You Choose E-Book

Phillip Tomasso

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

After a police officer's family is taken hostage, he faces a deadly choice: one of his family members will live, and the other will die. He must make the decision, and time is running out.

Homicide Investigators Vincent Falcone and Farrah Richards take the case, and a team is assembled. Every effort is made to catch the psychopath before the next murder.

The killer makes mistakes; it's almost as if getting caught doesn't matter. But can they reach him in time?

Leseprobe

You Choose

Falcone & Richards Thrillers Book 1

Phillip Tomasso

Copyright (C) 2018 Phillip Tomasso

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

Author photo by Adrian DeJesus

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

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

With my work set in Rochester, NY, I try to make my fiction as factual as possible. As a writer I admit to taking extreme liberties with locations, procedures, and policies. Regardless, characters and most places and incidents either are products of my imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Although I consulted with a variety of people for details, there are times where I need to twist and contort information to make the story work. For this, any history, geography, or police procedural errors found were made solely by me. I apologize in advance for these and any other mistakes found.

— PT3

Other Books by Phillip Tomasso

NOVELS

Absolute Zero

Blood River

Preservation

Evacuation

Vaccination

Pigeon Drop

Convicted

Pulse of Evil

The Molech Prophecy (written as Thomas Philips)

Adverse Impact

Johnny Blade

Third Ring

Tenth House

Mind Play

YOUNG ADULT NOVELS

Assassin's Promise

Queens of Osiris

Wizard's War

Wizard's Rise

Damn the Dead

Young Blood: The Nightbreed

Sounds of Silence

NOVELLAS

Extinction (A Novella)

Treasure Island: A Zombie Novella

FOR CHILDREN

Jay Walker: Case of the Impractical Prankster

Jay Walker: Case of the Missing Action Figure

As always, this one is for Phillip, Grant and Raeleigh. Love you guys!

Prologue

The contemporary two-story house sat at the top of a slight hill. Lights inside were off. The outdoor flood lights, perfectly placed for optimal shadows and accents, revealed a well-manicured lawn. Pristine edging cut grooves along the sidewalk, brick paved walkways, and driveway. Every tree, shrub and plant were aesthetically placed. Pumice rock, the mulch of choice, was contained behind a six-inch high stone garden block wall. Everything about the property screamed look at me!

The near-private road was filled with homes of the rich. Tonight, they had their eyes on a particular property. Social media was to thank for the heads-up. The hot tip came from weeks of posts from the family who owned the house. Big vacation had been in the works for over a year. The last few weeks was the official countdown. The owners were going on a ten-day cruise. Caribbean. They would follow it up with another week in the Florida Keys. Cold drinks on the beach with bare toes digging into soft, clean sand. Their mastiff, Bowser, would stay with family who lived nearby. (Oh, they were so apprehensive about leaving their dog for so long, but, boy, did they deserve the time away from it all)!

The rich family needed time away from it all? They practically lived in a mansion in their own little wedge of the world isolated from reality. It was hard scraping up any sympathy toward the owners for what was about to go down.

There had been nothing on social media about anyone house-sitting, or even needing to stop over and water plants. The place would be vacant the entire time.

The two drove down the street in an SUV. Both wore small grins. They felt invigorated, inspired even. They kept the vehicle headlights off.

Each home, built on a healthy plot of land, stood like its own isolated castle. Although plenty of neighbors lined both sides of the street none sat on top of the other, the way city housing tracks were constructed. In the city, houses were built so close together they made cars in driveways between properties feel claustrophobic.

They pulled into the resident driveway, drove over one hundred yards, and parked outside of the three-car detached garage, which was located in the back of the house. From where they sat inside the SUV, they saw the downside of a hill and below, the in-ground swimming pool. The fenced in patio protected picnic tables, a tiki bar, and a pool room for changing into and out of bathing suits. There might be a bathroom in there, too. Neither of them was sure. Lights from below the surface illuminated the pool's water, while more lights around the backyard lit blue and white glow.

Dressed in black, the two exited the vehicles with black velvet satchels. The lawn had been cut that day. The smell of grass trimmings and chlorine filled the night. It was a humid July evening. No clouds. The stars might have been out, but with the floodlights strategically placed around the yard, it was impossible to tell. The key was staying in the shadows. It wasn't easy. Every light they passed made their own shadows project over the grass and onto the house. They hoped no one was paying attention, up late at night, too, for water and peering out from behind slightly parted curtains.

Wearing gloves, they decided on smashing a window, even though jimmying a side door would be quieter, neater. They knew, not from social media, but from the signs out front, that the house had an alarm. Most houses worth breaking into had burglar alarms regardless. Not all had motion detectors, though. Usually doors were monitored, and sometimes windows, too. For entry, they picked a random back window, one they believed went into a bathroom. Few people wired bathroom windows. Not sure why. Maybe they weren't worth monitoring?

If the bathroom window was indeed monitored, the alarm would trigger with the alarm company first, the alarm company would attempt contacting the homeowners before calling the break-in to 9-1-1. Once the alarm company called 9-1-1, dispatchers would assign a car or two and have them check out the location.

