Dominance and Deception (24 page)

"Uh... Boss?” Layton's tentative voice shook me from my thoughts, and I looked up impatiently to find my entire team staring at me.

"What?"

Whatever the younger cop had been about to ask, he decided that it wasn't important enough to risk my wrath. “Never mind. I'm just gonna..."

I didn't bother to pursue it. Forcing myself to focus on anything but Faye, I scanned the information on the page and initialled my agreement beside her signature. Turning the page, I prepared to do the same with the next form, but there was a folded slip of paper sitting between the two pages, and it commanded my attention.

Slowly, I unfolded it and read the note, scrawled in Faye's distinctive handwriting.

Zach,

This might be totally off-base, but I talked to Bill, and we have a theory that someone might be threatening my life, and that somewhere in that equation you had to end things with me. Maybe it's wishful thinking, and maybe it isn't. Either way, I trust you with my life, and unless you come to me tomorrow and tell me I've lost my mind, I'll be waiting for you to do what you need to do and come back to me.

Be careful, Sir. I love you.

I closed my eyes, relief and unease duelling for dominance in my mind. Knowing Faye understood that leaving her hadn't been my choice was enough to make me smile a little, just for a moment, before the implications sank in.

Over the first few days, I'd come up with several ways to let her know she was in jeopardy—everything from handwritten notes to gestures to buying two disposable, untraceable cell phones and getting one to her when I knew she'd be out of range of listening devices. I'd discounted them all for one simple reason—if she'd known her life was being threatened, she wouldn't have been able to stop herself from looking around for the danger.

If the person responsible for the threats was as vigilant as I suspected, he'd know as soon as Faye left the building that she was aware she was being watched.

Swearing under my breath, I grabbed my cell phone and called hers. With any luck, she was still busy in her lab, working on a case for another team. But as I waited—five seconds, then ten—for her to pick up, my gut told me my worst fears were coming to pass.

"Damn it!” My team looked up from their desks as I got to my feet. “Did Faye leave early?"

It had been so long since I'd mentioned her that they all exchanged startled glances.

"Yeah,” Santoro said guardedly. “She finished up and took off for the day. Why?"

I didn't have the luxury of giving in to the dread that was getting worse with every second that passed.

"Layton, track her cell phone's GPS."

Something in my voice or my face convinced Layton to obey without question. As he got to work, Santoro and Beaumont got up from their desks.

"Pierce, what are you not telling us?” Beaumont demanded.

There was nothing to lose by telling them now, so I did, as succinctly as possible, my eyes fixed on Layton's computer monitor. They absorbed the information with silent horror, any comments they might usually have made set aside as they comprehended the peril Faye was in.

"Got her!” Layton exclaimed as the GPS search narrowed. “She's at your place, boss—and she's not moving."

Shoving aside my emotions, I headed for the elevator.

"Santoro, Beaumont, with me. Layton, I need you here—let me know if anything changes."

I didn't pause to see if Layton had listened to me. My mind was too full of images of Faye lying dead, a bullet-hole through her forehead.

When I barged through the front door of my house, yelling Faye's name, her cell phone was the first thing I saw. My first instinct was to scoop it up, to hold in my hand the only link to her I had at that moment, but I'd been a cop for too long to give in to it.

"Santoro. Bag the phone."

As Santoro moved past me, Beaumont stooped to examine something by the stairs. “Pierce...?"

I crouched by the square of photographic paper, using a pen to rotate and examine it. It was a Polaroid snapshot, and I cursed as I realised what it portrayed. The words below Faye's image gave me the chills.

I warned you. Acta est fabula, Detective.

"God damn it,” I muttered, my mind scrambling for the next step. I couldn't give in to the fear I'd lose her—it'd consume me, and I'd be useless, speechless, paralysed, unable to help her.

Santoro and Beaumont carried out a belated sweep of the house while I used the sleeve of my shirt to pick up the photograph. It was slightly crumpled, as if someone else had been holding it too tightly. Staring into the horrified eyes of Faye's likeness in the picture, I got the sense that her fingerprints would be on the paper when it was analysed—that she'd found it and understood how deep a hole she'd fallen into before she was taken.

