Prologue
By the time Deputy Kyle Huettemann got back to the station, changed out of his uniform, and traded his patrol car for his personal vehicle, he was fall-asleep-at-the-wheel tired. His eyes stung like sand had been flung into them.
The scent of the freshly brewed pot of coffee from the last call came back to him. He’d wanted to beg a cup of it so badly. And technically there was no rule against it.
Technically.
But there was an unofficial rule that you didn’t ask civilians for favors. Not even a glass of water, and you absolutely never used their bathrooms.
His field training officer had told him it was about professionalism. Police needed to seem in control at all times. Almost like machines that didn’t eat, sleep, or stop to piss. But Huettemann thought it was more about the perceived weakness of asking someone for something. That was submission. And police shouldn’t submit to anyone, whether it was begging to use a toilet or begging for their lives.
With how heavy his eyelids were just now, he thought it was a pretty dumb rule. Because he wasn’t a machine, gosh darn it. He was a man, and he had bodily functions and needs just like anyone else. If he conked out and drove off the road because he couldn’t so much as accept a cup of coffee from a civilian, well that was just stupid.
But no. He’d be home in five minutes. He could make it that far. He hoped so, anyway.
Just to be safe, he rolled the driver’s side window all the way down and took a deep breath of the summer air that whipped against his face.
The car sped along, and Huettemann stretched his eyes wide, blinking rapidly. He glanced to his right and noticed a Fiat SUV in the lot of Theo’s Coney Island. Must be a late night for Theo, Jr.
Except that Theo the younger didn’t drive a Fiat SUV. Neither did Theo the elder. In fact, no one that worked at Theo’s drove such a vehicle. It was a diner, after all — no fancy foreign rides to be found among this staff.
He thought about turning back — considering the possibility that it might be a stranded motorist — but a long yawn reminded him of the pressing business he had to attend to. His shift was over now. Officially. This was someone else’s problem.
He made it another half mile down the road before he turned around. It was going to bug him all night if he didn’t check it out, sleep be damned.
Gravel pinged against the undercarriage as he pulled a u-ey and headed back to the restaurant.
Buzzing clouds of moths and other night bugs swirled in the glow cast by the streetlights in the parking lot.
It occurred to Huettemann that this was likely a waste of time. Probably the car had simply broken down in the lot and the owner was waiting for morning to call a tow. Or maybe someone had used the lot as a meet-up spot and hadn’t yet returned to retrieve their vehicle.
Neither scenario really jibed for him, though. The car was just too nice. People didn’t leave Fiats in diner parking lots overnight for no good reason.
Huettemann put his spotlight on and could just make out the silhouette of someone in the driver’s seat. He felt an instant sense of vindication. His gut had been right after all.
New possibilities sprang to mind: maybe someone had tied on one too many at the bar down the road, and knowing they were in over their head, pulled into the lot to sleep it off. He supposed that was a slightly more responsible choice than swerving all the way home. But the fact was, if this fella was lit, he shouldn’t have been behind the wheel at all. He’d have to think long and hard about whether or not he’d let the guy go with a warning or call it in.
He yawned again, his body warning him that he shouldn’t be thinking long and hard about anything but crawling into bed.
Huettemann pulled in behind the SUV, a 500X model, he could see now. He waited a moment, eyes on the figure behind the wheel, curious to see if the bright lights in the rearview or the sound of the engine might rouse the man. He didn’t want to startle him if he could help it.
When the driver didn’t stir, Huettemann opened his glove box and retrieved a flashlight and his off-duty weapon. He didn’t think he’d need the gun, but he’d heard one too many horror stories about cops being killed when they were off-duty. He clipped the holster to his belt and climbed out.
He proceeded to the driver’s side window, flashlight over his head, hand on the butt of his gun, eyes never leaving the slumped figure.
Man, he must really be out, Huettemann thought. Good thing the guy pulled over when he did, or he might be splattered all over the double yellow line by now.
Huettemann used the flashlight to tap against the glass to no avail. From his angle looking down into the car, he could just see the man’s left side — part of his sportscoat-clad shoulder, a hand resting in his lap. There was a thick gold wedding band on his finger. Bet his wife was gonna be real ticked off when she got the call about this in about an hour.
