Читать книгу Hidden Agenda - Maggie Price - Страница 10

Linc had decided to bring Carrie McCall up to speed in the drab, windowless interview room that jutted off the main squad room. With various printouts, photographs, rap sheets, mug shots and the detailed plan he’d drawn up for the operation at The Hideaway, they had a mountain of paperwork to go over. The scarred table in the room’s center was big enough to spread out everything. What he hadn’t factored into the equation was that the interview room was small enough to take on an intimate edge when he enclosed himself there with a woman who wore a kick-a-man-in-the-gut perfume.

What the hell had he been thinking? he silently berated himself while watching her leaf through surveillance photos. Her gaze was intense, her demeanor serious as she examined the pictures of people and vehicles that had shown up in The Hideaway’s parking lot over the past nights. Just because she was all business didn’t change the fact she looked like a million dollars, with her perfect face and that mass of coppery hair that slid with each subtle movement past her shoulders to her breasts.

A cool, composed, sexy million dollars.

He averted his gaze to one of the bare walls, painted an institutional green. It annoyed him that just by sitting across a table from him she could deflect his attention from the case that should have his total concentration.

“From the outside, The Hideaway looks like a good-size place,” she commented while shuffling the photos.

He felt an additional twist of irritation when it took his thoughts a second to click off her and on to business. In the two years since Kim’s death, he had barely noticed any woman, much less had one seemingly take over his mind.

In a flash of intuition, he knew that no matter how his new partner handled this assignment, even if she made no mistakes, she was going to give him a great deal of trouble.

The sort of trouble he didn’t want or need.

“The Hideaway was once a farmhouse that’s been enlarged,” he said finally. “There’s a main bar room for drinking and dancing. Another for playing pool, with a handful of smaller rooms jutting off it. I’ve got a layout of the interior which we’ll go over.”

“I never heard about this place while working patrol.” She glanced up from the photos, her blue eyes intense. “I rode one of the far northwest districts and The Hideaway is way southeast, so that’s probably why. How long has it been in operation?”

“Long enough for people who live in the area to complain about the drunk and speeding drivers, loud music and everything else that goes along with a place like that.”

“Why not put a couple of traffic units out there to pull over the customers after they drive off? Cite the bar owner for noise violations? Things like that.”

“We did. Then one day a thirteen-year-old boy took a detour by The Hideaway and found skin magazines in the Dumpster.”

“Thirteen years old?” Carrie angled her chin. “Don’t tell me that young man complained about the content of the magazines.”

“Actually, he believed he’d struck gold, until his mother found them under his mattress. She confronted the kid and he ’fessed up to where he’d found the stuff. She called the mayor’s office, threatening fire and brimstone if the city allowed—and I quote—that ‘den of sin’ to continue operating. The mayor’s up for re-election and the woman promised to get her church’s congregation to campaign against him if he didn’t take action. The mayor called the chief and ordered him to do whatever it takes to shut down The Hideaway.”

“Do we have any idea what all is going on there?”

“Gambling, illegal liquor distribution, live sex acts.”

“Sounds like quite the party place.”

“An understatement. About the same time the irate woman called the mayor, one of my snitches gave me a tip about the activity going on there. I sent a report to Quintana.” Linc kept his expression neutral. He had no intention of telling his new partner about the covert role he’d played in engineering this assignment. He had finally caught the scent of his wife’s killer, and it led to The Hideaway. “When the order to shut down the bar came from the chief, Quintana assigned the case to me since I already knew about the place.”

“So, how do you have this operation set up?”

“Quintana and I agreed that if a couple of guys went in to scope out The Hideaway, they’d get viewed as either holdup men or cops. Either way, all criminal activity would stop while the unknowns were there. That happened, we’d have nothing to make arrests on.”

“And the mayor gets real unhappy.”

“Exactly. On the other hand, a man and woman go in and cozy up to each other, they’re viewed as married, or maybe just messing around. Takes the heat off.”

