The Devil's Labyrinth

CHAPTER 45

A LIGHT RAIN BEGAN to fall across the Boston area, but Matt McCain barely noticed it as he slouched against the passenger door of the patrol car, while his partner threaded the vehicle slowly through the late-evening traffic. “Anything about that break-in strike you as odd?” he finally asked as Steve Morgan exited the thruway and braked quickly as they closed on a long, snaking line of red taillights.

“Like what?” Morgan parried, turning on the windshield wipers.

McCain shifted in the passenger seat, sitting up. “Didn’t seem like enough was messed up. I mean, usually a break-in like that is some junkie, looking for anything they can sell. And there were things all over that house that a junkie would have taken, starting with the computer sitting right out on the dining room table. How come the perp didn’t take it?” Morgan said nothing, having been McCain’s partner long enough to recognize a rhetorical question when he heard one. Sure enough, McCain answered his own question without so much as a pause.

“I think this guy was after something specific.”

Morgan shrugged. “Maybe so. But what? Mrs. McIntyre didn’t seem to think anything was missing except some jewelry, and she said what was gone wasn’t worth much.” “Exactly,” McCain said. “And nobody’s going to take junk jewelry, except to make it look like a burglary. Most of the junkies know how to spot the good stuff these days.” He picked up the report folder, flipped it open and twisted his penlight. “I’ve just got a funny feeling about this. Something hinkey about the whole thing.” “You want something hinkey, how about this traffic?” Morgan grumbled. “How come people don’t just stay home once in a while?” “Ah, crap,” McCain groaned. “You’re going to love this.” “What?”

“No signature on the form.”

Morgan looked at the clock on the dash. 9:47. Their shift ended at ten. “Christ.” “We gotta go back.”

“We’re almost at the station,” Morgan protested.

“And we can’t go in with an unsigned sheet.” McCain sighed. “Turn it around.” “Maria’s not going to be happy,” Morgan said. “I told her I’d be home in time to say good night to the kids—” “Okay, how about I drop you off at the station and I go back by myself? It was my stupid mistake.” Steve Morgan thought about it for no more than a second. If McCain was alone, and a call came in, either he’d have to respond to it alone, or the department would be short a car. “Forget it,” he said, turning on the flashing lights and swerving the cruiser around the grid-locked traffic.

The kids would just have to stay up an extra hour.