All said and told, if the alarm was activated, they figured they had a good five minutes once inside before they skedaddled.

Five minutes was plenty of time. Plenty. And that was if the alarm was triggered at all in the first place.

Move about the house as if it were activated. Get the goods quick, get out even faster. They knew what was where. Some of the more expensive things, the really good jewelry—the cash, the handguns, and items like those—were kept in the bedroom safe. They weren't there for the safe. The thing weighed a ton and was bolted down inside the walk-in closet floor. Safes were a different kind of job for specialized crooks. Safes weren't for them.

They were happy with silverware, laptops, crystal, and the other rare items on display.

Recently, working as hired interior painters they learned the layout inside the house like the back of their hands; they knew what was where, and what was worth snatching. Blue collar work had its privileges.

With LED penlights the two of them snaked their way through the house filling the satchels with goodies they'd pawn a month or two from now.

Things were going smoothly, until they weren't.

Flashing red and blue lights lit the inside of the house. The parlor, or drawing room, resembled a cop-Christmas tree. And they freaked.

Dashing for the back door, throwing back deadbolts, and disengaging locks, they pushed into each other as they scrambled out of the house. Stumbling over one another, they made a dash for the woods behind the house.

A beefy officer came out of nowhere and tackled one of the burglars, and then drove him hard into the grassy ground. The aroma of dirt and fresh cut grass filled his nostrils as he let out an oomph, and then was unable to breathe.

With a knee pressed into his back, and his arms twisted around behind him, he surrendered and let his body go lax.

“You have the right to remain silent…”

Just like that, his life twisted around, and turned upside down.

FRIDAY October 19th

Chapter 1

A floorboard creaked.

Byron Franks woke up. Something, some noise, pulled him out of his sleep. The slightest sound did that now. His rest was rarely deep and undisturbed. He blamed the job, the hours. Stress continually built inside him and it became increasingly difficult shutting it off when he was home, and then turning it back on while working. Instead, it stayed on twenty-four-seven. The darkening bags under his eyes was proof enough. He knew the copious amounts of coffee he consumed wouldn't help any, but he needed something that would cut into the near constant fog he found filling his head all the time.

He patted the mattress. Janice wasn't beside him, which might be why he'd stirred in the first place. She usually did her best keeping quiet. His wife knew he wasn't getting the rest he needed, and he desperately needed much more sleep than what little sleep he got. Her tiptoeing out of the room sometimes wasn't enough. It wasn't her fault. He didn't blame her. She tried. She always tried making his life easier. He didn't deserve such a caring and loving woman in his life. Guilt festered inside his chest from the list of mistakes made. Guilt might have added stress; a contributing factor for lack of sleep. She wasn't aware of the list and this could be why she still tried all of the time, rather than just walking out on him.

Franks wished every slight movement made—every floorboard creak—didn't wake him. Out of place noises became his nemesis. However, he knew the value of wishes.

He passed his hand over the empty space on her side of the bed. The sheet still warm. She hadn't been gone long and he figured she'd either run to the bathroom, or down to the kitchen for a drink (or for something to eat. Last night's dinner was baked chicken, and there were juicy breasts left over. The idea of pulling one apart and making a sandwich with lettuce, tomato, and mayo did sound kind of good right about now). If it was down to the kitchen for water, then in another hour or so she'd probably disrupt his sleep again when she snuck out of bed to go to the bathroom.

He rolled onto his side. The alarm clock, set for 0500 hours, let him know the opportunity for another two hours of sleep still existed. The key word, of course, being opportunity. The chance was there if he could close his eyes and fall asleep. It seemed unlikely, though, because now he had to use the bathroom, and a glass of water sounded good, too. Not to mention, the idea of a chicken sandwich was firmly planted in his mind; it wouldn't easily dissipate on its own, at least not without feeding the desire.

He sat up and swung his legs over the edge with an accompanying small grunt, and groan. He was too young for the aches and pains thrumming through his body every time he got up.

Getting up in the first place was detrimental. More than likely he'd end up doing what he did most mornings after using the bathroom or getting a drink. He would stay up. Brew a pot of coffee. Read the news on the laptop in the family room and see what he missed during the few hours spent in vain attempting a solid night's sleep.

Franks used the toilet, flushed, washed his hands, and then switched off the light. Halfway down the stairs, he stopped. For only a brief moment he thought he might be dreaming. He closed his eyes, and shook his head, certain what he saw could not be real.

Fastened with zip ties in kitchen chairs sat Janice and their eight-year-old son, Henry. Gags were plunged into their mouths and were secured around their heads with bandage wrap.

Janice's face was coated in a sheen of sweat. Her terror was visible in her wide opened eyes. Strands of hair stuck in her mouth with the gag and were also tucked under the bandage. She shouted, and screamed, but every sound made came out muffled.

“You will see a pair of handcuffs on the last stair.” The man wearing a black ski mask stood behind Henry; a bowie knife pressed against Franks' son's throat. “Have a seat and secure your arms around the banister. No sudden moves. This knife is sharp as hell, and I'm not afraid to admit, I feel a little jittery right now. Never done this kind of thing before, and my nerves,” he held out his left hand, and it trembled, “you see what I'm saying?”