“Makes sense,” she said, looking back at the photos. “From the dress of people, I’d guess the place gets a mix of clientele. Some cowboy wannabes, construction worker types. Blue-collar guys. And pickup trucks are the vehicle of choice for the majority.”

“Right on all points.” Linc gestured toward the stack of criminal history sheets the Records Bureau had compiled from his list. “Over thirty percent of the people who own those pickups have felony convictions. A couple of robberies. Assaults. Burglaries. Indecent exposure. Like you said, a real mix.”

Carrie nodded. “So, the dress of the day for us is jeans and boots.”

Linc took in her stylish sea-foam-green sweater, the trendy gold chain looped at her neck, the matching earrings. If she even owned a pair of jeans, they probably had some designer logo stitched on the butt. “The right kind of jeans and boots, McCall. The basic rule of appearance in any undercover operation is look like what you’re supposed to be, not what some movie or TV show tells you undercover cops look like.”

Crossing her forearms on the table, she leaned in. “You tell me what you want me to be, Reilly. That’s what you’ll get.”

What he wanted her to be was gone. To take her hot, steamy scent and that husky, just-had-sex voice and get the hell away from him. He knew that wasn’t going to happen.

“You can’t walk in there looking like some fashion plate,” he said, aware that his voice had taken on an edge. “What you need to be specifically is something you and I have to talk about. Since we don’t know each other and have no idea of each other’s interests, the way for us to play this is as a couple who’s been out on a few dates. That way it’ll ring true if we know only surface details about each other. We’ll say we’re both new in town, met a few days ago in a checkout line at Wal-Mart.”

“Do we have jobs yet?”

“I don’t. When I was in college, I spent summers working as a roofer, so I know the lingo. My story is that I’m looking for a roofing job. It’s November, so those are scarce. No one’s going to question why I haven’t found work.”

“What about me?”

“What about you, McCall? Your family has cops out the wazoo.” Since that morning, he’d found out her grandfather and father were retired OCPD. She not only had two sisters on the force, but three brothers. It turned out that Linc had gone through recruit school with Bran McCall. “Do you have any job experience other than wearing a badge?”

“My mother owns a landscape nursery. Growing up, I worked there weekends and summers. I can talk plants, flowers and sod with an expert and not get tripped up.”

Linc gave her a thin smile. “That how you know about… What the hell is that stuff you told me to put in my coffee?”

“Stevia.” Shaking her hair back, she sent him a smug smile. “A perennial shrub of the aster family. Asteraceae, to be exact. It tastes sweet, but has no calories.”

“You’ll impress all the beer guzzlers at The Hideaway with that kind of information.”

She slid him a look from beneath her lashes. “I don’t expect my goal is to dazzle anyone with my mental capabilities.”

Not when she could walk into a room and have every man around instantly fantasizing about getting her underneath him.

“You’re right,” Linc conceded. “Still, knowing as much as you do about the nursery business is a good cover in case you run into some expert on petunias.”

“Do I have a job here?”

“Do most garden centers hire during this time of year?”

“No. They operate with a skeleton crew.”

“Then you haven’t snagged a job, either. That tightens our cover. We’re unemployed, but still have money to party every night. We drive nice cars, which we’ll borrow from the department’s asset forfeiture inventory. All that gives the impression we’re not above doing something against the law to get our funds. And to spend them on illegal activities.”

“Like maybe you paying to engage in a ‘live’ sex act with one of The Hideaway’s working girls?”

“Like that.” He leaned back in his chair. “This is another advantage to my going in with a female partner. I’ll sure as hell let any of the working girls proposition me. Name their price. That’ll get them busted during the raid. Since I’ve got you with me, I’ll decline all offers. Don’t want to mess up my deal with you by having a roll with some other woman.”

“Where have you been all my life, Reilly?” she asked dryly. “My heart’s all aflutter, knowing my boyfriend is so devoted.”

