BLUE MERCY Read online

  Static crackled over the line.

  “Are you there, Kay?” Sarge asked.

  “Yeah.” She lowered herself to the bed again. “What’ve you got?”

  “A murder down here in Canton. Twelve hundred block of Luther. Body’s burned up pretty bad. Found it in an abandoned warehouse. We don’t have a positive on the body yet, but …” More static, only this time it sounded like Sarge fumbling with the cell phone. “Thing is, we could get some heat on this. From the media. And the brass. A real red ball.”

  Kay took another sip of warm beer, enough to wet her throat. “What is it?”

  There was a burst of interference, then voices in the background. And finally Sarge whispered, “I think it’s your girl, Kay. Your witness.”

  BLUE

  MERCY

  ILLONA

  HAUS

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  A Pocket Star Book published by

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  [http://www.SimonandSchuster.com] www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright © 2005 by Illona Haus

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-7434-5808-7

  eISBN-13: 978-0-7434-6318-8

  First Pocket Books printing May 2005

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Designed by Melissa Isriprashad

  Cover design by Jae Song

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For information regarding special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798 or [email protected].

  For Sparky

  (Det. Sgt. [retired] Steve “Sparky” Lehmann,

  BPD Homicide),

  without whom this book

  and my work would be impossible.

  And for Chris Brett-Perring,

  inspiration and supporter extraordinaire.

  Acknowledgments

  In the course of researching and writing this work, I have relied on the expertise, wisdom, and experience of many. These are the major players to whom I am indebted:

  Vickie L. Wash, Chief, Circuit Court Operations, State’s Attorney’s Office for Baltimore City;

  Mary G. Ripple, MD, Deputy Chief Medical Examiner, State of Maryland;

  Det. Joseph Dugan, BPD Homicide;

  Det. Mike Hammel, BPD Homicide;

  Det. Robert F. Cherry Jr., BPD Homicide;

  Det. Lynette Nevins, BPD Homicide;

  Bruce Tannahill, Tannahill Funeral Home, Owen Sound.

  Any mistakes are my own.

  Also, much thanks goes to my readers—Terri Rowe, Jerry “Chopomatic” Hatchett, Patricia Lewin, Jo Gillan, Jackie Gibbons, as well as Pam Myette and Manina Jones—for their time and eye for detail.

  Huge thanks to Annelise Robbey and Meg Ruley, who saw the potential, cradled it, and let it be what it was, for their trust and their encouragement. And last, but not least, to Amy Pierpont for her guidance and infinite patience.

  BLUE

  MERCY

  1

  SHE KNEW THIS PLACE.

  Wet asphalt glistened under sodium-vapor lights. Soaked trash clogged storm drains and gutters swelled. For ten minutes they’d waited in the unmarked car, watching the corner row house as the blue flicker of a television pulsed behind a sheet tacked over the first-floor window.

  They didn’t need backup, she told Spencer. Her case. Her call.

  As she crossed the dead-end street, the rain against her skin was a relief from the hot July night. A dog barked, high-pitched and frenetic. She imagined its eyes, bulging from behind one of the darkened windows next door. Spence offered a wordless nod, then jogged around the east side of the house. As the silence swelled, she gave him time to go up the alley, get to the back door and into position.

  She followed the walkway to the porch. Took the three steps. Brushed back the edge of her jacket and unbuttoned the safety strap of her holster. Exhaled. Steadied herself, and lifted her fist to the door.

  “Hey, Bernard! Baltimore police.”

  She waited. Nothing.

  “Come on, Bernard. Open up! Police.”

  The night took another silent breath.

  Then it erupted. And he was there—Bernard Eales. All six-foot-four of him, flinging open the front door. He filled the opening. Barging onto the dark porch. Massive. Smelling of booze.

  In his eyes, she saw something flare. Wild and primal. Meaty lips parted in a malignant smile, revealing overlapped teeth.

  She drew her Glock, the nine clearing leather fast even as the rubber grip slipped once in her wet hand. “Just back up, Bernard.”

  But her voice faltered.

  And Eales grinned. In a million dreams she would never forget that evil smile. Or the lightning-speed jab that cracked her wrist.

  She swore at him. His next strike smashed the words back into her mouth, instantly filling it with hot blood. She swung hard, her closed fist connecting with the soft cavity of his temple.

  His startled cry came out in a belch of fetid breath.

  And then the beating started. One blow after the next. In the cramped and shadowed porch, there was no telling what was fist and what was Eales’s heavy, leather boot. She lost count after a half dozen, after her throat gagged against the blood, and her lungs clutched for air.

  The world around her lurched out of focus. She thrashed at him, desperate to find a weakness. Another punch took her square in the stomach and she buckled, a burst of air and blood rushing out of her as she tumbled off the porch.

  Disoriented, she searched the dark lawn for Spence.

  But Eales wasn’t finished. Lumbering down the steps, he came after her. She braced herself. Dredging a final burst of energy, she rolled and hooked her leg around his.

  Eales teetered. For a second she envisioned two-hundred-plus pounds of Baltimore billy-boy dropping on her. But he caught himself. One beefy hand skidded across the sidewalk inches from her face. He cursed, righted himself, and this time she heard the deep crack of bone when his boot tore into her side.