He knocked the butt of the Maglite against the glass again, eyes still on the hand resting in the man’s lap. Something about the scene had caught his attention, nagged at the back of his mind, but he wasn’t sure what it was for a moment.
It was the wrist, he decided. The way it was curled in on itself kinda funny, and the fingers were sorta bunched in a way that looked almost stiff. Not the floppy loose-handed position you’d expect from a passed-out drunkard.
A claw. That’s what it was. His hand looked like a claw. Rigid.
A mosquito buzzed near his ear, and he waved it away absently.
Huettemann lowered himself into a squat, directing the beam of his light further into the vehicle.
The man’s face was mashed into the steering wheel, angled toward Huettemann, eyes open and staring sightlessly.
Thick trails of blood streamed down from the nose and mouth, streaks of red wetness glittering on the steering wheel. The edges were darker where it had started to dry, gone tacky.
Huettemann stumbled back when he realized he was staring into the eyes of a corpse. His feet rasped against the pavement, and he almost tipped back onto his ass, catching himself at the last second.
He flailed at his waist. Found the holster with his fingers. Ripped the gun out and extended it at the end of a shaky arm.
Stones skittered underfoot, crunching and tumbling.
He spun around in a circle, scanning his surroundings. Someone had killed this man. Someone who could still be nearby.
Then the image flashed in his head again, the blood at the edges of the guy’s mouth and nose going crusty, cracking in places.
He took a breath. The body had been here for hours, then. The killer was probably long gone.
And yet he didn’t return the gun to its holster. Didn’t feel right doing that just yet. What he needed to do now was call dispatch.
He reached automatically for his radio but found empty space where it should be.
Right, he was off-duty. He jogged back to his car and grabbed his phone, dialed.
While he waited, he circled the vehicle from a distance, not wanting to disturb any possible evidence. He picked out details now with the beam of his Maglite: The chunky matter splattered across the dash. The splotch of blood on the windshield. The perfect dime-sized hole in the glass.
As he relayed the information to the dispatch operator, it occurred to Huettemann that he was wide awake now. In fact, he was reasonably certain he wouldn’t be sleeping at all tonight.
Chapter 1
On the drive up from the Detroit Metropolitan airport, the sky had shifted from looming storm clouds to bright sun, and now Darger saw clouds in the distance again. It was an early summer day in Michigan, and the weather couldn’t seem to make up its mind.
She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to release the pressure there. The flight had left her with a nasty headache. Her seat had been toward the back, and the plane was an old one with rear-mounted engines. The whole back section of the aircraft practically rumbled with the engine noise for the duration of the flight, and by the time they touched down, her head was throbbing.
It was nothing new. The headaches came often and always overstayed their welcome. A lingering side effect of stopping a bullet with her skull.
Almost six months had elapsed since her fight-to-the-almost-death with Leonard Stump. She’d had to retake a shitload of tests and physicals to get back here. But she’d worked her ass off, and she’d done it. Cleared for duty. Technically she had another three weeks of leave, but an old friend of Loshak’s had made a special request for his assistance. She didn’t think Loshak had intended for her to accompany him, but she was so bored of skulking around her apartment with nothing to do that she’d immediately volunteered to come along.
“I thought you had that big vacation planned with Owen.”
“I do. But it’s not for a few days still.”
“And you’re sure you’re ready to come back?”
“If I’m stuck in this apartment for one more day, I’m going to end up developing a weird hobby, like reconstructing medieval castles out of toothpicks.”
The fingers of her left hand clenched and unclenched. A subconscious gesture she did to reassure herself that everything still worked like it was supposed to.
A light breeze rustled through the trees as she headed into the village of Lake Orion. It was a small town about forty miles north of downtown Detroit, but it might as well have been four hundred.
On her left, cottages lined the lake shore, docks jutting into the shimmering water. She imagined families driving up from the city on weekends in the summer. Spending the day puttering around on a pontoon boat and grilling into the evening.
