Bad Break (9 page)

And that was it. Except for the final frames when the person manning the cell phone went to stop the recording and swung the phone just enough that a mirror on the back of the bathroom door came into view. Along with Mateo’s face and upper body. His eyes were wide—Gant would probably assess him as “crazed,” but Lucy thought the kid looked scared and confused.

“This whole scenario doesn’t make sense,” Lucy argued.

“Of course it doesn’t. What would you expect from a teenaged perpetrator? Maybe it started out as a crime of opportunity that went wrong. Mateo knew he’d be the first person suspected—especially with your daughter coming any minute—so he made it look like the type of crime scene you’d only find on TV. Things just went too far, he lost control.”

Hayden paused. “I’m grateful to you. Your suggestion that we test all the blood was very helpful. We found a second blood type in addition to Pastor Fleming’s A positive.”

“Where?”

“B negative. Pretty rare. Same type as Mateo, according to his mother. And we found it exactly where you’d expect it if he did attack Fleming.”

“On the knife.” It was common for attackers wielding knives to cut themselves as their grip on the blade slipped.

“Not something a subject faking a crime scene would be likely to know or think to do. So far, that’s all they found. It’s a lot of blood to process and I told them to check every area, not just take a random sampling.” She grimaced. “I’m pretty much blowing my department’s budget on this one case, so there’d better be some answers.”

Lucy tried to imagine a scenario that would fit the evidence. “Staging that scene would have taken time. Mateo’s uncle said he was supposed to be at Fleming’s house at three, but that’s also when he said he’d meet Megan.”

“His family told us he left their house half past one. Even on his bike, he’d be at Fleming’s place well before two. Gives him plenty of time to grab the money, get interrupted by Fleming, stage the crime scene, and grab Fleming.” Hayden frowned. “Or maybe he needed Fleming to get the combination to the safe. Maybe Mateo was the one who called Fleming and asked him to come home early.”

Lucy still wasn’t buying it. “Okay, but if he’s vicious enough to torture Fleming, why not just kill him once he got what he wanted? Why take him? A hostage adds a ton of complications and slows him down.”

“A chance for more money? But that is a lot of risk. He could have just taken the money and run.”

“My point exactly.” Lucy paced to the doorway and looked across the bullpen to where Megan was comforting Mateo’s mother. She wondered about Mrs. Fleming. Who was comforting her? Why wasn’t she here? “How was the video sent?”

“Anonymous account. They texted Shelly with the link. Got so upset, we had to get her some valium. She’s at my house resting now.”

Lucy wished she’d been here to see Shelly’s reaction to the ransom video. This whole thing didn’t feel right. “Let’s look at it another way. What story did our actors want to tell with the scene?”

Hayden pursed her lips. “That the Pastor didn’t give up the money without a struggle. That he was hurt badly. That he might still be alive despite all the blood.”

She paused, then jerked her chin, her body straightening. “Kid doesn’t want to be labeled a killer. That’s why he’s willing to bargain for Robert’s life—he never really wanted to hurt anyone and the ransom is his way out.”

“I’m not sure. Still doesn’t feel right.”

“It does if it’s a sixteen-year-old kid raised on
Criminal Minds
and
CSI
.”

Megan joined them, pausing in the open doorway. Frowning at Lucy as if this was somehow all her fault. “Anna said there’s a ransom video. Can I see it?”

Hayden shook her head as she reached for her phone. “I’m calling for a warrant. Thanks, Lucy. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Mom, what did you do?” Megan’s voice was low but that didn’t mask her anger.

Lucy moved out to the bullpen, Megan following. “Nothing. I was trying to explain to Hayden why the evidence didn’t fit.”

“If the evidence doesn’t fit then why is she going after Mateo?”

“Because he’s the only one the evidence points to.”

“He’s innocent. A victim.” She stomped her foot. “You can’t arrest him. It’s wrong.”

Lucy reached to comfort Megan, but she moved away. “Calm down, Megan.”

“No. I won’t calm down. Mateo didn’t do anything. Someone has to fight for him, find out who did this.”

“That’s the job of the police. Not you.”

Megan’s eyes tightened. “Then you do it. What good is being a FBI Agent if you can’t protect the innocent?”