  Against her cheek, the cement was cold. Her own blood warmed it as she felt her body go weak. And here, on this filthy piece of pavement, in a grime-slicked puddle, she was ready to give up. Close her eyes. Surrender.

  Not again.

  This time when she reached for the holster at her hip, the Glock was there. She drew it. Fast and fluid.

  Eales never knew what hit him. There was the white-orange flash at the nine’s muzzle. The satisfying kick of the weapon in her hands. The plume of burned gunpowder. And the hollow-point spiraled from the barrel, twisting through the air in slow motion and driving into solid flesh. In the pallid light, a mist of blood sprayed from the exit wound.

  The second shot followed the path of the first. A dark stain bloomed across Eales’s chest even before his knees caved beneath him. This time when Spencer charged around the corner of the house, Eales was at her feet.

  It wasn’t the nightmare gunshot that woke Kay Delaney lately, but instead a quiet gasp. From sweat-soaked sheets, she stared at the dark ceiling. The light from the streetlamp below her third-story bedroom fractured through the rain-smeared window and danced overhead.

  She drew
in several long breaths, trying to calm the drumming of her heart. If only that night had gone down the way it did in her dreams now. If only it were Eales who’d bled out on his front lawn fourteen months ago instead of Spence.

  Pushing back the sheet, she dragged herself to the bed’s edge, looked at the clock. One a.m. A low pain throbbed at her temples. Kay found the bottle of aspirin in her night-stand drawer and shook out three. A mouthful of warm beer from the bottle she’d brought to bed earlier helped wash them down.

  When she tossed the container back into the drawer, the pills clattered, the plastic striking the metal slide of the Glock.

  The 9mm in the shallow drawer lay in shadow. It was more her knowledge of its presence that delineated the square contours of the heavy, Austrian-tooled sidearm. It wasn’t loaded. But then, she didn’t keep it by her bed for protection. For that she had the .38, tucked in its leather holster, hanging from her bedpost. She’d bought the Chief’s Special months ago, a heavy snub-nosed revolver with a Pachmayr grip and a smooth, clean trigger pull. And she’d kept it by her bed ever since. A by-product of the fear Eales had implanted.

  Kay hated the fear that lived in her now. Resented that Eales had taken up permanent residence in her head.

  She shoved the drawer shut. No, the 9mm was there for only one reason. To remind her.

  Spencer charging around the side of the house, the look of disbelief on his face when he took the bullet, the way he seemed suspended for a moment in the thick night air before crumpling to the wet grass less than thirty feet away, his mouth gaping like a fish drowning on air, its rhythm keeping tempo with his slowing heart, and then his eyes. He’d stared at her well beyond his last breath.

  The Glock in her nightstand kept the images alive. Her Glock. The one Eales had smashed from her hand the second he came out the door. The one he’d used to gun down Spencer.

  She imagined the fine layer of dust dulling the nine’s once-buffed surface. She hadn’t touched it since the day Ballistics had finished their testing, and the technician had casually slid the gun across the counter. She could still remember the strange weight of it in her hand. She’d never holstered the gun again, reverting to the off-duty, subcompact nine that she had qualified to carry. And the departmental-issue stayed in the drawer.

  Kay moved to the window, its bottom pane propped open with her Koga, the protection stick’s handle firmly wedged against the low frame. The night air sucked at the curtain, heaving the sheer material out, then in again, caressing her naked, sweat-slicked skin.

  Below, Hamburg Street dead-ended at Federal Hill, empty except for parked cars. Over the neighbor’s roof, she could make out the top of the hill, and past it the lights of the city across the Inner Harbor. The bass of an overamped car stereo pulsed through the damp streets. Then the wail of a distant siren.

  Kay shivered, but didn’t move from the window. She embraced the bite of reality the chill offered and wondered what her shrink, Constance O’Donnell, would think of this latest slant on the same old dream.

  When the phone rang seconds later, it made Kay jump.

  “Delaney here.”

  “Kay? It’s Sarge. Sorry to wake you.” Sergeant Ed Gunderson cleared the smoker’s phlegm from his throat. “But we got a situation. I think you’ll wanna be in on this one.”

  Static crackled over the line.

  “Are you there, Kay?”

  “Yeah.” She lowered herself to the bed again. “What’ve you got?”

  “A murder down here in Canton. Twelve hundred block of Luther. Body’s burned up pretty bad. Found it in an abandoned warehouse. We don’t have a positive on the body yet, but …” More static, only this time it sounded like Sarge fumbling with the cell phone. “Thing is, we could get some heat on this. From the media. And the brass. A real red ball.”

  Kay took another sip of warm beer, enough to wet her throat. “What is it?”

  There was a burst of interference, then voices in the background. And finally Sarge whispered, “I think it’s your girl, Kay. Your witness. Valerie Regester.”

  2

  THE RAIN HAD COOLED the September night air, but had little effect on the charred remains of the former Dutton Mannequin warehouse in Canton. Heat radiated from the concrete floor where ashes and soot swirled in greasy pools of water.

