Death in the Sunshine (Retired Detectives Club, #1)(61)

Rick thinks about the burglaries. They started around the time Mikey showed up. Sure, people do bad things for love, lust and money, and there’s at least one or two of those things going on here, but it doesn’t seem that Mikey would be behind the thefts; the thefts on his sheet were stupid things – school trophies, not house burglaries. Betty’s right, he’s just a kid trying to find his way in the world, not a criminal. And unless he’s the most talented actor Rick’s ever met, he really doesn’t seem to have it in him.

But Kristen, on the other hand, she could have known something or even been involved – the make-money-quick schemes and the desire to get out of Florida are both interesting factors. It doesn’t quite fit right, though. There’s something, a puzzle piece, that’s missing. He meets Mikey’s gaze. ‘Not yet, but I mean to find out. You’ve been real helpful.’

‘I just want you to get whoever did this to her and make the asshole pay.’

‘Amen to that,’ says Rick. ‘And with a bit of luck it’ll happen.’

‘Not luck.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Kristen always said luck and fate are bullshit. She said people make their own luck.’ Mikey gives him a sad smile. ‘I hope you make yourself some luck in this investigation.’

‘Well, I’ll—’

‘Police. Freeze.’ The shouted commands drown out Rick’s words.

He hears the sound of boots stomping against the baked earth. Turns to see a squad of police charging towards them across the yard, weapons drawn and raised.

‘Stay where you are!’ yells the closest officer. ‘No sudden movements!’

More cops in full body armour pour through the yard gate and across the patio and lawn. Their sights are pointing at the summerhouse, and Rick and Mikey.

Rick glances at Mikey. The kid looks terrified, like he might bolt. ‘Don’t do anything stupid. No sudden moves,’ says Rick. ‘Just listen to whatever they say and do that.’

‘Hands on your head! Hands on your head!’ yells the closest cop, his Glock moving from Rick to Mikey. ‘Do. Not. Move.’

They do as they’re told. Rick’s tempted to point out the absurdity of giving an instruction that requires movement alongside one to stay still, but he holds back. He doesn’t know these cops, and it could be that there’s a trigger-happy son-of-a-bitch among them. Better to be safe and leave the smart-mouthed comments for later.

Mikey’s shaking. Crying. ‘Oh Jeez, oh Jeez. What do I do? What the hell do I—’

‘Stay calm and ask for a lawyer,’ says Rick, keeping his voice low so the cops can’t hear him. ‘Don’t answer any of their questions until your lawyer is with you.’

Next moment the first cops are on them. Rough hands pull them from the summerhouse and push them face down on the lawn. Rick doesn’t resist, but still he’s shoved hard. The jolt as he lands on his stomach vibrates through him. He feels a knee in his back, pressing him down. His shoulder muscles feel like they’re tearing as his arms are yanked behind his back. Next he feels the snap of metal around his wrists. He doesn’t waste his breath trying to reason with these cops in the here and now. Knows it’s better to wait until they feel they’ve contained the situation and gotten the kid and the nearly seventy-year-old senior sprawled on the ground in cuffs.

Jeez, though. These Florida cops have no kind of finesse or sense of proportion; instead they’re mistaking the use of excessive force for a job well done. From the sound of their voices, and the things they’re saying, they’re real proud of themselves.

They don’t even realise it’s a shit show.





33


MOIRA


Her head feels like it’s been split in two. She opens her eyes and winces from the light. She’s lying on concrete, slumped against the wall. Her bad ankle is throbbing. Everything else aches.

Moira puts a hand to her head. There’s a damp stickiness beneath her fingers. Wincing again, she closes her eyes for a moment, thinking she’s going to vomit from the pain. She takes a couple of breaths and the nausea passes. Opening her eyes she looks down at her fingers and sees that they’re covered in blood.

She curses. Hates that the masked man got the better of her.

Hates that he got away.

She scans her surroundings. Wonders if anyone saw anything, and if they’ve alerted the police. From what she’s seen, she doubts it. The neighbourhood here is really quiet. No cars are passing, and there’s no one walking along the street or tending their neatly mown front gardens. If she wants help she’s going to have to call someone or ring the bell of one of the closest houses.

It’s then that she remembers Hank, or rather the absence of him. She hadn’t seen him in the Surveillance Suite, but there’d only been a second or so before the intruder attacked her. She shivers. If the man attacked her, what has he done to Hank? She needs to find out.

Using the wall for balance, Moira stands and starts to limp back towards the CCTV office. She feels light-headed and her legs are as wobbly as a kitten on a trampoline. The sunlight and the movement are making her headache worse.

Entering the building, she steps around the folders and papers scattered across the floor by the intruder and heads towards the Surveillance Suite.