Watchers of the Night, page 3
Larry stared at her in surprise. “How did you know?”
“Come on, Larry, you think the police don’t know who your gang is? Give us some credit,” she scoffed. “But I’m not talking about that. I need to know if you’re responsible for that explosion.”
“I didn’t kill anybody,” he muttered.
“But your gang has been responsible for shootings in the past,” she countered.
Larry looked away. “I’ve got nothing to say about that.”
“Okay, so let me ask you this. Has your gang changed their MO recently? Are they using a different method to kill their targets?”
The teenager turned back to her. “Why are you asking?”
“Because the explosion was man-made.” Cynthia watched carefully as Larry’s expression morphed into fear.
“You mean a damn bomb?” The poor guy clawed at the wall behind him, as if trying to escape. “Are you serious?”
“Very.” Cynthia had brought some pictures of the crime scene with her, and she wanted to observe Larry’s reaction to them. But she hadn’t expected this. “Why are you so freaked out? Are you trying to tell me that your gang isn’t responsible?”
“We don’t do bombs, man!”
“Are you sure? Don’t forget, you’re not part of the posse anymore. How would you know?”
“I don’t hang out with them, but I talk to them, you know? They told me about that drug deal. They knew I had a guy I can talk to about scaring off the competition. Makes their life easier.”
“Riiight.” Captain Boucher snorted with disgust. “And it would make your life easier if you bombed your competition.”
Larry glared at him. “You kidding? Bombs destroy everything. How can gangs steal from each other if they blow up the drugs and money?”
The teenager had another good point. “So you’re saying you knew nothing about the bomb in the MC clubhouse,” Cynthia said.
“No, ma’am. Why would my gang kill the guys that helped them out? In a manner of speaking.”
“Don’t you love it when suspects try to justify their actions?” Boucher laughed.
“Hey, if you got info on my posse, you know we don’t do explosions,” Larry argued.
“First time for everything,” Boucher countered.
The captain’s comment wasn’t exactly true. Gangs usually threatened people based on their particular specialty. Mostly, it was guns, knives and threats to injure or kill. Other gangs conducted drive-by shootings. Arson was another way to scare victims into silence.
Larry’s gang, the Desperados, were the guns-and-threats type of group. They’d been busted a number of times on small charges. Cynthia didn’t believe they’d suddenly changed tactics.
“Captain, I don’t have any other questions to ask.”
“What?” Boucher narrowed his eyes at her, as if trying to read her mind. “Aren’t you going to ask him about the bomb itself?”
“No, sir.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s no need to.” Please, Captain, trust me on this.
Cynthia knew he wasn’t pleased. He had friends who were hurt and killed in that explosion too. Like the officer who had challenged her back at the crime scene, Boucher was upset, but refused to show it.
He stared at her for several tense moments. “Fine,” he grunted. “I’m deferring to your judgment.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Doesn’t mean I think you’re right.” He turned to Larry. “You’re free to go. I’ll have an officer escort you out. If you hear of anything, you know where to find us.”
“Hey, Captain,” Larry called out as Boucher opened the door. “I hope you catch the son of a bitch. Mr. Solberg was a good guy.”
* * *
At Boucher’s terse command, Cynthia followed him to his office on the second floor. She’d been in here once before, after she was transferred from Forensic Identification Services. When he had questioned her decision to come here, she only told him that she wanted a change of scenery. He hadn’t quizzed her further, and Cynthia was grateful for his discretion.
Now she sat in an office chair facing his desk. On the wall beyond were plaques commemorating his achievements. A few pieces of neutral artwork graced the other walls, while three picture frames sat on the desk. She assumed them to be family photos.
“Ms. Cornwall, I trust you can explain why you didn’t question Larry about the bomb.”
She swiveled in her chair. Captain Boucher was standing at the large picture window, his back to her. Saying Ms. Cornwall was similar to a parent yelling out their child’s formal first name—it meant she was in trouble.
“Sir, he doesn’t know anything about it. You saw his reaction. He was terrified.”
Silence.
“It simply isn’t his or the Desperados’ MO. I don’t think they had anything to do with the clubhouse explosion,” she surmised.
“Based on what?” Captain Boucher demanded. He still hadn’t turned around.
“Evidence and past history on their crimes.” She jabbed at the folder on her lap. “That bomb wasn’t just a complicated mechanism—it was also designed to do the most damage possible. Add an accelerant to it, which I discovered was gasoline, and the clubhouse burned hotter than Hell itself.”
“What are you trying to tell me?”
“I think...” Cynthia hated guessing. Solid evidence was supposed to point her in the right direction. “Based on the current evidence we’ve collected, and knowing the patterns of criminal activity in our district...” She blew out a breath. “Sir, I think there’s a new player in town.”
Chapter 3
Adam recognized anxious family members in the waiting room of Sunnybrook Health Sciences Centre. Dawg’s wife, Elizabeth, was a slim, pretty blond-haired woman with a backbone made of steel. Bruiser approached her and engulfed her in a tight hug as Adam spotted his aunt and uncle.
