Last to Die r-10 Page 25

  “He’s been our archery instructor for decades,” said Sansone. “It’s a skill that teaches them discipline and focus. Valuable skills relevant to all their subjects.”

  “And all the students take archery?”

  “All those who choose to,” Roman said.

  “If you’ve been teaching for decades, you must be pretty good with a bow,” the detective said to Roman.

  The forester grunted. “Fair enough.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I hunt.”

  “Deer? Squirrels?”

  “Not enough meat on a squirrel to make ’em worth the trouble.”

  “The point is, you could hit one?”

  “I can also hit your eye at a hundred yards. That’s what you want to know, isn’t it? Whether I took down that fella up on the ridge.”

  “You had a chance to examine the body, did you?”

  “Dog took us straight to him. Didn’t have to examine the body. Clear as day what killed him.”

  “That can’t be an easy shot to make, an arrow through the eye. Anyone else at this school able to do it?”

  “Depends on the distance, doesn’t it?”

  “A hundred yards,”

  Roman snorted. “No one here but me.”

  “None of the students?”

  “No one’s put in enough time. Or had the training.”

  “How did you get your training?”

  “Taught myself.”

  “And you hunt with only a bow? Never a rifle?”

  “Don’t like rifles.”

  “Why not? Seems like a rifle would be a lot easier when you’re hunting deer.”

  Sansone cut in: “I think Mr. Roman’s told you what you wanted to know.”

  “It’s a simple question. Why won’t he use a rifle?” The detective stared at Roman, waiting for a response.

  “You don’t need to answer any more questions, Roman,” said Sansone. “Not without a lawyer.”

  Roman sighed. “No, I’ll answer it. Seems to me he already knows about me, anyway.” He met the cop’s gaze head-on. “Twenty-five years ago, I killed a man.”

  In that silence, Maura’s sharp intake of breath made the cop finally look at her. “Dr. Isles, would you mind stepping outside? I’d like to continue this interview in private.”

  “Let her stay, I don’t care,” said Roman. “Better to have it all out right now, so there’s no secrets. Never wanted to keep it a secret anyway.” He looked at Sansone. “Even though you thought it best.”

  “You know about this, Mr. Sansone?” the cop asked. “And you employ him here anyway?”

  “Let Roman tell you the circumstances,” said Sansone. “He deserves to be heard, in his own words.”

  “Okay. Let’s hear it, Mr. Roman.”

  The forester crossed to the window and pointed at the hills. “I grew up there, just a few miles past that ridge. My grandfather was the caretaker here, looked after the castle since way back, before it became a school. No one was living here then, just an empty building, waiting for a buyer. Naturally, there were trespassers. Some of ’em just come in to hunt and leave. They’d bag their deer and go. But some of ’em, they came to make trouble. Smash windows, set the porch on fire. Or worse. You run into ’em, you didn’t know which kind you were dealing with …”

  He took a breath. “I ran into him over there, coming out of the woods. There was no moon that night. He just suddenly appeared. Big fella, carrying a rifle. We saw each other and he raised his gun. I don’t know what he was thinking. I’ll never know. All I can tell you is, I reacted on pure instinct. Shot him in the chest.”

  “With a gun.”

  “Yes, sir. Shotgun. Took him right down. He was probably dead within five breaths.” Roman sat down, looking a decade older, his hands resting on his knees. “I’d just turned eighteen. But I guess you knew that.”

  “I called in a background check.”

  Roman nodded. “No secret around these parts. Thing is, he was no saint, even if he was a doctor’s kid. But I killed him, so I went to jail. Four years, manslaughter.” Roman looked down at his hands, scarred from years of outdoor labors. “I never picked up a shotgun again. That’s how I got so good with a bow.”

  “Gottfried Baum hired him straight out of prison,” said Sansone. “There’s no better man.”

  “He still has to come into town to sign a statement.” The cop turned to the forester. “Let’s go, Mr. Roman.”

  “Headmaster Baum will make some calls, Roman,” said Sansone. “He’ll meet you in town. Don’t say a word, not until he gets there with an attorney.”

