Authors: Lisa Gardner
The Third Victim (34 page)
“He would’ve gone after you that night,” Quincy said gently.
“But that’s the point, Quincy. I’ll never know. I killed him first, and that makes me no better.”
“Rainie—”
She held up a hand. “No platitudes. I did my deed. Now I’m going to get to pay for that. Responsibility and accountability. They’re not such bad things. You know why I dug him up that night?”
“Why?”
“Because I was afraid Richard Mann would take him away from me. When we first got the call about a man bragging that he had proof I’d killed my mother . . . I don’t know. I just flashed to Lucas, under my deck, and this strange dream I’d had the night before of a man standing there, the man in black. Suddenly, I was terrified. That it had been the killer on my back deck. That he had discovered the body and when I walked into Dave Duncan’s hotel room, that would be the first thing I’d see—Lucas’s corpse waiting to greet me. But then I walked in, and the room was empty, and . . . I realized I wasn’t relieved. In fact, I was even more anxious. What if he still knew, what if he’d taken the body, and then . . . then I’d have no proof of what I’d done, and I needed that proof. I needed to confess what happened. Danny had made that clear to me.”
“So what happens now, Rainie?”
She had to take a moment. In spite of her best intentions, the answer to that question made her throat close up. She worked on clearing it. She still sounded husky as she said, “The mayor asked me to resign last week.”
Quincy looked immediately pained.
“You know,” she said more briskly, “there’s just something about a cop with a corpse under her deck that people don’t like. And here I’d finally managed to impress a tight-ass like Sanders. But Luke’s in charge now. He’ll do a good job.”
“You could move, start over someplace else.”
“Not if I plead guilty. Things like that are hard to explain away during a job interview. ‘What do you feel is your biggest weakness?’ ‘Uhh, last time I was pissed off and under stress, I shot a man.’” She shook her head in disgust.
“Is that why you want to plead guilty?” Quincy asked levelly. “To punish yourself further?”
“I
killed
someone!”
“Who raped you and shot your mother, all within forty-eight hours. Post-traumatic stress syndrome. Dissociative state. These aren’t magical terms psychologists have come up with to confuse juries, Rainie. They are genuine syndromes, well documented and well known, as your lawyer can tell you. You were seventeen years old. You were frightened. And Lucas came back to get you. Your lawyer is right—there isn’t a jury in this world that will find you guilty. Now how can twelve strangers have more faith in you, Rainie, than you do?”
Rainie couldn’t answer. Her throat had closed up again. She looked down and resolutely studied the cracks on the sidewalk.
“If you really want to move on with your life, Rainie,” Quincy said gently, “move on. Forgive yourself. Go to trial and give the jury a chance to forgive you as well. You’re a good person. You’re a great police officer. Ask anyone in Bakersville. Ask Sanders. Ask Luke. Ask me. I’m an arrogant federal agent, and I would be honored to work with you again.”
“Oh shut up, Quincy. Now you’re making me cry.” He was. She dabbed at the corners of her eyes and sniffled roughly. Damn fed.
“What are you going to do?”
“You might have a point.”
“Of course I have a point. I’m the expert.”
“I still have so much to learn.”
“Rainie—”
“No, don’t say it.”
“How do you know what I’m going to say?” He tried to reach for her. She stepped out of his grasp, already shaking her head.
“Because I do! Because for a man who’s been to so many crime scenes, you still have a romantic view of life. But it’ll never work, so just don’t say it.” She made a firm no-crossing signal with her hands.
“I want to take you out to dinner,” he said calmly.
“You are such an ass!”
“I’m promising lo mein, with green tea. I’m hoping this time we’ll both eat.”
“For chrissakes, you’re not staying, Quincy. You’re an agent. You love your job. You’re good at your job. I’m just a stop along the way.”
“I could stop a lot. It’s the advantage of being a big shot.”
“Why? To watch me cash my unemployment checks?”
