Repressed Page 15

  Escalation. They were killing his wife and his baby right now.

  Romance. Did they romance Acosta?

  No one romanced Reynolds.

  Rape.

  Kidnapping.

  Stabbing.

  Murder.

  But with Acosta and Bell, it wasn't just escalation or an attack gone wrong in the moment. They’d brought an object with them, an object that was used to stab the victims. That required forethought—planning. At least one of the perps had always intended to kill.

  McCallum was still speaking but his voice was far away as if Morrison were listening through a tunnel. “It’s safe to say these men have done it before, probably more than just the few times you’ve found out about. It’s unlikely that they’d go right to murder after five years of silence.”

  Silence. Did they want Roger silenced? They did want Roger locked up, but why? To get to the point where you would kidnap a woman and her child, you had to be desperate.

  There was no air. He tried to feel the chair on his back, his feet on the floor, the hot wheezing of the heat vent. Why did McCallum have the heat on?

  McCallum must have been talking, probably still about the cases but now they were all standing, and the walk to the front door took five times as long as usual—his world hyper-focused, every air molecule biting his skin. At the outer exit, he hung back and let Petrosky head through, then leaned toward McCallum’s ear, a new, separate concern bubbling to the top of his consciousness.

  Shannon was the only one Evie could count on at this moment. She might be incapacitated, but if missing her medications made her more helpless, more hopeless …

  “Are there side effects to the medication Shannon’s on if she suddenly stopped taking it?”

  The worry lines around McCallum’s mouth deepened. “There would be some side effects. Though I’d be more concerned about the depression returning. Postpartum depression needs longer-term assistance and I think in her case—”

  “What would happen?”

  “She might have some irritability. Brain zaps, like little electric currents in her head. Nausea, too. And of course anxiety and what we call rebound depression which can be significantly worse than the original episode.” He narrowed his eyes at Morrison. “I strongly advise that she come in before stopping the meds, even if she feels okay.”

  From outside the door, Petrosky peeked in, appraised Morrison, and left again.

  “Morrison?”

  “I was just worried that she left her medications on the dresser when she headed off to her brother-in-law’s. How hard is it to call in a prescription somewhere out of state?”

  McCallum’s Santa Claus face softened and a hint of a smile touched his face. “That why you’re upset, son?”

  Morrison nodded and McCallum patted his shoulder. “I know how much she’s struggled, but she’ll be fine. Just get me a pharmacy number and I’ll call a script over. She should be able to pick them up within a few hours and missing one dose won’t trigger any unwanted symptoms. I’d advise her to find a pharmacy soon though. Don’t want her to miss more than a couple doses.”

  It was going on two days. She’d already missed four.

  23

  You can’t fucking go. Petrosky’s scrawl on the notepad was barely legible. Shaky. Maybe because Petrosky was writing on the steering wheel. Maybe because one or both of them was shaking—not that Morrison could tell anything about Petrosky’s state. His own insides were quaking so violently a roller coaster would have seemed stable.

  They hadn’t needed to discuss whether Morrison’s cell was being tapped. Had their suspects hacked the cell, or added a listening device to the car itself? That was another question, but if the suspects were watching, they’d be pissed if Morrison went out to see Shannon’s car instead of speaking to Roger. Hostage takers didn’t respond well to being ignored.

  Morrison’s jaw was clenched so hard his teeth hurt.

  Get the fuck up to Roger’s office, Petrosky wrote.

  You might miss something, Morrison scrawled, not because Petrosky was inept by any stretch but because she was his wife, goddammit, his baby, and he knew what they had with them, what they might have dropped. If one of their toys, a bottle, a bobby pin, was left in the lot, he’d find it. He knew their smell so vividly he could almost taste it.

  Petrosky was still writing: I’ll take pictures. Tell you everything. We don’t know what’s going on here. Don’t have time to wait on Roger.

  Divide and conquer. It was logical. But it felt wrong.

  Can’t risk her, Petrosky wrote.

  If they’d threatened Petrosky, the old man would have walked into the lot with a bunch of officers, guns blazing, “fuck it, kill me” stamped on his face. But …

  Can’t risk her.

  Petrosky had walked Shannon down the aisle. He’d been there with her after the birth when Morrison went to the nursery with Evie. Though Petrosky could be a crotchety bastard—with everyone—he truly loved Shannon. And he wouldn’t take any chances—he’d already lost a daughter once. If there was evidence to find, Petrosky would find it.

  Roger was the one the caller had been after. There had to be a reason the killer hated the prosecutor, just like there had to be a reason Morrison had been chosen to go after Roger in the first place.

  He pushed aside the desire to run, to drive, to find her car and touch the last place she had been, to feel her energy as if it would convince him she was still alive and calm the thundering in his chest. He grabbed the case file and threw the car door open.

  Petrosky squeezed his shoulder once and let him go.

  Morrison rushed into the stairwell leading to the prosecutor’s office, trying to focus, trying to avoid thinking about anything but the task before him. He’d taken this trip numerous times to see Shannon—to bring her lunch. Coffee. Just to see her face. And, later, flowers or personalized stationary or little baby shoes that made her smile through her tears as her belly grew and her depression worsened.

