someone else and missed.
What Slocum did know was who’d gone into that house. He’d watched Rona Wedmore get out of her car, cross the street, and bang on the door. From his position, he thought he’d heard some commotion in the house, but wasn’t sure. He’d seen Wedmore get out her phone and make the briefest of calls before unholstering her weapon and entering the premises.
Not good.
If Wedmore had shot Sommer, the smartest thing he could do was disappear. And not in Sommer’s car. Best to toss the keys back in, leave the Chrysler on the street, let everyone believe Sommer came to the Morton house alone. If Slocum left in the car, and police couldn’t find one outside the house, they’d know Sommer had an accomplice.
Darren didn’t want anyone looking for an accomplice.
Of course, it was also possible Belinda or George had been shot in whatever mayhem had taken place inside that house. And the absolute worst-case scenario, Slocum concluded, would be if Milford police detective Rona Wedmore had been shot.
By Sommer.
Which would mean Slocum was waiting out here for a cop killer.
Again, not good.
Slocum thought, Let it be Sommer. It’d be for the best, really. If Sommer was dead, he wouldn’t be doing much talking. He wouldn’t be able to tell about his involvement with Darren and his wife. Sommer was, even to Darren, who’d dealt with some pretty scummy people in his time as a cop, scarier than hell. Darren knew he’d sleep better at night knowing the guy was dead.
He stood there by the car, thinking all these things, debating with himself. Stay with the car? Go up to the house? Just take off? He could make it from Cloverdale Avenue to his place on Harborside Drive in ten minutes on foot.
And then? What if his fellow cops put it all together? When they showed up at his door, would they slap the cuffs on him, even if Sommer was dead and hadn’t said a word?
When he got home, should he pack up Emily and make a run for it? And how far could he expect to get, realistically? He wasn’t prepared for anything like this. He didn’t have another identity set up. The only credit cards he had were in his own name. How long would it take the authorities to track him down? A man on the run with a little girl in tow?
A day? If that?
He couldn’t decide what to do. He needed to know what had happened in that house before-
Someone came out the front door.
It was Sommer. Holding a gun.
The man ran down the walk toward the car. Slocum started running toward him. “What the hell happened in there?” he shouted.
“Get in the car,” Sommer said, not quite shouting, but firm. “I got the money.”
Slocum stood his ground. “What was that shot? What happened?”
Sommer was nose to nose with him now. “Get in the damn car.”
“I saw Rona Wedmore go in there. A cop! And you coming out, alone. What went down in there?” Slocum grabbed hold of the lapels of Sommer’s jacket. “Goddamn it, what did you do?”
“I shot her. Get in the car.”
In the distance, the sound of approaching sirens.
Slocum gently released his grip on Sommer’s jacket, let his arms settle by his sides. He stood there, shook his head a couple of times, as though some kind of peace had come over him.
“Now,” Sommer said.
But Slocum didn’t move. “It’s over. All of this. It’s over.” He looked to the house. “Is she dead?”
“Who cares?”
Slocum surprised himself when he said, “I do. She’s a fellow cop. A lot more cop than I am. There’s an officer down, and I have to help.”
Sommer pointed his gun at Slocum. “No,” he said, “you’re not.” And pulled the trigger.
Slocum clutched his left side, just above his belt, and looked down. Blood appeared between his fingers. He dropped to his knees first, then fell onto his side, still holding himself.
Sommer went over to the car, closed the passenger door, then went around and got in behind the wheel. He went to turn on the engine.
“What the-”
The keys he’d left in the ignition were no longer there. He opened the door to activate the overhead light to see if they had fallen down onto the floor mats.
More sirens.
“Goddamn!” he said. He got back out of the car and strode over to Slocum, who was still clutching his stomach, as if he could somehow hold himself together.
“The keys. Give me the keys.”
“Fuck you,” Slocum said.
Sommer knelt down, started feeling around in Slocum’s pockets. His hands became smeared with blood. “Where are they, damn it? Where are they?”
He happened to glance up at that point, at the Morton house.
Staggering out the front door, one hand holding a gun, the other pressed up against her shoulder, was Rona Wedmore. She glanced back into the house and shouted, “Stay in there!”
Sommer was thinking things couldn’t get any worse.
Then a pickup truck turned the corner and started driving up the street.
FIFTY-THREE
I’d already made up my mind, even before I’d left home, that I’d drop in on Belinda after I’d been to see Sally.
I felt bad as I stepped out her door. It looked as though I was going to lose her as an employee, and a friend. But I’d had to ask her what Theo could have meant when he wrote that he was sorry about Sheila.
It was not some token note of condolence. There was more to it.
I pondered at the connections as I walked back to my truck. It stood to reason that Theo might have gotten his electrical supplies through Darren and Ann Slocum-assuming Doug wasn’t the one who’d procured them. And Darren and Ann’s troubles were very much intertwined with Sheila’s and mine.
But how it all stitched together, I couldn’t begin to guess.
I figured I would go see Belinda, and then I’d pay a visit to Slocum. I didn’t know, exactly, the questions I was going to ask, or the approach I was going to take, with either of them. Particularly Slocum. The last time I’d seen him had been at the funeral home when I’d slugged him.
As I turned onto Cloverdale Avenue and approached the Morton house, I could tell right away something was not right.
A black woman had just come out the front door. Stumbled almost. She had her left hand pressed to her right shoulder and in her other hand was a gun.
I recognized her as Milford police detective Rona Wedmore. That was probably her car parked just ahead, on my side of the street.
About three houses beyond the Morton place, I saw a black Chrysler 300 at the curb, facing my way. It was the same kind of car Sommer had been driving when he came to the house yesterday morning, looking for the money. The driver’s door was open, but I couldn’t see anyone at the wheel.
Then I spotted a man kneeling on the grass, between the edge of the street and the sidewalk, only a short distance ahead of the Chrysler. As I nosed the truck into the curb, my lights splashed across him, and I could see he was crouched over something. It was another person, on the ground, apparently injured.
