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“T.J. Yother, please.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Yother has stepped out of the office.”
“How long has she been gone?” he asked sharply.
Fallon wasn’t a pushover. “Who is this?” she asked just as sharply.
“Detective Donovan. It’s important I find her. Listen to me: is Leah Street there?”
“Why, no.” “allon’s tone had changed. She was a lot more coopertive now. “She and T.J. left together about half an how ago, I guess. The phones have been ringing like crazy and with both of them gone we’ve been short-handed. They—”
Sam interrupted, “If T.J. returns, tell her to call me immediately, Detective Sam Donovan.” He gave the number. He thought about alerting Fallon to the situation but quickly decided against it; if Leah hadn’t bolted, he didn’t want to alarm her. “Can you switch me to Mr. Strawn’s office?” Only Laurence Strawn had the authority to do what he wanted.
“Yes—sure. Of course.” She paused. “Do you want me to?”
Sam closed his eyes and bit back a raw curse. “Yes, please.”
“Okay. Hold on.”
A series of electronic tones sounded in his ear, then the smooth voice of Mr. Strawn’s executive secretary. Sam cut into her practiced welcoming spiel. “This is Detective Donovan. Is Mr. Strawn available? It’s an emergency.”
The two words “detective” and “emergency” got him put through immediately to Strawn. Quickly Sam outlined the situation. “Call the gate and don’t let anyone leave, and start searching for T.J. Check every broom closet and bathroom stall. Don’t confront Ms. Street, but don’t let her leave. Detective Bernsen is on the way.”
“Hold on,” Strawn said. “I’ll call the gate right now.”
He was back on the line in about thirty seconds. “Ms. Street left the premises about twenty minutes ago.”
“Was T.J. with her?”
“No. The guard said she was alone.”
“Then find T.J.,” Sam said urgently. He simultaneously wrote a note and signaled Wayne Satran. Wayne took the note, read it, and jumped into action. “She’s somewhere in the building, and maybe she’s still alive.” Maybe. Marci had been dead from the first hammer blow. Luna hadn’t died immediately, but she had also suffered head trauma so severe she died before she could completely bleed out from the stab wounds. The M.E. estimated, based purely on his personal experience, that she had lived, maybe, a couple of minutes after the initial attack. The attacks were vicious and overwhelming.
“Should I be discreet about it?” Strawn asked.
“At this point, finding her fast is what’s most important. Leah Street has already escaped. Alert everyone in the building to assist in the search. When you find her, if she’s alive, do whatever you can to help her. If she’s dead, try to preserve the scene. Emergency personnel are on the way.” That was what Wayne had been doing, getting the wheels rolling. Law enforcement officers from several different jurisdictions were converging on Hammerstead, as well as medics and evidence techs.
“We’ll find her,” Laurence Strawn said quietly.
Sam’s instinct, as a cop, was to go to the scene. He stayed where he was, knowing he could do more good right there.
Leah Street’s file was on Roger’s desk. Sam called the Sterling Heights P.D. and got the detective who answered to look in the file and give him Leah’s home address and phone number, plus her social security number.
After a minute the detective picked up the phone and said, “I don’t find a Leah Street. ‘There’s a ‘Corin Lee Street,’ but no ‘Leah.’”
Corin Lee? Jesus. Sam rubbed his forehead, trying not to wonder what in hell that meant. Was Leah a man or a woman? The names were too similar for coincidence.
“Is Corin Street a man or a woman?” he asked.
“Let me see.” A pause. “Here it is. Female.”
Maybe, Sam thought. “Okay, thanks. That’s the one I want.” The detective read off the information Sam had requested. He copied it down, accessed the motor vehicle department and got her license plate number and description of the car.
He then had a BOLO—“be on the lookout”—issued for the car. He didn’t know if she was armed; so far, she hadn’t used a firearm, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have one, and she might well have a knife with her. She was unstable as hell, like nitroglycerin; she had to be approached with caution.
Where had she gone? Home? Only a real looney-tunes would—but Leah Street was a real looney-tunes. He got officers en route to her house.
While he was getting everything in motion, he tried not to think about T.J. Had they found her yet? Were they too late?
