Tall, Dark And Wanted

“What’s up, Sarge?” She stepped into the narrow office.

“Take a seat.”

As she did, Molly was struck by the pallor of his complexion. Exhaustion racked his face, and all of a sudden he looked much older than his fifty-five years. No doubt Sarge had been one of the first people called after the explosion late yesterday. He’d probably been up all night.

“I guess I don’t need to tell you what this is about.”

“The Sabatini explosion.”

He nodded solemnly. “The verdict’s still not in on whether this was a Sabatini hit.”

“What have they got so far?”

“Three bodies…or what’s left of them. Just got a call from the M.E.’s office. He’s finally confirmed the identities of the three officers posted to the safe house.”

Relief didn’t come close to describing what flooded through her just then. Mitch was alive. She leaned back into the vinyl-cushioned chair across from Sarge’s desk, about to release the breath of tension she’d been holding when the gravity of Sarge’s expression reminded her this wasn’t just about Mitch. Three officers were dead. Killed in the line of duty.

“As for Drake, the witness, they haven’t found his body yet, but he’s gotta be dead. There was nothing left of that house. And if he wasn’t in it when it blew, you can bet Sabatini got to him first. Hell, we’ll probably never find his body. But right now, we’ve got three officers dead. We’re gonna see some heat on this one, Molly, and I want you on the team.”

“Sir?”

“You’re my best. I want you to get out to Huntington and start working with the Bomb Squad.”

“Sarge, I really…I’m not sure—”

“What is it, Molly? Your caseload? Adam can pick up the slack on your other cases.”

“That’s not it, Sarge. In fact, you know I’m all caught up.” Just like she always was, Molly thought. Every one of her cases was closed, with only two having outstanding warrants. And why not? Considering the number of overtime hours she put in, she could have closed all of Adam’s cases on top of her own. For a year now, the only thing in her life had been work.

“So what’s the problem?” Sarge asked again, his voice adopting the more personal tone she was accustomed to hearing from him whenever they were alone together. “I would have thought that thorn in your side was digging a little deeper ever since you’d heard about the explosion. Bad enough Sabatini’s going to walk away from another murder charge, but three officers, Molly…I would have thought—of all the detectives on this unit—you’d be itching the most for the chance to get Sabatini on this one.”

“I know. It’s just—”

“Molly, listen to me.” Sarge rose and circled his desk, propping himself against one corner so he stood in front of her. This wasn’t her sergeant talking now. It was Karl Burr, her father’s old patrol partner, the man who’d taught her to swing a bat when her father had given up, the man who had helped build her tree house when she was six, the man who’d filled in at parent-teacher’s night the time her father was sick, the man she’d called “Uncle” for years because it best defined their relationship.

He reached out and placed one large hand on her shoulder. “I’m offering you this opportunity,” he continued, “because I know you want Sabatini. Ever since that son of a bitch killed Tom, I’ve held you back from anything to do with Sabatini. I didn’t think you were ready. I thought the grudge was too deep for you to maintain a healthy and safe perspective. But it’s been over a year now. I think you’re ready.”

Yes, it had been over a year. But it hardly seemed long enough to get over the murder…no, the execution of her former partner. Then again, how much time was enough? Especially when she’d been the one who could have saved him?

Every day of the past year, she’d tried to put the haunting memories behind her, tried to forget. But not a day went by that Molly hadn’t remembered, that she hadn’t thought about Tom Sutton, her first patrol partner and closest friend.

They hadn’t been partners the night Sabatini had had Tom murdered, but she’d known the risks Tom was taking. He’d come to her the day before, then called her again only an hour before he’d been shot. Working undercover Vice, he said he’d found something on Sabatini, something that might actually “stick” once and for all. And Tom had turned to Molly for help.

Only…she’d been too late.

“Molly?” Sarge prompted her. “Are you telling me you’re not ready?”

“I’m not sure, Sarge,” Molly said finally, noting how confusion deepened the lines in his face as he folded his arms across his wide, barreled chest.

But it wasn’t just Tom she was thinking of now. There was Mitch.

Mitch was alive. He had to be. She had that gut feeling—the same one Tom had taught her to heed above all others.

