The Depth of Darkness (Mitch Tanner #1) (14 page)

“Ouch,” Beans said.

She’d stepped on his fingers. “Sorry,
Beans.”

“Where are we?” he asked.

She didn’t know and she said as much. She
also realized that if she angled her eyes to the right or left
instead of straight ahead, she could sort of make out some of the
features of the place. Directly ahead was a door. Tiny slivers of
light crept in from the edges. Not enough that she could see
anything, though. When she looked directly at it, the light
disappeared. She wondered why this happened.

Beans’s wheezing had grown worse since they
left the truck. Was he allergic to something in the room? She
worried he might not make it much longer. Why hadn’t those men
given him his inhaler?

“Just relax,” she said. “Breathe in and out,
slow and deep.” The words had come from her mother a few years ago
after Debby learned of the death of her grandmother. The old woman
was the only family member she got along with. All the others could
have gone away and she’d have been perfectly happy to be with
Grandma. Like most things in Debby’s life, that wasn’t to be.

“I can’t breathe deep,” Beans said. “That’s
the problem. And I can’t find my inhaler.”

“Do you have your bag with you? Maybe it’s in
there.”

“They took it.” He paused and took a rattled
breath. “I’m scared, Debby.”

“I know, Bernie.” She shuffled forward until
she stood over him. Then she lowered herself and cradled him in her
arms. They rocked back and forth together. She hummed a tune to
him, one her mother always sang to her. The combination seemed to
relax Beans and his wheezing subsided.

For the moment.

She figured that sooner or later he would
need his inhaler.

Dinapoli stood in front of the van’s opened
sliding side door. The techs crouched inside, a few feet in front
of her. She leaned forward, looked to the left, then the right.

“What is it?” she asked.

I’d arrived about that time. Sandusky
furrowed his brow at her then glanced at me. He extended his arm
over the woman’s shoulder and held out something plastic.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Asthma inhaler. Last name on the
prescription label says Holland.”

“That’s the boy,” I said.

“It’s a pretty strong dose from what I
understand,” he said.

The affliction was not one I’d ever had to
deal with personally. I had been on calls as a young cop where a
kid or some old lady had had a horrible attack. If I recalled
correctly, one had even died from it. “That doesn’t provide much of
a positive outlook for this kid. One more reason for us to work
every angle we can. Hopefully that boy has a backup inhaler.”

“How does the weather affect asthma?” Sam
asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I know that this
humidity makes it hard for me to breathe. Can’t imagine what it’s
like for that kid.”

“Let’s go,” Dinapoli said, turning toward the
back of the van. “Nothing left for us here.”

Sam and I watched as she headed back the way
we entered. Neither of us had taken kindly to the idea that we had
to take orders from her. This was our case, not the FBI’s. I didn’t
care what Huff said. The guy was nothing but a kiss-up. I was
certain he thought cooperating with the Feds would get him another
nice shiny promotion. Enough cases like this one and he’d be
running Philly P.D. within a couple years.

Dinapoli looked over her shoulder and
stopped. She stared right at me. There was as much hurt as there
was anger in her eyes. Despite the fact that I hated her position,
I figured she personally didn’t deserve this kind of grief.

“Come on,” I said to Sam. “Let’s get going.”
I looked back at Sandusky. “You find anything else, you call me. I
want to know when you get confirmation on those tire tracks. I want
to know what kind of vehicle.” I already knew, of course. Ford
F-250 Super Cab. The confirmation would cement it.

Dinapoli waited by the rear passenger door of
the Chevy. I didn’t argue with her requested seating position. I
slipped into the seat in front of her and let Sam drive again. He
always seemed to enjoy it. We left the lights and the siren off,
allowing for a little reflection time.

I was lost in thought when I heard Dinapoli
say, “My name’s Bridget.”

I looked back at her. She gave me a smile and
raised her eyebrows a bit. She had invited me in, for whatever
reason. I wanted to trust her, but couldn’t entirely get past the
fact that she was a fire breathing FBI agent.

“I’m Mitch, and my partner here is—”

“Sam,” she interrupted. “I got that.”

I said nothing. Sam whistled along with the
radio. An Otis Redding cover by some lady named Sarah. Pretty
voice. She did the song justice.

