Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (200 page)

When he’d hung up, he immediately relayed the news to the Com Centre. “We need to know if McIntyre’s vehicle is in the garage, so I’m going to go—”

“Green!” snapped the Tac supervisor. “Don’t be a hero!”

“We need to know! A sixteen-year-old girl is at risk.” Far more than you know, Green added silently, remembering the sex dens and the hidden videos. Before the Tac supervisor could object further, he slipped out of the car and turned back to Sullivan. “Use the binoculars and see what you can make out through the windows.”

“Be careful! That’s one serious firearm he has.” Green nodded and grabbed his body armour and utility belt from the trunk. He started down the street, trying to hug close to shrubs and cars along the way. He felt like a sitting duck, aware that both McIntyre and O’Shaughnessy would recognize him on sight. Sullivan should have done this, he realized belatedly. Sullivan could have walked right up and knocked on the front door, pretending to be a Jehovah’s Witness. At the thought, a manic chuckle bubbled up inside. Here he was, wearing a vest that a Winchester 30-30 round would slice right through and carrying a pistol that he’d never fired outside the practice range in all his years on the force. When all along, a Jehovah’s Witness could do the trick.

By the time he reached McIntyre’s house, his clothing and hair were drenched, and water blurred his eyes. He crept along the foundation so that he was not visible through the windows, crossed the driveway and peeked around the corner of the garage to the side path. No sign of O’Shaughnessy. He listened but could hear nothing above the rain hammering against the house. With a wary eye on the gate ahead, he sneaked along the stone path to the side door. As before, he slipped it open and peered inside the garage. Fear gripped his throat. The black Navigator was there.

Which meant that McIntyre and Crystal were already inside. He scurried back down the path, across the front yard, and around the hedge into the neighbour’s side yard. When he was sufficiently out of earshot, he huddled under a tall tee and radioed in to report the bad news. As he spoke, he caught a glimpse of a police cruiser slipping quietly into place at the end of the street, barricading the block.

“Any signs of a confrontation?” the Tac supervisor wanted to know.

Green squinted at the house through the rain. “It’s hard to hear above the weather, but it seems quiet. The curtains are drawn.”

“Then go back to your vehicle and wait for us. We’re ten minutes away.”

“We don’t have ten minutes,” Green said. “There’s a killer wandering around with a Winchester 30-30, and a minor who may already be harmed.”

“If he spots you, it may set him off.”

Green stared back at the house. It looked so serene, but what the hell was going on inside? That’s what he needed to find out. He muttered a hasty reassurance to the Tac supervisor, signed off and phoned Sullivan.

“Grab your gear and meet me at the neighbour’s side yard.” He didn’t give Sullivan time to protest before hanging up. Then he hunched down under the neighbour’s tree and counted the agonizing seconds until Sullivan appeared.

“We’re not going in,” Green said as they checked their Glocks, “but we need to get close enough to hear. So we’re going to scout the house and if possible, get a peek inside.”

Sullivan’s face tightened. “Does Tactical know this?”

“They’d just tell me not to. But procedure does tell us to go in if we suspect imminent risk to others. I do.” He hunched over, ducked around the hedge and retraced his steps along the front of McIntyre’s house, conscious of Sullivan’s steps squishing through the grass behind him. They rounded the side of the house and headed down the path to the back gate. Cautiously, Green eased the latch up and cracked the gate open two inches. He peered through the gap. The pool glistened undisturbed, its surface pebbled by rain. In his line of vision, he could see no sign of O’Shaughnessy. He pushed the gate open enough to squeeze through and pressed himself against the back wall of the house.

The backyard was empty. Ted O’Shaughnessy had disappeared, almost certainly inside the house. Green beckoned to Sullivan and the two of them inched along the back of the house. Up ahead was a large window, further on a set of French doors, and at the far end, a smaller bay window. Ted must have entered by the French doors.

Green signalled Sullivan to check in the first window while he ducked along to the French doors. He pressed himself against the wall, feeling the rough brick against his cheek as he edged forward to peer through the door. He could make out the leather sofas and floor-to-ceiling fieldstone fireplace of the family room. Sullivan came up behind him.

“Nothing,” he whispered, barely audible above the driving rain and howling wind.

Green reached to lay his hand on the door handle, and Sullivan grabbed it. He shook his head vigorously.

