A Cold Christmas (25 page)

Her answer was a shot that splintered the door.

“You can't get away! Come out with your hands on your head!”

“Come in and get me!”

She wondered if the room was filled with ammo and he could sit there blasting away forever.

“Mr. Kane?” she called. “It's Chief Wren. We spoke last week.”

She thought her answer might be another shot, but there was a silence that stretched out.

“So?” he said finally.

“What will it take, Mr. Kane, to get you to come out?”

“Ha! You think you can just sweet-talk me out of here?”

“Is there anything I can get you?”

“A million dollars.”

“Anything else? Something to eat? A cheeseburger?”

“A million dollars and a helicopter.”

“Hampstead Police Department doesn't have a helicopter.”

She didn't know much about hostage negotiation—but “keep the barricaded suspect talking” was rule number one.

“I want a helicopter and a propeller for a Cessna 150.”

Keeping her voice low, she told White, “See what's in the kitchen to eat. Don't waste time.”

“Right.” He went off to the kitchen and returned shortly. “Cans of soup, a loaf of bread, and some moldy cheese in the refrigerator, plus some beer.”

“Where do you keep your can opener?” she called, not expecting him to reply.

“Lower cabinet, next to the sink.”

“I'm kind of hungry. You mind if I have some soup?” She told White to warm up a can.

He answered with a grunt. She kept asking questions. Some he answered, some he didn't. “I don't like talking through a door. Why don't you come out?”

No response.

When White got back with a cup of soup, she said, “Soup's ready. Want a cup?”

“You can come in, if you want. Door's unlocked.”

She twisted the knob and pushed the door slowly inward. Zach sat cross-legged on the floor at the foot of a single bed. Kane sat on the bed with a handgun at Zach's head. The shotgun lay beside him.

She kept her voice level. “You all right, Zach?”

“Nothing wrong with him,” Kane growled. “Yet. Get everybody out or I'll pop him.”

She motioned for White and Adler to move back.

“Tell 'em to leave!”

“Mr. Kane, you know I can't do that.”

Zach coughed, tight and croupy. She could hear the wheeze when he drew breath. His eyes were looking above her shoulder, and his head moved a tiny bit as though he was keeping time to music only he could hear.

“You sure I can't get you something? A sandwich, soft drink? Coffee?”

“Get rid of the soup. Think I'm stupid? Let you waltz in here with hot soup and throw it at me?”

That was a possibility she'd had in mind. “I could set it on the floor. You could pick it up yourself.”

He laughed. She eased closer to the doorway.

“Get back! Any closer and I pull the trigger!”

She stopped but didn't retreat. “You know a lot about planes?”

“Get rid of the soup! Get rid of it!”

She handed the cup to White and stepped just inside the bedroom doorway.

“Tell him to leave! Tell 'em all to leave.”

“Take it easy, Mr. Kane.”

He jammed the gun against Zach's temple. She motioned for Adler and White to move back. White sidled along the wall toward Crenshaw and Marshall in the kitchen entryway. Adler moved toward Ellis at the other end of the hallway.

“I saw on your minivan that you give flying lessons,” she said. “Could you teach me? I've always wanted to learn.”

Kane bared his teeth in a humorless smile. Zach started swaying his head and shoulders, barely moving, in time with his inner music. Kane grabbed one shoulder to make him stop.

Zach coughed.

“He needs a doctor,” she said. “Let him go. So far you haven't done anything a good attorney can't take care of. Let me have Zach. I'll take him to his mom and—noo!”

As if
Mom
had been some kind of trigger, Zach uncoiled and lunged at Kane.

Kane fell awkwardly backward and rolled onto the floor.

Swinging her gun, she slammed it hard against his temple. With a grunt of pain, he got to his knees. As he rose to his feet, he smashed his weapon into her ribs.

Zach yelled. Throwing his arms around Kane's neck, he let his body go limp. The unexpected weight jerked Kane to one knee. His gun went off. Zach dropped like a stone, blood flowing from the top of his head.

The explosion in the enclosed space deafened her. She lunged and grabbed Kane's shirt collar. Fighting to retain her balance, she slammed her gun hand on his ear. He twisted to backhand her.

