The Meeting
The Colt Mustang Pocketlite is one of the smallest and most consistently reliable concealed-carry firearms on the US market today. A scaled down version of the original Colt M1911, a recoil-operated, semi-automatic, single-action pistol popular among the US Armed Forces and law-enforcement agencies alike, the Pocketlite is 5.5 inches long, weighs just under thirteen ounces, and has a 6+1 round capacity.
These facts ran through Reid Hasley’s mind as he stared into the stainless steel barrel of one such gun. Particularly the part about the round capacity.
How the hell did we end up in this situation?
‘You don’t want to do this, Dennis,’ he said in a steady voice.
Detective Chris Lockett, his partner in the Boston PD Homicide Unit, shifted slightly a couple of feet to his right.
Reid kept his gaze focused on the pale, sweaty young man who stood on the other side of the front room of the shabby, second-floor apartment in South Boston.
Dennis Wittman was a key witness to a violent armed robbery, assault, and attempted homicide perpetrated by two masked men the previous night at a 7-11 franchise on Broadway. It had taken Reid and Lockett three hours of going through CCTV recordings to finally identify him as the skinny male who had been standing on the corner of the road when the suspects ran out of the store. One of the men stumbled into Wittman and pushed him to the ground before fleeing into the night. As such, Wittman was one of two people who had gotten close enough to the suspects to be able to help with their identification. The other was Fernando Lopez, the 7-11 night store manager currently fighting for his life in the intensive care unit at the Massachusetts General Hospital.
Wittman was known to the police for a previous DUI and two counts of possession of a Class D substance. According to his probation officer, he was now clean and ready to embrace a life free of crime. Which didn’t quite explain the presence of the gun currently clasped in his damp, shaking hand.
They hadn’t seen a license for a firearm in his records. And they certainly hadn’t expected to be faced with one when they came upon the open door of his rental apartment sixty seconds ago and entered the place to clear it.
‘Look, we just want to talk to you about what happened last night,’ said Lockett.
Reid avoided looking at his partner. A seasoned patrol officer and a sergeant, Lockett only made detective eight months ago. Although the man was an experienced cop, Reid knew this was Lockett’s first time looking at the wrong end of a gun. As a Marine turned homicide detective, Reid was a seasoned veteran who had seen plenty of firefights and knew how to handle them.
Right now, Lockett’s body language reminded him of some of the young soldiers who saw action for the first time on the battlefield. The jumpy ones who got themselves and their friends killed.
He consciously dropped his shoulders and adopted a relaxed posture. ‘You were outside the 7-11 on Broadway last night when those robbers ran out. We saw you on a CCTV recording.’
Wittman twitched. Reid’s gaze flicked to the wavering gun in his hand before returning to the man’s ashen face and dilated pupils. He could read more than fear in Wittman’s eyes. The guy was high on something.
‘The man those robbers shot is in a critical condition in hospital. We just want to talk to you about what you saw.’ Reid paused. ‘You’ll be helping us out, Dennis. Just put the gun down and we can—’
‘Na-huh!’ Wittman’s voice quavered almost as badly as his hand. ‘I had nothing to do with that shit! You—you guys are just trying to con me! I’m not going back to jail, you hear?’
He jutted his chin out and tightened his grip on the gun.
Reid bit back a sigh. Great. Drug-induced paranoia. That’s all we need right now.
A balmy breeze blew through the open window to the left and rattled the metal blinds. Sweat prickled Reid’s scalp.
It was the height of summer and Boston was in the grip of one of the worst heat waves the city had seen in over a decade. The crime rate had risen proportionally, with assaults and homicides skyrocketing to levels seldom seen before.
Reid allowed a small smile to cross his lips. ‘No one is going to take you to jail, Dennis.’ Well, not straightaway, anyway.
‘I’m sure we can persuade the prosecutor’s office to look leniently on your case,’ Lockett added stiffly.
Wittman’s eyes widened, panic radiating off him almost as badly as the stench of sweat.
Reid masked a wince. Bad choice of words.
At this rate, the breeze was going to be blowing through a hole in his or Lockett’s stomach in the next minute or so. It was time for action. He took two steps forward.
Wittman startled. ‘What—what are doing?’
Reid shrugged. ‘I’m going to take that gun off you.’
Lockett drew a breath in sharply behind him.
Wittman gaped. ‘Are you crazy?’
‘Well, no,’ Reid drawled. ‘You see, I can tell you haven’t had that gun for long.’
‘Huh?’ Wittman blinked owlishly. ‘How—how can you—?’
‘The safety’s still on.’
By the time Wittman looked down and realized he had just been told a lie, Reid was already moving. He leapt onto the coffee table, jumped just as Wittman’s arm rose, and tackled the skinny man to the ground. They landed hard on the floor.
Wittman’s finger flexed on the trigger. A bullet whistled past Reid’s head and ricocheted off the metal lampshade in the ceiling. He knocked the gun out of Wittman’s hand, saw the man’s other fist coming toward his face, blocked the blow, and punched him. Blood spurted from Wittman’s nose. His eyes rolled back in his skull and he went limp.
