Fatal Reckoning Read online

She eased off the accelerator. Slightly. Ten minutes later, they pulled up to the Secret Service checkpoint and were waved through. Outside her dad’s house, she jumped from the car and was halfway up the ramp before she heard Freddie’s door—and hers—close behind her.

  “That’s okay. I’ll get the doors.”

  Under normal circumstances, she might’ve complimented his sarcasm, having taught him everything he knew about the fine art. Today, however, she couldn’t spare the time. She burst into the house, scaring the hell out of Celia, who was on the sofa, a pile of cards and papers stacked next to her.

  “Sam.” Celia rested her hand over her heart. “What is wrong?”

  “The man purse.”

  “The what?”

  “The bag Dad carried to work with him. Where is it?”

  “I’m not sure what bag you mean.”

  Sam told herself to calm the fuck down, to be patient, not to snap when she wanted to scream. “The old beat-up leather messenger bag he carried to and from work.”

  “I’ve never seen that. Before the shooting, I only saw him after work, not coming and going.” Her heart-shaped face lit up with a pale pink blush at the reminder of how they’d dated in secret before Skip was injured. Afterward, she’d volunteered to be his lead caregiver, and later, Sam had learned they’d been dating for quite some time.

  Hearing that Celia didn’t know where the bag was left Sam feeling deflated after the punch of adrenaline that had brought her rushing home.

  “There’s some stuff in the attic—”

  Sam was halfway up the stairs before Celia finished saying the word attic.

  Freddie followed. “I’ll just go with her.”

  In the upstairs hallway, she reached for the cord hanging from the ceiling and yanked down the stairs to the attic, charging up the stairs into murky darkness. Where the fuck is the light?

  Freddie used the flashlight on his phone to illuminate the light.

  Sam pulled the string to turn it on and took a look around at stacks of boxes, a steamer trunk and milk crates full of crap that she and her sisters had brought home from college and never touched again. In the far right-hand corner, a stack of boxes drew her attention because they were the same boxes that were used at the MPD to house evidence and files. The sight of them made her feel light-headed.

  She bent at the waist, propped her hands on her knees and stared at the two boxes as if they were filled with dynamite. “Those boxes have been sitting here, in his house, right under our noses, and I had no idea. I had no idea.” For a brief moment, she feared she was going to be sick.

  “It might be nothing, Sam. More of the same.”

  “Or it might be everything.”

  “Let’s find out.” He stepped around her, picked up the stack and carried them down the stairs.

  After closing the attic door, Sam followed on legs that felt rubbery and weird, as if someone had kicked them out from under her. Four years. Four fucking years. She wanted to punch something or someone.

  “Did you find the bag?” Celia asked when they came downstairs with the boxes.

  “Not sure yet. Take them into the kitchen.” It was the shock, she thought, the shock that had followed the shooting and the stroke her father had shortly afterward, that had knocked her off her game. For months, she’d been in a fog of grief, sorrow, fear and rage, helping to care for Skip and trying to hold on to her own job, while her marriage to Peter crumbled and her battles with Stahl intensified. He’d had absolutely no empathy whatsoever for what she and her family were going through after her dad was shot. The enmity between them had escalated significantly during that time.

  Those days, weeks and months were a blur, the most stressful period of her life, a time she’d much rather forget than relive. But when she allowed herself to wallow in the memories of that dreadful time, she was able to see how things that would normally be important had slipped off her radar. The delivery of items from the office would barely warrant a notice when keeping him alive and comfortable had consumed their days and nights.

  Had those boxes been there all that time, containing the answers they’d needed so badly? Sam was almost afraid to find out.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  IN THE KITCHEN, Freddie took the cover off the first box and pulled out a stack of files that he placed on the table.

  Sam stared at the files. “Why did some of it end up here and the rest is still at HQ?”

  “Who knows? Maybe this was more personal stuff?” He took the first file and opened it, sifted through the pages. “These are all his performance evals.”

  There were files with awards, citations, letters from citizens Skip had helped or befriended that Sam would pore over when she had time, letters from children he met at school visits and pictures they’d drawn of him in his uniform. Something about those pictures got to her as she recalled his joy in interacting with kids and teaching them to respect law enforcement officers. That had been one of his favorite things to do as deputy chief.

  They went through every piece of paper in both boxes but didn’t find anything new that could help with the case.

  The adrenaline drained out of her, leaving Sam exhausted and frustrated.

  Celia came into the kitchen. “Anything?”

  Sam shook her head. “Where else would that bag be? Any idea?”

  “You can go up and check his closet in the bedroom. Everything is still where he left it, except for the clothes he wore afterward.”

  Afterward. Life divided between before and after the shooting.

  “Let’s go check the closet.” Sam trudged back up the stairs.

  Freddie followed her into her father’s bedroom.

  Celia had chosen to use one of the other empty bedrooms, so Skip’s room was virtually untouched, right down to the framed family photos on the dresser, the red-and-blue-striped comforter he’d bought after Sam’s mother moved out and the queen-size bed that had belonged to Skip’s mother, Sam’s beloved grandma Ella. Angela’s daughter had been named for her.