She struggled to get control of his gun while not losing her own. Kicking at his knee, she shoved her weight against his shoulder. He collapsed and she went down with him, landing beneath him.

Five cops swarmed in and made grabs at Kane.

She struggled to roll him on his back and get on top. Forearm hard against his throat, she shoved the barrel of her Sig Saur against his temple.

35

It was four
A.M.
when Susan limped into the interrogation room. Kane was sprawled in a plastic chair he'd pulled away from the table, picking with one thumbnail at the greenish black crescent in the other. His thinning brown hair stood on end, making him look somewhere between pissed off and deranged. White and Ellis were with him. She asked him his name for the record.

“Porter Kane,” he growled.

She turned on the tape recorder, repeated the Miranda, and mentioned the date, time, and all those present. She reeled off offenses: kidnapping, child endangerment, discharging a weapon within the city limits, assault on an officer, attempted homicide, homicide …

He jumped to his feet. “I didn't fuckin' murder anybody!”

Ellis shoved him back down.

“I didn't kidnap the fuckin' kid, either. He broke into my house. I have a right to defend myself.”

“What about Branner Noel? Were you defending yourself against him?”

“Who?”

“Tim Holiday.” He didn't seem to recognize that name, either. “The man who repaired your furnace.”

“That dipstick? Why would I kill him?”

“You tell us, Mr. Kane.”

“I didn't kill anybody.” He crossed his arms.

“We searched your house, Mr. Kane.” She paused. He stared at her mulishly. “We found what appear to be cremated human remains. Is that why you killed Holiday? He saw the ashes and you had to get rid of him?”

Kane snorted. “What? You think you got yourselves a serial killer here? I never killed anybody.”

“Why, Mr. Kane, do you have boxes of ashes in your basement?”

His skin had taken on a tired gray tinge. He slumped forward and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Paul Satterly Funeral Home, that's where they come from.”

“Why do you have them?”

“Take 'em up, tip 'em out. They float through the air”—he rocked a hand back and forth—”to the river.”

“You were supposed to scatter these ashes from a plane into the Kaw.” She wanted to make sure she understood. “You were paid for this?”

“Would I do it for fun?”

“Why didn't you, then?”

His look of defeat took on a defensive edge. “How could I? Plane needs a new propeller. Landing gear doesn't always work right, either. Needs to be replaced.”

“So you took the money and kept the cremated remains in your house?”

“Cremains,” he said with derision. “Got laid off. Couldn't fix the fuckin' plane.”

Oh boy, she could see humongous lawsuits looming for Paul Satterly Funeral Home from the relatives and loved ones of the dear departed. “Holiday saw these—uh, cremains?”

“Damned snoop. No reason for him to go in there.”

“Is that why you killed him?”

“I didn't kill him!” He slammed a fist against the table.

She kept at him. Questioned him over and over. She had the sinking feeling he was telling the truth. If Parkhurst were here, she could bounce it off him.

“Cremains weren't the only things we found,” she said. “We found two watches and a crystal clock with diamond numbers. Did I mention burglary in the list of charges?”

“I want a lawyer.”

She had Ellis take him back to a cell.

Hazel brought in a mug of coffee. “What are you doing here?” Susan said.

“Drink the coffee. I got a call from the hospital. Ida Ruth Dandermadden died about an hour ago.”

Susan sipped hot coffee, got her coat, and told Hazel she was going to Brookvale to check on Demarco and Zach James. She finished up the coffee on the way.

A Christmasy feeling hung in the cold, black sky, full moon, stars twinkling. Cold. Cold. Cold. She jogged up to the hospital doors.

They hissed open and she went into the warm lobby. The tree in the corner was all silver lights and red baubles. She said hello to the woman behind the desk and made her way down the hallway to the emergency area.

“I'm looking for Officer Demarco,” she said to Mary Mason, the triage nurse.

“Room three.”

Susan found Demarco lying in bed, shirt off, bandage around his shoulder. Crenshaw was lounging against the bed. “Chief,” he said, springing to attention.

“How're you doing?” she asked Demarco.

“Feel like I been shot. We get the bastard?”

“We did. He claims he didn't kill Holiday.”