By the time my detectives returned, reporting that the house was clear—as I'd known it would be—an eerie calm had fallen over me. Every emotion was locked away, and I thought mechanically, logically.

Over the past month, I'd managed to narrow down my list of suspects to two—Tyler Aldridge and Adam Danforth. I had been Aldridge's commanding officer in Kuwait, during Desert Storm, and Danforth was an ex-con I'd put away during my early days with the precinct. I hadn't been able to track either down yet, but neither had been forensically savvy back when I'd known them. I was hoping that detail hadn't changed in the time since I'd seen them last.

"What now?” Beaumont asked, and I felt her expectation, and Santoro's, come to rest on my shoulders.

"Call in one of the forensic temps,” I ordered, and she was dialling before I'd finished the sentence. “Santoro, bring the gear from the car, then get the threats from upstairs, this photo and Faye's phone back to the precinct for fingerprint and fibre testing. DNA, too, if it comes to it."

As they snapped into action, I called Layton, who answered with a tense, “Boss?"

"She's not here.” As I dispelled the younger cop's hopes, something inside me snarled and thrashed to break free. I restrained the emotion with an effort, giving Layton the names and relevant details of my two suspects. “I want to know where they are right now."

"Got it,” Layton confirmed, and I hung up, frustration seething through my blood.

Faye was out there somewhere—terrified, hurt, I hoped to God not dead—and if I'd got my team working forensically and digitally on the threats I'd received a month ago, she might have been safe now.

Then again, she could have been dead. I couldn't afford to second-guess myself, not until I had her home again.

Santoro departed for the precinct, and I opened the small evidence collection kit we kept in the sedan for emergencies. Erica Beaumont grabbed the black light and Luminol as I began to collect stray hairs from the floor. Even if it came to nothing, it was something to do while I waited for developments.

At Beaumont's indrawn breath, I glanced over sharply, to find her holding the black light over a spot on the varnished wood of the floor. The ultraviolet glow illuminated a small patch of fluid that shone white against the purple, and when Beaumont looked up at me, her eyes were full of dread.

"Blood."

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The first sense I regained was my hearing. Though I was still awash in numb darkness, there was a persistent ringing in my ears that led to one confused thought—
I really should stop listening to my mp3 player so loud.

Then the pain hit and I groaned, blinking bright spots from my vision as I opened my eyes.

My fogged mind was slow to interpret what I saw, but when I put it all together a belated surge of terror overcame me. An abandoned building. Me, tied to a chair. A man I didn't recognise calmly reading a newspaper a little way away.

He wasn't wearing a mask or trying to hide his identity in any way, which meant he wasn't planning to tell me his life story and send me back home with a basketful of cookies. I was
so
screwed.

Then again, I guessed I could count myself lucky I hadn't just been murdered on the spot.

My captor's attention was elsewhere, and I used that fact to try to orient myself, flexing my fingers and toes, testing the ropes with slow, smooth movements so as not to catch his eye. Over the past two years, Pierce had tied me up with bondage rope more times than I could count, and I knew as soon as I began to pull at my restraints that these knots would hold.

Now what?

My captor turned the page, his paper rustling, and I cringed, expecting him to glance up at any second and find me awake. He seemed absorbed in his task, however, and I forced myself to take a good look at him while I was still relatively calm. He was in his early forties at my best guess, and his chestnut hair was in a classic Marine crew cut. His long legs were propped up casually on a discarded office desk as he read, and I was reminded of Santoro's tendency to do exactly the same thing.

I looked around the room, taking in my surroundings. Escape routes, potential weapons, places to hide...assuming I could manoeuvre my way out of the damn chair I was tied to, of course.

When I noticed the open toolbox by the desk, my breath caught. So many times over the course of my career I'd pulled DNA and fingerprints from bloodied screwdrivers, pliers, hammers, saws... I'd have loved to imagine the presence of those very implements here was a coincidence, but I knew I'd be fooling myself.

