All The Stars In Heaven (29 page)

Chapter Fifty-Five

Jay parked Kirk and Christa’s Jetta in front of a convenience store with a pay phone—the first they’d been able to find after driving around the city for close to an hour. He looked over at Sarah. “Kirk will shoot us himself if he finds out about this.”

“You
understand why I have to at least talk to Trish,” Sarah said. “She’s the only girlfriend I’ve ever had. She encouraged me to go out with you, helped me get you out of jail, and now
she
needs a friend.”
And she’s hurting because of me.

“She would understand if you didn’t call,” Jay said.

“I have to try,” Sarah insisted. “Because there won’t be any more chances after we’re in protective custody.” She leaned close and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll just be outside for a few minutes, and I look nothing like that awful picture they keep showing on the news, so don’t worry.” She opened the door.

Jay grabbed her hand. “Be careful.”

“I will. I’ll be right over there.” She inclined her head toward the phone a few feet away, then got out of the car and walked to it. Shivering, she stared at the grimy receiver for several seconds before gathering the courage to pick it up and dial the number from the address book on Jay’s cell phone, which they hadn’t dared use.

Trish answered right away. Sarah suddenly found herself at a loss for words.

“How are you?” she asked. “How is Archer? We’ve been so worried.”

“Sarah? Where are you?” Trish asked. “If you’re with Jay, you’ve got to get away from him. You’ve got to go to the police.”

“That’s the
last
place I can go.”

“Please,” Trish insisted. “I’m worried for you.”

“Don’t be. I’m fine. And—”

“You’re with a dangerous addict,” Trish said. “Jay’s not the person we all thought he was. Who knows what he’ll do. Tell me where you are, and I’ll call the police.”

“No,” Sarah said forcefully. “You’re wrong about him. Jay didn’t shoot Archer. He was with me that night. Someone attacked us, and
he
was shot. We’re in the city on our way to meet with a DEA agent who’s going to help us.”

“I know what I saw,” Trish said. “Get out of there. Please,” she begged.

Sarah turned, half facing Jay, who was waiting in the car. She could read the anxiety on what little of his face—most was covered by a scarf and hat—she could see. “And I know Jay,” she said. “You’re wrong, Trish. We’ll prove it. We’ll find out who really hurt Archer.” Trusting her heart once more, Sarah hung up the phone and returned to the car.

* * *

Jay and Sarah looked up as they approached the Hancock Tower, a 790-foot architectural wonder. Behind them, Trinity Church reflected in the mirrored glass. Sarah stared at the image longingly, wishing they were headed that direction instead. What little peace she’d felt had been shattered since her phone call to Trish an hour earlier.

If Trish really believed it was Jay who shot Archer, and she testified in court, there was no way Jay wouldn’t be found guilty, with both evidence—his prints had been matched to those on the discarded weapon—and testimony against him. Sarah hoped Kirk’s friend from the DEA would work on clearing Jay’s name as well as keeping them safe.

They stopped at the front of the building and gained entrance with the access card Kirk had given them this afternoon. He’d slipped away from his aunt’s Christmas party in Worcester last night long enough to meet with his friend and get detailed instructions and the codes to get into the building.

Walking through the spacious and strangely empty lobby, Jay and Sarah headed for the elevators. While waiting, Sarah glanced at the pots overflowing with poinsettias and the lavish Christmas garlands strung everywhere. Feeling a swell of sadness in her throat, she swallowed, trying not to think of her father alone today, the piano in their home silent, the space beneath the tree bare.
Did he get a tree?
Will he be at home next year, or will he be in jail? Could he really be involved in something so awful?

Jay looked at her with concern, but she pasted a brave smile on her face and stepped onto the elevator. A minute later they stepped off on the fourth floor, heading to an office used occasionally by the area’s DEA Mobile Enforcement Teams.

Sarah felt herself becoming numb as they walked down the hall. She knew that what she said to Detective Doyle today might someday lead to her testifying against her father in court. She wasn’t sure she could do that—wasn’t sure she could do
this.

