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The only communication Bobby Joe had with the outside world was through the phone they’d thrown him at the start of the siege. It was keyed to talk only to Liz’s phone. She had no idea what the team’s orders were. Her ignorance was critical. Her voice couldn’t betray what she didn’t know.
But it gave her an additional sense of unease. She could die just as easily from friendly fire as from Bobby Joe Watson’s rifle, if she accidentally “crossed the tube” and walked into the sniper’s line of fire as he pulled the trigger.
She held the phone out in her left hand so Bobby Joe could see it. What he couldn’t see was the microphone in her right ear that relayed instructions from Captain Leo.
Liz’s heart banged against her ribs, and bile threatened to choke her. She badly needed to go to the bathroom. All those Kegel exercises she’d done had better pay off now, because she didn’t have time to drop her drawers in the azalea bushes. Not in front of the TACT team or the television trucks. The latter might be out of range of bullets, but she definitely wasn’t out of range of their long-distance lenses. She fought down a hysterical giggle.
She walked slowly up the drive into the lengthening shadows. She’d been negotiating with Bobby Joe for four hours now, ever since the neighbor had called 911 to report that he had come back home to convince Marlene not to divorce him.
That he’d recognized Liz’s voice from high school had been bad luck, particularly when he’d refused to change negotiators. Personal history could have a deadly effect on a negotiation. Captain Leo had once allowed a taker’s preacher to speak to him. After the minister called down the wrath of God on the guy and said he’d roast in hell for eternity, Captain Leo had physically yanked him away from the microphone. On that occasion, Liz had spent the next twenty-two hours trying to talk the taker into giving up. She had, but it had been close.
Never under ordinary circumstances would a negotiator have walked into plain view, Kevlar or not. She was supposed to be a faceless, nameless voice on a line. The sympathetic everyman, or in this case, everywoman.
But here she was, walking unarmed up a driveway toward an unstable man with a rifle. Liz regularly ran five miles with little effort, yet now she was panting after twenty yards. She could smell her own sweat mingled with the metallic stench of the Kevlar. The vest pressed on her shoulder blades. The steel pad in the center, over her heart, felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds. She shrugged, but didn’t dare put her hands down to adjust the vest.
“Okay, Bobby Joe, I’m here. Send them out,” she called.
For a long moment nothing happened, then the front door opened barely enough for the thin child to slip through. The door shut quickly behind her, but not before the fading light glinted off the barrel of a rifle.
Uncertain, the girl stood on the porch, her eyes on her ragged sneakers. Despite the cold, she wore only a thin T-shirt and grimy jeans two sizes too big. Her dirty face was streaked with tears.
“Come on, Sally Jean, honey,” Liz said softly. “It’s all right, baby girl. Just come on down the steps to Liz.” She held out her arms. The child moved hesitantly down the porch steps.
Where was Marlene? Liz glanced at the door. She hadn’t heard a word from the woman in over an hour.
She had a bad feeling about this. It was imperative that she get the kid to safety, then go back for Marlene. If she was alive.
The child looked up at her with terrified eyes and began to stumble toward her. Liz started to kneel to gather her up when she caught movement from the corner of her eye.
The door opened again. Marlene?
No! God. The rifle. Bobby Joe was going to shoot her. As she stared, openmouthed, the barrel of the gun swung across and down.
He was aiming at Sally Jean! His own daughter! He’d sworn he’d kill her before he’d let her go. Liz had failed. He’d chosen to kill them all rather than surrender.
Liz swept the child into her arms and spun to shield her with her own body.
Sally Jean screamed and fought, arms and legs flailing, as Liz ran crookedly toward the command post.
She felt the first impact in the middle of her back before she heard the soprano ping of the rifle shot.
As she fell forward, two other thuds hit her between the shoulder blades. Worse than a mule kick. Much worse.
No breath. She’d crush the child….
Another ping. Pain seared her hip.
And all hell broke loose. As she went down on top of Sally Jean, she heard the thuds of running boots, the shouts of the TACT squad, a barrage of gunfire.
Hands grabbed her under her armpits, swept the child away from her, dragged her toward the command post, hauled her up the steps and dropped her facedown on the floor.
Captain Leo was talking to someone. She heard his voice through a halo of pain. She managed to turn her head to stare up into the grizzled face of Bill Lansing, head of TACT.
“Is she okay?” Her own voice sounded strangled.
“The kid? Yeah.”
“Am I dying?”
He laughed at her. Actually laughed, the bastard!
“Not unless one of your broken ribs punctured a lung.” Then he was gone and Captain Leo took his place. Her leg felt warm and wet.
“Three in the back of the vest, Liz.”
“I’m bleeding, I can feel it.”
“Oh, yeah. That. Flesh wound. Graze. Couple of inches over and you’d have a brand-new asshole.” He grasped her hand hard. “If you had to act like a goddamn hero, couldn’t you have managed it without getting shot in the butt in front of a dozen television cameras?”
