Kovac And Liska: Prior Bad Acts Part 30

36.

"WHOSE Cl.u.s.tER f.u.c.kis this?" Kovac demanded as he stormed into the ER and made a beeline for Liska. He had been mobbed by the press swarming all over the ambulance bay. Four large uniformed officers were keeping them from rushing the door.

"It's a f.u.c.king feeding frenzy out there," he snapped.

"I'm taking responsibility for the whole thing, Detective Kovac," Lieutenant Dawes said, coming away from a coffee vending machine across the room.

Kovac pulled up short and grimaced. "Lieutenant."

"Way to stick your foot in it, Kojak," Liska said, rolling her eyes at him.

Dawes didn't react at all.

"I personally called Mr. Scott this morning to tell him Stan Dempsey was at large, but I only got his voice mail," she said. "I then dispatched two officers to go to Mr. Scott's home and tell him in person if he was at home, and to wait if he wasn't."

"So what went wrong?" Kovac asked.

"A call went out to all units to respond to a sighting of Karl Dahl not far from where the officers were."

"They took the priority call," Kovac said.

"Which turned out to be a false alarm. But in all the confusion of trying to run down the suspect, there was a collision involving the officers' car and a minivan--"

"And the coppers are still giving their statements and filling out paperwork," Kovac said.

"One of the officers was killed," Dawes said soberly.

"Oh, Jesus," Kovac said. Add that charge to Dahl's indictment, he thought--another person dead because of that creep.

"And the ball got dropped," Dawes went on. "By the time I found out and drove to Kenny Scott's home myself, it was already dark. The bas.e.m.e.nt light was on. If not for that one screwup on Dempsey's part, Scott would still be bound to a chair."

"Is he alive?"

"Yes," Dawes said, leading the way down a corridor. "It wasn't Dempsey's intent to kill. Turns out he just wanted to make a statement."

They turned into the room where Kenny Scott had been brought for treatment, and Kovac was instantly taken aback by the putrid smell of burned flesh.

Kenny Scott lay propped up on the hospital bed with an IV dripping something into his arm. His hands and feet were grotesquely swollen. Ligature marks dug deep into his wrists and ankles. But by far the most shocking injury Stan Dempsey had inflicted on Karl Dahl's lawyer was literally burned across Scott's forehead.

One word:GUILTY.

37.

CAREY SLEPT RESTLESSLY,fitfully, turning from one side to the other, even though she had taken the Vicodin to kill the pain and knock herself out. The drug didn't seem to reach her subconscious. It couldn't shut out the disturbing images, the dark dreams that rolled through her mind like thunderstorms. Violent dreams of being chased, of being caught, of being helpless.

Neither would the drugs allow her to come fully awake, to escape the nightmares that seemed so real. Her heart was beating so fast it felt like a small bird trapped behind her ribs, desperately trying to get out.

She was being chased through the dark by a man. Running as fast as she could, but her legs were weakening. She was losing speed. He was gaining ground. She could hear him breathing hard.

She cried out as his hand took hold of her arm. She struggled to pull away but couldn't. As he pulled her back toward him, she felt he was pulling her into another dimension.

And then she realized that he was.

She was being pulled out of her nightmare and into a terrible reality.

Kicking and flailing, Carey tried to pull free and lunge across the bed. But her legs tangled in the sheets, and she couldn't get free of them. She tried to scream but didn't know if the sound ever escaped her mouth.

Then two hands were on her, yanking her backward. She was helpless to stop it from happening.

Tears were coming now, broken sobs born of terror.

A forearm came across her throat and started to choke her hard. She kicked backward. She tried to dig her fingernails into the arm that was crushing her throat, but there was a shirtsleeve preventing any real damage. Nothing she did made any difference.

Panicking, she choked, tried to get air and couldn't. Her vision began to fade. She thought of Lucy. Then everything faded to black.

38.

KOVAC WOKE TOa pounding he thought was inside his head.

He had a vague memory of having had exactly that thought before. He'd gotten five, maybe six hours of sleep, but his body told him it needed more.

The pounding didn't stop.

"Tylenol," he murmured, trying to wake himself.

It took all his willpower to sit up and drop his legs over the side of the bed. He could hardly open his eyes to look at the clock. Quarter past eight.

The pounding continued.

