Читать книгу Moment Of Truth - Maggie Price, Maggie Price - Страница 10

Hart said goodbye to Yance Ingram outside the bomb crime scene, then rode an elevator, complete with a small, tinkling chandelier, to the third floor. There he unlocked the door to the executive suite Bonnie Brannigan had reserved for him. The sumptuous rooms were full of mahogany furnishings, Oriental rugs and silk drapes the color of burnt sugar. The suite sported two televisions, a stereo system and a full bar setup.

For Hart the opulent surroundings represented the height of irony. His previous living quarters in Mission Creek had been a cramped, going-to-rust trailer, which he and his mother shared on the outskirts of town. Then Vonda O’Brien had been a truck-stop waitress, existing in a hazy world of bourbon and country music. For years she had blocked Hart’s efforts to get her off the bottle, claiming she was happy the way things were. Content to drift from town to town just as she’d done years before when she’d been a vocalist for a country-western band. Growing up, Hart hadn’t had a choice but to accept his mother’s itinerant lifestyle.

Things had changed the day their car broke down in Mission Creek.

Tired of being on the move, sick of having nothing, he told Vonda they were settling down, and began a campaign of bullying her to go into rehab. He’d hired on at the Lone Star, determined to have some sort of normal life.

The day he first laid eyes on Joan Cooper dashing across a tennis court, he had forced himself to ignore the lust that punched through him. Forced himself to dismiss her sassy smile and the way she tossed back her dark hair. Told himself that a rich-girl, poor-boy romance had disaster written all over it. He had managed to keep most of his thoughts and his hands off Joan until that night she came to him. The curves that had driven him nuts for months had been covered only by skimpy shorts and a white halter top. Mad with desire, he had taken what she offered. And fallen in love in the process. He’d been fool enough to think that somehow, some way, he could keep her in his life.

Hours later he and Vonda had fled Mission Creek. If Zane Cooper’s phony accusation that Hart had stolen money had been the man’s sole threat, Hart would have dug in and defended himself. But Cooper had an ace in the hole—a hot check Vonda had written and a buddy on the sheriff’s department willing to haul her in. With his mother in trouble, Hart had to get her away from there. Later, after he got Vonda settled near her stepbrother in Chicago and attending AA meetings, he had tried to contact Joan. That’s when he found out she’d gotten married.

“Christ,” Hart muttered. Even after so long he felt a remnant of the anger and hurt pride that had burned away the last of his innocence. Knowing those events still had the power to reach out and grab him by the throat had his temper rumbling all over again. He had spent ten years making something of himself. He didn’t need reminders of a past that was best forgotten.

And he had to figure that was how Joan felt, too. After all, she’d heard her father’s claim that the man she’d given herself to was a no-good thief. The shame she’d probably felt back then would have been enough for one lifetime.

Shame, Hart thought, his eyes narrowing. Could he have been wrong about her reaction to him this afternoon? Was what he’d read as panic actually been shame? His cop’s instincts, honed over time, had always proved infallible. Still, emotion usually didn’t taint those instincts.

Biting back frustration, he unpacked, then stowed his field evidence kit in a walk-in closet the same size as the sparkling-tiled bathroom that boasted a round sunken tub. That done, he returned to his rental car and drove though the clear moonlit night to the address Spence Harrison had given him.

Ten minutes later Hart pulled up to the curb in front of a Victorian house with a wraparound porch.

“Nice digs,” he said as Spence headed into the kitchen for beer. Hart made himself comfortable on the leather couch that faced a dark fireplace with a burnished wood mantel and marble edging. On each side of the couch sat a matching leather wing chair. A thick-legged coffee table piled with neat stacks of file folders sat in front of the couch. The warmly lit room’s overall impression was of old polished oak and leather, a place of comfort to settle in and relax.

“Glad you like the place,” Spence commented when he strode back into view. Holding two long-necked beer bottles between the fingers of one hand, he loosened the knot on his crimson tie with the other. “The woman who owns this house is a widow. When I heard she wanted to rent out the entire top floor, I grabbed it.”

“Smart move,” Hart said, accepting the bottle Spence handed him.

“It’s a plus that this place is only a couple of blocks from the courthouse.” Spence set his bottle on the coffee table, stripped off his navy suit coat and draped it over the far arm of the sofa. Out of the corner of his eye, Hart caught a glint of reflected light. He noted the small gold pin in the shape of a lion affixed to the coat’s lapel. Yance Ingram had worn an identical pin.