For a long time Demarco was silent and she thought he'd fallen asleep, then, when two nurses came to move him to the OR, he gave one shake of his head. “Doesn't seem his style. Creeping into somebody's house, shooting the vic, shoving the poor slob in the furnace.”

She agreed. Reluctantly agreed. If Porter Kane hadn't killed Holiday, who had? Caley James? Mat James? She was no nearer to finding the answers than when she started. She had two homicides—maybe three, now that Ida Ruth had died—to clear before she left for San Francisco. In two days.

36

Caley James squealed into the hospital parking lot and pulled into a space marked
PHYSICIAN.

“Hey! That's my spot.”

“Find another one!”

She sped inside and stopped, confused. Which way? Down a corridor, she spied a desk and ran up to it. “My son. Zach James. Where is he?”

“Third floor. You go down this hallway and take the elevators—”

She didn't wait for the rest of it. Because she found the stairs first, she ran up to the third floor, not even short of breath when she got there. Waste of time, breathing.

“Zach James?” she asked a nurse.

“He's in three twenty-four, but—”

Three twenty, three twenty-two, three twenty-four. She stopped outside the door and took a breath. Pretending a composure she didn't feel, she stepped inside.

Fear dug claws in her throat.

Zach, eyes closed, lay on the bed. Face pale, head bandaged with a white turban, dark circles under his eyes.

Oh God oh God oh God.

“Zach?” She brushed his cheek with a kiss. “It's Mom, love.” The catch in her voice made her swallow.

His eyes opened. “I'm okay, Mom.”

“Oh, Zach.” She wanted to grab him up, wrap her arms around him, and hug him tight against her. She picked up his hand instead and kissed it. “What happened?” Her voice was thick.

“He's a very lucky young man. Hardheaded too.” A stocky man in green scrubs strode in and pushed buttons on the bed. With Zach lifted to a sitting position, he listened to Zach's chest, then to his back. Replacing the stethoscope around his neck, he held out his hand. “Dr. Sheffield.”

“What happened?” Caley asked, struggling to breathe.

“A bullet rode right across his head.” Dr. Sheffield traced a path over Zach's bandage.

“He was shot! Who? Zach—”

“Mom, calm down. I'm fine.”

“But—”

Dr. Sheffield folded his arms across his broad chest and leaned against the bed. “He's fine,” he repeated. “We'll keep him a couple of days. He's got a little spot of pneumonia, but—”

“Pneumonia!”

“We're taking care of it with antibiotics. It'll take longer for his hair to grow back. We had to shave it to look at the wound—”

Caley nearly dropped at the word
wound.

“He'll have a great scar to show his friends.”

Dr. Sheffield put his hands on her upper arms and looked directly into her eyes. “You have to limit your visits.” She nodded. “Ten minutes. Right now I need to take a peek under that bandage.”

She was ushered to the door, where a nurse took over and led her to a small waiting room. Brown tweed chairs, end tables with jumbled magazines, and a large fish tank built into one wall.

*   *   *

Susan turned from gazing at a dull blue-colored fish with big white teeth and handed Caley a cup of coffee, then took her arm and guided her to a chair.

“I just ran out”—Caley took a sip of coffee—”leaving Mat and Bernadette—”

“Bernadette?”

“Ettie. Mat's mother.” Caley rubbed her eyes. “When Zach was little he couldn't say Bernadette. It came out Ettie and it just stuck.”

“She uses the name Trowbridge. Did she remarry?”

“Third marriage. From James to Dalrumple to Trowbridge.” Caley got up and went to the doorway. “Do you think they'll let me know when they're finished?”

“I'm sure they will.”

“Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” Bonnie barrelled into Caley, nearly knocking her down. “Did the evil prince hurt Zach?”

Mat and Ettie with Adam in tow came in. Mat swung Bonnie up in his arms. “How is he?”

Caley shrugged. “We can't see him right now.”

“I saw him,” Bonnie whispered in Mat's ear.

“Who, baby?” he said, distracted.

“I asked that. ‘Who're you?'” She lowered her voice. “‘The evil prince. If you tell, I'll kidnap you and take you far far away where you'll have to live in a castle.' Would I be a princess if I lived in a castle, Daddy?”