s going to live.”
“Is there any doubt of that?”
None at all, and I said so. “So you’ll come?”
“I’m on my way,” Jarvis said. “Half an hour.”
Half an hour?
That was a lot longer than I would expect it to take from the Columbia PD to Fulton Street, but maybe he was overestimating. Or maybe he’d gone home for the day—it was after five—and had his feet kicked up on the coffee table and a beer in his hand while he was watching Jeopardy.
And anyway, I couldn’t get hold of Rafe or Grimaldi, so it wasn’t like we could do anything but wait.
“We’ll be here,” I told him, and dropped my phone in my pocket so I could pick up Carrie and soothe her now that everything else was settled, at least for now.
The sofa was still intact, so I dropped down there. And although it wasn’t quite mealtime, I opened my blouse for Carrie anyway, since the skin-to-skin contact would be calming for both of us, and since we could both use some calm.
No sooner had I got her situated, than the phone in my pocket rang, and I had to fish it out with one hand while holding Carrie in place with the other. I knew before I put it to my ear who was on the other end. “Yes?”
“What the hell, Savannah?” my husband said.
“I didn’t do anything,” I protested. “None of this was my fault. I was over at the house on Fulton looking at my grout when I saw Mrs. Allen get home. So I walked across the street and knocked on her door. We were just having a nice conversation when Enoch showed up and held us both at gunpoint.”
“Jarvis told me. Any reason I had to hear it from him?”
“I thought you were busy,” I said. “Aren’t you at that SWAT thing?”
“Not anymore.” I could hear faint honking in the background, and deduced he was on his way over here as fast as the Chevy could carry him, to the detriment of the other drivers on the road.
There was also the murmur of another voice in the background, and I narrowed my eyes. “Is someone there with you?”
“Tammy,” Rafe said. “We’re five minutes away.”
In the background, that same voice said something else. If I knew her, it was a probably a strongly worded request not to refer to her as Tammy.
At any rate, they were a lot closer to us than Jarvis was. “It’s the yellow house,” I said. “Just come to the front door. But I promised Jarvis that he could arrest Enoch, so you’re going to have to leave that
for him.”
“I wouldn’t dream of taking it away from him,” Rafe said. “Carrie all right?”
I glanced down at her curly little head. “Fine. Having a bracing little snack right now. She was pretty upset by all the noise, and I thought it would settle her down.” And me too.
From the phone came a squeal of brakes and the irritated toot of a horn, along with a curse from Rafe.
“I’ll let you go,” I added. “I’ll see you when you get here.”
“Three minutes.”
It hadn’t been two minutes since he’d said he was five minutes away, but he hung up before I could answer, and it didn’t really matter anyway. He was close, and that was the important thing.
* * *
By the time Rafe’s loaner Chevy pulled up in front of the house—leaving the driveway open for the ambulance that came up the street behind them—Mr. Allen was sitting up and Enoch was starting to twitch.
Nancy Allen, who had kept all her attention on her husband, and hadn’t seen them come across the grass, jumped and paled when two cops in full SWAT gear—minus the Kevlar they had probably removed before getting in the car—burst through the door.
Yes, Grimaldi was in SWAT black, too. Somehow I managed to contain my surprise. I mean, I should have expected it. It explained why I hadn’t been able to raise her on the phone, and it was totally something she’d want to be part of.
So she stood there, inside the door, hands on the hips of black cargo pants, and surveyed the room with flat cop eyes while Rafe came straight to me. And pulled me into his arms, baby and all. “You OK, darlin’?”
“Fine,” I said against his chest. “I’m getting used to this by now.”
“I’m not.”
Bull… um… crap. “I’ve seen you face down guns and knives and crazed killers before,” I told his shirt. It smelled good, like spring and healthy male. “It’s never bothered you.”
“It bothers me to think of you facing’em.”
Well, yes. It bothered me to think of him facing them, too. Even though I knew he was perfectly capable, more capable than most, of handling himself. “Welcome to my world.”
He didn’t say anything to that, but his arms tightened for a second before he let me go, with a soft brush of lips on my forehead. “Later,” he told me.
I nodded. Definitely later.
He dropped another kiss on top of the baby’s head, and turned to take in the battleground.
By now, Gary Allen had made it into a wingback chair, and looked mostly back to normal, except for the blood pressure cuff one of the paramedics was unwrapping from his arm. The florid color had receded from his face, and he was breathing normally. Nancy Allen was sitting on the arm of the chair on the other side, holding his other hand, while Grimaldi had taken the chair opposite and was asking questions. Enoch was still on the floor, handcuffed, but groaning now. A second paramedic had peeled up one of his eyelids and was shining a light into his eye, checking for concussion. I’m sure I would be groaning, too, under the circumstances.
“Quite a day for you,” one of the paramedics told me, and that’s when I realized that it was the same pair that had been tending to Mrs. Albertson when Charlotte and I and the kids got back to Green Street this morning.
That was the situation when another car pulled up outside, and another set of shoes slapped against the walkway outside. Or two. The door opened, and Jarvis burst in, trench coat flapping, followed by—
I blinked. “Charlotte?”
Well, that explained why it had taken him thirty minutes to get here, anyway. He’d been all the way in downtown Sweetwater, halfway across the county.
“Detective Jarvis was picking up Chester when you called,” Charlotte said, and stopped in front of me while Jarvis continued into the fray. “Are you OK, Savannah?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “All I did was sit there on the sofa.”
With a gun pointed at me, but given Charlotte’s ordeal this morning, it was probably better if I didn’t mention that. “Mr. Allen got the brunt of it. He attacked Enoch.”