‘Shit,’ said Lockett.
Reid looked over his shoulder. His gaze dropped to where his partner stared; the bullet had smacked into the ground a couple of inches from the detective’s left foot.
‘You okay?’ He took his cuffs out, rolled the unconscious Wittman onto his front, and closed them around the man’s wrists.
‘Er, yeah.’ Lockett sounded dazed.
‘You better call it in.’
Reid hauled Wittman up onto the couch, patted him down, and extracted two small bags of a white powder from the rear pocket of his jeans.
Lockett took his cell out, dialed Control, and requested a uniform patrol unit to transport Wittman to the local District C-6 station.
It was 14:00 by the time they finished processing Wittman’s apartment. Apart from a couple of spare magazines for the Pocketlite and another stash of drugs taped to the back of a wardrobe, they found little of interest.
Reid stood on the hot asphalt outside the police station and glanced at the dazzling, golden sphere in the sky. Wittman had been charged with obstructing a law enforcement officer and assault by means of a dangerous weapon. It would be several hours before he was in a fit state to answer questions about the incident at the 7-11. The more time passed, the slimmer their chances of catching the perpetrators of the crime became. He sighed and climbed in the car with Lockett.
They were approaching Dorchester Street when the call came through on the radio.
‘All units in the vicinity of Fox, please be advised that we have a Code 105 in progress on East 3rd St, near the corner with P St. Rapid Deployment Protocol is in effect. Responding officer requesting assistance.’ The dispatcher gave the full address.
Lockett looked at Reid. ‘It’s the heat isn’t it? It’s gotta be the heat bringing all the crazies out.’
Reid switched the emergency light on and stepped on the gas.
Fox was the unit designation for the District C-6 station. Code 105 meant an active shooter situation. They were one mile from the location.
Lockett called dispatch just as they barreled across the junction onto East Broadway. ‘Control, this is 2459. Please advise the Duty Supervisor in Homicide that we’re responding to the request for assistance at the Code 105.’
‘Copy, 2459.’
Their Duty Supervisor for the day was Lieutenant Reginald Brooks. Reid smiled grimly. An army veteran himself, Brooks would be pissed if they missed the action.
It took under two minutes to reach the junction of East 3rd and P St. Reid saw two cops crouching behind the open door of a patrol vehicle angled across the road some hundred and fifty feet ahead. He braked and spun the steering wheel around. The Ford Victoria screeched to a stop with the broadside facing the intersection. Sirens blared behind them as they stepped out of their vehicle; a patrol car was charging down East 3rd toward the junction.
Lockett signaled to the officers behind the windshield. The driver flashed his lights and turned north in a squeal of tires; he would go around and block off the other end of the road to establish a perimeter.
Reid and Lockett drew their guns and jogged along the north pavement toward the responding officers’ vehicle. Curtains and blinds twitched behind windows on both sides of the road. Reid caught glimpses of pale, worried faces. This was a nice, working-class neighborhood, with tidy front gardens and well-kept houses; the residents had likely never seen anything on this scale before.
A shot rang out just as they reached the corner of a drive. They ducked and ran across the road to the patrol car.
‘Detective Sergeant Hasley, Detective Lockett, Homicide,’ Reid said briskly as they dropped by the side of the cops squatting in the cover of the vehicle.
‘Officer Johnson,’ said the female officer. ‘This is Officer Tolino.’
Reid acknowledged the somber man beside her with a nod.
‘Can you brief us?’ he asked Johnson.
The patrol car that had gone around the block screeched to a halt across the junction four hundred feet away, sirens muted and lights flashing.
‘We responded to a domestic disturbance call twelve minutes ago,’ said Johnson. ‘On our way here, Control informed us that the neighbor who reported the incident called 911 again and said he’d heard screaming and two gunshots. We got here at 14:03. A man came out of the property and fired at our patrol car and the neighbor’s garden before running back inside. He’s fired two more shots out of the left front window since, including the one you just heard.’
Reid eyed the pretty, one-storey, blue clapboard house fifty feet northeast of where they crouched.
‘We just heard from Control,’ said Tolino. ‘The property’s owner was involved in a traffic accident last year, so they had some records. The house is registered to a Burt Suarez. Married. Works the tollbooth at the Tobin Bridge. Firearms Records Bureau shows a License to Carry for a Smith & Wesson 908. Description from motor vehicles registry matches the gunman.’
‘Kids?’ said Reid sharply.
‘Not that records show,’ said Johnson.
The officer looked as relieved as Reid felt. The last thing anyone wanted was children involved in an active shooter situation.
‘He shot the neighbor’s dog,’ Tolino added with a grimace. ‘Poor thing’s still alive. Neighbor ran out and carried it inside the house two minutes ago. You can hear it whining if you listen hard enough.’
Lockett’s grip tightened on his Glock. ‘What kind of sick bastard shoots a dog?’
