‘No. I didn’t,’ Dale denied.
Adam squinted at him. ‘You said you wondered now if the scene in which you found him really was a murder-suicide. You said that.’
‘I didn’t mean it that way!’
‘Then how did you mean it?’ Adam demanded. ‘And why didn’t you call me when you saw Butch’s photo in the paper? He killed two innocent women – that we know of – this weekend alone. We don’t know what he did in the hours since you first saw his photo.’ He thought of the three cars the college prostitutes had driven, all parked in Dale’s half-brother’s used-car lot. ‘He could have killed three more. At least. We could have avoided all of that, if you’d only called me when you first saw his photo. Dammit.’
Dale gave him a look of wounded incredulity. ‘After all this time, after all I did for you, you talk to me like this? I expected you, of all people, to have my back.’
Adam didn’t blink. ‘I guess you expected wrong.’ As a child, he’d clung to the affection and acceptance Dale had offered. As an adult, he recognized the strings attached that he hadn’t even known existed. ‘At this point, I’m not sure how we – hell, how I – can trust anything you’ve said. Ever.’
The door opened and Deacon stuck his head in. ‘Lieutenant? A word, please?’
It had to be important. Deacon would never interrupt otherwise. Adam waited quietly, emotionally drained and not wanting to waste any more energy on Dale Hanson than he already had. He still had to confront Wyatt.
Wyatt, who he’d thought had been his friend. Had he ever really known him?
Wyatt, who appeared to be involved. Had Wyatt actually killed people?
It was likely that Wyatt’s uncle Mike had attempted to abduct Mallory last night and hurt Meredith and Kate when they’d come to Mallory’s rescue. Had Mike shot at the van too? Had he shot Bruiser? Andy Gold?
Who had set Andy’s house on fire, killing a family of four?
Which of these had Wyatt done?
I knew him. Mallory’s whispered words echoed in his mind. She’d known Mike. Wyatt’s uncle had raped Mallory repeatedly. God. And Mike had accompanied a cop.
Wyatt. Was he the cop who’d raped Mallory? Who, instead of arresting her captor, had betrayed her when she’d so desperately reached out for help? It hurt to even consider. That the man he’d called friend could have done such a thing. But he had to think about it.
I have to figure this out. Wyatt was linked to Bruiser. No, Butch. Butch who’d killed Tiffany and her mother. He sucked in a breath, the truth once again hitting like a sledgehammer. Butch, who’d killed Paula. While I watched.
Adam’s stomach churned. Wyatt had watched too. Had he known that Paula was going to die? No, he couldn’t have. But if Butch had killed her? Butch, who was Wyatt’s friend? Had Wyatt known? He stood there at my side, watching.
At a minimum, they knew Butch had killed Tiffany and her mother the exact same way. Butch’s prints had been found on Tiffany’s clothing. Had Wyatt known he was going to kill the mother and daughter? Adam had to believe it was strongly possible.
‘How long has Wyatt hated me?’ Adam asked dully, not wanting the answer, but needing it.
Dale huffed bitterly. ‘From day one, I think. And you never knew. Hell of a cop you turned out to be.’
Twenty-eight
Cincinnati, Ohio,
Monday 21 December, 10.30 A.M.
Hell of a cop you turned out to be. Adam looked away, the barb striking deep.
Trip tapped the table and caught his eye. ‘Stop,’ he mouthed.
Adam’s lips curved, appreciating the intervention. He rubbed his palms over his face. His mouth was so dry and he was starting to ramp up. He’d started visualizing all the liquor stores on his way home, hating himself more with every moment that passed. Weak. You’re goddamn weak.
So don’t be. You don’t need the booze. But he did. He needed—
Trip tossed him a pack of gum, his expression knowing. Adam took a piece, ignoring the smug look that crept over Dale’s face.
‘Always thought so,’ Dale remarked lazily. ‘You thought you were better than the rest of us. Than your daddy. Than Wyatt. But you’re as much a drunk as your daddy is.’
Adam stared at him, genuinely puzzled. Don’t engage. Do not engage. ‘What are you talking about? I never thought I was better.’ Dammit. He’d engaged.
A shrug. ‘MVP of your team, college graduate, detective before you were thirty.’
Adam continued to stare. He’d barely squeaked by in all of his classes. Deacon was the brilliant one. All Adam had been good at back then was hitting a damn ball. ‘So was Wyatt. The detective part anyway.’ But Wyatt had had a four-year head start. Adam had been fast-tracked. His career had continued on the rise until he’d transferred to Personal Crimes. When everything had gone to shit. When Paula was murdered.
Wyatt had stolen his lucky glove to throw him off a baseball game. Adam had already considered that Tiffany and her mother were killed in that manner to distract him. Had Paula been killed for the same reason? Oh my God. Oh my God.
Trip knocked on the table again, this time simply arching an eyebrow.
Right, Adam thought. Stop it. He shot Trip a wry smile, earning him a sober nod as Isenberg returned to the table. Deacon waited at the door, arms crossed over his chest, looking pissed off in general.
‘Mr Hanson,’ Isenberg said formally, ‘we may have some bad news for you. A body was just found behind a dry-cleaner about two miles from the hospital where the shootout took place last night. The victim has no ID, but his clothing and the location of his wounds match those of the shooter we confronted in the hospital parking lot.’
Dale sagged into his chair, stricken. ‘Mike’s dead?’
‘We think so. Did he have any tattoos or scars?’
Dale put his right hand over his heart, as if about to recite the pledge of allegiance. ‘He had a tattoo here. A Celtic cross in flames.’
Wonderful, Adam thought numbly. A killer, a rapist, and a white supremacist to boot.
‘Then yes,’ Isenberg said, ‘the body we recovered is that of your brother. I’m very sorry for your loss.’
Dale just sat there staring at her, hand still on his heart. ‘He can’t be dead.’
‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ Isenberg said politely. ‘We’re done here, so if you’d like, one of my officers can take you either home or to the morgue to do an ID.’ Isenberg extended her hand. ‘Detective Bishop and I will walk you up front and get you a ride.’
Dale took her hand. ‘How did he die?’
‘Probably not from the wounds he received during the shootout at the hospital,’ Isenberg said, ‘but the ME will have to make that determination after the autopsy. Please come with me now.’
Adam wanted to frown, because rushing the next of kin was pretty ruthless, even for when the victim was a murderer. But he trusted Isenberg, so he kept his mouth shut.
Dale shuffled off with Isenberg, out of the room and out of view. Adam and Trip waited, while Deacon stood at the door, watching Isenberg’s progress down the hall. Finally, Deacon entered the room and went straight to the table, pulling a glove on. He picked up the coffee cup that Dale had pushed away and bagged it.
‘We’re going to need DNA for a definitive ID of the body,’ Deacon said. ‘Face is bashed in. A bloody brick was found near the body. Dental records would be of no use. Fingers are gone so no prints.’
‘And the tat?’ Trip asked.
‘Cut right out of his skin. But it was over his heart.’ He tilted his head. ‘Adam?’
Adam blinked up at Deacon, then realized his own hand was over his heart. ‘Like the scar Mallory saw,’ he said quietly. ‘Wyatt had a tattoo, a long time ago. Over his heart. He had it removed when he started the academy.’