As soon as Stevie’s body hit the floor, Val rushed to Gil’s side and yanked off his gag and blindfold. She checked his pulse—faint—and breathing—weak but steady. “Honey? Are you okay?”
Gil opened his eyes and smiled at her. “I’ll be fine,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Thanks for saving me.”
“We’re not out of the woods yet. Wait here.” Not that he had a choice. However, Stevie Ray could wake up at any moment, so securing him came first.
Val found a package of long zip-ties and bound Stevie’s hands and feet. She sat him up and looped another zip-tie through the one binding his hands to a rail that ran along the driver’s side wall.
Then she exited the truck, scouted around, saw no sign of an accomplice nearby. She double-checked Stevie’s unconscious body: no radio, just a cell phone with no recent calls.
Then she returned to Gil. She took his face in her hands and kissed him, hard.
“Val,” he said, “I love you, and thank you, but please. My hands.”
“Right. Sorry, forgot.” Val rolled him over and found snips to break the zip-ties binding his wrists, then did the same for his feet. Then she held him. Tight.
“Easy,” he said. “Those ribs are breakable.”
She chuckled and didn’t let up. “Safest thing for you might be to go back on disability. How in God’s name did you end up here?”
“I followed him until he stopped at the shopping center, then he surprised me with a bonk on the head.”
“Where?” Val searched his scalp until she found a bloody scrape on the back of his skull. “You’ll need to get this checked.”
Gil’s head lolled back, and he closed his eyes. “This was a close call, Val. I’m so glad you’re an amazing, incredibly courageous cop. How did you figure out it was Stevie, and how in the hell did you find us?”
“I didn’t until a few minutes ago.” She explained about matching the step van to the one in the video. “Finding you here was a bit of a surprise.”
“To me, too.” He looked around. “What did you do with Beth? Wasn’t this her day?”
“Shit!” In all the excitement, she’d lost track of her. “Beth’s hurt. I need to go to her. Are you going to be all right?”
Loud banging on the rear door interrupted before he could answer. “Fairview PD. Open up!”
Val shuffled to the back of the truck and opened the door. Four uniformed officers greeted them, arms drawn. Val and Gil raised their arms in surrender. “Officers Val Dawes and Gil Kryzinski, Clayton PD,” Val said.
The Fairview cop in front, a husky man with thick salt-and-pepper hair wearing a name tag that read “Pierce, G,” furrowed his brow. “A bit out of uniform, aren’t we, Dawes?”
Val glanced down at her bloodied camisole. “Tell you what.” She gestured toward Stevie, who had come to, his head lolling and forming groggy nonsense syllables with his bloody mouth. “I’ll trade you. One shooter for one clean shirt.”
The officers put away their weapons and helped Val and Gil out of the truck while Pierce took a quick look inside. His bushy eyebrows arched high on his forehead. “Holy shit, you caught the guy. Why the fuck did you hide him in here?”
“Long story. Gil can fill you in. I’ve got to run.” Val grabbed a shirt from Stevie’s supplies, a size or so too large, and slipped it on. The company logo read “HMZ Delivery Service.” So, that part was genuine.
About to leave, she noticed one of the Fairview officers holding Gil’s .22 in a clear bag. “That’s ours, by the way. Our boy here got the best of me for a moment.”
Pierce shrugged. “For now, it’s evidence. Hey, before you take off, we need a statement from you.”
“Later,” Val said over her shoulder, already jogging to the corner. “One of my friends is a victim. I need to check on her.” She picked up the pace of her jog.
When Val reached the corner, the local police had already cordoned off the area in front of the medical facility. She needed a way in.
Luckily, she had one.
She retrieved her wallet containing her police ID and badge from the glove box of her car. Then she jogged, her body aching with every step, to the yellow tape defining the crime scene perimeter.
“Valorie Dawes, Clayton PD.” Val showed her badge to the pair of Fairview cops halting her outside the tape. “I need to get inside.”
The taller of the two, a white male named Thompson with short, straight blond hair and the build of a heavyweight wrestler, shook his head. “Nobody comes in or out except the investigative team. Orders of the Chief.”
“I’m the one that found and subdued the shooter,” she said, exasperated. “Doesn’t that qualify me as part of the team?”
Thompson crossed his arms and shook his head again. His partner, a lithe Latina in her twenties named Garcia, stepped in front of him. “You found the shooter?”
