CHAPTER ONE

 

San Francisco, California

 

Black Friday

 

“Police! Don’t move.”

Jack froze. The hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention as the officer's light silhouetted him against the brick wall.

“Slowly. Clasp your hands behind your head and turn around.”

He pivoted in his crouched position to face the officer. She had her weapon aimed at his head, and he knew she wouldn’t be afraid to use it if he made any sudden moves. He squeezed his eyes shut, flinching against the light trained on his face. Even though he knew the routine, his heartrate kicked up a notch.

"Help her," he said.

"Help is on its way. Right now, it's about you and me. Move away from the victim.” Loose debris ground under his boots as he shuffled sideways. “Far enough. Put your chest on the ground. Arms wide out to the side. Cross your ankles.”

Her tone of voice was clear and to the point. There was no mistaking what she wanted and he did exactly as instructed. He held his head just above the pavement, but even with his face turned away, the smell of motor oil, rotting debris, and what was probably piss filled his nostrils, as did whatever else had been spilled, dragged, or dropped in the near-dark alley. Overlaying it all was the metallic scent of the woman's blood. His stomach cramped and he swallowed hard to force back unspent puke. He tried breathing through his mouth, but it didn't help.

The officer radioed her position, and a moment later, Jack heard someone approach.

"What've we got here, partner?" a male officer asked, perhaps a bit too eagerly.

For a split moment, an image of Paul Travers flashed in Jack's mind. He shook it off and concentrated on the moment.

Squinting through the light's glare, Jack saw the partner's feet stop beside the first officer. He was sure a second weapon was aimed in his direction by the additional light now flooding his vision. He spun his head away to protect his eyes.

"I've got this," she told him.

"Are you sure? He's a big fucker."

"I said, I've got this. Watch your language, boot, and if you call me partner again, I'm writing you up."

So, she was his field training officer. There was no mistaking the irritation in her voice. Trouble in Paradise? Certainly not a partnership made in Heaven. This guy wasn't Travers, but he still sounded like an asshole.

"Sorry, Officer Massie. Just eager to help."

"You can help by doing your job," Massie told him.

Jack heard shuffling but the officers stayed where they were.

"So far, so good," Massie continued, her voice directed at him again. "Officer Jesse here—"

"It's William, Officer Massie. William James," the boot corrected.

"That’s what I said. Officer Jesse James here is going to keep his weapon on you while I cuff and bag your hands. He's a bit excitable, so any trouble and I'm sure he won’t hesitate to aerate your skull.”

"Roger that," Jack said. He wasn't ready to take a bullet, but when he was, it would be by his own hand.

"Have we got ourselves a smartass?" asked James.

Jack remained silent. The last thing he needed was to piss off a gung-ho rookie with the nickname of an outlaw who was scrambling up the food chain.

James kept his light trained on him while Massie moved forward. At his side, he heard her holster her weapon before grabbing and twisting one wrist upward in a control hold. Her knee came down hard on his shoulder and she practically sat on his head, which forced his face onto the filthy pavement. Gravel bit into his cheek. He didn't want to think about what he'd picked up in his whiskers.

The officer firmly grasped his hand, pressing the wedding ring he still wore against his fingers, then quickly snapped a cuff onto his wrist. It hurt. She had his attention.

Jack knew she'd want the other wrist and presented it to her. His heavy leather jacket creaked in protest as she pulled up on his wrist to snap on the second cuff.

"I see you've done this before, so you know how this is going to go. Don't fight me and everything will go smoothly. I'm going to bag your hands now, then conduct my pat down. We good with that?"

"Absolutely."

After sliding sterile bags onto his hands and securing them, she lifted off his back. She pulled on the cuffs to roll him onto one side and then the other as she patted him down. She shifted her weight onto the back of his thighs and ran her hands along the length of his legs and checked his boots. She bagged those too before rising off him and moving away. He heard her weapon come out of the holster again before she returned to her partner's side. Both lights were back in his eyes.

Hand and foot preservation bags were essential for safeguarding evidence in cases like this. Besides the obvious blood DNA, it was possible gunshot residue could have transferred onto him when he checked the victim's vitals. He was sure they'd eventually take his clothes.

The process took only a few moments and was all done by the book. At any other time, with anyone else, he'd be impressed. But the woman beside him was bleeding out. She needed help.

