BLUE MERCY (39 page)

But Kay played it like a pro. They needed to get in that room. Just one more push. “I understand, Mrs. Coombs,” she said. “I certainly don’t want you getting in trouble over
this. But it’s a four-hour drive back to Baltimore. Maybe if you have an idea where he keeps it, we could look for it. He wouldn’t even have to know. It would be on us. And if he does find out, you can tell him we gave you no choice.”

Mrs. Coombs bit her bottom lip, her eyes shifting from Finn to the closed door, then to the bawling infant.

“We promise nothing will be disturbed,” Finn assured her.

And finally, as though realizing consent would be the quickest way to get rid of them, Sheila Coombs reached for the door.

PAST SHEILA COOMBS’S SHOULDER,
the room was dark. A crack of daylight cut through the sliver of space between the heavy curtains over the west-facing window. She reached in to flip a switch that operated three desk lamps placed around the crammed room.

The woman stepped aside, allowing them to enter, but would not cross the threshold herself. Nor would she allow her gaze to pass beyond the doorway. From the hall she pointed vaguely into the room. “There’s a file cabinet in the corner. Top drawer. I think that’s where Billy puts the bills. The deed should be in there. He labels everything.”

And Kay didn’t doubt it. It looked as if Billy Coombs had bought shares in the latest label-making products. They were everywhere, on files and drawers, even the bookshelves bore labels indicating the subject matter of the volumes shelved there. The spines of the texts were familiar. Some Kay owned herself, others she’d seen in Arsenault’s bookcases.

Behind her, Finn let out a low whistle. “Impressive,” he said to Mrs. Coombs. “Does your husband study law?”

“No. It’s for his brother. Billy’s put hours into his brother’s defense. Guess he figures he owes him. Like buying him the house wasn’t enough.”

Kay crossed to the desk, certain Mrs. Coombs had no idea the real purpose behind the books.

“Like I said,” the woman repeated, “it’s probably in the file cabinet. And there’s a copier there. Don’t take the original.” She excused herself then, the infant’s wails rising again.

“Look at all this, Finn.” Kay scanned the top of the desk, sure that Mrs. Coombs was gone. “Newspaper clippings, printouts from the internet about the new murders. He’s either doing a lot of commuting or Billy did all this when he was home last night.”

She was about to open a desk drawer, but Finn stopped her. “Don’t, Kay. You got us in here legal, don’t fuck it up. We’re allowed a plain sight search. And she gave us access to the cabinet’s top drawer.”

He opened the top drawer then and began his search for the deed, keeping up appearances in case Mrs. Coombs returned. But he was scanning as well, Kay noted, his eyes washing over the same photos tacked to the walls. Photos of crime scenes from other serial murderers, printed off the internet. And articles from the
Sun
about the victims he’d let Bernard take the fall for. And finally, photos of Spencer and Kay, after the beatdown, then later at the funeral.

It was all here.

“She’s never been in here,” Kay whispered to Finn. “Coombs’s wife hasn’t set foot in this room.”

“How do you know?”

“She doesn’t recognize me, I can tell. And look at these photos.”

Kay brushed aside the newer clippings, then jumped back, almost colliding with Finn.

“Jesus!”

In a thick, double-glassed box-frame a huge insect had been museum-mounted. Pinned behind the dusty glass its three-inch body was shielded by long, semitransparent amber wing coverings. They looked brittle, and beneath their gleaming surface, Kay could discern the striped body. Long antennae swept back along the length of the bug, and on its amber-colored hood there was a pattern in black. It looked like a skull.

“What the hell is it?” Kay asked.

Finn picked up the frame.
“Blaberus cranifer,”
he read off the label that floated behind the glass. “Death’s-head roach. South America.”

“How appropriate.” And she fought back a shudder as she wondered if Billy Coombs had mounted the specimen himself. “There better not be any live ones in here.”

She continued her search, pushing the framed roach aside and scanning the small piles of papers until she spotted the speeding ticket.

“Here’s something.” She picked up the ticket. “Son of a bitch was clocked doing seventy heading south on the JFX two exits past Falls Road. Guess when?”