Yes, Mitch was alive. And it was Mitch who was the ticket to seeing Sabatini behind bars. It was Mitch’s testimony that would finally do it. She couldn’t waste her time working potentially dead-end leads with the Bomb Squad. She needed to find Mitch. And she needed to find him before Sergio Sabatini did.

“This doesn’t have to do with that search-and-seizure warrant, does it? It was a good warrant, Molly,” Sarge was saying. “You know you weren’t to blame for those charges against Sabatini being thrown out.”

Another deep twinge of guilt. “You know I was, Sarge. But that’s not why I can’t join the team.”

“Why then?”

“I need some time off.”

“What?”

“I was planning to ask you before all of this broke,” she lied. “Besides, you know I haven’t had a single vacation day in almost a year. I’m due.”

“But now?”

“Now more than ever. I’m burned out, Sarge. My cases are all closed. It’s the perfect time. I need a break. It has nothing to do with Sabatini.”

For a second, as she watched his eyes narrow into a scrutinizing stare, she wondered if he saw through her lie. Molly Sparling never needed a break. And the fact that she was asking for it now had to raise suspicions.

She expected him to demand what she was up to, to ask her flat out if she intended to go after Mitch. But he didn’t. Instead, he let out a long breath, shook his head and resumed his seat.

“All right. Whatever you say, Molly. I only figured I’d give you the opportunity before anyone else on the squad. I’d thought…Well, forget it. If you say you need time, then you need time. Besides, your father already thinks I work you too damned hard.”

Molly returned the rare smile that twitched at the corners of Karl Burr’s mouth, the same smile she was quite certain only she had ever been privy to over the years he’d commanded the squad.

“Get your vacation slip to me. I’ll sign it. You can start today, if you like.”

“Thanks, Sarge.”

“Don’t thank me, Molly. They’re your days. ’Bout damned time you took some off.” He picked up his mug, the CPD logo on it lost behind his big hand as he lifted it to his lips.

When he opened the first file on his desk, Molly studied the top of his head, a mass of salt-and-pepper hair that seemed more “salt” than “pepper” these days. She wondered if it was due to age or stress, or more likely a combination of both. Still, there’d been no convincing him to join her father in retirement. Karl Burr was married to the force; more than that, he was committed to his squad.

“You’d better get that slip before I change my mind, Sparling,” he muttered, not looking up. But Molly could see the quiver of a smile on his lips before she turned to the door.

“I REALLY WISH you’d reconsider, Mitch.”

Mitch shook his head, heaving the last of Barb’s bags into the trunk of the rental car.

“I’ll be okay,” he assured her again, closing the lid.

“You know I’m going to be worried sick about you up here alone. It’s not safe. You should go to the police.”

They’d been over this at least a dozen times already, and Mitch had figured that by now Barb Newcombe, one of his closest friends in college, would have remembered his stubbornness.

“I’m not going to the police, Barb. I went to them once, and it almost got me killed. I’m better off keeping a low profile up here.”

She gave him a look, her blue eyes making the sternness appear even sharper. He’d seen that look too many times in the past couple of days.

He forced himself to smile then, and reached out to brush snow from her shoulder. “I’ll be fine,” he said, trying to assure her again.

“Well, you’ve got my numbers in Chicago. You call me…for whatever reason. Just call to let me know you’re okay, ’cuz I know you won’t answer the phone.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said again, feeling like a broken record.

She studied him for a long moment as the snow tumbled down around them in the still air. To his right, he was vaguely aware of the sun setting behind the distant line of firs, but even the slight blush of orange in the sky did little to warm the cold that settled over the northern landscape.

And then, as though Barb had at last given up trying to persuade him to do the logical thing, she threw her arms around him and gave him a hug.

“You’ve got the keys to my Blazer. And I’ve left you some more cash on the kitchen table,” she said, stepping back and lifting a hand to stop his objection before he could voice it. “Take it, Mitch. You can’t risk using your credit or bank cards. Think of it as a down payment. I’m considering an addition to the house.”

She smiled and walked around the car. When Mitch joined her, she turned to him once more.

“Be careful, Mitch. Promise me.”

