82: They should have gone back to Metro, tried to get some rest in the war room on that ancient couch that probably began life in Chicago law enforcement back when Al Capone and Diamond Joe Esposito were still shoplifting candy behind their mothers’ backs. That couch with its faded brown leather, cracked and creased, and padding that had gone as hard as the floor.
Clair needed that couch.
Clair needed to sleep.
“I know I still have one,” Nash grumbled beside her, flipping through the keys on his ring. “It’s one of these.”
He selected a gold one and slipped it into Porter’s apartment door. The key didn’t turn.
Wrong key.
Nash pulled it back out, metal grinding on metal.
“Why do you have so many?”
The big man shrugged. “I move, the old key stays, new key gets added. You do this enough and you end up with a lot of them.”
“Most people toss the old ones or turn them back in when they move. You’re not supposed to keep them.”
“Are you moonlighting for the key police now? How the hell do you find time for that?”
Nash tried another, silver this time, with an octagonal head. It didn’t work either.
“All I’m saying is you should have around three tops. The one for your car, your apartment, and the war room back at HQ, that’s it. No reason for more.”
Another gold key, round head. This one slipped in smoothly. This key turned the deadbolt.
Nash pushed open the door. “If I didn’t keep my old keys, I wouldn’t be able to do things like this.”
“Sam? Are you home?” Clair wasn’t sure why she called out, but she did. They had knocked three times, and nobody answered.
The apartment was dark.
Nash reached inside and turned on the living room light.
They both saw the toppled chair.
“Holy hell,” Nash said.
Clair drew her gun and began checking each room, turning on lights as she went.
Nash remained in the living room. He walked slowly around the room, toward the chair. “Clair, he’s not here. This isn’t a break-in.”
Clair returned from the bedroom, the bathroom light blazing behind her. She shouldered her weapon. Her eyes landed on the cell phone on the coffee table. She reached down and picked up the iPhone. Her thumb pressed the home button. Nothing happened. “Sam’s phone, it’s turned off.”
Nash wasn’t listening to her, though. He was leaning down beside the La-Z-Boy chair, his fingers running over the loose material at the bottom, the Velcro fasteners.
“What are you doing?” Clair knelt beside him.
Nash leaned back, leaned against the sofa. “There’s something I need to tell you, and you’re going to be pissed.”
“What?”
“The diary.”
“What about the diary?”
Nash drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Sam never turned it in to Evidence. He withheld it.” Nash raised a hand, silencing her before she could say something. “He planned to. He was going to. But not yet. He wanted to wait until after Bishop was caught, locked up. He felt that if he submitted that book to evidence, the press would get ahold of it, sensationalize the text, turn Bishop into something larger than life. He was convinced that was why Bishop had planted the book in the first place, and he thought that if he didn’t turn it in, if he didn’t let the diary out at all, it would throw Bishop off his game, maybe make him slip up. Porter said Bishop had a temper. He figured if he got him mad, Bishop might make a mistake, something that might give us a chance to catch him.”
“And you knew about this? Went along with him?”
Nash nodded slowly. “At first I told him I’d give it a week. That week turned into a month, then that became four months. Time went by, and it seemed less and less important.”
“I mentioned the diary in my reports. There’s a record,” Clair said.
“I did too. I didn’t withhold anything. Sam knew that. He said it wouldn’t matter. If someone asked, he’d say he checked the diary in a long time ago, blame it on the evidence room or the system, because they’re always losing evidence. You know Sam, he’d come up with something.”
Clair nodded at the chair. “That’s where he kept it?”
“Yeah.”
Clair reached a hand up inside the chair, felt around. “Good spot.”
She pulled her hand out and leaned back against the couch beside Nash with a resigned sigh. “So where is he?”
Nash’s eyes fell on Sam’s phone, still in Clair’s hand. “Best guess? He found something in that diary, and he’s chasing the lead.”
“Why leave his phone? Why not tell us?”
“Sam’s keeping us out, protecting us.”
“He’s on suspension. He was told to stay away from this. Even if he marches Bishop into Metro, they’ll take his badge. He’s done.”
“I don’t think he cares, not anymore. Not since Heather. Her death changed him. Losing Bishop in that building—it all changed him. I think he sees catching Bishop as unfinished business. I think he’ll do whatever it takes to bring him in, then he’s out anyway. He wants to exit on his own terms. He feels Bishop is still loose because of him, his mistake, and he wants to be the one to bring him in, to end all of this.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“He doesn’t care.”
“He shouldn’t be alone.”
“That’s what he wants,” Nash said.
Clair drew her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “The boy in the truck, Nash, that was horrible. If this is Bishop, he’s gotten much worse.”
“He’s always been trying to tell us something. We need to look for that. Search for his message. That leads us to Larissa, leads us to him.” His voice was soft, monotone. “Clair-bear, we need to share what we know with the FBI, the diary too. We can’t hold back anymore, not something like this.”
“I know.” A yawn washed over her, and Clair tried to suppress it, a hand over her mouth. Sitting still, that was bad. If they didn’t keep moving, she’d fall asleep right here. “As soon as we get back.”
Beside her, Nash yawned too.
“We rest for five minutes, then we head back to Metro.”
Nash was already sleeping though, snoring softly.