Tears ran down Henry's cheeks. He tried crying, but the gag prevented sobs from escaping.

“It's okay, Henry. Don't worry. It's going to be okay.” Franks turned his attention onto the intruder. “You don't want to do this. This is a mistake. I'm not sure if you know who I am. Why don't you just let my family go, set them free, and I'll stay right here with you. Keep this between you and I. Okay?”

The man fisted Henry's hair, tipped his head back, and re-gripped the bowie handle. The meaning not lost on Franks. It was a show of control, depicting who was the one actually in charge.

“I'm not here for you to apply some psychology one-oh-one on me, okay? Now, why don't you just do what I said? Sit down on the last stair there and cuff your arms around the banister. Please, please, don't make me ask you a third time.”

The man nicked Henry's chin with the blade. Blood dripped. Franks lifted both hands in the air in surrender. “Be cool, man. Okay? Relax. I'm sitting. I'm sitting.”

Byron Franks sat on the last step. Every muscle in his body taut. His jaw set. It was an unnatural move. All his training shouted like voices inside his head. Charge the intruder! Against his better judgment he ignored the mental taunts and picked up the handcuffs. This was his family. His wife, and his son. If he charged the intruder and something went wrong, if his son was injured, or worse … he wouldn't be able to live with himself. He always told victims who didn't fight back they had done the right thing. The man wielding the knife might not harm anyone.

Franks put one arm under the railing, and around the banister before snapping the cuffs around his wrists. He was tethered to the banister now. Subdued, and confined.

The intruder sheathed the knife. Franks figured the guy was about five-nine, five-ten. Maybe one-hundred and ninety pounds. Not thin, but not overweight. There wasn't much more to take in, other than his attire: dressed in black, wearing gloves, and a ski mask. “What's this about? Money? We don't have much money. It's yours, though. You can have it. Take whatever you want. We've got computers. Flat screen TVs. Whatever, man. It's all yours.”

The intruder squatted between Janice and Henry. Franks saw through the eyelets on the ski mask, black grease over bits of exposed skin. It was like what football players applied under their eyes for reducing sun glare. He had no idea if the man was white, black, or Hispanic.

“Money? I don't want your money, Franks.” The intruder shook his head as if disappointed or insulted by the offer.

And then Franks' brain froze. The intruder knew his name. He wasn't sure how knowing his name changed anything. It might not. Somehow, he figured the recognition was relevant. If anything, it might mean this wasn't random. Franks was a target. Being a target couldn't be good. A home invasion, as opposed to a botched burglary? “Then what do you want?”

“What do I want?” The man stood up, back straight, and chest slightly puffed, as if with pride. “I am so glad you asked. I mean, I figured we'd get around to it, but why wait, right? Why not just get right down to the bare bones? What I want, Franks, is I want you to choose.”

“Choose? Choose what?” Franks knew he was shaking. Every nerve inside his body was on fire, the adrenaline racing through his body came in constant waves. His breathing was quick, shallow, and his heart slammed behind his chest. The situation was surreal, and unimaginable at the moment.

The intruder cocked his head to one side, the motion condescending. “This is pretty simple, really. You see, this morning two things are for certain. One, you are going to die. There is no way around that.”

Janice struggled against her restraints, her muffled moans louder than before.

The intruder thumped her in the temple with back of his hand.

“You son of a bitch! Don't you touch her!” Franks came off the steps, his arms restrained, the metal from the cuffs cut into his flesh. His right wrist bled.

“Sit down, officer. Sit the fuck down.”

Franks never looked away from his wife. Their eyes were locked.

He sat back down.

“That's better.” The intruder placed on hand on the back of Janice's chair, and the other behind Henry. “We all settled, hmmm? Good. Now, where was I?”

This was all a game. Franks couldn't stand the taunting of it all. His stomach was twisted into a knot. He felt the bile in the back of his throat. Part of him wanted the intruder to get to the point. Another part of him was afraid of hearing what might be said.

“Ah, yes. You are going to die today. We established that much already, correct?”

“Fine. Fine. You're here to kill me. I get it. We get that. But then you've got to promise me you're going to let my family go. Whatever I've done to piss you off, it's on me. They have nothing to do with any of this.”

The man laughed. “I love how you believe you are in a position to call the shots. It amuses me, Byron. I mean, I find this hysterical.”

“Just leave us alone, alright?”

“There you go again.” Only now the man wasn't laughing. Instead he unsheathed the knife. Franks' eyes focused on the trace of his son's blood still on the polished steel. “Secondly, and this is where it gets just a little more complicated. For you, that is. Not for me. Number two, I want you to choose. You get to decide who lives. Either your wife, or your son. I'll give you that much. You can pick who dies with you, and who is spared. The choice is yours, officer. One dies with you. One lives. You choose.”

“Nah, no. You can't do this.” Franks resumed his struggle against the cuffs. Janice, and Henry were both crying. Whimpering. He would kill this bastard! He would tear his head off his shoulders!

