33

Hours later Reese called Lauren and told her he was going to be caught up until at least seven in the evening, but to swing by his house after that to talk. “I have to let Watson out of his crate. The woman next door comes over around noon, but this is too long for him to be cooped up.”

“I’ll text you when I’m on the way home.”

Lauren and Nolan completed their video canvass, requested printouts from all four of the fixed plate readers in the city from the day before, searching specifically for any of the vehicles registered to David, Melissa, or her company, and checked in with Kencil. By seven o’clock they were exhausted, hungry, and driving up and down every street in the Old First Ward, looking for any business, home, or vacant lot with a camera they might have missed.

There was still no sign of Isabella.

“What if we are on the wrong track?” Lauren rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. They felt itchy and raw from squinting at grainy videos all day. “What if it’s not David?”

“Any doubt I had was erased during that interview yesterday,” Nolan replied, turning right onto Ohio Street. “I was expecting some young kid, some scared rabbit, not that guy.”

Lauren settled back into the seat. The sky was turning orange and yellow and red as the sun sank down over the lake in the west. That was how Lauren had been taught direction by her dad growing up; the sun sank into Lake Erie. That was west. In the twilight, the city looked quiet, almost abandoned in this part of town as they turned onto Tifft Street. Rush hour was over, most of the residents were home by now, enjoying dinner on a chilly March night. The weather still hadn’t broken, and it was practically April. Whoever said that March comes in like a lion and out like a lamb had never been to Buffalo, where the lamb didn’t show up until almost June sometimes.

Lauren’s phone vibrated. It was a text from Reese.

I’m on my way now. Meet me on Beyer Place.

“Turn left up here.” Lauren guided Nolan through the South Buffalo streets. Reese had inherited his great aunt’s house on Beyer Place about a year before. It was tiny, almost more of a cottage, with no backyard and neighbors on each side so close you could touch their walls if you stuck your arm out of his window. It had its upside too, though. It faced Cazenovia Park, with its trees and baseball diamonds and basketball courts. There was even a nine-hole golf course on the other side.

She wasn’t in the mood to reminisce about her old stomping grounds. She called out directions until they were cruising across Cazenovia Park, out onto Seneca Street. They took a right. Adjacent to the park were several residential side streets. Reese’s place was nestled in this little area.

Pulling onto Beyer Place, Lauren pointed to a small blue house sandwiched between two doubles. “Right there. But I don’t see his car or one of our unmarked units.”

The squat, boxy house was probably built at the turn of the twentieth century for a newly arrived family member by the owners of one of the neighboring houses. It had no garage and no driveway, just a narrow sidewalk to the front steps. Nolan parked in the street and turned the truck off.

“He’ll probably be here any second,” Lauren said, gazing over Nolan’s shoulder into the thick trees that ringed Cazenovia Park. It was dark now; the March sunset had given way to a starless, cloudy sky.

Nolan kept his right hand curled over the gearshift, his other still gripping the wheel. “Lauren,” he said, turning in his seat to face her, “what I said earlier, about dinner, it’s because I want this to happen.” He motioned between the two of them, his hazel eyes searching hers. “I want you to know—”

“That’s Reese’s car.” Lauren cut him off as the unmarked Chevy turned the corner. Flashing his headlights in recognition, he pulled past them into a neighbor’s driveway, turned around, and parked behind them.

Nolan and Lauren exited the Explorer at the same time, his words still hanging in the air between them, and waited for Reese to walk up.

“Thanks for coming out here so late. I know you have a long drive home, Nolan.” The two men shook hands, then the trio started to make their way toward Reese’s house.

“It’s not a problem,” Nolan replied just as they were about to turn onto Reese’s walkway. “I just—”

CRACK

As the sharp sound pierced the quiet evening, Reese’s head snapped to the left, like he had just gotten stung by the world’s biggest bee. His forward momentum caused him to stumble and trip on his own foot in the shock of it. He pitched face down onto the concrete sidewalk with a sickening thunk. A pool of bright red blood immediately spread out like a sick halo around his head.