  Roman followed the cop to the door and suddenly stopped to look at Sansone. “I don’t think I’ll be making it back here tonight. So I want to warn you that you’ve got a big problem here, Mr. Sansone. I know I didn’t kill that man. Which means you better find out who did.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  SUMMER FOG CLOAKED THE HIGHWAY TO PROVIDENCE, AND JANE craned forward, peering from behind the wheel at cars and trucks that glided ahead of them like ghosts in the mist. Today she and Frost were chasing yet another ghost, she thought, as the wiper swept the gray film from her windshield. The ghost of Nicholas Clock, Teddy’s father. Born in Virginia, graduate of West Point with a degree in economics, avid outdoorsman and sailor. Married with three children. Worked as a financial consultant at Jarvis and McCrane, a job that required frequent travel abroad. No arrests, no traffic tickets, no outstanding debts.

  At least that was what Nicholas Clock looked like on paper. Solid citizen. Family man.

  The mist swirled on the road ahead of them. There was nothing solid, nothing real. Nicholas Clock, like Olivia Yablonski, was a ghost, flitting quietly from country to country. And what did that mean, exactly, financial consultant? It was one of those vague job descriptions that conjured up businessmen in suits carrying briefcases, speaking the language of dollar signs. Ask a man what he does, and those two words, financial consultant, could make your eyes glaze over.

  The same way medical supply sales rep could.

  Beside her in the passenger seat, Frost answered his ringing cell phone. Jane glanced at him when he said, a moment later: “You’re kidding me. How the hell did that happen?”

  “What?” she said.

  He waved her off, kept his focus on the phone call. “So you never finished the analysis? There’s nothing else you can tell us?”

  “Who is that?” she asked.

  At last he hung up and turned to her, a stunned expression on his face. “You know that GPS tracker we pulled off the rental car? It’s vanished.”

  “That was the lab calling?”

  “They said it disappeared from the lab sometime last night. They got only a preliminary look at it. There was no manufacturer’s stamp, totally untraceable. State-of-the-art equipment.”

  “Jesus. Obviously too state-of-the-art to stay in Boston PD’s hands.”

  Frost shook his head. “Now I’m getting seriously freaked out.”

  She stared at the spectral swirls of mist on the highway. “I’ll tell you who else is freaked out,” she said, her hands tightening on the steering wheel. “Gabriel. Last night he was ready to tie me up and throw me in the closet.” She paused. “I sent Regina to stay with my mom this week. Just to be safe.”

  “Can I hide with your mom, too?”

  She laughed. “That’s what I like about you. You’re not afraid to admit you’re afraid.”

  “So you’re not scared? Is that what you’re saying?”

  She drove for a moment without answering, the wipers sweeping back and forth as she peered at a highway as misty as the future. She thought about planes falling from the sky, bullets shattering skulls, and sharks feeding on bodies. “Even if we are freaked out,” she said, “what choice do we have? When you’re already in neck-deep, the way out is to forge ahead and get to the end of this.”

  By the time they reached the outskirts of Providence, the mist had thickened to drizzle. The ad
dress for Jarvis and McCrane was in the southeast corner of town, near the industrial waterfront, a bleak neighborhood of abandoned buildings and deserted streets. When they arrived at the address, Jane was already prepared for what they would find.

  The two-story brick warehouse was flanked by vacant parking lots. She eyed faded swoops of graffiti and boarded-over first-floor windows and knew that this building had been vacant for months, if not years.

  Frost surveyed the broken glass on the sidewalk. “Nicholas Clock financed a seventy-five-foot yacht working here?”

  “Obviously this was not his primary place of business.” She pushed open her door. “Let’s take a look, anyway.”

  They stepped out of the car, into a drizzle that made Jane zip her jacket and turn up her collar. The clouds hung so low, it seemed as if the sky itself was pressing down, trapping them in gloom. They crossed the street, broken glass crunching beneath their shoes, and found the entrance locked.