Kovac went to the chair at the foot of his bed, pulled on a pair of wrinkled pants and a wrinkled shirt, and went downstairs. He slipped into a pair of shoes he'd left by the front door, and went outside.

Another bright Technicolor blue fall morning greeted him with undue cheerfulness. He shuffled over to his neighbor's yard, his eyelids still at half-mast. The neighbor watched him suspiciously from his perch on the roof, hammer in hand.

The old man called down at him, "Hey, what are you doing?"

Kovac didn't answer him. He went straight to the aluminum ladder that leaned against the side of the house and took the thing away, letting it fall to the side and crash in the yard. Squirrels ran for their lives in all directions. Then he turned and went back to his own house.

The old man was screaming blue murder. "Get back here! Get back here and put that ladder back!"

Ignoring him, Kovac went back inside, made a pot of coffee, carried a cup upstairs with him. He went into the bathroom, took a leak, had a long, hot shower, shaved, brushed his teeth, put on a fresh nicotine patch.

When he went back into his bedroom, the old man was still shouting at him. The red of his face matched the red of his plaid flannel shirt.

Kovac opened the window. "You want me to come put that ladder back?"

"You'd darn well better!"

"Now is not the time to be p.i.s.sy with me," Kovac said. "You'll give yourself a stroke and die up there. Not that I would give a rat's a.s.s."

The old man sputtered and spat and called him some names.

Kovac waited for the tirade to end.

"I'll come put the ladder back," he said. "But if you get up on that roof tomorrow morning while I'm sleeping, I'll come back and take it down and leave you there at the mercy of pa.s.sersby. You're an inconsiderate son of a b.i.t.c.h, and you think just because you're too G.o.dd.a.m.ned mean to die, you ought to be able to make the rest of us as miserable as you are."

The old man scowled at him.

Kovac went to his closet and dressed for the day. The task force was meeting at nine. He wanted to swing past and check on Carey before he went downtown.

Outside, he struggled with the unwieldy ladder to get it back up against the house. The old man scrambled down it like a monkey and got right in Kovac's face.

"I'm going to report you!"

Kovac walked away. The weatherman was promising thunderstorms later in the day. Maybe lightning would strike the old fart and fry him while he was attaching colored lights to his television antenna.

I live in hope. . . .

Everything at the Moore house appeared the same as it had the night before. The media had decamped Sat.u.r.day when it had become clear they weren't going to get anything interesting. Today they were probably swarming all over the street where Kenny Scott lived. Next victim, please.

Kovac went to the window of the cruiser parked at the curb.

"Anything I need to know about?"

The cop at the wheel shook his head. "All quiet. The guys from last night said the only thing that happened after you went after the husband was the nanny going to the 7-Eleven and coming back. She drove out again a while ago. Waved. Going to Starbucks."

Kovac yawned, straightened away from the car, and went up to Carey Moore's front door. He rang the bell and waited. It was still early for a Sunday morning. After the night she'd had, she was probably sleeping in.

He rang the bell again and waited.

There were no sounds coming from the house. No radio or television. No voices in conversation.

He rang the bell a third time. A fourth time.

Now his cop sense began to itch and tremble through him. He didn't like it. Something was wrong.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and called the Moores' house number.

The phone rang unanswered until the machine picked up.

He called Carey's cell number. The call went straight to voice mail.

Kovac walked around the house, peering in the windows for any sign of life, or death. He checked the doors. All locked.

His heart was beating faster.

He went around to the front yard and motioned for the uniforms to come.

The side door on the garage seemed the easiest place to get in. The officers rounded the corner. Kovac looked to the larger of the two, a strapping twenty-something guy.

"Kick it in."

"Shouldn't we have a warrant?" the young guy asked.

"We've got exigent circ.u.mstances," Kovac said. "Kick it in!"

The officer put his shoe to the door once, twice. On the third kick, the frame splintered and the door swung in, carrying the entire dead bolt mechanism with it.

The house alarm began to shriek.

The door into the laundry room was unlocked. Kovac went through into the kitchen and began calling.

"Carey? Judge Moore? Are you here? Is anyone here?"

Silence.

Kovac drew his weapon and went through the downstairs, calling, looking, finding nothing.

A sick feeling churned in his gut as he went up the stairs.

"Carey? Judge Moore?"