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Sam squeezed her steering wheel as she sped home, her fears and frustration bubbling up and boiling over into a roar. Her mind was not on the road where it should have been, her body driving the route by reflex. What does Wainwright want with Michael? What could he possibly want with me?
Sure, she despised Wainwright and his ilk, but she’d never even been face-to-face with the man, never done anything that would warrant his special attention. Bruce and his former partner had chased Wainwright out of town before Sam had even made detective.
She burped to stop the vomit from rising. What was it Frank had said about the bastard? Chaos for chaos’s sake? She screamed with rage before gagging on self-revulsion, knowing she would turn a blind eye to every evil deed Wainwright had done and ever would do if he would just leave her and Michael alone. Maybe even Bruce’s murder.
She sniffled then snarled away her tears. The sting of a promise she’d made and never kept—to hunt down Wainwright when her partner no longer could—a duty owed to a fallen friend and mentor that she let go by the wayside. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried. Wainwright disappeared after Texas. No trace. The man might as well have been a ghost, and for all she knew, may have been dead. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder how things might have been different had she only tried a little harder.
But circumstances had changed since she’d made that promise. Michael had been in her life, but he hadn’t become her son yet—her responsibility. She owed more to the living than to the dead, yet she always seemed to be dropping the boy in harm’s way.
Her car skidded to a halt in the middle of the road, a few houses back from her apartment. The street had been cordoned off and was awash in swirling red and blue lights. At least two ambulances and half the force were there.
She swung her door open, hopped out of her car, and sprinted her way through the barricade. Frank stood just outside the caution tape, the gravity of whatever knowledge he held weighing down the skin on his face, making him look old beyond his years, haggard even.
“Where is he?” Sam passed him, taking his sleeve and ushering him past the tape as she lifted it. It caught on his chest, but he somehow managed to limbo under it. “Where’s Michael?”
“I don’t know,” Frank said, following her as she hustled to her front door. “He’s not here.”
Sam pushed past the officer posted at the entrance to the tenement and took the steps up to her apartment two at a time. Sergeant Rollins, his pro-wrestler biceps crossed over a broad chest, waited for her at the top near the splintered remains of her door.
She nodded for him to lead her inside, tapping his arm as they walked. “Talk to me.”
“Quadruple homicide, the vic—”
Sam hushed him by holding up her index finger. “First, Michael.”
Sergeant Rollins frowned and shook his head slowly. “We don’t know. But the witness who called it in said he almost hit a boy. The description he gave matches Michael’s. We believe he got away.”
“Then why hasn’t...” She yanked her phone out of her pocket. No missed calls or texts except for those from Frank. She’d told him to call at the slightest sign of trouble. Why hasn’t he?
“Stupid!” She screamed at herself, though both Frank and Sergeant Rollins took a step back. She hit her recent call list, found Michael’s number, then called it. A ringing came from his bedroom. She ran toward it and saw the phone lighting up on the floor beneath an open window.
“All right.” She breathed so quickly she sounded as if she were panting. “Okay.” Her head spun, her hand going out by her side for balance. She sat on Michael’s bed.
“Are you okay?” Frank asked, stepping closer.
“Of course I’m not okay!” She glared up at him, her anger clearing the fog in her mind. “What does he want with us, Frank? Why would he be after us?” Her nostrils flared. “Why isn’t he after you?”
“You’re asking me to explain why a homicidal maniac does what he does?” Frank pursed his lips and knitted his brow. “I can’t do that, Sam. I do know that you’re way too close to this now. Maybe one of the other detectives should take point on—”
“Oh, fuck you, Frank!” Sam stood, her fist clenched, wanting nothing more than to take the smug SOB down a peg. “This is my case, and with Michael gone, the only way anyone’s taking me off it is over my dead body.”
Frank threw up his hands in defeat. “Okay. I’m sorry.” His chin dipped against his chest. “We—I wanted to keep you out of this, you and Michael. Truly, for your own protection. You have something, someone to lose, whereas... I don’t. God, Sam, if anything were to happen to you because I screwed up...” He choked up, then cleared his throat. “Anyway, I see shielding you from my mess is no longer possible. Perhaps it was a mistake from the start. I’ll tell you everything I—”
“Later.” Sam fixed him with a gaze that probably seemed more hostile than she intended. “Our first and only priority is finding Michael.” She turned to Rollins. “Sergeant, can you walk us through what happened?”