The intruder said, “You see, that is where you are wrong. I am doing this. And here's the thing, the part I forgot to mention. If you don't choose who gets to live, I will kill all three of you.”

“You're a monster!” Franks tugged and pulled. “Don't hurt my family. Just wait a minute. Let's talk this through. You let them go. Kill me, okay? Kill me. I'm fine with that. But not them. Don't you dare touch them!”

The intruder actually threw his head back and laughed. It was as if he were being entertained at a fancy dinner party and someone just shared a joke. “I love that you're bargaining. You have no chips in this hand, Byron. You are not calling the shots. This is my game. My rules.” He pulled back a sleeve and looked at the time on a wristwatch. “You have, hmmm, three minutes to decide. I'll kill whoever you want dead, and then I will kill you. The third person, I promise not to harm. I'll just leave them strapped to the chair. Whenever the police get here that is exactly how they'll be found. Alive. Safe. Waiting for help.”

Franks couldn't wrap his mind around the situation. It was now beyond surreal. There was a way out of this. He just couldn't think of one. The only thought he could muster was talking their way out of the mess. “Listen, listen, you don't have to do this. You can let them go.”

“I can't,” he said. He sounded casual, calm. No longer did he seem unsteady, or anxious. Maybe he'd never been shaky. It could have been an act. Had this man done this kind of thing before? He must have. No one just breaks into a house and kills people on a whim. Maybe the guy started young, started small. Pulled wings off flies. Killed neighborhood pets. Eventually worked his way up to people?

They weren't dead, yet. No one had been hurt. Henry was cut. The laceration would heal. They could survive this. It would about timing. At the right moment he would rip the guy's fucking head off! Franks said, “You can. You can, and you should. You should let them go.”

“Two minutes.” The intruder eyed his wristwatch.

Franks twisted. The metal cuffs continued digging into his skin. He knew if he jumped up onto his feet with enough force, he could splinter the railing with his combined weight, and strength.

“Don't even think about it.” The intruder moved behind Henry, the knife once again against his boy's throat. “You attempt breaking free and I will kill both of them before you get the chance to come at me. Are we clear?”

Deflated, Franks leaned back. “We gotta talk about this, okay? I just want to understand why you're doing this. Why me, why us? What have any of us done to you? Help me understand that much. Don't you at least owe us some kind of explanation?”

“The why will become apparent, I promise you.” The intruder kept staring at his wristwatch, as if Franks was inconsequential. “Just not now. The when will be made known when the time is right.”

“The time? But if you are going to kill me, I might never know the reason.”

The man shrugged. He didn't care or was no longer listening. “One minute.”

Franks stomped his feet. Hot tears streamed down his face. He kept looking from his wife to his son. They stared at him, silently pleading with him to fix everything, to protect them, to do his job as a cop, a husband, a father, and protect them. “Stop it. Stop this!”

“I hope you're not just wasting all of your time deciding how best to kill me, when you should be considering who is going to die alongside you, and who will live. That would be unfortunate.”

“Let them go, please.” All Franks had left was begging. “Can you just do me that favor, and let them go?”

“Favor?” the man's laugh came out cold, and flat. Nothing humorous in the horrific sound. He didn't toss his head back this time. Instead, his eyes narrowed and were trained on Franks, as if Franks was centered in some kind of mental crosshairs.

Franks still considered smashing the railing. The guy might be bluffing. Maybe he didn't have it in him to kill two people. Or one. A knife was a brutal murder weapon, a personal weapon. To use it you had to get in close and push the blade through flesh.

If he could get himself freed fast enough…

If. That was the question; the problem.

The intruder lowered his sleeve covering the wristwatch. “Well, Mr. Byron Franks, time is up. Who will it be? You are going to die and so is your wife, or your son. Please choose now.”

Franks saw blood still trickling down his son's throat.

The if was irrelevant.

He couldn't sit idle and let this happen to his family.

All at once Franks shot up from a squatting position on the stair, the muscles in his legs uncoiled like a spring. He felt his shoulder slam against the wooden banister, and the wood gave. As he broke free from the railing and banister, the intruder reached behind his back, and unexpectedly produced a gun.

Committed, Franks couldn't stop his forward motion.

The intruder started firing his weapon.

Chapter 2

Late October was Investigator Vincent Falcone's favorite time of year. Brisk mornings, cool days, and cooler nights. He didn't miss the heat and humidity of summer. This morning was no different. The chill in the air felt invigorating, and although he wore a thigh-length black leather jacket over a white-collar dress shirt, and loose blue jeans, he drove toward work with his window down.

On his way, he stopped at the Tim Hortons on Lake and Ridge and bought two coffees at the drive-thru. He took his black. His partner drank her coffee with two creams, two sugars. Pulling into the precinct parking lot, past the back gates, Falcone parked alongside the fence, and then entered the precinct through the front door. He greeted the desk sergeant, made his way upstairs, and exited on the second floor, Special Operations Division. Investigators for the Major Crimes Unit, like Falcone and Farrah Richards, were to the right, other divisions, like Economic Crimes, License Investigations, and SVI, the Special Victims Investigations—were to the left, and also occupied space on the third, and fourth floors.