“I promise. Everything’s going to be all right.” And Mitch wished he could believe his own words.

She nodded, touching his cheek with one cold hand. “By the way, I like you without the beard and mustache, you know?”

“Yeah?”

“You should have shaved it years ago. And the hair…” Mitch ran one hand across the short cut. It was definitely a different look than the one he’d sported the past few years. One he hoped would buy him some anonymity up here in the relatively secluded northern Ontario wilderness.

“…it suits you,” she finished. She flashed him a parting smile and folded herself elegantly into the driver’s seat of the rental car.

“Just be careful, Mitch,” she added one more time before rolling up the window and popping the vehicle into reverse.

He watched her back the car out the drive, giving her a quick wave as she turned down the side road and disappeared out of sight. Even after the sound of the engine was swallowed up by the dense, snow-covered forest, Mitch stood in the drive, recalling the many words of warning Barb had given him over the past couple of days.

She was right in a lot of her fears. There was only so long he’d be able to hide, only so long he could run from Sabatini. And it wasn’t as though any of this nightmare was going to just go away on its own.

Eventually, Mitch turned back to the house nestled in the firs and pines. From its rocky perch, it overlooked frozen Bass Lake, sheltered from most of the other cottages and houses that clustered along its shore. Barb’s house couldn’t exactly be classified as a cottage, even if it didn’t quite measure up to the grand expectations both she and Mitch had talked about back in college. But when Barb finally made CEO of a software company in Chicago, she’d held Mitch to his college promise to design her lakeside retreat.

The two-story, wood-and-glass structure was easily one of the most impressive in the lakeside community, he thought with pride as he headed up the front steps. Now more than ever Mitch was grateful he’d talked Barb into adding the spare bedroom to the initial plans; he’d made good use of it for the past three nights.

Nothing had felt better than that extra bed after the full day he’d spent on a Greyhound from Huntington all the way through Sault Ste. Marie and on up to Wawa, followed by a one-hour car ride after Barb picked him up at the terminal.

He’d had a whopping headache by the time they pulled into the hidden driveway, but he’d known it was more on account of the blow he’d sustained from a flying plank during the explosion than from the long hours sitting in a cramped coach.

Reaching the wraparound porch, he lifted one hand to his forehead and fingered the neat piece of gauze that covered the healing gash. It had bled fiercely when he’d scaled the fence of the bungalow’s backyard. He mustn’t have been unconscious for long, he’d decided. He’d already staggered a good three or four blocks from the safe house before he’d heard the wail of sirens.

He knew then that, unless he had a death wish, he couldn’t return to Chicago, and even before he located the bus terminal in Huntington, he’d already decided he had to come here. He could trust Barb. No one else. Not even the police, it seemed.

There was one person on the Chicago police force he might be able to trust with his life. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d thought of Molly during the past few days. Then again, how was that any different from the past twelve years? In all that time, not a day went by when he hadn’t thought of her, when he hadn’t wondered about calling her, seeing her. But in all those years, he’d never had the courage. Nor had he ever been able to think of the words to apologize for what he’d done to her.

Chapter Two

Molly gripped the wheel of her Jeep Wrangler a little tighter and eased her foot off the gas as she maneuvered the vehicle into a sweeping curve. The headlights skimmed across the high snowbanks, hinting at the dark trunks and dense underbrush beyond. Normally she’d enjoy a drive like this—twisting blacktop through the middle of the wilderness. But with the snow coming down even thicker now, and with the wind battering against the side of the Wrangler, the fun was lost to the struggle against the elements.

Not to mention the fact that she was exhausted. For almost ten hours straight she’d battled the slippery conditions of Highway 131, then traffic along the I-75 heading north through Michigan; she’d spent another three past the Canadian border, fighting whiteouts and snow-covered roads the entire way. The thrill of the drive was long gone, replaced with anxiousness as Molly glanced down at her gas gauge.

“Bass Lake, eh? Oh yeah, that’s just up the road a few kilometers,” the proprietor of the last convenience store had advised, and he’d proceeded to give her directions that had convinced her she’d make it there on the quarter tank of gas.