It was not what she’d expected from the details of the crime: a 46-year-old man, Dan Howard, found in his car, shot point-blank in the back of the head, execution-style. The file said “Metro Detroit area,” bringing to mind boarded-up buildings and abandoned factories. But this was a classic small Midwestern town on the very outskirts of the suburban sprawl.
Darger had browsed the local news stories about the murder on the flight. No one, it seemed, could make sense of the crime. A respected local figure, found in a restaurant parking lot with his brains and blood smeared all over the dash courtesy of two .38 caliber bullets. He had no record and no known criminal connections, but the crime looked like a professional hit in every way.
And then things got weirder. Early this morning, they’d matched the bullets lodged in Howard’s skull to another murder. Some six months prior, a severely decomposed body had been found in an abandoned apartment building in Detroit. The body was barely more than a skeleton — the medical examiner estimated it had been there for over two years and had to use dental records to identify the victim. The remains belonged to Angelo “Mad Dog” Battaglia, the former Underboss of the mafia presence in the area, known as the Detroit Partnership.
She considered the facts of the case again, trying to make it all fit. The victim, Dan Howard, owned two local businesses — a general contracting firm and a real estate company. He served on the board of the local food bank and hosted an annual fund-raising banquet for the Children’s Hospital. Coached little league hockey in his spare time. What did he and Angelo Battaglia have in common? Was Howard linked to the mob through his business, or had someone in his personal or professional life ordered the hit?
She felt like someone had dumped a 1500-piece puzzle in her lap, asked her to assemble it, and then said, “Oh by the way, half the pieces are missing.”
The first entrance into the parking lot of the Coney Island was blocked by strands of crime scene tape. Darger slowed and turned onto the street that ran alongside the restaurant. The section of the lot closest to the place wasn’t cordoned off, and she could see at least a dozen cars parked nearby. Apparently, the fact that this had been the scene of a murder hadn’t been enough to turn the most loyal patrons away.
She parked next to a minivan, and headed for the back end of the lot toward the fateful Fiat 500X. She wondered what it was still doing here. She’d come out to see the locale of the crime scene but hadn’t expected the vehicle to still be on the premises. It should have been hauled off hours ago.
A couple of unis from the Lake Orion Police Department milled around near the car. Darger was glad to see that, at least. It would have really pissed her off if the vehicle had been left unguarded.
The younger of the two cops saw her approaching first. He stood up a little straighter and put a hand out to indicate she should proceed no further.
“Sorry, ma’am. This area is off-limits.”
The older policeman gave the younger officer’s arm a light slap.
“She’s one of us, ya dink. Can’t you tell?”
She was close enough now to read the names on their uniforms. The older gentleman was Provencher, and the younger was Grimes.
Grimes glances from Darger to his partner, looking confused. The senior officer smiled at her.
“Sorry about him. He’s so green he hasn’t figured out how to spot our kind yet.”
He wasn’t just green, Darger thought. This kid looked like he could still be in high school.
Darger got out her badge for the younger guy’s benefit. Grimes ogled her FBI credentials.
“Damn,” he said, turning to face Provencher. “You were right.”
The older guy scoffed.
“As far as you’re concerned, rookie, I’m always right. Isn’t that what I keep telling you? ”
He gave Darger a wink and held the tape for her to step under.
“They haven’t impounded the vehicle yet?” she asked.
Provencher shrugged.
“I think there was some argument over who gets it. Your guys, our guys, or the County Sheriff.”
Darger nodded. Politics interfering with an investigation. Business as usual, in other words.
“Gotta love an interdepartmental pissing contest,” she said.
He chuckled and shook his head.
“I just do like they tell me. If they want us to sit on it until the tow comes, then we sit.”
“I wanted to take a quick look, if that’s OK,” Darger said.
With a sweeping gesture of his hand, Provencher indicated she should go ahead.
“It’s all yours, agent.”
The outside world seemed to melt away as Darger walked a slow circle around the vehicle, studying the ground, the exterior, peering through the windows. Her eyes went first to the hole in the windshield. When she came in line with the passenger door, she gazed inside and noted the crusted blood on the steering wheel, the gore on the dash. There were more dark stains on the upholstery and carpet where the blood had pooled as Dan Howard bled out. This was to be expected, blood loss being the cause of death in the majority of headshot cases.