Desks were butted together, so partner faced partner. Farrah Richards wasn't in yet. Falcone set her two creams, and two sugars coffee down by her keyboard, and his on his desk before removing his jacket. His department issued Glock was suspended from a shoulder holster under his left arm.

Lieutenant Daniel Garcia made his way over, eyes locked on Falcone. He was the second platoon commander. The two wore similar crew cut hairstyles, except Garcia's was black with thick, silver streaks, and Falcone's hair was deerskin-brown. Garcia coordinated day-to-day operations, handed out assignments, helped the sergeant keep officers in line, paperwork cleaned up, and the higher-ups happy. The higher-ups were never happy, so Garcia was rarely happy, which meant most of second platoon was generally unhappy.

“Hey, Lou.” Falcone took a sip of coffee, moved his mouse on the pad, and woke his computer. He punched in his password and waited while the system booted up.

“Don't get comfy,” Garcia said. He pointed a waving finger at Farrah's empty desk. “Where's Richards?”

Falcone looked over the lieutenant at the wall mounted clock. “Should be here any second. I'm a bit early. What's the deal?”

“Tell you what. Why don't you meet her downstairs?” Garcia turned a thin manila folder over in his hands, looked at the label, and held out the folder. “I need you guys out on a triple.”

Falcone inwardly groaned. It seemed impossible they were already next in the rotation. He and Richards were still working two other unrelated homicides, one from last week, and one other from two weeks before. Adding a triple into the mix would spread them thin, like air. There was no point in complaining. The bodies kept showing up and there wasn't an investigator on the team who wasn't already pulling twice their own weight.

Falcone took the folder, but figured he'd look over the contents in the car. He had the lieutenant right in front of him, and chances were it was Garcia who had put the information together anyway. Why not just talk with the source? “What do we have?”

Garcia's expression, grim normally, darkened as he pursed his lips turning them into two thin lines. “This just got called in. You know Officer Byron Franks? He was a no call no show at roll call. The sarge sent a patrol unit by Franks' house.”

Standard operating procedure. If someone didn't show for a shift and couldn't be reached by phone to see what was what, a car was dispatched to the officer's residence. Falcone remembered a time or two when he forgot to set an alarm and had been awakened instead by the hammering sound of fists pounding on his door. People overslept. It happened.

“Who checked on Franks?” Falcone knew what the patrolman found. The lieutenant wouldn't be coming up to see him unless the officer had been found dead. The lieutenant had said a triple homicide, though. Falcone's stomach muscles clenched.

“Parker. Michael Parker.”

Falcone couldn't recall a Byron Franks. Not unusual. There were a lot of patrol officers on the city payroll. “Parker. Good kid. Knew his father,” Falcone said as he turned the file over in his hands. He peeked into the folder and saw the basic intake form inside. Although his eyes scanned the page, he wasn't concentrating on what he read. The handwriting was Garcia's though. “Scene secure?”

“House is taped off. No one unauthorized is allowed inside.” Garcia pointed toward the road. “Got a few more cars en route with a tech and the Monroe County forensics team. Medical examiner is going to be a bit. Shouldn't be too long. Said he was on the way. Chief's on the phone with the mayor's office right now. Notifications are being made.”

“Media?”

“No. Not yet. We didn't go through dispatch. Nothing was put out over the air. It will buy us a little time. Not much, but the delay gives us a bit of a chance to get some of our ducks in a row.” Garcia was about dotting “I”s and crossing “T”s.

“You said a triple.” It wasn't a question, it was more of prompt. Falcone thought he could surmise an answer. Guessing, or assuming never helped when looking for facts. Doing so led to trouble, and backtracking.

“Officer Franks, his wife, and their eight-year-old son.” Garcia lifted his chin, ground his teeth, and concentrated on something just over Falcone's shoulder. “Your partner's here.”

Falcone turned.

Richards walked toward them, arched an eyebrow as if silently asking what's going on? Short black hair framed milky skin and bright grey eyes. She looked as sharp as ever in navy-blue pinstriped suit pants and a crisp white blouse, with only the first two buttons undone.

Falcone looked back at Garcia, and asked, “What? Like a murder suicide? Franks kill his family and then take his own life?”

“Parker didn't think so. It's one of the things I need you and Richards to check out.” Garcia crossed his arms. “Parker sounded convinced it was a home invasion gone south. Definite signs, according to Parker.”

Officer Michael Parker was green, still wet behind the ears. Soles of the kid's shoes probably didn't even have scuff marks on them yet. “Any witnesses? Someone see something? Strange car in the area? Anyone lurking about?”

