She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,120

records too, but already knew that would turn up nothing. They hadn’t found anything on Richard Nettleton either when the letter first surfaced, a copy of which was pinned beside the poster on the Wall.

When the phone at the corner of Fogel’s desk began to ring, she nearly jumped out of her skin. The loud electronic chirp cut through the otherwise silent and empty room, a room made even quieter by the early hour. She scooped up the receiver and pressed the flashing button for line one. “Fogel.”

“I’m sorry about Faust.”

Former Detective Terrance Stack, just Terry now.

Fogel closed her eyes, her fingers tightening on the receiver. She tried to muster a response, but nothing came out.

“Do you need to talk?”

“Yeah.”

“Be here in twenty,” Stack said. “I’ll get a pot brewing.”

3

Officer Elvin Putney dropped the remains of his cigarette and crushed the butt under the toe of his shoe. He then pulled another from the pack in his right front pocket, struck a match, and lit the tip. He sucked the nicotine deep into his lungs, held it, then slowly let it out in a series of smoke rings that drifted out from the front stoop of the house, over the driveway, and disappeared in the dark sky.

He glanced down at his watch.

Three twenty-eight in the ever-loving morning. Another hour and a half before he would be relieved and could head home for some shut-eye. He was one of four officers tasked with maintaining security on 62 Milburn Court. Collins was at the guardhouse, Burton was in the back near the pool house, and Sevilla was inside probably sleeping. He hadn’t seen or heard from him in over an hour.

He wanted to be sleeping.

A mosquito buzzed past Putney’s face, and he snatched the insect out of the air with his free hand. When he opened his fist, what was left of the bug was in his palm, a black and bloody mess. “Got you, you little shit!”

“I’ve got movement,” a voice crackled from the radio at his shoulder. Burton, at the back of the property.

Putney squeezed the transmit button. “What kind of movement?”

“Not sure,” Burton replied. “Just something from the corner of my eye.”

“Want me to come back there?” Putney said.

Silence for a moment, then, “Negative.”

“Could be deer. I’ve seen three of them since I got here.” This from Collins at the guardhouse.

“Maybe,” Burton said.

Putney pressed his transmit button, another smoke ring rising into the night sky. “Maybe it’s another reporter sniffing around?”

“Negative,” Collins said. “We ran the last of them off around midnight. I’ve got eyes on the cul-de-sac, and it’s empty. I’ve had the occasional looky-loo pull in, but they see my cruiser and turn right back around. Got mountains at the back of the house, nobody’s coming that way on foot.”

“There it is again. Too big to be a deer. Five, maybe six feet tall. Dammit, got another about twenty feet down the tree line,” Burton replied.

Putney let the cigarette fall to the pavement and stomped out the remains, then reached for his microphone. “I’m coming back there.”

Static, then Collins from the guardhouse. “Negative, hold your position until we know what it is. Could be a diversion.”

Fuck you, Collins. You don’t give orders, we’re all the same rank. Putney tapped his microphone again. “Do you need backup, Burton? Give the word.”

No response.

That’s when Putney saw something. The slightest of movement from the trees behind the fountain toward the far edge of the driveway. He pulled his Maglite from his belt, flicked the switch, and directed the bright beam toward the trees. He didn’t see anything move, but for a second he thought he saw eyeshine reflected in the light. Then it was gone.

A branch cracked off to his right, at the trees on the west end of the house. He swung the beam around. This time he caught someone shuffling sideways behind the trunk of an old oak. “Pittsburgh PD!” he shouted. “You’re trespassing on a crime scene! Put your hands in the air, and step out where I can see you!”

Putney’s free hand fell to the butt of his Glock .45. His thumb flicked the leather band holding it in place, releasing the snap. “Come out! Now!”

A man in a long, white coat stepped out, his hands at his sides. He held something in the right. He looked to be about forty years old, with dark hair. His expression was blank, unreadable.

“Drop it!”

The man didn’t move.

Putney leaned into his microphone and pressed the transmit button with the