CHAPTER TWO
SIX WEEKS LATER Liz shifted carefully on the wooden chair in the Cold Case interrogation room. Her rear end could still send a shock of pain through her if she moved the wrong way.
“Want to tell me about it?” Liz asked the obviously terrified young man who sat across the beat-up table. She could tell he longed to talk. He was barely out of his teens. He’d been seventeen when he’d shot one of his friends.
He’d been sitting in the “perp seat” for over two hours now. The front two legs had been shortened an inch and a half so that the chair canted slightly forward. Suspects were uncomfortable without knowing precisely why.
Liz kept her voice soft, gentle and understanding. One thing she’d learned from her negotiator’s training was that the key to getting a suspect to confess or a taker to give up was to exude empathy.
She’d left Leroy alone for thirty minutes while he ate his burger and drank his cola. Through the two-way mirror she’d watched him finish the food, lay his head on the table and fall asleep.
“Gotcha!” she’d whispered. Suspects frequently fell asleep the moment they were left alone, as though suddenly released from the tension of trying to get away with whatever crime they’d committed. Now, seated once more on the other side of the table, she leaned forward and regarded him sadly.
His words tumbled out. “Man, I never mean to kill Skag,” Leroy whined. “He my runnin’ buddy. He just be in the way. It was a accident. See, I mean to shoot Marbles.” He raised his eyes. He no longer looked frightened; he looked much put-upon. “Man, I ain’t goin’ to jail for no accident.”
He truly believed that because he’d shot his friend instead of his intended target, he shouldn’t be treated as a killer. Unbelievable.
Twenty minutes later she left Leroy writing out his confession on a yellow legal pad, and stuck her head inside the door of the darkened room with the mirror. “So, Lieutenant Gavigan, how’d I do?” she asked the big man watching Leroy write.
He gave her a thumbs-up. “Not bad for your first solo homicide interrogation.” He motioned her inside. She closed the door behind her.
She leaned her butt against the wall beside the mirror, but caught her breath and stood straight again when pain pierced her hip.
“Still smarts when you do that, huh?” Gavigan said.
“Yeah. It’s been six weeks since I got wounded. When does it stop hurting?”
“Hey, I’ve never been shot. I hear it can take six months to a year. You’ll probably have a groove in your rear end forever.”
“How nice of you to mention that.”
“Cop groupies love scars.”
“They have male cop groupies, do they?” she asked.
“Sure. So, how do you like Cold Cases so far?”
How could she tell her new boss that she had been transferred to the tiny Cold Case squad not so much because she needed to recuperate from her wound, but because she needed time to recover from the entire experience? Waiting for her wound to be tended in the emergency room, she’d been told that Sally Jean had seen Bobby Joe kill her mother at least an hour before he let the child leave the house. Liz’s physical wound was almost healed. The blow to her self-confidence might never heal.
She didn’t think she’d ever get her nerve back. Or be confident that she could talk an armed taker into surrendering. She didn’t trust her ability to read the taker’s mind or voice level or body language correctly.
She’d been grateful the sheriff’s department had basically created a job for her. They’d probably gone out of their way because the media insisted on calling her a hero—which she most definitely was not.
Cold Cases was theoretically a stopgap until she was fully recovered physically and ready to go back to Negotiations. She knew better. She had to make a success of the transfer to keep her career with the Shelby County Sheriff’s Department on track.
She suspected Captain Leo had explained her loss of confidence to Lieutenant Gavigan, but he’d never said a word to her. “At least here the crimes were committed a long time ago,” she said. “I’m not waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
Like with Marlene.
“So, how’d you find him?” Gavigan hooked a thumb at the interrogation room.
“Did what Jack and Randy told me. Went back and reinterviewed all the witnesses. They were still scared, but not nearly as frightened as they were just after it happened. Several of them talked to me. They knew from the get-go who the shooter was. Once somebody pointed me toward Leroy’s car, it was a piece of cake. The initial investigation never located the vehicle, but I guess after a while Leroy decided it was safe to bring it out of hiding. He was extremely upset when I had it impounded. Would you believe, we found a spent shell casing that matched one from the scene under the dashboard?”
Gavignan laughed. “Proves it pays to have your car detailed on a regular basis.”
“I really think he’s glad to get it off his chest. So, what’s next?”
“Come into my office. This one’s going to take a little explanation.”
On her way to Gavigan’s tiny office in the corner of the bull pen Cold Cases shared with Homicide, Jack Samuels gave her a thumbs-up and Randy Railsback a prurient leer.
She threaded her way between the battered gray desks where the homicide detectives hung out, and glanced at the sign beside Gavigan’s door that said, Bad Cop! No Doughnuts! She liked that better than the one that said Our Day Starts When Yours Ends.