“Sorry I couldn’t meet you at the Lone Star when you got in,” Spence said.

“No problem.” While Spence settled into a chair, Hart sipped his beer, letting the ice-cold brew slide down his throat. “You said you had some sort of dinner event tonight.”

“At which I gave a speech. The minute I wound things up my pager went off. I had to stop by my office on the way here to take care of a problem with a search warrant one of my assistants authorized. I got here five minutes before you drove up.”

“That kind of schedule doesn’t make for much of a social life.”

“What the hell is a social life?”

Hart chuckled. “Good question. I wouldn’t know one if it jumped up and bit me on the butt.”

Spence took a draw on his beer. “Hard to believe it’s been ten years since we slaved as groundskeepers at the Lone Star.”

“Yeah.” Spence Harrison hadn’t changed much over those years, Hart decided. His friend still had the lean, powerful build that complemented his six-foot frame. He wore his thick brown hair in the same style, although now it was cropped close on the sides. It was his eyes that seemed different. More than just fatigue shone in their dark depths. Ingrained anxiety had settled there. Which, Hart supposed, was the reason Spence had asked him to come to Mission Creek.

Setting his beer on the table beside the couch, Hart leaned forward. “I took a look at the bomb site after I checked in.”

“And?”

“Someone built a nitroglycerine-based dynamite bomb which they planted behind a closet filled with various accelerants. Since that’s all I’m sure of at this point, why don’t you fill me in on what you know?”

“It isn’t much. Two days after the bombing the police chief—Ben Stone—organized a task force. Ten weeks later they still have nothing. No firm motive. Or solid suspect. Right now the cops are a million miles away from closing the case.”

Hart wasn’t a homicide detective, but he knew the first rule of any homicide investigation: look for a link between the victim and the killer. “Bonnie Brannigan said the people who died in the blast were salt of the earth. Have the cops come up with a reason anyone might want to kill them?”

“No. The police searched Dan and Meg Anderson’s house and found nothing suspicious. The task force combed through their bank records, checked their safe deposit box, talked with co-workers, friends, the IRS and the state tax people. No red flags popped up. Nothing to make anyone think something nefarious was going on. No indication that either of the Andersons was being blackmailed or had a gambling problem. The way it looks, they’d be the last people anyone would have a reason to kill.”

“Did they have a reservation that day at the Men’s Grill?”

“No. One of the club members chatted with Dan outside the restaurant. He said he and Meg had decided to eat there on the spur of the moment. Even they didn’t know they’d be there.”

“Who was supposed to be there?”

“I was, for one.”

Hart arched a brow. “Did you make a reservation?”

“No, but it wouldn’t have been hard to figure out I would be there.” As he spoke, Spence gave the back of his neck a long, slow rub. “During my stint in the marines I served under a lieutenant colonel named Phillip Westin. So did four other buddies of mine from Mission Creek. A couple of days before the bombing, Westin called me, Flynt Carson, Tyler Murdoch and Luke Callaghan to let us know he was flying in and staying overnight at the Lone Star. Westin had already scheduled a tee-time for all of us to play golf. He’d also made a reservation for us to eat in the Men’s Grill after the game.”

“Westin made those arrangements before he was even sure all of you would be available?”

“He didn’t have to ask first. During the Gulf War, Flynt, Tyler, Luke, myself and another man named Ricky Mercado were captured in enemy territory. If Westin hadn’t helped us escape, we’d have died. He knows all he has to do is ask and we’ll be there for him. Anytime. Anywhere.”

Hart narrowed his eyes. “Something tells me Westin wasn’t making a social call here.”

“Right. He stopped over on his way to Central America. Mezcaya specifically.”

“The unrest there has made a lot of headlines. Why was Westin headed there?”

“To join a joint mission between our government and the British to take down the terrorist group, El Jefe. Have you heard of them?”

“Yes.” Hart settled his elbows on his knees. “Terrorists are partial to using bombs, so my unit gets memos from the FBI, DEA and ATF on all known terrorist groups. From what I’ve picked up, El Jefe is Mezcaya’s answer to Columbia’s Cali cartel.”

“Right. Lately El Jefe has been flexing its muscle. The Brits want to take down the group because its thugs have started roaming across the border and terrorizing citizens of Belize. The U.S. wants El Jefe because of the increase in drugs coming from Mezcaya into Mexico, most of which get smuggled into the U.S.”

