Stirred

“We need to find the gravesite of Robert E. Franks,” I said. “Tell the teams in the field.”

“Won’t be easy.” Tom rubbed his chin. “There are a quarter million people buried here.”

“There’s got to be some sort of grave map or database.”

“Got the family service counselor for the cemetery on the way here, but it’ll be a few minutes.”

“What about that groundskeeper?”

Rob and Tom looked around, and then pointed to a man leaning against the stone entrance, watching everything going on with wide eyes. As we approached, I noted he was tall, with a pot belly that rivaled mine, short red hair, and a pointy Bob Hope nose.

“Mr. Kneppel, we need to know the location of a certain grave. Robert E. Franks.”

Kneppel’s wide eyes got wider, and when he spoke, he flashed a gold tooth. “Bobby Franks?” His voice was hoarse. “Uh…we’re not supposed to give out the location of that particular gravesite.”

Bobby Franks. That was a name I recognized. He was one of the most famous murder victims of all time. Back in 1924, it had been nationwide news, called the crime of the century. Two teenage law students named Leopold and Loeb had murdered the thirteen-year-old boy just to see if they could get away with it. His death was nothing more than an intellectual exercise. But they’d inadvertently left evidence alongside the body and were defended by the most famous lawyer of the day and probably all time, Clarence Darrow. Darrow didn’t get them off, but he was successful in avoiding the death penalty, which the public had demanded. It made sense why the cemetery wasn’t public about the grave’s location—it could draw unwanted attention to a place whose purpose was to provide a quiet venue for the living to visit and mourn the dead.

“It’s okay, Mr. Kneppel,” Herb said. “We’re the police.”

“Oh. Yeah. I guess it’ll be okay. He’s in the Jacob Franks mausoleum. The paths are all labeled.”

Willie mentioned an intersection, and Herb immediately spoke into his lapel mike, repeating the caretaker’s words.

Then he, Roy, and Tom headed for the cemetery entrance.

“Guys!” I called.

They stopped and turned back to face me.

“Let SRT handle this one,” I said. “With K9 support and explosives experts.”

“Seriously?” Herb said.

“I’ve got a bad feeling, Herb.”

“We talking cop intuition? Or…” He let his voice trail off, and I got the full meaning of his insinuation. Was I off my game? Had the stress, the preeclampsia, the baby, and Luther muddled my thinking and made me overreact?

“I du

They spent a few seconds exchanging glances.

“Sure, Lieut,” Tom said. “My fiancée, Joan, is big on intuition. I’ve learned to heed her. We can hang back here. Roy?”

“You’re my brother from another mother, man. Ain’t going without you. And I’d follow the Lieut straight anywhere, she asked.”

I speared Herb with my eyes. “Herb?”

“It’s my crime scene, Jack. I’m highest rank on site.”

“Highest rank or fattest rank?” McGlade chimed in, apparently grumpy after being woken in the middle of the night.

“Shoes fit okay?” Herb asked him.

McGlade looked down, noticed his faux pas. “I meant to do that. It’s a trending topic on Twitter. You did it, too, but your stomach is so huge you can’t see your feet.”

I heard a click and thought maybe Herb had set his jaw. Hard to tell with his chubby face.

“McGlade, one of these days—”

“—you’re going to stop eating everything you see?” Harry interrupted. “Don’t answer. I’m afraid if you open your mouth you’re going to suck all of us in.”

“Y’all a punk,” Roy said, taking a step toward McGlade. “Didn’t your mama teach you ma

McGlade sneered. “Nope. But your mama taught me some stuff last night.”

Roy took another step, and then Phin moved into the mix as well, backing up Harry.

There was so much testosterone in the air, if I wasn’t already pregnant I might have been worried.

“Look.” I spread out my palms. “Everyone needs to calm down. Herb, please, do this for me.”

His hound dog jowls dropped even farther, his mustache looking like a horseshoe.

“Sure, Jack. I’ll let the SRT take over.”

He barked orders into his mike, and I released a sigh of pure relief.

“See how I distracted him from going?” Harry whispered to me. “I would have thrown a donut for him to fetch, but didn’t have one handy.”

Once again I wondered if McGlade was smarter than he acted.

The next few minutes were spent in silence, all of us waiting. Roy and Tom fidgeted. Harry stepped away and switched his shoes. Herb appeared more anxious than I’d ever seen him. I thought about reaching for Phin’s hand to hold it, but was worried he wouldn’t accept mine. Willie pulled out a flip phone at least a decade out of date and walked away, his finger in his free ear.

Finally, Herb’s radio crackled. “We’ve reached the mausoleum. We’re going in.”

I checked my iPhone.

3:10.

According to Luther’s book code, it was time for the next victim to die.

April 2, 3:10 A.M.

Matthews shouldered the M-16 assault rifle and spoke into his shoulder mike, “Sanchez, Williams, you stay with me. Swartwood, Patel, get in position behind us on the edge of the road. This is a potential hostage situation, so sight your targets. Kitt, Strand, I need eyes around back, make sure nothing comes up from behind.”

His men fell into position around the mausoleum, a stone building approximately ten feet tall and the size of a small garden shed. Stone flower pots framed the green iron door, where a pair of red roses had been threaded between the handles. The structure was surrounded by trimmed hedges and flanked by similar mausoleums and headstones. It bothered Matthews. Too many places to hide.

“Battles, open that door, and get out of the way. Angelo, get eyes inside and report back. I’ll be on your six.”

Matthews covered the door as Battles pulled the bolt cutters out of a backpack. The lock on the door gleamed under the LED flashlight mounted beside the M-16 scope—a new lock, no rust, unlike the decades of oxidation on the vault’s iron gate.

“Set for bursts of three, and stay sharp,” he said.

Matthews heard the metallic snick of the pinchers biting through the lock.

Battles slid the bolt cutter into his pack and backpedaled down the steps and away from the entrance, shouldering his weapon as Angelo approached.

It was difficult to see much more than the beam of Angelo’s LED light.

“At the door,” Angelo said, his voice soft and steady, though Matthews could hear an edge of fear in it. That was a good thing. Fear enhanced the senses.

Matthews expected the iron door to creak, but it opened smooth and silent, as if its hinges had been oiled.

“Stepping inside,” Angelo said.

His light played off the stone, shone through a stained-glass window in the back wall.

“Report,” Matthews said.

“Clear. There’s two vaults, one on top. Bottom one is Robert Franks. Stained-glass window above them, and…we have a device.”

“IED?”

“I don’t think so. Metal canister. Looks like a scuba tank.”

A course of panic flooded through Matthews. “Possible aerosol. Get your masks out and—”

The crack wasn’t as loud as thunder nor as bright as lightning, but the explosion knocked Angelo out of the building.

Matthews felt the ground vibrate the soles of his Doc Martins and took an involuntary step back.