CHAPTER NINETEEN

 

 

A SUDDEN KNOCK at the door brought her round with a start. She stopped herself from reaching for her weapon. Memories came flooding—she was in the police precinct. She’d been sleeping…

A second rap at the door brought her back to the present.

“Come in,” she called.

The door swung open on creaking hinges. It was Pennhouser, looking uncomfortable. He didn’t look as if he’d slept. “The captain said I should wake you,” he said.

O’Shea stretched, flexing her neck. “What time is it?”

“Six thirty. The storm’s just about blown itself out. And Carrera has finally switched on his cell phone.”

She sat up. “What?”

Pennhouser grinned. “We’ve tried calling it, but he’s not answering. We’ve tracked its location to a house in Brooklyn. I’m heading over there now. I thought you and your partner might like to come along for the ride.”

O’Shea nodded. “Give us five. We’ll meet you out front.”

Pennhouser nodded and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

O’Shea banged her fist against the partition wall by the side of the bed. “Ramos! Time to get up. We’ve got a lead on Carrera.”

She heard a groan coming from the adjoining room, and laughed.

 

 

THE HOUSE IN Brooklyn was nothing like she’d imagined.

Having seen Carrera’s office and apartment in the city, she’d been expecting something showy, a mansion hidden behind filigreed iron gates. This was a standard suburban house; she’d grown up in one just like it. She double-checked the data feed on her bike screen. It was definitely registered in Carrera’s name, purchased by his company almost two years previously.

She swung her leg over the bike seat and slid down onto the sidewalk. It felt good to be back in uniform, although she’d yet to break it in.

She looked up at the house. It sat back from the road behind a small, informal garden. The boards had been painted pale yellow, but had bleached in the sun. An easy chair on the porch looked unused, and a hanging basket had been decimated by the storm, the flowers drooping on broken stems.

Pennhouser had been right—the skies were clearing, shafts of sunlight poking through the smudge of clouds, providing a welcome break amongst the showers that still trailed in the storm’s wake.

“I didn’t have Carrera down as the domestic type,” said Ramos, from beside her.

“No,” she said.

She turned at the sound of a car pulling up behind them. It had once been red, but was now so streaked with dirt it looked brown. One of the wing mirrors had been smashed, and was bound up with black duct tape. Pennhouser cut the transmission and clambered out, slamming the door behind him.

“You sure this is the right place?” said Ramos, as Pennhouser walked over to join them.

“So the tech boys tell me,” said Pennhouser, with a shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine.” He looked to O’Shea. “How do you want to handle this?”

“Be our guest,” she said with an expansive gesture. Pennhouser grinned, and set off up the path.

The door opened before he’d finished knocking.

David Carrera’s face—familiar from the vid captures and photographs she’d studied—peered out at them in confusion. “Hello?” he said. “Can I help you?”

“David Carrera?” said Pennhouser. “I’m with the NYPD, and these are my colleagues from the Justice Department.” O’Shea couldn’t hold back her grin. The shift in Pennhouser’s attitude had been marked; she wasn’t yet sure if it was down to their retrieving Adams, or that he now had someone to blame for his partner’s shooting. She supposed it didn’t really matter.

“Yes, that’s me,” said Carrera. “How can I help?”

“Can we come in?” said O’Shea.

Carrera hesitated. “Well, it’s a little awkward…”

The moment stretched.

“Well, all right then,” he finished, standing aside to let them through the door. They filed into the kitchen, which smelled of rosemary and lemons, and he closed the door behind them. “What’s all this about?” he said, as he joined them. He didn’t offer them seats at the kitchen table. Clearly, he was uncomfortable, and wanted to get this over and done with as swiftly as possible. She could tell by Ramos’s posture that he sensed it too: Carrera was hiding something.

“You’ve been reported missing,” said Pennhouser. “We’ve been searching for you for some time. I must remind you, sir, that given the situation with Joseph Reece you were encouraged to log your movements with the precinct. Your assistant has been trying to reach you.”

