He was the first cop killed in the line of duty in the department’s history. She could be the second. Strangers would leave flowers at her grave.
Stop it.
The living room and dining area seemed immense after the foyer’s claustrophobic narrowness. She blinked at light and space.
Charles Kent leaned on the mantel, his tan drained by shock. Blood speckled his navy blazer. He’d been standing close enough to be peppered by Wald’s arterial spray.
Trish glanced down at her shirt, and her stomach flipped as she saw dark blemishes on the blue fabric, wet and irregular like spattered pasta sauce.
The three people at the table were still seated in their frozen poses, now overtly guarded by a fourth gunman. They hadn’t heard the silenced shot, hadn’t seen Wald go down, and only when Trish was hauled in, blood soaking the front of her uniform, did they fully understand what had happened.
Judy Danforth started murmuring quietly, one hand on a silver bauble dangling from her neck. The bauble might have been a crucifix, and the murmurs might have been prayers. Philip’s mouth worked but produced no sound.
From a rear hallway a fifth killer appeared, training a gun on a high school girl, her eyes red from crying.
Ally, of course. Barbara Kent made a small, shuddering noise of relief when she saw her daughter alive.
The girl was pushed roughly into her chair. Her escort, Trish noted, was shorter and slighter than the others. A woman Yes.
Had Wald been here, he might have made some crack about an underdeveloped maternal instinct, flashing his wry grin.
Forget Wald. Wald was gone. She was on her own. She had to handle things.
What was she trained to do
Observe. Remember. So later she could make a report.
If there was a later. If this wasn’t the end.
She memorized details of the killers’ attire and equipment. The guns looked like Glocks. A 9mm Glock was a combat handgun, as efficient and deadly as any firearm available.
“Bring her here.”
The man from the den.
He sat on the arm of a sofa as the two killers hustled Trish across the room, each gripping one elbow, steering her with painful twists of her arms.
She stopped a yard from him. He studied her with a cold appraising gaze, his eyes gray and shrewd and empty of compassion, and she stared back, trying not to flinch, wishing she could shut out the beating furor in her head.
“You’re a kid,” he said finally, the words punctuated by a derisive snort.
She lifted her chin. “I’m a patrol officer.”
The thug to her left giggled.
“A patrol officer,” the man echoed with patronizing politeness. “Well, of course you are. Been on the street long. Officer Robinson”
“Little while.” Her lips were very dry. She found it difficult to form words.
“Couple years”
“About.”
“Couple weeks is more like it. I can smell a rookie. A boot, they call ‘em. You a boot, Officer Robinson”
She knew her silence said yes.
“How old are you Wait, let me guess. Seventeen”
Anger throbbed in her, side by side with fear. She said nothing.
The female killer moved closer to the sofa, watching her with feral fascination, a predatory animal absorbed in scrutiny of its next kill.
“Are you seventeen, Officer Robinson” the man pressed. “Or haven’t you made it that far”
Baited, she answered. “I’m twenty-four.”
“That old” Feigned surprise. “You don’t look it. I’ll bet you still get carded. What’s your first name”
She wouldn’t speak again.
A flip of his wrist, and instantly the thugs who flanked her were emptying her pockets.
She stood motionless as they turned out the linings. Past the sofa she could see the people in the dining area, watching ashen-faced. Waiting for her to die as Wald had died, not wanting to see it when it happened, yet unable to turn away.
Every feature of her surroundings stood out with sharp clarity. Oversized book on a glass end table. Small discoloration in the sofa’s upholstery. Lost penny glinting on the carpet near a wicker wastebasket.
Her mother always said that any day you found a penny was your lucky day. Was this her lucky day She didn’t think so.
Her I.D. holder was tossed to the man in charge. He passed it unopened to the woman, who examined the police identification card inside.
“Patricia A. Robinson,” she reported, speaking the name slowly, savoring it as a spider savors the leisurely ingestion of a fly. A lisp slurred the sibilant sounds.
The gray eyes narrowed. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Patricia A. Robinson. What does the A stand for Amateur”
Laughter from the thugs flanking her.
“Annette,” Trish whispered.
“Annette Very nice. Very wholesome. Wasn’t there a Mouseketeer by that name”
She swallowed slowly.
“Were you a Mouseketeer, Officer Robinson”
“No.”
“Or a Girl Scout That seems more your style. I’ll bet you were a Girl Scout. Sold a lot of cookies. Am I right”
The hell of it was that she had indeed been a Girl Scout. But she would never admit it to this man.
“Way off base,” she breathed.
“I don’t think so. You’re the all-American girl, Officer Robinson. What do your friends call you, anyway Pat Patty Patsy, maybe You look like a Patsy to me.”
New giggles from her left. The thug on her right clucked his tongue behind his mask.
“Trish,” she said without expression.
“Trish. Even better. Well, that’s what I’ll call you, because I’m your friend, too. We’re all your friends. You know that, don’t you, Trish”
She used the only threat she could think of. “This was a priority call. Other units are in the vicinity. They’ll be here-“
“Unless you get on your radio”-the man interrupted so smoothly as to suggest an unbroken line of thought-“and say everything’s okay.”
So that was why he hadn’t let them shoot her.
“Of course,” he continued in the same conversational tone, “it’s always possible you’d be tempted to try something stupid. Like trying to warn the dispatcher.”
Raising his pistol, he thumbed a pressure switch at the rear of the handle. A diode on the trigger guard beamed a thread of red-orange light along the target acquisition line.
Laser sighting system.
She could almost feel the pinpoint of low intensity light on her forehead. The bullet would enter just above the bridge of her nose.
He nodded as if reading her mind. “You got it, Trish. Do anything dumb, and I’ll put a jacketed hollowpoint right between those pretty blue eyes.”
She felt herself shaking. Couldn’t help it.
“Now, I don’t think you’re foolish enough to throw away your young life. But I could be wrong. Maybe I’m dealing with some kind of hero.” The gray eyes glittered with dark mirth. “So here’s my hole card.”