Charlotte lowered her voice. “Is he OK?”
I wasn’t sure whether she meant Gary Allen or Enoch, but I nodded. “Fine.” And if it was Enoch and he wasn’t fine, I didn’t care. But the paramedic with the flashlight had sat back on his heels and was checking Enoch’s pulse now, so chances were Enoch was going to survive the encounter without much damage. And hopefully live a long and unhappy life behind bars. If he got real unlucky, maybe he’d end up sharing a cell with Big Ned.
“He killed Steve Morris,” I told Charlotte. “And Mrs. Oberlin. And Mrs. Burns, before we even knew this house existed. And Natalie Allen.”
She stared at him, wide-eyed. “So he’s a serial killer.”
I guess he was. Not in the sense that he only killed women with brown, shoulder length hair who wore red shirts, but he’d certainly managed to commit a series of murders. Right under everyone’s noses, too.
“We got him now,” Rafe said, and put an arm around my shoulders. “And he ain’t going nowhere. Charlotte.” He nodded to her.
She nodded back. On the other side of the sofa, Jarvis concluded a low-voiced conversation with the male paramedic and glanced at Grimaldi. She nodded.
Jarvis cleared his throat. “Carl Enoch,” he intoned, “you’re under arrest for the murder of Natalie Allen, the murder of Steven Morris, the murder of Ida Burns, and the murder of Renee Oberlin, as well as the forced imprisonment of Nancy Allen, Savannah Martin Collier, and minor child Caroline Collier. Further, you are charged with obstruction of justice in the case of Natalie Allen, reporting of false evidence in the case of Natalie Allen, perjury in the case of Natalie Allen—”
Down on the floor, Enoch groaned and dropped his head to the floor with a thud.
“Come on,” I told Charlotte. “This could take a while. I’ll drive you home.”
She nodded, and looked around the room. “It’s been a hell of a day. First I was held at gunpoint, and then you were. And now you’ve solved four murders and discovered a serial killer.”
“And the day isn’t over yet.” I winked at Rafe, who was listening to the conversation while standing by in case Jarvis needed help manhandling Enoch to the car.
His lips curled up.
“I’ll see you at home,” I told him.
“I’m looking forward to it.” His voice packed enough heat that even Charlotte blushed.
“Don’t get any ideas,” I told her, as I nudged her out the door with the baby carrier.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Although she did turn around for a last look into the living room as we passed through the door and out onto the porch. But I don’t think it was Rafe she was looking at.
“Come across the street and look at the kitchen tile before we leave,” I said, as we skirted the ambulance in the Allens’ driveway and headed toward the Volvo parked in front of our house down the street. “It turned out pretty good, if I do say so myself. Tomorrow, we can start tiling the tub surround, now that I know what I’m doing.”
Charlotte nodded. “The sooner we can get this house done and on the market, the happier I’ll be. Richard will probably spend all the money in our accounts on his legal fees, and by the time it’s all said and done, he’ll be in prison and there’ll be no money left for the kids. I need an income.”
“You’ve come to the right place,” I told her, as I led the way across the grass toward our first flip.
* * *
Keep reading for an excerpt of Savannah Martin Mystery #19, Collateral Damage, coming in 2020.
PROLOGUE
The bullet that hit Rafe came out of nowhere. One second everything was calm and copacetic—he turned to me and said, “I’ll get the baby,” before pushing his car door open—and the next, the world exploded, and he hit the side of the car and slid down, leaving a smear of blood on the window.
I screamed. Carrie started crying, and from inside the house, I could hear Pearl the p
itbull go crazy.
I would like to make you believe that my subsequent actions were calm and rational. I’d like to, but the truth is, they weren’t. I was a gibbering mess, and it’s a minor miracle that I was able to function at all, let alone do anything useful.
Nonetheless, the tiny part of my brain that was operating on a level more advanced than, “Ohmigod, my husband’s been shot!” did manage to string some elemental cautions together.
If you get out of the car, you might get shot too.
If you get shot too, the baby will be alone, and no one might show up here until tomorrow.
Call for help before you do anything else. That way, if something happens to you, at least someone will come and find Carrie.
My nose was running and my eyes were leaking, but I knew the voice was right. And although every other cell in my body was screaming to go see how badly Rafe was hurt, somehow I managed to stay where I was and get the phone out of my purse. My fingers were shaking too much to hit the buttons for 911, so I had to ask Siri to dial the number for me.
It rang once, twice, and then— “911,” the voice on the other end of the line said calmly, “what’s your emergency?”
“I need an ambulance.” My breath was hitching enough that it was hard to get the words out. “Someone shot my husband.” I rattled off the address to the Martin mansion in Sweetwater, Tennessee. I’d grown up here, so thankfully the digits were hardwired into my brain, otherwise I’m not sure I’d have been able to call them up. “He works for the Columbia PD. Notify Chief Grimaldi. And Sheriff Satterfield. And hurry.”
I dropped the phone in the console, in the middle of the operator’s exhortation that I stay on the line with her. I wished I could, I wished I didn’t have to leave the safety of the car, but Rafe was hurt, and if he died out there, alone, while I sat inside the car waiting for the ambulance to show up, I’d never forgive myself.
So I slid my door open—and I had the sense to reach up and turn off the dome light before I did it, so I wouldn’t be outlined like a silhouette in a shooting gallery. And then I slipped out on the gravel and dropped to my knees, and, ignoring the pain as the small stones dug into my skin, started crawling around the car to see what—if anything—I could do for Rafe.
Right of Redemption Page 27