“So, El Jefe would have had ample reason to stop Westin from joining the mission,” Hart reasoned. “A bomb would have not only killed him, but sent a message to others that it’s not smart to screw with El Jefe.”

“Correct.”

Hart pictured again the devastation he’d seen at the crime scene. “The bomber planted the device near the rear wall of the Men’s Grill. Was that near Westin’s reserved table?”

“Yes. Right next to the table where a waitress seated Daniel and Meg Anderson.”

“What about timing? Where was your group when the bomb went off?”

“On the trellised walkway behind the club house. Our golf game took longer than expected so we would have gotten to the Men’s Grill about ten minutes after the time Westin scheduled the reservation.” Spence shook his head. “That’s the sticking point for me, Hart. There’s no way to exactly time a golf game. My gut tells me word of Westin’s mission leaked. The four of us whom he called knew a couple of days ahead of time he’d be at the Lone Star. So did everyone working at the front desk, the golf shop and in the Men’s Grill. That’s plenty of advance notice for one of El Jefe’s thugs to set up the bombing. But since the bomb went off so close to the time set for Westin’s reservation, I can’t say for sure he was the target. If he was, the bomber sure didn’t leave himself a very big window of opportunity.”

“You’re supposing the bomb went off when the bomber meant for it to.”

Spence frowned. “Of course.”

“It’s not rare for a bomb to explode before or after it’s intended to, so you have to take that into consideration,” Hart responded. “A lot depends on the skill of the person who builds the device. Luck, both good and bad, also comes into play. I’ve lost count of the calls I’ve answered where an unsuspecting bystander touched a bomb and caused it to detonate prematurely. Sometimes you don’t even have to touch an explosive device to set it off. Walk across a carpet or wear too much nylon and static electricity can detonate a certain type of bomb. Show me a female bomb tech and I’ll guarantee you she never wears pantyhose on the job.”

“Christ.” Spence sent him a long look. “How do you do it?”

“What?”

“Purposely walk toward a ticking bomb. You do that, knowing the thing could kill you if you touch it the wrong way, make the wrong decision or cut the wrong wire.”

“With my training, I’m not in any more danger than a patrol cop who responds to a domestic disturbance,” Hart replied. “Speaking of career choices, your being the D.A. guarantees you a few enemies. Have you put anyone with explosives experience in prison? Especially someone who got out recently?”

“My staff checked. Other than you, the only person I know with explosives experience is Tyler Murdoch. Since he was also in Westin’s party, I doubt Ty planted a bomb designed to blow himself up along with me.”

“Good point.” Hart sipped his beer, going over what Spence had told him so far. “What about Ricky Mercado?” he asked after a moment. “You said he served in the marines with you, but Westin didn’t include him in the golf game. I remember hearing talk about the Mercado branch of the Texas Mob. Is Ricky a part of that family?”

“Yes. Westin didn’t call Ricky because there’s bad blood now between him, Luke, Flynt, Tyler and me. Has to do with Ricky’s dead sister.”

Hart glimpsed the shadow of regret that passed over Spence’s eyes. “Do I need to know about that for this investigation?”

“No. I know Ricky as well as I know myself. He didn’t plant that bomb because of what happened among all of us in the past. It’s possible, though, that someone else in the Mercado family was behind the bombing.”

“For what reason?”

“Did Bonnie mention Meg and Daniel Anderson’s son to you?”

“Yes. Kid named Jake, right?”

Spence nodded. “Minutes before the bomb exploded, Jake walked out of the Men’s Grill to find the rest room. He took a wrong turn and wound up opening a door that leads outside. He saw two men dragging bags out of one of the clubhouse’s back doors and loading them into a car.”

“What kind of bags?”

“Some sort of green cloth or canvas bags.” Spence’s mouth hitched upward on one side. “Jake thought the bags looked like the one he’d seen Santa with. The kid thought the men were Santa’s helpers.”

“Did these so-called elves spot Jake?”

“Yes. They slammed the door in his face. Then the bomb went off.”

“I take it the police tried to find the bag men?”

“They interviewed employees and club members. If anybody knows who they are, they’re not saying.”

“Which leads us back to the Mercados. Do you think the bag men belong to the mob?”