  Now she was gone.

  So was the secretary, her desk empty as the hole in his gut. The butterfly photographs along the tawny walls felt less like they were fluttering and more like they were trying to escape their glass prison. If panic had a voice, it would be his breath against the walls, his shoes against the carpet, and his heart, muted, but frantic and heavy and pressured like an elephant stampeding toward a hunter—a battle from which one or the other would not emerge.

  What was he going to do? Ask Roger to turn himself in? Morrison had had no proof of wrongdoing, and no guarantees that his actions here would get Shannon back. But he had no choice, either, just the stinging, frenzied horror, the prospect of a life lived without … he couldn’t even think it. Couldn’t think at all. Every time he blinked, he saw red behind his eyelids.

  This is why we don’t let the hostage’s family make decisions.

  Behind Roger’s door, Shannon’s asshole ex laughed, low and long and … eerily gleeful. Morrison glanced down the hall at the door that had always been Shannon’s. His chest pinched, and his breath came faster. He cleared his throat and knocked.

  There was some scuttling in the room, and Roger opened the door, his cell phone to his ear. His eyes narrowed when he saw Morrison, and he touched his nose as if by reflex, like he couldn’t help but recall the time they'd come to blows. Morrison had never regretted the way Roger’s nose had felt under his fist—the way it had crunched.

  Until now.

  “I’ll call you back.” Roger pocketed the phone and glared at Morrison. “What do you want? I swear, if Shannon’s not back by—”

  “This isn’t about her maternity leave.” Morrison put his shoe against the doorframe before Roger could slam the door in his face. “We need to talk. It’s about a case.” A case. My family. “It’s about you.”

  Roger appraised him, his mouth a smirk that made Morrison want to hit him again, but he wouldn’t—couldn’t. “You have two minutes. I’m busy.”

  Morrison
closed the door behind them and sat across from Roger in a short wooden chair, not nearly as plush as the leather one Roger eased himself into. A power play—typical for Shannon’s ex. But equal seating was a trivial concern compared to what he needed from Roger now.

  “I—” The words stuck in his mouth. Someone kidnapped Shannon and Evie. It still felt unreal, a dream he’d awaken from. And Roger might not care, even if he did still love Shannon as a conquest—the one who escaped. Escaped to Morrison, who had failed to keep her safe while Roger had kept her intact.

  Intact. Emotionally scarred, perhaps, but alive. And Evie, his poor, sweet baby girl …

  Roger cocked his head. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

  Keep it on him. Let Roger be the hero. “I need your help.”

  An arrogant smile plastered itself across Roger’s face. “I don’t see why I should do you any fucking favors.”

  Strike one. “It’s not a favor, Roger. I got a call this morning. You’re taking bribes and someone knows it.”

  “Someone who?”

  Shit. Morrison swallowed his hatred, his fear. Be a cop. “If you turn everything over, I can help you. We can—”

  Roger crossed his arms, haughty and indignant. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “You have, Roger.” Please let that be true. There had to be a way out of this—had to be.

  “There’s no evidence of that.” No change in his face.

  “Roger, think. Who knew about it?”

  Recognition flashed in Roger’s eyes and disappeared into the mask again. “No one.” Another flash of white teeth, almost a snarl.

  Morrison’s heart leapt. “Someone,” he said. “Please.”

  “Get out.”

  “Roger, listen to me, if you tell me who knows, I can find them.” He inhaled sharply. “They called this morning, they—”

  “There’s nothing to know.” Roger touched the head of a glass figurine on the desk, Lady Justice holding scales half as large as herself. But Morrison knew just how easily those scales could be persuaded to tip to one side or the other—they all knew.

  Justice was rarely the point.

  “They have Shannon,” Morrison said. “Someone took her.”

  “Sure they did.”

  He stared back, stunned. Of all the possible outcomes, Roger disbelieving the situation had not occurred to him. Roger was erring on the side that put Shannon and Evie in danger. “Roger—”

  “And they’ll let her go if I just destroy my career? My life? Seems rather convenient. If you wanted to get rid of me, I’d have thought you’d be more creative. At least make it less obvious that you want me locked up the way you think I did to you.”

  He didn’t think it—Morrison knew his arrest had been intentional, and that Roger had been behind the whole thing. But Roger was right—he’d never gotten over it.

  He never would.

  Rage burned in his chest, mingling with white-hot desperation. What was he going to do?

  Kill him.

  Can’t. If he was locked up and the killer decided to keep his family …

  “They’re not going to stop here, Roger. If someone … if you can just tell me who might want to hurt you, who might want to see you locked up, I’ll have a place to start. Better if they have reason to believe that you did something … wrong.”

  “Every perp I’ve put away in the last fifteen years wants me gone.”

  Morrison glanced at the file in his hands. Every perp. He’d forgotten about the composite from the Reynolds case. “This guy look familiar?” He flipped open the folder and thrust it at Roger.

  “He looks like a fucking goon. And no.”

  “He’s got a partner, around five nine, thin, blond hair, black at the tips.”

  Roger snorted, shaking his head like he felt sorry for Morrison now.