“Lover, McCall. I’m going in as your lover, and you mine. That means we do a lot of hand holding. Touching. Dancing. You think you can do a convincing acting job?”

“Like I told you, I’ll be exactly what you want me to be.” She pursed her glossed lips. “Our deep commitment to each other clearly means I have to turn down any men who come on to me.”

“That’s the idea.” Testing her, Linc leaned in. “With your looks, you’ll get offers that involve a hell of a lot more than a lip-lock session in the back seat of a patrol car.”

Irritation flicked in her eyes. “No lip-lock session took place. That rookie’s idiot wife got jealous and couldn’t handle him riding with a female partner. It’s my bad luck she took her fictional story to the chief. Who then gave my lieutenant orders to separate me from the idiot’s husband. The next day, I was transferred out.”

That McCall didn’t hesitate to defend herself pleased Linc. In undercover work, an easygoing personality that was sometimes punctuated by a strong showing of a refusal to let oneself get run over could be very effective.

“Let’s get back to that flood of offers you’ll receive,” he began. “When a guy comes on to you, lays a hand on you, tell him I’ve got a hair-trigger temper. Make sure he knows if anybody touches my woman, I believe in big-time payback.”

“So, do you have a hair-trigger temper? Believe in big-time payback if someone messes with your woman?”

For some reason, Linc sensed the question was just as loaded as the Glock holstered at his waist. “Doesn’t matter. As long as people at The Hideaway believe I do.”

“Well, lover boy,” Carrie cooed in a husky voice that slid over his senses. “I’ll try not to rile you up. I wouldn’t want to find out about your temper firsthand.”

“That’s wise, sweet thing.” Linc was fast becoming aware that Carrie McCall could stir him up just by being in the same room. “While we’re on the subject of getting riled, is there a man who’ll have a problem with your spending the next handful of nights with me?”

“No.”

“How about some hulking cop who’ll thump me with a sap just for dancing with you?”

“You don’t have to worry, Reilly. I have this ironclad rule about not getting involved with other cops.”

“Guess that rookie’s wife didn’t know about your rule.”

“Guess not. Your questions work both ways. Is there someone who’ll have a problem when you cozy up to me at The Hideaway?”

Linc looked down at the reports spread on the table while emotion scraped at him. At one point he’d had a life outside the job. A woman he couldn’t wait to go home to. He would forever carry her blood on his hands.

“There’s no one.” He looked up in time to see compassion flash in Carrie’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I know what happened to your wife.”

“Yeah.”

“I thought there might be someone…recent.”

“No.” He never again wanted a real life. He had his job, a safe place in which he hid his grief in the ruts of routine.

“Okay.” Easing out a breath, Carrie looked back at the stack of photos in front of her. “So, our undercover personas are new to Oklahoma City. How’d we wind up at The Hideaway?”

His new partner asked good questions, Linc thought. When you worked undercover, you needed a believable reason to be wherever you showed up. You could die if you didn’t have one.

“There’s a dive motel about a mile south of there,” he said. “The Drop Inn. After I snagged this assignment, I rented a room on a weekly basis. I told the clerk I was new in town and asked where I could get some booze, food and action. He told me about The Hideaway.”

“Are you staying there during the operation?”

“Off and on, in case someone decides to check on me. When I don’t stay there, it’ll look like I went home with you. It will help our cover if you’re seen at the Drop Inn with me. We can go into the office and I’ll ask the clerk some question. We’ll want him—and anyone else watching—to see you go into my room. We’ll stay a while, leave the bed looking like we really are lovers.”

“When do we start?”

“Tomorrow night. Does that give you time to get whatever clothes you’ll need?”

“You think I work at my Mom’s nursery in designer jeans? Think again, Reilly. I dig in the dirt, haul bags of manure and peat moss. I’ve got plenty of appropriate clothes.” Leaning back, she steepled her fingers. “Of course, if our undercover personas are engaging in illegal activities, we’d have money for nicer clothes. I’ll have to think about my wardrobe. Maybe wear quality stuff I could have bought in a consignment shop.”

