Oh, God. Timothy had seen the two Blade members dead in Owen’s freezer. „Did Owen know you saw the dead people in the freezer?“
„No. I ran, so fast. Ran to the bus.“
„It’s okay, Timothy. It’s okay. He won’t hurt you. Can you tell me where he lives?“
Abe dialed Mia as soon as he hit the hospital lobby.
„Where have you been?“ Mia demanded.
„Talking to Timothy.“ Abe took off at a run for the parking lot. „Mia, Kristen’s friend Owen is Leah Broderick’s father.“
There was a beat of silence. „I know, Abe. Owen is Robert Barnett.“
The connection, finally. But Mia was too quiet, too contained. His heart began to race even faster and it had nothing to do with his sprint. „Mia, what’s happened?“
„Abe, Kristen’s gone. Someone took her from her house.“
He’d reached his SUV and stood frozen, his hand clutching air. „Oh, God.“ Conti.
„She knew it was Owen, Abe. Whoever took her knew it, too, along with Owen’s address. Marc and I are on our way to Owen’s house now.“
Abe made himself take a breath, then another. Made his hands open the SUV door. Conti could have her anywhere, but it would be poetic justice to take her to the place his son had died for his revenge. „I’m closer. I’ll meet you there.“
Saturday, February 28,
3:30 p.m.
Kristen looked around. The warehouse was filled with huge stacks of crates, forty, fifty feet high. Some of the boxes were stacked on themselves, others on silver racks that stretched to the ceiling. The brand names on the boxes were familiar due to the hours of investigating Conti’s business when she was prosecuting Angelo for the murder of Paula Garcia. This was Jacob Conti’s turf. And she was a sitting duck.
They’d driven the cruiser only a few miles before pulling out of sight where Conti’s limo waited. Edwards had left her with the mocking stranger, getting into the limo. A few minutes later, a young woman got out, wearing a satisfied expression. A minute after that Kristen was forced into the limo where Jacob Conti regarded her with a reptilian stare. She hadn’t looked away, which seemed to amuse him.
But now she was here, amid the boxes. It was no use pulling at the ties that bound her wrists and ankles. Drake Edwards had done a thorough job. It was no use trying to scream. The gag kept her silent. Something was going to happen soon. It was clear from the way Edwards chuckled as he left her here.
„Richardson!“ The shout came from a familiar voice.
Owen. I was bait, she thought. They’ve lured him here.
„Richardson, I’m tired of your games. Come out and let’s get this over with.“
She was torn. Owen Madden was a killer.
He was my friend. But he’s killed thirteen people. Assuming the final three were dead – Hillman, Simpson, and Terrill. There was no reason to believe otherwise.
Still, she didn’t want him to fall into Conti’s hands.
He appeared between the stacks, a dark figure half a warehouse away. It was clear when he saw her. His gasp echoed in the cavernous quiet, the pounding of his boots like booming cannon fire as he ran to her. He ripped the gag from her mouth.
„Owen, it’s a trap. Run.“
Saturday, February 28,
3:30 p.m.
Abe shot the lock off Owen Madden’s front door. The house was quiet, not a sound. Still, he moved cautiously, his weapon drawn.
He cleared each deserted room, then walked past the kitchen table and stopped. A fishbowl sat in the middle of the table, filled with folded pieces of paper. Thirteen one-by-four-inch strips were lined up next to the fishbowl, each with a typed name, one for every body in the morgue, plus strips for Hillman, Simpson, and Terrill. There was a stack of bullets and a picture of Leah Broderick. Abe recognized her from the pictures Jack and Kristen and Julia had circulated yesterday. A cup of coffee sat next to the pile of bullets. It wasn’t yet cold.
A notepad sat in front of the fishbowl, the page facing him empty. Abe flipped back a few pages and recognized the flowing handwriting from the Kaplan note. The first page in the notebook started out, My dearest Kristen. He felt the rage bubble and shoved it back down. Madden had put Kristen in danger and still had the nerve to use endearments.
He kept moving, finding the door to the basement. He took each step one at a time, his finger alongside his trigger. If Conti was waiting below, he’d be a prime target coming down the stairs like this. But there were no shots, no sounds of any kind as he reached the basement floor. Three male bodies lay lifeless, bound to tables. Each had a bullet hole in the forehead. His eyes took a quick trip around the room, noting the Craftsman vise, the bullet molds, the neatly stacked slabs of marble, the rolls of rubber standing like rolled-up carpets. There was a device of some kind in the corner and he approached, still careful. There was a fine layer of dust around the six-foot-tall box with a Plexiglas front and a pair of built-in gloves so that the user could work behind the Plexiglas. He peered in and saw a finished grave marker that read simply leah broderick.
There was a freezer in one corner, a big chest model. He lifted the lid. It was empty. There was no one here.
Conti had taken Kristen elsewhere. Viciously Abe put aside the rising panic that threatened to choke off his very breath and made his way back up to the first floor. He walked around again, stopping to stare at the photo on top of the television. Genny O’Reilly Barnett, older, more mature. She was Owen’s mother. Then back to the table where he again flipped the pages of the notepad. Three pages were filled, but the fourth stopped midway, midsentence, as if Owen had been interrupted. Frowning, Abe turned the fourth page, noting fringed remnants of a fifth page torn out. He ran his finger over the empty page, his pulse quickening. It was one of the oldest tricks in the book. Please, God, let it work.
Lightly, he fanned a pencil over the empty page and watched another handwritten note appear. He recognized the address. It was on the lake, at the port.
It was a warehouse. Conti’s. His old boss in Narcotics was certain that Conti used the merchandise in the warehouse as a cover, to hide shipments of drags. But not one police search had turned up a single gram of illicit substances and Conti continued to walk around, a free man, cloaked in respectability and wealth. Until now.
„Thank you,“ he murmured and pulled out his phone. „Mia, meet me at Conti’s warehouse at the port.“ He rattled off the address and ran for the door. „Send for backup.“
„Abe, wait for me. Don’t go in alone.“ Her voice was urgent and Abe heard male mumbling in the background and Spinnelli took the phone.
„Abe, don’t you go in that warehouse until backup arrives. That is an order.“
Abe said nothing. Kristen was in there, he was certain of it. He’d do anything he had to do bring her out alive. And untouched. His hands trembled as he jumped behind the wheel of the SUV. God, please let her be untouched.
„Abe,“ Spinnelli spat. „Did you hear me?“
Tires squealed as he raced away from Madden’s house like a bat out of hell. „Yeah. I heard you.“
Saturday, February 28,
3:45 p.m.
Owen looked up from slicing the bonds at her feet. „You knew?“
„Since about an hour ago.“
He straightened. „Who did this?“
„Jacob Conti.“ Kristen stood, rubbing her wrists. „He objected to the murder of his son.“
Owen looked down at her and she wondered if she’d ever seen that cold, determined look in his eyes before. No, but she’d honestly never looked. He was Owen, her friend. He owned a diner. He made fried chicken and cherry pie.