  Freddie’s hand on her shoulder reminded her of what they’d come in there to do.

  She went to the closet, opened the door and was greeted by the faint scent of the Polo cologne her father had worn his entire adult life. The familiar scent nearly brought her to her knees. She gripped the doorknob as she took a quick visual inventory of the closet—dress shirts, polo shirts, dress pants, jeans, uniforms, shoes and a stack of sweaters on the shelf. The man purse was not among the items in the closet.

  “Is there anything behind the clothes?”

  Sam divided the hanging clothes and looked behind them. “Nope.”

  Another dead end. Backing away from the closet, she sat on the edge of the bed to collect her thoughts. “When I was a kid, I used to come running in here first thing every morning to wake him up. It didn’t matter how early it was, he always got up with me, shushing me so I wouldn’t wake everyone else. He would carry me downstairs and make me pancakes. We’d watch the news together while he drank coffee and I had chocolate milk. He’d ask me questions about things we saw on the news and tell me it was important to be aware of what was going on in the world.”

  Arms crossed, Freddie leaned against the dresser and listened.

  “I followed him around like an annoying puppy, but he never acted annoyed.”

  “He adored you.”

  She ran a hand over the familiar striped comforter. “Used to drive me crazy when I was first on the job and he’d light up at the sight of me, no matter who else was around. The guys would tease me about being a daddy’s girl, and I couldn’t even deny it.”

  “We’re going to figure this out, Sam.”

  She glanced at him. “When? When are we going to figure it out?”

  “We’ve already got three things we didn’t have before—the statement from Davis, the info ab
out Conklin and the reminder of the messenger bag.”

  “Which could be anywhere at this point.”

  “We should check the evidence locker at HQ.”

  She shook her head. “We’ve already done that. It wasn’t with the stuff from the shooting.”

  “We weren’t looking for the bag then. This time we would be.”

  He was right. It was worth a shot. “Yeah, I guess so.” She opened her phone and called her sister Tracy, who answered on the second ring.

  “What’s up?”

  “I need a favor.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Do you remember the messenger bag Dad used to carry to work?”

  “The man purse?”

  Sam smiled. “Yeah.”

  “What about it?”

  “One of my colleagues mentioned it earlier today, and I realized I’d forgotten about it—and that no one has seen it since the shooting. So we’re looking for it.”

  “Have you checked the house?”

  “Freddie and I just went through the stuff that was sent home from HQ after he retired and his old bedroom and closet, but it’s not here.”

  “What can I do?”

  “A more thorough search of the house? I don’t want to ask Celia to do it.”

  “I’m on it, and I’ll get Ang to help.”

  “Thanks, Trace. You’re the best.”

  “We’ll do anything we can to help figure out who shot him.”

  “This is a big help. Thanks.”

  “I’ll keep you posted.”

  Sam closed the phone, took a deep breath and pushed herself up from the bed, taking a last look at the familiar room that reminded her so profoundly of her dad and the way life had been before the shooting.

  Freddie stopped her with a hand to her arm. “Give yourself a minute if you need it.”

  “I’m okay.” She said what he needed to hear, but she wondered if she’d ever truly be okay in a world that no longer included her beloved father.

  * * *

  JOE WAITED UNTIL two o’clock before he went to find Jake in his office, surrounded by four stacks of paper. “How’s it going?”

  “Slow.”

  “Want some help?”

  “Wouldn’t say no to that.” Jake gestured to the piles. “These are all the calls to Conklin’s extension, one stack for each of the last four years. I’m almost through the first year. Three more to go.”

  “Give me a year and the number we’re looking for.”

  Jake handed over the pages and a sticky note with Davis’s number written on it.

  “Just like the old days, huh?”

  “You mean back when we were useful?”

  Joe laughed, which he wouldn’t have thought possible. He’d been up all night, overtaken by the stress of Conklin’s possible involvement in Skip’s shooting and what he might have to do about it if it turned out to be true. The very idea that Conklin could’ve kept something like this from them intentionally was so overwhelming and revolting. And if it was true, what else was there? What other secrets had his deputy chief been keeping?

  They worked in silence, scrolling through page after page of numbers. It would’ve been easier to have Archie do a computer search for the number, but Joe was afraid to tip his hand about what they were looking for. So they did it by hand, the old-fashioned way.

  Joe broke the long silence. “Remember when we used to be all about the paper?”

  “I remember. I like computer searches better.”

  “Me too, but that’s not an option this time.” He glanced at Jake. “Did Archie have anything to say about the request?”

  “Nope. After he confirmed it with you, he printed it out and handed it over.”

  The lieutenant who led their IT department was one of the best officers Joe had ever worked with—thorough, competent, discreet and meticulous. “We probably could’ve told him what we were looking for and let him do it.”

  “Probably.”

  While they respected and admired Archie, they didn’t trust anyone with a situation this potentially explosive for the department. They went back to scanning the pages.

  Another twenty minutes passed before Jake gasped and sat up straighter. “Pay dirt. He called Conklin’s extension on the first anniversary of the shooting.” He shuffled through another stack of papers. “And the second anniversary. You’ve got the third year—check the date of the shooting.”

