Last Breath (19 page)

EIGHTEEN

C
onnor paused to secure the dead bolt on the front door, then walked quietly into the sitting room next to the foyer to turn off the lamp that had been left lit for him. He smiled to himself. He'd lived alone for so many years, had spent so much time alone, that the thought that someone had left a light on for him warmed his heart. He made his way to the back of the house to check the doors and windows. All secure.

He turned when he heard Sweet Thing scratching at the door between the kitchen and the front hall, and he swung the door open for her.

“What's up, girl? Need a quick trip out?”

The dog went directly to the back door.

“I'm taking that as a yes.”

Connor turned on the lights on the back porch, and for a moment, he hesitated, and considered putting Sweet Thing on her leash before deciding against it. The leash was in the kitchen on the counter, and the dog was scratching at the door. Besides, there wouldn't be much foot traffic out there tonight. He needn't worry about the dog chasing anyone.

He opened the door and Sweet Thing shot out. By the time Connor reached the bottom step, the dog had disappeared around the corner of the house.

“Hey, girl, where are you going?”

A loud growl came from around the side of the house. Seconds later, he heard Sweet Thing snarling, and then a high-pitched scream.

Connor followed the sound to the stand of evergreens outside the glassed-walled conservatory that ran along the side of the house. He called the dog's name, and the snarling stopped, but the dog refused to leave the base of the pine she was anxiously pawing. Connor looked up and saw a figure less than eight feet overhead.

“Come down now, slowly. And when you hit the ground, I want you facedown in the dirt.”

The figure did not move.

“I'm going to say this one more time.” He drew his gun. “And if you don't come down on your own, I'll shoot you down. Understand?”

“It bit me! The dog bit me!”

“If you don't start coming down from that tree, you're going to have more than a dog bite to worry about.”

“Make the dog go away.” The voice from the tree was smaller, younger than Connor had been expecting. “Make it go away, and then I'll come down.”

Connor called the dog to him. This time, she obeyed and sat at his feet.

“Come down slowly, and step over here where I can see you.”

“You have a gun.”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to shoot me?”

“Only if you don't come down and do as I say. Lie on the ground, facedown, hands behind your back.”

The figure came down slowly, then backed away from the pine.

“Out here, away from the trees.” Connor gestured with the gun. “Facedown on the grass.”

“Connor, what the hell is going on out there?” Mia stood at the corner of the house. She took a few steps closer, then asked, “And why are you holding a gun on that kid?”

         

Chief Thorpe slammed the back door of the patrol car and turned to Connor. “You want to follow me down to the station? I'm assuming you're going to want to do most of the questioning.”

“I do, thanks.” Connor watched the car carrying the young boy pull away from the front of the house. “Think you could spare a man to keep an eye on the house here until I get back?”

“Sure.” Thorpe turned and waved to a young patrol officer who was chatting with two others down near the parking lot. “O'Brien. I need you and your partner to watch the house until Agent Shields is finished with the suspect. Get Officer Silver up here with you.”

“Yes, sir.” The officer went off in search of his partner.

“I'm going to run inside and make sure the house is secured, but I should be right behind you, Chief,” Connor told him.

“I'll see you at the station.” Thorpe nodded and headed off for his vehicle.

Connor ran up the back steps of the house and into the kitchen where Daria and Mia were seated at the table, the dog between them like a large brown-and-white statue.

“You've got yourself a pretty damned good watchdog,” he told Daria. “She knew that kid was out there, made a beeline for the trees the minute I opened the door.”

“Who is he?” Daria frowned. “And why was he watching the house?”

“That's what I'm going to find out.” He slipped his gun back into his holster. “There are two Howeville cops outside to keep an eye on you until I get back. I doubt there's going to be any more activity tonight, so I suggest you two go back to bed. Tomorrow's going to be a busy day.”

“Why's that?” Daria asked.

“Because we have a meeting with Mr. Cavanaugh at his house, if you feel up to a drive.”

“I'm up to it, yes, definitely.” She nodded.

“Who's Mr. Cavanaugh?” Mia asked.

“An antiques dealer who might have sold one of the artifacts to one of the victims,” he told her. To Daria, he said, “Go back to sleep. Get some rest.”

She nodded again and the two women started out of the room.

“Come on, Sweet Thing,” Daria called to the dog. “My hero…good girl!”

