‘I ran track in high school. Couldn’t hit a ball to save my life,’ Meredith admitted. It wasn’t entirely true, but close enough. ‘I wasn’t good enough for a scholarship, though.’
‘Neither was I,’ Hanson said ruefully. He put the photo back in his wallet, then returned his gaze to the window with a quiet sigh. ‘You don’t have to answer this, but . . .’ He sighed again. ‘If he starts to . . . need anyone, can you call me?’ He patted his pockets, then rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t have any cards with me. Do you have any paper?’
She wanted to say no, but Adam had smiled at this man, had looked happy to see him. As happy as Adam ever looked anyway. If Hanson could be a resource for Adam, far be it from her to deny them. Digging in her purse, she found a small spiral notebook, pulled out a page and handed it to him, along with the tactical pen she always carried.
It was a stainless steel pen that could puncture a man’s windpipe if it was applied with enough force. Meredith had practiced on dummies at the gym. The weapon doubled as a real pen, camouflaged by its shiny pink color, its surface covered with engraved hearts. It was her favorite pen because she could bring it into controlled environments – like on a plane, or into a courthouse or a police department – without having it taken by security.
Hanson, however, recognized its purpose immediately. He took the pen with another deep chuckle. ‘I need to get my wife one of these. Where’d you get it?’
Meredith considered denying it, then shrugged. ‘Amazon.’
‘Of course. My number,’ he said, handing her the paper and her pen.
She folded the paper and put it, the notebook, and her pen back in her purse, then changed her mind, pulling them back out. Tearing out a clean sheet of paper, she proceeded to sketch a geometric design she could color in, hoping it would be a signal to the man not to ask her anything more.
Cincinnati, Ohio,
Sunday 20 December, 5.15 A.M.
‘Got ’em back,’ Isenberg said, nodding at her laptop with a self-satisfaction that Adam thought would have been almost cute under other circumstances. Not that he would have ever called his boss cute under any circumstances. A straight arrow, both her wit and her tongue were sharper than any blade. Occasionally the humanity she held so closely in check peeked through the crusty shield she showed the world.
Like her pride when she figured out something on the computer that any five-year-old could accomplish blindfolded, like how to reestablish the Skype connection with the Chicago detectives after their call had been inexplicably interrupted.
Or when she viewed the photos and videos Chicago had taken of the crime scene and her first response had been to glance at Adam, to be sure he was all right. Because those photos were . . . difficult to look at. For anyone.
But for me? The slash across Tiffany Curtis’s throat was a definite trigger for him. And all the blood? Both in her room and in her mother’s? There was so much of it, soaking the bed, splattered on the headboard, the nightstand, the carpet. The phone that had slipped from the mother’s hand to land in a pool of her own blood?
He drew a harsh breath. Keeping his mind from drifting back to that day Paula’s throat was slit was taking all the strength he possessed. And knowing that Tiffany and her mother had been killed simply because someone wanted access to Shane Baird because Shane was connected to Andy Gold who was somehow connected to Meredith?
‘Kimble?’ Trip rumbled softly, bumping his shoulder. Trip had come in while Isenberg had still been muttering curses at her computer. ‘We’re live again.’
Adam jerked his attention back to the screen, which showed only a close-up of the knot of a man’s tie. That would be Detective Abe Reagan, nine years with Chicago Homicide. Adam had looked him up while Isenberg had been setting her laptop up for the initial call. Reagan was highly decorated, according to the articles Adam had skimmed. And most of the time the articles used his first and last names because he apparently had a brother who was also a decorated homicide detective, and whose name also started with A.
Reagan backed away from the camera, revealing a woman’s boots propped up on the table. Just visible over the boot tips was the top of his partner’s blond head with its tumbled, tangled curls and the edge of what looked like one of the crime scene photos.
‘Sorry,’ Isenberg said. ‘My laptop must have lost the connection, but we’re back.’ She gestured to Trip. ‘This is Special Agent Jefferson Triplett. He’s on our joint task force.’
‘I’m Detective Reagan.’ Reagan sat in his chair and elbowed his partner who abruptly swung her boots off the table. ‘This is Detective Mitchell.’
Mitchell was small, sturdy and, according to Adam’s Google search, also highly decorated, having received a Distinguished Service citation for bringing down a serial arsonist seven years ago. ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘What do you know, Triplett?’
‘About your scene? Not much. Do you mind repeating the high points?’
‘No, of course not,’ she said so politely, that her irritation was clear. ‘Although we’re still waiting for your connection to our case.’
‘Mia,’ Reagan murmured.
Mitchell rolled her eyes. ‘I know, I know. We play nice, they tell us stuff.’
Reagan’s lips twitched, making Adam’s do the same. ‘That’s how it works,’ Reagan said seriously, then ruined the effect by rolling his eyes.
‘Fine,’ Mitchell huffed, then sighed heavily. ‘Okay. The victims are Tiffany Curtis, twenty, and her mother, Ailene Curtis, forty-five. The intruder appeared to come in through the mother’s bedroom window.’ Mitchell’s face disappeared from the screen, a photo of a broken window appearing in its place. ‘The glass was smashed and the lock forced.’ The window photo was replaced by the scene of the mother’s body in the bloody bed.
Adam wanted to look away from the hand limply hanging over the bed, the phone in that puddle of blood on the floor. The slit throat. The disemboweled torso. But he forced himself to stare at the screen.
To not think about how that had been Paula. Who’d only been a child. A child he’d been too late to save. He could feel himself mentally scrabbling for purchase. Just thinking about Paula sent him over the edge. So stop it.
He forced himself to focus on this woman who’d lost her life simply because her daughter loaned her car to Kyle Davis, friend of Shane, friend of Andy. Who’d been coerced into attempting to kill Meredith. Shit, he thought viciously.
Trip sighed. ‘Shit.’
‘Yeah,’ Mitchell said, echoing Trip’s weary tone. ‘It was a real mess. The mother had a CPAP machine going.’
‘She probably didn’t hear her killer break the glass,’ Adam said. He’d missed that the first time because he’d been fighting to keep his control. He was listening now, and didn’t miss the relief in Isenberg’s eyes. He gave her a slight nod. Yeah, yeah, I’m back. ‘Those machines are loud.’
‘Exactly,’ Reagan said. The wide-angled photo of the bed changed to a close-up of the body and Adam steeled himself, forcing his gaze not to flick away. To look.
He maintained his focus until Trip sucked in a breath through his nose. ‘Shit,’ Trip said again, this time in a sad whisper.
Adam broke away, finding Meredith through the window. Drinking her in. She was safe and unharmed. He kept telling himself that, over and over until the wave of panic receded. A movement caught his eye, a figure standing by the desk where she sat and he had to smile. Wyatt Hanson.
Wyatt was his oldest friend that was not related to him, by red blood anyway. Adam’s mother and Deacon and Dani’s mother had been sisters, but he and Wyatt were related through blue blood. Their fathers had been patrol partners, once upon a time, and he and Hanson had carried the tradition to the next generation.
Isenberg caught Adam’s stare and leaned around her laptop to follow his gaze. ‘Ah, Detective Hanson is here. Good.’
‘He’s here to see you?’ Adam asked, oddly disappointed.