“I understand. And now I have to be clear, Captain. You want to catch this fugitive before she runs. You really do.”
“I hear you. Now give me the name. If there are warrants out, I’ll work something out with you. Do we have a deal?”
Cindy stuck out her hand and the Captain shook it with his good one. Cindy was spelling out “Mackenzie” when Captain Lawrence’s good hand paused over the keyboard.
“Mackie Morales. That’s Randy Fish’s woman.”
“Right. You know about Fish?”
“Went to school with him. He was always a little shit, but I underestimated him. He turned out to be one of the biggest turds to come out of this state in a hundred years.”
“He was ruthless and cunning,” Cindy said. “So is Morales.”
Captain Lawrence said, “I’m on board with you, Cindy. Tell me what you know.”
Chapter 13
An hour after meeting with Captain Lawrence in his office, Cindy was sitting in the passenger seat beside him in a cruiser, parked on the same section of dirt road beyond the green house where she had parked earlier this morning.
The captain’s terms had been good enough for Cindy.
She could ride to the location in his car. She had to stay back from any action. Anything he said was off the record unless he said she could quote him. She couldn’t take pictures. She couldn’t hotdog or in any way go off on her own, or the deal was null and void.
In exchange for giving him the lead, Captain Lawrence would give Cindy credit for the tip, and he’d give her whatever advantage he could in protecting her exclusive on the story.
It was a great deal, and Cindy liked the captain and felt sure that he wouldn’t go back on his word.
And the operation was seriously in play.
Minutes after she and the captain were in place, a second cruiser had blocked off the long dirt drive where it branched off toward the Fish house. There was a boat on the lake and two teams of armed men were hidden in the woods.
Now a white van marked ZIMMER CONSTRUCTION came up the drive to the house. The radio in the captain’s car came to life, Sergeant Bob Morrison reporting that he and Officer Barton were going to go to the door.
Captain Lawrence told them to go ahead, then said to Cindy, “I looked you up. That story you wrote about Randy Fish. I read it at the time. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize your name.”
“That happens. Like all the time.”
“It was good story, and you wrote it well. I keep going back in my mind, trying to picture Randy, asking myself when he turned into such a monster. He was brought up in a good family. Bill Fish was a dentist—”
The radio crackled and Lawrence grabbed the mic and said, “Morrison, what’s happening?”
“No answer to the doorbell, Captain. We’re going to take a look around back.”
The two cops dressed as construction workers disappeared from view. A couple minutes later, they returned to the front door of the house. The one named Morrison cupped his hands at the front window and looked in.
After that, Morrison gestured to his partner, who also peered through the glass. Lawrence opened the mic and said, “What have you got, Morrison?”
“The house appears wired, Captain. Booby-trapped.”
“Get out of there now,” said Lawrence.
Cindy listened to the rapid-fire radio communications between the captain, the men in the woods, and the undercover cops, who got back into their construction van.
Cindy’s mind was on fire. She saw how this story was going to start: right here, with Morrison telling Lawrence that the house was rigged to blow. This was a beautiful lede. A movie-style fricking opening.
Lawrence released the brake and headed the car south toward the main road with the construction van following right behind.
He said, “Cindy, we have to talk.”
“Absolutely,” she said to the captain. “The house is wired. Booby-trapped. This means that she set up explosives so that if the law came in through the door—”
“I mean,” said Captain Lawrence, “we have to talk about our deal. If Morales is staying here, we can’t let on. She may come back if she thinks her safe house is still safe. That’s what we want.
“Now I have to call the FBI. You can thank me later for keeping you out of that. They will not make a deal with you, but you will have to give up your source. Count on that.
“Also, Morales may have had nothing to do with wiring that house. And as I understand journalism, if you can’t verify it, you can’t write it. Am I right?”
“You’re right as to the kind of journalism I do.”
“Okay, then. Bottom line, Cindy,” Lawrence said, turning to her as he negotiated the rutted road. “You cannot write a single word until or unless I say so. Not one single word.”
Chapter 14
My phone rang on the table next to the bed, cracking my deep sleep wide open.
I was pretty sure it was Saturday. I looked at the clock. 10:30 a.m. I had slept at least six hours straight and—hey, the baby wasn’t crying. Cause for celebration!
The phone was still ringing.
Joe groaned beside me. He said, “I’ll get her. My turn.”
I said to Joe, “It’s Brady,” and I reached for the phone.
I asked myself, why was Brady calling me? He and Yuki were getting married today. I clicked to answer the call, hoping he just needed me to pick up something for the wedding and Yuki hadn’t gotten cold feet or there’d been a quadruple homicide and he was handing off the case to me.
I said my name into the phone.
“Boxer, someone just called in something that sounds like a belly bomb. You want it? Or you want me to give it to Paul Chi? It’s your call.”
I said, “You know me too well.”
I took the address and said I’d be on scene in twenty minutes. I didn’t see how I could do that, but belly bombs were mine. I called Conklin, who said his car was in the shop. And he was at Tina’s house.
“Get dressed,” I said. “I mean now.”
I had fallen into bed last night thinking that Joe and I were going to make love in the morning. Pretty sure that he’d been having similar thoughts.
I got out of bed and opened the closet. Pulled out a pair of jeans and a man-tailored white cotton, no-iron shirt. My usual.
“No fair,” Joe said.
“I’ll make it up to you, Joe. I swear I will.”
“I think I’ve heard that before. A few thousand times.”
I laughed. I got dressed, strapped on my shoulder holster, and put on a jacket. My blue one. One of my three almost identical blue blazers.
Then, I took the dress I was going to wear to the wedding out of the closet—a gorgeous deep blue, almost-black dress with a swishy taffeta skirt, a cinched-in waist, and a pleated matte jersey bodice. My sapphire pendant on a chain would look good with this. Oh, my.
I hung my dress on the back of the door, then rooted around the closet shelf and found the box with my barely-ever-worn black Stuart Weitzman shoes. I put the box on the floor under the dress. I just couldn’t wait to put on some glam.
I said to my husband, “I’ll check out the scene, and with luck, I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“Right,” said Joe. “I’m not feeling lucky.”
“Will you make sure Maria Teresa is on to babysit for Julie?”
“You bet.”
“Are you mad?” I asked.
“Hell, no,” Joe said. “What makes you happy, makes me, uh, happy enough.”
I told Joe that I loved him “this much” and spread my arms.
He laughed, and I kissed him, then looked in on the baby and blew her a kiss so that I didn’t wake her. Martha followed me out to the door and yipped. She also gave me the big, pleading eyes.
I nipped back into the kitchen and filled her bowl.
“Okay, Boo?”
Christ.
I was still at home and the crime scene was waiting.