“Hey,” Connor said as she was about to push open the swinging door. “Thanks for leaving the light on.”

Daria smiled and met his eyes. “Anytime.”

         

Connor took a seat at the table across from the boy and studied his face. Dark eyes, deeply set and filled with fear. Long thin nose, round face, wide mouth, tanned skin. Well, that wasn't unusual. It was, after all, August. The boy was tall and slim and of an indeterminable age, and according to Chief Thorpe hadn't opened his mouth since they arrived at the police station, where he was shown into this small room with the glass wall.

“What's your name, son?” Connor asked. No response.

“How old are you?”

Nothing.

“Want to tell me why you were hiding in the bushes outside Dr. McGowan's house?”

The boy's eyes seemed to narrow, but he did not speak. He sat with his arms flat on the table.

Connor held up the cell phone that had been taken from the boy's pants pocket.

“How about you tell me whose number this is programmed into your phone?” Connor pretended to study the number. “This the only number you ever call? Don't you have any other friends?”

It was like talking to a stone wall.

The kid scratched at his left forearm with his right hand. He acted as if he were the only person in the room.

“Have it your way, kid,” Connor said as he got up from the table.

He met Thorpe in the hallway.

“I see you had about as much luck as we did,” Thorpe told him.

“Someone trained him well. He's not offering a damned thing.” Connor handed Thorpe the cell phone. “No luck, I'm guessing, tracing the number?”

“Prepaid to prepaid. There's no record of anything. We called the number several times. The first two times, a man answered, but nothing after that.”

“He could have figured out that his little buddy here had been picked up.”

“That's what I'm thinking.”

They walked back into the room from which Thorpe had watched Connor and the boy. They both looked through the glass, but the boy sat still as a stone.

“You took his prints?” Connor asked.

“First thing we did.”

“You run them against the prints you took from the library?”

“Not yet, but we will.”

“Start with the prints you took from the basement door,” Connor said, “then ask New Castle to run them against the prints taken from the Cross murder scene. Particularly the prints from the patio door.”

Thorpe turned to stare at Connor.

“The boy has marks on his arm that look like a dog bite. The detective from Delaware told me the blood type from the back door of Cross's house did not match the victim's. When I opened the door of the house tonight, Sweet Thing took off like a rocket.”

“Sweet Thing?” The chief raised his eyebrows.

“She's the dog we found at the Cross scene and brought back…that is, Dr. McGowan brought back, rather than have it taken to a shelter,” Connor explained. “The dog smelled that kid the second I opened the door. She knew his scent. She's normally a really sweet dog, Chief, but she took off like a bat out of hell. She did get a nip in, but I'm guessing it's no big deal if he hasn't complained about it.”

“He hasn't even mentioned it.”

“There's no telling what she would have done to him if he hadn't gotten himself up that tree when he did.”

“So you're thinking this kid was at the scene of the Cross murder?” Thorpe rubbed his chin. “You're thinking the dog bit him on the arm at Cross's?”

Connor nodded. “Let's start with the fingerprints, see if they match. I'd love to see if his blood matches the blood on Cross's door, but there's no way he's going to give us a sample.”

“We can get his DNA off that cup he just drank from and test it against the DNA from the blood smear,” the chief suggested.

“DNA takes too long. I can send it to the Bureau labs and beg a tech I know to rush it through, but we're still talking days. I'm not saying don't do it, I'm just saying that isn't going to give us what we need now.” Connor stood and stared through the window at the boy. He turned back to the chief and said, “If we can put him at the murder scene, maybe we can get him to talk. Get him to tell us who he's working with.”

“Whose number is programmed into that cell phone.”

“Right.”

“Too bad the dog can't talk,” Thorpe said. “Tell us just what happened that night.”

Connor turned and stared at Thorpe as if he'd said something brilliant. “I'm not so sure she can't…”

NINETEEN

“W
here did they take him?” She stood in the dim light, anger radiating off her like heat.

“I'm assuming to the police station in Howeville,” replied the man who sat on the chair near the fireplace. He was taller than her by almost a foot, and outweighed her by seventy pounds. He was terrified of her.

“If he talks…”

The man shook his head. “He will not talk. We have discussed this possibility many times. I'd bet my life on it.”

“You already have.” She turned away and paced in a circle.