‘One who isn’t thinking straight,’ Reid murmured, his gaze focused on the house. ‘Is that his car out front?’
Johnson and Tolino glanced at the black Volvo parked at the curb.
Johnson frowned. ‘No. His is the Toyota behind it. There are no other vehicles registered at the address.’
More sirens sounded from the west and south as other patrol units raced toward their location.
‘Have you heard anyone scream or shout for help since you got here?’ said Reid quietly.
‘Negative,’ Johnson replied. ‘And 911 hasn’t received any calls from this address either.’
Reid studied Johnson and narrowed his eyes. We all know this doesn’t look to be a hostage situation with a barricaded gunman. There are dead or injured people in that house. And God only knows how many spare magazines the guy has.
‘Broadcast our assessment of the situation to all responding units, tell them the safest approach, and get a secure perimeter established,’ Reid said curtly.
Johnson reached inside the car and grabbed the radio handset.
Reid twisted on his heels and indicated their Ford Victoria at the crossroad. ‘We can establish a temporary command post there until S.W.A.T. arrives—’
‘Oh fuck,’ Lockett whispered.
Reid whipped his head around and followed his partner’s frozen gaze. His mouth went dry.
A girl in her late teens had come out of a house one hundred feet up the road. She had headphones on and was leading a small white terrier on a leash. She turned and headed along the north side pavement toward them, eyes cast down and head bobbing along to whatever music she was listening to.
She was fifty feet from the front porch of the gunman’s house.
Johnson swore and jumped to her feet. ‘Hey! Hey, you there! Stop!’ She waved her arm frantically above her head.
Reid caught motion at the window of the gunman’s house. ‘Get down!’
He yanked Johnson by her belt. She gasped and dropped back to his side.
The terrier started barking. The girl gave him a puzzled glance, picked him up, and carried on walking down the road. The dog squirmed in her arms.
They were now twenty feet from the gunman’s porch.
Reid felt his pulse accelerate. With S.W.A.T. not yet on site, they would have to move in to save the girl.
‘Lockett, you and I are point. Johnson, you’re rear guard. Tolino, tell Control and responding units we’re moving in to rescue a potential victim, then cover us.’ He glanced at the tense faces around him. ‘Just remember your training. On the count of three.’
Reid inched to the edge of the bumper, gripped his Glock in both hands, and started the countdown. ‘One.’
Lockett and Johnson moved into position next to him. Tolino grabbed the radio and started talking in a low, urgent voice to dispatch.
‘Two.’
The gunman’s front door opened. Suarez stepped out and raised his gun at the girl.
‘Three!’
Reid shot up and sprinted toward the property, arms straight out and finger moving on the trigger of the Glock. His first shot went wild. His second smacked into a wooden post next to Suarez’s head. The man whirled around and jumped back into the cover of the doorway.
The girl stopped. Her head snapped up. Her eyes widened.
‘Get down!’ Reid yelled.
She stood frozen, color draining from her face.
‘For God’s sake, drop to the ground!’ Lockett shouted.
The girl cried out and crumpled to the pavement, the barking terrier clasped tightly within the cover of her body. Her broken sobs were drowned out by the sound of gunfire from the house.
Reid cursed and angled toward a rhododendron bush to the left. There was a gasp behind him. He looked over his shoulder.
A bullet had found Lockett’s right arm. The detective dropped down by a picket fence and gripped his limb.
Acid burned Reid’s throat when Johnson cried out and stumbled. She clasped the bleeding gunshot wound to her outer thigh and fell to one knee.
He scowled and shot repeatedly at the dim figure in the doorway of the house. Either this guy has some serious beginner’s luck or he’s a regular on a firing range!
Johnson’s shout made him look around.
‘No! Get back!’
She waved violently to where Tolino hovered by the bumper of the patrol car, struggled to her feet, and hobbled to where Lockett squatted by the fence.
Reid opened his mouth to shout the same command just as three shots shattered the muggy afternoon.
The only reason Tolino didn’t die that day was because it was that much harder to hit a moving target. The first two bullets struck the front wing of the car as he dove for cover. The third one went straight through his left shoulder.
The girl with the terrier screamed, scrambled to her knees, and crawled hastily backward the way she had come, the dog struggling in her grasp. She was under cover a moment later.
Lockett darted out into the road and pulled Tolino to the safety of the fence. Suarez disappeared from view and slammed the front door shut.
A distant crash came from the rear of the property seconds later.
Reid moved swiftly toward the house and caught a glimpse of Suarez as he legged it across his backyard. He turned and eyed the three wounded officers behind him, his heart pounding in his chest.
‘Go get him!’ snapped Lockett.
‘We’re fine!’ said Johnson. Tolino bobbed his head jerkily next to her.
Reid twisted on his heels, vaulted over the picket fence fronting the property, and sprinted in the direction where Suarez had disappeared.
He stopped near the backend of the building, changed the magazine in his Glock, and stole a look around the corner.
