The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [96]
The phone was still ringing. She finally reached for it.
He stepped into the living room in time to hear her say “Yes” in a wary voice.
Her knuckles whitened, her body began to sway. Her gaze swept up and her beautiful brown eyes were dilated with horror.
“My baby,” she whispered. “My baby!”
The phone clattered to the floor and down she went.
He caught her as she fell and wrapped her against his chest.
TWENTY-ONE
SPECIAL AGENT QUINCY rubbed the back of his neck. It was just after ten A.M. and he’d spent most of the night at the Difford crime scene. In the last three days he’d slept only eight hours and lost five pounds, and he felt it.
“Tell me something good.”
“The Red Sox finally won a game.”
Quincy gave Houlihan a blurry glare. “Try again.”
“Sorry, that’s it. When Officers Campbell and Teitel arrived for their two A.M. shift, they found Harrison shot dead in the car and the safe house empty. Traces of blood on the kitchen floor indicate violence, but we haven’t located Difford’s body or his car. Samantha and all of her belongings are gone. Also, the gun cabinet was forced open and emptied. We’re not sure what all Difford had in there, but he formally checked out a Mossberg 12-gauge shotgun, a Smith & Wesson 9mm, his police issue .357 Magnum, and probably a Smith & Wesson .38 Special. Difford may have kept a few surprises in inventory as well. Maybe a sawed-off shotgun. You know how cops can be about guns.
“We have Beckett’s latent and patent prints at the crime scene, paper towels with makeup residue, a state police uniform, and a state police badge issued to an Officer Travis four years ago. Beckett also left us his wig, nylons stuffed with padding, and yes, two plastic bags filled with neon purple Silly Putty. Then we have his note.” Lieutenant Houlihan’s voice grew somber. He said softly, “Beckett wrote: ‘Sergeant Wilcox sends his regards.’ Wilcox has been missing for twenty-four hours now. His wife thought he was on special assignment, we thought he was out sick. There, uh, there hasn’t been any sign of his body yet.”
Quincy squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose where the tension had gathered like a hard knot, pressing against his eyeballs, trying to force them out of their sockets. “The neighbors? Did they see anything?”
“Saw two cops sitting in an unmarked car most of the evening. One of the officers appeared to be asleep.”
“Estimated time of death for Harrison?”
“Six P.M. Beckett probably shot him beginning of shift, when Harrison first climbed into the car.”
“And you last heard from the watch car at one A.M.”
“Exactly. Difford called in a little after midnight. So sometime between midnight and two A.M. . . .”
“Wonderful. You call in the National Guard?”
“Are you kidding? If a person can dress himself, I have him looking for Jim Beckett. We’ve cordoned off a fifty-mile area. Samantha Williams’s picture has been sent to every TV station and newspaper in the nation. Soon her picture will be plastered on every milk carton in the goddamn free world.”
“It’s a start.”
“We’re going get him, Quincy. How the hell is he going to hide a four-year-old girl? No, he finally screwed up and we’re going to nail his ass.”
“Humph.” Quincy wasn’t convinced. He leaned back and studied the cheap white ceiling, the kind that could double as a dart board and on slow nights, probably did. The inset lights increased the pounding behind his temples. Some days the pressure made him want to flush his whole head down the toilet and yet he still wouldn’t give up his job. What kind of sick bastard did that make him?
“Want a few more ideas?” He phrased it as a question because the task force fell under Houlihan’s control and Quincy didn’t want to appear as if he were taking over. Crossjurisdictional coordination was never easy during the best of conditions, let alone when everyone had been up all night and the case