  Frost backed up and surveyed the upper windows, most of them shattered. “I don’t see any sign for Jarvis and McCrane.”

  “I checked the tax records. They are the listed owners for this property.”

  “Does this look like a real business to you?”

  “Let’s go around back.”

  They rounded the corner, past broken crates and an overflowing Dumpster. At the rear of the building, she found an empty parking lot where weeds were forcing their way up through cracks in the pavement.

  The rear door latch had been pried open.

  She nudged the door with her shoe and it creaked ajar, revealing a cavernous darkness within. She paused at the threshold, feeling the first prickles of alarm.

  “Ho-kay,” Frost whispered, his voice so close it startled her. “So now we have to search the scary building.”

  “This is why I brought you along. So you wouldn’t miss all the fun.”

  They glanced at each other and simultaneously drew their weapons. This was not their jurisdiction, not their own state, but neither one dared to venture unarmed into that gloom. She clicked on her flashlight and swept the darkness. Saw a concrete floor, a crumpled newspaper. Felt her heart kick into a faster tempo as she stepped across the threshold.

  It felt even chillier inside, as if these brick walls had trapped years of dankness where anything could be incubating. Waiting. She heard Frost close behind her as they moved deeper into the building, their flashlight beams skittering past pillars and broken crates. Frost accidentally kicked a beer can, and the rattle of aluminum over concrete was as startling as gunfire. They both froze as the echoes faded to silence.

  “Sorry,” whispered Frost.

  Jane heaved out a breath. “Well, now the cockroaches all know we’re here. But it doesn’t look like there’s anyone else …” She stopped and her head snapped up toward the ceiling.

  Above them, the floorboards groaned.

  Suddenly her heart was thumping faster as she listened for more movement above. Frost was right behind her as she made her way toward a metal staircase. At the bottom of the steps she paused, peering up at the second floor, where gray light seeped through a window. That sound they’d heard could mean nothing. Just the building settling. Wooden floorboards contracting.

  She started up the metal staircase, and each step sent off a faint clang that made the darkness hum and announced: Here we come.

  Near the top of the steps she crouched, palms sweating, and slowly lifted her head to peer over the second-floor landing.

  Something hurtled toward her from the shadows.

  She flinched as it whistled past her cheek. Heard glass shatter on the wall behind her as she saw a crab-like figure retreat into the gloom.

  “I see him, I see him!” she yelled to Frost as she scrambled up onto the landing. “Police!” she called out, her gaze fixed on the dark shape hulking in the corner. He was folded into himself, his black face obscured in shadow. “Show me your hands,” she ordered.

  “I got here first,” a voice growled. “Go away.” The figure raised an arm, and Jane saw another bottle in his hand.

  “Drop it now!” she commanded.

  “They said I could stay here! They gave me permission!”

  “Put down the bottle. We just want to talk!”

  “About what?”

  “This place. This building.”

  “It’s mine. They gave it to me.”

  “Who did?”

  “The men in the black car. Said they didn’t need it anymore, and I could stay here.”

  “Okay.” Jane lowered her weapon. “Why don’t we start over? First, what’s your name, sir?”

  “Denzel.”

  “Last name?”

  “Washington.”

  “Denzel Washington. Really.” She sighed. “I guess that’s as good a name as any. So Denzel, how about we both put away our weapons and relax.” She slid the gun into her holster and held up both hands. “Fair?”

  “What about him?” Denzel said, pointing to Frost.

  “Soon as you put down the bottle, sir,” Frost said.

  After a moment, Denzel set the bottle down between his feet with an emphatic thud. “Only take me an instant to throw it,” he said “So you better behave.”

  “How long have you been living here?” said Jane.

  Denzel struck a match and leaned over to light a candle. By the glowing flame, she saw a trash-strewn floor, the splintered remains of a broken chair. He planted himself beside the candle, a disheveled African American man in ragtag clothes. “Few months,” he said.

  “How many?”

  “Seven, eight. I guess.”

  “Anyone else ever come by to check out the place?”

