The 19th Christmas (Women's Murder Club #19)(32)

The last time we’d worked with Reg Covington—two full days ago—he’d led the charge up all those flights of stairs at the Anthony Hotel. Then, like now, the goal had been to take the subject alive. But Chris Dietz had gotten the last word, killing an FBI agent, wounding another, and committing suicide-by-cop, taking everything he knew about Loman’s plans with him.

A failed takedown just couldn’t happen again.

We needed Corey Briggs and Megan Rafferty to talk while there was still hope of heading off Loman’s big, bloody heist. In fact, this pair of small-time dopers might be our only hope.

Covington’s plan of attack was classic: Use ordinary-looking vehicles and trucks so that they could get close to the subjects’ van without spooking them. Isolate the van so that it couldn’t go mobile. Execute disabling tactics so that the subjects couldn’t hurt anyone, including themselves.

I saw Briggs’s old Chevy van thirty yards up ahead. Covington was on the radio, and I confirmed to him that the vehicle was in sight.

“Do you see Boyle?” he asked me.

A man carrying a duffel bag over his shoulder came down the street singing to himself. I recognized him and said so to Covington.

A moment later Boyle rapped his knuckles on my window. I buzzed it down and he passed the heavy bag to me.

“Here you go, Boxer. Everything you’ll need.”

I thanked Boyle and watched him get into a vehicle; it crawled up the road and disappeared from sight. It was as if I’d imagined him.

A pickup truck, no lights, turned onto Donahue and pulled smoothly in behind the van. Another vehicle, an SUV, parked a dozen yards in front of the van, backed up.

Tanya’s groom-mobile was now locked in bumper to bumper. Men and women in tactical gear exited their repo’d vehicles, stopped between our Bronco and the blue van.

I watched SWAT advance on the van with weapons in hand. One of the team leaned across the hood of a truck and braced a 40mm grenade launcher. He aimed at the blue van.

He fired.

A pepper-gas grenade traveled ten yards, shot through one of the van’s side windows, and hit the back wall.

The quality of life inside that van was about to go straight to hell.





CHAPTER 43





I HUNCHED OVER reflexively as the grenade exploded, and when I sat up, everything was in motion.

The masked tactical team swarmed toward the van. The rear cargo doors blew open, and the writhing figure of a young woman tumbled out. She was followed by a screaming man in bulky outerwear.

The two fell to the ground, blinded by the burning gas, their mucous membranes inflamed, making them feel like they were choking. These two had to be Briggs and Rafferty. I watched as they tried to stand, but they didn’t have a chance. An all-terrain fire truck rolled up on fat off-road tires, and a SWAT commando aimed the water cannon at the couple and flattened them to the asphalt.

On Covington’s “Go,” Conklin and I scrambled out of the Bronco, me with the duffel bag, Conklin cutting a path for us through the tac team, which was cuffing our howling, writhing subjects on the ground.

“We need some room,” Conklin said as we edged through the SWAT team scrum. This was why we were on the scene: to rescue these two mutts from the punishing takedown, befriend them, and get them to talk.

I crouched beside Rafferty, who was cuffed and rolling from side to side in agony. I set the duffel bag down next to her and told her that she’d be all right soon. I spilled cool water onto a rag, swabbed her face, then poured water directly from the bottle into her eyes.

Only yards away, Conklin was doing the same with Briggs.

I said to Rafferty, “Megan, I’m Sergeant Lindsay Boxer. You have a jacket in the van? I’m going to get you out of here.”

I had no idea whether she’d heard me or understood me. Anything inside the van would be permeated with pepper gas, but I wanted her permission to send someone into the van without waiting for a warrant. Maybe Loman’s contact number would be written on a wall. Or maybe there’d be a map on a cell phone. It had happened before. Or here’s what would be nice: a note with Loman’s current location stuck to the fridge door.

She said, “What?”

“Do you need a jacket or your handbag? Can we get you something from the van?”

She groaned. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Pepper gas wafted over me. Tears came.

“I know. I know, Megan. Let’s get you back to the station, find you some dry clothes there.”

I offered her the rest of the bottle of water. She took it, guzzled it down, and then vomited on my pants and shoes.

“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s okay. I’m going to help you up now.” She heaved again.

A uniformed officer assisted Rafferty to her feet and into the back of an SUV.

I shouted to Conklin, “Meet you at the Hall.” I settled into the front seat, my suspect crouched in the back. The day wasn’t going well for Megan Rafferty.





CHAPTER 44





I USED THE restroom down the hallway from the bullpen and washed pepper-gas residue from my face, arms, and upper torso. I dried off with paper towels, bagged my shirt and Windbreaker, and changed into the sweatshirt and pants I kept in my locker.

I was damp and still getting whiffs of pepper gas from my hair, but it couldn’t be helped right now. I went to my desk and called Joe.