“Done.” Marc turned and loped up the stairs to his office. There, he grabbed his Glock and two pairs of latex gloves, all of which he shoved into his pocket. That done, he headed back downstairs, ready to roll.
During Marc’s absence, Ryan turned to Hutch, grappling with what to say, yet determined to do this on his own—for now. “I may need to reach out to you. I don’t have the facts yet.”
“No problem.” Hutch didn’t know the connection Ryan’s situation had to him, but he didn’t ask for clarification. “Call my cell.”
“Thanks.” Ryan was already retracing his steps, heading for the entranceway.
Marc joined him there, car keys in hand. “Let’s go.”
Bronx River Parkway
Friday, 3:55 p.m.
It wasn’t rush hour—not quite yet. So the drive was an hour plus away. That now left a short distance to go.
Ryan remained quiet and tense, staring out the passenger window as he had throughout the trip to Westchester County.
“Where are we going in New Rochelle?” Marc finally asked, glancing at his GPS, aware that he didn’t recognize the address Ryan had given him.
“To my cousin, Shane Walsh’s, house,” Ryan replied.
Marc nodded as they reached their exit and he eased his car around a loop and off the parkway. “Tell me only what I need to know. I’m not going to pry.”
“You’re not prying. I’m just really freaking out.” Ryan cleared his throat and relayed the entire situation to Marc.
Marc took it all in. “You’ve mentioned that you had a cousin with the Bureau. But that’s about all you’ve said, other than the fact that he has a wife and a young daughter.”
Ryan shrugged. “Shane’s a private guy, so I don’t talk about him much. He’s a Special Agent, Violent Crimes division, at the New York field office. He’s been there since he joined the FBI about eight years ago.”
“Does Hutch know him?”
“I never asked. But I doubt it. Hutch is in charge of all the Violent Crimes divisions. That’s too high up to know every agent who works under him.” Ryan pointed, shifting to the edge of his seat, and reiterating what the GPS was already showing them. “Make your next right. Two blocks down and make a left. Go through a few lights. You’ll see a cul-de-sac on your right. Marigold Terrace. Shane’s house is number 15.”
Marc understood that Ryan’s redundant supply of information was a manifestation of his anxiety. He just nodded again, then pressed his foot a little harder on the gas pedal to speed them up without accelerating too much. Suburban cops lived for speed traps.
Four minutes later, Marc turned onto Marigold Terrace and eased slowly around the curvy road.
“Three down on your left,” Ryan instructed. “White clapboard house, blue shutters.” His tension intensified as Marc reached Shane’s home. “That’s Caitlin’s car parked in the driveway. And Shane’s parked in his usual spot on the street. If they’re both home…but they don’t want Kennedy there… Shit.”
Ryan flung open the passenger door before Marc had brought the car to a complete stop. He was halfway to the front door, digging in his pocket for the key Shane had given him long ago, when Marc reached his side.
“Ryan, wait.” Marc grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks.
“Why?”
Marc tugged out the two pairs of latex gloves and shoved one pair into Ryan’s hand. “Put these on.”
Ryan gritted his teeth, while he and Marc worked their hands into the gloves. “Can’t leave any new fingerprints,” he muttered. “In case this is a crime scene.” He sounded ill.
“Is the door unlocked?” Marc asked, quickly assessing the garage door, which was up. He might have suggested accessing the house through there, but Ryan was already in motion. And time was precious.
Ryan jiggled the doorknob. “No.”
“Okay, use the key. I’ve got my Glock. Let’s go.”
Ryan’s hands were shaking as he turned the key and pushed open the door.
He and Marc stepped inside. The foyer was empty and quiet. In fact, the whole house was silent in a way that suggested no one was home.