When he remained silent, she asked, “Am I off base on the clothes deal?”

“No, you made a good point.” He angled his chin. “I’m trying to picture you wielding a shovel. Hoisting bags of manure. The image won’t gel.”

“Proves you don’t know anything about me.”

“That’s a fact.” He didn’t want to, either. Unfortunately, this assignment required him to get to know her.

Just then the door swung open. Linc’s shoulders tensed instinctively when Don Gaines stepped in.

The detective’s dark, deep-set eyes flicked from Carrie to Linc, then back to Carrie. “You’d be Carrie McCall.” Stepping to the table, he offered his hand. “I’m Don Gaines. I was out of the squad room when you got introduced around.”

Carrie offered a smile and her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Gaines looked back at Linc, handed him a message slip. “I took a call from a detective in Tulsa. He wants to talk to you about a homicide they had over the weekend.”

Linc bit back a curse when he read the victim’s name. Arlee Dell had a mountain of priors by the time his name came up as a suspect in a series of home invasions Linc investigated. He’d pulled Dell in a couple of months ago, but could never prove his connection with the crimes, so he’d walked. Linc suspected Dell pulled another invasion two weeks ago where an elderly couple had been tied up, tortured and strangled.

Linc met Gaines’s gaze. “Thanks, I’ll give the cop a call.”

“He said Dell was shot,” Gaines added. “Twice in the heart, once in the head.”

Linc tightened his jaw. The man who had once been his closest friend was a good, thorough cop. Had Gaines also picked up on the fact that over the past year and a half a number of scum handled by SEU cops had wound up shot in the head? If so, Gaines would know Dell was victim number seven.

A knot settled in Linc’s gut as his mind worked. In college, Gaines had been crazy about Kim; though she’d chosen Linc over him, his feelings for her had never cooled. Gaines blamed Linc for Kim’s death. He would like nothing better than to see Linc pay for what had happened to her. Was that why Gaines had gone out of his way to deliver the phone message? Linc wondered. Because he wanted Linc to know he’d connected the killings that had commenced one month after Kim’s body had been found tossed in a ditch?

While his mind continued its systematic, methodical analysis, Linc felt a cold realization settle inside him. Suspicion. As a cop, he lived with it, always casting as wide a net as possible, encompassing every possibility, distasteful or not. Which was why he now found himself wondering if the deep loathing Gaines felt for him had, over time, taken on an intensity so dark that Linc had failed to see it. Was Gaines so obsessed with making Linc pay for Kim’s death that Gaines had decided to make him a mark for the murders?

After all, Kim’s killer had never been found. The bastard had escaped justice, just as the now-dead seven other maggots had. It was possible a grieving husband might begin a killing spree to avenge his wife. If that husband were a cop, he would know how to get away with those murders. The last of which occurred during the past weekend. Somewhere in Tulsa. Linc had spent the weekend with Kim’s family in Claremore, a twenty-minute drive from Tulsa.

Linc’s sense of unease gathered strength when he remembered sitting at his desk last Friday, telling Tom Nelson his weekend plans. Gaines could have overheard the conversation. He knew where Kim’s parents lived.

Linc lifted his eyes from the message slip. He could read nothing in Gaines’s face. Linc couldn’t afford to trust, to discount, to filter possibilities through a screen of denial the way most people did. He’d learned a long time ago that the simple truth of the world was that people, even otherwise decent people, regularly did rotten things to others. Now, Linc needed to figure out a way to find out if Gaines had allowed himself to step over the line. If he’d become one of the people they had both spent their lives pursuing. If his bitterness over losing Kim to the man who he blamed for her torturous murder burned so hot he would commit seven homicides with the intention of pinning them on his former friend.

Gaines nodded to Carrie. “Hope to work with you soon.”

“Same here.”

Gaines flicked Linc a look before walking out.

“That homicide sounds serious,” Carrie commented.