Lucy wanted so badly to promise everything would be all right, that she had some magical ability to make bad evidence disappear and find the truth. But she didn’t—she didn’t even have any official standing in the case.

Despite that, she knew she’d have to try. She looked up, met Megan’s gaze. “I can’t make any promises—”

“Of course you can’t,” Megan snapped before Lucy could finish. “You never can. I hate you. I hate your job. They’re going to hunt Mateo like a vicious criminal. What happens when they find him? He could get killed and it’s all your fault!”

She whirled and ran through the door to the lobby before Lucy could stop her.

Chapter 15

LUCY RAN AFTER
Megan. When she caught up with her in the lobby, Lucy pulled her past Mateo’s family and outside to the parking lot where they could have some privacy. Last thing she wanted was to add to the Romeros’ worries with her own family drama.

“Megan Constance Callahan,” Lucy started. “You do not talk to me that way.” Her voice had an unwelcome quaver in it—she hated being angry with Megan, hated even more the betrayal Megan’s accusation carried.

Megan stood, flushed yet pale at the same time, like when she was a baby and had a fever. Lucy stepped forward, mouth open, ready to continue, when she realized she was looking Megan straight in the eye. When had her little girl grown as tall as she was?

She took another step, trembling. She was getting ready to do something she never did: make a promise she wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep. Lucy wrapped her arms around her baby. “It’ll be all right,” she whispered. “I promise.”

Megan’s entire body shook with all the emotions she could not contain. Lucy pulled her tighter to her. She wished with all her heart she could somehow squeeze hard enough to return Megan to a time of innocence, that she could protect her daughter from ever knowing the ugly truth of the real world. But that was just as impossible as never breaking a promise, no matter how hard you tried.

“When you were little,” she said, soothing Megan’s hair as she cradled her head against her shoulder, “and you got angry or upset and felt out of control, you used to put yourself in time out.”

Lucy could feel Megan’s smile against her shoulder. “I’d go into my room and tear it apart. Dad used to call me Hurricane Megan.”

They separated, faced each other. Lucy was glad to see Megan’s color return to normal. “Remember that time when I told you to clean up the mess after one of your tantrums?”

“It was the middle of winter but I opened all the windows and threw everything out into the snow.” She said it with a hint of stubborn pride.

“I came in and found you sitting on your naked mattress reading a comic book wearing nothing but your underwear.” Lucy smiled at the memory, although at the time she’d been tempted to resort to her own mother’s tactic of a wooden spoon judiciously applied to a bottom.

“Then Dad came in and said you had no right to complain because I was just like you. Always finding a way around the rules to do what you wanted.”

Lucy smoothed Megan’s hair back away from her face. “Yeah. Some days I think you got the worst of me and the best of him.”

Megan considered that and Lucy braced herself for a rebuttal. But instead of the retort Lucy was expecting, Megan ducked her head down and shrugged. “Guess that’s not so bad,” she said, looking at the ground. “Better than what a lot of kids have.”

She glanced up again, meeting Lucy’s eyes with a challenge. “So what are we going to do to help Mateo?”

Lucy looked past Megan at the parking lot and realized what was bothering her even more than the crime scene and evidence. “Get in the car.”

Megan rolled her eyes—oh, how Lucy hated it when she did that—but plopped down into the passenger seat and slammed the door.

The parking lot was silent. Lucy had worked multi-jurisdiction cases before, some of them in towns smaller and less equipped than Harbinger Cove. They were always a nightmare requiring coordination between agencies that didn’t use the same radio codes, a mountain of paperwork and logistical support, and a command center where the troops could regroup and redeploy.

Yet, now, on the day of what she was certain was the biggest high-profile crime Harbinger Cover had ever seen, the only vehicles here belonged to Lucy, Mateo’s family, Hayden and Gant’s official vehicles, and one nondescript Buick. No representatives from the sheriff’s department or state law enforcement, no crime scene techs securing and documenting evidence—in fact, the evidence had been laid out in the bull pen as if on display for Lucy’s benefit.

What if… everything had been for Lucy’s benefit? Every good crime scene analysis told a story… maybe there was a story behind this one.

Lucy hesitated. Surely her preposterous theory couldn’t be right. She was torn between taking Megan back to the hotel—but no, that facility wasn’t secure and she didn’t want to leave Megan alone—and testing her hypothesis. There was one person who might confirm her crazy idea.