“I've done everything you've asked of me. I've retrieved every one of the sacred artifacts you sent me after.”

“All but one,” she reminded him. “There's still that woman in Massachusetts. You let her get away.”

“The FBI got there before we did.”

“You should have moved faster. You gave them too much time.”

Or you could have figured out sooner that you could locate some of the collectors by using the Internet, instead of stealing Daria McGowan's list.
But of course, he dared not say that. The priestess was neither a tolerant nor a forgiving woman.

“I'll take care of her,” he said.

“What's the point? The FBI has the necklace.”

“But shouldn't she still be punished?” He was puzzled by her sudden lack of interest in the woman. Hadn't she still sinned by having a sacred object in her possession? “And what of Dr. McGowan? Shouldn't she be punished for what her great-grandfather did?”

“Let me think.” She barely heard him, and dismissed him with the wave of her hand as she continued to pace.

She needed a plan. She needed to focus.

But most of all, she needed to insure that there was no way any of this could ever be traced back to her.

TWENTY

“C
onnor, what the hell are you doing?” Mia came into the kitchen carrying an empty coffee cup.

“Collecting evidence.” He sat on the floor, a sheet of white computer paper in front of him on the old linoleum, Sweet Thing sitting as nicely as could be. Connor leaned closer, the scissors in his right hand, his left hand holding the dog's jaw upright.

“Connor? What are you…?” Daria asked from the doorway.

“Come here and hold her head for me,” he said without looking up.

Daria walked over and placed a hand on the dog's head.

“What are you doing, Connor?” she repeated.

“I need to cut some of the fur from around her mouth,” he told her. “Would you please hold her head?”

Daria did as he asked, speaking softly to the dog, who really didn't appear to be too distressed.

“Does she have a mat?” Daria asked. “I didn't notice a mat.”

“No, but what she does have is a different color in the fur around her mouth than on the rest of her body. See?” He pointed with his index finger. “The brown here is a little lighter.”

“Funny, I didn't notice that before,” she said.

“It wasn't there until late last night.”

“I don't get it.”

“It's dried blood. From where she nipped the prowler.”

He concentrated on snipping the bits of fur where the brown was darkest.

“I know you have a point, but you've lost me.”

“I think the blood from the handprint on Damien Cross's back door came from the kid we picked up here last night. I think when he and whoever he's working with killed Cross, he was attacked by Sweet Thing. She bit his arm. His arm would have bled down onto his hand. When he opened the back door to run out and get away from the dog, he left a print.” Satisfied that he had all he needed, Connor carefully folded the paper and stuck it in his shirt pocket. “He also left blood in the dog's mouth last night.”

Mia leaned closer to look. “It does look like dried blood.”

“What made you even think of that?” Daria asked.

“While I was questioning the kid—or trying to, because he isn't speaking—I noticed the puncture marks on his arm. Looked like a dog bite to me. It wasn't hard to connect those dots.”

“That's why she took off after him last night. She remembered.” Daria patted the dog's head. “What a smart girl you are.”

“A dog isn't likely to forget the scent of someone who killed her master.” Mia nodded. “So you're going to match the blood from her fur to the blood on the door at the victim's house, to put him at the scene of the Cross murder.”

“Yes. And then we're going to match the marks on his arm to Sweet Thing's bite. All nice and tidy.” Connor stood up and put the scissors on the counter. He went to the cupboard and got a biscuit to reward the dog for her very good behavior.

“Won't you have to get a warrant for that?” Mia asked.

“We have two jurisdictions here. The murder we want to match the blood to is in Delaware. The kid, however, is here in PA, being held on trespassing and prowling charges. I think the warrant to match the bite marks is going to have to come from Coliani in New Castle. He's going to the DA this morning to see if he can get the warrant now, or if the kid has to be transferred to Delaware first. But red tape aside, I think we'll be able to get the kid to crack before we have to match the bite marks. We'll let him know we have his DNA from the cup he drank from, and we'll tell him that we matched it to blood we found at the scene. Now we have his blood from last night, and I'm certain it will match up to the blood on Damien Cross's back door. Is he going to want to take the fall for this? I doubt it.” Connor gave Sweet Thing another treat. “I think at that point, we can get him to give up whoever is calling the shots.”

“You don't think this kid did the killings by himself?” Mia asked.