Linc’s shoulders felt like high-tension wire, and a stone had lodged in his chest. “Isn’t every homicide?”

“Real serious. If the head shot came after the victim was already dead, doesn’t that sound like the work of a pro?”

McCall might be his new partner, but she was an outsider. Linc had no intention of discussing this with her. What he did plan to do was find out what the hell was going on. And who was behind it. And if he was some bastard’s intended patsy.

A sick, seething anger swirled in his gut.

“Work of a pro,” he repeated, a slash of the anger sounding in his voice. “You gain that expertise watching Mafia movies?”

Her eyes went as cold as winter. “I’m not some green rookie, so spare me the attitude. I’ve snagged calls to enough homicide crime scenes to know how to spot the work of a pro.”

“Maybe you should have transferred to Homicide.”

“No.” Now her eyes were as deep and dark and potent as her voice. “I’m right where I should be.”

“I need to return this call, then go by Quintana’s office.”

“Fine.”

Rising, Linc scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. He wasn’t exactly sure what was going on, but he now felt its dark, menacing presence aimed directly at him. His new partner, however, wasn’t to blame for whatever problems he had, he reminded himself.

“Sorry about the attitude, McCall. Didn’t mean anything by it.”

“No problem.” She shrugged. “I’ve got a tough hide.”

He skimmed his gaze down her face, her throat, elegant and thin. Her hide didn’t look so tough to him, he thought as he headed out the door. It looked like cool, creamy silk.

Two hours later Carrie had a headache that was almost off the chart. She knew it was partly due to the stacks of printouts, mug shots and reports piled on the table in front of her. Her brain had simply overloaded on the names and images of people who frequented The Hideaway. Then there was the stress that came from spending time in close proximity to the man presently seated across the table.

She cast him a quick glance. Linc sat in silence, studying a report, his jaw set, the look in those intriguing golden eyes disturbingly detached.

After returning, he had not alluded to what the Tulsa detective told him about the homicide. Nor mentioned why he’d swung by Quintana’s office after that. Carrie hadn’t asked. Couldn’t ask. The last thing she dared do was show too much interest in what might be another killing of a do-wrong whom an SEU cop had handled. Linc specifically.

Just then he laid the report aside and met her gaze. She sought out the man behind those dark eyes, eager to determine his level of involvement in the murders, but saw nothing revealed.

“We’ve put in a full day,” he said. “Let’s meet here tomorrow afternoon and review things. After that, we make our first visit to The Hideaway.”

“Sounds good.” Before she could rise, he placed a hand over her wrist.

“Sorry about that spurt of attitude earlier.”

Carrie stared at his strong, firm hand while ordering herself to ignore her jittery stomach. “You already apologized.”

“So I did. See you tomorrow.”

The November sky hung like a curtain of gray velvet as Carrie made her way to the parking lot where the biting wind swirled paper and leaves into small cyclones. Her teeth chattering from the cold, she steered her sporty little lipstick-red MG out of the lot, drove five blocks, then stopped at a pay phone.

At home she downed extra-strength aspirin, showered, ate dinner, then climbed back into the MG and headed to Penn Square Mall. The digital clock on the dash glowed an eerie green eight when she pulled behind a black van that sat idling in the lot’s shadowy perimeter.

She shoved open the door and stepped out into wind so cold it felt like a razor slashing against her face. The van’s passenger door swung open just as she reached it.

“Slide in here, Sergeant, before you catch your death.”

Shadow obscured the face of the woman sitting in the driver’s seat. From their previous meetings, Carrie knew Captain Patricia Scott habitually wore her salt-and-pepper hair twisted into a severe topknot. She had a strong, intelligent face with a network of lines pulling at the flesh around her eyes. Scott had been a cop for twenty-five years, the last three spent as commander over the OCPD’s Internal Affairs Division.

“So, McCall, how’d your first day in the SEU go?”