Suarez was climbing over a wooden fence at the bottom of his garden.
Reid rounded the building and bolted across the grass. He reached the palisade within seconds, jumped up against it, and grabbed the top with both hands. He peeked carefully over. An empty plot of land lay on the other side. Suarez was already halfway across it.
Reid scaled the fence and went after him. He emerged onto a road and saw the gunman vanish over a cinder block wall ahead and to the left. He bit back a curse.
The guy was headed for the water.
Two patrol cars squealed into view some five hundred feet to the left. Reid signaled them to go north and dashed across the street. His breaths came hard and fast as he climbed the brick wall. He found himself facing the deserted parking lot of an abandoned warehouse. Suarez was a rapidly disappearing figure on the cracked, overgrown asphalt.
Christ! For a large man, the guy sure knows how to run.
Sweat was pouring freely down the back of Reid’s neck by the time he exited the lot. Suarez had crossed yet another road and was climbing a chain-link fence overlooking a wide expanse of derelict land.
The noise of rotors punctuated the rising cacophony of sirens as he chased after the running gunman. He caught the flash of lights out the corner of his eyes and glimpsed the small, blue and gray body of a Massachusetts State Police helicopter in the sky to the north just as he reached the chain-link. Reid clambered rapidly over the barrier and dropped down hard on a strip of chipped asphalt. The shock of the landing jarred his knees. He gritted his teeth and took off after Suarez.
The gunman was running toward the shimmering green waters of a channel some thousand feet ahead. The piers and terminals of the Port of Boston rose beyond it, with the harbor to the east.
Reid cursed. The last thing he wanted to do was go for a swim if Suarez decided to jump. He had to stop the man before he reached the water.
He raced past rust-covered shipping containers and dilapidated metal sheds. Asphalt gave way to dirt. Four hundred feet later, the outlook opened out onto overgrown grass and scrubland. A flicker of hope darted through him.
Suarez’s speed had dropped. He was now some two hundred feet away and running toward an abandoned dock out on the water.
Reid scanned the structure as he pounded the ground after the gunman.
A crane sat atop a metal tower to the right of the platform. To the left stood an abandoned cabin. Walkways connected the dock to the mainland and two small landings on either side.
Suarez reached the closest gangway thirteen seconds ahead of him. He stumbled over some uneven boards, faltered for a moment, and kept on going. Sweat formed a growing dark patch on the back of his shirt.
Wooden planks juddered beneath Reid’s feet as he bolted onto the walkway.
Suarez stopped twenty feet shy of the dock, whirled around, and fired in his direction. Reid didn’t even flinch. The shot went wild. Suarez turned and dashed toward the platform.
Movement to the left caught Reid’s gaze. He slowed a fraction, his stomach plummeting. You gotta be kidding me!
The cabin had obscured the far left side of the dock from the mainland. Now that he’d gotten closer, the area beyond it was visible.
A figure was rising from the corner of the platform. A man. He teetered slightly and righted himself inches from the water’s edge. Sunlight glinted on the beer bottle in his hand and the half dozen empty ones littering the ground by his feet.
Reid groaned. A drunk. That’s all I goddamn need!
Suarez had reached the tower. He ran past it and staggered to an almost comical stop when he spotted the man who stood facing him across the dock.
The drunk said something and offered his bottle to Suarez, a friendly if inebriated smile dawning on his face.
Reid’s jaw sagged. That moron!
He opened his mouth to shout a warning to the intoxicated man.
Suarez took three steps toward the stranger, raised his gun, and shot him point-blank in the head.
The bullet entered the man’s skull just above the bridge of his nose. It exited the back of his head a microsecond later in a small spray of blood. He fell to his knees and thudded side down onto the dock.
Anger squeezed Reid’s heart. There would be no reasoning with Burt Suarez.
The gunman twisted on his heels and backed across the dock past the dead man, his face a pale, blank mask as he swung his gun around and fired toward the walkway.
Reid bolted onto the platform and dove behind the tower, blood pounding in his ears. Bullets pinged off the metal framework and whizzed through the gaps between the steel struts. He moved into the cover of one of the posts.
Black-clad S.W.A.T. officers appeared in the gaps between the shipping containers on the other side of the deserted strip. The helicopter was a growing shape in the sky to the right.
Fifty feet ahead of him, Suarez reloaded his Smith & Wesson and raised the gun once more. A noise stopped him in his tracks. Small and innocuous, it was staggeringly shocking under the circumstances.
Although he didn’t know it at the time, that noise would forever alter the path of Reid’s life and challenge everything he had come to accept as reality.
The sound was that of a man groaning.
Suarez’s head moved mechanically as he looked to his left.
The dead man blinked and released the beer bottle in his hand.
It rolled across the deck and came to a stop by the gunman’s feet, spilling some of its contents across his left shoe.
The dead man sat up slowly. Blue eyes narrowed beneath the trickle of blood marking his skin. He touched the hole in his forehead gingerly.
‘That hurt,’ he said accusingly to Suarez. He climbed unsteadily to his feet.
