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He wondered why the agent was interested. This was a major moment for the investigation. They were about to find the missing family and capture a piece of organized crime at the same time. But, Jackson had pulled his federal authority and gotten Peter out of there; if he was interested in Rondeau, and that was why he’d spared Peter from IA grilling, so be it.

“Detective Rondeau was on the job in Washington D.C. for ten years,” Jackson said. “There was a mass murderer and we were involved. Killer was tracked to a location, a shipyard outside of the city. Big containers all around, creating alleyways and blind spots. There was a shootout, and Rondeau took a couple of hits; two in the torso.” Jackson touched his chest.

“I didn’t know that.” Peter watched the road blasting at them as Agent Jackson urged the SUV to higher speeds.

“Rondeau didn’t let it go. He alleged the shooting was intentional. That we — the FBI — wanted him out the way because we’d forged the evidence on the perp. That we didn’t have the right man, or were protecting the real perp and had faked forensics to build a case and nab this other guy.”

“Did you?”

Jackson spared a sideways glance. “Do you always say exactly what’s on your mind, Deputy King? The ensuing investigation proved otherwise, and DCI found that the bullets had ricocheted off some of the large containers.”

Peter absorbed the information quietly. While it was hard to think of anything besides the Kemp family, the Rondeau thing invaded his mind. He became defensive, feeling like he needed to speak up on his colleague’s behalf. “Rondeau’s a good detective. But when you’re life is law enforcement, when you work as much as we do, go through as much as we do, it’s a lot of stress . . .”

Jackson wasn’t listening. He put his finger to the side of his head. There was a thin wire snaking into to his ear. Then he rolled his wrist and spoke into his cuff. “Clear, twenty-two. We are en route. Traveling with Deputy Peter King.” Then he suddenly slowed the car and took the shoulder. Without a word, he opened the door and got out. He retched into the stiff, brown grass.

Peter’s phone rang. He was expecting Althea, checking up on him, but it was Stokes.

“Peter. A woman named Tamika Levitt called the state police yesterday.” Stokes sounded out of breath.

“Okay . . . ?”

“She originally called the hotline and spoke to Detective Gates. That’s how I found out, just now. Levitt claimed she had information on the Kemp family. Rondeau went down to investigate.”

“Where?”

“Indian Lake.”

Peter looked out the window. “That’s fifty miles from here.” They’d passed Pottersville about fifteen minutes earlier, where a bumpy backroad led to Indian Lake. He’d taken the trip a few times over the years. “What did she say when she first called?”

“She thought the missing family had to do with something . . . ah, some black budget operation.”

It was hard to gauge over the phone whether Stokes believed it or not. “Interesting. Well, what does she say now?”

“Nothing. I’ve tried her five times in the past hour. No answer at her home, no cell phone. But, Peter . . . her place neighbors Addison Kemp’s house.”

“No shit?” Peter caught a touch of Stokes’ excitement. “So are we sending someone down there to check it out?”

“I called the troopers. They said they sent two men.”

“Good.”

“You know where you’re going yet?”

“No. Headed south on 87. Past Pottersville.”

“Let me know when you know, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey — good luck. Be careful.”

Peter hung up. As he watched Jackson pulling himself together out in the cold, he wondered if he’d misjudged Detective Rondeau. Over the past two years, he’d come to know the man as odd, a bit of a mess, with the habit of spilling coffee on himself. Rondeau scratched a lot, like he had an allergy or eczema. And his office looked like a refuge for paperwork from the last century, even though he was in charge of a small squad in a rural area . . .

But, heading off on a lead like this on his own? Was he hiding something, or just wanting to play the hero? There were rumors, too, that Rondeau was a binge-drinker, and Deputy Kenzie said he’d seen the detective talk to himself. Then there was the drone shooting. Everyone was wringing their hands over that one; Oesch was planning to have a serious talk with Rondeau. But, then the missing family case had come along, and it all got swept aside.

Now this about Rondeau’s past, taking fire during a showdown with a killer, and blaming the FBI. Running off on his own to chase down a lead. Maybe it was the connection to Addison Kemp he was investigating, or maybe he was completely nuts.





CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO / Ricochet Rondeau

Time had lost all meaning. His physical boundaries had dissolved. Rondeau was adrift in a sea of consciousness, every corner of his psyche laid bare for vicious introspection. The past and the present collided. He was in the shipyard, moving through shadowy corridors. The gun fire rattled around him, coming from all directions. He took the hits to his chest again and again, on an endless loop. Ricochet Rondeau, Ricochet Rondeau echoed like a crowd chanting, reverberating off the corrugated steel.