  “What about someone personally connected to you, someone you’ve been in a relationship with? Anyone who might want to hurt you?”

  “Your wife, maybe. You.”

  “Roger—”

  “Exes always go away a little pissy don’t they? This isn’t about me.”

  Yes it is. The only thing the caller had asked him for was Roger’s fucking head.

  “Whoever has Shannon already killed someone else. Natalie Bell, found raped and murd—”

  “The Bell case, huh? So now Shannon’s been gone all week?” He raised his eyebrows as if he’d caught Morrison in a lie.

  “No, Shannon was still here when—” Morrison stopped. “How do you know about the Bell case?”

  “Maybe you told your good friend Decantor that if he acted like the Bell case had something to do with me that you’d get me fired. Decantor and I have gone toe to toe three times in the last six months over stupid shit. He hasn’t won once.” Roger sneered again. Predatory.

  Morrison rubbed his temples where the rage and fear mingled, whirring painfully through his brain. “Roger, whoever’s doing this, whoever knows about what you’ve done, won’t keep it secret. All that will happen is … Shannon will die. Evie will …” His voice cracked on the last word and he didn’t fucking care, not now.

  Roger paused, keeping his eyes on the figurine. “And why should I care what happens to my ex-wife? You’re the one who has her now. You’re the one who’s supposed to be taking care of her, not me. Hell, you probably took care of her while we were married.”

  While they were— “Goddammit, this isn’t about you and me, Roger!”

  “Ah, but it is. You can’t ask a man a favor after you’ve stolen his wife.” He chuckled. “Besides, if you’re involved in a kidnapping situation, you know as well as I do that giving them what they want isn’t all that likely to help you. Do your job and find out who did it and stop coming in here fucking with me.”

  “Who knows about your safe deposit box?”

  The crinkle at the corners of Roger’s eyes died, but his mouth stayed even, his shoulders back. “No one.”

  “Roger, someone does.”

  “So some ex-girlfriend or a one-night stand went through my drawers and assumed something that wasn’t true. Did they give you the name of the bank?”

  They hadn’t. He shook his head.

  Roger’s face relaxed. “Well, there you go. They don’t know anything. It’s just someone trying to get even.”

  “You think one of your exes would murder another woman to get back at you?”

  “What can I say?” The smile was back.

  “This isn’t a fucking joke!”

  “You’re full of shit, Morrison. I know Shannon was going to Alex’s this week because she told me when she called with her work-return date. And you know about the box because Shannon knows about it. Even kept her wedding ring there until she sold it.” He flattened his palms against the desk and pushed himself to standing. “Convenient that they grabbed her just before she was supposed to be coming back to work. Maybe you’re threatened, knowing she’ll be here every day with me. That was how you got her in the first place right? Pulled her away little by little, a CrossFit class here, a dinner after work there.”

  “This isn’t about us, goddammit!”

  Roger leaned across the desk, his crooked nose all the more sinister from above, like a deadly, hooked beak. “Then why are you here, Morrison? Why aren’t you out there trying to find who did this?”

  Hatred burned in Morrison’s chest, a thick, scalding rage. And fear. “They have Evie. Please, Roger. I need time to find them. I need your help to buy that time.”

  “Fuck you, Morrison.”

  “Roger—”

  “Get the hell out of my office.”

  The Lady Justice figurine was the last thing Morrison saw before he backed from the office and took the stairs two at a time. He’d find another way to expose Roger. He’d find out what Roger had done, and why the kidnapper wanted Roger dead. He’d get his family back before the killer took them away from him—from this world. No. He’d get them back or he’d die trying. And if R
oger got them hurt, he was a fucking dead man.

  Morrison’s phone buzzed and he ripped it from his back pocket in time to see Shannon’s name. She was back. She was fine. Just texting to tell him that it had all been a bad practical joke, that her phone had been stolen and—

  “You know what your asshole partner’s doing right now?”

  He didn’t. But he had a feeling his family was going to be punished for it.

  24

  As the nighttime hours went on, a fuzzy warmth overtook him, and at some point before dawn Morrison almost felt a cooling breath against the back of his neck as his nerve endings quieted to a painless hush. He wasn’t there. None of them were. A dream, only a dream. He sat at his desk and stared at his fingers. They were someone else’s, surely. But with the numbness, the logic seeped back in. And the logic was all he had.

  Morrison had responded to the kidnapper’s text, insisting that he wasn’t sure what Petrosky was doing, but there had been no reply. When he’d triangulated the location, the system claimed the texts coming from Shannon’s number were originating somewhere in Nevada—no way could they have traveled that distance in half a day. Whoever had his wife was scrambling the cell signals, maybe had even uploaded a virus into one of the cell companies’ databases to assign the numbers to random towers. Maybe. Or maybe he was wrong. Decantor was already researching IT guys and spyware places since their phone scrambler and possible voice-over artist clearly had a penchant for electronics. It was possible—and easy—to get your phone to show one number on a caller ID regardless of where you actually called from. There was no guarantee that the phone was even Shannon’s to begin with. That was the cold logic severed from the frenzied heat of terror and it sustained him for a moment.