Garcia pointed at the file. “Soon as more uniforms get on scene you can have them canvass the neighborhood. Knock on doors. No one's come forward with anything yet, but as I already mentioned, this was just discovered, and for the moment we want to keep the media at arm's length. Although we diverted around ECD, I did just alert supervisors at nine-one-one.” The Emergency Communications Department was where Monroe County's 911 operated. Everyone just referred to it as ECD. Short. Simple. “They created a tech job. Once this does hit the news outlets their phones are going to be ringing. They're going to collect names and numbers and add them to the one tech job card. This will make sure all information they gather from citizens calling is centralized in one place, instead of scattered all over. So far, we have nothing. I instructed Parker to seal off the entire area. House. Front yard. Backyard.” The lieutenant offered up a smile. It wasn't for Falcone's benefit. “Morning, Richards.”

“Fellas,” she said, and took off her suit coat. “Looks like I'm a little late to the party.”

“Keep it on.” Falcone lifted his jacket off the back of his chair, pushed his arms into the sleeves, and adjusted the collar. “We caught a triple.”

Richards gave their boss a look, one Falcone knew well.

“It's one of us. It's a cop.” Falcone added before his partner complained outright about being overworked. “Bought you coffee.”

“How very thoughtful,” she said, and gestured toward the cup on her desk. “Two creams, two sugars?”

“Naturally. Was my turn.” Falcone shifted his attention. “We reporting directly to you on this, Lou?”

“I told the captain, and she told the chief. Tunsil wants you reporting directly to him. Like I said, he's tied up briefing the mayor right now. He's got the same thing I've just given you, which isn't much. I'd expect the chief, and possibly the mayor at the scene before the morning's over,” Garcia said. It sounded like both a head's up, and a silent warning. In other words, cross the “T”s and dot the “I”s. No mistakes. People were going to be watching.

Falcone knew a case like this would attract a lot of attention, some good, but mostly bad. Once the media caught wind of the murders, pressure on solving the case would come at them from all directions. The media, the citizens, and from the big bosses.

Garcia continued, “No talking to the media. Canned statements while our liaisons work on preparing a press release. You can tell them the chief will address all questions when we have information worth reporting. Got it? Okay, get going.”

Chapter 3

The temperature had changed during the short time Falcone had been inside the precinct. Maybe Falcone just felt colder after having the newest assignment handed down. The sky, a blanket of grey clouds now, threatened rain. It didn't mean it would rain, just the threat seemed a constant in late October. Soon the threat wouldn't be for rain, though. If they were at all lucky there were still four or five weeks before the snow started. Rochester spent five to six months under layers of snow, long after Christmas snow was no longer welcomed in the city. Regardless, winter demanded more than its allotted four-month reign, and rarely relinquished its icy hold until mid-April; insistent on dominating the end of Fall and the beginning of Spring, as well.

Farrah Richards drove. Falcone knew the reason. Back a few months when they first met, she'd smelled booze on his breath. He knew he wreaked. It was one of those mornings where he should have stayed home and called in sick but didn't. She never said anything about it, but just took the keys from him, and gave him one of her looks. He hadn't known her well at the time, but he understood the glare. The look dared him to complain about her taking the keys. He knew better, and kept his mouth shut.

Maybe it had been more than one time when booze was on his breath. The last few months were somewhat cloudy. Maybe he had smelled so bad the one particular morning she finally took steps to block, or stop, him from killing them on the roads?

Whatever. She wasn't wrong for reacting the way she had, and he hadn't protested. What leg did he have to stand on? The answer was simple. None. She drove from that day on. He was okay with her driving, but knew he needed to get his shit together. Someone will only tolerate a drunk partner for so long. Contrary to popular belief, cops often turned each other in for such reckless violations. The job was about going home safely at the end of the night. No one could be expected to put such a goal in jeopardy day in and day out. No one should have to, and Falcone understood her position perfectly. He just wasn't sure he could do much about it at the moment.

She knew his history. There wasn't an officer in the department who didn't. Drinking might be a problem, but he did his best to limit its negative effect on the job. It was harder still when he was home with his wife, and son. At times he felt as if he needed to set aside periods of time where he could act irresponsibly. It sucked his calendar didn't have space to allow room for binge drinking. Overloaded at work, and busy with the family when not on the clock ate up nearly every precious minute. Eventually, he figured he'd pencil in time for a nervous breakdown. It was coming, he could feel it. Falcone just couldn't afford having one now.

The best he could tell, Farrah and he hit it off. He liked having Richards as his partner, but whether she appreciated the pairing, he couldn't say for sure. It was new, the two of them. They were placed together about three months ago. At the time she worked first platoon, covering midnight to zero-eight-hundred hours. She swore the overnights were better; days at the office were ruled by politics. Richards hated politics. He wasn't much of a fan, either. The overnights, when he worked them, clearly took years off his life. So had working sixteen hundred to midnight. In fact, the day shift wasn't much better, either. The idea of an early grave didn't scare him much, he just didn't think there was space on his calendar enough for death. Not with so much still to get done.

“Read me the file.” Richards pulled out of the parking lot. Lights flashed, and sirens screamed. This type of response was what they called “going seventy-seven” to the crime scene. Getting there fast wouldn't change a thing. The three dead people would still be dead when they got there. The priority, at this point, was maintaining the integrity of the crime scene. The other reason they hurried across the city was the simple fact Byron Franks had been one of them. How could they stop at red lights when a brother-in-blue, his wife and his son had just been murdered?

