The Dead Room

‘Call and find out,’ Darby said.

‘No.’

‘Hands on your head, Commissioner. You’re under arrest.’

Chadzynski gripped the bottom lapels of her suit jacket and gave them a sharp tug, straightening out the fabric.

‘This list you have from RES, it won’t hold up in court. You know I’m right.’

‘We’ll have to wait and see.’

‘There are forces at work, people you’ll never be able to find,’ Chadzynski said. ‘Arrest me and you’ll be signing your own warrant.’

‘You’re probably right about that. That’s why I recorded our conversation.’ Darby picked up her phone. ‘Who killed my father?’

‘Let me use the phone and I’ll tell you.’

‘No.’

‘I know where all the missing pieces are buried. You need me.’

Chadzynski grinned, probably thinking about her Rolodex full of people who could pull the necessary levers, make this moment disappear as if it were nothing more than a bad dream. She already owned the Anti-Corruption Unit.

She had Warner or one of her other henchmen plant evidence and remove my father’s murder book and evidence files from the storage unit – she’s spent years doctoring evidence or making it disappear to suit her needs. She killed my father and she –

Darby squeezed the trigger.

The shot blew out the back of the police commissioner’s head.

Darby ran back to the main bay to Pine. She checked his pulse, and was unsurprised to find him dead. He had bled out.

She wiped down the Glock with her shirt-tail and dropped it on the floor.

Standing back behind the desk with her laptop, Darby used her shirt to pick up the shotgun. She dropped it next to Chadzynski, thinking about Sean Sheppard lying in a coma, brain dead, like her father.

63

Darby got down on her knees, warm blooding spilling out across the floor and touching her skin. She searched Chadzynski’s pockets. No flash drive but she found car keys.

She switched to the shotgun she was carrying and opened the door. The police commissioner’s sleek black Mercedes sat a few feet away.

There were no other vehicles in the car park.

She turned on the gun’s tactical light and ran through the rain to the front of the building. The door and windows were boarded. She looked for a number – there, a sign above the door. She shielded her eyes from the rain and read the faded letters: DELANEY’S AUTOMOTIVE GARAGE.

Sitting behind the wheel, the shotgun resting on the floor of the passenger seat, she started the car. The Mercedes had a GPS navigation system built into the console. Her location was displayed on the screen. Perfect.

She drove away from the building, then turned around so she could watch it.

The wipers thumping back and forth, she dialled Randy Scott’s mobile number.

‘Randy Scott.’

‘Please tell me you’re still at the lab.’

‘I am.’

Sweet relief flooded her.

‘Darby.’ His voice was hesitant, nervous. ‘I don’t know if –’

‘Don’t talk, just listen. I need Dan Russo’s address.’

‘I don’t have access to the homicide database.’

‘I know, I’ll give you my password. Go in my office –’

‘I can’t. They’ve sealed it off.’

‘Who sealed it off?’

‘The commissioner was here earlier and she… she told us that you tampered with evidence. She has half the Boston police department looking for you and Coop.’

‘It’s bullshit. I’ll prove it to you. I have Chadzynski’s confession recorded on my phone. I’ll send it to you, then I’m going to lead you to her body. You and Mark. I want –’

‘She’s dead.’

‘Listen to me. I need you two here to secure the scene. First, I want you to go to the fingerprint database and give me the address that’s listed with Dan Russo’s name. Will you do that?’

‘Hold on.’

Darby pulled out of the gate. The garage sat at the far end of a dead-end road. She looked at the tenement- type buildings and thought she was in East Boston or Chelsea. She suspected this was a neighbourhood used to gunshots. There was a good amount of distance between the garage and the buildings. With the rain, she doubted anyone had heard anything.

Randy finally came back on the line and gave her a Wellesley address. She plugged it into the GPS.

‘I need you to write down an address,’ she said.

‘Go ahead.’

Darby gave it to him. ‘I want you to come here with Mark and photograph and document every piece of evidence. Go in through the side door and you’ll find a laptop computer on a desk; there are audio files on it. You’re to confiscate that immediately. Under no circumstances are you to let anyone touch it. Put it into evidence and don’t let it out of your sight. After you’re done, call the police. Tell them everything I told you.’

‘Got it.’

‘Can your phone accept audio files?’

‘As far as I know it can.’

‘I’ll send you the audio file of my conversation with the commissioner.’

She hung up and called directory inquiries. There was only one listing for Russo. It matched the address Randy had given her.

Darby drove, dividing her attention between the road and the phone. She sent a copy of her recorded conversation to Randy and Mark. She also sent a copy to Coop.

64

Jamie could no longer see clearly. Kevin Reynolds had wasted no time in hitting her after she’d refused to answer his questions about the whereabouts of his partner, Ben Masters. Reynolds had hit her face so many times her eyes had almost completely swollen shut. When she still refused to answer, he kicked her in the chest so hard her chair had toppled against the floor, where she screamed the word ‘stay’ the entire time.

Thank God for Michael. Michael had kept his cool. Michael was still hiding, protecting his brother instead of trying to be a hero.

Reynolds had kicked again and again – in the stomach, in the shins; he had slammed his foot down against her hand and broken several of her fingers. Finally her mind snapped from the excruciating pain and she admitted to killing Ben Masters. It shamed her, admitting this. Reynolds wanted details. Wanted to know how she had killed him and where she had buried him. She came close to saying it. She was delirious with pain and could no longer think