Aunt Michelle and Uncle Henrik were talking to a doctor as he approached. “Adam!” Aunt Michelle cried out before collapsing into his outstretched arms. “What’s going on?” Her confused expression pulled at his heart. “What happened?”
It was natural for her to turn to him for answers. “All I know is that there was an explosion at the club.” He choked, fighting to hold his emotions together. “Dad didn’t make it.”
Uncle Henrik, Dad’s younger brother, hung his head.
“Adam, I don’t understand.” Aunt Michelle’s face was streaked with tears. “Why would anyone do this?”
“Because Magnus got too close to something.” Uncle Henrik looked at him knowingly.
“I—I don’t know. Dad never told me anything.” Adam’s mind flashed back to a particular scene at the club yesterday afternoon. His father had stood near the back door, speaking to a young Black teenager who looked vaguely familiar. “Dad was talking to some punk about another drug gang possibly dealing in the area.”
“Drugs?” Aunt Michelle whispered. “What the hell was Magnus doing?”
“Keeping our neighborhood safe. Do you think those punks have something to do with this, Adam?” his uncle asked.
Adam shook his head, more out of frustration than denial. “I have no idea. I’m not on the case.”
Uncle Henrik’s steely gray eyes locked on him. “Why?”
“Because I’m too close to it.” He hesitated. “I may have also gotten mad at Boucher.”
“Adam, don’t tell me you hit your captain.” Aunt Michelle made it sound so matter-of-fact that he almost laughed.
“I was tempted, believe me.”
“So who’s going to keep you updated on this?” his uncle demanded.
“You are. Insist on answers and keep Captain Boucher on his toes.” Adam placed his hand on his uncle’s shoulder. “I’m counting on you.”
“Right.”
Adam knew Uncle Henrik would be all over the police anyway, but the added incentive should help.
Aunt Michelle linked her fingers with her husband’s. “Have you told Leila yet?”
Oh God—Mom. Adam’s mind had been so focused on everyone else, he had forgotten about her. “No...no.” Dammit, he was going to get upset again.
“We’ll give her a call.” Aunt Michelle kissed his cheek. “But you have to talk to her as well, okay?”
* * *
Inside the hospital’s chapel, Adam stared at his personal phone, with Mom’s number displayed on it. He hadn’t hit the dial button—he’d been trying to think of how to tell her that Dad had been murdered.
But there was no way to make the traumatizing news easy. No matter how much he thought it through, it didn’t change the fact that Dad wasn’t here anymore.
He forced the misery back down his throat, took a breath to steady himself, then dialed her number. She picked up on the first ring.
“Adam.”
The tone of her voice told him she’d seen the news. “Mom.” His voice cracked, and the anguish tried to take over his body.
“Oh God.” He heard her gasp. “Magnus?”
Despite the divorce, Adam knew Mom still loved him. Telling her about Dad would tear her apart—he was close to falling to pieces himself. “He didn’t make it.”
He squeezed his eyes shut as Mom cried, punctuated with wails of grief that tore his soul to pieces. It continued for what felt like an eternity, before her sobs grew quieter. “I’m sorry, abni.” My son.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he whispered gently. Poor Mom.
“What is being done about this sick atrocity?”
“The detectives I work with are investigating.”
“And you?”
Adam shook his head, still furious at Captain Boucher’s command to stay away. “I’m not on the case.”
“I see.” He heard the simmering anger in her voice.
“They’re good colleagues, Mom. I’m sure they’ll solve it.” He had to have faith in his team, and if he knew Cornwall, she’d do everything in her power to bring the bastard to justice—her work on the serial killer case proved that. “Uncle Henrik and Aunt Michelle are at the hospital with me. Some of Dad’s friends survived.”
“Thank God at least for that.” She sniffed.
“Aunt Michelle is going to call you.” He didn’t know what else to say, other than... “I love you.”
“I love you too. Come and see me when you can.”
After he hung up, Adam allowed his grip on his emotions to break. His sobs echoed and surrounded him, tightening their hold until he slid from the pew to sit on the cold floor. He wrapped his arms around his chest, afraid he would fly apart from the intensity of his grief. He leaned his head back, tears blurring his vision as he allowed his body to do what it needed. Dad had been his anchor, the lighthouse in the storm who always guided Adam in the right direction. Now he was left adrift, buffeted by waves of loss and emptiness.
He wiped his face with both hands, his body contracting as he fought to breathe normally. He slouched against the wooden bench, long legs extended, and took another couple of deep breaths. It helped a little.
Bruiser stood several feet away, hands in his pockets, the white of the bandages a stark contrast to his dark skin. His face was turned away, giving Adam a semblance of privacy while he pulled himself together. He slowly got to his feet, used the hem of his shirt to wipe his face again and approached his friend.
“Sorry I took so long,” Bruiser apologized. “I was talking to Elizabeth.” He spoke as if he hadn’t seen Adam go through his meltdown, and Adam silently thanked him. Bruiser was the kind of guy Dad called a softie, but it was the wrong label. The big man had a knack for understanding when it was okay to talk, and when to remain quiet. Adam’s old man busted through doors—Bruiser would knock first before entering.
Adam appreciated his approach at this moment. Bruiser didn’t ask if he was okay—he knew Adam was hurting.