True to his word, Nick had texted Don Burroughs’ number to Megan’s phone. It was Sunday night, hopefully the Pittsburgh detective would be at home with his wife and two sons rather than working a case. Lucy moved to the back of the Subaru as if getting something from the trunk to hide her movements from anyone inside the station as she dialed.

“Burroughs.”

“Don, it’s Lucy Guardino. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Nope, just finished dinner.” Lucy’s stomach grumbled at his words—she wished she’d been able to convince Megan to grab some supper; she was starved. “What’s up?”

“Need some expert advice about insulin pumps.” She filled him in on the case and explained how Fleming’s pump had been found empty. She gave him the manufacturer and model number. “Same as yours, right?“

“Yeah, so?”

“So our victim would have lost it no more than an hour or two before we found it, given our timeline. Shouldn’t it have had insulin left in it? Or would it have all drained out when it was removed from Fleming?”

“Nope, if it’s like mine, it automatically stops when it’s disconnected.”

“So it should have had half a day’s worth of insulin in it, right?”

“Depending on what time of day your victim fills his reservoir. But most folks do it first thing in the morning or before bed, so yeah, it should have had plenty left.” He paused. “You’re not talking like you think this guy really is a victim. Do you think the pump was planted?”

“I’m thinking a lot of things about this scene don’t add up—unless it was staged. Which means maybe Fleming isn’t a victim but someone who wanted to disappear.”

He made a grunting noise of agreement. “And make it look like someone else was doing the disappearing. If he uses a pump, good bet he has a duplicate with him now—once you get used to them, you never want to go back to multiple injections. I’d check that first, I was you. Plus, he must be a fairly brittle diabetic to need a specialized pump like mine.”

That piqued her curiosity—special was good when tracking a missing person or a fugitive. Anything that made them stand out could create a trail to follow. “What’s so special about it?”

“It’s got the newest tech—monitors your blood sugar, calculates insulin dosing, sends all the info to your phone, your computer, even your doctor’s office if you want. And it’s designed for high-risk patients with a special safety feature. One that might let you track your guy if he hasn’t inactivated it.”

“Please tell me it has GPS tracking.” Lucy was practically bouncing with enthusiasm.

“Yep. It’s designed so if a patient hits the danger zone and doesn’t respond to the pump’s alarms, it sends your location to a special emergency operator. But even if he’s turned off the alarm, I’ll bet your tech guys could still access the GPS signal.”

“I could kiss you! Lunch is on me when I get home.”

“Give ’em hell, Lucy.”

“Always do.” She hung up, uncertain of the safest way to use Burroughs’ information. Squinting at the police station and its curious lack of activity, she thought again about the incestuous relationship small town police could have with the people they were sworn to serve and protect. Sometimes that protection came at a cost—law and order sacrificed in the name of the “greater good” of the community.

She needed an outside agency, someone she could trust. And she needed to make sure Megan was safe.

Leave? Why not? She could park Megan in an anonymous hotel back on the mainland. There was nothing in their room that was irreplaceable or valuable, except maybe Lucy’s phone left drying on the bathroom counter.

“Let’s go,” she said, joining Megan in the Subaru.

“We can’t. We have to give our statements.”

“We’ll come back in the morning. When they’re less busy.”

Megan frowned and looked back at the station. “What was that call about? You know something. Why don’t you want the police and Mateo’s family to know?”

Chapter 16

AS LUCY TURNED
out of the police station, she did a quick mental inventory of what was in the Subaru’s trunk—it was one of the reasons why she’d gotten the Legacy after wrecking her Forrester, the ability to keep items secured and out of sight. Most of their neighbors carried normal Pennsylvania-winter supplies: a small shovel, kitty litter, blanket, boots, warm socks.

Lucy’s trunk had all that along with a lock box containing spare ammo for her service weapons, along with a pump action Remington 870, ballistic vest, night vision thermal/infrared monocular (a gift from some friends at the DEA, latest tech from the battlefield), handcuffs, zip ties, and combat medic kit. Stashed beside it was a go-bag with survival basics. Not much room left over for luggage, but since this was the first vacation she’d taken in years, that was the least of her concerns.