Love You More (Tessa Leoni, #1)(109)

They’d set up a dummy company and they were off and running, billing the pension fund, collecting the funds, and hitting the tables.

How long had they planned on running the racket? A month? Six months? A year? Maybe they didn’t think that far ahead. Maybe it hadn’t mattered to them at the time. Eventually, of course, internal affairs had figured out the fraud and launched an investigation. Unfortunately for Brian and Shane, once such an investigation started, it didn’t end until the taskforce got answers.

Is that when Hamilton had decided to turn me into the sacrificial lamb? Or had that been part of the domino effect? When, even after stealing from the troopers’ pension, Brian and Shane had continued to be short on funds, borrowing from the wrong players until they had both internal investigators and mob enforcers breathing down their necks?

At some point, Hamilton had realized that Shane and Brian might crack under the pressure, might confess their crimes to save their own necks and deliver up Hamilton on a platter.

Of the two, Brian was definitely the bigger liability. Maybe Hamilton had negotiated a final deal for the mob. He’d pay off the last of Brian and Shane’s bad debts. In return, they’d eliminate Brian and help frame me for all the crimes.

Shane would remain alive but too terrified to speak, while Hamilton and his cohorts could keep their illicit gains.

Brian would be dead. I would be in prison. Sophie … well, once I’d done everything they asked, they wouldn’t need her anymore, would they?

So my family would be destroyed, for Shane’s survival and Hamilton’s greed.

The rage helped keep me awake as I drove three hours west, toward Adams, Mass., where I knew Hamilton kept a second home. I’d been there only once, for a fall barbecue several years ago.

I remembered the log cabin as being small and isolated. Perfect for hiking, hunting, and holding a young child.

The fingers on my right hand wouldn’t work anymore. The bleeding had finally slowed, but I suspected the bullet had damaged tendons, maybe even nerves. Now inflammation had further compromised the injury and I couldn’t form a fist. Or pull a trigger.

I would proceed left-handed. With any luck, Hamilton wasn’t around. One of his officers had been killed in the line of duty tonight, meaning Hamilton should be in Allston-Brighton, tending to official matters.

I would park at the bottom of the long dirt drive that led to the cabin. I would hike in through the woods, bringing the shotgun, which I could fire left-handed from my hip. Aim would be lousy, but that was the joy of a shotgun—impact area was so large, your aim didn’t have to be any good.

I would scope out the cabin, I rehearsed in my mind. Discover it deserted. Use the butt of the shotgun to break out a window. Climb in, then locate my daughter sound asleep in a darkened bedroom.

I would rescue her and we would run away together. Maybe flee to Mexico, though the sensible thing would be to head straight back to BPD headquarters. Sophie could testify that Hamilton had kidnapped her. Further investigation into the lieutenant colonel’s affairs would reveal a bank balance far greater than it had any right to be. Hamilton would be arrested. Sophie and I would be safe.

We would move on with our lives and never be frightened again. Someday, she’d stop asking for Brian. And someday I’d stop mourning him.

I needed to believe it would be that easy.

I hurt too badly for it to be otherwise.

Four thirty-two in the morning, I found the dirt road that led to Hamilton’s cabin. Four forty-one, I pulled off the road and parked behind a snow-covered bush.

I climbed out of the car.

Thought I smelled smoke.

I hefted up the shotgun.

And heard my daughter scream.





43



Bobby and D.D. had just turned off the Mass Pike for the dark ribbon of rural US 20 when her cellphone rang. The loud chime jerked D.D. out of her groggy state. She hit answer, held the phone to her ear. It was Phil.

“D.D., you still headed west?”

“Already here.”

“Okay, Hamilton has two property addresses. First one’s in Framingham, Mass., near state HQ. I’m assuming the primary home, as it’s listed jointly under Gerard and Judy Hamilton. But there’s a second home, in Adams, Mass., solely under his name.”

“Address?” D.D. demanded crisply.

Phil rattled it off. “But get this: Police scanner just picked up a report of a residential fire in Adams, near the Mount Greylock State Reservation. Maybe it’s a coincidence? Or possibly Hamilton’s cabin is the one on fire.”

“Shit!” D.D. jerked to attention, fully awake. “Phil, contact local authorities. I want backup. County and town officers, but no state troopers.” Bobby shot her a look, but didn’t argue. “Now!” she stated urgently, ending the call, then immediately plugging the Hamilton’s address into the vehicle’s navigation system.

“Phil got us the address, which apparently is near the scene of a fire.”

“Dammit!” Bobby pounded the steering wheel with his hand. “Hamilton’s already there and covering his tracks!”

“Not if we have anything to say about it.”





44



Sophie screamed again, and I jerked into action. I grabbed both the shotgun and the rifle, pouring shotgun shells and rounds of .223 ammo into my pants pockets. The fingers on my right hand moved sluggishly, dumping more ammo onto the snow-covered ground than into my pockets. I didn’t have time to pick it up. I moved, relying on adrenaline and desperation to get the job done.