A Woman of Valor, page 32
She plopped onto the sofa and rehearsed how she’d break the news to her brother. Perhaps leading with the exciting new assignment, to buy him in, then when he asks her what it means—
“How can I direct your call?” asked the brusque female voice.
“Chad Dawes, please,” she said.
“Charles!” the secretary called out without covering the phone. “It’s your sister.”
“Hey, Val,” Chad said a moment later. “Just running between client meetings. I hope you’re not calling to tell me you can’t make it for Christmas. Ali hasn’t stopped talking about you this week.”
Val sighed. “Damn you, Chad,” she said. “Sometimes I wonder why I bother to even call. How did you know?”
“Because you never call with good news,” he said, sending a heavy sigh back to her. “Dammit. Ali will freak.”
Her heart split in half at the idea of disappointing Ali. She curled into a fetal position on the couch. “I got assigned to a new inter-city task force to nab this child molester. It’s a huge opportunity, but it means I don’t get any days off. Please tell Ali, I’m so sorry.”
“Not even Christmas morning?” Chad asked, incredulous. “Or Christmas Eve?”
“I’m on twelve-hour night shifts,” she said, becoming even sadder. “I won’t have time to drive to your house and back on Christmas Day. Believe me, Chad, I would if I could.”
He sighed. “First Dad, now you. What a Christmas this is going to be.” The phone went silent for several moments.
“Well,” he said, “it sounds like a fabulous career break for you. Look, don’t worry. We’ll be fine. You get that guy, and then we’ll celebrate together, okay?”
Val pressed the phone hard against her ear. Chad’s understanding only made her feel worse. “Yeah. Sorry. I really wanted to see you.”
“Me too.” After a long pause, he added, “There is another option.”
She sat up on the sofa. “Such as?”
“We could all celebrate Christmas at Dad’s place,” Chad said in a quiet voice.
She bolted off the love seat and paced the room, her brain racing. With Dad? How could he suggest such a thing! Val's heart pounded, occupying the long silence between them. Words, Val. Speak.
“Then Ali could see him, too,” Chad said, filling the awkward silence. “She barely remembers him, and he hasn’t even met Dar yet.”
“You can’t fix this, Chad,” she said. “Dad and me, I mean. It goes deeper than a gift exchange and a round of Christmas carols.”
“I know,” he said, his voice soft, almost inaudible. “But it’s a start.”
“There’s nothing to start. Anyway, doesn’t Kendra have a concert?” She regretted her sharp tone, wished she could take it back.
“Yay, you remembered,” Chad said, his words edged with sarcasm. “So, yeah, we’d have to come the weekend before.”
“Wait, you mean this weekend?” Panic replaced disappointment. “You mean, like, two days from now? No, Chad. Shit! Listen, I haven’t even started Christmas shopping, I’ll be working double shifts, and I—I—I’m not ready!”
“Well,” he said, “it’s our only option. Do you want to see the niece that idolizes you, or not?”
“Chad, that’s not fair—wait a minute.” Suspicion swelled up inside her, piled on top of everything else. “You’d already planned this before I called, hadn’t you?”
A jumble of voices rose on Chad’s end of the line. “I...have to duck into my meeting,” he said. “Let me know what you decide. Okay? Gotta run.” He hung up.
Val sank back onto the sofa, still gripping the phone, her knuckles whitening. Christmas with Dad, in Clayton. If that didn’t give her incentive to catch Harkins, nothing would.
***
Val’s new assignment began two days later, on Friday, and it meant making adjustments to her work routine. First, she reported to work four hours earlier to better align with the schedules of her new team. Second, it meant working indoors, instead of walking the beat. Third, rather than walking from home to the Liberty Heights station, she had to take the city bus to police headquarters in downtown Clayton.
To make up for the reduced physical activity, she took the stairs to the fifth-floor office. Someone had taped a makeshift sign reading “Intercity Task Force” on the frosted glass panel of a heavy wooden door. Val pushed it open, spotted the familiar-looking detective seated behind a 70s-era gunmetal desk, and grinned. “Shannon! How did you—”
“And you thought I was only lobbying for this task force because of you?” Shannon stood and waved her over. “I saved you a good seat, next to mine. Awesome digs, eh?”