Carrera sighed. “Look, I’m sorry. I had… things to take care of here. A situation came up.”

“What sort of situation?” said Ramos.

“A personal one.” Carrera looked defiant.

“I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation, sir,” said Pennhouser. “We’ve been forced to assume you’d been abducted by Reece. My colleagues here have been dredging the sewer system in the hope of finding you before you drowned in the tunnels.”

Carrera looked as if he’d been slapped around the face. He looked from Ramos to O’Shea. “I… I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“If you’d thought to leave word, none of this would have been necessary,” said Pennhouser.

And we wouldn’t have found Adams, thought O’Shea. He would have drowned in the tunnels, and they’d all have been none the wiser.

“I didn’t have time. It all… it just happened so fast.”

“What happened, Mr. Carrera?” said O’Shea.

His expression was pleading. “It’s my sister. She had a fall. I got the call from a neighbour as I was leaving the office, and just hailed the first cab I saw.”

“Your sister?” said Pennhouser.

Carrera nodded. “She’s not well. This is her house. I had to make sure she was all right. And then I decided to stay to see out the storm. She gets scared when she’s alone for too long, and I figured the howling wind...” His shoulders dropped. “Look, I don’t spend as much time with her as I should, and her nurse was too afraid to travel over in case she got stranded. I came here in such a hurry I didn’t bring anything with me. I realised I didn’t have any way of charging my phone, at least until the storm broke this morning and I went out to pick up a charger.”

“David?” The call came from a room down the hall. It was a woman’s voice, slurred. “David? Who are you talking to?”

“Nothing to worry about,” he called back. “They’re just leaving.”

“I want to meet your friends,” said the woman. “Come on, bring them to me.”

Carrera looked stricken. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he called. “Better if you just leave,” he said to the Judges. “I can see to her.”

“It’s all right,” said O’Shea. “Let’s say a quick hello.”

He hesitated for a moment, and then nodded, and beckoned for them to follow.

The woman was propped in an armchair in the sitting room, her legs stretched out before the fire. She looked up when they entered the room, and smiled. For the second time in as many days, O’Shea was thankful for her helmet for concealing her shock.

The woman was badly scarred, her face misshapen, so that the flesh on the left side had bloated and drooped, as if the side of her head were simply sloughing off in layers of rubbery skin. Her left arm was swollen, too, her fingers curled into bony claws that rested on her lap.

“This is Patricia,” said Carrera.

O’Shea mumbled a brief greeting.

“David’s been looking after me,” said Patricia. “He’s such a kind man. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

O’Shea didn’t know what to say—how to respond. Everything she’d learned about Carrera, the picture she’d painted of the man during their investigation, had him as a womanising careerist, a man who trod on people to make his own way up the ladder. Seeing him here, like this, caring for this poor woman—it changed everything. More than that, it validated everything she had done during the last twenty-four hours, the lengths she had gone to find him. If he really had been down in that tunnel, if Reece had got to him, what would have become of his sister?

Carrera stepped back into the hallway, gesturing for her to follow.

“What happened to her?” said O’Shea.

“There was an accident,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Up until three years ago, she worked at a nuclear facility in Jersey. She has a brilliant mind. But something went wrong, a containment failure, and she was blasted with radiation. Most of her colleagues were killed. She survived, but this is what it’s done to her.” He swallowed. “I do what I can… but it’s never enough.”

O’Shea smiled. “I think you’re doing just fine.”

Ramos was standing in the doorway. “Pennhouser’s just had a call. Adams is awake.”

O’Shea nodded and turned to Carrera. “We’ll be on our way.” She made for the kitchen door, the others trailing behind her. At the last minute, she stopped and turned back. “Oh, and Mr. Carrera—you might want to give your assistant a call. She’s worried sick.”

He nodded and turned away, ducking back into the sitting room as they left.