Val pointed toward the alley. “Handed him off to Officer Pierce a moment ago.”
Garcia lifted the tape and waved her inside. “Good enough for me. Shut up, Thompson. Nobody asked you.”
Val made a mental note to add Garcia to her Christmas list, thanked her, and rushed up the steps to the medical facility.
Once inside, though, she faced a more daunting problem: finding the Beth Hammond needle in this unexpectedly large medical haystack. Over two dozen medical offices called the facility home besides Planned Parenthood. She started there.
No luck. “Ms. Hammond never showed for her appointment,” the receptionist said with a sad face. “Understandably, under the circumstances.”
“She was the first shooting victim today,” Val said. “I was with her, but then, ah, we got separated.”
“Then she probably got sent to the hospital,” the receptionist said.
“Which hospital?”
“There are three, each about 45 minutes to an hour away. Hungerford, outside Torrington, St. Francis in Hartford, or Mercy down in Clayton.”
Crap. She had to find out. She hoped for Clayton, but with each one equidistant and Beth’s condition requiring emergency treatment, she couldn’t be sure.
Val had another possible source, though.
She checked the building directory by the stairs and found the podiatry clinic down one floor. The office was in a frenzy when she arrived.
“Sorry, all on-duty physicians are unavailable,” a nurse said when Val opened the door. “They’re treating patients outside.”
“I’m looking for one of those patients,” Val said. “Beth Hammond. One of your—”
“Sorry, we can’t release any information except to family members,” the nurse said. “Federal law.”
“I understand. I just want to find out where she is.”
“Sorry. I have no way of knowing,” the nurse said. “Not yet, anyway.”
Val thought for a moment. “Perhaps you could put me in touch with the doctor who treated her outside. Dr. Freeman?”
The nurse frowned. “Dr. Freeman wouldn’t be able to share any medical information about her, either.”
“She might know which hospital they sent her to. Please?” Val flashed her badge and ID. “It’d be a big help.”
“If it’ll help catch the shooter, okay,” the nurse said. “You didn’t get this from me. Capiche?”
Val smiled. Her uncle always reverted to Italian in moments like this, too, even though they had no Italian heritage. “Understood. Thank you.”
The nurse tapped at the computer screen behind the reception desk and scribbled a phone number on a Post-It note. “Burn after reading. Better yet, swallow it.”
“Perfect.” Val grinned. “I missed lunch and I’m starved.”
She took the stairs to the ground-floor lobby, dialing Freeman on the way. Her first two calls went to voicemail. Freeman picked up on her third try.
“This is Rosa Freeman. Kind of busy, so make it good.”
“This is Officer Val Dawes. You treated my friend Beth outside your clinic?”
“You’re the cop from Clayton?”
“Yes ma’am.”
Freeman sighed. “Third floor. Family practice clinic. Hurry.”
Val ran up both flights of stairs, forgetting for the moment about the many aches and pains her body had suffered in recent days. Freeman greeted her inside and waved her down the hall. They stopped outside a closed door off the hallway.
“Your friend got lucky,” Freeman said. “A friend of mine from the 541st started this practice. Between us, we patched her up—for now. She’ll need surgery, but she’ll live. As for the baby…” Freeman crossed her arms. “The bullet missed the womb, but trauma like this…well, let’s just say, there may be no need for an abortion procedure.” She made a grim face. “I wouldn’t bring any of that up inside, if I were you.”
“Does that mean that I can see her?”
Freeman nodded. “She’s pretty out of it. You can hold her hand for a minute.”
Val took a deep breath. Too many times in the past year, she’d sat at the side of a hospital bed, visiting loved ones suffering because of her. Twice now, Beth.
Not seeing her would be worse. She pushed the door open.
“Hey,” Beth said, her voice groggy. An IV ran to her arm in the makeshift hospital room. “My hero.”
Val sat next to her bed and rested her hand on Beth’s. She felt like the exact opposite of a hero. Yet no point arguing with someone delirious from whatever drugs they’d put her on. “Okay. You say so.”
“Did they catch him?”
Val’s face flushed. She hated taking credit for things like this. “Yes. Found and arrested.”
“I hope you shot him back,” Beth said. Maybe not so delirious. “Or at least gave him a wicked karate kick to the face.”