  “Just the rats.”

  “You live all alone here?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Denzel,” Jane said, and felt ridiculous just saying that name. “We’re trying to find out who really owns this building.”

  “I told you. Me.”

  “Not Jarvis and McCrane?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “What about Nicholas Clock? You ever heard that name? Ever met the man?”

  Denzel suddenly turned and barked at Frost: “What are you doing over there? You trying to steal my stuff?”

  “There’s nothing here to steal, man,” said Frost. “I’m just looking around. See a lot of iron shavings here on the floor. This must have been some old toolmaking factory …”

  “Look, Denzel, we’re not here to hassle you,” said Jane. “We just want to know about the business that was here two, three years ago.”

  “Wasn’t nothing here.”

  “You knew the building back then?”

  “This is my neighborhood. I got eyes.”

  “You know a man named Nicholas Clock? Six foot two, blond hair, well built? About forty-five and good looking.”

  “Why you asking me about good-looking guys?”

  “I’m just asking if you’ve seen Nicholas Clock around. This address was listed as his place of business.”

  Denzel snorted. “Must have been real successful.” His head swiveled toward Frost and he snapped: “You really don’t pay attention, do you? I told you to stop looking around my place.”

  “What the fuck,” Frost said, staring out the broken window. “Someone’s in our car!”

  “What?” Jane crossed to the window and looked down at her Subaru. Saw the passenger door was ajar. She reached for her weapon and snapped, “Let’s go!”

  “No, you won’t,” Denzel said as a gun barrel suddenly pressed against the back of Jane’s head. “You are going to drop your weapons. Both of you.” His voice, no longer a careless drawl, was now cold and crisp.

  Jane let her Glock fall to the floor.

  “You, too, Detective Frost,” the man ordered.

  He knows our names.

  The second gun thudded to the floor. Denzel grabbed Jane’s jacket and shoved her down to her knees. The gun was still pressed to her skull, shoved so har
d against her scalp that it felt like a drill bit about to punch a hole through bone. Who would find their bodies in this blighted building? It could be days, even weeks before anyone noticed her abandoned car. Before anyone thought to trace its owner.

  Frost thumped down to his knees beside her. She heard the beeps of a cell phone being dialed, then Denzel said: “We’ve got a problem. You want me to finish it?”

  She glanced sideways at Frost and saw terror in his eyes. If they were going to fight back, this was their last chance. Two of them against an armed man. One of them would almost certainly take a bullet, but the other might make it. Do it now, while he’s on the phone and distracted. Muscles tensing, she took a breath, maybe her last. Twist, grab, deflect …

  Footsteps clanged on the stairway and the gun barrel suddenly lifted from her scalp as Denzel stepped away, beyond her reach. Beyond any hope of wrestling the weapon from him.

  The footsteps ascended to the top of the stairs and moved toward them, heels clipping sharply against the wooden floor.

  “Well, this is a problem,” said a shockingly familiar voice. A woman’s voice. “You can both get up, Detectives. I guess it’s time to drop all pretenses.”

  Jane rose to her feet and turned to face Carole Mickey. But this was not the lacquered blonde who’d claimed to be Olivia Yablonski’s colleague at Leidecker Hospital Supplies. This woman wore sleek blue jeans and black boots, and instead of a matronly blond helmet shellacked with hairspray, her blond hair was gathered in a tight ponytail that emphasized a model’s jutting cheekbones. Once, she would have been a stunning beauty, but middle age was now etched in that face, in the creases fanning out from her eyes.

  “I take it there’s no such company as Leidecker Hospital Supplies,” said Jane.

  “Of course there is,” said Carole. “You saw our catalog. We carry the latest in wheelchairs and shower seats.”

  “Sold by sales reps who never seem to be in the office. Do they actually exist, or are they all like Olivia Yablonski, running operations around the world for the CIA?”

  Carole and Denzel glanced at each other.

  “That’s a very big leap of logic, Detective,” Carole finally said, but that two-beat pause told Jane she’d hit the target.