It took both Nolan and Lauren half a second to process what just happened. Lauren threw herself down next to Reese, while Nolan took cover by the wheel well of a parked car. Lauren knew she was out in the open, a literal sitting duck, but she tried to shield Reese. “Did you see where the shot came from?” she called to Nolan, while wrestling her portable out of her pocket, fumbling to get a grip on the black plastic.

Nolan drew his sidearm and peeked around the front of the car. “I think from that cluster of trees over there.” He nodded his head in the direction of a thick knot of leafless Sycamores.

There was so much blood. Reese wasn’t moving. Lauren couldn’t even tell if he was breathing until she put her hand on his back. “Help me get him into your truck,” Lauren yelled, desperation rising in her voice.

Nolan popped his head up for a second and dropped back down. “No. Get on the radio and get an ambulance here. We can’t move him.”

Lauren had to suppress her instinct to throw Reese in the Explorer and take off. The rational part of her brain knew they had to stabilize him, but the street cop in her wanted to get him to the hospital as fast as possible.

“Radio, we have shots fired. Shots fired on Beyer Place.” She barely managed to keep her voice steady as she looked at the house numbers, trying to figure out exactly where they were. “510 Beyer Place. Officer down. I repeat, officer down.”

Nolan ran for the cover of a tree, just on the other side of the road, flattening himself against it, waiting for another shot to ring out.

Lauren yanked off her jacket, pressing it against the right side of Reese’s head where blood streamed from a deep gash.

Nolan snaked his way from tree to tree, towards where the shot had been fired.

“No. No. No,” Lauren repeated as the blood soaked through her coat. “Stay with me, Reese,” she pleaded. “Reese?”

Nolan was gone, off trying to grab whoever had done this, but Lauren could only focus on her partner.

He was alive, but she didn’t dare try to turn him over. His face was tilted to the left, his eye closed. The scar from the staples he got in his head in December was visible; she could see it peeking out from under the drenched fabric of her jacket.

Her portable radio was going crazy with officers responding to her call. In the distance, the sounds of multiple sirens cut through the night. She didn’t look up, not even when the first police car came screeching to a halt only a couple feet from them.

Other police officers surrounded her, kneeling down next to her, trying to talk to her, trying to talk to Reese, trying to figure out what happened. All she could do was repeat, “The shot came from the park,” again and again and again.

The paramedics had to pry her away from him, still holding her bloody coat, so they could turn Reese over and work on him. Four firefighters helped get him on a backboard after the paramedics put a collar on his neck, all while keeping pressure on the wound.

An A District lieutenant tried to question her, but even as she answered, her eyes were glued to her partner, refusing to move from his side as she was jostled by the firefighters and the ambulance crew that was working on him.

She wanted to scream, What are you waiting for? Get his ass to the hospital! But the words were caught in her throat.

His chest was rising and falling, that much she could tell. He was still alive.

For now.

Every light in every house on the street was on; people filled every porch and lawn, watching as they hustled Reese into an ambulance and the cops taped off the crime scene.

Reese looked unreal to Lauren—his face bloody, his neck in a plastic collar, strapped onto a gurney. A huge abraded lump had manifested on his forehead where he had hit the sidewalk.

A firefighter helped Lauren into the ambulance but made her sit by the back door. It seemed like she was miles from Reese as she watched one paramedic, barely in her twenties, start an IV, while her partner kept pressure applied to the wound.

“Can you hear me, Detective?” the woman kept asking him as she affixed more medical devices to him. “Can you open your eyes?”

Reese just lay there. If he could hear, he didn’t or couldn’t respond.

Lauren didn’t know where Nolan was. She couldn’t bring herself to shift focus off Reese enough to care. He had gotten shot in front of his own house by someone who had lain in wait. There was only one person who was angry enough with Reese to do that.

Reese was wrong when he said staying partners might mean watching me get myself killed, she thought as she held onto the bloody jacket like a life preserver. It meant he would get himself killed.