They stopped in front of suite 411, but it was locked, a note taped to the door. Jay opened it and read aloud.

“Change of plans. Please go to the 60th floor. Suite 6017. D. Doyle.”

Jay shrugged. “At least we’ll get to enjoy the view.”

“Sure,” Sarah said, certain there was no part of this she’d enjoy. As magical as Christmas Eve had been, today felt nothing like Christmas. She and Jay had eaten cold cereal in a stranger’s kitchen. They’d watched television and tried to talk about wedding plans, but it was evident that both their minds were on today’s meeting and what would follow.

Sarah grabbed Jay’s arm as they stepped off the elevator a second time. “I feel queasy.” She lifted a hand to her head while the room spun.

Jay put his arm around her. “Make sure you don’t look outside then.” He waited a minute, giving her time to regain her equilibrium before they started toward suite 6017. This time the door was ajar and they walked right in. Jay helped Sarah to a chair then went to stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Wow.” He gave a low whistle. “Who would’ve guessed the DEA had such nice digs? No wonder taxes are so high.”

Still feeling ill, Sarah lifted her head, taking in the rich, wood walls, the plush carpet, and expensive furniture.

“I’ve always wanted to come here,” Jay said. “I think there’s an observation deck on this floor, too. But it’s been closed to the public since September 11th. Too bad it takes having a meeting with a DEA agent to get in.”

“I don’t suppose he’ll give us the tour when we’re finished,” Sarah said. She still couldn’t quite believe he was meeting with them at all. This thing with her dad had to be pretty serious—
pretty bad—
for the agent to want to meet on Christmas day.

Jay left the windows and sat beside her. He took her hand in his, looking down at their intertwined fingers. She followed his gaze to the pearl ring. It shone in the light from the window behind them. Remembering the magic of last night, she couldn’t help but smile. She bent her head close to his.

“I feel so weird about this,” she confessed. “Part of me is deliriously happy, but—”

“The part that has to do with that ring, right?” Jay asked.

She nodded and squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Yes. But how can I feel so happy when, any minute now, I’m probably going to find out my dad has been a drug trafficker for years—and that he used me to do his dirty work?”

“You don’t know anything for sure yet,” Jay reminded her. “There may be a really good explanation.”

“Maybe,” she said, doubtful.

“Be happy,” he whispered as the door at the end of the room opened. “Grab onto it, and don’t let go.” He stood, pulling Sarah up behind him.

“Detective Doyle?” Jay asked the older, bearded man approaching them.

Sarah felt her uneasiness return. What she was going to tell him, and what he might tell her, had the potential to change her life irrevocably.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, pumping Jay’s hand up and down. He turned to Sarah. “Miss Morgan.”

His steel-gray eyes sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.
He’s the good guy,
she reminded herself.
There’s nothing to worry about if I tell the truth.

“Won’t you come into the office?” He held his hand out, indicating the room he’d just come from.

Jay and Sarah preceded him into the simple but well-appointed suite. They sat in the two chairs opposite the desk as he shut the door behind them.

He pulled out a tape recorder. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asked, showing it to Sarah.

“Of course not.” She slipped her hands under her legs.

He turned the recorder on and set it at the edge of the desk. “I heard from Detective—” He hesitated, shuffling through the papers in front of him.

“Anderson,” Sarah supplied.

“Yes. Thanks. Detective Anderson tells me you have information you’d like to share.”

I thought you had some questions you wanted to ask. And why didn’t you remember Kirk’s last name? I thought he said you were friends.
“Yes.” She glanced at Jay, who was looking as uncomfortable as she was starting to feel. “We’re hoping you can help us.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” Elbows on the desk, he laced his fingers together, waiting.