“Rainie—”
“It’s true and we both know it! You’re . . . you, Quincy. You know who you are and where you’re going and that’s great. But I’m me. And me is a mess. I liked being a cop. God, I liked being a cop. I don’t . . . I don’t know what comes next. I have to figure it out. And I guess I have to go through a trial. And I can’t do that with you watching. I liked being your coworker. I won’t be your charity case.”
“Rainie.” He sounded exasperated. Then he simply sounded sincere. “I
missed
you these last two weeks. I drove myself crazy thinking about you. People said only civil things to me, and I honestly resented it. I wanted you instead.”
Rainie shook her head again. He was not making this easy for her. She felt longing. In all honesty, she felt pain. The scent of his cologne haunted her. It made her want to lean into his hard frame. He would hold her. He had done so that night, and it was one of the few precious memories she had.
But she still knew better. He had a hero complex, and she was too proud to be a damsel in distress.
Another minute passed. Quincy’s shoulders finally slumped. He shook his head, and it was his turn to stare at the ground. Rainie stuffed her hands in the back pockets of her jeans.
“I gotta go,” she said after a moment, looking at everything but him.
He didn’t say anything, and she figured that was that. She started walking back down the cheery street, and the sun was so bright in her eyes, it brought on tears.
She turned at the last minute. She shouldn’t do it. She did it anyway.
“Quincy.”
He quickly, hopefully looked up.
“Maybe . . . maybe someday, when things are going a little better. Maybe I could come visit.”
And he said honestly, “I can hardly wait.”
Read on for a preview from Lisa Gardner’s upcoming novel
LOVE YOU MORE
Available March 2011
Who do you love?
It’s a question anyone should be able to answer. A question that defines a life, creates a future, guides most minutes of one’s days. Simple, elegant, encompassing
.
Who do you love?
He asked the question, and I felt the answer in the weight of my duty belt, the constrictive confines of my armored vest, the tight brim of my trooper’s hat, pulled low over my brow. I reached down slowly, my fingers just brushing the top of my Sig Sauer, holstered at my hip
.
“Who do you love?” he cried again, louder now, more insistent
.
My fingers bypassed my state-issued weapon, finding the black leather keeper that held my duty belt to my waist. The Velcro rasped loudly as I unfastened the first band, then the second, third, fourth. I worked the metal buckle, then my twenty pound duty belt, complete with my sidearm, Taser, and collapsible steel baton released from my waist and dangled in the space between us
.
“Don’t do this,” I whispered, one last shot at reason
.
He merely smiled. “Too little, too late.”
“Where’s Sophie? What did you do?”
“Belt. On the table. Now.”
“No.”
“GUN. On the table. NOW!”
In response, I widened my stance, squaring off in the middle of the kitchen, duty belt still suspended from my left hand. Four years of my life, patrolling the highways of Massachusetts, swearing to defend and protect. I had training and experience on my side
.
I could go for my gun. Commit to the act, grab the Sig Sauer, and start shooting
.
Sig Sauer was holstered at an awkward angle that would cost me precious seconds. He was watching, waiting for any sudden movement. Failure would be firmly and terribly punished
.
Who do you love?
He was right. That’s what it came down to in the end. Who did you love and how much would you risk for them?
“GUN!” he boomed. “Now, dammit!”
I thought of my six-year-old daughter, the scent of her hair, the feel of her skinny arms wrapped tight around my neck, the sound of her voice as I tucked her in bed each night. “Love you, Mommy,” she always whispered
.
Love you, more, baby. Love you, more
.
His arm moved, first tentative stretch for the suspended duty belt, my holstered weapon
.
One last chance …
I looked my husband in the eye. A single heartbeat of time
.
Who do you love?
I made my decision. I set down my trooper’s belt on the kitchen table
.
And he grabbed my Sig Sauer and opened fire
.
S
ergeant Detective D.D. Warren prided herself on her excellent investigative skills. Having served over a dozen years with the Boston PD, she believed working a homicide scene wasn’t simply a matter of walking the walk or talking the talk, but rather of total sensory immersion. She felt the smooth hole bored into Sheetrock by a hot spiraling twenty-two. She listened for the sound of neighbors gossiping on the other side of thin walls because if she could hear them, then they’d definitely heard the big bad that had just happened here. D.D. always noted how a body had fallen, whether it was forward or backward or slightly to one side. She tasted the air for the acrid flavor of gunpowder, which could linger for a good twenty to thirty minutes after the final shot. And, on more than one occasion, she had estimated time of death based on the scent of blood—which, like fresh meat, started out relatively mild but took on heavier, earthier tones with each passing hour.