“Uh…something like that.” Time to change the subject. “I guess they’re going to transfer you to the hospital soon. The doc tells me you’re going to be okay.”
“Hope so. Will you drive me?”
Val thought about it. “If they’ll allow it. An ambulance might be better.”
Beth didn’t answer. Her eyes closed, and she drifted off to sleep.
Walking back toward Gil and the delivery truck, Val called Beth’s mother to fill her in. Mrs. Hammond announced she’d head straight to Fairview to take over her daughter’s care. She asked only one question:
“How’s the baby?”
“We don’t know yet,” Val said. “We’re more concerned with Beth’s health at the moment.”
“Of course. Thank you, Valorie.”
Val debriefed with the Fairview detectives on the scene and tried to convince Gil to seek treatment for his injuries, but he shook her off.
“It’s a bump on the head and a chest bruise,” he said. “I’ve hurt worse playing flag football.”
“Gil. You could have a concussion.”
“I could have a heart attack, too. Either way, I’d like to get out of this place sooner rather than later.”
“I’m not driving you back until you agree to let a doctor see you.”
“I’ll see a doctor in Clayton, not here,” he said. “If they’re going to poke and prod me, I want people who know me.”
“Fine.”
They held hands almost the entire drive back to Clayton, and Val refused to bring Gil anywhere except Mercy Hospital, who’d saved his life nine months before. The emergency room checked him in and called his name a few minutes later.
“It’s going to be a while,” he said when he returned to the waiting room after about a half hour. “An hour or more. They need to run a bunch of scans and tests and they’re all backed up.”
“I can wait. I have nowhere else to be.”
Val’s phone chimed. “Are you sure about that?” Gil said.
She checked it. At least a dozen calls and messages sat in her in-box, all from Brenda Petroni, Shannon O’Reilly, and Jan Morgenstern.
“Go do your work,” he said. “No point waiting around here.”
“I don’t mind waiting.”
“Please. If you stay, you’ll drive me nuts with worry. Really. I’ll call you for a ride home.”
She kissed him. “I’ll be here ten seconds after you call.”
Back at the WAVE Squad office, an unexpected familiar face greeted her at the coffee pot.
“Grimes!” Forgetting herself for a moment, she wrapped him in a quick bear hug, then stepped back, her face flushing. She’d never hugged anyone at work before, not even Gil. “How’s Bobby Junior?”
“Amazing,” Grimes said. “He started treatment this week and he’s already back at school, playing soccer at recess. The doctors are optimistic—they think they can shrink the tumor enough with radiation to make surgery possible within a few months.”
“That’s fantastic! So, are you back full-time, then?”
“He’s already trying to take his desk back,” Jan said, coming up behind them. “Leaving me homeless.”
“Maybe not,” Sergeant Petroni called from her office. She appeared in her doorway moments later. “Have you heard the news about Simpson?”
“I haven’t heard anything about anyone,” Val said. “I took the afternoon off, remember?”
Jan laughed. “If this is what you call a day off, I’d hate to see what you consider a busy day. Good work catching the shooter, Val. Looks like it cost you a bruise or two.”
Val patted the welt on her cheek suffered when Stevie Ray smacked her with his weapon. “I’ll be fine. Anyway, what’s the news?”
“Chief McMahon was none too pleased with Simpson’s work on this high-profile case,” Petroni said. “His dumb ‘copycat’ theory cost us dearly. The Chief even blamed him for the two shootings this week.”
“Ouch,” Val said.
“It’s worse than that,” Grimes added. “Your old partner, Rico Lopez, ratted him out, too.”
“For what?” Val said. “Was he part of the incel group?”
“Worse,” Jan said. “Looks like Simpson was their mole inside the department. Lopez found evidence that he was leaking findings and strategy to the incels all along—undermining the success of his own investigation!”
That one knocked Val back in her seat. “Damn, I read that one all wrong. I found Rico snooping in Simpson’s office the other day. I thought he was the mole, and Simpson was just incompetent.”
“Lopez was working for the Chief,” Grimes said. “In kind of an undercover Internal Affairs capacity. Some members of Simpson’s team knew about it and it scared them all to death. They didn’t know whether to shit or wind their watch.”
“So, is Simpson off the case, then?” Val chuckled at Grimes’s old-school turn of phrase.
“Off work altogether,” Petroni said. “Suspended. Which means they need a new lead detective.”