Suarez gaped, took a step back, and swung the Smith and Wesson at the dead man once more.
Reid walked out of the cover of the tower with his Glock raised and pulled the trigger twice.
The bullets struck Suarez in the chest. He jerked back with a short cry and fell heavily on the platform. The Smith & Wesson clattered out of his hand and pinwheeled across the dock. It hit the dead man’s right foot.
He glanced from the weapon to the red stains blooming across Suarez’s chest, looked over to Reid, carefully raised his hands in the air, and kicked the gun toward him.
‘Hey there,’ he said in a slightly embarrassed voice.
Reid stared, unsure how to respond.
‘I could have sworn you died,’ he said finally.
The man hesitated. ‘What, from this?’ He indicated the wound in his forehead. ‘It’s just a scratch.’
‘I saw the bullet exit the back of your skull,’ Reid countered dully.
The man blinked.
‘What bullet?’ he said innocently.
Reid looked past him. The shell was nowhere to be seen. Shit. It must have hit the water.
He narrowed his eyes. ‘Your chest wasn’t moving for a good while there, pal.’
The man shrugged. ‘I’m a shallow breather.’
It was at that point that the cavalry arrived.
A shadow fell across the desk. Reid looked up into the stern face of Lieutenant Reginald Brooks, his direct superior in the Homicide Unit.
The man placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. ‘How’re you doing?’
Reid thanked him for the drink. ‘Fine.’
Brooks furrowed his heavily-lined brow. ‘You know this investigation is just routine, right? Your service records from the military are spotless. This is the first time you’ve discharged your weapon since you joined the force and it was an active shooter situation at that. The whole thing was resolved pretty damn quickly, considering.’
Reid sighed. Two days had passed since the deadly events in South Boston.
On the day of his untimely death, Burt Suarez had been relieved from an early shift at the toll bridge by one of his colleagues. He came home to surprise his wife, spotted his brother’s car parked outside, and walked in to find them in bed together. Suarez had reportedly been a devoted Christian who cherished his spouse above all else. He was said to have been kind to man and animal alike.
As in almost every case of homicide, love and hate were the primary emotions involved on that hot summer’s day. Burt Suarez lost his senses when he witnessed this ultimate betrayal, leading him to commit the violent acts that took the lives of his wife and brother, and wounded three police officers.
In the aftermath of what happened, Reid was placed on administrative leave, as per standard practice. Whenever a police officer used his gun in the line of duty, irrespective of intent, circumstances, and whether the action resulted in someone’s injury or death, the department’s Internal Affairs had to carry out an investigation into the incident. He would have to wait for their final decision and that of the department’s psychiatrist before he could resume active duty. With Lockett out of action for at least another week, he’d spent his time writing reports and had started to work his way through the backlog of paperwork sitting in his in-tray.
Brooks patted him on the shoulder. ‘It’ll fly by. You’ll be back on the streets in no time.’ He turned and headed toward his office.
Reid watched him leave, grateful for the talk. The support his colleagues and fellow officers had shown him in the last forty-eight hours, including their Superintendent, had also been welcome. Still, it sucked to be stuck behind a desk.
His gaze landed on a file next to the computer. The papers inside had started to curl at the edges from the number of times he’d read it. It contained a copy of the statement from the drunk Suarez had shot at the dock, as well as a detailed background investigation he himself had carried out on the man.
His name was Lucas Soul. Born in Brooklyn in 1966, he moved to Boston at age twenty-four, after completing a degree from the John Jay College of Criminal Justice and gaining investigative experience with a PI firm in New York. He now owned his own detective agency in Bay Village. He had no known next of kin, was single with no dependents, and had no criminal records.
Reid frowned. The guy is just too…neat.
He hesitated before flicking the folder open. Soul’s face stared back at him from a copy of his driver’s license, his gaze as inscrutable as it had been that day on the dock. Reid leaned back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head.
There was no denying what he had seen that day on the dock. Although they hadn’t recovered the missing slug, and despite the medical report stating the guy had suffered a non-life-threatening head injury, Reid knew Lucas Soul should be six feet under right now.
The fact that he wasn’t weighed heavily on Reid’s mind. It was all he’d been able to think about in the last forty-eight hours, something that didn’t escape his estranged wife when he visited her and their two children yesterday, at the house they used to share in the suburbs of Boston. Although their relationship had cooled somewhat in the last three years, he still got along with Samantha and she knew him well enough to know when something was troubling him.
Reid frowned. He didn’t believe in miracles, medical or otherwise, not when he’d seen Soul die as clearly as he had. He drummed his fingers on the table and glanced at his in-tray.
The paperwork could wait.
He took his own car and headed across town to Bay Village.
Poseidon Security was located in a quiet side street with antique gas lamps. He parked around the corner from the address and strolled along the sun-dappled pavement to a pretty, red-brick Victorian building. A flight of steps led to a communal front door. The nameplates on the wall next to it indicated that Poseidon Security was on the second floor. There were three other offices in the building; an accountant, a financial advisor, and an architect. He pressed the buzzer for the PI agency.