Today, however, she wasn’t going to do any of those things. Today, she was spending a lazy Sunday morning dressed in gray sweats and Alex’s oversized red flannel shirt. She was camped at his kitchen table, clutching a thick clay coffee mug while counting slowly to twenty.
She’d hit thirteen. Alex had finally made it to the front door. Now he paused to wind a deep blue scarf around his neck.
She counted to fifteen.
He finished with the scarf. Moved on to a black wool hat and lined leather gloves. The temperature outside had just crept above twenty. Eight inches of snow on the ground and six more forecasted to arrive by end of week. March didn’t mean spring in New England.
Alex taught crime-scene analysis, among other things, at the Police Academy. Today was a full slate of classes. Tomorrow, they both had the day off, which didn’t happen much and warranted some kind of fun activity yet to be determined. Maybe ice skating in the Boston Commons. Or a trip to the Isabelle Stewart Gardner Museum. Or a lazy day where they snuggled on the sofa and watched old movies with a big bowl of buttered popcorn.
D.D.’s hands spasmed on the coffee mug. Okay, no popcorn.
D.D. counted to eighteen, nineteen, twent—
Alex finished with his gloves, picked up his battered black leather tote, and crossed to her.
“Don’t miss me too much,” he said.
He kissed her on the forehead. D.D. closed her eyes, mentally recited the number twenty, then started counting back down to zero.
“I’ll write you love letters all day, with little hearts over the ‘i’s,” she said.
“In your high school binder?”
“Something like that.”
Alex stepped back. D.D. hit fourteen. Her mug trembled, but Alex didn’t seem to notice. She took a deep breath and soldiered on.
Thirteen, twelve, eleven …
She and Alex had been dating a little over six months. At that point where she had a whole drawer to call her own in his tiny ranch, and he had a sliver of closet space in her North End condo. When he was teaching, it was easier for them to be here. When she was working, it was easier to be in Boston. They didn’t have a set schedule. That would imply planning and further solidify a relationship they were both careful to not overly define.
They enjoyed each other’s company. Alex respected her crazy schedule as a homicide detective. She respected his culinary skills as a third-generation Italian. From what she could tell, they looked forward to the nights when they could get together, but survived the nights when they didn’t. They were two independent-minded adults. She’d just hit forty, Alex had crossed that line a few years back. Hardly blushing teens whose every waking moment was consumed with thoughts of each other. Alex had been married before. D.D. simply knew better.
She lived to work, which other people found unhealthy, but what the hell. It had gotten her this far.
Nine, eight, seven …
Alex opened the front door, squaring his shoulders against the bitter morning. A blast of chilled air shot across the small foyer, hitting D.D.’s cheeks. She shivered, clutched the mug more tightly.
“Love you,” Alex said, stepping across the threshold.
“Love you, too.”
Alex closed the door. D.D. made it down the hall just in time to vomit.
T
en minutes later, she remained sprawled on the bathroom floor. The decorative tiles were from the seventies, dozens and dozens of tiny beige, brown, and harvest gold squares. Looking at them made her want to puke all over again. Counting them, however, was a pretty decent meditative exercise. She inventoried tiles while she waited for her flushed cheeks to cool and her cramped stomach to untangle.
Her cellphone rang. She eyed it on the floor, not terribly interested, given the circumstances. But then she noted the caller and decided to take pity on him.
“What?” she demanded, her usual greeting for former lover and currently married Massachusetts State Police Detective Bobby Dodge.
“I don’t have much time. Listen sharp.”
“I’m not on deck,” she said automatically. “New cases go to Jim Dunwell. Pester him.” Then she frowned. Bobby couldn’t be calling her about a case. As a city cop, she took her orders from the Boston turret, not state police detectives.