Lisa Black - Takeover (Theresa MacLean, Book 1)

The sun had barely come up, and already it was

Theres nothing you can do, honey, Frank told her over

Paul took a moment to appreciate the architecture before facing

Remarriage, she had said to Paul only two weeks earlier,

My name is William Kessler. The man clutched at his

Pauls body tensed, waiting for the shot. Nothing. Just the

Theresa squinted at the screen, dimly aware that she still

The click of his hang-up filled the room, and then

Theresa had even bought a dress. A wedding dress. A

Theresa grabbed a coffee, for once not for the caffeine

The cars here, Theresa announced as soon as she reached

Paul watched the tall robber pace in front of them,

Something just happened, Theresa said. Every person there just jumped

You think Bobby and Lucas are from Atlanta, Georgia? Cavanaugh

Paul had stretched his legs out straight, Theresa noted, probably

The street had not cooled any in the past hour.

Listen up, people. Lucas addressed them as a group while

I dont know any Oliver, Patrick said. The idea of

Six stories down, Theresa remained occupied with the squirming child

Theresa gazed at the dead girl. Auburn curls crowned Cherises

Lucas got back on the line with Cavanaugh. The pool

The kick to his groin worked. Lucas doubled over. Unfortunately,

Theresa sat with her knees to her chin, hugging her

Across the street Patrick told Chris Cavanaugh everything hed learned

Okay, Lucas said, surveying his motley brigade. Are we clear

What did you do with the daughter? Cavanaugh asked.

Detective?

Theresa watched these negotiations closely while listening with half an

At least three snipers hit Bobby Moyers. The force of

The plastic tie-wrap around her wrists must have stretched during

Chris Cavanaugh shook his head. I dont understand.

Go straight, Lucas instructed, though he did not stop facing

Theresa?

IN A TYPICAL CLEVELAND CHANGE OF MOOD, THE TEMPERATURE DROPPED

T HURSDAY , J UNE 25
6:42 A.M .

The sun had barely come up, and already it was too hot. Theresa MacLean felt the first prickles of sweat on the back of her neck as she stared down at the dead man, and wished she had left her lab coat in the car. Humidity kept both the dew and the mans blood from drying, and scattered red spots gleamed against the spring grass. He hasnt been here long, she told the detective.

The dead mans tie flopped across his chest as he gazed up with sightless eyes, past her to the azure sky. The tiny sidewalk framed his shoulders, and his head rested in the mulch and grass below lush juniper bushes. Two or three heavy blows had caved in his skull; he had tried to defend himself with his bare hands and damaged his fingers in the process. The killer had swung the weapon used with enough force to cut knuckles and dent the mans wedding ring.

A lady walking to the bus stop saw the shoes sticking out past the bushes. Homicide detective Paul Cleary sketched the scene as he spoke, frowning in concentration over his pad and pencil. The damp morning made his blond hair especially unruly. He could have been here all night before that. The porch light isnt on, so anyone driving by wouldnt have seen him from the street. Its a quiet neighborhood anyway.

Despite the setting she took a moment just to look at Paul. They would be married in two months and thirteen days. Even her teenage daughter had overcome the instinctive reticence to a stepparent. But Theresa had something to tell him first, and she hadnt yet figured out how.

Youd think hed be damper if hed been out here all night, Pauls partner, veteran detective Frank Patrick, chimed in. He had been in the city all his years and with the police department for the past twenty, but he never tired of complaining about Ohio weather. This friggin humidity soaks everything.

Theresa prodded the mans chin with a latex-clad hand; only tiny spatters along one cheek bespoke the damage to the back of his head. A tailored dress shirt held in his expanding girth. A few smears of blood crossed his stomach, probably swiped there by the cut fingers. Hes cold, and his jaw and arms are pretty stiff. His stomach is still soft, though, so Id guess between four and eight hours. As a forensic scientist with the medical examiners office, she had learned a lot about rigor mortis, though one of the doctors on the staff would have to give them the official time-of-death frame. She looked up at the two-story Westlake Colonial. He lives here?

Dont know, Frank said. Whoever bashed his head in also took his wallet. The house is locked up, with no signs of forced entry, and no one answers. We dont know if he belongs here or not.

She frowned. Weve got significant damage to the skull but not a lot of blood spatter, not even a lot of blood soaked into the mulch. It could be lost in the grass or the bushes, washed off by dew, but I would expect to see at least some on this porch railing or the sidewalk.

You think he was killed inside and dragged out here?

Or dumped out of a passing car. Hes got some dirt on his shoulder, where the jacket is rumpled. She scraped some particles onto a piece of glassine paper, folding it as a druggist would so none would be lost. As if someone with dirty hands pulled him from the shoulders.

Paul bent at the waist to examine the porch outside the front door. I dont see any drag marks, either in blood or in dirt.

Me neither. But I hate to think the rest of his family is inside, bludgeoned to death. Cant we go in?

The search warrant is on its way to the judge right now.

She stood up, stretched a crick out of her back. She loathed having to wait on search warrants. Finding a dead body in front of the place should be sufficient probable cause so far as she was concerned, but in these litigious timesWho does the house belong to? Do we at least know that?

Frank poked at the dead mans pockets, producing a slight jingle, which proved to be a set of keys. Mark Ludlow, white male, fifty-four. It could be him. So he pops out of the house on his way to work this morning and someone cracks him in the skull for the money in his wallet

Leaving behind neither the weapon nor the cast-off blood patterns from swinging it. Theresa looked around at the well-kept houses. Besides, in this neighborhood? Not common.

and then they leave this Lexus in the driveway. He aimed the victims key fob at the sleek sedan in the drive and pushed a button. The car responded with a loud chirp. Its him.

No, its his car, Theresa corrected. This could be his girlfriends house. He stops by for breakfast, and girlfriends significant other number two doesnt care to serve him coffee.

Paul considered this theory. And then killer and girlfriend hop over the body and take off, in their car? Thats pretty cold.

Or the killer kidnaps girlfriend, Theresa said.

Maybe girlfriend is the killer, Frank put in. He and Theresa had been bouncing ideas off each other since she could talk; their mothers were sisters.

Theresa moved onto the porch. Or another victim. I really want to get into this house.

You and me both, Paul assured her. They turned as a patrol car pulled alongside the curb and stopped. A young man in uniform ducked under the ribbon of crime-scene tape and came up the twenty-foot driveway, sheaf of papers in hand.

You get your wish, Tess, Frank said before reading the search warrant to the empty house, a process required by law but absurd in practice. The cream-colored siding gave no sign of listening. While he spoke, Theresa crossed the grass to retrieve her small Maglite from the county station wagon and returned to the porch. The sun slanted from the rear of the house, throwing some areas into unexpected dimness.