“It’s possible. What if those bags were stuffed with money? Or drugs? That would point to illegal activity going on at the Lone Star. Maybe someone on the inside stopped cooperating in that activity, and the mob planted the bomb to either kill them or scare the hell out of them.”

“Hearing that makes me wonder about trusting anyone who works there.”

“That thought has crossed my mind several times.” Spence rose, walked to the fireplace and stared into its dark mouth. “The guys with bags could have also been cops.”

Hart sat back in his chair. “When you called, you said an MCPD cop had committed suicide, another is also dead, and two others are charged with the attempted murder of a fellow officer. What in God’s name is going on with the police?”

“Hell if I know. All I can say for sure is there’s a problem inside the MCPD. I just don’t know how big a problem.” Spence scowled. “After Jake got out of the hospital, a cop named Ed Bancroft snatched him and his adoptive mom. Bancroft’s partner, Kyle Malloy, was also in on the kidnap. Luckily, help got to Jake and his mom in time. Malloy got killed in a struggle and Bancroft was arrested. He clammed up, wouldn’t say a thing, then hanged himself in a holding cell.”

“Did Jake ID him or Malloy as one of the men he saw with the green bags?”

“Jake isn’t sure.” Spence paused. “There may be even more going on with the cops. The local rec center hired a basketball coach, an ex-con by the name of Danny Gates. He used to work for the Mercado mob.”

“Used to?”

“Used to,” Spence confirmed. “He’s gone straight. Gates and a cop named Molly French developed a rapport with a teen named Bobby Jansen—goes by the name Bobby J. After he figured out he could trust Danny and Molly he started opening up.”

“The kid gets close to an ex-con and a cop?”

“Strange combination,” Spence agreed. “A couple of weeks ago, Bobby got beaten and wound up in the E.R. Before he went into surgery he managed to tell Molly he’d been working for some bad guys. Because of Danny and Molly’s influence, Bobby decided to go straight. The bad guys got wind of that, beat him and left him for dead. Bobby told Molly the guys were cops who belong to a group called the Lion’s Den.”

“Damn.” Hart pulled at his lip, staring into space as his mind worked. “What happened after Bobby got out of surgery?” he asked after a moment. “Did he I.D. the two men who beat him?”

“Bobby went into a coma during surgery and hasn’t regained consciousness. When Molly French started digging into Bobby’s assault, someone took a shot at her. Later two of her fellow officers and a nurse involved with one of those cops, named Beau Maguire, tried to kill French. Maguire’s gone underground. His nurse girlfriend and his partner are in jail, keeping quiet.”

Snagging his beer, Hart rose and walked to the opposite side the fireplace from where Spence stood. “You a member of the Lion’s Den, too?”

Spence’s eyes narrowed. “Why the hell do you ask?”

Hart gestured with his bottle toward the arm of the couch. “There’s a gold pin shaped like a lion on your suit coat’s lapel. Yance Ingram has one, too.”

“That pin, my friend, is an award conceived years ago by Mission Creek’s then mayor and city council.”

Hart gazed at the small gold lion pin, then looked back at Spence. “What did you do to earn yours?”

“Before I became D.A., I did pro bono work for the battered-women’s shelter.”

“What about Ingram? What good deed did he do?”

“You’ll have to ask him. Like I said, the award has been in existence for years. You’ll spot a lot of lion pins around Mission Creek.”

Hart nodded. “This Officer Molly French, is she on the up and up?”

“It’s Detective French now. You can trust her. I can’t say that about other cops because I don’t know what’s going on inside the P.D. If anything.”

“If?”

“I’ve lost count of the calls I’ve gotten from the public demanding the police make an arrest on the bombing. I know that’s one reason I’m feeling pressure. But that’s not the only problem here. Maybe the four cops were a rogue group operating inside the department. Or maybe they’re the tip of an iceberg that’s just surfacing.”

Rolling his shoulders, Spence walked to the nearest chair and sat. “That’s why I called you, Hart. You know about bombs. You know how a police department operates. I need you on the inside, telling me what’s going on.”

“Why isn’t Molly French doing that?”

“She is. Still, she can only dig so much. If there are more corrupt cops, it’s possible she’s being watched. Don’t forget someone took a shot at her. In my mind she’s in danger and needs to lie low.”

Hart leaned a shoulder against the mantel. “What about the department’s top cop? Do you think he’s righteous?”

