Gone. “Son of a bitch,” she muttered. “This can’t be happening.”
“How’d she know?” Carmine asked. “You think somebody tipped her?”
Micki looked at him, his stunned expression. “The third queen, Angelo. She knew I was suspicious and must have realized we wouldn’t be able to overcome a third. That it’d be enough for a warrant.” She let out a frustrated breath. “I should have anticipated this.”
“You and me both.” He checked the time. “Let’s get a couple cruisers to her residence, maybe we’re not too—”
“Detective Dare?” She turned to the uniformed officer standing in the doorway to Blackwood’s office. “I think you’d better come see this.”
An envelope on Blackwood’s desk. Micki’s name printed neatly on its front. A chill moved over her. She picked it up, slid out the single sheet of unlined paper.
My condolences.
Better luck next time, Detective.
Carmine came to stand beside her. She handed him the sheet of paper. “We’re too late.”
He muttered an oath and handed it back. “We’ll get her, Dare. Maybe not today, but we’ll get her.”
He was right. Where could Blackwood go that they couldn’t track her? Credit cards, cell phones, social security number, everything left a trail to follow.
Then why did she have this uneasy feeling in the pit of her gut? Like she’d not just been bested, but stripped naked as well?
Chapter Twenty
8:10 P.M.
The smell of the pizza had Micki’s mouth watering. She’d gone all out and gotten the ‘kitchen sink’ pie and a six pack of Abita Amber, although she didn’t know at this point whether the overindulgence was to celebrate or to lick her wounds.
Major Nichols had lauded her tenacity and instincts. There had been backslapping and high fives from her new colleagues at the Eighth. BOLO had been issued; subpoenas issued to trace every account number or address that had ever been attached to Dr. Renee Blackwood. The search for Blackwood’s known associates, be they friends, family members, teachers, lovers, colleagues had begun. No one would be missed.
But all that didn’t change the fact that Blackwood had slipped through her fingers. It stung. Bad. Micki was looking forward to kicking back, stuffing herself with pizza, numbing her brain with the brew, and letting Hank talk his magic.
He always had a way of putting things in perspective.
She was later than she had expected. Lights glowed from his front window. Micki climbed out of her vehicle, juggling the six-pack and extra-large pizza box.
“Yo, Hank!” she called, thumping the door with her elbow. “Open up. My hands are full.”
She waited a couple minutes, then tried again.
Still no answer.
Setting down the beer, then the pie, she dug her key out and opened the door. The TV was on; sounded like water running in the kitchen. No wonder he hadn’t heard her.
She collected their dinner, found it a home on the coffee table, then grabbed the television remote. “For the love of God,” she called, hitting the mute button, “you going deaf, old man?”
Silence. Except for the water.
A fully open faucet. Pouring out.
My condolences.
Better luck next time, Detective.
Micki’s heart jumped to her throat. It didn’t mean anything, she told herself.
But she knew. She knew.
Heart in her throat, she ran for the kitchen. And found him sprawled on the floor in front of the sink. Ghostly white, mouth agape, eyes open, blue gaze lifeless.
“No.” The word shuddered past her lips; she sank to her knees beside him. Micki laid her head on his chest. No steady thump of his heart, no warmth. Cool to the touch. Stiff.
Rigor mortis.
She curled her fingers around his big hand as best she could, remembering the comfort she used to take in his doing the same to her. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. Rolled down her cheeks.
How would it feel to lose what you hold most dear?
Like this, Micki acknowledged. Grief, an icy river, seeping into her bones, numbing her from the inside out. Splitting her wide. Exposing her for what she now was.
Alone.
She called Angelo. He came right away. Pried her away from Hank so the paramedics could get to him.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I found him this way.”
“No sign of violence. No marks on the body. Looks like natural causes.”
“No. Blackwood killed him.” Her voice sounded hollow, even to her own ears. “She asked me who I held most dear, what I would do without him.”
“Dare, Micki, how—”
“She did it because I found her out.”
He didn’t argue. Not then, not now two days later when the pathologist’s report came back.
Cardiac arrest, it said. A bad ticker.
“This can’t be right,” she said, scanning the report. “They missed something. They had to have.”
Her hands shook. Angelo took the report from her and set it aside. “We’re going to find Blackwood. And when we do, if she had anything to do with his death, we’ll find out.”
“Not if,” Micki said. “Somehow, Blackwood killed him. Someday I’ll prove it.”