Carrie lifted a shoulder, the gesture masked beneath her thick sweater and heavy coat. “I’m there under false pretenses, investigating another cop…”

“No one said it would be easy.”

Carrie stared out the windshield at the sea of cars parked beneath the mall’s security lights. Working Internal Affairs was not an assignment she would have picked. It had been thrust on her when the rookie’s wife made her accusations about Carrie and her husband to the chief. At the same time, IA had needed a female cop to go undercover. The rat squad had been a convenient place for Carrie to get transferred.

“We went over this, McCall,” Scott continued. “If a cop turns vigilante and starts killing people, we have to stop him.”

Nodding, Carrie remet the captain’s gaze. “Did you have time to find out about the Tulsa homicide after I called?”

Scott plucked a file from between the bucket seats. “All I had to do was mention the specifics of the shooting—two shots to the heart, one to the head, and they knew what homicide I was calling about. Arlee Dell is the victim’s name.”

“Does his murder match the others?”

“Yes. Dell has a rap sheet thick enough to use as a booster seat for a kid. Priors for seven felony convictions, including rape, attempted rape, assault and stalking.”

“Nice guy. What’s his connection to Linc Reilly?”

“He hauled Dell in for questioning about home invasions, but didn’t have enough evidence to hold him. A similar invasion occurred two weeks ago where an elderly couple was tortured and strangled. Dell is—was—Reilly’s prime suspect.”

“Sounds like Dell’s life’s work was harming people.”

Scott gazed at Carrie through the inky shadows. “Dell is the seventh person to die over the past year and a half who’s been handled by an SEU detective. This isn’t a coincidence. The shootings are too efficient. Never any witnesses. No collateral damage. Never any cops close by—at one incident, patrol units were decoyed away from the area by a bogus call to 911. Clearly, the shooter preplans his getaways. All that’s left at each scene is a dead scumbag, shot at least once in the head.”

“Scumbags who would continue to pull maybe forty or fifty bad crimes a year,” Carrie added, mentally reviewing the rap sheets in the file IA had given her. “I can’t work up remorse over the Avenger’s choice of victims.”

When Scott tilted her head, a shadow fell across her face like a veil. “The Avenger?”

Carrie nodded. “That’s what I’ve pegged him. Or them. It could be two cops capping the bad guys. A team.”

“Either way, your Avenger handle is a good one,” Scott stated. “McCall, no one expects you to feel remorse over evil people dying. I don’t. It’s how they’re dying that’s the problem. IA’s job is to make sure cops don’t step over the line. If we don’t keep a lid on things, you can bet some citizen board will get formed to do it for us. Most cops prefer IA watching over them than civilians who have no idea what it’s like dealing with human garbage. It’s when a cop breaks the law while dealing with the garbage that we step in. We have to.”

Carrie massaged her right temple. Talking about her covert assignment had stirred her headache back to life. “You’re right. I just don’t like lying about what I’m doing.”

“Hopefully you won’t have to for long. And you’re right—we might have a team of cops doing these hits. But when you run the dead guys against the cops who handled them, Reilly’s name keeps coming up. Too many times for it to be a coincidence. So, right now he’s our focus. What’s your take so far on him?”

He’s dark, moody and sexy as hell. That her physical impression of the man was the first thing to pop into her head had Carrie struggling against a nagging unease. Then there was her over-the-top response to his touch that had alarm bells shrilling in her head.

“Reilly’s thorough,” she began. “He has the undercover op we start tomorrow night totally mapped out. He insisted we go over the concept today at least five times. We’ll do that again tomorrow. I doubt the man leaves anything to chance.”

“Neither does the Avenger,” Scott murmured. “How did he react when Gaines delivered the message about the Tulsa murder?”

Carrie paused, considered things. The instant Gaines walked in, she had felt the weight of tension in the room. She sensed Linc stiffen; Gaines had stood as rigid as a flagpole. Some sort of conflict existed between the men, she was sure. Since she had no idea what had caused it, she decided to keep the observation to herself for the time being.

