The Rookie Club: Dead Center Part 29

"So was it Marchek who attacked him?" Hailey asked.

Jamie shrugged. "Tony thinks so, but he couldn't pick him out."

"With the ski mask, it would be tough," Hailey agreed.

"He saw him take off in a van, though," Jamie added. "But it had no rear plate. I've got him on the Internet, trying to match the van to a year and make." It felt like having Tony search for a needle in a computer haystack. "Unfortunately, it also means Marchek now has a car, which makes him mobile and means his kit could be stored anywhere. We've got an APB out on the van, but we're not likely to find it."

Jamie took a breath. "In better news, Zephenaya picked out Scanlan for the attack on my dog."

"That takes b.a.l.l.s," Hailey said.

Jamie thought back to the morning press conference. "We know how the press was notified about all Natasha's men?"

"E-mail, supposedly," Hailey said. "The computer lab is trying to track it, but it's a random Hotmail account. Get this-the address is "

"But the information had to come from an officer," Jamie said. "No one else knew that stuff."

A moment pa.s.sed before Hailey spoke again. "Bruce Daniels slept with Natasha, too."

Jamie examined the inspector's face. She didn't look at Jamie. Jamie knew why. Her lover had cheated on her. Man, that was screwed up.

"It was last summer, but she called him last month. She knew about the list and she was p.i.s.sed. Asked if Bruce knew about her most recent conquest. Only she said 'qu-qu-quest.'"

Jamie frowned. "A stutter?"

Hailey nodded. "Remind you of anything?"

"When Tim was. .h.i.t that night-" Jamie started.

"He mentioned that he thought the man had a stutter," Hailey finished.

Jamie nodded. "I can't think of a single person in the department who stutters."

"I asked Daniels if he'd ever heard Deputy Chief Scanlan stutter."

"And?"

"He said no, but he did mention that some people only stuttered when they are very angry."

Jamie shuddered. G.o.d, she hoped Devlin's murder didn't lead to the deputy chief of police.

Just then her cell phone rang. She looked down and recognized Tim's cell phone number. He'd probably heard about the press fiasco. She'd call him later. She was momentarily surprised to realize that she actually planned to return his call.

Immediately, her phone rang again. She stared at the Hall number, wondered if it was Tim calling again. "Vail."

"It's Patrol Officer Klein, Inspector Vail. They told me to call you." He sounded nervous.

"Okay, Officer Klein. What's up?"

"I'm at 113 August Aly. Looks like your guy was here."

Jamie sagged against her chair. "s.h.i.+t."

"He got a woman coming out of the building at about five fifteen this morning, dragged her into the trash room in the back. She's en route to General now."

"How bad?"

"He did her over something fierce, Inspector. I've never seen one like that-two black eyes, a broken jaw, arm, ribs. Her face was a balloon."

"Was she conscious?" Jamie asked.

"Barely. She did say the guy told her she wasn't the one. He was waiting for someone else. Kept saying 'You're the wrong one.'"

Jamie halted. "The wrong one? What would that mean?"

"h.e.l.l if I know."

She frowned. "Thanks, Officer Klein."

"No problem. I'll finish up here if you want to go on to General."

She pulled her notebook out of her pocket. "I will. What was that address again?"

"113 August Aly."

"113 August Aly. Okay," she repeated.

A cup fell with a loud pop, coffee splashed across the floor. Jamie looked up, saw Hailey drop to grab it. "You okay?"

Hailey's head reappeared, her complexion pale. "What was the address?"

Jamie looked up, met her gaze. "113 August Aly."

"It's right off Was.h.i.+ngton Park," Klein said.

"Off Was.h.i.+ngton Park," Jamie repeated.

Hailey stooped to soak up the coffee.

Jamie's favorite barista brought over a wet rag and helped mop up the mess.

Jamie hung up with Klein, stared at Hailey. When she stepped away, Jamie asked, "Are you okay?"

Hailey nodded.

But Jamie knew she wasn't. "You know that address?" She met Hailey's gaze. "The guy said he had the wrong one. Maybe he was looking for someone else at that address."

Hailey paused, squeezed her eyes closed.

Jamie felt the dread pool like hot tar in her middle. "How do you know it?"

Hailey stood slowly, hands trembling. "Bruce Daniels lives there."

Chapter 32.

Emily Osbourne couldn't have been happier to get the h.e.l.l out of work on Wednesday. It was 4:02 when she exited the lab building. Usually, she had to stay later-an hour at least to get things finished up, findings recorded, her station cleaned. Her boyfriend Paul, who worked in the financial markets, always managed to be finished before she was. Often he'd be home an hour or more before her. But today her work was done at ten to four so she could walk out at four. She didn't care that there were dozens of items that needed processing-not today, anyway. And she had no plans for the night. Nothing but a quiet dinner and maybe a movie-something stupid and funny.

