Tess Gerritsen - Last to Die

At least that was what Nicholas Clock looked like on paper. Solid citizen. Family man.

The mist swirled on the road ahead of them. There was nothing solid, nothing real. Nicholas Clock, like Olivia Yablonski, was a ghost, flitting quietly from country to country. And what did that mean, exactly, financial consultant ? It was one of those vague job descriptions that conjured up businessmen in suits carrying briefcases, speaking the language of dollar signs. Ask a man what he does, and those two words, financial consultant , could make your eyes glaze over.

The same way medical supply sales rep could.

Beside her in the passenger seat, Frost answered his ringing cell phone. Jane glanced at him when he said, a moment later: “You’re kidding me. How the hell did that happen?”

“What?” she said.

He waved her off, kept his focus on the phone call. “So you never finished the analysis? There’s nothing else you can tell us?”

“Who is that?” she asked.

At last he hung up and turned to her, a stunned expression on his face. “You know that GPS tracker we pulled off the rental car? It’s vanished.”

“That was the lab calling?”

“They said it disappeared from the lab sometime last night. They got only a preliminary look at it. There was no manufacturer’s stamp, totally untraceable. State-of-the-art equipment.”

“Jesus. Obviously too state-of-the-art to stay in Boston PD’s hands.”

Frost shook his head. “Now I’m getting seriously freaked out.”

She stared at the spectral swirls of mist on the highway. “I’ll tell you who else is freaked out,” she said, her hands tightening on the steering wheel. “Gabriel. Last night he was ready to tie me up and throw me in the closet.” She paused. “I sent Regina to stay with my mom this week. Just to be safe.”

“Can I hide with your mom, too?”

She laughed. “That’s what I like about you. You’re not afraid to admit you’re afraid.”

“So you’re not scared? Is that what you’re saying?”

She drove for a moment without answering, the wipers sweeping back and forth as she peered at a highway as misty as the future. She thought about planes falling from the sky, bullets shattering skulls, and sharks feeding on bodies. “Even if we are freaked out,” she said, “what choice do we have? When you’re already in neck-deep, the way out is to forge ahead and get to the end of this.”

By the time they reached the outskirts of Providence, the mist had thickened to drizzle. The address for Jarvis and McCrane was in the southeast corner of town, near the industrial waterfront, a bleak neighborhood of abandoned buildings and deserted streets. When they arrived at the address, Jane was already prepared for what they would find.

The two-story brick warehouse was flanked by vacant parking lots. She eyed faded swoops of graffiti and boarded-over first-floor windows and knew that this building had been vacant for months, if not years.

Frost surveyed the broken glass on the sidewalk. “Nicholas Clock financed a seventy-five-foot yacht working here ?”

“Obviously this was not his primary place of business.” She pushed open her door. “Let’s take a look, anyway.”

They stepped out of the car, into a drizzle that made Jane zip her jacket and turn up her collar. The clouds hung so low, it seemed as if the sky itself was pressing down, trapping them in gloom. They crossed the street, broken glass crunching beneath their shoes, and found the entrance locked.

Frost backed up and surveyed the upper windows, most of them shattered. “I don’t see any sign for Jarvis and McCrane.”

“I checked the tax records. They are the listed owners for this property.”

“Does this look like a real business to you?”

“Let’s go around back.”

They rounded the corner, past broken crates and an overflowing Dumpster. At the rear of the building, she found an empty parking lot where weeds were forcing their way up through cracks in the pavement.

The rear door latch had been pried open.

She nudged the door with her shoe and it creaked ajar, revealing a cavernous darkness within. She paused at the threshold, feeling the first prickles of alarm.

“Ho-kay,” Frost whispered, his voice so close it startled her. “So now we have to search the scary building.”

“This is why I brought you along. So you wouldn’t miss all the fun.”

They glanced at each other and simultaneously drew their weapons. This was not their jurisdiction, not their own state, but neither one dared to venture unarmed into that gloom. She clicked on her flashlight and swept the darkness. Saw a concrete floor, a crumpled newspaper. Felt her heart kick into a faster tempo as she stepped across the threshold.

It felt even chillier inside, as if these brick walls had trapped years of dankness where anything could be incubating. Waiting. She heard Frost close behind her as they moved deeper into the building, their flashlight beams skittering past pillars and broken crates. Frost accidentally kicked a beer can, and the rattle of aluminum over concrete was as startling as gunfire. They both froze as the echoes faded to silence.

“Sorry,” whispered Frost.

Jane heaved out a breath. “Well, now the cockroaches all know we’re here. But it doesn’t look like there’s anyone else …” She stopped and her head snapped up toward the ceiling.

Above them, the floorboards groaned.

Suddenly her heart was thumping faster as she listened for more movement above. Frost was right behind her as she made her way toward a metal staircase. At the bottom of the steps she paused, peering up at the second floor, where gray light seeped through a window. That sound they’d heard could mean nothing. Just the building settling. Wooden floorboards contracting.

She started up the metal staircase, and each step sent off a faint clang that made the darkness hum and announced: Here we come .

Near the top of the steps she crouched, palms sweating, and slowly lifted her head to peer over the second-floor landing.

Something hurtled toward her from the shadows.

She flinched as it whistled past her cheek. Heard glass shatter on the wall behind her as she saw a crab-like figure retreat into the gloom.

“I see him, I see him!” she yelled to Frost as she scrambled up onto the landing. “Police!” she called out, her gaze fixed on the dark shape hulking in the corner. He was folded into himself, his black face obscured in shadow. “Show me your hands,” she ordered.

“I got here first,” a voice growled. “Go away.” The figure raised an arm, and Jane saw another bottle in his hand.

“Drop it now !” she commanded.

“They said I could stay here! They gave me permission!”

“Put down the bottle. We just want to talk!”

“About what?”

“This place. This building.”

“It’s mine. They gave it to me.”

“Who did?”

“The men in the black car. Said they didn’t need it anymore, and I could stay here.”

“Okay.” Jane lowered her weapon. “Why don’t we start over? First, what’s your name, sir?”

“Denzel.”

“Last name?”

“Washington.”

“Denzel Washington. Really.” She sighed. “I guess that’s as good a name as any. So Denzel, how about we both put away our weapons and relax.” She slid the gun into her holster and held up both hands. “Fair?”

“What about him?” Denzel said, pointing to Frost.

“Soon as you put down the bottle, sir,” Frost said.

After a moment, Denzel set the bottle down between his feet with an emphatic thud. “Only take me an instant to throw it,” he said “So you better behave.”