“We need to hear,” Green whispered. He pressed down on the handle and felt the door give. It creaked as it drifted open, and both detectives ducked back out of the line of fire. Nothing. Gripping their guns, they stepped through the door onto the polished hardwood floor and eased the door shut, closing the wind and rain behind them. Now Green could hear the faint strains of music. He recognized the sound. Soft, seductive jazz. He held his breath and cocked his head. No voices, just the occasional groan. It could have been a moan of pleasure or a whimper of fear. Beside the family room, the kitchen was also empty, its counters clear except for a collection of empty wine bottles near the sink. He tried to recall the layout of the house. Ahead lay the hall and to the right the closed door leading to the home office. But the jazz wafted through the house from a distant room.

Were McIntyre and Crystal in one of the bedrooms, he wondered? Even more important, where the hell was Ted O’Shaughnessy?

His questions were answered by the ear-splitting crack of a rifle shot, followed by a girl’s scream and a man’s hoarse shout. The detectives hit the floor and rolled behind the couch, fumbling to aim their guns at the doorway.

“Jumpin’ Jesus,” a man bellowed from some far recess of the house. “Ted! You could have fucking killed me!”

“If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead. I want answers!”

In the background, a girl wailed.

“Ted, take it easy, before somebody gets hurt.”

“Get up and get away from the girl.”

“Ted, you don’t want to—”

“Get away from the girl!”

“Now listen to me, you ungrateful prick—”

Another shot rang out. The girl’s shriek rose higher.

“You gonna shoot the girl, huh? Is that what you want?”

“This is all your fault!” O’Shaughnessy roared, and Green could hear an edge of hysteria in his voice. He and Sullivan were racing across the house and up the stairs. No need for stealth, just speed. “Riley may never play again! You fed him drugs—”

“He never touched drugs—”

“Performance enhancers! You made him crash. All because you didn’t want him to see that girl!”

“That was this little lady’s idea,” McIntyre replied. “She came up with the plan. You want to kill her too?”

“She’s a kid, McIntyre.”

“Some kid. Look at these melons. Want a piece of her too?”

The girl’s only response was a whimper.

“You’re sick!” Ted snapped. “Why did you do it, huh? You couldn’t control him any more? He wouldn’t listen to you?”

“Come on, Ted, don’t play innocent,” McIntyre snapped. “He was off his game. The most important playoffs of his career, and his focus was shot, all because he was thinking with his dick. Everybody said do something!”

From the top of the stairs, Green could now see Ted looming in the doorway of the bedroom at the end of the hall. He was facing into the room, brandishing his rifle.

“Riley would never take drugs! You tricked him, you freaked him out, and now it’s all over. His life, my life...”

As he crept down the hall, Green steadied his gun with both hands. Mentally rehearsed procedure. Aim weapon.
Police! Don’t
move!
He prayed for calm. Over the barrel, he glimpsed the massive bed with its red silk duvet tossed on the floor. McIntyre was crouched on the bed in a tangle of sheets, his doughy skin glistening in the reddish glow of a dozen romantic sconces. In his arms, her naked body pressed against his as a shield, was a wideeyed, sobbing girl. She was rigidly still, but as Green reached the door, her eyes locked on his. For a split-second, they widened.

O’Shaughnessy lifted his rifle and started to swing towards the door. Adrenaline shot through Green, and he was just aiming his Glock and preparing to shout when Sullivan barrelled past him and slammed his footballer’s shoulder into O’Shaughnessy’s side. The rifle flew up in the air, hit the ceiling and clattered harmlessly to the floor. Green dived to retrieve it, keeping his eye fixed on McIntyre and his gun trained on O’Shaughnessy. The man flailed briefly beneath Sullivan’s weight, but within ten seconds, Sullivan had him pinned and cuffed.

Crystal had scrambled to the corner, where she cowered, shivering and weeping. Green grabbed the red duvet from the floor and threw it over her.

At that moment, the Tactical Unit burst through the door.

Twenty-Two

 M
cIntyre’s house was in chaos for most of the afternoon. Two
CID
teams arrived to handle the arrests of both McIntyre and O’Shaughnessy. Lou Paquette and his partner showed up with the official search warrant, grumbling about the mountain of physical evidence already collected in the Lea Kovacev case.