Falcone reviewed the few things they did know. He shuffled through the contents of the folder. His eyes scanned over the information written in Garcia's pen, and then basically regurgitated the points Garcia shared moments before Richards came upon their conversation inside the precinct.

“Mother, father, son?” Her eyes kept going to the cup holder where her Tim Horton's got colder. I reached over and peeled back the plastic lip and handed her the cup. She took a sip and set it back in the holder. Driving fast and drinking coffee was iffy. Hit a bump, spill some, make a mess. Coffee stains were a bitch to get out of white blouses.

“Definitely sounds brutal.” Falcone lowered the passenger window with one hand, while he fished a pack of cigarettes and his lighter out of a pocket with the other.

“I don't like you smoking in front of me, or in the car. We're not supposed to be smoking in here. It's against policy. I shouldn't have to remind you of that. And besides, it's freezing out.” Richards forced a shiver, an illustration toward making her point.

Policies. Falcone reached forward, cranked up the heat. “You think a burglary went bad? Or Franks lost it? Killed his wife and his son, and then took his own life?” Falcone thumbed open his Zippo, rolled the thumb down the wheel, and held the flame to the end of a cigarette. He wasn't really asking a question but was, more or less, just talking out loud. The two of them did that. Put ideas out there and thought on them without an immediate need to comment. He sucked in a deep breath and exhaled a plume of bluish smoke aimed out the opened window. Resting his arm on the door, he flicked away ashes. Most of the ash blew back into the car, and he casually brushed them off his jacket with the back of his left hand.

Farrah glared over at him. Silent.

“I'll get the vehicle detailed.” He arched eyebrows, as if that settled that, and then took another drag.

They rode the rest of the way in silence. Nothing awkward about it. There was nothing they could talk about. No plan could be formed, or action taken until after they viewed the crime scene. The drive might be considered the calm before the storm. The file in Falcone's lap was thin. Bare bones only. It was their job to gather more information and fatten the folder up with facts, and evidence.

Falcone took one last drag before he flicked away the butt and raised the window.

“Thank you,” his partner said.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“I said, 'thank you.' You say, 'you're welcome.' Not to mention, I know you're not sorry. You do this every time. Every day I ask you not to smoke in the car, and every day you do. Then after you've had your nicotine fix you look over and apologize. When someone says they're sorry, it kind of means they're not going to do what they just did again. When you say you're sorry I know it is only until the next urge comes and you disregard my protests all over again.”

“I know it wasn't sincere,” Falcone said. “I know my smoking bothers you.”

“It does, all of the time. But it even more so when I have to freeze because of it, but my thank you—that was sincere,” she said. “What's eating you today, anyway? You okay?”

Falcone gave her a shrug and looked away. “Not looking forward to this case.”

“That would fly if you weren't already acting off this entire last week.” Richards had no issue with calling bullshit when she saw it. Sometimes Falcone appreciated it, or at least he did when it was someone else's bullshit she was outing. When she pulled insightful crap on him it was a different story. “Want to tell me what's going on?”

“Yeah, I did,” he said. “It's nothing.”

“You said 'it's nothing' which means it is something, but you're just choosing not to tell me.” She read him better than he read himself at times. A scary fact. Three months together and she had his number. Most of the time his wife couldn't figure out whether he'd had a good or bad day at work, or if she could she just didn't care. Which was always a possibility, too.

When they turned onto Byron Franks' street, Richards didn't have to ask which house. Three patrol cars sat out front of the house halfway down the block, and on the left. Yellow crime scene tape squared off the perimeter. The tape wrapped around the sole maple tree, mailbox, and was secured to posts that officers must have hammered into the lawn. The entire front yard looked successfully quarantined.

One house past the patrol cars, and along the right curb, sat the tech and forensics vehicles. The white vans boasted the department logo on the side panels and housed expensive equipment inside. The county crime lab was state of the art. Wasn't long ago a new building on W. Main Street was put up specifically for the criminalists. Falcone knew teams would be assembled inside snapping photographs and creating a complete inventory log of everything. All of the evidence would go back to W. Main for under-the-microscope analysis. It could be days before any results trickled through the department.

Richards parked the car. They climbed out of the vehicle and walked on the sidewalk stopping at the Franks' driveway, before the crime scene tape.

“Officer Parker.” Falcone held out a hand. “How've you been?”

“Good, sir.” Michael Parker, about twenty-three years old, had been with a field training officer, an F.T.O., up until last month. It was probably because his training had so recently completed that the sergeant tasked him with checking up on Franks. Gopher work went to new guys. Had always been that way. Falcone couldn't imagine something so engrained ever changing. Parker glanced around the crime scene, and added, “All things considered.”

“How's the ol' man?” Small talk might seem trivial with time being of the essence. Seeing a body, much less three, was disturbing as hell. If responders didn't try keeping things as normal as possible, they'd lose their minds. Slow setting post traumatic syndrome. The disorder became a little more embedded each day, a little harder to cure, and a little more crippling whether a person realized it, or not. The only people who truly understood were other first responders. This was why so many of them fooled around with each other. There was the unspoken bond, and it, perhaps too often, became a disabling attraction. It was why so many had a dark sense of humor or couldn't function well at family gatherings. There was a high percentage who got mixed up in drugs, and a few who took it a step too far and simply committed suicide. Although there was nothing simple about the act.

