“No one is there,” I said aloud. “And if there is I will shoot the hell out of them.” I added that last part just in case there was someone there and they read lips.
I was stepping out of the kitchen and back across the hall to the office when the front door opened. Hot liquid sloshed across my hand, but it barely registered as I started to bring the gun up.
“Hey there,” Jack said, standing very still in the open doorway. The porch light shone behind him, magnifying the rain, and he was soaked through to the skin. “Everything okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, lowering the gun and blowing out a shaky breath. “I just let my imagination get the best of me.”
He came all the way in and closed the door behind him, acting as if nothing was out of the ordinary so I could get myself together. But he put the deadbolt on and reset the alarm before hanging his coat on the hook.
I was just starting to feel the sting of the hot water now that my heartrate was slowing, and I turned and walked back into the kitchen and straight to the sink.
Jack came up behind me and put his arms around me, looking over my shoulder at the pink skin on the top of my hand. He lifted my hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing it gently.
“I’m sorry you were scared,” he said.
“Like I said, I just let my imagination get the best of me with the sounds from the storm and being home alone. I know I’m safe here. I feel safe here,” I assured him.
“Home alone,” he said. “Where’s Doug?”
“He went to a movie with someone named Tamara,” I said. “I told him he needs to be back by eleven.”
Jack turned me in his arms so I faced him, and I could see his smile. “Look at you with your curfews. How very parental of you.”
“It caught me by surprise too,” I said. “But it’s Monday night in Bloody Mary. Once the movie is over there’s nothing left to do.”
“Which shows you’ve never been a teenage boy,” he said.
“Why are you so late?” I asked. “What happened?”
“When I came into the station Cole and Samson were still working with the witness. His name is Guy Carolla. Guy said he was heading south from his apartment down Danbury toward the park. He was meeting friends to watch the fireworks, and this man comes stumbling toward him. Guy thought he was drunk, but as he got closer he thought maybe he’d been hurt or robbed. The man was using a cane, and his arm was across his stomach with his hand hidden under his jacket. There was blood on his shirt.”
“Did the witness see his face?” I asked.
“It was partially hidden by a top hat, and Guy said he had a goofy-looking mustache. Probably a fake. So he didn’t get a good look at the eyes. Just an impression of a nose and the jawline. But we know he’s Caucasian, and a little over six feet since Guy said the man was taller than he was. Top hat matches what we saw from the security camera. He was in formal attire, which makes sense if he’d watched the performance at the theater.”
“Danbury Street,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “That’s where Trest’s Art Gallery is.”
“I know,” Jack said. “So Cole and I went back out and walked the area like Guy described, and we timed how long of a walk it was from the alley behind the theater to where Guy said he passed the killer along the way. Which is why I’m so wet. I could see Trest’s studio windows from where I stood.”
“And I guess it’s convenient that everyone knows not to disturb him while he’s painting,” I said.
“We’ll get a warrant in the morning for the gallery and his studio,” Jack said. “Maybe we’ll find traces of blood or the rest of his clothing.”
“Did you call Brian Dunnegan?” I asked.
Jack grabbed a bottle of water and I picked up my tea, and then we headed back toward the office.
“Oh, I called him,” Jack said. “I told him about the baby, and he admitted that it was possible he was the father. But he has no intention of finding out for sure. Not even a flicker of emotion. He said he’d contact you in the morning. He doesn’t want to go to the hassle of having her body transferred somewhere else. He said he’ll have her cremated and if some of her friends want to give a memorial they’re more than welcome to her. He said she was worth about as much to him as a pile of ashes as she was in real life.”
“Ouch,” I said. “What a horrible man.”
“Speaking of,” Jack said. “Did you happen to run any of the men on the list Rick Early gave us?”
“Not yet,” I said. “I started the board, but I got sidetracked.” I ran my finger along the computer pad, and the images came back on the whiteboard.
“Ahh,” Jack said, taking a closer look at the crime scene photos from the original Jack the Ripper murders.
“I fell down the rabbit hole,” I said.
“It’s a good trail to go down.”
We worked in silence for the next while, adding pictures of Brian Dunnegan and Peter Trest, and going about the painstaking task of adding the people who’d already been interviewed to the board as well.
“Four men on the list Rick Early gave us,” Jack said. “Not including Trest. We can start running preliminary background checks on them. I wonder who the one right before Trest was? We can look at him first.”
I glanced at the clock and noticed it was after ten. Doug hadn’t called or texted, and I was hoping he made it home by curfew. I knew it was important to establish some boundaries. There had to be for this to work. And I really wanted it to work. It was the best thing for Doug.
“He’ll be fine,” Jack said. “He’s still got time.”
“I know, but it’s been raining hard and steady. The roads might be flooded.”
“All he’s got to do is call.”
Jack’s cell phone rang as if it had needed permission first.
“See?” Jack held the phone up so I could see Doug’s name on the screen. “Doug,” he said. “Everything okay?”
Jack was an excellent poker player, but even I could tell something was wrong and it was confirmed when he said, “We’ll be right there.”
He hung up and I was already moving toward the mudroom. He followed behind me.
“Bring your bag,” Jack said. “There was a shooting at the theater and two people are dead.”
Chapter Seven
Only years of training kept me moving, my brain processing critical information while I gathered the supplies I needed.
“Is Doug hurt?” I asked.
“Just shaken up,” Jack said. “He witnessed the whole thing. Smith is there with him and the girl.”
Stewart Smith was one of Jack’s sergeants, and he was a genuinely good guy. His mother owned Martha’s Diner, and he came from a long line of cops. His dad had gone down in the line of duty, and Martha had been left to raise their seven boys on her own. She’d done a good job of it. Half of them were first responders and the rest were law-abiding citizens.
“Good,” I said. I knew Smith would keep them safe and separated. He had kids of his own.
It was going to be cold and wet. There was no getting around it. But it was the victims I was worried about.