“How is she doing?” Adam managed to say.
“She’s a strong woman. Dawg’s a lucky guy—she’ll get him through this.”
Adam hated this feeling of helplessness. Always the one to get involved, he now felt directionless. His job was his life—now, it felt hollow. “Bruiser, did you notice anything weird at the club?”
“Just the kid.”
“Kid?”
“Name’s Larry, the young dude who was talking to your dad yesterday. You saw him. Used to be a weed dealer with a gang called the Desperados.”
“I remember,” Adam mused. “Slick little eels that slipped out of my hands before I could charge them.” He tilted his head. “Why was he at the clubhouse? I heard Larry talk about another drug gang. What the hell’s going on?”
“Larry feeds your dad intel. Seems that he owed Magnus big time. The kid was there this morning too.”
“He’s an informant?” Adam asked.
“Something like that. I understand Larry struck a deal between himself and his former gang. He wanted out but would let them know if anyone tried to muscle their turf. Larry told your dad any news that crossed the pipeline. We’d take care of the problem, and Larry’s gang continued their small-time dealing.”
“Will wonders never cease.” Adam swore and suddenly slapped his hand hard against the nearest wall. He would have to trust Hawthorne and Timmins to find the killers responsible.
“You have a good team,” Bruiser said quietly, as if reading his mind.
“Yeah, it’s just...” This helpless feeling was going to get old, real fast.
“Why don’t you go home? I’m going to stay here. I’ll let you know when they’re out of surgery.”
Adam nodded, too mentally drained to say anything.
The doors opened with a quiet whoosh as Adam stepped into the cool evening air. Glancing at his watch, he noticed that only a few hours had passed. God, it felt like a lifetime.
The streets rang with car horns and late rush hour traffic. He stopped and looked around, debating on hitting the nearest bar and getting drunk. His emotions were raging, urging him to do something rebellious. It felt like his teenage years were boiling to the surface, pushing him to do something rebellious.
Adam wasn’t going to fall for it. He had proven to Dad that he was a responsible adult—he wouldn’t screw that up, not now. Not ever.
His cell phone buzzed, but he wasn’t in the mood to answer.
A short ping caught his attention—someone had left a text message. As it was his work phone, he figured he’d better check in and explain that he wouldn’t be at the station for the foreseeable future. Captain Boucher could be a jerk sometimes, but now...
Blowing out a frustrated breath, Adam turned back and discovered a small take-out shop tucked next to a corner of the hospital. After grabbing a hot drink, he sat down and pulled out his cell, checking his messages. Two from Hawthorne, one expressing his condolences, and the other updating him on the status of evidence against the serial killer.
The third message... Adam flinched in pain as the coffee burned his tongue.
Detective Solberg, my sincerest condolences on the loss of your father. I’ve also heard that you will not be on the case to solve his murder, which I find unjust, to say the least. I, however, will be involved and will pull out every trick of the trade I know to solve it. Officially, I shouldn’t even be texting you—it could cost me my job. Please call me at this number so that I can meet with you tonight. C. Cornwall.
“What the hell?” Adam knew this wasn’t protocol. To have any knowledge of his dad’s murder case while on leave was dangerously crossing the line. He needed to tell her that, but her text mentioned that she already knew what was at stake. So why?
He stepped back outside and found a secluded area with a couple of benches. He called the number she gave him and waited. It clicked on the second ring. “Cornwall.”
“Why are you doing this?” Hell, he hadn’t meant to say that first. He wanted to be polite, introduce himself then lead into the reason for her text. “Dammit, I’m sorry—”
“It’s all right, no need to apologize.”
Despite his rudeness, Cornwall’s voice remained calm. It held a slight lilt, and its unexpectedly sexy low tone caught him unaware.
“You’ve read my text.”
“Yes, and I’m not sure whether to be angry or relieved. Boucher would have your head if he found out.”
“Then let’s make sure he doesn’t.”
This was the super-smart forensic scientist, so she knew what she was getting into. Adam rubbed his jaw, wondering if the risk to their reputations was worth it. “Look, I appreciate you doing this—”
“But you believe the risk might outweigh the reward. I’m willing to take that risk. Don’t you want to know who murdered your father and friends?”
“Of course I do!”
“Do you know where The Artful Coffee Shop is?”
“No, but I’ll find it.”
“Excellent. I’ll see you there in half an hour.” The phone clicked off.
* * *
Adam stepped into The Artful Coffee Shop, located in a vibrant renovated community close to the Metropolitan Centre. His took in the surroundings. There were only eight tables in the cozy whitewashed building, each with a pair of large cushioned chairs that invited relaxation and intimate talk. Classical music played softly in the background, and in front of him, the coffee counter covered the length of the room. With eclectic, colorful pieces of art decorating the neutral walls, it was the kind of place his mom would love on first sight.
There were five people in the café—two couples and a single woman. She sat beneath the largest painting farthest away from the large windows, an open laptop in front of her. She looked at him as he walked farther in, and Adam sucked in a breath. Her dark gaze was intent as she stared, and rather than feeling admired, he internally squirmed with discomfort.