“I don’t have a reason to think he isn’t. Ben Stone was born here, he’s been chief for years. Nothing like this has ever happened on the force. No evidence ties him to the Lion’s Den.”

“How did he take it when you told him you want to put your own representative on his task force?”

“Ben said they need all the help they can get.”

“That could be the PR spin. If I was a Mission Creek cop, I’d get my back up if I couldn’t solve a case and somebody came in from the outside to look over my shoulder. Some big-town guy.”

“Ben Stone’s in a tight spot, just like I am. He’s getting pressure from the mayor, city manager and the Lone Star’s board of directors to get the bombing solved and the crime scene released so the club can get on with remodeling. Ben’s people have had a ten-week shot at this and they’ve got nothing. Ben wants the case solved. Period. Who gets credit for that isn’t a prime consideration.”

“Stone understands I work for you? That I report only to you?”

“Yes. He’s agreed to give you access to all reports, crime scene and autopsy photos, everything. I told him you’d drop by his office sometime tomorrow to introduce yourself.”

“I’ll go there in the morning.” Hart settled back onto the couch. A question had nagged at him since he’d taken Spence’s phone call at the CPD’s bomb squad. That and his conversation with Bonnie Brannigan had him wanting to clear the air.

“Why me, Spence? Why did you call me?”

“I view it as pure luck, since we lost contact with each other.” He raised a shoulder. “I got a flyer for a criminal justice conference a few weeks ago and saw you named as a speaker on a bombing panel. I had no idea you lived in Chicago or were a cop, much less a bomb tech. But I figured there had to be only one O’Brien with the first name of Hart so I gave you a call.”

Hart shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. When I left Mission Creek, Zane Cooper accused me of stealing money from the golf shop. You and I worked together, I figured he must have told you I was thief. And I wondered if you believed I stole the money.”

“Cooper never said a word about stolen money. No one else did, either.” Spence’s eyes widened. “Is that why you took off the way you did? Because Cooper accused you of being a thief?”

“That had a lot to do with it,” Hart said through his teeth.

“Damn, Hart. That entire summer, whenever Zane Cooper looked at you all I saw was hate. Since Joan’s the one who flirted up a storm with you while you kept your hands to yourself, his attitude was far from fair.”

Hart drew in a slow breath. Spence didn’t know he and Joan had spent a night together. At this late date, it didn’t much matter.

“Think about it, Spence. I was the hired help from the trailer park. I don’t have to tell you that Cooper had a thing about maintaining appearances.”

“No, you don’t. Look, for what it’s worth, I felt lousy when you called a month or so after you left town and asked if I knew how you could contact Joan. Having to break the news that she’d run off to Dallas and married some lawyer didn’t sit well.”

“So, what happened?” Not that it mattered, Hart told himself. He didn’t care about the man Joan had married. Didn’t want to know any details of the life she shared with another man. He didn’t care.

“What happened with what?”

“The lawyer. I ran into Joan this afternoon when I checked in. Her name tag says Cooper. She’s not wearing a wedding ring.”

Spence winced. “I’ve had so much on my mind lately that it didn’t occur to me to tell you Joan manages the ladies’ spa at the Lone Star. I guess you were surprised to see her.”

“Yeah. I’m curious about her husband.”

“His name was Thomas Dean.”

“Was?”

“He died in a car wreck in Dallas not long after he and Joan got married.”

For the past decade whenever he thought about Joan, Hart had forced himself to think of her as a wife. The mate of another man. A young woman who had freely given him her innocence, yet never intended to stay with him for longer than one night. He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of man she had chosen over him. “You ever meet Dean?”

“No, just heard about him. Right after I set up my practice, Zane Cooper came to see me. He had decided to fund a trauma wing at the hospital in Dean’s name and hired me to take care of the necessary legal documents. I remember Cooper mentioning his son-in-law’s death happened so soon after he and Joan eloped that she hadn’t had a chance to change her name on all her I.D. That’s why she kept her maiden name.”

“That had to have been rough on her,” Hart murmured. “Her husband dying like that.”

“Yeah. And it’s a shame Dean’s daughter never got to know her father.”

Hart blinked. “Daughter?”

“Helena. You’ll probably run into her, since she and Joan live in one of the Lone Star’s employee suites. The kid’s a real doll.”

Joan was a widow, Hart thought. She had a daughter.

He sat in silence, wondering if there were other things about her life he didn’t know.