“Are you in charge, then?” Val asked while Shannon gave her a quick tour. “Where’s everybody else?”
“I’m second in command of the unit,” Shannon said. “Detective Grimes and his partner, Woodson, are pursuing some leads. Jalen Marshall has an equal-sized team in Hartford, and there’s another one in New Haven. Now, how familiar are you with the statewide database?”
“Pretty well, thanks to a recent overdose of desk duty,” Val said. “Whatcha got?”
Val dove in to her assignment, creating a map of alleged Harkins sightings. She developed a color-coding system of high, medium, and low-likelihood sightings, and within a few hours had put together a rough itinerary of his recent travels.
“Very impressive!” Shannon said to her when Val finished. They spread the map out over a long black meeting room table. “What do you make of it?”
“Harkins seems to be drifting south on smaller state and county highways along the western edge of the state,” Val said. “After he left Warren, he appears to have hidden out in Kent a few days, then New Milford, Waterbury, Southbury, and Newtown.”
“He doesn’t stay anywhere long, based on your data,” Shannon said.
“He does plenty of damage, though,” Val said. “Reported rape in Warren. Likely assault in New Milford. Potential stolen car in Waterbury, abandoned in Southbury, where he robbed a convenience store—and assaulted another teenage girl. He’s a one-man crime wave!”
“We need to project where he’s heading next and alert the locals,” Shannon said. “And if I were to guess, I’d say his next stop is Danbury.”
Val froze, staring at the map. Shannon was right. Of the major towns in southwest Connecticut, Danbury sat next in line along Harkins’ current trajectory.
Where Chad, Kendra, Dar, and Alison lived.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Richard Harkins sipped his coffee in the corner booth of a local egg-and-pancake joint he found in the suburbs on his way to Danbury. It looked like a worn-down Denny’s, with half of the harsh fluorescent lighting, double the food portions, and a lot less customer traffic. Perfect: he avoided the big chains, wary of their friendly relations with state and local police, and their internal networks that shared warnings of suspicious-looking types like him.
Today, he did look suspicious. He hadn’t showered in two days, and he still had the stench of that ugly red-haired bitch from Southbury on him. Thank God for the crushing aromas of bacon and burnt coffee permeating the air.
A young family of four, if you count their loud-mouthed baby who never stopped crying, occupied a table to his right. Their charming little girl almost made up for how insufferable the rest of them were. The mom, a real looker in her late twenties with auburn hair and perfect skin, spoke in soft, melodious tones in a failed attempt to make the little brats behave. She tried to discreetly breast-feed the baby, but Harkins knew what she was doing. Lucky brat.
“Dar’s had enough,” she said to her husband, a brown-haired dork with glasses. “He needs changing.”
“I’ll do it. Ooh, he is stinky,” the dork said, taking the baby from her. Baby poop odor drifted over to Harkins’s booth. Why, oh why, couldn’t they have changed him first?
“Let’s go, little guy.” Dorky Daddy carried the baby into the men’s room.
The little girl tugged on her mother’s arm. “Mommy, can I ride with you the rest of the way?” she asked. “I want to play the license plate game.”
“Daddy will play it with you,” the woman said.
“Daddy never lets me win,” the girl said.
“A true Dawes,” the woman said with a sigh.
Dawes! A name that made Harkins’ skin crawl. Probably a coincidence, but—
“Auntie Val lets me win at Candyland,” the girl said.
Val Dawes! That woman cop that had almost nailed his ass in Clayton—twice. And “Auntie.” An opportunity, perhaps, for revenge.
“Dar’s done feeding, so I suppose it’s all right,” the woman, smiling. “We’ll have some girl time on the way to Clayton.”
Clayton. Wrong direction, but it had its advantages. Familiar territory, and plenty of young meat there. Antoinetta, Raven’s kid, and, more important, the chance to pay back the Dawes family for some long-festering wounds. Maybe end this battle, once and for all.
