Dan Maguire slammed down the phone and stared moodily at the litter of papers on his desk.
He’d arrived at his office just ten minutes ago, getting an early start because everyone was pulling twelve-hour shifts during the emergency. He’d been in high spirits. Today was a big day for him—the day he would forge the first link in the chain that he would eventually wrap around Bonnie Parker’s neck.
When his desk phone rang, he assumed it was yet another resident call complaining about the power outage or the flooded streets—as if he could do a damn thing about any of that.
But it wasn’t a resident. It was Hector Samuelson, and he had bad news.
“I’m not talking to the police,” he said with an odd hitch in his voice. “The whole thing’s off. Just forget it.”
Dan’s jaw snapped shut with an audible clack. “What you mean, forget it?”
“I was wrong about what I said. I don’t remember the girl. I don’t know what she looked like. It was a long time ago.”
“You picked her photo out of a six-pack.”
“I don’t recall doing that. I was ailing that day. I was all hopped up on cold medicine. The stuff made me loopy. I didn’t know what I was saying.”
Red heat rose in Dan’s face, and his head started to pound. “That’s bullshit.”
“I’m sorry, Chief. There’s nothing I can do.”
“She got to you, didn’t she? What did she say?”
“I gotta go.”
“What did she say?”
A dial tone hummed in reply.
So that was that. Somehow Parker had wriggled out of the trap.
Maguire stood up slowly. He looked around like a man in a daze. On impulse he grabbed the nearest object he could find, a plastic wastebasket, and flung it against the wall. It bounced off and lay on the floor, dented, trash dribbling out.
He kicked his chair. He kicked it again.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “Son of a motherless goddamn bitch.”
But none of it helped. There was a level of anger and frustration so deep you couldn’t kick or scream or beat your way clear of it. You could only ride it down into darkness.
The darkness took him, and he found himself once again seated at his desk, his head cradled in his hands, his mind a giant bruise slowly turning black and blue.
He didn’t see how it was possible. How could she have known about Samuelson? Sure, he might have mentioned something about her parents the other night, but could she have used that tiny, meaningless hint to guess the details of his investigation?
He didn’t believe it. She would have to be one of those TV psychics, the ones who were always solving crimes for the police.
All right, so maybe she was psychic. A goddamn witch or something. A sorceress practicing black magic. At this point he wouldn’t put anything past her.
“Chief?”
He lifted his head from his hands and saw Bradley Walsh in the doorway.
“You okay?” Walsh asked.
Maguire studied him. He felt a cold finger of suspicion poke him in the gut.
“My investigation into Parker just hit a brick wall,” he said carefully.
“Oh. Sorry to hear that.”
Was he? Was he really?
“You wouldn’t know anything about this, would you?” Maguire asked.
“Me?”
“You know Parker. You’re friendly with her.”
“I wouldn’t say friendly.”
“Right.”
Maguire kept staring at him. The kid gazed back, his eyes unblinking and ingenuous.
In his mind he heard Bernice say, Oh, pish posh, Dan. You’re just being paranoid.
She could be right. His wife was a smart gal.
More to the point, Bradley Walsh wasn’t so smart. He was a naïve kid barely out of diapers. No way he could put one over on Dan Maguire.
There had to be some other explanation.
Dan shifted in his seat, breaking eye contact. “Okay, Walsh. Sorry if I got on your case. I know it wasn’t you. I’m a little overworked, is all.”
“Understood, Chief. We’re all pretty worn out.”
Walsh moved on, leaving Dan alone. And just like that, it was back, pressing down on him—the full weight of his failure. He’d been hours away from getting Samuelson on the record, and now he was back to square one.
And somewhere Parker was laughing at him.
Laughing as she walked away scot-free.
Again.