Well-Acquainted with the Night: Kate Gardener Mysteries, #3

By Gabriella Messina

"There's been a police-involved shooting… three officers have been shot, I need Armed Response and ambulance services here immediately!"

In the early morning darkness, an undercover drug meeting goes horribly wrong, leaving two officers dead and a third wounded. Coincidences pile up as evidence of both a planned attack and of an eyewitness comes to light. Convinced that these murders were a planned hit, the investigators begin to explore the pasts of all officers involved, including one of their own…

For Kate Gardener, seeing what, or who, isn't there comes naturally. Finding them is another story…

When Detective Sergeant Richard Pierce's connections to the victims and a shadowy Bosnian drug trafficker put the case at risk, Kate steps up her search for the "watcher from the walkway". Innocent lives are in grave danger, including her own, and the final revelation of who was responsible sends shockwaves through the entire Met.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gabriella Messina
• Release date: Dec 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386269038

Gabriella Messina

Always a spinner of tales, Gabriella Messina’s journey as an author began in the realm of screenwriting. Whether writing fantasy or crime fiction, short stories or full-length novels, Ms. Messina brings a fresh point of view and a snarky wisdom to her work, exploring science, justice, faith and feeling in equal measure. In addition to her creative writing, Ms. Messina helps other authors reach their goals, designing book covers and graphics, and providing proofreading and editing services.  When not writing, she enjoys indulging in her favorite “guilty pleasures”: coffee and chocolate, watching car racing with her son, and spending too much time looking at music videos online.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

6 January 2012

South Acton Housing Estate, West London

6:35 AM

South Acton was typical of most housing estates in London... the tall rectangular building, its face a mélange of décor, from decorative patio sets and urns of vibrant flowers, to diaper racks strewn with laundry, empty beer containers, and rejected pieces of furniture from inside the home. Even in the harsh glare of the lights in the front courtyard, it was easy to see the coppery tone of the exterior paint and the institutional design of the community residence.

Detective Sergeant Richard Pierce slumped down in the driver’s seat of his black VW Jetta. He couldn’t believe he’d allowed himself to be tapped for this operation... But when the message came down from upstairs, Hagen had quickly pulled him aside and filled him in on the so-called invitation to assist, and Pierce had reluctantly agreed. It wasn’t the first time he had been tapped for something like this... Every time the Met undertook an operation in a neighborhood or estate that Croat, Serb and Albanian immigrants had chosen to call home, they came looking for him because of his skill with Eastern European languages, and especially with regional dialects. He always found it amazing that government officials would decide to import so many people from different countries, areas of conflict especially, and were never prepared to communicate with them to any significant degree.

Pierce chuckled, a low snort sneaking through at the end as he took out a cigarette and, slouching down more in the seat, carefully lit it. It wasn’t really a stakeout, or he would never have taken such a risk.

In fact, it was hard to explain just what it WAS. Pierce recalled the phone call he had received from Josh Newcastle. There had been several calls over the past few weeks, but the game of phone tag finally ended a couple of days ago when he spoke to Newcastle in the canteen. Newcastle was edgy, the operation he was involved in clearly beginning to take a toll, and even as Pierce inquired after Newcastle’s wife and kids, the other man avoided his eyes. Their brief meeting was interrupted when two other Drug Squad detectives showed up and Newcastle beat a quick exit with them, promising to be in touch.

Then the call from upstairs... for this operation.

Pierce exhaled, the smoke of his cigarette billowing out of his mouth, then quickly venting out through the slightly open window. His gaze flickered back to the building. A few outside lights were still on, illuminating exterior walkways and doors, perhaps meant for a resident coming home from working third shift. He squinted slightly, trying to see those exterior walkways more clearly. There had been movement, but it could have been from the breeze that had picked up, stirring some laundry on a rack... or it could have been a tomcat making its own way home after the feline equivalent of a stag night on the town.

The echo of metal hitting metal reverberated through the courtyard and out to the street. Pierce quickly tossed his cigarette out the window and focused his full attention on the building. The supervising detective, Marshall, had said things might get dicey if the Bosnians they were dealing with got restless. Pierce hoped that didn’t happen, because staying in the car and out of it, as Marshall had ordered, would be all but impossible for him. Beyond his natural reaction to conflict, the innate need to quell it, Pierce and Newcastle had history, and not simply as friends... He shifted, his adrenalin starting to flow as the silence continued, and his well-honed instincts began to signal that something wasn’t right.

His instincts were proven to be true moments later when the police radio frequency the operation was using went bonkers. Voices clicked in and out, and the sounds of physical confrontation muffled the moments when the static faded and the voices came to the forefront. Pierce fiddled with the dials, trying to bring a signal in, to hear more clearly what was happening. There were no vehicles rushing in, no Armed Response taking position. He reached into his pocket for his mobile, determined to buck orders if necessary and phone for assistance, when suddenly a bright light flared in the entryway of the estate. Seconds later there was another flare, and Pierce’s years of combat in the Balkans told him with no uncertainty that it was gunfire, a conclusion that was confirmed when more gunfire erupted.

Pierce’s attention turned to the courtyard as the radio signal finally cleared and he could hear his fellow officers engaged in the battle. He struggled to follow voices, suddenly hearing a familiar one. He grabbed the radio, switching it on to talk.

Josh! Josh, it’s Rick! Where are you?