The drive across the city was quiet at this hour. She crossed to Franklin then turned right, heading north to Greenwich, then across to Laguna Street. She stopped in front of the white Victorian duplex where she lived. The whole thing took about forty minutes. It was still light, and she considered going for a walk. The weather was cool and comfortable and a walk might make her feel better. A little, anyway.

She thought about what her therapist had said at their meeting the day before, how she needed to focus on how she was feeling. Get it out, talk through it. Make notes about her reactions, keep a journal of the process so she could eventually record her progress.

There would be progress. She touched the small spiral notebook she had tucked in the back of her bag. She'd run the gamut this week-anger, fear, self-pity, self-disgust.

She'd also told Sharon, her therapist, about Paul-how cold he'd been in the car, how he hadn't called since the trip from the airport. They hadn't gone more than a day without talking since last Christmas when she was back East with her family. And they had been dating for only three months then.

"How does that make you feel?" Sharon had asked.

Emily had started to cry. She felt disgusting and dirty and she hated herself and him all at once. She'd been raped and he'd stopped calling. She knew she was supposed to be angry-really angry. Instead, she felt ashamed that he no longer wanted her.

On the plane trip back to California, she'd fretted over how she would handle it when he wanted to have s.e.x. She didn't know if she could, if she would be ready. But now he didn't want anything to do with her. Who would want to have s.e.x with her after what happened?

She cupped her hand over her mouth and ran up the short flight of stairs to her front door. She pushed her key into the lock, turned it, wiping her cheeks as she pulled open the creaky door and stepped inside. The door creaked closed again and she s.h.i.+vered.

"I'll oil that," a voice said.

Emily spun around, slammed into the row of mailboxes attached to the foyer wall. Standing on a short ladder was a man near her age in overalls, painting.

He put down the brush, started down the ladder.

Emily didn't move. Her heart jumped around like a rabbit in her chest. She wanted to leave, to be outside. But he was closer to the door.

"I didn't mean to startle you. I'm Kyle."

She shook her head, but like an idiot, she couldn't say anything.

"I sent a notice around that I'd be painting this week and maybe part of next." He put his hands up, like he was surrendering. "Are you okay?"

She shook her head. Her heart still jackhammering, she ran for the door. As she bolted outside, something yanked her back. He had her bag. She whirled around to fight when she saw him standing back, staring. The strap of her bag was caught on the doork.n.o.b.

"Oh G.o.d," she cried out.

She spun around to loosen the strap from her shoulder, abandoning her bag on the door as she sprinted to the street.

When she reached the bottom stair, she sank down and burst into tears. What was wrong with her? What the h.e.l.l was wrong with her?

She held her head in her hands when she felt someone beside her. She looked up.

"I brought you this." Kyle handed her a can of c.o.ke. "It hasn't been opened."

She took it, the metal cool against her fingers. Even in the cold air, the metal felt good. She fiddled with the top, popped it open. The fizz tickled her nose. She drank, mostly so she wouldn't have to talk. He sat on the opposite side of the stair.

"Are you all right?" he asked, after a few minutes.

She nodded and wiped her cheeks. "A little skittish."

"I think it's understandable after what happened."

She frowned.

"Kim told me that one of her tenants was attacked. She was really worried about you. I figured it was you when I saw the-" He motioned to her face, to the bruises.

Her cheeks flamed up and she took another sip of c.o.ke.

"It happened to my sister, too-in college."

Emily didn't respond.

"She says the most important thing is that you talk about it and give yourself time to get over it." He paused. "She's married now, has two little girls." He kept talking, like he was stumbling. "She does rape counseling. Out in Virginia."

They sat in silence for a few minutes; then he stood. "I'll get out of your hair. Sorry again for startling you."

She shook her head. "It's okay. And, thanks, uh-" she said dumbly.

"Kyle," he said.

"Thanks, Kyle."

He opened the door with his key, set her bag on the porch, and went back into the building.

Just when she had gathered the courage to go back inside, Paul's Jeep Cherokee pulled to the curb in front of her building. She watched him get out of the car and lift a box off the pa.s.senger seat. He came around, carrying it. He didn't notice her until he reached the curb.

When he did, he jumped back a step. "Hey." He s.h.i.+fted the box in his arms. "I didn't think you'd be home yet."

She stood up and dusted the dirt off her b.u.t.t then made her way over to him. On the top of the box was one of her old T-s.h.i.+rts. She lifted it, stared down at her stuff-a few CDs, a book, an extra hairbrush, a bottle of red nail polish she'd bought and worn to a wedding over the summer. He was returning her things-bringing it all back when he thought she wouldn't be there.

Dropping the T-s.h.i.+rt, she turned and walked up the stairs to the door without a word.

"Emily," Paul called, but she didn't answer. Let him come after her, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Or better yet, let him be a coward and leave her stuff at the door.

Her key shook in her fist as she shoved it in the door and turned it. Without a backwards glance, she grabbed her bag off the step and stormed past Kyle and into her apartment.

"You okay?" he called after her, but she didn't risk answering. She was not okay. She was not at all okay.