"Will you help her now?" Jack asked.

Massie nodded to James to check on the victim. Jack angled his head and through the light shimmers in his vision, he met the victim's frozen gaze. James crouched down to check her vitals then shook his head as he returned to Massie's side.

“Wanna tell me about this?” she asked.

What had happened?

It had been six months since he'd discovered the awful truth about his daughter's murder. It ate at him worse now than the previous year. Any evidence he'd hoped to preserve from that night had been destroyed when Travers had taken Maria Navarro there, and Jack had been forced to kill him. What Travers' blood hadn't contaminated, the forensics team had. And Jack still didn't have any answers about his family. Zoë and Trax were dead, and Leah was still missing.

Was it possible Leah was still alive somewhere and remained hopeful he'd come for her, or had she given up hope . . . given up on him?

As much as he hated thinking about what Father Nick had suggested, could Leah have done that to their daughter, and Trax, and just walked away? Or, if she was dead too, was she buried someplace she'd never be found?

Questions burned in Jack's head like slow drip acid. He was sure he was going a little insane from it all. Wasn't that the purpose of torture?

The holidays were always the hardest on him. Not because his case load wound down to almost nothing, but because of the long, dark winter nights alone with nothing but his dark thoughts. There were days when it all sounded like buzzing and his head was the hive. It ate at him bit by bit until it got the better of him.

This time of year, the small apartment above Tommy Wong's Chinese Restaurant closed in on him, the walls pressing in like a vice. He had to get out; he didn't care where he went. He just needed to move, sometimes run, as if escaping the emotional prison he felt within himself. The physical exertion helped dissipate the ball of anxiety that made his body cramp in pain.

Tonight had been particularly rough on him. From the time he and Leah started dating, they'd always gone to the Union Square Christmas Tree Lighting Ceremony, held every year on the day after Thanksgiving, Black Friday. After Zoë was born, they'd brought her too.

Even after losing his family, he still attended the tree lighting ceremony. If by some miracle, however slim, Leah was still alive, was there a chance she might be there? For the last three years, he'd lived in hope he'd find her there, but he now believed hope had abandoned him.

This year, he told himself he wasn't going. If Leah was alive, Union Square was probably the last place she'd be. Hell, he doubted she was even in the city. He hated entertaining the thought she'd destroyed their family, but after so long and absolutely no clues to go on, her guilt seemed the only conclusion.

He wasn't convinced though. He still had questions. Like why didn't she drop off Zoë at a neighbor's house with an excuse she had to run a quick errand, then just walk away? If she'd gone, why leave her car behind, dinner still cooking on the stove, and her purse with her phone and wallet still inside?

That right there told him Leah hadn't killed their child. But if someone had come into their home, why kill Zoë and take Leah? And why wasn't there a ransom demand? Why not kill Leah too? Or why not take them both? He couldn’t see Leah leaving their only child behind. Then again, he couldn't see her involvement in any of it, yet . . .

It all churned inside him until his blood was on fire and burning through his veins. Boiling pressure built to a point he couldn't breathe, and his heart pounded hard until he felt it would explode.

The intense, throbbing headaches were the worst. He felt like his skull was being forced open from the inside; the pain of it nearly blinded him.

The black dog of depression had become his constant companion; its gnashing teeth gripped his soul and played tug of war with his guts, pulling him, dragging him toward his ultimate goal—that small silver Parabellum round that would end it once and for all. Many times he'd sit at his desk, turning the round in his fingers, tears streaming down his face. Would he do it before he discovered the truth about that night? Could he do it just to end his torment?

When Jack felt himself giving in to the bullet's temptation, he forced himself out of the tiny apartment, with its oppressive walls squeezing in, and the Beretta screaming out at him to cradle it against his temple.

Tonight, he'd very nearly spent that round. The only thing keeping him from making the ultimate decision was the fact he hadn't found his daughter and Trax's killer. And he still didn't know where Leah was. Whether she was guilty or not, he had to find her.

Find Leah, find the truth.

Jack didn't remember leaving the apartment, much less the path he'd taken. The black dog pulled him along, and he hadn't paid attention to where they were going until Union Square loomed before him, with the tree aglow in the center of the plaza. He vaguely remembered pushing his way through the thousands of people, desperately searching for Leah—even knowing she wasn't there, and even after he'd told himself he was going to stop going. So, he'd kept walking.