Twenty seconds passed. The intercom remained silent.
Reid pushed the button again.
The door opened. A beautiful blonde with long hair in a ponytail and close-fitting gym wear stepped out with a sports bike.
‘Oh.’ She stopped and blinked at him.
Reid smiled. ‘The architect?’
Her cheeks dimpled, lips parting to reveal a dazzling smile. ‘The accountant, actually. Who are you here to see?’
‘Poseidon Security.’
The woman’s eyes brightened and a slight flush stained her cheekbones. ‘I haven’t seen Lucas yet this morning. He shouldn’t be too long. Do you want to wait outside his office?’
‘Sure.’
Reid paused in the doorway and watched the blonde get on the bike. She cycled down the road, golden hair fluttering in the breeze. He spotted at least three men who turned and stared at her.
Soul is a lucky bastard.
He turned, entered the lobby, and headed up carpeted stairs to the second floor.
He’d asked several detectives in the Downtown and Charlestown stations about Soul earlier that morning. A couple of them had come across the private investigator in the past and reported he was an efficient and level-headed guy. Which made Reid all the more curious about the man.
Why had he been flat-out drunk and alone on that dock?
There was more to Lucas Soul than met the eye.
He found the office at the end of a corridor. The frosted glass in the top half of the door boasted the name of the PI firm in simple yet elegant writing. A pair of chairs framed a small side table with a stack of magazines next to it. Reid took a seat and picked the top one. It was last month’s copy of The Economist.
An hour and several mind-numbingly boring business articles later, Reid sighed and rose to his feet. Soul had obviously decided to have a protracted lie-in. Either that or he was on a dock somewhere, getting drunk.
A phone rang on the floor above. The low hubbub of conversation rose from the office at the other end of the hall.
Reid removed his wallet from his jacket, slipped a small lock pick set out, and went to work on the door of Poseidon Security. He was inside in less than a minute.
The office was large and brightly lit. Two desks were set at a slight angle next to the tall windows overlooking the sunny street outside. Both had slick computers sitting atop them and ergonomic chairs. Filing cabinets and bookcases lined the wall to the left. Facing them across the way was an eclectic collection of different-sized canvas paintings in gold-colored frames.
Two internal doors opened off the space. One led to a bathroom and a fire exit, the other a comfortable sitting room with a pull-out sofa bed and a kitchenette. Reid strolled back to the main area and studied the desks.
The one to the right looked vacant.
He turned and took the seat behind the left desk. A pair of full metal trays sat next to the computer. He flicked through the paperwork. Most of it comprised requests for surveillance work for attorneys and employee checks for investment banks. Reid cocked an eyebrow at the names of the companies. No wonder Soul could afford an office in Bay Village.
He started to go through the drawers. A voice made him freeze ten seconds later.
‘You know, this is technically breaking and entering.’
Reid looked up slowly.
Soul was leaning in the open doorway of his office. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and was holding a paper coffee cup in his hand. There was a small dressing on his forehead.
Reid narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t heard the guy come in. ‘What are you, a cat?’
Soul’s lips twitched. ‘I bumped into Jennifer on the way here.’
‘Jennifer?’ Reid pushed back from the desk and rose to his feet. ‘Is that the accountant?’
‘Uh-huh.’
Reid rubbed the back of his head, feeling awkward at being caught in the act. His hand stilled. ‘Hang on a minute. That was an hour ago!’
Soul gazed at him blankly. ‘I know. I stayed out for lunch.’
Reid scowled. ‘You mean you deliberately made me wait?’
Soul shrugged, walked in, and closed the door.
‘You trying to avoid me or something?’ Reid said in a belligerent tone.
Soul raised an eyebrow. ‘Can you blame me?’
Reid hesitated. The guy wasn’t exactly in the wrong.
Soul took a sip of his coffee. ‘So, what can I do for you, Detective Hasley?’
Reis stared, nonplussed, at the man facing him across the room.
Why am I here, exactly? What the hell was I hoping to achieve by turning up at this guy’s place, uninvited, and going through his stuff?
Soul waited silently for his reply, his posture relaxed.
Reid glanced at the empty desk. ‘Do you have a partner?’
Something shifted in Soul’s eyes then.
‘I did,’ he replied quietly.
The words that left Reid’s mouth next astounded him as much as they seemed to surprise Soul. ‘You looking for a replacement?’
Soul drew a breath in sharply. His eyes darkened.
Though shock still reverberated through him, Reid detected a flash of pain and anger in the blue depths.
Soul recovered his composure and adopted a nonchalant air. ‘You propositioning me, officer?’
Reid grimaced. ‘Sorry, you’re not my type.’
Soul’s lips twitched again.
‘So, will you think about it?’ said Reid.
Soul sobered. ‘Are you serious?’
