Gone(77)

She dragged a finger across the dirty table, making a streak. “This is the line, Peter. There’s no going back over it. You may have ambitions beyond Patrol Division, but I don’t know if this is it.”

“You’ve got something. Tell me.”

“It’s been all around us, Peter. All the time.”

He held her gaze, then stepped back and looked around the kitchen. The house was almost empty now, like Rondeau’s office. But for two years the office had been piled with files and boxes. Maybe Rondeau was running his own investigation. Probably his messiness meant no one would make heads or tails of it. A person could’ve spent a week in his office, in his home, not necessarily drawn conclusions. But Addie, like Brit Silas, was detail-oriented. They looked for the little things.

“Rondeau never let the Valentine Killer case go,” Addie said. “He moved away, yeah. But he kept working. He just compartmentalized it. As Millard. Millard and his crazy ideas.” She sat back, let it sink in. “And Millard talked to me. We had some lengthy conversations when I first came up here a week ago. I’m privy to two years of his research. Nearly half of all wrongful convictions involve fraud or junk science, and more than a third involve suppression of evidence by law enforcement. In D.C., on the Valentine Killer case, they framed a guy who fit the profile. In the case of my brother’s abduction, they took something legit — the improper handling of hazardous waste — and diverted all the attention from the illegal drug testing going on, the meat industry cover-up.”

“So how do we do it? How do we fight back?”

“You’re a good man, Peter, I don’t want you to—”

“Tell me.” He stared at her, knowing he was speaking for Althea, too.

“Okay. I’m talking with the Justice Department. Department of Criminal Investigation. Whitehall is not my source, but you’re right — Rondeau found out where he was. I think we can coax him out of hiding and put everything together we know on this case — what you know, what I know . . .”

“Yeah, but what’s different this time?”

“I have proof of the crime lab tampering in the Valentine Killer case. We start there, and the whole house of cards will fall.”

“How?”

She gazed at him levelly, her eyes shining, the wind blowing outside, “Because I have found the real Valentine Killer,” she said. “That’s my protected source.”





FIVE WEEKS LATER





CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT / The Light


Rondeau stepped out into the bright morning. The air was crisp and fresh. He drew a deep breath, arched his back and lifted his face to the winter sun.

Today was the day he needed to go into town. Oesch wanted to see him. Rondeau really had no interest in going. Stokes had brought him food, over a months’ supply, but now he was running low. Didn’t want the new guy turning into the errand boy. It just wasn’t right. So, Oesch first, then shopping. Oesch said there were a few things left to collect from Rondeau’s old office. It would be Stokes’ office now, soon as the poor kid was back on active duty.

Rondeau walked to his truck, rehearsing the things he planned to say to Oesch on Stokes’ behalf — Stokes had gotten into a lot of trouble because of him. Before he got in, he surveyed the property. Dr. Lang had said it would do Rondeau some good to take the time and maybe tidy things up a little. He’d been right. Neglecting the property the way he’d been doing since Jessy died hadn’t liberated him.

Even with the ground half-frozen he’d taken the riding mower to it. All told, it had taken a week to knock down that high grass. He’d left some — the conservationists said that letting a lawn go, to some extent, was good for the wildlife.

He gazed into the large yard. He’d moved the refrigerator with the dolly, and he was scrapping the junkers one piece at a time. He’d soon have a load to take to the landfill.

The thought of the landfill reminded him of the Kemp case. Lang said that when thoughts of the investigation arose, not to try and suppress them. Just to let them be. Rondeau missed Connie Leifson, missed talking to her, missed her face (her legs, too; he wasn’t going to lie), but Lang was okay. A bit of a stuffed shirt, the kind of guy you’d expect to have a bust of Freud in his parlor (he had neither a bust nor a parlor, but, still) but Rondeau felt like in just one month, through eight sessions, they were making progress.

“Well, alright,” called a voice. Rondeau saw Millard sitting on an old freezer beside the rusted fridge. Millard raised his hand in a wave, and Rondeau turned away, lowered his head, kept walking to the truck.

One thing was better, anyway, Rondeau thought, mounting the cab and shimmying behind the wheel, sometimes when Millard showed up, he was in a transit cop uniform. It helped to remind Rondeau that he wasn’t really there; Lang had pointed out the story in the New York Post from years ago. Rondeau looked out the windshield. Today wasn’t one of those days, though. Millard was wearing his old flannel shirt and a pair of Carhartt work pants. Rainbow suspenders, even. He swung his legs and hopped down from the freezer. He came towards him and Rondeau keyed the engine.

“Hey,” Millard called over the roar of the Chevy. “Hey — you going into town?”

Rondeau backed out, made a turn in the short grass, and pointed the nose of the truck down the driveway. Now Millard was on the driver’s side, approaching Rondeau. Rondeau hand-cranked the window down. He propped his elbow on the door and opened his mouth to reply to Millard.