Gavigan settled in the oversize chair behind his equally battered desk and motioned her to the chair in front. She lowered herself into it gingerly.
“Okay. So you cracked your first cold case. Big deal. That one was fairly easy. This is tougher. Give it two weeks. If you don’t come up with a perp we can prosecute, put the box back in the stacks and go on to something else.” He motioned to the credenza behind him. She turned and saw one of the gray cardboard deed boxes used to store everything connected to a case. “Get Jack and Randy to give you advice, but I’d like you to handle this one yourself.”
“How old is this case, and why do I get the feeling I’m being set up?”
“Because you are. Frankly, I think this one has gone as far as it will ever go, but I’ve had a call from upstairs asking us to take another look.” He grimaced. “As a favor to somebody important who shall remain nameless.”
She felt a tingle down her spine. “Political?”
“A friend of the commissioner wants us to look into it. I’m not going to tell you anything else except that it’s seven years old and a Shelby County homicide, or at least we think it’s a homicide.”
“Think? As in not sure?”
“Read the murder book. We had two of the best homicide detectives on it at the time. Both retired. One of them’s dead. It’s the kind of case where they knew in their gut what happened and who the doer was, but couldn’t prove it. Seven years later, someone may be willing to talk, or you may find some forensics that we missed. Frankly, I doubt it, but as the new kid on the block, you’re getting stuck with it. If you get nowhere, at least we can say we tried.”
“I get it. CYA.”
Gavigan grinned. “Right. Cover your ass. Think of this as a reward for finding Leroy.”
“Oscar Wilde said no good deed goes unpunished.”
“Not in this department,” Gavigan said, and waved a hand toward the box, dismissing her.
CHAPTER THREE
JUD SLAUGHTER POURED himself two fingers of Jack Daniel’s Black Label, dropped in a single cube of ice and waited until he’d settled into his elderly leather recliner in front of the fireplace to take a sip. If the November rain didn’t slack off, the construction site would be twenty acres of slop.
Fifteen days from today was the seventh anniversary of Sylvia’s death. It had been raining that night, too.
For seven years he’d held on to the fragile belief that Sylvia might be still alive somewhere, maybe amnesiac, but alive. Colleen swore her mother must be dead, for she would never have deserted her only daughter. Jud knew better. He’d simply never been able to figure out why Sylvia had left when she did.
He couldn’t see her walking away from a hefty divorce settlement, which is what she would have received if they’d gone through with the split. She would have demanded custody of Colleen, too, although he knew damn well having a child underfoot was the last thing she would have wanted.
She’d have used Colleen as leverage, so Jud would give her everything she asked for. Besides, her father, Herb, would never have understood Sylvia’s abandoning his granddaughter. Being Daddy’s girl was important to Sylvia. Herb was probably the only person in the world she actually cared about. She wanted his love, but she also wanted his respect.
Jud was taking a risk having Sylvia declared dead so that he could collect her insurance money. Even now, the cops might still charge him with her murder. Only the lack of a body had kept him from being arrested at the time she went missing.
For seven years he’d dreaded waking up to cops beating on his door, dragging him off in handcuffs in front of Colleen, because some hunter had discovered Sylvia’s bones in the woods.
He was still eighty percent certain his wife had run away to start a new life.
The remaining twenty percent kept him looking over his shoulder.
The cops had never believed in the stranger-killer theory. The homicide detectives were old-school. Anything happens to the wife, the husband probably did it. Jud had had motive, no alibi and the best opportunity to kill her and hide her body. There had been no evidence of anyone else at the scene, and random killers didn’t generally operate at night on a country road in a downpour.
He’d been forced to admit that when he was a boy, he’d hunted in the Putnam Woods Conservation Preserve, across the road from where Sylvia’s car had been found. He’d done so years before the owner died and left it to the state as protected wildlife habitat. Since then the trees had grown, and the undergrowth and marshes had changed the woods, but the fact that he’d once been familiar with it was enough for the detectives. One more nail in his coffin—or hers—as they’d told him repeatedly.
If she’d been dumped by someone unfamiliar with the area, she’d have been found by now, even if buried in a shallow grave. The detectives had warned him that bodies always surfaced sooner or later. They’d quickly declared him the only suspect, and had stopped looking for anyone else.
Jud was so lost in his thoughts, recalling the past, that he jumped when the telephone beside him rang. He cleared his throat and answered it.
“Daddy?”
He smiled, although he knew Colleen couldn’t see him. “You got me, sweetheart.”
“I just called to say good-night. Gran says she’ll pick me up after school tomorrow and take me to soccer, then drop me by your office afterward.”
“Thank her for me.”
“I will. Good night, Daddy. Oh, Gran wants to talk to you.”
He sighed. He wasn’t looking forward to this conversation.
“Jud, honey?”