Rollins pulled a notepad from his back pocket and flipped it open. “According to Arthur Tellier of 3044 Damascus Avenue, he was driving northbound on Wilshire just before eleven in the morning when a boy matching Michael’s description ran out in front of his car. He honked and yelled at the boy, who continued on to the other side of the street.”
Rollins turned to the next page. “As Tellier was shouting at the boy, he heard tires screech and a loud thud then saw a van stopped on the other side of the road and a woman lying by the curb with a strange mask. The man driving the van, identified as Cormac McCaffrey of 197 Cheshire Street, exited his vehicle to provide assistance. At this time, another individual wearing a police uniform and a mask similar to that of the injured woman approached from the west—that is, from around the side of your building—carrying an ax. Tellier saw the individual, who appeared to be male, say something to the woman before burying the ax in her head.”
Rollins paused, apparently expecting questions. When he got none, he cleared his throat and continued. “Tellier froze but regained his senses when the man with the ax turned on McCaffrey as he tried to flee, and a third masked individual approached from the front entrance—from your apartment—holding a knife to a boy’s throat.”
Sam gasped. “How do you know—”
“The description, though incomplete, matches that of Dylan Jefferson, according to Officers Tagliamonte and Paltrow.”
“Where is the boy now?” Frank asked.
“Not here.” Rollins sighed. “Presumably taken by the masked individual or individuals. As you can see by the number of cars out there, we have many officers canvasing the neighborhood for other witnesses. I mean, this happened in broad daylight. Even the people in this city can’t deny they saw or heard something. We hope to have more information on the perps and the boys’ whereabouts shortly.”
“You said quadruple homicide. The officers on protective duty, Dubront and Lennox, they’re...”
Rollins nodded. The muscles in his jaw tightened.
A twinge of guilt tickled Sam’s throat in response to the relief she felt that it hadn’t been Tag that shift or Michael who’d been taken. “So... after one of the masked perps was struck by the van, another one of the masked perps killed her?” Sam rubbed her forehead. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
Frank tapped his chin. “Perhaps he was afraid she’d be taken into custody and didn’t want her to talk.”
Sam squinted, not liking the sound of that. “Any information on the dead perp?”
“Nothing yet. Other than a crowbar, the deceased suspect had nothing on her—no identification, no money, no jewelry, no nothing.”
“Were they wearing gloves?”
“No.” Sergeant Rollins might have smiled had it not been her son that was missing. “Potter is dusting the doorway now. He’ll work his way through.” He shrugged. “Medical examiner’s got the bodies, too, though the cause of death appears to be fairly obvious.”
“Order a toxicology report on the dead woman anyway,” Sam said.
“You thinking she came from Brentworth? Like Bowes?” Frank looked down his vulture-like nose at her, which wasn’t really his fault since she was still sitting on Michael’s bed.
She stood. “You’re not? The compounds found in Bowes’s system weren’t exactly your garden variety. A match here would strongly suggest a connection between him and the dead woman. And if Brentworth links the two of them, we have our probable source of the pharmaceuticals. Obviously, this is all on top of the fact that they all were wearing the same damn masks.”
She glowered up at Frank. His silence spoke volumes. She knew Frank was thinking the exact same thing as her. And that pissed her off even more. He probably knew all about Brentworth from the start. Had he only filled her in from the beginning, they might have prevented the attack on Michael.
But he hadn’t. And if anything happened to Michael, she was going to take it out on him—violently.
She closed her eyes for a second, trying to still the rising storm. “Sergeant, the scene is yours. Let Potter finish up and tell him to discount any fingerprints from yourself or Officer Tagliamonte.”
Frank raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing. She wondered if he questioned her exclusions or the fact that he wasn’t included in them.
Addressing the sergeant, she said, “Don’t let anyone in—eh, you know what to do. If Michael returns or anyone else finds him first, I know you’ll give me a call right away.”
Rollins nodded, and Sam turned to Frank. “You coming?”
“Where?”
“Michael’s hidden at the school before. We should try there first.”
Frank offered what she thought was supposed to be a reassuring smile, but it collapsed into something weak and ugly. “Right behind you.”