David Helin was delighted.
He was in a conference room when I arrived at the SKH&D offices, and the receptionist had no intention of interrupting until I explained my sense of urgency. A few moments later, he was practically jogging down the corridor toward where I sat, his arms wide and a happy grin on his face.
“They shot at you?” he said. “That’s wonderful.”
There were other people in the reception area, and they all stopped what they were doing. I noted the expressions of alarm on most of their faces.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean it the way it sounds,” I said.
Helin hustled me into his office.
“I don’t have a lot of time for this,” he said. “Specific details. Who is they?”
I explained, ending with what one of the shooters said—“We were sent to ask questions.”
“The professor—”
“Alexandra Campbell,” I said.
“She heard this?”
“She did. She might have saved my life.”
“Is she willing to testify?”
“Yes.”
“To what she heard?”
“Yes. Unfortunately, she’s also willing to testify that she saw Mrs. Barrington shoot Emily.”
“If it looks like a conspiracy and sounds like a conspiracy…”
“Whose conspiracy, though?”
“I don’t care. Yes, I do. Unravel it, Taylor. Unravel it.”
“I don’t think we’re going to get much help from the city and county cops.”
“What did the CA say?”
“She wasn’t at the scene. Her investigator, McGaney—he remains skeptical.”
“Even better. A conspiracy and a cover-up.”
“If you say so.”
“The fact is they shot at you. In front of witnesses. I can do a lot with that. You’ve made my day, Taylor. I couldn’t be more pleased.”
He left his office, apparently in a hurry to return to his meeting. He called to me over his shoulder as he disappeared down the corridor.
“Keep up the good work.”
* * *
I returned to the office. Freddie spoke to me without lifting his eyes from the computer screen.
“Taylor, hey,” he said.
“Freddie.”
I moved to the safe we keep between our desks. It was stacked with the coffeemaker and K-Cups, so he didn’t know what I was doing until I knelt and started working the combination.
“So, how’s it goin’?” he asked.
“I’ve been better.”
I swung open the door of the safe, reached inside, and retrieved a nine-millimeter Beretta semiautomatic handgun. Freddie didn’t react until I also pulled out two magazines.
“Two?” he said. “Really?”
“I want to make sure I have enough bullets to go around.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
I slammed a mag into the butt of the handgun and jacked a round into the chamber while I explained.
“Whose cage did we rattle?” Freddie said.
“I don’t know. Yet somewhere along the line someone became aware that we were attempting to learn Emily Denys’s real identity, and they sent two trigger-happy thugs to ask about it.”
Freddie set his index finger against his cheek and said, “Hmmm.”
“What? What does ‘hmmm’ mean?”
“The whole point of Plan B is to muddy up the waters, create whatchacall reasonable doubt.”
“I know what Plan B is.”
“Except, what if Barrington really did pop the Denys girl for all the reasons we already know about? What if the Denys girl was on the run, hiding out from someone like we suppose? Now, what if, because we were asking about her, this someone just learned that Denys was dead, realized she was really whoever she was, and now is trying to find out what happened to her?”
“I’ve got a headache, Freddie.”
He opened his desk drawer, found a small white bottle, and tossed it to me from across the room. I caught it with one hand, struggled with the childproof cap, finally opened it, and shook out two pills that I swallowed without water because that’s how tough I am.
“What’s the plan?” Freddie asked.
“Retrace my steps, including all the calls I made yesterday, and see what we find.”
Which is what I did for the rest of the day and discovered—nothing.
* * *
I drove home with the Beretta muzzle down in the cup holder located directly behind the Camry’s gearshift—not that I had suddenly become paranoid. The fact that I studied the face of every driver of every vehicle that passed me on the freeway or pulled next to my car at a stoplight—that was just me getting to know my neighbors.
The gun was in my hand, in my pocket, after I parked and moved to the entrance of my apartment building. I inputted the security code into the electronic keypad with my free hand and waited while an older couple strolled past on the sidewalk. The woman smiled.
“Beautiful evening, isn’t it?” she said.
“Just swell.”
My remark caused her smile to fade a bit, but then I sometimes have that effect on people.
I opened the door, slid inside the building, and made my way to the second-floor landing. I unlocked my apartment door, went inside, and froze. There was someone there. I could feel it. I could hear it. Light breathing coming from—where? If I hadn’t been so jazzed with adrenaline, I might have missed it. As it was, my heart was pumping blood through my arteries like a fire hose.
It couldn’t be the rabbit, I told myself as I eased the Beretta out of my pocket. There definitely was someone in the apartment.
I turned the switch. The overhead went on, flooding the apartment with light. In the movies, you always see the good guys wandering through dark houses looking for the bad guys with nothing but a flashlight. What a bunch of morons.
