The 17th Suspect (Women's Murder Club #17)(59)

He wore a knit cap over his brow, and both hands were shoved into the pockets of his windbreaker. He looked straight ahead and passed our backup team without noticing them.

I grabbed the radio mike and said to Nardone, “Bob. Suspect is on foot walking north on Leidesdorff, just passed you, wearing a black jacket, black knit hat.”

“Copy that,” Nardone said.

“Stay in your car until I need you.”

Conklin and I got out of the squad car and walked toward Dunn, stopping him on the sidewalk.

I said, “Mr. Dunn. Glad we found you. We need to ask you some more questions.”

“I have a meeting at nine fifteen,” he said. “Why don’t I get back to you?”

He started to walk past us, but Conklin put out a hand to block his passage.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Dunn,” Conklin said. “This is very important. We have some photos to show you, and we need you to help us clear up a few questions. Has to be right now. This just can’t wait.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Why would you ask that?” I asked.

“Because you’re coming at me like I’m a suspect.”

“Mr. Dunn. Michael,” I said. “We need your help. The longer it takes to find whoever shot your mother, the greater the likelihood that the case will go cold or that the shooter will kill someone else.”

Dunn planted his feet, and from the rage on his face, I thought he was going to punch me or run.

“Get away from me,” he said. “Get the hell away from me.”

There was a blur as his arm shot out and connected with my shoulder. The shock of the blow knocked me off balance. I staggered back but managed to keep my footing.

I unclipped my cuffs from my belt and shouted, “Put your hands behind your back. Michael Dunn, you’re under arrest for assaulting a police officer.”

Dunn switched his eyes to the cuffs and started babbling at me. He made no sense. I didn’t know what he was thinking or saying, but one thing I did know. The gun that I wanted so badly?

It was in his hand and it was pointed at me.

I rushed him and yelled, “GUN!”





CHAPTER 87


CARS WERE SPEEDING past him—Michael heard them —but his vision was breaking into choppy split seconds, like old-fashioned film caught in the cogs of a projector.

One moment the cop called Boxer was coming at him. He hated her. She was just like his mother. She should be punished, so no one would have to suffer like he had.

But the other cop was blocking his way.

Get away from me. Get away.

He gave her a shove as he clasped the butt of his beloved gun.

Everything became blurred in his mind. Mother. Why? Why don’t you love me?

She was coming back at him, so he aimed at her.

She shouted, “GUN!”—and he squeezed the trigger. He felt the shock in his hand travel up to his shoulder and ring the bell of his heart. Her partner came toward him with his gun out, shouting, “Drop the gun!”

Michael laughed and fired again. Brakes squealed. The shot rang out, metal against metal. His thoughts were fleeting images. His mother.

Why don’t you love me? Why didn’t you love me?

He was down on his back. Someone stepped on his hand. His gun spun away. He rolled and reached for it. He couldn’t. Quite. Get it.

Mom. Where are you now?

Loud words came at him. He didn’t understand. Faces were huge in front of his eyes. His cheek was against the pavement. Someone shouted his name. A kick landed on the side of his head. Another in his gut. His wrists were clamped and pinched behind him. He was dragged up to his feet. He saw someone he knew.

Roger Duncan. The boss.

He heard Duncan say, “Hey. What’s going on here?”

Michael called out, “I did it, Roger. I killed my mother. I don’t need a lawyer.”

His true self was coming out. He had never felt so free, so alive. There was a hand on his head. Pushing him down. You bitch. You’ve always been a bitch. He said it to HER. Motherrrrr.

A car door slammed.

Duncan knocked on the window, his face as big as the moon, saying in a muffled voice, “Michael. I’ll meet you at booking. Don’t say anything to anyone.”

He was living in real time, with real sound and images. Michael saw it all clearly now. He said, “It’s okay, Duncan. I killed my mother. I shot them all.”

Michael was thrown back against the seat. He welcomed it. He started to hum a song about a puppy with a waggly tail.

He was free at last. Life was good.





PART THREE





CHAPTER 88


I WAS AT my desk in the squad room when I opened the little shopping bag and took out the note and the foil-wrapped packet.

Conklin was putting on his windbreaker. He said, “Cappy and I are running across the street for lunch. Come with us.”

“Rain check,” I said.

“Prime rib special. All you can eat. Seven bucks.”

I peeled back the aluminum foil and peeked between the slices of bread. Meat loaf. The note read, “Eat. Love. Joe.”

That was priceless.

When I had come home last night, Joe had taken one look at me, hugged me, pulled off my outerwear and gun, and sat me down. Then he pulled off my shoes and poured me a drink.