Not going to make this easy, are you?
Sarah thought. She’d hoped that working with the DEA would be like working with Kirk. But already she could tell her hope had been in vain. Something about Detective Doyle set her immediately on edge. And it wasn’t just that he came off as cold and unfeeling. She wasn’t going to get any sympathy for having been duped by her father. In fact, if Kirk’s suspicions proved correct, she’d probably be lucky to keep herself out of jail. But still, Detective Doyle represented the law. He shouldn’t seem so . . . scary.

“My father is Grant Morgan, the chief of police for Summerfield.”

“How long?” Detective Doyle asked.

“We’ve been in Summerfield as long as I can remember,” Sarah said. “We moved there when I was five—shortly after my mother’s death. Though he hasn’t always been chief.”

“Your mother died?”

“When I was five,” Sarah repeated. Jay scooted his chair closer and draped his arm across the back of Sarah’s chair in a supportive gesture. “She committed suicide.”

“That’s too bad,” the detective said without a trace of emotion in his voice.

Sarah liked him less by the minute. She decided to plunge ahead and tell him everything as fast as she could so they could get out of here and get to wherever they were being sent.

“My mother overdosed, and since then my father has always been fanatical about fighting the war against drugs. Two years ago, he insisted I join him. Nearly every week since then I’ve been involved in the Summerfield undercover drug task force.”

“So that’s what he told you.” A slight smile curved Detective Doyle’s lips but vanished quickly. “Except that there is
no
drug task force. Both Summerfield and Cambridge have always seemed content to let the drug problems slide.”

“My father has
never
been content,” Sarah said. “He’s worked his whole life to get drugs off the street. He’s never been satisfied ignoring the problem or busting little dealers.”

“Perhaps he should have been.” Detective Doyle leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the table as he studied Sarah. “What else do you know?”

“That’s all,” she said, meeting his gaze. She pulled her hands out from beneath her legs, wrapping her arms around her middle, feeling like she had when she stepped off the elevator—sick and cold all at the same time.
Maybe I’m catching the flu Jeffrey had.

“Sarah’s father has always been very controlling,” Jay said. “And very paranoid about her safety. She’s even had a bodyguard.”

“Really?” Detective Doyle’s eyebrows rose. “Tell me about that, Sarah.”

“He’s my cousin.” The room was starting to spin.
Something isn’t right.
She told herself that it was informing on her father that had her feeling so awful,
so uneasy. So frightened.

“Did he go with you on these undercover raids, these busts at the park?”

She nodded.
When did I tell him about the park?

I didn’t.
Those eyes . . .
Recognition hit with startling force.
He knows because he was
there. The beard was new, but she’d never forget those eyes. Sarah felt the blood draining from her face.

A sharp pain in her stomach was followed by a sudden burning in her esophagus. She stood quickly, tipping the chair backward. “Jay—I’m going to be sick—” Covering her face with her hand she ran from the room.

Jay stood and started after her.

Detective Doyle pulled a gun from the desk drawer and pointed it at Jay. “Sit down, Mr. Kendrich.”

Chapter Fifty-Six

Sarah tore down the hall, hand over her mouth as she looked for a restroom. The first one she spotted was men’s, but she didn’t care. She ran inside, hovering over the sink not a second too soon.

Her stomach heaved as she lost her breakfast, lunch, and what felt like everything she’d eaten in the past week.

Finished at last, she dragged herself to the next sink, turned on the faucet, and rinsed out her mouth.

Stay calm,
she told herself, though alarm bells rang in her head. Detective Doyle was the man she’d bought from in the park the night Eddie Martin’s man didn’t show up—the night her father became so angry, and later worried.

Was it because Dad really was doing something illegal and guessed I’d bought from a DEA agent?
She couldn’t convince herself that was the truth. Detective Doyle had scared her that night, and he made her uneasy now.

Sarah sagged against the sink, feeling worse by the minute. No matter how important this meeting was, it was going to have to wait. She needed to go somewhere to lie down, and she needed to do it quick—before she passed out. Lifting her head, she checked in the mirror to make sure her face was clean. Her mouth opened, and she stifled a scream, staring in horror at a pair of legs sticking out from beneath a stall, blood pooling around them.

