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The other possibility was the news piece was a ploy. Detectives loved to release false information for their own purposes, and since they’d failed with the surveillance, this could be a strategy to regain control. No matter—from the start I’d known Arnett was going to be the hardest; not only was he smart and inscrutable, he had a broad range of allies and resources surrounding him. He, and they, knew I was coming for him.
If I were in that situation, I’d turn it into a trap.
In light of that, the complete lack of activity in his house took on a very particular significance. Some sort of prep was happening somewhere. They had to know I was watching—did the fact that my cameras were still functioning mean they hadn’t found them, or that they wanted me to watch? The safer way was to assume they were well aware of the cameras, and that everything I saw through them was planned out for me.
I smiled into my food, enjoying the mental chess match.
I slipped my hand into my jacket and stroked the checkmate I had hidden there.
CHAPTERFIFTY-ONE
Jo crossed her legs in the back of the van, distracting herself from the impending attack by trying to decide which was worse: her thirst, or the need to urinate. She glanced resentfully at Goran and Coyne, both sipping coffee as they watched the two monitors in front of them. They could drink as much as they wanted to—when it came time to relieve themselves, a bottle would do the trick. She didn’t have that option. She either had to strictly regulate what she drank, or pray for sturdy bladder control. Each set of headlights sped her pulse, and each intervening stretch of quiet sharpened her attention. The killer was out there. Watching, waiting, biding their time.
By ten, the neighborhood was silent; only intermittent porch lights triggered by cats and raccoons broke up the darkness.
Just before eleven thirty a teenager across the street from Arnett’s house climbed down the trellis from her second-story window, dropped to the ground with a gentle thud, then jogged to the car she’d judiciously parked down the street. Jo beat back the urge to give chase and return the girl to her family by the scruff of her neck; while she knew that thousands of girls sneaked out each night and returned safely, she’d seen far too many of the ones who weren’t so lucky, all for the sake of a few stolen kisses at some lurid lover’s lane.
By the time their replacements rapped on the side of the van just before midnight, she was coiled like a cat ready to spring. She listened as Goran and Coyne gave their quick report, then headed home, steadfastly forcing herself not to drive down Arnett’s street on the way out.
As she turned into her driveway and saw Matt’s car, she had another moment of panic—but no, she’d called him before they’d started the shift in the van. Only four hours ago, but time on a stakeout stood still, and it felt like it’d been days since that conversation.
The house was dark; she slipped quietly inside. After hanging up her jacket, Jo picked up the cat, who settled into the crook of her shoulder as Jo crept through to the bedroom. For the sake of time and noise, she pulled off her shoes, socks, and pants, slipped her bra off through her sleeves, and slid into bed still wearing her shirt. Matt stirred slightly and slid his hand onto her hip, but didn’t wake.
Despite the day’s emotional rollercoaster and the evening’s lack of caffeine, Jo couldn’t sleep. Staring up at the shadowed ceiling, she listened to Matt’s snores. She shifted carefully, trying not to wake him further, and grabbed her phone. She fired off a text to Arnett, then stared at the phone, willing him to respond.
All quiet. Go to sleep.
She sighed, and tried not to obsess about Matt’s hand on her hip. She’d never been a cuddly sleeper, even back with Jack, because she overheated easily. Now, as she lay with a thousand ugly scenarios involving Ossokov and Arnett playing out in her head, Matt’s fingers felt like coils of an electric furnace against her skin.
Beads of sweat pooled behind her knees, then at the back of her neck.
Finally, unable to be still any longer, she rolled away, causing his hand to gently drop off. The relief was almost instant, like opening the refrigerator door on a smoldering summer’s day. She’d most likely still not be able to sleep, but at least she wouldn’t be caught in a swamp while she reckoned with her anxiety-induced insomnia.
Eventually, she managed to drift off to sleep—until her phone shrilled her back awake.
She bolted up onto her elbow, Arnett’s face flashing in her mind, and stabbed at the phone. “Fournier. What’s happening?”
Lieutenant Hayes’ voice answered. “I need you here, now. Cooper Ossokov has been killed.”
DAY FIVE
CHAPTERFIFTY-TWO
Jo threw up her portable siren and raced to the crime scene, trying to make sense of what was happening.
In the fog of sleep, she’d had to ask Hayes to repeat herself. But when she did, the words still refused to compute and time had frozen.
How was it possible Cooper Ossokov was dead? There had to be a mistake, Hayes must just have said it wrong—like the time they’d announced the wrong best-picture winner at the Oscars.
Then, with a whoosh that had felt like she’d been sucked through a vortex, her brain kicked in, time sped back up, and her logical circuits flared back to life. “He showed up to kill Arnett, and the team took him out?”
“What? No, this has nothing to do with Arnett. He’s safe at home, still under the watch of his security team. Someone killed Ossokov in the alley behind the dentist office where he works. With the same signature as all the other victims.”
That woke her the rest of the way up. “Even the posed arms and hands?”
“Even the posed arms and hands. I’m on my way now.” Hayes hung up.
Jo snatched up the clothes she’d left by the side of the bed as she explained to Matt. The posed arms were proprietary information—they’d kept it back from everyone, even Ossokov himself. Only the detectives and the killer knew about it—which meant this murder wasn’t an accident and it wasn’t a coincidence.
