shortly thereafter, crossed the connector bridge onto Route 161.
He returned the phone to his ear. “Yeah—161, to Caribou, I’d guess. Then, who knows?” He followed that by giving her a description of the van, its Quebec registration, and the driver, adding, “Call Customs and get the name this guy used at the border. Probably bogus, but it can’t hurt.” He wrapped up by arranging for a spot just north of Caribou where a substitute tail could replace them behind the van.
“Who was that?” Joseph asked, comfortably situated among the thin traffic flow trailing the van.
“Cathy Lawless,” Delaney told him. He’d always enjoyed that name for a cop. “My Number Two.”
Joseph nodded, having heard of her. “And you really think this guy will lead you to something?”
Delaney absentmindedly clipped his cell phone back onto his belt, his eyes straight ahead. “What I
know,”
he said, “is that whoever whacked Matt Mroz wasn’t screwing around. What I
think
is that we may all be in a knife fight to beat the band, if more like-minded people join in.”
He sighed, paused to rub his cheeks with both hands, and added, “And given the stakes, that’s what I’d be betting.”
CHAPTER 5
Joe Gunther pulled into his driveway off of Green Street and killed the engine. He sat there for a minute, letting the gentle summer breeze carry the scent of newly cut grass into the car’s interior.
He loved this house. He’d only lived here a couple of years, renting, in fact, and recognized that calling it a house at all was a stretch, since it was technically a carriage house attached to the rear of a monstrous Victorian pile. But within that latter aspect lay the charm he so enjoyed—it was small, tucked away, quiet, and faced only a small lawn and some trees, smack in the middle of Brattleboro.
Given the world he was regularly exposed to, it truly qualified as a retreat.
He got out quietly, careful not to slam his door, even though the town around him was already bustling, it being late morning by now. But he’d been up for twenty-eight hours and his brain was still functioning in middle-of-the-night mode.
Not that he could take a break quite yet. He’d only dropped by to shower and change clothes before going to the office to meet with his team and discuss the case.Cop killings with two suspects still on the loose were not given the standard treatment—nor did they permit much sleep.
He crossed the driveway, unlocked his front door, and let himself in, smiling as he read a Post-it note stuck to the hallway mirror at eye level.
“Beware—naked woman in big bed.”
His priorities shifted, ever so slightly.
He slipped his shoes off, noticing for the first time Lyn’s own under the hall table, splashed some water on his face at the kitchen sink around the corner, and—drying off with a hand towel as he went—climbed the narrow, low-ceilinged staircase to the tiny bedroom that had been tucked under the hand-hewn roof rafters above.
The note told no lies. The bed was big—or seemed that way in this setting—and its current occupant was certainly naked. In the gloom provided by an almost completely effective blackout curtain, Joe saw the slim, athletic shape of a woman stretched out diagonally across the mattress, her breasts and stomach exposed by a sheet half tossed aside in midslumber.
This was Lyn Silva, whom he’d met a couple of years ago on a case in Gloucester, Massachusetts, and who’d since moved to Brattleboro, opened up a bar, and become his lover, his sounding board, and his best friend, all in one.
He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and admired her for a few moments. Her long hair was spread across both the pillow and half her face, reminding him of paintings he’d seen in museums. She looked serene andbeautiful and almost unreal, at odds with what Joe knew of her biography, which was typically full of life’s mishaps and surprises.
In those ways, Lyn was
He returned the phone to his ear. “Yeah—161, to Caribou, I’d guess. Then, who knows?” He followed that by giving her a description of the van, its Quebec registration, and the driver, adding, “Call Customs and get the name this guy used at the border. Probably bogus, but it can’t hurt.” He wrapped up by arranging for a spot just north of Caribou where a substitute tail could replace them behind the van.
“Who was that?” Joseph asked, comfortably situated among the thin traffic flow trailing the van.
“Cathy Lawless,” Delaney told him. He’d always enjoyed that name for a cop. “My Number Two.”
Joseph nodded, having heard of her. “And you really think this guy will lead you to something?”
Delaney absentmindedly clipped his cell phone back onto his belt, his eyes straight ahead. “What I
know,”
he said, “is that whoever whacked Matt Mroz wasn’t screwing around. What I
think
is that we may all be in a knife fight to beat the band, if more like-minded people join in.”
He sighed, paused to rub his cheeks with both hands, and added, “And given the stakes, that’s what I’d be betting.”
CHAPTER 5
Joe Gunther pulled into his driveway off of Green Street and killed the engine. He sat there for a minute, letting the gentle summer breeze carry the scent of newly cut grass into the car’s interior.
He loved this house. He’d only lived here a couple of years, renting, in fact, and recognized that calling it a house at all was a stretch, since it was technically a carriage house attached to the rear of a monstrous Victorian pile. But within that latter aspect lay the charm he so enjoyed—it was small, tucked away, quiet, and faced only a small lawn and some trees, smack in the middle of Brattleboro.
Given the world he was regularly exposed to, it truly qualified as a retreat.
He got out quietly, careful not to slam his door, even though the town around him was already bustling, it being late morning by now. But he’d been up for twenty-eight hours and his brain was still functioning in middle-of-the-night mode.
Not that he could take a break quite yet. He’d only dropped by to shower and change clothes before going to the office to meet with his team and discuss the case.Cop killings with two suspects still on the loose were not given the standard treatment—nor did they permit much sleep.
He crossed the driveway, unlocked his front door, and let himself in, smiling as he read a Post-it note stuck to the hallway mirror at eye level.
“Beware—naked woman in big bed.”
His priorities shifted, ever so slightly.
He slipped his shoes off, noticing for the first time Lyn’s own under the hall table, splashed some water on his face at the kitchen sink around the corner, and—drying off with a hand towel as he went—climbed the narrow, low-ceilinged staircase to the tiny bedroom that had been tucked under the hand-hewn roof rafters above.
The note told no lies. The bed was big—or seemed that way in this setting—and its current occupant was certainly naked. In the gloom provided by an almost completely effective blackout curtain, Joe saw the slim, athletic shape of a woman stretched out diagonally across the mattress, her breasts and stomach exposed by a sheet half tossed aside in midslumber.
This was Lyn Silva, whom he’d met a couple of years ago on a case in Gloucester, Massachusetts, and who’d since moved to Brattleboro, opened up a bar, and become his lover, his sounding board, and his best friend, all in one.
He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and admired her for a few moments. Her long hair was spread across both the pillow and half her face, reminding him of paintings he’d seen in museums. She looked serene andbeautiful and almost unreal, at odds with what Joe knew of her biography, which was typically full of life’s mishaps and surprises.
In those ways, Lyn was
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