“I’m sorry for coming off like such a bitch
back there.” She paused. If she was waiting for one of us to tell
her she’s crazy, it wasn’t happening. “It’s just that we get so
much push back from local authorities. It’s… I don’t care about the
recognition, Mitch. The kids are the only thing that matters. We
have protocols and ways of doing things because they work. You see
that, right?”

“I do, Bridget,” I said to her. “But we do
have people that care about recognition. One person in particular
that I can think of.”

“You?” Sam said with a chuckle.

“Shut up,” I said. “Not me. Huff. And he’d be
happy to sell us out if it meant him getting his name in the paper
and his arm around the Mayor. Anything to propel him up the food
chain. Know what I mean?”

Sam shook his head and shot me a look. He
thought I’d turned into a conspiracy nut over the last few
years.

Bridget Dinapoli nodded, though. I figured
she dealt with ten times as much bureaucracy than Sam and I did on
a daily basis.

“I’ll support you, Bridget,” I said. “But
only on the condition that you work with us like partners. No more
hollow talk about teams. I don’t want you withholding anything from
me, and I promise the same from us.”

“I can do that,” she said.

I shifted forward in my seat and repositioned
the vent so that the air conditioning hit me in the face. The cool
air dried the remaining sweat on my forehead.

“Okay,” she said. “You can start with telling
me the link with this Farrugio person.”

I stared past the windshield. We rolled to a
stop at a traffic light. A man pushing a shopping cart full of cans
passed in front of us while businessmen in two-thousand dollar
suits strolled past along the sidewalk.

“Farrugio is the registered owner of the van.
She kept it for her son. Her son is in prison. Ben McCree, the
school’s vice principal and the guy at that house we took into
custody, has a brother named Brad. We think Brad might be involved
in the kidnapping and shooting, as well as helping our murder
suspect escape from the hospital.” I looked back at her and waited
for her to confirm she was up to speed. She nodded for me to
continue. “We recently learned that Brad’s an ex-con.”

“Same prison?”

“We’re waiting on confirmation of that. But
if so, well, I still haven’t made sense of all this yet. I’m sure
it’ll fit somewhere.”

She nodded. “It usually does.” She leaned
forward and pointed at Gus’s Italian. “Guys want to split a pie?
I’m starving.”

We had too much to do and not enough time to
do it. At the same time, my stomach felt empty and my head light.
At a certain point, it became useless to push forward. Sam could do
without. Ranger training made him that way. For me, a Bear Claw at
the station would do. But I agreed to stop. I had a phone call to
make.

A couple minutes later Sam grabbed a table on
the patio while we waited for our pizza to bake. We planned on
taking it with us instead of eating at the restaurant. A warm
breeze blew by, carrying with it the smell of melted cheese and
fresh baked dough. I walked over to the corner of the patio and
pulled out my cell phone. I had to call my mother. She’d picked up
Ella from school and brought her back to her house. I figured that
was the safest option in the event that the guys behind the
kidnapping and murder had seen my picture on TV, or if Ben McCree
really was a part of all this and his involvement not a
coincidence, and somehow they knew we busted him. In any event, Roy
Miller a.k.a. Michael Lipsky knew me, and I had serious questions
in regards to what the guy was capable of.

Plus, there was the lingering question, how
far did this reach?

“How’s Ella doing?” I asked my mother after
she answered.

“She’s fine. A little scared. Wants to know
when you’ll be home.”

“Can’t say for sure, Momma. This case is a
mess, and now we’ve got the FBI involved.”

“They brought in the big guns, eh? What, they
don’t think you and Sam can handle this?”

“Technically, we aren’t supposed to be
working the kidnapping side of this, but those were Lana’s
students.”

“Oh, God. How is she taking this?”

“Not well, I’d imagine. She’s in the
hospital.”

“She wasn’t shot was she?”

“No, Momma. She broke her leg, though. I’m
gonna stop by and check on her before I come home.”

“Okay. You want me and Ella to go over and
see her?”

“No,” I said, looking back at the table to
see if lunch had arrived. It hadn’t. “I want you to stay at your
place. Got it? Don’t go out, not to the hospital, and especially
not to my house.”

