Mariah Stewart - Last Breath

“Yes, sir.” The officer went off in search of his partner.

“I’m going to run inside and make sure the house is secured, but I should be right behind you, Chief,” Connor told him.

“I’ll see you at the station.” Thorpe nodded and headed off for his vehicle.

Connor ran up the back steps of the house and into the kitchen where Daria and Mia were seated at the table, the dog between them like a large brown-and-white statue.

“You’ve got yourself a pretty damned good watchdog,” he told Daria. “She knew that kid was out there, made a beeline for the trees the minute I opened the door.”

“Who is he?” Daria frowned. “And why was he watching the house?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out.” He slipped his gun back into his holster. “There are two Howeville cops outside to keep an eye on you until I get back. I doubt there’s going to be any more activity tonight, so I suggest you two go back to bed. Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day.”

“Why’s that?” Daria asked.

“Because we have a meeting with Mr. Cavanaugh at his house, if you feel up to a drive.”

“I’m up to it, yes, definitely.” She nodded.

“Who’s Mr. Cavanaugh?” Mia asked.

“An antiques dealer who might have sold one of the artifacts to one of the victims,” he told her. To Daria, he said, “Go back to sleep. Get some rest.”

She nodded again and the two women started out of the room.

“Come on, Sweet Thing,” Daria called to the dog. “My hero…good girl!”

“Hey,” Connor said as she was about to push open the swinging door. “Thanks for leaving the light on.”

Daria smiled and met his eyes. “Anytime.”

Connor took a seat at the table across from the boy and studied his face. Dark eyes, deeply set and filled with fear. Long thin nose, round face, wide mouth, tanned skin. Well, that wasn’t unusual. It was, after all, August. The boy was tall and slim and of an indeterminable age, and according to Chief Thorpe hadn’t opened his mouth since they arrived at the police station, where he was shown into this small room with the glass wall.

“What’s your name, son?” Connor asked. No response.

“How old are you?”

Nothing.

“Want to tell me why you were hiding in the bushes outside Dr. McGowan’s house?”

The boy’s eyes seemed to narrow, but he did not speak. He sat with his arms flat on the table.

Connor held up the cell phone that had been taken from the boy’s pants pocket.

“How about you tell me whose number this is programmed into your phone?” Connor pretended to study the number. “This the only number you ever call? Don’t you have any other friends?”

It was like talking to a stone wall.

The kid scratched at his left forearm with his right hand. He acted as if he were the only person in the room.

“Have it your way, kid,” Connor said as he got up from the table.

He met Thorpe in the hallway.

“I see you had about as much luck as we did,” Thorpe told him.

“Someone trained him well. He’s not offering a damned thing.” Connor handed Thorpe the cell phone. “No luck, I’m guessing, tracing the number?”

“Prepaid to prepaid. There’s no record of anything. We called the number several times. The first two times, a man answered, but nothing after that.”

“He could have figured out that his little buddy here had been picked up.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

They walked back into the room from which Thorpe had watched Connor and the boy. They both looked through the glass, but the boy sat still as a stone.

“You took his prints?” Connor asked.

“First thing we did.”

“You run them against the prints you took from the library?”

“Not yet, but we will.”

“Start with the prints you took from the basement door,” Connor said, “then ask New Castle to run them against the prints taken from the Cross murder scene. Particularly the prints from the patio door.”

Thorpe turned to stare at Connor.

“The boy has marks on his arm that look like a dog bite. The detective from Delaware told me the blood type from the back door of Cross’s house did not match the victim’s. When I opened the door of the house tonight, Sweet Thing took off like a rocket.”

“Sweet Thing?” The chief raised his eyebrows.

“She’s the dog we found at the Cross scene and brought back…that is, Dr. McGowan brought back, rather than have it taken to a shelter,” Connor explained. “The dog smelled that kid the second I opened the door. She knew his scent. She’s normally a really sweet dog, Chief, but she took off like a bat out of hell. She did get a nip in, but I’m guessing it’s no big deal if he hasn’t complained about it.”

“He hasn’t even mentioned it.”

“There’s no telling what she would have done to him if he hadn’t gotten himself up that tree when he did.”

“So you’re thinking this kid was at the scene of the Cross murder?” Thorpe rubbed his chin. “You’re thinking the dog bit him on the arm at Cross’s?”

Connor nodded. “Let’s start with the fingerprints, see if they match. I’d love to see if his blood matches the blood on Cross’s door, but there’s no way he’s going to give us a sample.”

“We can get his DNA off that cup he just drank from and test it against the DNA from the blood smear,” the chief suggested.

“DNA takes too long. I can send it to the Bureau labs and beg a tech I know to rush it through, but we’re still talking days. I’m not saying don’t do it, I’m just saying that isn’t going to give us what we need now.” Connor stood and stared through the window at the boy. He turned back to the chief and said, “If we can put him at the murder scene, maybe we can get him to talk. Get him to tell us who he’s working with.”

“Whose number is programmed into that cell phone.”

“Right.”

“Too bad the dog can’t talk,” Thorpe said. “Tell us just what happened that night.”

Connor turned and stared at Thorpe as if he’d said something brilliant. “I’m not so sure she can’t…”

“Where did they take him?” She stood in the dim light, anger radiating off her like heat.

“I’m assuming to the police station in Howeville,” replied the man who sat on the chair near the fireplace. He was taller than her by almost a foot, and outweighed her by seventy pounds. He was terrified of her.

“If he talks…”

The man shook his head. “He will not talk. We have discussed this possibility many times. I’d bet my life on it.”

“You already have.” She turned away and paced in a circle.

“I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. I’ve retrieved every one of the sacred artifacts you sent me after.”

“All but one,” she reminded him. “There’s still that woman in Massachusetts. You let her get away.”

“The FBI got there before we did.”

“You should have moved faster. You gave them too much time.”

Or you could have figured out sooner that you could locate some of the collectors by using the Internet, instead of stealing Daria McGowan’s list. But of course, he dared not say that. The priestess was neither a tolerant nor a forgiving woman.

“I’ll take care of her,” he said.

“What’s the point? The FBI has the necklace.”

“But shouldn’t she still be punished?” He was puzzled by her sudden lack of interest in the woman. Hadn’t she still sinned by having a sacred object in her possession? “And what of Dr. McGowan? Shouldn’t she be punished for what her great-grandfather did?”

“Let me think.” She barely heard him, and dismissed him with the wave of her hand as she continued to pace.