75

“You hear that?” Jane yanked open the stairwell door, Jake not two steps behind her. She was winded, running up the three flights in high-heeled boots. Hearing the sound—unmistakably a gunshot, then another—propelled them both down the hall.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

“A speakerphone?” Jane frowned even more, confused by the sounds coming from an open doorway. They were steps away. Breathing hard, she showed him a door, whispering. “That’s Lassiter’s private office. The only office on this floor.”

From inside the room, a man’s voice, anguished, called out. “Send an ambulance, now! Someone’s been shot! I’m trying to—”

Jake grabbed her, whirling, pinning her flat to the corridor wall, her back pressing tight against the bricks. “Do not move,” he whispered, his mouth close to her ear. She saw his gun come out of his jacket. “I’m not kidding, Jane. Do. Not. Move.”

*   *   *

Two more steps to the door. Jake needed to call for backup. But there wasn’t time. Still, if someone inside was calling 911, they weren’t afraid of the cops. One good sign, at least.

Weapon drawn, Jake pressed himself against the brick wall directly outside the open door. He cocked his head at Jane. Get back. Get back!

He could hear cries from inside. A man’s voice. A woman’s. “Ambulance is on the way, sir.” The flat monotone of the operator crackled over the speakerphone. “Two minutes.”

Jake pointed his gun into the room and immediately stepped inside. “Police, freeze!” he yelled, scanning the wood-paneled room in an instant, corner to corner, ceiling to floor. Windows, closed. Desk, empty. Glass-fronted shelves. Lassiter posters. American flag. “Police! Do not move!”

Two bodies on the floor. And Owen Lassiter, kneeling. No one else.

“Hello? Sir?” The dispatcher’s voice, concerned, crackled through the silver speaker of the desk phone. “Is someone else there?”

The candidate, his white shirtsleeves splattered red, bent over a woman lying face up on the jewel-toned pile of the oriental rug, a cascade of blond across her face, pearls dangling, bare legs stretched out toward the door. She wore one black shoe. Lassiter held tan cloth of some kind against the woman’s chest, the light-colored fabric rapidly changing to crimson.

A man’s body lay nearby, splayed, motionless. White male, no gun in anyone’s hand, Jake catalogued. A desk blocked Jake’s view of the man’s face, but he could easily see the darkening bloom in the center of a once-pale-blue shirt. The man’s khakis were streaked with mud. Mud? His loafers were muddy, too.

Did Lassiter shoot two people? Where’s the damn gun? Jake kept his weapon on Lassiter, yelling toward the speakerphone on the desk. “Detective Jake Brogan, Boston PD on the scene, Dispatch. Requesting backup. And medical. We have a person down. Two. Do you have a twenty on this location?”

“Copy that, Detective,” the voice came back. “On the way. Are you secure?”

“Help me, Detective. Please help me.” Lassiter wiped his forehead with one hand, leaving a dark trail across his skin and staining his gray hair. “She’s bleeding, too much, too fast. I’m using my suit jacket to—”

“Detective?” The dispatcher’s voice. “Please respond. Over.”

“My son is dead.” Lassiter’s voice was a pitiful croak. “My daughter shot him, and now she’s dying. It was an accident. An accident. But it’s all my fault. I tried to take it from her—”

A once-shiny silver gun—a .22—lay in a dark stain on the rug, almost under the couch.

Jake kept his weapon chest high, edging farther into the room. He kicked the .22 out of Lassiter’s reach. “We are secure, Dispatch,” Jake called out. “Repeating the request for backup. And a medic. Pronto.”

“Copy,” the voice said. “ETA is in one minute.”

“Black button under the desk,” Lassiter said. “Opens the front door. Lets them in.” He didn’t take his eyes off the woman. Tears streamed down his face, landing on hers. “I was trying to take the gun from her. It was an accident.”

“Jane!” Jake called, loud as he could. He needed to unlock the front door for the EMTs. Needed to check on the man, whoever it was. And to see if he could assist Lassiter. “Janey! Need your help in here.”

The woman on the floor stirred, then with a thin gasp, opened her eyes.

Christ. Jake wasn’t ready for that. He aimed his weapon at her, then lowered it. The amount of red on the rug meant she was unlikely to fight back.

“All your selfish fault,” the woman hissed at Lassiter. Her eyes closed again.

“Kenna Wilkes.” Jane’s voice from the doorway. “That’s Kenna Wilkes.”

“My wife,” Lassiter whispered. “I need to call my wife.”