Michael Prescott: Riptide

She found Casey in a corner of the squad room studying a map of the division. He glanced up as she approached.

“No news,” he said. “We’ve got every unit looking for him, and additional squad cars redeployed from other areas. We’re working the streets, beaches-everywhere. It’s only a matter of time.”

“I was just in contact with him.”

“What?”

“He texted me on my cell. Says he wants to give himself up. Wants to meet me alone at my house at ten PM.”

“No way. That’s not going to happen.”

“I know it’s not. But if we send a platoon of cops, he’ll never go through with it. It has to be handled differently.”

“Handled how?”

“I want you to arrest him.”

“I’ll supervise.”

“No. Just you.”

“I can’t do it alone, Jennifer. Maybe…if we bring in Draper…”

“No.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I don’t trust him to handle the situation so Richard doesn’t get hurt.”

“Because of what I told you about the civilian complaints?”

“And the domestic abuse.” And what she’d seen when she was with him today.

“Roy’s a good cop. Forget what I said. I was just blowing off steam.”

“I can’t forget. If we’re doing this, we’re going to make sure Richard doesn’t get hurt.”

“It’s impossible to guarantee that.”

“I trust you to try your best. I trust you ,” she stressed. “And only you.”

“I don’t know,” Casey kept his voice low. “It’s not exactly standard procedure.”

“Screw standard procedure.” Her own vehemence surprised her. “Standard procedure is what you tried at the hotel. We can’t let him run again. We may not have another opportunity like this.”

He thought it over. “Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll take care of it. But you’re not coming. That’s nonnegotiable. If you insist on tagging along, the deal’s off.”

She’d expected as much. “I understand.”

“You’re staying here in the station until I get back. And you have to keep your mouth shut about what’s going on. We’re looking at some serious blowback unless this is handled just right.”

“Got it.” She handed over her house keys. “These will let you in. You might want to use the back door so nobody sees you enter. The smallest key fits the lock on the gate to the backyard.”

Casey pocketed the keys. “Sit tight. With any luck, this’ll all be over soon.”

She watched him walk away. She gave him five minutes to get into his car and drive off.

Then she walked out of the squad room and down the hall to the rear door that led to the parking lot. Her car was still parked where she’d left it after driving over from the library. And though she’d given Casey her house keys, she’d retained the car key, which she kept on a separate ring.

She got into the Prius and started the engine.

Of course she wasn’t going to sit around until Richard was in custody. He had been there for her when she needed him most, and she would be there for him now, whatever the risk. It might be guilt that was motivating her, or it might be love.

When it came to family, maybe there was no difference.

At quarter to ten Jennifer pulled into her garage. By now Casey must be in the house, though the curtains over the front windows were closed and she could see only a faint light from within.

Richard might be here as well. She was acutely aware of the possibility of an ambush. She didn’t relax until the garage door had lowered behind her.

She got out of the car. Before she could knock on the door to the kitchen, it swung open and Casey confronted her, red-faced.

“Was there some ambiguity in my instructions?”

“No, you made yourself very clear.”

“God damn it, I ought to abort this operation right now.”

“But you won’t.”

“No. I won’t. Come on in.”

She followed him into the kitchen. “I noticed you closed the curtains.”

“Your brother may scope out the house. I don’t want him seeing any cops inside-or any cop cars on this street. I parked two blocks away.”

“Good idea.”

“We may only get one chance at this. When it goes down, you have to swear to me-I mean seriously swear to me -that you will stay out of the way. No matter what happens.”

“I’m not going to interfere.”

“You’re interfering already, just by showing up.”

She tilted her head. “Are you still mad at me for the other day?”

He paused, considering the question. “No, I guess I’m just pissed off in general. I don’t like seeing a person butchered like that. It rubs me the wrong way.”

She thought of the mortuary photos from the nineteenth century. “At least now we know how people felt in 1888.”

“Is that when Jack the Ripper was on the prowl?”

“A hundred twenty years ago. Five murders that year, and two more in the following years. Then he came to America. It’s all in the diary.”

“Yeah, the diary. I need to take that.”

“I hid it in the pantry.”

She opened the cabinet and moved the cleaning supplies out of the way, revealing the tin. Carefully she lifted it off the shelf. Casey pulled a large plastic evidence bag from his pocket and put the metal box inside the bag. He sealed the bag and labeled it with a felt-tip marker from the kitchen.

“Plastic isn’t the ideal environment for an old document,” she said. “Especially when it’s sealed.”

“It won’t be in plastic very long. It’s going straight to the crime lab. We have people there who know all about document handling.”

“I hope they know about old documents. This one is fragile. It’s a miracle it’s held up as well as it has.”

“You’re not the only expert,” he said grouchily. “They know what they’re doing. You said something about a note you received?”

“What?”

“A note on your windshield, something about the diary?”

“Oh, yes.” It had been part of her statement. “It’s in my study, at the back of the house.”

“I’ll get it. You wait here. If there’s a knock on the door, you come get me.”

“The note’s in the drawer of my desk,” she told him as he headed down the hall with the tin under one arm.

She returned to the living room, where she noticed that a light on her message machine was blinking. Could someone from the media have found out about her involvement in the case so soon? She pressed Play, her hand poised over the Erase button.

But the voice over the speakers didn’t belong to a reporter. It was a voice she thought she would never hear again.

“Hey, kiddo. Tried your cell, but you didn’t pick up. I’m on my way back from downtown. Told you I’d make amends for getting you mixed up with Harrison. Spent the afternoon going through the city archives. Those women all disappeared between 1908 and 1911, and guess what? Your great-grandpappy didn’t take possession of the house till 1912. So you’re in the clear. The original owner was a Mr. Henry Parkinson. He designed the place and built it, and I guess he made sure there was a cellar…”

The message continued, but Jennifer didn’t hear it.

Mr. Henry Parkinson. The man who built this house. A man who shared his last name with the medical examiner who’d inspected the bones in situ . Who’d come in to do it, even though it was his day off. Who’d been interested in her family history…and in Richard.

Parkinson, with his legs weakened by MS. Yet he could walk, climb the cellar stairs, maybe even run-with the awkward loping gait of the figure in the sweatshirt.

“No,” she whispered. “Impossible.”