William Bernhardt - Deadly Justice

Ben gave the operator Buddy’s address, and the operator promised she would convey the information as soon as Mike called in.

Ben slammed down the receiver and hurried out the door. He just hoped he hadn’t wasted too much time already. If the killer could find him, it only stood to reason…

He jumped into his Honda and blazed down the street. The traffic at this time of the morning was perfect: there wasn’t any. He was speeding and probably violating several other provisions of the municipal code, but he didn’t care. On the contrary, he hoped he did attract some police attention; he could use all the help he could get.

In less than ten minutes, Ben made it to Eleventh Street. Two minutes later he pulled up in front of Buddy’s house. He parked his car on the opposite side of the street and crossed over to the house.

The front door was wide open, flapping in the breeze.

He knew Christina well enough to know that she never would allow that to happen. If she could help it.

He ran toward the door, then heard the sudden squeal of tires as another car raced around the corner. Ben ran to the side of the house and hid behind a tall hedge.

He parted the branches slightly and watched. He didn’t recognize the car, and he couldn’t see through the smoky windows. Was the killer returning to the scene of the crime, or just now arriving? He felt his heartbeat racing, his palms sweating. Why didn’t the driver get out of the goddamn car?

A few more tense moments passed; then the passenger door swung open and Ben saw a familiar dirty overcoat step out of the car.

“Mike!” Ben ran out to meet him. “What happened to the Trans Am? Where’d you get this car?”

“Belongs to the department. I was cruising Eleventh Street, hoping I’d stumble across a clue. I came as soon as I picked up your message on my radio. How long have you been here?”

“I just arrived. This is where Trixie has been holed up with her pal Buddy. I left Christina with her about an hour ago. Then I found my apartment had been demolished, and I’m not exaggerating. I called you and raced back here as soon as I could.”

“The front door is open,” Mike observed. “Was it that way when you left?”

“No way. The last thing I said was for them to be sure the doors were locked tight.”

Mike looked at him grimly, then reached inside his car for the radio. After he finished his call for backup, he reached inside his overcoat and withdrew a Bren Ten automatic from its holster. “Is there any way out other than through the front door?”

“Yes. There’s a back door in the kitchen.”

Mike nodded. “I’m going in now. You stay here.”

“You may need help.”

“Don’t be silly. I can handle this alone.”

“I bet that’s what Tomlinson thought, too.”

Mike frowned, but didn’t argue. He approached the front door, gun held in both hands, shoulder high. Ben followed close behind.

As they passed through the doorway, Ben saw the splintered lock in the jamb. Someone had forced his way in. The living room was essentially as Ben had left it, except that Trixie and Christina were both missing. The lights were turned off. Ben saw the mixing blade on the sofa. On closer examination, Ben noticed that one of the footstools had been overturned, suggesting that someone had gotten up in a great hurry.

He heard a sudden noise from the kitchen that he couldn’t identify.

“Christina!” Ben called out. “Trixie!”

No answer.

“What’s in there?” Mike asked, tilting his head.

“The kitchen.”

Mike pushed through the swinging door, gun first.

The kitchen was just as Ben remembered it, except that the faucet over the sink had been left running. Mike picked up a towel and turned it off. He examined the back door. It was closed and locked. From the inside.

“I think you should stay by the door,” Mike said.

“Stop trying to get rid of me.”

“This isn’t an excuse. This is important. If the killer is in the house, I don’t want him to slip out the back door while I’m prowling around somewhere else. There’s no point in me risking my neck if he’s just going to get away.”

“I think we should stay together.”

“Why? My backup should arrive within minutes. Just make sure the creep doesn’t escape in the meantime.”

“Mike, I really think—”

“Ben, for once in your life would you just do as you’re told!” His head shook, and Ben could see beads of sweat trickling down his temples. The tension was obviously getting to him, too.

“Fine. I’ll stay put. But just until your backup arrives. If you find Christina or Trixie, call out.”

Mike nodded. Ben watched grimly as Mike passed through the swinging kitchen door and out of sight.

46

MIKE PACED HIMSELF AS he did a clean sweep of the downstairs. He moved cautiously, step by step. It took him about thirty seconds to circle through the living room and dining room; it seemed like ten years.

Damn it, get a hold of yourself, Morelli! You’re a police officer! It isn’t supposed to get to you like this.

Mike wiped his brow and clenched the gun all the tighter. The sorry truth was that he was scared to death.

The killer was in the house. He was certain of it. The same sick bastard who nearly killed Tomlinson and did kill all those girls was in this house. He had seen the black van with the smoked windows on the street as he came around the corner, but it wasn’t just that. It was more a matter of instinct than detection; he knew the man was here, he could feel it. He would never admit to anyone that he was proceeding on such a wild hunch. But he was certain, nonetheless.

That’s why he’d gotten rid of Ben. If Tomlinson couldn’t take this creep, Ben didn’t have a chance. He would just be in the way. No, this was going to be between Mike and the bastard who’d tried to kill his sergeant.

Mike mounted the stairs, taking them slowly. The air conditioner cut on and he jumped, startled. Jesus, he was keyed up. If he didn’t get killed by the murderer, he would probably die of a heart attack.

Mike stood at the top of the stairs, trying not to look back. It had not escaped his memory that the killer had tossed Tomlinson down a flight of stairs, almost breaking his neck in the process. Mike wasn’t going to give him a chance to try it again with a different victim.

There were three doors in the hallway, all of them shut. Two bedrooms and a bath, most likely. Well, if Muhammad wouldn’t come to the mountain…

Mike said a silent prayer to the guiding spirit of William Faulkner and stepped into the hallway. He decided to try the doors in order. He crept across the hardwood floor to the door on the far left. He pressed himself against the wall, then swung around and kicked the door in.

“Freeze!” Mike crouched in the doorway, scanning the room as quickly as possible. No one was visible.

He inched forward, checking every nook and cranny. The room was very orderly; the bed had not been slept in. If anyone used this room, it must be someone extremely fastidious. He looked under the bed, then opened the clothes closet. No skeletons, no killers. And no clues.

Mike stepped out of the room and into the hallway. He approached and entered the bathroom in the same manner. The door thudded back and forth between the wall and his foot. Well, if the killer didn’t know he was there before, he certainly knew now.

Mike scanned the small bathroom. No one was there, unless they were hiding in the medicine cabinet. What the hell! He checked the medicine cabinet. Nothing. He pulled back the shower curtain; no one was lurking within.

Mike returned to the hallway. Only one room left. If his instincts weren’t completely off base, the man he wanted was behind that last closed door.