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“Let him getcloser,” Simon whispered, urging caution. “We need to spread out and circlehim.”
Withouthesitation, they moved in, spreading out to encircle him. Amber crept forward,using a couple of lengths of timber for cover. She was almost in position whenthe figure looked up, as if hearing some small sound.
He turned to run.
“Stop!” Amberyelled out, but he didn’t slow, didn’t even hesitate. Instead, he ran faster,darting toward the shore. It was clear that he was heading for a boat moorednearby.
Amber quicklyassessed the situation. She knew that they couldn’t let him escape. If he goton that boat, they might never find him again. They had to take him down now.
“Francesca, coverthat side,” Amber said, pointing to the left. “Simon, you take the right.”
Amber set offafter the fleeing figure. She could hear the sound of his footsteps on thedock, the sound of splashing as he hit the water. He was fast, but Amber wasdetermined.
She sprinted afterhim, closing in on the figure, her heart racing. The figure was almost at theboat, but Amber was close enough now. She flung herself forward in a tackle,aiming for his legs.
The figurestumbled as Amber’s weight hit him, his arms flailing as he tried to regain hisbalance. The two of them hit the ground together, but Amber was already up andmoving, grabbing him by his jacket and pulling him back. He fought, twistingand kicking, but she held firm, her grip tight.
Francesca andSimon arrived a moment later, their weapons at the ready, their facesdetermined. The figure on the ground looked up at them, a look of fear in hiseyes.
There was only oneproblem as Amber looked down at the figure she’d apprehended.
It wasn’t StevenBoon.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Amber stoodoutside of an interrogation room in the Westford PD, waiting while Francescaquestioned the suspect. Simon was already back at a desk, looking through thelocations again, in case he could find something that they hadn’t.
It felt strange,leaving this part to Francesca, but the truth was that the man they’d chaseddown wasn’t the suspect they’d been looking for. He wasn’t anything to do withtheir case, and that made him the Westford PD’s problem.
It wasn’t longbefore Francesca came out of there, shrugging as she approached Amber.
“Who is he andwhat was he doing down there at the boathouse?” Amber asked.
“He’s claiming he’sjust a guy who likes to go fishing,” Francesca said with a sigh. “His story isthat he goes down near the boathouse all the time and he got spooked when hesaw us. He says he thought we were the ones up to no good.”
“But you don’tbelieve him?” Amber guessed, noticing the doubtful tone in the detective’svoice.
“My guess is thathe was there to see what he could steal,” Francesca said, “but we don’t haveany proof of that, and in any case, he isn’t anything to do with the maininvestigation.”
Amber shook herhead in frustration. “So we wasted all this time and effort on a false lead?”
“It happens,Amber,” Francesca said, patting her on the shoulder. “We’ll just have to keeplooking. I have a couple of guys down there, watching the boathouse just incase Steven Boon shows up.”
Amber nodded,feeling the weight of disappointment settling in. She knew that they couldn’tafford to make any more mistakes if they wanted to catch Steven Boon and stophim before he hurt anyone else.
Amber shook herhead. “How did we get it so wrong? The boathouse was the last place on thelist.”
“I don’t know,”Francesca said. “The boathouse fits the evidence. But we have to keep looking,keep trying.”
Amber nodded, butthe truth was that she was starting to feel defeated. They had been so sure thatthey were on the right track, so certain that Steven Boon was coming to theboathouse. But now they were back to square one.
Amber andFrancesca walked over to the desk where Simon was working.
“Anything?” Amberasked.
Simon shook hishead. “Nothing yet. I’m still going back through all the locations, but we needmore solid leads. Right now, all we can do is hope that a camera or a cop spotsBoon. His description is everywhere.”
It didn’t feellike enough. Not even close to enough.