At the file cabinet, Finn shrugged.

“About ten minutes after he drove off in Jason Beckman’s pizza-delivery car at TV Hill. We got him, Finn.”

Her gaze caught the small cluster of personal photos at the edge of the bulletin board: a wedding photo, a couple Polaroids, and several vacation shots tacked up. She studied Coombs’s smile, imagining how easily he’d charmed each of the women in the clippings over his desk.

“I got the deed,” Finn said, extracting a document from
the cabinet. Keeping up the legal facade, he fired up the photocopier. Only when he returned the document did he root deeper in the cabinet’s drawer.

Kay was vaguely aware of his withdrawing a kraft envelope.

“I think we just got more on the bastard,” Finn said, bringing it to the desk.

The envelope was stained and dog-eared. Pawed over, Kay thought, and the button-and-string closure looked well-worn. Finn shook its contents out onto the desk.

Cards. Driver’s licenses and photo ID cards. Annie Harris. Roma Chisney. And the Jane Doe from Leakin Park.

Kay picked up the third card and looked into the face of the woman who had spent the past sixteen months without a name.

Ellen Roth. Kay ran the name through her head a few times until Finn spoke again.

His voice startled her. “Kay,” he said quietly, “there’s one more.”

IT WAS AFTER TWO
by the time they left Pittsburgh, bearing east as the sun finally broke through the bank of slate-gray clouds. When the Baltimore skyline came into view, Kay realized she had little memory of the drive. She’d focused on traffic but her mind had spent the hours retracing every step of the investigation, every bit of evidence, cataloging everything against Billy Coombs.

Back in Coombs’s office, something deep inside her had turned, something she couldn’t put words to. She wanted
Coombs more than she remembered wanting anything in her life.

The plain brown envelope with the IDs of Harris, Chisney, and Ellen Roth lay on the Lumina’s dash. But it was the final card that had fallen from the envelope that haunted Kay and caused her gaze to return to it throughout the drive.

The reality hadn’t registered when she’d picked up the Fraternal Order of Police card off Coombs’s desk and turned it over in her hands. Even as she’d read the name, the truth was slow coming, as if the world around her had suddenly warped. But when she looked at Spencer’s photo, she was back on that lawn outside Eales’s house. Coombs
had
been there that night. And—as he had with all his victims—he’d taken something of Spence’s. He must have stood over Spence, her gun still in his hand while he watched him die. Then he’d removed Spence’s wallet and taken the card. No one had missed it.

Kay imagined Coombs moving across the lawn to her. She wondered if he’d held the gun on her as well, if she’d blacked out by then or simply couldn’t remember. She’d always figured Eales had left her for dead, but now she knew that wasn’t the case. If she’d been dead, her FOP card would have been in that envelope as well.

No, Coombs and Eales had fled. She’d read the police logs: the district units had responded quickly to the report of gunfire. The sirens would have scared them off before Coombs had the chance to finish her.

“You okay?” From the passenger seat, Finn reached across and settled his hand on her thigh. A gesture of comfort. Only, it wasn’t comfort Kay wanted. Not now.

“I should have been onto him sooner,” she said, steering the Lumina east onto Edmonson.

“And how’s that?”

“I had him in the alley. Had him up against the car, Finn. How could I not know that was Coombs?”

“It was dark, Kay. Your adrenaline was pumping. The guy had a good cover story. Besides, you’ve only met Coombs once, in a neutral setting. It’s not like you were out looking for him. Plus, he’d shaved.”

Kay remembered the residue from the drain trap of the bathroom sink in 311 the night of Jason Beckman’s murder.

“I should have put it together.”

“Come on, Kay. No one would have.”

“I
should have.” She ran the amber at Fulton. “He was right there, on top of me, in Eales’s house the other night.”

“It was dark, and he blindsided you.”

But Kay didn’t want excuses. She just wanted Coombs.

When her cell phone rang, Kay was glad for the diversion.

“Kay? It’s Vicki. Where are you?”

“On our way to see you. We need a warrant.”

“It’ll have to wait.” There was a shakiness in Vicki’s voice that Kay had never heard before.