The line buzzed silent for a minute. Then it clicked back on, and Newcastle responded.

Rick! Rick! Can you hear me?! We’re pinned down! Robbie’s down! Shot him in the head! I can’t—

Gunfire erupted again, drowning out Newcastle’s voice, or perhaps causing him to throw down the radio as he tried to keep himself out of harm’s way. Pierce fidgeted... this was one of those times when having a weapon on hand would have been very useful. Once again, as he so often did, Pierce whispered a heartfelt curse on those who had decided that the public’s perception of their police force was more important than keeping police officers alive.

Suddenly, the gunfire stopped, and Pierce could see two figures running away from the courtyard, disappearing into the darkness at the end of the street. The radio screeched, causing Pierce to wince even as he reached for it.

Josh! Josh?

It’s Marshall, a much deeper voice than Newcastle’s spoke. Newcastle is hit... So am I... Ambush... We need... Pierce was out of the car in an instant, running across the street and into the courtyard as he switched to the dispatch band on the radio.

Dispatch, what is your—

This is Detective Sergeant Richard Pierce... There’s been a police-involved shooting, South Acton Housing Estates in West London. Three officers have been shot, I need Armed Response and ambulance services here immediately!

Armed Response?

Yes, you stupid bint! Pierce yelled internally, his voice and words were tense as he replied. The shooters are still at-large! We need armed response here now! He paused a moment before adding. Contact Detective Superintendent Doug Hagen as well. Murder Squad, Met Division.

Pierce reached Newcastle and quickly knelt beside him. The man was just this side of consciousness, but his eyes quickly flickered to Pierce’s and the flare of recognition was comforting to see. The mess of blood and tissue staining the front of the man’s abdomen, however, was not. Quick visual assessment showed Pierce that the wounds were bad, probably career-ending, possibly fatal, if the ambulance didn’t get here soon. He glanced over at the body a few feet away. Robbie Corbett, Newcastle’s partner, and Newcastle were right, it was most definitely a head shot, either very close range or with a large-caliber gun. A groan from off to the right drew Pierce’s attention on farther, and he made brief eye contact with Marshall. Pierce couldn’t see how or where Marshall was wounded, but the man wasn’t making a move to get up, and he seemed in at least some pain.

The faint sounds of sirens began to reach his ears, and Pierce tried not to look too jubilant as he looked back to Newcastle and said those wonderful words.

Ambulance is on its way, mate. You hear? You’ll be up playing rugby in no time.

Newcastle smiled... more of a painful grimace at one corner of his mouth. Pierce leaned down, bringing his ear as close as possible to the other officer’s lips. Newcastle’s lips made a pop sound as he tried to speak.

Take your time, Pierce said calmly, though he was barely containing his curiosity about what the man had to say. After all – God forbid – this could be his dying declaration, and Pierce had been at enough scenes and had listened to the words of enough dying people to know that those words are often the most important you will ever hear.

And in this case, they, or rather it, was the last word that Pierce thought he would ever here come from Josh Newcastle lips... the last word he thought he would ever here again...

Bosko... Bosko... Newcastle’s eyes fluttered closed as the ambulance and Armed Response vehicles pulled in.

Pierce quickly pulled out his warrant card, holding it up for officers to see as they approached and secured the scene. He answered their questions woodenly and eschewed riding to the hospital with any of the victims in favor of returning to his vehicle, the quiet of the interior a welcome respite after the ordeal. He lit a cigarette, enjoying the calming smoke as it permeated his lungs, his being. But still that one word, that one name, kept him from truly relaxing. That name, in this city, could only mean trouble. It had been nearly five years since he’d seen its owner, yet Pierce knew now with crystal clarity that this was the real reason Newcastle had gotten in touch with him, wanted him on this operation...

Rado Boskovic was back in town... and now one copper was dead, and two others in the hospital.

Pierce sighed, exhaling a large puff of smoke, then glanced at his mobile to check the time. 7:05AM. The faintest of faint light was beginning to illuminate the east. Pierce sighed again.

It was going to be the longest of days.

1

South Acton Housing Estate, West London

10:35 AM

Kate Gardener lowered her camera and gazed up at the towering façade of the apartment block. She’d seen plenty of this sort of residence when she lived in New York, with many similar mini cities springing up throughout the Five Boroughs. The residential demographic of said buildings appeared to be the same on either side of the Atlantic as well, at least judging by the group gathered out front. The police had allowed some to leave, young police constables taking names, addresses, phone numbers and brief statements like coffeeshop baristas during the morning caffeine rush. Those who remained – homemakers, unemployed twenty-somethings, retirees – lingered around the entrance of the building, struggling to see what was going on and hear some juicy tidbit they could jump onto their favorite social media app and pass on to the world.

Kate sensed the presence beside her, could almost feel the question building up in his mouth like a bubble ready to pop. She smiled and glanced at him. Go ahead, Owens. Ask.

Detective Constable Paul Owens followed Kate’s gaze up the building, a frown creasing his boyish features. Uh, right... What are you looking at? His thick Glaswegian accent rolled the hell out of those R’s, and Kate would have been at a loss to understand the question if she hadn’t been familiar with the accent. Thank God for BBC America, she thought.

It’s not what I’m looking at, Owens... It’s what I’m looking for. Kate’s eyes skimmed over the many external walkways, noting the bits and pieces of stuff that suggested who lived in each residence, what their