Reid’s heart thudded against his ribs. He still had no idea why he’d said what he’d just said. He hadn’t realized he’d started to grow weary of the homicide unit until he’d seen the empty desk in Soul’s office.
There was also the mystery of how Soul had survived that bullet. That was what had drawn Reid to come and meet the man again. Lucas Soul was an anomaly in this world. Although his records showed his life to be a straightforward existence, Reid sensed it was too good to be true. It was as if he had reinvented himself to hide his true nature.
Reid was convinced the reality would be beyond anything he had ever experienced. Fate had placed Soul in his path for a reason. He was determined to find out why.
Soul sighed.
‘What?’ said Reid.
‘I don’t like that look on your face.’
Reid blinked. ‘Why?’
‘I sense you’re about to become a pain in my ass.’
The apartment block was located in Fenway, less than half a mile from the home of the Boston Red Sox. Reid stood across the street from the building and studied its upper levels. Two were completely dark. Lights were on behind the windows of a single apartment on the tenth floor.
Four weeks had passed since the fatal shootout in South Boston. Internal Affairs had cleared Reid of any wrongdoing and he had returned to active duty over a fortnight ago, following a positive report from the psychiatrist.
Though he was happy to be back on the job, Reid had been unable to shake his single-minded wish to become Soul’s business partner. He had spoken to Brooks and Lockett briefly about his intentions to leave Boston PD and had looked into the necessary certification procedure to become a private detective in the State of Massachusetts.
There was only one problem. Convincing Soul to agree to his proposal had proven impossible so far. Reid wasn’t sure why the man was so adamant he didn’t need a partner when it was clear from the paperwork he’d seen at the office that he did.
Something told him it had to do with Soul’s presence on that dock.
In the last four weeks, he had visited the PI at his office and various other places where he hung out. The last time had been four days ago, when he walked into the guy’s favorite Italian restaurant in South End.
Soul looked up from his beer when Reid slid into the booth seat opposite him. He narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re turning into a stalker.’
Reid shrugged and took a menu from the holder next to the napkin stand. A waitress came to the table with a carafe of water and slipped her order pad out of the front pocket of her uniform.
‘I’ve have the usual please,’ said Soul.
‘Classic pizza, hold the pepperoni, and a side salad?’ said the waitress with a smile.
Soul nodded.
Reid stared. ‘What’s your problem with pepperoni?’
Soul gave him a cold look. The waitress eyed Reid questioningly.
‘I’ll have your Meat Lovers pizza and a beer. No salad.’
The restaurant was busy and the hubbub of conversation washed over them after the waitress left. They looked silently at each other.
‘The answer’s still no,’ said Soul.
Reid frowned. ‘I’ve seen your caseload. You need a partner.’
Soul leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. ‘I’ll manage.’
Reid raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ll lose clients.’
Soul did not respond to the bait.
Reid looked around the restaurant. ‘This is a nice place.’
Soul remained mute.
‘So was that Chinese last week and the Mexican the week before that,’ said Reid. ‘That coffee place wasn’t too shabby either.’
Soul grunted. ‘You’re picking up the tab for this one.’
They’d spent the rest of the evening talking sports, politics, and world affairs, like they had on the previous occasions Reid had shadowed Soul. By the end of the night, the PI’s decision about a possible partnership remained unchanged.
That had been Friday just gone. Reid continued to stare at the building across the street, a half-smile playing on his lips. Was he pushing his luck coming here?
He crossed the road presently and entered the lobby of the apartment block. He took the lift to the tenth floor and strolled down a carpeted corridor to a door in the middle of the passage. There was a call box next to it. He pressed the buzzer.
A voice came through the intercom seconds later. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s me,’ said Reid.
Silence travelled through the speaker. It was followed by a loud sigh.
Locks turned on the inside of the door a moment later. Soul opened it with a tumbler in hand and subjected him to an exasperated stare. He was barefoot and dressed in dark sweatpants and a T-shirt.
‘This is unusual and cruel punishment,’ he said sullenly.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Reid walked past him and entered the apartment. ‘I’m just a friend visiting another friend.’
‘Come on in,’ said Soul sarcastically. ‘And last I checked, we weren’t friends.’
‘That’s cold, man.’
Reid headed down a hallway to a large, elegantly furnished living room. A fireplace dominated the wall to the right. A beautiful painting took pride of place above the mantelpiece.
‘Nice.’
Reid sat down in a leather chair. He glanced from Soul to the bottle of whisky on the coffee table.
Soul rolled his eyes, walked over to a drinks cabinet, and returned with a tumbler full of ice. He poured in a generous amount of whisky, handed it to Reid, and topped his own glass.
‘Thanks.’
Reid took a sip of the whisky and watched Soul sit on the couch. He paused and stared into the glass. ‘This is nice.’
‘It should be,’ Soul muttered. ‘It’s a fifty-year-old Macallan.’
The TV in the corner of the room was on mute. It was showing a rerun of It’s a Wonderful Life.
‘Mind if I smoke?’
‘Yes, I do, actually,’ said Soul.