“Mitch, you’re scaring me.”

“You don’t sound scared.”

“Keeping an even voice for Ms. Ella. No point
getting her worked up.”

“You’re right.” I waited a beat, then added,
“Just hang tight, and I’ll be there before you know it. Any
problems, you call me or nine-one-one.”

She said goodbye and hung up, and I climbed
back over the wrought iron fence and took a seat at the table. Sam
slid an iced mug across to me.

“Everything all right?” Sam asked.

I nodded and grabbed the mug. “What kind?” I
took a sip and then pulled the mug away from my mouth. “Never mind,
I don’t want to know. Might ruin it for me by telling me the
name.”

Bridget walked onto the patio carrying a
cardboard box. “Drinking on the job?”

“Just a little refreshment.”

She shook her head. “Finish up and let’s
go.”

Right before we got inside the car, Sam’s
phone rang. He answered and nodded and said yeah a couple times.
Then he hung up and looked at me.

“What?” I said.

“That was Huff,” he said. “Said we need to
drop whatever we’re doing and get to the station at once.”

“Any reason why?”

“No. He sounded serious, though.”

The ride back to the precinct took less than
five minutes. The lights and siren helped. Sam pulled the car
around back and pulled into a spot near the rear entrance. We
walked to the building at a pace close to a jog. I grabbed the door
and waited for Sam to go in. Bridget stopped short.

“It’s okay that I come in?” she asked. The
wind whipped loose strands of hair across her face. She reached up
and tucked them behind her right ear.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” I extended my free hand
and gestured for her to go in.

She nodded, smiled and stepped inside. I
followed close behind while Sam led the way to Homicide. The halls
were buzzing with activity. Pretty normal for the station. We
entered Homicide through the door closest to Huff’s glass walled
office. The sight within those walls gave reason for concern.

“What’s he doing here?” Sam asked.

“Who is it?” Bridget asked, craning her neck
to get a better look.

“That’s Chief Warren,” I said.

“Mitch and Warren don’t get along too well,”
Sam said. “No good can come from him being here.”

I took a few steps back and took a seat on
top of my desk, allowing me to keep an eye on Huff’s office. Along
with Warren, Huff was meeting with the Lieutenant in charge of
Major Crimes. Townsend was his name. I had a sinking feeling that
we were about to get the proverbial rug pulled out from under our
feet.

“Let’s go talk to McCree,” I said.

“You sure?” Sam asked. “Huff sounded
serious.”

“When did you become the type to follow
orders so easily?”

Sam shrugged and waved me off. He looked like
a debutante swatting away a fly.

“He’s busy. If he thinks he can keep us
waiting, he can wait, too.”

We left through the exit at the other end of
the room. It was a short walk to interrogation. The long hallway
had doors on one side and a solid cinder block wall on the other.
We entered from the high end. Half of the twelve rooms were
occupied. A mixture of faces stared blankly at the mirrored glass
or at the cop in the room with them. I knew one thing for sure.
They all proclaimed their innocence.

I spotted Laura Weaver, the student teacher,
in room four. Room three was empty. Ben McCree waited inside room
two. Fairchild leaned back against the glass partition, arms folded
across his chest.

“What the hell is he doing in there?” I said.
“We should’ve had first crack at this guy.”

“Want to question the girl?” Sam asked.

“No,” I said. “I want to talk to McCree, but
that jerk snaked him from us.”

Sam maneuvered in front of me. His wide frame
blocked my view of the room. “Listen, Mitch. No matter what you
think of those guys, we’re all on the same team. You go making
waves and you’re going to get traded. Busted down. Is that what you
want?”

I knew his words made sense, but I didn’t
care. “What I want is to interview our suspect, Sam. Are you with
me or not?”

Sam took a deep breath, reached out and
placed a hand on my shoulder. “Mitch—”

“Let’s kick him out.” It came from
Bridget.

I looked back at her with my left eyebrow
arched. Perhaps I could get away with removing Fairchild from the
room if Bridget took responsibility for it. After all, she was in
charge now. This was the FBI’s case, not ours. I started forward.
Sam slid over to block my path. Then he muttered something under
his breath and stepped aside. He pulled out his phone and glanced
at the screen.