“No way, unless he drugged them, and there was no indication of that in the autopsy reports. I see the kid as an accomplice, willing or unwilling. He isn't the one behind this, and that's the person we want.” He turned to Daria. “Can you be ready to leave in fifteen minutes or so?”

“I thought we didn't have to be at Cavanaugh's until noon?”

“We don't, but we're going to have to stop at the New Castle County police station. I already left a message for Coliani. I want to turn the clippings from Sweet Thing over to him and I want to see if he knows of a vet in his area who can do the impression from the dog's mouth. It's his murder scene, his jurisdiction. He should be handling the evidence.”

“How long will they keep her?” Daria knelt and put an arm around the dog's neck. Sweet Thing's pink tongue unfurled like a small flag and licked the side of Daria's face. “When will we be able to get her back?”

“I guess it will depend on when the vet has time to do the impression. They might have to sedate her to do that.”

“But she'll be okay, right?”

“I'm sure she'll be fine.” Seeing that Daria still appeared uneasy, Connor added, “Hey, she's the star witness. They're going to take good care of her.”

“All right. Give me five minutes to change, and I'll be ready to go.”

“Listen, if you don't need me for the rest of the day, I think I'd like to head back to St. Dennis,” Mia said after Daria left the room. “The weekends are so busy there, with all the tourists, and I promised Vanessa I'd help her out in her shop. The girl who usually works for her is on vacation.”

“Vanessa?” Connor asked absently.

“Beck's sister. She owns a boutique there on the main street, and does a lot of business this time of the year. The weekends are especially busy.”

“I think I can handle things from here.” Connor took a glass from the cupboard and filled it at the sink. “How is Beck, by the way? That working out for you?”

“Couldn't be better, actually. I'm trying to take things slow, but you know how these things are.” Mia smiled.

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

Mia's smile widened. “I guess you're learning, anyway.”

His cell phone rang just as he opened his mouth to reply.

“Answer your phone, Con.” Mia laughed. “I'm going to go upstairs and pack.”

“Shields. Yes, Detective, thanks for calling me back…”

         

“Maybe we should go with her to the vet,” Daria said to Vince Coliani in the parking lot at the New Castle County police station. “She might get upset. Maybe she'll think we've abandoned her.”

“She's going to be just fine,” the detective assured her. “Dr. Price is great with dogs. We take our K9s to her.”

“We can come back and pick her up later today if she's finished?” Daria asked.

“The vet didn't think she'd get around to the impression until pretty late in the day. She has two surgeries this afternoon,” he told her. “But don't worry. We'll take good care of her, and you'll have her back by tomorrow, no later.”

“Okay. Sweet Thing, you behave yourself.” Daria gave the dog a parting hug and got into Connor's car. “We'll see you in the morning.”

Connor handed the fur he'd cut from Sweet Thing's neck over to the detective. “Here's the dog hair I told you about. Get your lab guys to compare the blood on it to the blood on the door.”

“Great. Hey, I owe you one,” Coliani said.

“Get me a match and we'll both be happy,” Connor said as he got into the car.

Daria looked out the window as Connor turned the car around.

“She'll be fine, Daria. I promise.”

“I wasn't going to say anything.”

“You've really become attached to her.”

Daria nodded. “I really have. I hope I can keep her.”

“Coliani said no one's even stepped forward to ask about the dog. Cross had one nephew; he made arrangements for the body to be transferred to a funeral parlor in Virginia when the medical examiner releases it, which will probably happen today. But there wasn't a word said about the dog.”

“Maybe the detective can tell me who I have to talk to to adopt her.”

“I'm thinking possession is good enough at this point. I doubt anyone's going to challenge you.”

“Good. That would be good.” Daria rested her head against the back of the seat. “Tell me again where Mr. Cavanaugh lives.”

“Outside of West Chester. It's not far from here. He said to come up Route 202. Which according to that sign, is right here.”

Connor followed the signs that led them onto a heavily commercial stretch of road that ran several miles through Delaware and into Pennsylvania.

“Did you ever get that package of material from your mother? The one with the PI reports about your brother?”

“What made you think of that?” she asked.

“I don't know.” Connor waited for a moment, and when she didn't answer the question, he said, “Well, did you?”

“It came yesterday or the day before. Vita dropped it off right after Mia and I got home yesterday. The mailman evidently left it at the administration building.”