Taking slow, deep breaths, I forced my gaze away from the toolbox, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for my head to stop spinning. The voice of my tormentor cut through the silence, and I flinched.

"I know you're awake."

Swallowing past the dryness in my mouth, I stared at him.

"Who are you?"

The man set down his paper, his mouth twisted in a humourless half-smile.

"Does it matter?"

I decided not to push it—provoking him didn't seem like the brightest of ideas. My silence seemed to coax him into speaking, however.

"Does the name ‘Tyler Aldridge’ mean anything to you?"

"You were on Pierce's list of suspects,” I said, feeling a tiny spark of hope ignite within me. At least I knew Pierce would have some idea of who had abducted me.

That answer seemed to please Aldridge. “At least I know the bastard didn't forget what he did to me,” he said, sitting forward in his chair. “I'm guessing he didn't tell you, though?"

I shook my head mutely, and Aldridge gave a cold, mercenary grin.

"Then allow me."

When he stood up, I shrank back against the chair, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. He was taller than I'd thought, and he dragged the chair closer before sitting down opposite me, leaning forward to stare into my face.

"Your
Pierce
...he's not the saint you think he is."

I didn't dare to speak in case I provoked him, so I just waited, every muscle tense, for him to go on. Up close, I could see his eyes were brown, his teeth were nicotine-stained and there were scars on his forehead.

"I first met him here, in this very building. Just through that door."

He indicated carelessly, and I looked in the direction he pointed, seeing what looked like a bar through the half-open door. We were in the back room of some sort of drinking establishment, then.

"We met by coincidence—he was waiting for a friend, and so was I. We got to talking to pass the time, mostly about the military. It was only a few days until we were both being sent out to Desert Storm—it was my first deployment, and I had a few questions.

"At one point, he went over to the payphone to call and say goodnight to his sister. Told me how much he loved that kid. Then the guy he was waiting for showed up and they headed out not long after. I doubted I'd see him again—there were a lot of Marines sent out to Desert Storm that week—but surprise, surprise, it turned out he was my staff sergeant."

The bitterness on his face spoke of experiences he had yet to relate, and I tried to imagine what Pierce could possibly have done to him that the horrors of war hadn't. Pierce himself never talked about his days in the Marine Corps, and no one had ever been brave enough to ask him, not even me.

"I wasn't the only one serving under Pierce. My entire life, I'd lived next door to the same family. They had a son my age. His name was James, James Buckley. Sound familiar?"

"No,” I whispered, and Aldridge's face twisted with rage, his hands balling into fists as he surged to his feet so abruptly his chair overbalanced. My stomach lurching, I flinched back from him, but he only began to pace back and forth, his fury evident in his tone.

"That name should be written on his conscience forever! We grew up together—we did
everything
together. Took the same classes, played on the same teams, got wasted together, got tattoos together... When my parents died in a car crash, his parents took me in. We were like brothers. We were family. And your precious Pierce murdered him."

I closed my eyes, trying to shut out Aldridge's anger and pain as I struggled to deal with it all. I had to defuse the situation, but how?

The only thing I could think of was to keep him talking, to buy myself as much time as possible. I knew there was no way Pierce could be guilty of murdering an innocent man—I believed it with every fibre of my soul.

Even so, I forced myself to ask, “What happened?"

At first I thought my voice was too weak for him to hear me, but after a few seconds Aldridge picked up the chair and sat back down, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on my face. “Your
Pierce
"—he spat the name venomously—"ordered a tactical retreat. Fall back, regroup, and go at them better prepared. I made it back okay, but James and one of the others, Murphy, got hit. Not life-threatening injuries, but enough that they fell behind. Pierce went back out to retrieve them and managed to get Murphy to safety—a bullet had hit him in the knee and shattered it.

"The next thing I knew, James was screaming for help—he'd been shot in the thigh and was trying to make it back, but his foot got caught in a root or something, and he couldn't get free. I tried to go to him, but Pierce pulled rank on me and went out himself. He got halfway there, then turned and fucking
retreated
again, and James got mown down by enemy fire."