Page 87 of The 24th Hour
“Okay, Boomer.”
Jerry shook his head and left the chapel.
I said, “Brock, this is my partner, Inspector Conklin. Let’s all of us put our guns down and talk, all right? You okay with that, Rich?”
Conklin nodded. What could he say? Disarming a volatile, violent killer could be done, but it was a calculated risk. I was showing Brock that he was safe. That killing us wouldn’t get him anywhere. Would he surrender? Or kill us because right now he had nothing left to lose?
I thought the odds were even. We hadn’t hurt him. Maybe he would give up once his gun was out of the picture.
I walked past the altar to the edge of the dais and sat downwith my legs hanging over it. I put my gun down, and pushed it away, out of my reach. What would Brock do?
Conklin said, “Now you, Picard.”
“Put yours down first,” said Brock.
If this maneuver didn’t work, my last thoughts would be about what I was leaving behind: my husband, our daughter, my partner, and how Brady wouldn’t have done this in a thousand years. Conklin walked to the first row on the aisle, ten feet away from where I sat on the dais floor.
He sat in a pew with his gun still in his hand.
Haloed again in a rainbow of many-colored glass, Brock Picard walked the aisle to the front of the chapel. He took a seat in the first row across from Rich Conklin. From my position on the dais, backed by the altar, I had a twenty-twenty view of both my partner and a young man who, in the next few moments, could end both our lives.
Brock said to Conklin, “Put your gun on the floor, then kick it over to me.”
Conklin’s expression was clear. He didn’t want to drop his weapon, but at the same time, Brock could shoot him dead where he sat, now or anytime. He was trusting my judgment and I had no idea if I was right. But “Keep the guy with the gun calm” was one of the first rules when the gunman was ready to die.
Conklin put his gun on the floor, raised his right foot, and kicked his gun across the aisle to the twenty-year-old killer.
CHAPTER 114
BROCK SAID TO Conklin and me, “Well, you got me on shooting Moms. But you might like to know, Chris isn’t my father.”
“How do you know?” I asked him.
“Because my father is Jamie Fricke. I thought Chris told you.”
“No,” I said.
I thought about Moira Benet, Christophe’s friend, the gossip queen. She’d told me that Rae had had an ongoing multi-decade affair with Jamie before, during, and after she married Christophe.
Brock said, “It’s fucked up, right? You grow up thinking that this sweetheart foodie dude is your father. You call him Dad, hang out at his cool restaurants. I thought maybe one day I’d work for him. Maybe one day I’d take over the business.
“You know who told me the truth?” Brock asked.
I shook my head no.
He was passing his gun from right hand to left. I thought about reaching for my piece, just out of reach, firing on Brock.I was a good marksman. But unless Brock’s gun was empty, he didn’t have to reach. He could shoot me where I sat. My ride-or-die partner—he, too, would die.
I tuned back in to Brock Picard, who was talking easily to us.
“It was Holly. Yeah. That Holly. I loved her to death. She was my beloved aunt Holly, former Olympic champ. We played tennis together from when I was five. Then when I was sixteen, she took me to bed. I didn’t protest. I was the luckiest guy in the world and Holly was my dream come true.
“One morning about a year ago, we were in bed at the Ritz hotel. Holly says to me, ‘You know you should ask your father to take you to Switzerland. See if soccer appeals to you.’
“She was half asleep. I figured she misspoke. I joked around. Like, ‘I don’t think my dad knows much about soccer,’ something like that, but funnier. Holly didn’t laugh. She realized what she’d said and got dressed. She kissed me goodbye and just like that, she dropped me. I called her, texted her, asked her to talk to me. She says, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t love you anymore.’”
I think I said, “Oh, no.” Brock didn’t hear me.
He said, “No more lovely Holly in my arms. No more funny food daddy. You getting this? Jamie Fricke was my father.”