“Tell the bad guys not to do another major crime for at least six months,” he warned the
CID
teams in his gravelly, whiskey-soaked voice.

Paramedics swept in to examine Crystal and ultimately take her to the hospital. The girl had been virtually mute since her rescue and huddled in the corner, refusing to answer questions.

“She’s in shock,” the senior paramedic told Green. “Plus she’s stoned. She’s lethargic and doesn’t seem to remember how she got here.”

“Did he rape her?”

The paramedic shrugged. “I’ll leave that for the
ER
team to determine. There are no visible signs of assault, but I’m betting he fed her something.”

Once he’d recovered his dignity and his clothes, McIntyre began to scream about lawsuits and criminal charges. He protested his innocence all the way into the back of the cruiser, demanding to speak to his lawyer, Green’s superior and “whoever really wears the pants in your chicken-shit organization.” He said Crystal and he had a special relationship, and that he’d never realized she was only sixteen. If she was on drugs, she had taken them herself.

Ted O’Shaughnessy said very little, but watched in resigned silence as McIntyre was driven away. A tow truck arrived to take Ted’s pick-up truck to the impound yard. Even from a cursory glance, Green could tell Ted had washed the truck bed clean with a pressure washer, but there were plenty of cracks and crevices where blood could still cling. Lyle Cunningham promised he’d examine it as soon as he could climb over the bags of evidence already piled up in his lab.

On Sullivan’s advice, Ted didn’t say a word about Jenna’s murder, but he showed no surprise when the charge was read out, nor did he proclaim his outraged innocence. Green stood on the front lawn and watched him as he was bundled into the back of the cruiser. He looked like a man shell-shocked by the unravelling of his life, as much in disbelief about his own actions as others were.

Sullivan appeared at Green’s side, car keys in hand. “You coming with me?”

Green hesitated. He was still flying high on adrenaline, and he knew what awaited him back at the station. Not the thrill of interviewing the witnesses and wrapping up the case, but hours of debriefing, media clamour and damage control. Guns had been drawn, Tac orders ignored, civilians placed in harm’s way. It didn’t matter that no one had been killed, no shots had been fired, at least by police, and two suspects were now in custody with promising cases against them. The minutia of police protocol would come before all else.

Meanwhile here at McIntyre’s house, Lou Paquette and his partner were just starting a thorough search of the premises. Green wanted to hang around to ensure that they uncovered all the sleazy secrets he knew lay within.

By the time he arrived back at the station three hours later, the adrenaline had worn off, but he felt the triumph of a case well solved. Paquette had been able to seize all the photographs, videos, bottles and pills. If even a few of the seizures contained something illegal—underage girls, crystal meth or designer drugs—they should have enough to put the bastard out of circulation for a few years.

Lea’s panties were just the crowning touch. Paquette ordered
DNA
testing right away, and maybe in the end, it would be through those panties that Lea would be able to extract her final revenge.

After enduring a remarkably painless preliminary debriefing with Devine, who was just happy that the whole fiasco looked like a success on the six o’clock news, Green arrived down in the squad room to find Sullivan at his computer, preparing his interview notes for Ted O’Shaughnessy. Sullivan glanced up. “You want to be in on this, Mike?”

Green shook his head. “And I don’t think you should be either.”

Sullivan frowned. “There’s no history between me and Ted.”

“We’re both too close, after what went down today. We can coach from the video room, but let’s give it to Gibbs. It’s time we gave him something to shoot for.”

Sullivan gave him a long, searching stare but put up no resistance. Neither did Ted O’Shaughnessy when Gibbs completed the preliminaries and invited him to talk. Ted had met with a lawyer, but had ignored his pleas to remain silent. He sat rigidly in the interview chair, staring down at the table. Grey stubble darkened his chin, and his eyes were hollow.

“I don’t care about me,” he said. “What the fuck does it matter any more? McIntyre’s ruined everything, but you’ll never get him, you know. He’ll weasel out of everything. That girl... I overheard him talking to her in the bedroom, saying he could really help her get ahead, promising her invites to his special parties and dates with his hottest prospects, if she kept quiet about him supplying her the drugs. She was so high, she would have agreed to anything. I couldn’t stand to think of him manipulating yet another naïve young kid. I didn’t know what I was going to do when I actually found the asshole— probably just scare the shit out of him—but when I heard him smooth-talking her, I wanted to kill the bastard.”