But “a few kilometers” had translated to miles. And those miles had been added to when she’d missed the snow-plastered sign and the turnoff, and ended up driving a good twenty minutes beyond before realizing the mistake and having to backtrack.

The needle of the gas gauge dipped even farther below the E as she banked the Jeep through the next curve. Molly cursed. Why hadn’t she heeded that voice of warning in her head when she’d considered stopping a couple of hours ago to scout for a motel?

Because her gut had told her not to. Her gut told her Mitch was alive, and that she had to get to him before Sabatini did. Her gut had led her to Mitch’s closed-up architecture firm in the Jackson Boulevard Complex, where she’d rifled through his files and Rolodex, and found Barb Newcombe’s name and the address of her summer place in Ontario. And Molly’s gut had told her that of all the possibilities, it was his college friend’s cottage Mitch would most likely run to.

Of course, it wasn’t her gut that was running on empty and was about to die along this deserted stretch of godforsaken, freezing road, Molly thought, cursing again.

She’d called Barb Newcombe’s secretary yesterday afternoon in Chicago, and managed to find out that the CEO had taken an extended New Year’s vacation in Canada and wasn’t expected back to work until the day after tomorrow. The chance of Mitch being at Newcombe’s cottage with her had seemed even more likely after that, and Molly had started packing.

She’d almost finished by early evening when Adam had shown up at the door of her apartment. He hadn’t waited for an invite, but pushed his way in, demanding to know what she was up to and why she hadn’t responded to any of his attempts to page her.

“Yeah, right, Molly,” he’d said, standing in the doorway of her bedroom as he’d watched her shove more clothes into her overnight bag. “You aren’t visiting your aunt in Cleveland. Unless, of course, you always pack your off-duty for family reunions.” He lifted one fleece sweater to reveal the compact Walther 380 tucked in its ankle holster. “Hell, you probably don’t even have an aunt in Cleveland, do you?”

Molly ignored the question, praying he wouldn’t search further and find her on-duty weapon in the bag as well.

“Adam, would you do me a favor?”

“Nope.”

“Adam, come on, it’s just—”

“No way.” He shook his head, and Molly followed him into the cramped living room, where he attempted to pace.

She’d always thought Adam Barclay was built like a linebacker for the Bears, and in her small apartment, he looked even broader as he tried to maneuver around the clutter.

“You’ve got a key to my place,” she continued, adopting a plea in her voice. “Just come in and feed Cat once a day? Please?”

“That ungrateful bag of—”

“Please?”

“Only if you tell me where you’re really headed.”

“I can’t do that, Adam.”

“You’re going after him, aren’t you?”

The question shouldn’t have surprised her. After all, practically everyone in the Homicide Unit—especially her partner—knew of the deep-seated grudge she held against Sabatini. How could Adam not have guessed what she was up to?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she stated.

“The architect. Mitch Drake. You figure he survived the bombing, that he’s alive and hiding out someplace. So you’re going to single-handedly bring him in. The unwilling witness.”

“And how do you arrive at that conclusion?”

“Come on, Molly, I’ve been your partner three years, and in all that time you’ve never taken a vacation. I think I can figure it out. So…what d’you think you’ll get for this stunt—bringing in the one witness that can finally put Sabatini behind bars? Assuming you can pull it off, that is. You aiming for another bronze star?”

The rancor in Adam’s voice had confused her. “Why are you so bothered at the thought of me taking a little vacation time to follow a personal hunch?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” His voice had sharpened. “Maybe because I don’t want to lose my partner?”

She’d thought she saw a glimmer of concern sweep across Adam’s face then.

“Come on, Molly.” He softened his tone, as though still hoping to convince her. “This is insane. Sabatini isn’t your crusade, and you’re not some one-woman crime squad, as much as you’ve been trying to act like it ever since Sutton’s murder. Even if this Drake guy is alive, it’s suicide to think you can bring him in on your own, against Sabatini’s men. And I’m tellin’ you, if Sabatini hasn’t already had the guy executed, you can bet he’s got every hired thug of his out there lookin’ for him. Leave it to Witness Protection or the Fugitive Squad or whoever it is they’ve got searching for Drake.”

“I’m just going to take a few days and see what I can come up with, Adam. That’s all.”

