Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(116)

I’m not okay, I’m not okay, I’m not okay.

I’m Molly again, and I’m not going to make it.

“You killed him too. Didn’t you? I went to Devon’s house Saturday morning. He never stopped by after work, never called. I knew he was getting restless. I had told him he had to lie low after getting caught on video. Sloppy! We had to rein things in, keep it tight. But that’s the problem with trained dogs—sometimes they fight the leash. So I went to Devon’s house to check up on him, and what did I discover? All those police cars, the crime scene tape. You. I saw you sitting in the back of the patrol car, garbage smeared all over your face. And just like that, I knew what you’d cost me. Again.

“Did you really think I’d just let you go? Walk away a second time? That I wouldn’t follow you back to your place? That I wouldn’t hang out on the fire escape, waiting until your landlords had stepped out to come back down, pick the lock to their apartment, and steal the master keys? Then, when all was quiet, I unlocked the door and walked straight into your apartment. A little chloroform cocktail to disorient, a quick shot of sedative to knock you out completely, and that was that. I replaced the keys in your landlord’s apartment, then hustled you down to my own personal taxi. I drive it at nights. The perfect way to earn extra cash while cruising the streets for fresh opportunities.

“No one notices a taxi driver. No one even questions one loading a stumbling, disoriented woman into the back of the cab. Poor thing is drunk; good thing a taxi is taking her home.

“Now, everything is exactly as Daddy would’ve wanted it to be. You and me together again. Except this time, I’m the one with the gun, and you’re the one who will never leave.

“You’re mine. You’ll always be mine,” Lindy whispers, and just like that, she’s in the doorway, right beside me. I don’t need light to know there’s a smile on her face.

No more thinking. No planning. No preparation.

She might have found me first, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t know this day was coming.

I slice the piece of jagged glass across her face.

She screams.

I turn and bolt down the hall.


*

D.D. DROVE. In terms of distance, it wasn’t far from the nightclub to South Boston. Through narrow winding streets and way too many red lights, she careened, fishtailed, and flashed her lights. Keynes gripped the oh-shit handle above the door but didn’t say a word.

She found her way to the tenement housing from memory. Once upon a time, in the days of Whitey Bulger, this section of Boston had belonged to the Irish. It had been a hub of gangland activity, drugs, and poverty. In the 1990s, however, rent control had ended, forcing many low-income families from the area while the demand for waterfront real estate led to a nearly overnight gentrification. But before there could be progress, first there had to be demo. Which had been long and ongoing, with at least one stretch of boarded-up former tenement houses shuttered away behind a chain-link fence, still awaiting its fate.

She came to the fencing first. Drove around looking for a gate, discovered two other patrol cars already parked in front. An officer looked up as she pulled in. He held up a chain in front of her headlights. Enough for her to see the padlock was missing.

Meaning they weren’t the first people to be accessing the property.

D.D. killed her lights; then she and Keynes climbed out of the car, approached the other officers. She could hear sirens in the distance, other units responding to the call. She frowned.

Currently, Natalie Draga was holed up with at least two kidnapping victims. Broadcast the police’s approach and she might spook, leading to a hostage situation or worse.

This would have to be a stealth operation all the way. Like the SWAT team raid against Jacob Ness, who hadn’t had a clue until the first tear gas canister shattered his motel window.

D.D. got on the radio, made the call. Thirty seconds later, the distant sirens cut off abruptly, and only the sound of the approaching engines remained. Better.

She gathered the four officers. One of them reported having found an abandoned taxi just up the street. Otherwise, all appeared quiet and they had yet to see anyone enter the property.

D.D. nodded. The abandoned housing project was large. Six, seven massive brick buildings, all featuring boarded-up windows and crumbling facades. God knew about structural integrity, let alone what else they’d find inside. Squatters, drug addicts, rodents of all sizes. This would take finesse.

“We’ll work in teams of two. Start at the perimeter, work your way to the center. Classic grid search. Look for any trace of light coming from the edges of a window, footprints in the dust, recently disturbed entrances, picked locks, that sort of thing. Don’t approach on your own. Just recon. We have at least two victims trapped somewhere inside, and a suspect with nothing to lose. We need to control the situation first, not escalate.”

Officers nodded, snapped on flashlights, and prepared to enter.

D.D. walked back with Keynes to her vehicle. She kept her voice low. “Want to wait in the car?”

“No.”

“Got a vest?”

“I’m hoping you have a spare.”

She paused. “You have any fieldwork training?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Because, um . . .” She stumbled over the words, couldn’t help herself. “I’m on restricted duty. I don’t have a sidearm. I can shoot, though. I mean, I’ve been practicing. Just the standard two-handed stance is a little tricky with my shoulder right now. But straight on. I can do it. I can.”