Reid paused, the packet of Pall Mall already halfway out of his jacket pocket.
He slipped it back inside and frowned faintly. ‘This could be a deal breaker.’
Soul looked toward the heavens. ‘Oh please, let it be.’
A comfortable silence fell across the room.
‘So, is the answer still no?’ said Reid.
Soul sighed. ‘Has anyone told you you’re a stubborn bastard?’
‘Yes. My soon-to-be-ex-wife.’
Soul’s gaze flicked to the wedding ring on Reid’s finger. ‘You got kids?’
‘Two,’ said Reid. He took another sip of the whisky and allowed himself a small smile. ‘Sophie is five going on fifteen. Spencer is three.’
The expression that flashed through Soul’s eyes made him pause. Though brief, what he glimpsed spoke of infinite loneliness and yearning on a scale he had never before seen.
‘How old are you?’ he said.
Soul stiffened slightly.
‘You’ve seen my file,’ he said in a level voice.
Reid studied him for silent seconds. ‘I don’t believe you’re thirty-four.’
‘And why is that?’
Reid hesitated.
‘Your eyes,’ he said quietly. ‘They’re…older than your years.’
Soul stared at him, his face unreadable once more.
Reid felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. His instincts told him he was on the right track. ‘You look like someone who’s lived through a lifetime of experiences, most of them painful.’
Soul broke contact with his intent gaze and looked down into his glass.
Reid thought back to everything he had seen and knew about the man. There was something else, something he only registered at that very moment. The eerie feeling gripping him intensified.
‘Your head,’ he muttered.
‘What about it?’
‘Your wound. It’s gone.’ Reid stared at the unblemished skin above Soul’s eyes. ‘There’s no scar.’
Soul downed his glass and refilled it.
Reid gazed at the man on the couch, his pulse thrumming rapidly in his ears. Curiosity won out over apprehension.
‘What are you?’
Soul dropped his head back on the couch and stared at the ceiling.
A wild thought ran through Reid’s mind. He tensed. ‘You’re not a werewolf, are you?’
Soul looked at him then. ‘What would you do if I was?’
Reid scratched his cheek. ‘Well, I’d make sure I always carried a silver bullet and a stake with me, just in case you went on a rampage.’
Lines furrowed Soul’s smooth brow. ‘Okay, I get the silver bullet, but why the stake?’
‘Backup.’
Soul laughed.
Reid grinned and relaxed in the chair. ‘You’re warming to me.’
‘You really are a stubborn son of a bitch, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am.’ Reid paused. ‘So, is that a yes?’
Soul shook his head and muttered something under his breath. ‘Will you give up if I say no?’
‘No,’ Reid said bluntly. ‘We’ll be having pizza every Friday night until you agree to my demand. Chinese and Mexican give me acid, so you’re safe there.’
Soul sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
‘So, what are you?’ Reid said.
Soul grimaced. ‘That’s a rather personal question.’
Reid stared. ‘Okay. Why were you drunk that day at the dock?’
Soul narrowed his eyes. ‘Another personal question.’
‘Sheesh,’ Reid muttered. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘What about the accountant? You got a thing going on with her?’
Soul looked genuinely surprised for the first time that evening. ‘Who, Jennifer?’
Reid sighed. ‘No, the Hunchback of Notre-Dame. Of course, Jennifer. She’s gorgeous and she’s got the hots for you.’
Soul raised an eyebrow. ‘She does?’
Reid frowned. ‘You’re kidding me, right?’
Soul hesitated. ‘I don’t…do relationships.’
Reid snorted. ‘What are you, a monk?’
‘No!’ Soul rocked the glass from side to side and watched the movement of the amber liquid inside. ‘Let’s just say bad things happen to the people who hang around me.’
Reid registered the indirect warning. ‘I’m a big boy. I know how to look after myself.’
Soul studied him for a while. He took another gulp of his whisky, put the glass down on the table, and leaned forward with his elbows on his thighs. He stared at the floor between his feet.
‘Three months,’ he said brusquely.
Reid blinked.
Soul looked up. ‘I’ll give you a three-month trial. You’ll have to quit the Homicide Unit.’
‘Not a problem. And make it six months.’
Soul frowned. ‘Four.’
‘Five,’ Reid countered. ‘And we’ll change the name of the agency. I don’t like fish.’
‘Poseidon was the Greek god of the sea, not a fish,’ Soul said coldly. ‘And who said anything about changing the name of the agency? This is going to be a trial period!’
Reid shrugged. ‘I’ll grow on you. I think the Hasley and Soul Agency sounds nice.’
Soul scowled. ‘Why not Soul and Hasley?’
‘Better to go alphabetical. And how much is the rent in Bay Village?’
Soul hesitated. ‘I was thinking of moving.’
Reid nodded. ‘Good idea. Rent’s gotta be cheaper elsewhere.’ He looked down at his glass. ‘So, you got anything else in this joint apart from whisky? I’m kinda hungry.’
THE END