Michael Darko looked down at the handle, protruding from his chest. He wanted to pull it out, but his hands wouldn’t move. Darko slid off his bunk into his sheet, and the folds draped over him like a shawl. His back and chest felt as if ants were migrating under his skin, and seemed to be swelling. Darko tried to call for help, but could not find the breath. He could not breathe. He felt light-headed, and cold, and afraid.

The white sheet grew red.

Chapter 47

47

TRAFFIC AT A STANDSTILL. Late afternoon. Someone lost control of his vehicle, and now the southbound 405 was a parking lot. Kelly Walsh didn’t mind. Windows up, AC blowing, the horns outside muted. CD player. She touched the replay button, and the backup singers began their soothing riff—dum, dum, dum, dundee, doo-wah—and Roy Orbison kissed her heart with longing and pain.

Only the lonely.

Walsh had listened to the song four times in a row, and was now on her fifth; trapped on the stalled freeway in a cocoon of melancholy.

Walsh missed him terribly, Special Agent Jordan Brant, killed in the line of duty, one of her guys, and could not escape the guilt that she had failed him, then, and even now.

Michael Darko had cut a deal, which meant there had been no trial. Walsh knew she should be happy, but Jordie Brant’s wife lost the chance to confront her husband’s killer, and Walsh herself lost the righteous vengeance of offering the testimony to nail Darko’s conviction. The lack of closure left her feeling as if Jordie remained unavenged, and that she had somehow failed him again. And lost him again.

They’re gone forever.

Sitting there, listening to Roy, her cell phone buzzed. Walsh checked the incoming ID, then stopped the music to answer.

“Kelly Walsh.”

“Have you heard?”

“I get promoted?”

“Better. Michael Darko was murdered.”

Walsh was caught off guard and left feeling surprised. She had expected this call sooner or later, but not this soon, and not today. A mixture of warmth and fear blossomed in her belly.

She said, “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

“These things happen.”

“Yes. Yes, they do. They know who did it?”

“Uh-uh. Someone got in his cell during a free period. No video, either. The DVR was down.”

Walsh kept the smile from her voice.

“No shit. That’s a bad break. How’d they kill him?”

“Looks like an ice pick or a screwdriver. Stuck him sixty-two times.”

Walsh smiled a warm, soft smile all the way from Jordie Brant’s grave.

“Thanks for letting me know. Sounds like someone had a serious mad-on for this prick.”

“No kidding. Hope that dude doesn’t get mad at me.”