“When were you going to give it to me?”

“When things slowed down a bit. I figured you have your hands full. I didn't want to bother you.”

“It's no bother. Did you look through it?”

“I started to yesterday, but to tell you the truth, reading gave me a headache.”

“How's your head now?”

“Much better. I took some of the pain meds after breakfast and the throbbing is pretty much gone.”

“Good.” He maneuvered the Porsche around a tractor trailer and settled back into the right lane. Traffic was heavy and the road wasn't particularly smooth, so he did what he could to keep Daria's head from bouncing around too much.

“Connor, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“What happened to your brother?”

“Dylan?” Connor slowed for the light. “He died.”

“I know that. How did he die?”

“What brought this up?”

“Just something Mia said.”

“What did she say?”

“That I'd have to ask you about him. As if she didn't want to talk about it.”

“I imagine she didn't.” Connor took a deep breath. “Dylan was murdered by Mia's brother, Brendan.”

Daria's jaw dropped. She tried in vain for several seconds to close it.

“But they were—”

“Yeah, cousins. Yes, they were.” Connor's jaw tightened and she wished she could see his eyes behind those dark glasses. “You know how every family has a black sheep? Brendan was ours.”

He pulled in front of a green pickup and gunned the engine. “The thing is, Brendan hadn't wanted to kill Dylan. That was a mistake. The person he'd wanted to kill—the person he thought he was shooting—was me.”

“God, Connor.” She tried not to gasp. “But why?”

“Long story short, I saw something he didn't want me to see. I was in Central America on a job, and ran into him while something very bad was going down. He told me he was on the case for the Bureau, that he was shutting down the local operation. I believed him. Later, he and his partner realized it was only a matter of time before I found out that there was no FBI operation. He set me up when I was supposed to be working a drug bust, but there was a change of plans, and Dylan worked that job in my place.”

“What was the bad thing he was into?”

“Selling children on the black market.”

“My God…”

Connor fell silent then. They drove for several miles without speaking.

Finally, Daria said, “Why do you feel responsible for your brother's death?”

It was a question he had heard before. He'd heard it more times than he'd like to think about, and had never bothered to reply. Not to his brother, Aidan, or his cousin Andrew, or to Mia. Nor to Annie, the woman Dylan had been engaged to when he died. He'd tried to blow off the others, but Annie was a psychologist and wouldn't permit him to bully her.

He was trying to decide if he wanted to bully Daria into shutting up when she reached over and grasped the hand that was resting on the gear shift.

Neither of them spoke until they arrived at Cavanaugh's.

“This is it here, I think,” Connor said. “Number 438 Broad Run Road.”

He turned into the drive and followed it up a slight incline until he reached the house, set well back from the road. It was gray stucco and stone, three stories high, and surrounded by tall trees.

Connor parked near the walk that ran next to the drive and before he could say anything, Daria was out of the car.

“It's beautiful here, isn't it? Did you notice that pretty stream when we pulled in?” She gazed around admiringly. “Like a painting.”

He was about to respond when a short, balding, jovial-looking man in a yellow polo shirt and lime green pants came down the walk.

“Agent Shields, I'm guessing,” he called out as he approached.

Connor removed his ID from his pocket and held it up for inspection as the man drew near.

“Mr. Cavanaugh?” Connor asked.

“Yes, yes, let me have a look at that.” He appeared to study it before handing it back. “You're wondering if I know how to tell if it's real or not. Well, I can tell you that I do. I have a good friend in your Philadelphia office. Jack Gaffney, you know him?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Well, he works with the art-theft people. I met him many years ago when he was trying to track down some forged Wyeth watercolors. Damned scandal, that was.” He turned to Daria. “You an agent, too?”

“No, sir. I'm an archaeologist,” Daria told him.

“That so. Well, then come on in. You wanted to talk to me about Elena Sevrenson.” He shook his head with obvious sadness. “Damned fine woman, Elena was. One of my favorite customers. Not just because she bought a lot, and didn't mind paying top dollar for what she wanted. No, sir. Elena had a real appreciation for the things she collected. Didn't buy a thing she didn't love, didn't matter how trendy or how unfashionable. She bought what she loved. Art and artifacts she respected. Her husband was the same way when he was alive. God rest their souls. I miss them both, and I don't mind saying it.”