“Homicide has lots of guys in their unit,” Jan said. “They’ll fill that before dinner.”
“Hold that thought,” Petroni said. “Bobby, tell Dawes about your chat with Tank Steiger.”
“Oh, my God,” Jan said, with an exaggerated bow to Grimes. “This guy’s a master.”
Grimes sipped his coffee and surrendered a shy smile. “I had a good day.” He sat at the meeting table and the others all joined him.
“Steiger played all tough-guy at first,” Grimes said. “Then I laid out what the sentence for conspiracy to murder looked like and how fast pussies like Stafford Allen Ray fold on their partners in crime. He sang like a friggin’ soprano.”
“He admitted to being part of the shooting spree?” Val’s jaw dropped.
“No, but he confessed to ripping off VeroniCare with the bogus contract and helping Stafford stage the break-in with Nora,” Grimes said.
“Remember the matching prints?” Jan said. “They weren’t Tank’s. They were Stafford’s.”
“Of course,” Val said. “Wow, how could we not have checked that sooner?”
“Speaking of Nora,” Jan said, “we worked her over for an hour and got nothing. She proved to be twice as tough as either of the men.”
“However, in the second hour, she caved.” Grimes glowed with obvious pride. “I painted a lovely picture of life in prison for her, and, oops, her memory improved.”
“The conspiracy started long before the shootings, long before the VeroniCare break-in,” Petroni said. “By the way, Tasha Koval stepped forward as a witness, thanks to you. She wanted to tell you herself, but you had your hands full up in Fairview.”
“Amazing work up there, Dawes,” Grimes said. “The Fairview detective let us in on how you caught the shooter and KO’d him in his own van. You’re bad-ass!”
“Thanks.” Val blushed. “So, how does this all relate to who takes the lead on the shooter case down here? Assuming Fairview gives him up. They’ve got the fresh case, now.”
“Unlike Simpson,” Jan said, “Fairview’s not shy about calling it a hate crime against women seeking abortions. What, three dead, five injured, something like that?”
“Four dead now,” Grimes said, his face grim. “So now it’s a mass shooting and a mass murder.”
“Thank God your friend wasn’t one of them,” Petroni said. “How’s she doing?”
“Stable, but she’ll need surgery. She may be under the knife now.” Val’s mood soured. All this celebrating felt wrong once she brought to mind Beth’s wounding and near-death experience.
“We’re praying for her,” Petroni said.
After a moment of somber silence, Grimes cleared his throat. “So, to answer your question about the investigation.” He glanced at Petroni, who nodded at him to continue. “Since you nailed the guy, the Chief wanted to put you in charge.”
“Me?” Val’s heart pounded with both fear and pride. “I’m not even a detective!”
“Unfortunately,” Grimes continued, “your good buddy up in Homicide, Detective Parkinson, was all too quick to remind the Chief of that. Old Swizzle Sticks made it all too obvious he wanted to tie the ribbon on this thing, the little goldbricker. Which is why he didn’t get the job.”
“Good thing,” Petroni said. “Parkinson is the only person more likely than Tackle Box to screw this one up.”
“He threw a hissy fit,” Grimes said with too much joy in his voice. “Threatened to quit—and the Chief accepted his resignation. Told him to clean out his desk.”
“Wow,” Val said. “So, who got it?”
“Well,” Petroni said, “the Chief decided that if he couldn’t put you in charge, he’d take the next best thing: your partner, so you could remain on the case.”
Val glanced from Jan to Grimes. “Um,” she said, “which one?”
“Technically, I’m still your official partner,” Grimes said.
Jan’s face fell.
“The thing is,” Grimes continued, “I couldn’t sleep at night if I came in and swooped this away from the two of you. So…” He stood and bowed. “Meet the new Detective-in-Charge of the biggest homicide case in Clayton history. Detective Jan Morgenstern.”
Jan stared at him, open-mouthed, unable to speak.
“Awesome!” Val said.
Petroni beamed. “Congratulations, Morgs,” she said.
Jan stood and hugged Grimes. “You bastard! How could you keep this news from me!”
“You didn’t know?” Val asked.
“Not until this moment.” Jan released Grimes and wiped tears from her smiling face.
“I’ve got one request.” Grimes turned toward Val. “Once Jan assumes full control of the case…I’d like to steal my old partner back.”
“Bobby,” Val said, her heart swelling with pride again, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”