Lisa Gardner: Touch & Go

Tessa kept her face impassive. “I know.”

“How’s Sophie?” the Boston detective asked abruptly.

“She’s doing well, thank you.”

“My son’s name is Jack.”

“How old?”

“Eleven months.”

Tessa had to smile. “Love him more than you ever thought you could love someone? Till you wake up the next day and realize you love him even more?”

D.D. didn’t look away. “Yes.”

“Told you so.”

“I remember, Tessa. And you know what? I still think you were wrong. There are lines that shouldn’t be crossed. As a cop, you knew that better than anyone, and you still shot a person in cold blood. Whether out of love, or out of hate, murder is never right.”

“Allegedly,” Tessa replied coolly. “Allegedly shot a person in cold blood.”

D.D. did not look amused. She continued, voice slightly softer, “But…you got your daughter back. And there are days now, just like you said there would be, when I look at my son, and… I don’t know. If he was in danger, if I feared for his life… Well, let’s just say I still don’t agree with what you did, but maybe I understand your actions better.”

Tessa remained impassive. As apologies went, this was as close as D. D. Warren was ever going to get. Which already made Tessa suspicious of what the Boston detective would do next.

Sure enough: “Look, obviously, I can’t stop you from entering the house and conducting your independent analysis, given that the owner of the house has granted you permission,” D.D. said. “But respect our efforts, okay? Neil’s a solid detective, backed by a seasoned squad. Better yet, we have a head start on evidence processing, and if what we think happened, happened, the fate of this family depends on us getting our acts together. Pronto.”

Tessa waited a heartbeat. “It’s not like you to use your nice voice.”

“And it’s not like you to be stupid.”

“True.”

“Got a deal?”

The sun was all the way up now. Warming the brick sidewalk, illuminating the cream-painted town house, reaching fingers for the yawning solid walnut door. Such a beautiful street, Tessa thought, for such a terrible crime. But then, she knew better than most that no one ever knew what really went on behind closed doors, even in a supposedly happy family, even among the wealthy Boston elite.

She took the first step forward. “I won’t touch your evidence.”

“I already said that—”

“I just want the computers.”

“Why the computers?”

“I’ll let you know when I find them. Now let’s get moving. As you said, clock’s ticking. Congratulations on your new family, D.D.”

The detective fell in step behind her. “Yeah, well, congratulations on your new job. Tell me the truth: Are you raking in the dough?”

“Yep.”

“Bet the hours are brutal.”

“I’m home for dinner every night.”

“But you still miss us, don’t you?”

“Oh, only most of the time.”

Chapter 3

THE WHITE CARGO VAN HEADED NORTH, sticking to major roads, Storrow Drive to 93 to 95 and beyond. It was nearly 1:00 A.M. and the highways offered the best bet for making time.

Nothing to worry about. Just a plain white van driving approximately eight miles above the speed limit through Massachusetts. The driver spotted two state police cruisers, lightly tapping the brakes the way any self-conscious motorist would, before resuming normal cruising speed. Nothing to look at here.

At 3:00 A.M., the van made its first stop, at an old roadside diner, shuttered up years ago. Located in a middle stretch of nowhere, the diner had a sprawling dirt parking lot and looked like the kind of place a trucker might pull over to catch a few z’s, or water the bushes. Most importantly, it was the kind of place that no one really noticed, because nothing that interesting ever happened this far out here.

The youngest member of the crew, a kid they called Radar, was sent around back to do his thing. He flung open the rear doors and inspected their packages. The girl and woman remained unmoving. The man, on the other hand, was starting to stir. He opened one glassy eye, peered at Radar groggily, then pitched forward, as if to attack this smaller, younger target. Obviously still under the effects of the sedative, the man fell forward about six inches, face-planted on the rubber mat, and went limp again. Radar shrugged, checked the man’s pulse, then casually opened his kit, withdrew an already prepared syringe and plunged it into the man’s upper arm. That would hold him for a bit.

Radar checked wrist and ankle restraints on all three, as well as the duct tape over their mouths.

So far, so good. He gathered up his kit, went to close the double doors, then paused. He wasn’t sure what made him do it. Maybe because he really was good at his job, possessing an unerring sixth sense that had earned him his nickname during the first field deployment, so many countries, years, units ago. But for whatever reason, he set down his kit and though Z barked from the driver’s seat for him to hurry it along, he reinspected each of their charges.

Cell phones, car keys, wallets, pocketknives, iPods, iPads, anything and everything that a person might consider useful had been left behind, neatly stacked in a pile on the center kitchen island of the Boston brownstone. Radar had thought that was a lot of precaution given their civilian targets, but Z had been explicit in his instructions. The man, they were told, had some skills. Nothing like their skills, of course, but he could “handle himself.” Underestimating was for idiots, so they didn’t underestimate.

And yet… Radar started with the girl. She moaned lightly as he patted down her torso, and he flushed, feeling like a pervert for running his hands up and down a kid, especially a young, pretty girl. Package, package, package, he reminded himself, compartmentalization being everything in his line of work. Next, the woman. Still made him feel self-conscious, dirty on the inside, but he comforted himself with the notion that it was better for him to be handling the women than Mick. As if reading his thoughts, Mick twisted around in the backseat, until he could stare at Radar with his unsettling bright blue gaze. Mick’s eyes were still swollen and bloodshot, and he was definitely still pissed off about it.

“What the fuck?” Mick barked now. “Are you securing them, or feeling ’em up?”

“Something’s wrong,” Radar muttered.

“What’s wrong?” Z, the big man, instantly alert from the driver’s seat. He was already opening his door, climbing out.

“Don’t know,” Radar muttered again, hands moving, poking, prodding. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Mick shut his trap. Radar knew the blond didn’t always like him, but they’d been together long enough for Mick to know better than to argue with one of Radar’s hunches. If Radar knew something, he knew something. The question was what.

Z was already around the back. He moved fast for a big guy, and given that he was still dressed entirely in black, he made for an unsettling presence in the moonless night.

“What?” he demanded.

And just like that, reinspecting the husband, Radar figured it out. Roughly six hours into their mission, they had made their first mistake, and it was a costly one. He stood there, still debating options when, suddenly, Z was on the move.

Before Radar could blink, a knife appeared in the big guy’s hands. He stepped forward, and Radar leapt out of the way, instinctively averting his gaze.

One stab, three cuts. No more, no less and Z was done. He inspected his work, grunted in satisfaction and walked away, leaving Radar, as the lowest man on the totem pole, to handle disposal.