“Loving retirement,” Parker said.

“You tell him I said he's too young to sit home in some rocking chair. Have him give me a call. We can all go for drinks.” Falcone grinned. The smile was forced, but the sentiment sincere. Thing was, he knew Parker's father would never call him. They'd never meet for drinks. The two were never that close, and Parker's father was probably thrilled having his service days behind him. Why live in the past? The guy was probably fifty-five years old and thrilled to be retired.

Richards did not smile back.

“You know my partner? This is Investigator Farrah Richards.”

Parker shook her hand. “I know who you are, ma'am. We've never been introduced, though.”

“Not ma'am. Richards, or Farrah is fine.” Now she smiled, but at Parker. Not at Falcone.

“Spent some time sitting in a squad car with his father, back when we'd ride two-badge,” Falcone told his partner, and made it sound as if it had been the highlight of his career.

“Who's the scribe?” Richards asked, all business.

“I am, ma'am. Uh, Ms. Richards.” Parker held up his notebook. “Recording anyone who steps on this side of the tape, the time, their badge, and verifying it against I.D.”

Richards flashed her badge, and city I.D.

Parker blushed and lifted the tape for the investigators to duck under. “I don't need to see that. I know who the two of you are.”

Falcone, now on the opposite side of the tape, stood beside the officer. Richards stayed put. “Do you want to be reprimanded?” She asked.

The color drained from Parker's face. “I'm sorry, reprimanded for what?”

“That notebook is an official document used in this investigation. No one crosses this line unless you use due diligence, and record everything. Everything. I expect you to question the hell out of Chief Tunsil if he shows up to look around. I want every I.D. checked. Verify with dispatch if necessary. No one, I mean, no one gets past this crime scene tape until you've done everything you can to substantiate who's who.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Parker said, not correcting himself this time. He stood straighter and stiffer than before. He was clearly at attention.

Richards lifted the yellow tape and crossed under. “Falcone, show the officer your badge and I.D.”

Falcone tried not to roll his eyes, but obeyed the command because, ultimately, she was correct. Defense attorneys were like vultures. Birds of prey started digging into the ass orifice of a carcass and tore into it making the opening bigger and bigger until it could then easily devour everything inside. Give an attorney a loophole, regardless of how small, and they'd keep at it until everything else evidentiary fell apart.

Falcone leaned in close to the officer. “You good?”

He remembered seeing his first murder scene. The memories were never far. They stayed in the mind. Blood on TV was nothing like actual blood. A lifeless body, eyes open … It haunts. Nothing outdid the smell, though. Death stunk, but the corpse of a murdered person was something else altogether.

“I'm good, sir.”

Falcone leaned inward. “You tell your father I said hello, and I mean what I said about that drink. When this mess wraps up, you have him call me. We'll set something up. Okay?”

Michael Parker gave a tw0-finger salute, which looked corny as hell, and the investigators turned their attention to the house, the reason they were there. Falcone sucked in a deep breath and exhaled. They weren't here for the house. More specifically, it was the bodies inside they'd come to see.

Falcone winced against a knot twisting about in his gut and placed a useless hand across his belly. The dull ache persisted. “Not looking forward to going inside.”

Richards's cell phone rang. She pulled it from her pocket, looked at the display. “Why did you invite that kid out drinking with you?”

“What?”

“I knew his father, too. There's no way that man is going to want his son out drinking with you.” She looked down at her phone once more. Falcone saw her shoulders sag and the somber expression consume her face before she slid up on the screen and put the phone to her ear. “What's up, John? I'm working.”

Richards waved Falcone on. She pulled the phone away from her ear and placed a hand over it. “I have to take this. I'll meet you inside.”

Chapter 4

When Farrah Richards walked into the house and snapped on latex gloves, Falcone checked his watch. It wasn't meant as a rub. He could tell by the look she gave him it had been taken as a shot.

He didn't care if she took a personal call, regardless of the timing. She must have felt the call was important enough to delay their investigation into a triple homicide. She had to have known the chief, and possibly the mayor, were on their way down desperate for answers. It was her business. She was an adult, more than capable of making such decisions all on her own.

Okay. Maybe it was a rub, the checking of the time. He'd give her that one.

She stood just inside the house. The front foyer was where the action had taken place, anyway. They would comb over every inch of the place, including the front and back yards. For the moment, the meat of it all was in the foyer, no pun intended.

Inside, the techs and forensics teams wore latex gloves and blue booties over shoes, took photographs, dusted for prints, and placed numerical placards around the house marking evidence which would need to be photographed, eventually bagged, and hauled away.

Falcone figured he'd give her the two-cent tour. “I've been staring at the scene. Seems like there aren't many different options on how this went down. It's like a picture, really. A still shot telling us the story. Can you see it?”