P. Alderman - A Killing Tide

He stopped, turning back toward her hiding place. She stopped breathing.

After a long moment, his boots shifted out of sight. The light went off, plunging the room into darkness. Then, silence.

He wasn't leaving. Her air was running out, her heart pounding so loud she couldn't believe that he couldn't hear it.

Finally, finally, he crouched in the far corner of the room, pulling back the carpet. Reaching for something in the flooring, he flipped it, then used it to pull open the trap door. The dank odors of the pilings and stagnant water flowed into the room. She heard the waves lapping against the pier. There was a shuffling noise, then he dropped through the door, pulling it closed after him.

Kaz sucked air into her deprived lungs.

She climbed out from under the desk. Gary's information had been dead on—Karl was probably on his way upriver to the mooring basin. She had only minutes to spare if she wanted to follow him.

Rounding the desk, she cautiously opened the door. The hallway was clear. She slipped out, closing the door behind her. Smoothing her clothes and hair, she walked back into the bar. Steve gave her a sharp glance, his eyes worried. She smiled reassuringly.

Casually walking over to her table, she sat down and drank the last of her beer, unhurriedly setting down the mug, then placed some folded bills under the edge of the glass. Standing, she walked calmly out the door.

Outside, she broke into a run.

~~~~

Chapter 25

After losing a battle with herself, Lucy walked back toward the interrogation room to talk to Gary one more time in the hopes of getting him to cooperate. She needed to stay out of it, let Sykes handle it. But where Gary was concerned, well, she might as well get used to it—she had no objectivity.

As she reached out to open the door, she glanced out the window at the end of the hallway. And froze her in her tracks.

Sykes was standing in the parking lot next to a police cruiser, talking to whoever was inside. He said something, threw his head back and laughed, then reached inside the window to clap the cop on the shoulder. Then the cruiser backed out of the parking spot, turning and giving Lucy a clear view of who was driving.

Clint Jackson.

She leaned against the interrogation room door, closing her eyes. Sykes hadn't believed her. She made a sound of self-disgust. And why would he? She was the rooky detective, the one who had no experience. The one with the rep for jumping to conclusions.

She stood in the hallway, debating. Gary was in grave danger, she wasn't wrong about that. She had to buy him some time.

She glanced toward the squad room. Ivar was sitting where he'd been for the last two hours, still working on Kaz's computer. Should she tell him what she was up to? No . She didn't need to take his career down along with hers.

Squaring her shoulders, she opened the door to the interrogation room and told Brenner, who'd been standing guard, to leave. Gary looked down at the floor, refusing to acknowledge her presence, just as he had since they'd brought him in. She had only minutes to get through to him. Once he was arraigned and locked up for the night…

Pulling up a chair, she sat down, her knees touching his. "So," she said with a casualness she wasn't feeling. "I'll bet you don't have any way of knowing, since you haven't spent a lot of time in our cool new police station, that the men's room is right by the back door."

Gary's head slowly came up. He stared at her with his good eye.

"The back door that leads directly to the parking lot, and beyond that, to those old warehouses," she added.

He shook his head. "What…are you doing, Luce?"

She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "I don't think you'll be alive, come morning. Am I wrong?"

He just stared at her, his expression giving nothing away.

Anger bubbled up, edged with panic. "And I don't think you resisted arrest. They beat you, just like they beat Ken. Didn't they?"

No response.

She kept going doggedly, determined to get through to him. "You know, rumor has it that you have a weak bladder."

After a long moment, he reluctantly nodded.

Relief flooded through her. "Then you'll need to go to the men's room after all that water Kaz just let you drink." She stood up and took hold of his elbow. "Let's go. Now. There's no time."

#

He shuffled along beside her docilely enough. To anyone glancing her way, it looked like it was supposed to look—that she was escorting the prisoner to the restroom. Once inside, she quickly checked the rest of the stalls, then took a key out of her pocket and unlocked his hand and leg cuffs.

"Okay," she said, standing back and assuming a fighting stance. "Make it look good."

Gary shook his head. "Can't…hurt you."

She rolled her eyes. "It has to look like you overpowered me. That is, if I'm going to stand a chance of keeping my job when this is all over."

He shook his head again, and glanced at the closed door. "Find…another way."

She blew out an exasperated breath and angled her chin at him. "Just knock me out, dammit. I've taken worse on the mat at the gym. Do you want to live, or not?" She glared at him, then went for the taunt that might make him angry enough to do what was necessary. "Or is that it? Wouldn't want you acting out of self-interest, now would we?"

He growled and reached for her, placing his hands on her shoulders, cupping the curve of her neck. His thumbs caressed the sensitive skin behind her ears. She tried to control the shiver that went through her at his warm touch but wasn't quite fast enough.

One corner of his mouth quirked. "So I…still…get…to you."

"Oh, just shut up—"

His hands tightened just slightly. The darkness came quickly, swamping her.

The last thing she remembered was being gently lowered to the floor and the whispered words, "Sorry, love."

#

"Like you thought, the accelerant was gasoline," the lab technician confirmed.

Michael stood in the basement lab at the State Police facility in Warrenton, glancing through the paperwork the technician handed him.

"And it matches what was found on the rags in the back of Jorgensen's car." The tech pulled out the report, then pointed at the two gas chromatograph readings. "That's not definitive, since most of the gas around here comes from the same refinery, but along with everything else…"

Michael glanced at his watch, worried about the passing time. He needed to get back to the station and pick up Kaz. He wouldn't put it past her to get impatient and strike out on her own. The woman needed a keeper. And so far, the tech hadn't given him any reason for his demand that Michael drop everything and drive out there. "Why the hell—"

"And I've got a match on the DNA," the tech interrupted. He rummaged around on his desk, then held up two DNA diagrams which, sure enough, looked identical. He was shifting from one foot to the other, acting nervous.

Michael's heart sank. It had to be either Gary or Kaz. Which didn't prove that either one of them had committed the murder, but it left him with no way to prove that they hadn't , either. When would he catch a break on this damn case? "Whose sample matched?" he asked, resigned.

The tech shuffled his feet again. "That's just it. I re-tested two times, because I thought I'd made a mistake. Then I checked your labels again, and I was wondering if you'd mismarked the samples—"

Michael ground his teeth. "I didn't screw up the fucking samples! Just spit it out. Which one matched?"

"The cigar."

Michael froze. "Pardon?"

"The cigar's a match to the hair follicle. Where'd you find the cigar, anyway? We didn't find anything like that on the boat, or… hey !"

The paperwork fluttered to the floor as Michael sprinted for the door, taking the basement steps three at a time.