THEY STOPPED ON the slope of the highway leading down to the bridge, a long row of red lights before them in the steadily easing rain. Whitt had tried to sleep in the cramped, cigarette-scented motel room in Nowra but found the Dexies had drowned out all fatigue. He’d considered waking Vada at 3 a.m. to discuss possible theories about Regan’s whereabouts, but through the curtain he could see her sleeping form in the bed, the gentle curve of her hip, her eyes closed softly in perfect slumber. It had seemed a shame to wake her. Sitting in the car beside her now, he found himself thinking of that image, remembering the envy he’d felt at her calm.
At each end of the long bridge was a two-man team of patrol officers searching vehicles, waving the occasional car past after looking through the windows and searching in the boot. Across the region, several roadblocks shut down highways and major roads, making it almost impossible to get in or out of Nowra by car without being searched. Vada and Whitt spoke to the two officers closest to them. Young men, a couple of beat cops probably brought in for overtime to cover the roadblocks. The officers seemed to resent Whitt and Vada checking up on them, sniffing and looking Whitt over as he stood by them.
“We’re Boyraville jurisdiction,” one of them said. Whitt read his name badge: Christopher Dunner. “Boss has already been in to check on us.” Their gaze was skeptical. Whitt wondered if they could tell he was high.
“Command wants things tightened up at the roadblocks,” Whitt said. “Regan Banks somehow managed to get through every roadblock on the way into Nowra and back out again. That includes blocks on side roads.”
“The guy’s a fucking ghost.” The other officer, Constable John Swartout, spat on the asphalt. “He must have a police radio. He’s listening to the channels, hearing about the setup.”
“Or someone just wasn’t vigilant enough and he got through.” Whitt shrugged. “It’s cold out here. It’s boring. One lazy check is all it takes.”
The two officers glared at him. He walked to the edge of the bridge and looked over at the river rushing beneath, the vertigo giving him a cold rush. When he was sure that Vada wasn’t watching, he popped two Dexedrines. His partner had begun walking toward the other end of the bridge to see the officers stopping cars traveling in the opposite direction.
When Whitt’s phone rang, it was Chief Morris again. Heat flooded his face, as though the man was calling because he could somehow see what he had just done.
“Whitt,” Pops said, “we’re going to have to go a bit off-reservation here.” Chief Morris explained the confrontation with Deputy Commissioner Woods, the planned trap for Regan using Harriet’s mother as bait. “His priorities are all wrong,” Pops said. “He’s interested in making a spectacle of this case rather than actually solving it. I’ve got a small team of officers here working on the side for me. Can I count on you?”
“Of course,” Whitt said. “What’s your plan?”
“I’m trying to figure out how Regan got into the records room,” Pops said. “I’m worried he’s got eyes in here. I don’t know how he knew where the records room was or that it was a soft spot in the security. I’ve got officers going back through CCTV in the months prior to the shooting to see if Regan was ever in the building.”
“Surely he never entered the building himself,” Whitt said. “He must have hacked the CCTV and looked around, found a route in. Maybe he bribed an ex-officer.”
“I don’t know.” Pops sighed. “Thousands of people come through this building every day. Perps. Witnesses. Security. Lawyers. Specialists. He might have stolen a swipe card. Worn a disguise. If he came in, we will find the footage. I’m also going to start cold-calling all the victims Harry has ever dealt with and warning them.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Whitt exhaled. “Really?”
“It’ll panic them. Sure,” Pops said gravely. “But if Regan can’t get ahold of one victim because she panicked and went to stay at a hotel for a few days, it’ll be worth it.”
“They’ll take your badge if you go too far,” Whitt warned.
“I hope they try,” Pops said.
Whitt watched the dark outline of some creature approach the riverbank below him, a slithering shadow.
“Do we need to be worried about Tox?” Whitt asked. “He’s a sitting target in that hospital. Regan might have said he’s going after Harry’s past victims, but we can’t trust his word. He could mix things up at any time. He’d want to finish Tox off, wouldn’t he? The man tried to kill him.”
“I asked for police protection for his hospital room and didn’t get any, of course,” Pops said. “I’m calling in a guy I know, an ex-cop. He works in private security now. He’ll watch the room. You take care of yourself. It’s public knowledge you and Harry worked together.”
Whitt watched as a car approached the two officers patrolling the end of the bridge nearest to him. His head felt hot and heavy, his temples throbbing. Whitt rubbed his face, tried to get a grip. He’d taken too much Dex. He was on edge.
“Regan told Harry he’s planning to meet her somewhere,” Whitt said, trying to focus. “Somewhere that she’ll be able to see the real him. That must be why he came out of the city.” He explained Harry’s call, trying to keep his voice even, resisting the urge to spew his words out in a jittering stream. He told Pops about Regan’s claim that Sam was responsible for his incarceration.
“But where would Regan go?” Pops wondered aloud. “Where do you get to see the real Regan Banks? And when is this meeting supposed to take place?”
“I suppose when he’s finished unraveling her. When she sees what he wants her to see.”
“The guy’s a nutjob,” Pops said. “We need to look closer at him. Figure out where he’ll be and when.”
Whitt didn’t answer. He forgot all about the call when he heard the shouting at the roadblock behind him.