* * *

“Up there,” the detective—or whoever he was—ordered, gun thrust in Jay’s back.

Jay climbed the concrete stairs as slowly as he dared. When he reached the rooftop, he stepped outside, eyes scanning each direction for any sign of Sarah.

Did she realize something was wrong? Did she go for help?
He listened, waiting for the door to shut behind them. When it didn’t, he risked turning a little to see why.

His captor had propped it open, the rubber stopper keeping the door ajar, a sure invitation for someone to come up here.
For Sarah to come up.

Following his gaze, the man confirmed Jay’s worry. “Now she’ll know right where to find us. Especially with the nice clues I left along the way.”

“She won’t come,” Jay said. “She’s long gone by now.”

“We’ll see.” The man held up a blood-soaked washcloth. He squeezed it, sending bright red drops to the pavement. “If I were a betting man—which I am”—he grinned—“I’d say you’re wrong. She’s more like her father than she realizes, and she’ll want to do the right thing.”

Jay didn’t bother responding, but instead spent his energies scanning the area for possible escape routes. It was windy on top of the building, and with a sinking heart, he saw that the guard rails were nothing more than two bars of metal running horizontally around the roof. It wouldn’t take much to push someone over the edge.

Carl doesn’t fight fair.
He remembered Sarah’s warning. It clearly applied to a few others besides her cousin. Not much was fair when you had the barrel of a gun inches from your heart.

“So, you, uh, obviously don’t work for the DEA,” Jay ventured, deciding conversation was perhaps his only chance of distracting the man.

“Not now I don’t. Maybe someday.”

“You don’t think this kind of thing will be a problem on your résumé?”

“Anything that’s a problem, I take care of. Like you,” the man said. “Walk over there. All the way to the far side.”

Jay did as he was told. He looked around as he walked, unable, even in such dire circumstances, to ignore the view. The sun was low in the sky, casting an orange haze over the city. A few boats bobbed on the Charles River, and the red seats of Fenway Park glistened in the distance. Sixty stories below, all across the city, people were celebrating Christmas, the season of brotherhood.

Jay stopped about five feet from the edge. “I’m afraid of heights.”
Actually, right now, that’s true.

His abductor chuckled. “Then maybe I’ll have to shoot you first, to make it a believable lover’s spat. You think about it though. Personally, I’d rather jump. At least you get a thrill before you go.”

* * *

Sarah wrapped her fingers around the top of the bathroom stall, germs the farthest thing from her mind. Stepping up onto the toilet, she peered over the divider into the unmoving eyes of the man lying prone on the floor. His face was frozen in shock, and his suit coat lay partially open, revealing a red stain on the front of his shirt. Another stain, lower, seemed to be the source of the blood near his legs.

Sarah let go of her death grip on the wall and dropped her foot down to the floor. Feeling faint again, she sat on the edge of the toilet, careful to keep her feet away from the blood that was seeping closer.

Who are you?
She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing all of this away, wondering how she’d gone from getting engaged to sitting in a bathroom stall next to a dead man in less than twenty-four hours.
What if he’s
not
dead?
The thought terrified her even more, because she knew she had to find out.

Taking a deep breath of the stale, copper air, she pushed open the door to his stall. Her fingers shook and bile rose in her throat as she stepped around his legs, reaching down to check for a pulse. His skin was cold, already starting to stiffen. She pressed her fingers against his wrist, waiting, praying.

Nothing.

She stood up and backed away, hands clasped to control her shaking.
What do I do? What—

A lanyard around his neck caught her eye. It slid off to the side of his chest, disappearing beneath his lapel. Shaking even more violently than before, she leaned forward, reached out, and flipped the lanyard to the center of his body so she could read the attached identification.

Drug Enforcement Administration

Worcester Mobile Task Force

Judd Doyle