Skylar read her mind.
“What kind of drugs were you tripping on?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“You kids might think I’m an old man, but I’m not stupid. I know you weren’t in the forest at dusk sitting around drinking soda pop. Not the first time you’ve been out there either, is it?”
Maggie had to give the man some credit. Sometimes this type of interrogation opened a spigot when the subject felt guilty and just needed an extra push to spew out a confession or give up some vital information. But this would not be one of those moments. Maggie didn’t think Dawson Hayes looked guilty. He looked scared.
When the boy met her eyes this time, his eyes stayed on her. She saw the panic soften and give way to a spark of recognition.
“You’re the one who found me,” he said.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“You should have just let me die with the others.”
TWENTY-TWO
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Organized chaos. That’s exactly what Benjamin Platt saw when he arrived at Fitzgerald Elementary School. Police officers with whistles guided a line of cars with disheveled parents picking up the last of the children. A group of what looked to be school administrators and teachers were helping paramedics escort children to waiting ambulances. The frenetic energy spilled across the street to bystanders and into the neighborhood where people watched from their front lawns.
As Platt got out of his Land Rover a cable-TV camera crew started setting up. He recognized the well-dressed anchor-woman eyeballing him, trying to decide whether or not he was someone important. By the time he flashed his credentials at the first police officer, Platt could hear the newscaster calling out to him. Too late. He slid his messenger bag higher on his shoulder, strode on without a glance back.
He made it up the steps before another uniformed cop stopped him.
“Essentials only beyond this point, sir,” the cop told him.
Before Platt could respond he heard a woman from inside the doorway say, “It’s okay. He’s been cleared.”
Tall, lean, attractive but with a hard edge and a clenched jaw telegraphing don’t mess with me . Her short blond hair spiked up in places as if she had just come in from the wind, though there wasn’t a breeze. She wore street clothes: jeans with a tucked-in knit shirt tight across full breasts and a shoulder holster displaying her Glock nestled close underneath her arm, so that anyone who dared to admire her physique also got an eyeful of the metal, another warning not to mess with her. Her badge hung from her belt but Platt didn’t need to look at it. He recognized the District detective.
“Hello, Detective Racine.”
“CDC guy’s waiting for you. I’ll take you to him.”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”
Not even five feet inside, Platt immediately smelled the sour vomit, splatters of it left on the floor. Otherwise the hallway was eerily quiet. Racine led the way, unfazed by the smell. Platt glanced into the empty classrooms. They rounded one corner and suddenly had to step aside for two men dressed in full SWAT gear.
He waited for them to pass before he asked Racine, “What the hell’s going on? I thought this was a food contamination?”
“Mr. CDC called in a domestic terrorism alert. Sixty-three kids puking up their cookies all in a matter of an hour. Tends to trip an alarm or two.”
“Any fatalities?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Aren’t you homicide?”
“Yes.”
Platt stopped mid-stride to look at her.
“I was already here,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“Off duty. I was picking up my partner’s kid.”
He started walking again. “Picking up your partner’s kid, that seems beyond the call of duty,” he said, trying to lighten the tone.
“Not my professional partner. My personal partner.”
“Oh.” He didn’t know what to do with that tidbit of information. In the few times he had met her at Maggie’s house, he hadn’t picked up on the fact that she
“What kind of drugs were you tripping on?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“You kids might think I’m an old man, but I’m not stupid. I know you weren’t in the forest at dusk sitting around drinking soda pop. Not the first time you’ve been out there either, is it?”
Maggie had to give the man some credit. Sometimes this type of interrogation opened a spigot when the subject felt guilty and just needed an extra push to spew out a confession or give up some vital information. But this would not be one of those moments. Maggie didn’t think Dawson Hayes looked guilty. He looked scared.
When the boy met her eyes this time, his eyes stayed on her. She saw the panic soften and give way to a spark of recognition.
“You’re the one who found me,” he said.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“You should have just let me die with the others.”
TWENTY-TWO
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Organized chaos. That’s exactly what Benjamin Platt saw when he arrived at Fitzgerald Elementary School. Police officers with whistles guided a line of cars with disheveled parents picking up the last of the children. A group of what looked to be school administrators and teachers were helping paramedics escort children to waiting ambulances. The frenetic energy spilled across the street to bystanders and into the neighborhood where people watched from their front lawns.
As Platt got out of his Land Rover a cable-TV camera crew started setting up. He recognized the well-dressed anchor-woman eyeballing him, trying to decide whether or not he was someone important. By the time he flashed his credentials at the first police officer, Platt could hear the newscaster calling out to him. Too late. He slid his messenger bag higher on his shoulder, strode on without a glance back.
He made it up the steps before another uniformed cop stopped him.
“Essentials only beyond this point, sir,” the cop told him.
Before Platt could respond he heard a woman from inside the doorway say, “It’s okay. He’s been cleared.”
Tall, lean, attractive but with a hard edge and a clenched jaw telegraphing don’t mess with me . Her short blond hair spiked up in places as if she had just come in from the wind, though there wasn’t a breeze. She wore street clothes: jeans with a tucked-in knit shirt tight across full breasts and a shoulder holster displaying her Glock nestled close underneath her arm, so that anyone who dared to admire her physique also got an eyeful of the metal, another warning not to mess with her. Her badge hung from her belt but Platt didn’t need to look at it. He recognized the District detective.
“Hello, Detective Racine.”
“CDC guy’s waiting for you. I’ll take you to him.”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”
Not even five feet inside, Platt immediately smelled the sour vomit, splatters of it left on the floor. Otherwise the hallway was eerily quiet. Racine led the way, unfazed by the smell. Platt glanced into the empty classrooms. They rounded one corner and suddenly had to step aside for two men dressed in full SWAT gear.
He waited for them to pass before he asked Racine, “What the hell’s going on? I thought this was a food contamination?”
“Mr. CDC called in a domestic terrorism alert. Sixty-three kids puking up their cookies all in a matter of an hour. Tends to trip an alarm or two.”
“Any fatalities?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Aren’t you homicide?”
“Yes.”
Platt stopped mid-stride to look at her.
“I was already here,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“Off duty. I was picking up my partner’s kid.”
He started walking again. “Picking up your partner’s kid, that seems beyond the call of duty,” he said, trying to lighten the tone.
“Not my professional partner. My personal partner.”
“Oh.” He didn’t know what to do with that tidbit of information. In the few times he had met her at Maggie’s house, he hadn’t picked up on the fact that she
Similar Books