I gripped the Beretta with both hands, the right pushing out slightly and the left pulling in to steady it. My back was against the door as I swept the sights over the living room, down the corridor, and over to the kitchen area. Movement to my right caused me to retrain the gun there. I saw a hand reach up and grip the top of the sofa. A second hand joined the first. A woman pulled herself up. I saw the crown of her head followed by her face. I aimed the gun at her. She blinked as if I had just roused her from a nap.
“You’re home late,” she said.
I lowered the gun, pointing it at the floor.
“Geezus, Annie,” I said.
Scalasi rolled off the sofa and moved to my side. I deactivated the Beretta and set it on the narrow table next to the door. She wrapped her arms around my waist and held tight, her forehead brushing my chin. I felt her badge against my stomach.
“I heard what happened,” she said.
“Just another day in paradise.”
“Sure.”
I leaned down and kissed her lips.
“How are you?” I asked.
Her response was to press her mouth hard against mine. She was in uniform, crisp white shirt and tie, blue skirt. She had removed her shoes. Her matching jacket was folded and draped over a chair; I could see a single gold star pinned to each shoulder.
“I was frightened when I heard about the shooting,” Anne said. “I tried not to show it because … because I’m always telling people that you’re just a guy I used to know, a man I once worked with.” She stepped away from me. “I had to lock myself in my office until I stopped trembling. Imagine having that reaction. It surprised me a little bit.”
“We’re friends. I’d be upset if someone shot at you, too.”
Anne removed her tie.
“That’s good to know,” she said. “So, tell me, have you discovered who the woman is, yet—Emily Denys?”
“No.”
She opened the top button of her shirt.
“If it makes you feel any better, the officers working the case don’t have a name, either,” Anne said. “They do have something that you don’t, though.”
“What’s that?”
“They have the bullet.”
From her expression, I knew Anne expected me to guess what she was talking about, so I worked the puzzle in my head. It was difficult, because while I was doing that, she kept opening buttons until her shirt fell open, revealing the powder-blue bra beneath it. The only breathing I could hear now was mine.
Think, Taylor, I told myself. The bullet taken from the back of Emily’s skull …
“NIBIN,” I said.
“The National Integrated Ballistic Information Network. My officers ran the bullet through the computer system. They got a match seven hours after they started. It took several days to work the bureaucracy—big surprise. First they had to acquire the bullet from the original source, which took a lot of official correspondence, not to mention UPS. Afterward, they had to bring the bullet to the BCA and order up their own ballistic tests, which took another day.”
“What are you telling me?”
“I shouldn’t be telling you anything. I promised myself I wouldn’t.”
“Annie?”
She unbuttoned her skirt, pulled down the zipper, and let it fall into a puddle at her feet.
“The bullet that killed Denys was fired from the same gun that was used in an unsolved homicide thirteen months ago.”
“Where?”
Scalasi stepped out of the skirt.
“A small town called Arona in western Wisconsin,” she said.
She turned and moved toward my bedroom. I could detect a hint of powder-blue panties beneath the tails of her shirt.
“Who was killed?” I asked.
“I’ll tell you later.”
* * *
I was on the phone ten minutes after Scalasi left my apartment. Helin wasn’t as happy as I thought he would be when I explained the connection between the murder of Emily and Mayor Todd Franson in Arona. Not even when I added that he was killed in the same manner as the girl, a single shot to the back of the head while he was unlocking the door to his house, and that the killing occurred at about the same time Emily first appeared in the Cities. Instead of hopping up and down as he did after the shooting earlier, he became quiet.
“Up until now, I thought this was a good thing,” I said.
“The Barrington family has property in Arona, a summer retreat of some sort, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“In fact, from what you told me, it’s the same the property U.S. Sand wants to turn into a silica sand mine.”
“Yes.”
“You can bet the CA will be working very, very hard to connect the killing of the mayor to Mrs. Barrington. If she does … Tell me that Eleanor didn’t even know who he was, this Mayor Franson.”
“Do you want me to ask her?”
“Hell no.”
“Then you ask her,” I said. “In the meantime, why don’t I drive out there tomorrow morning and take a look around?”
“Why don’t you?”
“At the very least I can flash Emily’s pic and see if anyone can identify her.”
“Keep in touch.”
“Tell me, though—Haukass knew about the bullet yet kept it to herself. Can’t she be cited for withholding evidence from the defense?”
“While the CA’s obligated to turn over all evidence, discovery can unfold gradually, sometimes more gradually than what you might consider fair. Probably, though, she has no more idea if this is inculpatory evidence that proves Mrs. Barrington is guilty or exculpatory that proves she’s innocent than we do, and she’ll want to know before she gives it up.”
“What if I’m the one who finds out if it’s inculpatory or exculpatory?”
“Keep it to yourself. At least until you talk to me.”