The Secret Friend

59

Tim Bryson lay on the dented roof of a surveillance van, a pool of blood under him. Drip marks were frozen along the van's sides and back doors, blood smeared against the shattered front windshield where his crooked legs were splayed, one of them dangling near the dashboard. He stared up at the sky, his head tilted against his shoulder, as if puzzled. His neck was broken.

Two men from ID were photographing the body. She couldn't examine Bryson until ID had finished.

Darby looked up the brick building full of dark windows. Offices, she thought. The building was at least ten storeys high. Why did Fletcher bring you up to the roof, Tim? If he wanted to kill you, why didn't he do it downstairs?

She found Cliff Watts sitting in the back of an ambulance holding an oxygen mask to his mouth while an EMT stitched an ugly gash on his forehead. The front of his jacket and shirt was stained with blood and vomit.

He saw Darby, pulled away the mask and gave her a detailed report of the basement attack.

'He left an aerosol grenade inside the shower,' Watts said. 'Firemen said it contained some chemical that induces vomiting. I was staring at it when the next thing I knew I was hit. I thought I was gunshot – it sure as hell felt that way. I fell and cracked my head on the shower knob.' He inhaled on the oxygen mask for a moment as he reached inside his jacket pocket. 'He hit us with this.'

Watts came back with a blue ball the size of marble. 'It's a kinetic weapon,' he said. 'It looked like a shotgun. I don't know how he got it past security. You'll find shotgun-sized shells along with these rubber balls all over the floor.'

Darby rubbed the ball between her fingers. It felt hard.

Kinetic weapons were non-lethal devices used by police forces in riot situations. Boston police had used them up until a few years ago when working crowd control after a Red Sox game. A beanbag weapon was discharged and hit a college student in the head. The student died, and the parents sued the city and won a large settlement.

The weapon Watts had described contained more firing power than the traditional beanbag weapon. The shotgun round was designed to hit the target with maximum force. Unlike a bullet, this round exploded upon impact.

'I couldn't stop throwing up,' Watts said. 'Fletcher hogtied me and then dragged Tim into the next room and locked me inside the bathroom. The firemen had to chop down the door.'

Why hadn't Fletcher killed Watts? Darby tucked the question away and said, 'Did he say anything to you, Cliff?'

'Not a word.'

'Did he speak to Bryson? Did you overhear anything?'

Watts shook his head as he brought the oxygen mask up to his face.

'What was the security like?' Darby asked.

'They had two guys waving one of those magic wands over you to see if you're packing a knife or gun. They said Fletcher flashed his badge and they let him through. I didn't see any security cameras, but I wasn't really paying attention.'

'Who's in charge of the scene?'

'Neil Joseph.'

Good. Darby knew the man. Neil was solid.

'Fletcher went downstairs with a woman, a redhead,' Watts said. 'We thought he was going down there to get his rocks off. It's one of those private sex clubs with a bathhouse and lots of rooms full of kinky toys that would make a good Catholic girl like you blush.'

A tired grin as he put the mask over his face again. He inhaled for several seconds. 'You can't get down there unless you have a gas mask,' he said. 'In addition to a smoke grenade, Fletcher threw another one of those aerosol containers. The place is sealed tight, so that chemical shit is still lingering in the air. It has a longer shelf life because of the steam from the bathhouse.'

Darby left to find Neil Joseph. A patrolman pointed her to a brick-faced club called Instant Karma.

All the lights inside the club were on, the dance floor crowded with witnesses being interviewed by patrolmen and detectives. Empty steel cages hung from the ceilings, the tables and counters were stacked with glasses and beer bottles, many of them still full of booze. Darby spotted Neil Joseph behind the bar, in a roped-off area with plush chairs and couches. He was talking to a group of young men built like linebackers, all of them dressed in black and wearing matching shirts with the word security silk-screened on the back.

Neil saw her, flipped his notebook shut and limped his way toward her. What was left of his black hair was damp against his scalp. With the exception of his limp from his bad knee, he still looked the same as when she had met him during her first days at the lab – an old-school cop with a no-bullshit attitude hidden behind layers of caustic sarcasm nurtured from his years on the job and growing up one of twelve boys in a strict Irish Catholic family.

'Have you found the woman who accompanied our suspect downstairs?' Darby asked.

'Not yet. When the fire alarm went off, they all went running. Do you know a woman named Tina Sanders?'

Darby nodded. 'Her daughter disappeared over two decades ago. We thought it might be connected to a current case.' She thought about the skeletal remains dressed in the Sinclair lab coat. The remains were definitely female. 'I think we might have found her.'

'When did you tell her?'

'I haven't.'

'So Tina Sanders doesn't know you found her daughter?'

'We haven't identified the remains yet. Why are you asking?'

'She's here. A taxi dropped her off near the commotion and the woman tried pushing her way through the crowd with her goddamn walker, screaming about her daughter's murder and Bryson's swan dive from the roof.'

'How does she know that? Did someone tell her?'

'I don't know anything else,' Neil said. 'The woman refuses to talk to anyone but you.'