“Reilly didn’t outwardly react when Gaines told him about the murder,” Carrie responded. “I tried to get him talking about it after Gaines left. He wouldn’t. If Reilly’s the Avenger, he won’t be tripped up. And the last thing he’ll ever do is confess. The only way to nail him is to catch him in the act.”

“That’s why you’re assigned to work with him. Get close to him.”

“I’ll only get so close,” Carrie blurted.

Scott studied her while silence stretched. “If you’re informing me you won’t sleep with Sergeant Reilly, I never intended for you to,” she finally said.

“Just wanted to make that clear.” Carrie pressed her lips together. She knew sleeping with Reilly wasn’t in her job description. So where the hell had her comment come from?

“Glad that’s settled.” Scott opened the armrest between the seats, pulled out a small metal box and handed it to Carrie.

In the weak beam from a far-off light, Carrie saw the brand name of a well-known throat lozenge printed across its top. “You think I have a sore throat?”

Scott smiled. “That’s what someone will think if they spot that in your purse. There’s clay inside to make impressions of keys. You get Reilly’s house key, press both sides of it into the clay.”

Carrie stared at the box. “Once I get the impression, how do I get the key made?”

“Bring the box to me. I know a vice officer who has a connection who will make the key overnight. Discreetly.”

“Are you sure my going into Reilly’s house is legal?”

“This makes it legal,” Scott said, handing her an envelope. “It’s a covert entry warrant for your search. It authorizes you to hunt for certain evidence. If you find anything linking Reilly to the murders, photograph it, then leave. Write a report detailing what you saw and where it’s located.”

“What about notice? Doesn’t Reilly have to be notified that a search has occurred?”

“For this type of warrant, the courts have a procedure for delaying notification up to seven days after the search.”

Carrie closed her eyes. “I don’t like the idea of going into another cop’s house. What if Reilly isn’t the Avenger?”

“What if he is? At some point an innocent person is going to get hurt. We’ve got to find the Avenger, McCall. If it isn’t Reilly, fine, but we have to know.”

Carrie’s cop brain told her what she was doing was right. Still, in her heart she felt a tug of guilt, a ripple of unease.

“Reilly’s house is alarmed,” Scott continued. “We could send in a guy to disable it and do the search, but there’s a chance Reilly has some fail-safe measure to alert him if someone screws with the system. Plus, he lives in an older housing addition so neighbors are home during the day. Some guy messing around outside the house will get noticed.”

“I can’t exactly ask Reilly his alarm code.”

“True.” Scott reached into the pocket of her coat. “If you wind up at his place and he has to enter the alarm code, use this.”

Carrie studied the small recorder Scott handed her. “How do I get his code with a tape recorder?”

“That’s a high-power recorder. Keep it in your pocket and activate it when Reilly enters his alarm code. The recorder will pick up the tones. One of the department’s tech guru’s will translate the beeps into the code.”

“Slick,” Carrie murmured.

“Once you have the key and the code, you drop by Reilly’s house when you know he’s tied up somewhere else. If you find anything that connects him to these homicides, we take him down. End of story.”

“Just like that.”

A few moments later Carrie slid back into her MG. She started the engine, let it idle while the taillights of Scott’s black van disappeared into the night.

Instead of driving away, Carrie shifted her thoughts back to that afternoon. She wished she hadn’t seen the flash of grief in Linc’s eyes when she mentioned his wife. The man who had kidnapped her, then raped her over a span of days before killing her was still free. A man who was as evil as seven others who no longer presented a threat to innocent citizens.

Carrie figured half the people in the city would cheer the Avenger if they knew he had prevented hundreds of violent crimes. Saved the lives of uncountable decent people. Hell, a part of her cheered him!

She clenched her gloved fingers around the steering wheel. No, she thought. She carried a badge, she wasn’t allowed to think like that. Murder was murder.

She’d been ordered to take down a killer. That’s what she intended to do. If Linc Reilly was that killer, so be it.