Pausing near the rear door on the driver’s side, she imagined the killer standing just about where she was. She pictured him knocking on the glass, getting into the back seat like they were just going to have a quick chat. Instead, he raised the gun, aimed, fired. The first bullet blasted through the back of Dan Howard’s skull at over 800 feet per second and lodged in the soft tissue of his brain. The second bullet was a through-and-through that tore a hole in his right cheek and another through the windshield.
Death would have been quick, fast enough that the victim might not have even been aware of what was happening, might have felt no pain.
Still, Darger couldn’t help but remember the sensation of her own bullet to the head. The searing heat, the strange humming pressure that felt like having a head full of bees, the stickiness of the blood matting her hair to her skin.
Her jaw ached, and she realized she was clenching her teeth. That had been happening a lot lately, especially when she slept. She woke some mornings with her whole mouth throbbing, her teeth feeling like they were some kind of buzzing electrodes. She thought of the bottle of Tylenol in her bag, but she shouldn’t. Not here. That was the rule. Only off-hours. At night to help her sleep.
She steered her focus back to the car, cataloging the interior: stainless steel travel mug, dash mount for a cell phone, a pair of black Oakleys tucked in one of the cup holders. Aside from the blood, it was clean. No clutter. One of those guys that was a real nut about keeping his vehicle spotless, she figured. If the bullet hadn’t killed him, seeing the spray of gore crusted over the dash would have.
Her hands were thrust in her pockets as she peered through the glass, wondering what sequence of events had led to this. Who did you piss off, Mr. Howard?
A voice came from behind her.
“Hi there.”
She turned. Another local cop stood a few yards away. He didn’t look quite as newborn as Officer Grimes, but Darger didn’t think he could be a day over twenty-five. He had a wide, freckled face with friendly-looking eyes.
“Hello,” she said, extending her hand. “Violet Darger. FBI.”
“Deputy Huettemann. Oakland County Sheriff’s Department. I was driving by and saw you having a look. I—” he stopped and swallowed, as if he needed to compose himself. “I’m the one who found the body.”
Darger turned to face him more squarely.
“Really? You see a lot of this out here?”
“God, no. We might have one murder every 3-4 years in this township. A handful of robberies, rapes, and assaults, sure. We’re the wealthiest county in the state, and I suppose that buys a certain amount of safety. Now, down Pontiac way they get their fair share of murders, but we don’t catch many.” He glanced at the ruined windshield, the glass broken in a spiderweb pattern. “Then again, I guess nowhere is immune.”
“And what about organized crime activity?”
Huettemann sighed.
“I know that ballistics matched the bullet to that other murder, but…” he paused, at a loss.
“You don’t buy it?”
“You see enough craziness as a cop, you can believe almost anything. But I’d find it a lot easier to swallow if we were even fifteen minutes south of here. Look around, agent. This is a small town.”
He stretched out a hand, gesturing at the landscape. Among the standard chain stores and restaurants like Starbucks and CVS pharmacy, Darger saw a family-owned hardware store, a local plant nursery, a taxidermist. Her eyes fell on the neon sign for the Coney Island restaurant. If she had to guess, it hadn’t changed since the 60s.
The deputy was right. She’d already been thinking it herself. This wasn’t the kind of place she’d expect to come across a mob-related hit.
“Dan Howard — the victim — he was well-respected in this community. Did a lot of charity work, fundraisers and whatnot. We even go to the same church.”
“No rumors that he was tied up in anything? Drugs, gambling?”
The deputy shook his head vehemently.
“Nothing like that. No record. No known connections to anything sinister.”
Darger glanced back at the car.
“Well, two bullets to the head, point-blank range. Empty parking lot at night, semi-isolated. Killer left the iPhone and the wallet full of credit cards and $500 in cash untouched. Even if we didn’t have a match on the gun, it would sure sound like a hit to me.”
Deputy Huettemann followed her gaze, his eyes lingering on the car for a long moment. Finally, he tilted his wrist toward his face.
“Task force meeting starts in an hour. I better get a move on.”
“Yeah, I’ll catch up with you there,” she said.
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