It was when he stopped to get his bearings—looking for telltale landmarks—he heard a distinctive POP and instantly became alert. Another POP. Then screaming.

Instinct had driven him toward the gunfire. He knew it was the right direction by the crowd of frantic people rushing against him.

Down a narrow opening between buildings, the alley light had just barely shone onto someone lying on the ground against the brick wall.

Part of the problem when you don't care what happens to you is you make poor decisions. Jack's was to rush down the alley toward the figure disappearing into the shadows. He was lucky he hadn't been shot too, but the darkness living within him always hoped his luck would run out.

Not tonight.

He'd crouched beside the body. A woman. She was dressed in a long gown. He couldn't tell the color from the poor lighting, but there was no mistaking the dark stain growing across her abdomen and the pool of blood flowing out around her shoulders.

When he'd checked the pulse at her throat, his fingers slid across her carotid artery. Images of Zoë flashed in his mind—slumped in the highchair, warm blood still oozing from the wound in her neck. He'd just missed her killer, but by how long?

Jack swallowed hard and forced himself to concentrate. The woman's pulse was almost nonexistent, but she was alive. Her eyes slowly opened to look at him. Dark hair framed her heavily made-up face. She was beautiful, in a 1940s glamor kind of way.

"You're okay. I've got you," he'd told her, trying to keep his voice hopeful, for both their sakes. Inside, he could barely breathe and his mind spun at breakneck speed.

He'd examined the hole in her gown. Blood oozed freely. He had to stem the flow if she was going to survive. He'd pressed the palm of one hand over the wound and felt around his jacket for his Samsung cell phone with the other. He didn't know if anyone had called 9-1-1 yet, but he couldn't take the chance no one had.

Where's the goddamn thing?

Then he remembered the phone still sat on his desk. He'd been in such a rush to get out of the apartment, he hadn't thought to bring it with him.

"Damn it!" He'd gazed around him. The alley was empty. Anyone who'd heard the gunfire had run away from it. He was alone. Surely, someone had to have called for help.

Goddammit!

Something caught his eye beside the body. A kid's toy? He leaned over for a better look. "What the fuck?" It looked like a gasoline nozzle—white plastic with a black grip—but what the hell was it doing in the alley?

Sitting back on his haunches, a flash caught Jack's attention. He thought he saw someone in his peripheral vision, standing at the edge of the shadows at the corner of the building. Just as he inhaled to call out, to ask the person to call 9-1-1, light had flashed around him from the other direction—the same light the officers still trained on him.

He gazed again at the victim. Her blue eyes held their blank stare. She was dead. At least she hadn't died alone.

His senses played tug o’ war with the black dog. When he swallowed the Parabellum round, he'd die alone. The reality hit him hard.

“Hey,” Massie said with a raised voice, pulling Jack out of his head. “I asked you a question.”

“I found her like this.” He tried suppressing the irritation he felt.

“You’re covered in blood. Start again. What happened here?”

“I told you. I found her like this. I was walking home. I heard two distinct gunshots. When I got here, she was on the ground but still alive.”

“And the blood?”

Instinctively, he rubbed his fingers together, the plastic bags crunching. His hands were still slick with the woman’s blood. “I checked her pulse and tried stemming the flow of blood from her abdomen with my hand.” Jack heard sirens. “I didn't shoot her.”

“That’s what they all say,” James said.

"You just patted me down. Did you find a weapon on me?"

"Doesn't mean you didn't stash it somewhere before we arrived."

He took a long, slow breath to try calming himself. “Look, Officer. I’m ex-Homicide. Jack Slaughter.” He always hated when people pulled the Do you know who I am? card, but in this case, he'd make an exception.

Massie's tone noticeably changed. Was she surprised? “I’ve heard of you. I also heard you lost your shit after your wife was murdered.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to suppress the lump of bile in the back of his throat, once more threatening to eject itself. “My daughter was murdered. My wife is missing.”

“And your shit?”

Was she baiting him? “Yeah, I kinda did that. But it doesn’t mean I killed this woman.”

Sirens echoed in the street before the cars screeched to a halt. Footfall in the alley told him the posse had arrived. A moment later, he was roughly yanked to his feet by a new pair of officers.

As he was led down the alley toward a waiting patrol car, he shouted over his shoulder, “Call Inspector Ray Navarro!”