“What’s wrong.”

“It’s Eales.”

Over the cell, Kay heard an explosion of voices in the background, a door slamming, then shouts.

“We’ve got …we’ve got a situation at the courthouse. You and Finn need to get down here. Right away. The whole district’s on high alert.”

“What the hell happened?”

“He’s out, Kay. Eales escaped.”

CALVERT AND FAYETTE STREETS
were impassable, blocked by squad cars, QRT vans, and unmarked vehicles with their cherries strobing on their dashes. Kay and Finn left their car in the tangle and sprinted up the two blocks to the Clarence Mitchell Courthouse. Division of Corrections guards manned the entrance, pushing back the media crews as they jockeyed for position, waiting for an official statement.

The foyer was controlled chaos. Past the sea of uniforms, Kay spotted several of the Quick Response Team members in full gear storming the marble corridors.

They found Vicki on the second floor in Judge Leventhal’s courtroom. She was at the prosecution table, gathering her papers. When she spotted them, she shook her head, her face flushed.

“Are you all right?” Finn asked her.

She nodded, looking more pissed off than anything. “They figure he went out a window.”

“How the hell does that happen?” Finn asked.

“We finished preliminary motions at two, took a recess, then started defense motions to suppress,” she explained. “Grogan’s trying to have the confession thrown out, claiming Eales is recanting it now.”

“I’m not surprised,” Kay said.

“Anyway, tension was getting a little high, so Leventhal called a brief recess. Then Eales starts whining about needing to use the bathroom. Says he can’t hold it. But Leventhal wanted counsel in place when he resumed the bench, so he instructs the guards to take Eales to
his
chambers instead of escorting him all the way downstairs.
Fifteen minutes later, they come back without him. They figure he went out the window.”

“If he did, he’ll be hurting.” Finn didn’t sound anxious about Eales. “That’s a two-story drop. He won’t get far.”

“Still, we’re in a semilockdown. QRT’s combing the building just in case, and they’ve got an APB out on Eales. Mass Transit’s been notified as well, just in case he tries to hop a bus or the Light Rail.”

“The mope’s probably home already,” Finn said. “They always go home. Send a patrol over to Gettings Street, and you’ll probably find him hiding in his closet.”

“Already covered,” Vicki said.

“We should get someone on Patricia Hagen’s address too,” Kay said. “Just in case.”
Where else would you run, Bernard?

She thought of 311 Keystone, turned to Finn. “Could Coombs have helped him get out?”

“What do you mean?” Vicki asked. “Eales’s brother? What’s Coombs got to do with all this?”

Kay took the envelope from under Finn’s arm and unlooped the string closure. Vicki watched as each card clattered onto the table.

“These are from Coombs’s home office. Consensual search,” Kay clarified, then pushed Spencer’s FOP card toward Vicki. “It’s Coombs who shot Spence.”

Standing outside, on the eighth-floor terrace at Headquarters, Kay balanced a Camel between her fingers as if it had always belonged there. She studied it for a
moment, then brought it to her lips and inhaled. Finn could almost see the tension ebb.

“Should have had one of those long ago,” he said.

“You’re a bad influence.” She smiled, but he could tell it was forced. Her mind was out there, in the streets, searching for Eales, for Coombs. That’s where she wanted to be, not stuck at Headquarters pushing the necessary papers and procedural buttons to get the warrant for Coombs.

She shoved away from the picnic bench and crossed to the railing. Pacing the length of the barrier, she looked over the lights of the city. She hadn’t sat still since they’d left the courthouse hours ago. But then, neither had he.

They’d had to pull Gunderson off the Eales situation, brief him along with Vicki, then start making calls to the Pittsburgh PD and their district attorney for warrants. Now it was only a matter of time before they had the warrant for Coombs. Just one more call from the DA in Pittsburgh.

A siren from somewhere in the downtown core cut the night. Kay looked west, following the sound. She dropped the cigarette and crushed it under her shoe.

“Where the hell is he?” she asked, grasping the top rail in her hands and scanning the expanse of lights.

“Eales or Coombs?”