  Joe sifted to the back of the pile to check the December dates, scanning for the date of the shooting, his heart sinking when he saw the number they were looking for. “And the third anniversary.” Joe glanced at Jake. “He called every year, looking for an update on the case.” He handed the page over to Jake, who ran a highlighter over the line in question and put it with the other two pages.

  Jake blew out a deep breath and sagged into his chair. “What do we do?”

  For a full minute, Joe’s mind went blank. He couldn’t formulate a single thought that made sense.

  “Joe?”

  “I’d like to consult with Tom Forrester.” Bringing in the U.S. Attorney would make this a big deal, and he didn’t do that lightly, but what choice did he have?

  “Jesus.”

  Joe stood, handed the stack of paper to his friend. “Keep digging and see if he called any other time. Check the half-year dates and let me know.”

  “I will. Joe...”

  “I know. Believe me, I know.” Joe left Jake’s office and returned to his own, walking past Helen, who said something that he acknowledged with a raised hand. She’d worked for him long enough to know when not to disturb him. Closing the door, he leaned back against it, reeling from the discoveries that pointed to his deputy and longtime friend having withheld evidence in a case that had struck so close to home.

  They’d all come up together—Holland, Farnsworth, Conklin and Malone. The possibility that one of them could betray the others, as well as the department and city they served, was unfathomable. He wanted to go back to yesterday, before he’d known about it. As he lowered himself into his desk chair, the weight of command sat heavier on his shoulders than it ever had before.

  Only one choice existed in this situation. He had to report it or he’d be as guilty as Conklin. As he reached for the extension on his desk, a wave of nausea hit him. This call would lead to an epic scandal that would engulf him and his department. As he battled through the nausea, he thought for a second that he might actually vomit.

  He put down the phone, opened a bottle of water from the bagged lunch Marti made for him each day and chugged most of it. As he thought of Skip and the horrific ordeal that had followed the shooting, he focused on breathing through the nausea. Every detail of the day Skip was shot remained vivid in Joe’s memory. From the first call of “Officer down” to endless hours in the hospital waiting to see if Skip would survive the first twenty-four hours, the first forty-eight hours, the first seventy-two hours, every minute an epic battle. Then he’d had a stroke that had left him further diminished.

  Through it all, Skip’s resilience and will to live had astounded them all. Joe remembered weeping with Marti over what’d happened to their dear friend, the fear of what could happen to any of them who wore the uniform and the heartbreak of it all. And now this. Confirming that Conklin had known something he hadn’t shared with the rest of them broke Joe’s heart all over again.

  Sometimes doing the right thing hurt. This was one of those times.

  He picked up the phone, requested an outside line and put through the call to Forrester’s office. “This is Chief Farnsworth with the MPD. I need to see U.S. Attorney Forrester ASAP.”

  * * *

  ON THE WAY back to HQ from Ninth Street, Sam took a call from Dispatch.

  “Holland.”

  “Lieutenant, we have a report of one DOA on 1
2th Street. Witnesses state that the victim was hit by a stray bullet.”

  “Detective Cruz and I will respond.” Sam fumed at another delay. Four years of delays, distractions and dead ends. What was one more on top of hundreds of others? She directed the car toward 12th and noted the flashing lights from the Patrol cars that had already arrived on the scene.

  The closest she could get was a block from the activity, so she double-parked and put on the hazards before getting out of the car. She flashed her badge to the crowd gathered on the sidewalk. “Let us through.” Sam wanted to ask the gawkers if they’d want someone staring at their dead body on a sidewalk if this had happened to them.

  A few of them seemed to recognize her, and a ripple of gasps went through the crowd. When one of the women would’ve stopped her to say something, Sam’s fierce scowl had her thinking better of it. They pushed through the crowd to where a young man in a bloodied shirt and tie lay on the sidewalk. Upon a quick look, Sam could tell he’d been extremely handsome, and the ring on his left hand indicated he was married. The senselessness of it struck her hard, as it always did, knowing someone’s world would be shattered by the loss of this young man.

  “What do we know?” Sam glanced up at the male Patrol officer, whom she did not know.

  Reading from a notebook, the officer recited the facts. “Patrick Connolly, aged thirty-one, an agent with the DEA, according to a badge found in his pocket.” He offered the man’s home address, which he had found on his driver’s license.

  “Sam.” A familiar male voice had her turning to face Darren Tabor, who stared down at the body with a stricken look on his face. “I work with his wife. They...they just got married a few months ago.”

  She nodded to Freddie, silently asking him to see to Darren.

  “Come on, Darren.” Freddie led him away from the body.

  “Let’s get these people out of here,” Sam said to the Patrol officer. “And have you called the ME?”

  “Yes, ma’am. She’s on her way.”

  Sam took off her jacket and placed it over the dead man’s face. “If I see pictures of this man anywhere online, I’ll hunt you down and throw your asses in jail.” She said that loud enough for everyone around her to hear. “He’s someone’s husband and son. Show some respect and back off.”