“Let's trade cars,” the man said, reappearing with a much fresher-smelling baby. On closer inspection, he bore a familial resemblance to the woman cop. “You take the Volvo, I’ll drive the CRV. That way we don’t have to switch the kids’ car seats. Come on, let’s get going.”
Harkins ducked his head as they left the restaurant. Sure enough, they loaded up into two separate cars, parked close to the entrance. He set his coffee down, but a middle-aged man dressed in black slacks, a short-sleeved white shirt, and a name badge blocked his exit from the booth. The stupid waiter.
“Sorry,” the waiter said, scooting out of his way and smiling behind his bushy, salt-and-pepper mustache. “Was everything to your liking?”
“Yeah, fine,” he said. “Good coffee.”
“Great.” The waiter slapped his bill onto the table. “Where are you headed?”
He decided. Smiled. “Jersey Shore.” No longer true, but whatever. He glanced out the window. The parents had loaded the kids into the cars, turned on their engines. He fidgeted in his seat. He had to get rid of this guy.
“This time of year? You must be a glutton for punishment.” The waiter smiled and took away his empty plate.
“You could say that. I’m visiting family.” Another quick peek. The Volvo, driven by the pretty wife, inched backwards out of the parking space.
“Will you need a refill on the coffee?” the waiter said. Fucking jerk. Would. Not. Leave.
“No, no. All done.” The Volvo finished pulling out, then waited for the Honda.
“I can take that whenever you’re ready.” The waiter smiled again. The tips of his mustache hairs disappeared inside the guy’s mouth. Gross.
“Good to go.” Harkins slipped a precious ten-dollar bill onto his check and skidded out of the booth. “Keep the change.” Which, after his breakfast-all-day-with-unlimited-coffee plus tax, amounted to about a dollar. Last of the big-time spenders.
He made it outside just in time to see the Honda exit onto the highway. The Volvo pulled forward into the parking lot exit, then stalled. It made a whirring sound, that of an engine trying to start but not turning over. It happened again, then a third time, before the headlights went out.
Harkins smiled. What incredible luck. He walked over to the Volvo and tapped on the driver’s window. The woman lowered it halfway.
“Car trouble?” he asked.
“It won’t start,” she said. “So weird. It’s never done this before.”
He nodded, put on the all-knowing face of the Guy Who Can Fix Things, like all men do in this situation. “Pop the hood, let me see what’s up,” he said.
“Oh,” she said. “Thank you so much.”
The hood clanked up an inch. Harkins pressed the release and propped up the hood. Pretended to check things—touching this, wiggling that. Returned to her window, rubbing his hands as if cleaning them off. “Try it again," he said. She did, producing the same whiny sound as before, with no success. As expected, since he’d loosened the battery cable even more. “I think it’s your starter,” he said, “or your alternator.”
“Is that bad?” she said.
“It’s not going anywhere tonight,” he said. “Put it in neutral and I’ll push you out of the way here.”
He got her into a parking spot, taking advantage of the downward slope of the ramp. “Can I give you a lift somewhere?” he asked.
“I’ll just call my husband. Thank you.” She pulled her cell phone out of her purse.
Harkins smiled. “I’ll wait, just in case.” He smiled at the little girl in back, gazing at him with gigantic brown eyes, with auburn hair like her mother. She said nothing. Just scowled at him.
A gentle tune began playing. The woman cursed and picked up a second cell phone from the console next to her. “Dammit, Chad!” She hung up her own phone, and the tune stopped. “My husband left his cell phone! It’s his car, you see. Now I have no way to reach him. Dammit!”
The little girl made a face, her mouth shaped in an “O.” She wagged her finger at her mother. “Mommy said a bad word.”
The woman laughed. “Yes, I did, Ali. I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “What am I going to do?”
Harkins took a moment, as if uncertain of the offer he’d been dying to make since the Volvo’s engine first choked out. “Did I hear you say you’re going to Clayton?” he asked.
“Yes,” the woman said in a cautious tone.
“Well,” Harkins said, “I’ll understand if you don’t want to, but I’m heading to Clayton, and I have plenty of room.” He gestured toward a Toyota RAV-4 he’d come to possess three hours before, courtesy of a trusting and now-unconscious plumber in Newtown. By now, the cops would be looking for it, though. Still, he needed to play this through. He clicked the fob, and the car’s lights blinked.