  Detective Danny Finnerty sidestepped a scorched mannequin, its head a mass of boiled fiberglass, its blackened arms reaching out. Wearing rubber boots, he sloshed through the debris and sludge, passing the torched delivery-bay door. Outside, another fire truck backed away from the curb, its beeper piercing the silence of the gutted building. A radio car’s siren blurted once, then there was only the drumming of water from the rafters overhead.

  Finn ignored the residual sting of smoke in his eyes and trained his gaze back to the body. Arson detectives had almost missed her, initially mistaking her for one of the destroyed mannequins.

  With Arson scouring the rest of the warehouse, it was Ed Gunderson who kept watch over the body. The toll of thirty years on the job was visible in the big man’s posture; under the rumpled tan trench coat his shoulders sagged inward as though he carried the weight of his entire squad on them. And his receding hairline seemed directly proportional to the receding clearance rate of cases within the unit.

  In one gloved hand, Gunderson held a purse. He looked decidedly uncomfortable, like a dutiful husband gripping his wife’s handbag at the mall. Gesturing to one of the Mobile Crime Lab technicians, he unloaded the scorched purse before turning to Niles Fischer, the medical examiner’s investigator.

  In the glare of the portable halogens, Fischer’s pristine white coveralls and matching hair glared in stark contrast to the burned wreckage around them. He squatted next to the remains, gnarled, latex-encased hands planted firmly on each knee until he lifted his wrist to check his watch.

  Finn navigated a path toward them, keeping his breathing shallow. A three-year stint with Arson years ago had taught him a trick or two.

  “Give her another ten minutes,” Gunderson instructed Fischer. “She’s on her way. In the meantime, nothing gets moved.” The sergeant’s voice had an edginess that Finn doubted was entirely due to the late-night hit of caffeine they’d picked up on the way over.

  Fischer stood, sidestepped the body, and started for the exit. “I’ll be out in the van having a smoke.”

  When Gunderson turned his gaze, Finn saw more starkly the exhaustion in the man’s pocked face. Well past his eligible retirement, Ed Gunderson was an anchor in the unit. Homicide was the man’s life. What he knew best. And the way Gunderson saw it, Finn guessed, leaving would be tantamount to picking out his own headstone and calling it quits.

  “Thanks for coming along, Finn,” Gunderson told him. “I know you were on your way home. If you gotta go—”

  “No. I’ll stay.” Fact was, he hadn’t been on his way home when the call had come in to Homicide almost an hour ago. At the end of night shift he’d had his jacket on and one foot out the squadroom door. But it was O’Reilly’s bar he’d been headed to. Last place an alcoholic should frequent. Still, when the desire for a drink was strong, sometimes a familiar setting helped the most, even if he only ever ordered a soda.

  “So did you get anything from Arson?” Gunderson asked.

  “They’ll be a while still. Fire was definitely deliberate though. Perp tossed the gasoline can on his way out. Most of the damage is back here. Luckily there weren’t as many flammables in the rest of the place, otherwise it might have taken out the whole building.”

  “And she’s the reason.” Gunderson nodded to the body.

  Finn followed the sergeant’s gaze. It didn’t matter how many fire deaths he’d seen while working Arson—the sight of blistered and seared skin, of fabric melted into flesh, was never an easy image to stomach. Harder still was the eerie yet familiar posture of a victim’s burned body: the intense heat of the blaze causing tendons and muscles to contract, drawing the limbs of the victim into what th
e texts referred to as a pugilistic attitude. To Finn, the position had always resembled a boxer caught in a defensive stance, as if the victim might have been alive in the fire, fighting the flames. But it was almost never the case. The heat and smoke usually killed them first.

  “So Kay’s coming?” he asked Gunderson.

  Gunderson nodded, his gaze never leaving the body in the shallow pool of grimy water.

  “Does she know it’s her witness?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And this was on the Eales case, right?” Finn asked.

  “Hm-hmm.”

  Bernard Eales. Finn hadn’t heard the name spoken aloud in months. Not many dared around the offices. Mostly out of respect for Kay, Finn liked to think. But also because of what Eales represented: every cop’s worst nightmare.

  And it wasn’t just Joe Spencer’s death, or Kay’s close brush herself, that had made the incident a year ago so horrifying. It was that even with six seasoned detectives working the murders of three prostitutes over the span of several months, no one had recognized the potential of Eales as a suspect. Finn, though, had always wondered if Kay had.

  The media had been all over the story. Like hounds on fresh blood they’d covered the manhunt as every cop— uniformed or otherwise—took to the streets. Finn suspected it was actually the pressure of the media coverage and the citywide alert that had forced Eales to call in and surrender three days later. They’d picked him up at a junkie friend’s house several doors down from his own, still holding Kay’s 9mm.

  The story had gone national after that for a brief time. But Kay had borne the brunt of the local coverage. For weeks. And Finn could do little but sit at the sidelines and watch.

  It had been a fleeting moment of redemption when— only a week out of the hospital and still recovering—Kay had convinced Valerie Regester to come forward, positively identifying Eales as the man she’d seen dump one of the women’s bodies down a slope in Leakin Park.