Tension tightened his skin. Something was wrong.
Because the rest of the messages were from numbers he didn’t know. He clicked on one of the voicemails.
‘This is Lisette Cauldwell from the Ledger. We’d like to get a statement on the recent CPD bulletin naming you as a person of interest. Please call me back at 513-555-6220.’
He sat frozen for a moment. What the fuck? Person of interest? What the fuck?
He shook himself into action, bringing up the CPD webpage, then stared at his phone screen in shocked disbelief. I’m done. I’m fucking done. Because the face staring back from the CPD webpage was his own.
He was a ‘person of interest’ in his own damn case.
How? How had they gone from ‘it’s a cop,’ to ‘it’s Wyatt Hanson’?
More importantly, how could he fix this? How could he redirect the attention back to Currie? Or was it too late? No. Stop it. That’s quitter talk. I don’t give up. Ever.
What had he missed? Mallory hadn’t described him – he would have known that last night. They hadn’t found Linnea. That would have been all over the scanner.
He leaned his head back against the seat, mentally checking the list of everything Adam and his merry band had learned last night. Not Mike’s blood. There was nothing to compare it to because Mike had never been arrested, even though he’d deserved it far more times than he could count.
Mike escaped arrest because I saved his ass every single time, the fucker.
There was nothing on file to connect him to Mike. His heart skipped a beat. Except the rifle. The one he’d used to kill Andy Gold and that Mike had used to off Butch. The rifle whose serial number had been filed away by Mike years ago.
Quincy Taylor had been planning to try raising the serial number. He must have succeeded. I should have gone to the lab last night and sabotaged the rifle. But dealing with Mike had seemed more pressing. Then wiping out Mike’s used car dealership.
His shoulders sagged. The rifle would connect Mike to his father. And to Adam’s father. He wondered if the cops had talked to his father yet and what his father would say.
He took a chance and dialed his father’s landline, listening to it ring and ring. And ring. His father wasn’t home. His father was always home. He was too blind now to drive himself. Someone had picked him up. Couldn’t have been Rita. He’d forbidden her to have anything to do with the old man since they’d had a falling-out. Sanctimonious old prick.
Dale would tell the cops everything he knew, just to get back at him. And the old man probably already had. And then he’d probably told everyone how Adam fucking Kimble would have done everything so much better.
‘Fuck you, John,’ he snarled aloud. Fuck you for pushing Adam out of the way. Fuck you for having a conscience at the worst possible time. But that didn’t change reality. Kimble was still alive and probably leading the charge against him.
So what do I do? Cut and run or stay and fight?
He looked at his face on CPD’s website once again and had to accept the bitter truth. He wasn’t going to be able to pull this one out in the bottom of the ninth like he had before.
He needed to run. Fortunately, he’d been planning for this moment for decades. Living an upstanding life within his police officer means meant he hadn’t spent the money he’d been pulling in hand over fist. Not like Mike had, which had kept his uncle cutting corners and skimming to get by.
Fucking Mike. Goddammit.
Focus. He had millions stashed away in his offshore accounts. He needed access to some of that cash. Now. And then he needed to get over the border before his status changed from ‘person of interest’ to ‘wanted for murder.’
He would have loved to hurt Adam Kimble one final time but he couldn’t afford the time nor the risk. Once he got away and settled? There were always paid hits.
I can afford it. Because it was no longer about stopping or even distracting an investigation. This was payback. I have to leave everything behind. And Kimble got to stay.
Pulling the SUV back onto the country road, he headed for home. His alternate passports were in his home safe. At least Rita wouldn’t be home. Today was her weekly appointment with her hairdresser. No answering questions with near-truths and almost-lies. No messy goodbyes.
He’d find a new home and start over.
Cincinnati, Ohio,
Monday 21 December, 10.10 A.M.
Dale Hanson sat up in his chair when Adam came into the interview room. He smelled like a brewery and clearly hadn’t slept. He looked sad and a little drunk. A lot guilty and upset. But not at all surprised. More resigned.
‘Adam.’ He pushed aside a half-drunk cup of coffee. ‘I didn’t expect to see you. I thought it would be the other two. Deacon and the girl.’
Adam frowned, compelled to demand respect for Scarlett. ‘She’s not a girl. She’s Detective Bishop. And she’s a damn good cop.’
‘Whatever.’ Dale blinked as Isenberg and Trip entered the room. ‘Who are they?’
Adam took the chair nearest Dale and wished like hell for a drink. Just the fumes coming off the older man were fucking with his self-control. It was like Dale had bathed in booze with his clothes on.
It occurred to Adam that Deacon and Scarlett had to have known Dale had been drinking. How could they have ridden in the same car and not known? Still, they hadn’t said anything. Deacon knew how Adam felt about Dale. Knew he’d need to see it for himself.
‘Lieutenant Isenberg and Special Agent Triplett,’ Adam said, pointing at each one.
‘You don’t seem surprised to have been brought downtown, Mr Hanson,’ Isenberg remarked. ‘Why is that?’
Dale swallowed hard. ‘Because I’ve been expecting you.’
It was like a physical blow. ‘Since?’ Adam managed to murmur.
‘Since yesterday morning when I saw Butch’s picture on the computer. And again last night. Stayed up all night waiting for the knock on the door.’
Adam frowned, startled because they’d brought him in because of the rifle, not because of Butch, whoever he was. ‘Who is Butch?’
‘Butch Gilbert,’ Dale said. ‘The guy that got shot downtown last night.’
‘Bruiser,’ Adam murmured.
Dale laughed again, a jarring, scraping sound. ‘That’s a good name for him. I didn’t know he was still around. Not until I saw the computer. I can’t read the paper anymore, but I can blow the print and pictures up on the computer if I use my peripheral. I’m not advanced that far. Yet.’
Adam frowned. ‘Wait. You saw him online yesterday morning? We didn’t post his photo until the afternoon. The only group posting his photo yesterday morning was Chicago PD, as part of their murder investigation.’
Dale gave a wan smile. ‘I watch the reports. Like to keep my mind sharp, even if my eyes are going. I nearly called you. A hundred times.’
‘Then why didn’t you call me if you knew who he was?’
‘I saw Wyatt in the photos with you at the crime scene. I figured he told you.’
Which didn’t account for the hours before, when he knew Chicago PD was searching for the man. For murder.
‘Who is he, Mr Hanson?’ Isenberg asked.
‘Other than a lying, cheating, and now killing sack of shit on two legs?’ Hanson huffed out a harsh breath. ‘He was a kid, who I didn’t think was so bad. Once.’ He rubbed his forehead wearily and glanced at Isenberg. ‘You know I adopted Wyatt?’
Isenberg nodded. ‘Detective Kimble told us.’
‘I found him, you know. Wyatt. Hiding in a closet, a scared little kid. His family was dead. Murder-suicide.’ Dale paused, pain skittering across his face. ‘Or so I thought.’
Adam frowned. ‘Or so you thought? What does that mean?’