“I’ll just call Triple-A,” she said. “Thank you, though.”
Harkins shrugged. Perfect. “Sure,” he said. “Of course, this time of night around here, it could take them a while. An hour or two, if you’re lucky.”
The woman paused with her phone in hand, as if contemplating the offer again. “Yeah, that’s okay,” she said. “My husband will figure out that I’m not behind him and come back for me.” She tried the engine again. Nothing.
“Let me take another peek under the hood,” Harkins said.
She popped it open. He strolled to the front and re-tightened the battery cable as best he could. “Give it another shot,” he said.
She did, and it worked. “Thank you!” she shouted.
Harkins lowered the hood, circled around to the passenger’s side, tapped on the window, held up an index finger. She lowered the window, a quizzical expression on her face. He reached in, unlocked the door, and climbed in.
“What—what are you doing?” she asked.
Harkins grabbed the cell phone from her hand, and her husband’s off the center console, and shoved them in his pocket. Then he pointed his .44 at her and said with a sneer, “Drive, Mrs. Dawes.”
Chapter Forty
The woman’s hands shook on the wheel, her bright green eyes welling with tears. “Please, mister,” she said. “You can have the car, my money, anything. Just leave my daughter alone!”
“I don’t want your piece of shit car!” He seized her purse and emptied its contents onto the floor. “But I’ll take your cash. How much you got in here?”
The little girl burst into tears. “Leave my mommy alone!” she yelled.
“Shut the hell up!” he yelled back, raising an open hand, threatening to slap her. The girl cowered and stopped screaming. “Now drive, bitch!” Harkins waved the gun at the woman. “Like you mean it!”
She put the car in gear with shaking hands, then inched it forward. Her left hand drifted to the center of the steering wheel.
Harkins smashed the back of her hand with the butt of the gun, and she screamed in pain. “Touch that horn again and your daughter’s a fucking orphan,” he shouted. “Now, for the last time, drive!”
Her jaw quivered, and tears ran down her cheeks, but she placed both hands on the rim of the wheel and pulled forward to the exit. “W—where to?” she asked.
“Clayton, of course,” he said, disgusted. “Weren’t you listening?” Stupid bitch. The pretty ones always were.
“W-why Clayton?” the woman asked.
“Never you fucking mind,” he said. “Just drive.”
The little girl in back gasped and covered her mouth. “Uh-oh,” she said. “You said a naughty word. You’re going to get in trouble!”
Harkins twisted in his seat, raising his hand again to strike. “If you don’t shut your fucking mouth—”
“Leave her alone!” The mom glared at him a moment, taking deep breaths. “She’s only five years old. And she doesn’t need to hear language like—ow!”
Harkins’ hand stung from the slap, but it shut her up. “One more word, and I’ll cut out your fucking tongue!” He spun back to the little girl. “That goes for you, too!”
The girl glowered at him, venom in her eyes, but she kept quiet. He faced front again and lowered the passenger-side sun visor so he could watch her in the mirror. She stuck her tongue out at him. He laughed. Kid had spunk.
A light rain sprinkled on the windshield, mixed with wet snow. They drove for a half hour, the wipers keeping a steady rhythm above the engine and highway noise. Harkins used one of the woman’s phones to send a text message to a number he recalled from muscle memory. The reply pissed him off: Ninguna manera. Loosely translated, No Fucking Way.
A warm bed, denied. Fuck! He needed a Plan B.
But he always had a Plan B.
***
Val grabbed a quick dinner of greasy takeout and reported back to headquarters in time to greet Jalen Marshall exiting a cruiser driven by Ben Peterson. Peterson glared at her and burned rubber in his haste to depart.
“What’s his problem?” Val asked.
“Ben wanted no part of this deal,” Jalen said, “and blames you instead of me for being ‘stuck in Clayton,’ as he puts it.”
Val laughed and shook her head. “Kids these days.”
They rode the elevator this time, which took nearly as long as the stairs. Jalen gave her as much space as humanly possible in the tight quarters.