“You’re just going to take a few days and get yourself killed, is all. Just like Sutton, for God’s sake. Guess you learned more from your former partner than I gave you credit for, huh?”

“Look, Adam, I appreciate your concern. Really, I do. But I have to do this. I have to try. Mitch…he…if he is alive, he’s running scared. He’s not going to trust anyone now.”

“And what makes you think he’ll trust you?”

“Because…because he and I have a past,” she admitted before she could change her mind about sharing the personal tidbit.

Her gaze had involuntarily flitted to her fireplace. It was so brief, but Adam caught it. He looked to the framed photo of her and Mitch, barely out of high school, in one another’s arms. She didn’t know why she kept it there on her mantel, but anytime she tried to put the photo away she wasn’t able to.

“Adam, I have to at least try. If anyone is going to be able to find Mitch and convince him to testify…it’s me.”

But now, as Molly strained to see the next road sign through the mounting snow squalls in her headlights, she was beginning to doubt what she’d told Adam. And as she slowed to make the turn toward Bass Lake and felt the first sputter of the Jeep as it accelerated on what could only be fumes at this point, Molly silently prayed that her past with Mitch would have some power in convincing him to return to Chicago and do the right thing.

It wasn’t just to see Sergio Sabatini behind bars, Molly realized as she spotted the distant glimmer of lights beyond the thumping wipers. Mitch’s life depended on it.

BARB’S WORDS HAD PLAGUED Mitch all day. He’d shoveled snow, split some firewood, even changed the oil in the Blazer. And all the while he’d weighed the wisdom of doing as Barb suggested and going to the police.

Still, he’d not been able to see any reason for doing so. Returning to Chicago to testify against Sabatini would have no affect on his own life, anyway. It would do nothing to change the fact that Emily was dead and his career was over. The only reason left for testifying now was to ensure Sabatini didn’t kill any more innocent people. But how was it that he owed anyone anything?

Bitterness had consumed him several times throughout the day. It would clutch at his heart and start the small, familiar fits of anger he’d felt far too often over the past ten months. What did he owe anybody, after what he’d been through, after everything he’d lost?

By early evening, after spending an hour wandering through the house, reacquainting himself with his past design, he’d finally settled down by the fireplace. He’d picked up a pad of paper and a pencil and started sketching possible plans for the addition Barb had mentioned. What else did he have to do except bide his time? Wait for Sabatini’s men to find him…

The sketching, however, had done little to take his mind off his situation. In fact, it only served to remind him of the work and the life he no longer had back in Chicago.

Mitch lowered the pad and pencil at last. He checked his watch: almost 11:00 p.m. The living room lay in shadows, the only light coming from the fireplace and the lamp next to the wing chair he’d occupied for the past several hours. The classical CD on the stereo had finished long ago, and the entire house seemed to have been swallowed by the silence of the surrounding wilderness.

He might not have heard the neighbor’s German shepherd otherwise. But there was no mistaking the anxious bark from the next lot. Mitch set his sketches on the coffee table and moved across the dimly lit room. He approached the east window with caution and fingered open one of the shutters to peer into the darkness.

It was the thin beam of a flashlight through the thick, swirling snow that caught Mitch’s eye first. With such low cloud cover, the night was black, but he could just make out the silhouette of the figure behind the flashlight. It was impossible to tell if it was a man or woman who struggled through the mounting snow, but there was no mistaking the person’s seemingly determined route—straight down the drive toward the front door.

Maybe it was paranoia, but the name Sergio Sabatini jumped to the front of his mind. It was too late at night for lost or stranded tourists, and even if it was just some hapless soul, Barb’s was certainly not the first—and definitely not the most obvious—house along the lakeshore road.

It was that thought and a renewed sense of self-preservation that spurred Mitch away from the window and into action.

MOLLY COULDN’T PUT a finger on the bad feeling that had started in the pit of her stomach from the moment she’d seen Barb Newcombe’s name on the mailbox, but the feeling had risen steadily with each step she took toward the virtually unlit house. A dim but warm light slipped through the shuttered windows of a single downstairs room, flickering through the driving snow. The only other light came from the front porch.