by Edwin Dasso
On her way back to the station, Lacey put a BOLO out on the truck. It should be easy to spot. There weren’t many trucks like it still on the road. Driving through town, she tried to anticipate the guy’s next move. Corvallis was thirty miles down the road. Lacey wondered if he had another vehicle stashed in the same lot where he’d stolen the plates.
A few gas stations and a truck stop lay along the westward route. A few blocks shy of the police station, Lacey pulled a U-turn and sped west out of town. She radioed dispatch.
“Tell the chief I’m going to check out the truck stop west of Lebanon out Highway 34. Near the Interstate.”
“Copy that,” the dispatcher said.
It was a gloomy fall day. Dark clouds rimmed in bright streaks of silver hung low over the flat expanse of farmers’ fields. Harvested crops left stalks of golden stubble protruding from the rutted earth. To the south lay a series of rugged hills. To the east, the majestic peaks of the Cascade mountains disappeared into the sky.
Lacey passed through the town of Lebanon. Twice the size of Sweet Home, it had once been the Kalapuya tribe’s homeland which stretched across the Willamette Valley. Settlers, and those heading south for the California gold rush, had passed through the town. Decades later, visitors came by train traveling from California to Albany. Farms and forestry became the town’s mainstays until, thanks to the spotted owl, the local mills closed. Like Sweet Home, Lebanon fell on hard times. Young people, like Caleb, left for the military or settled in cities to the north and west. Lacey stayed because this was her home.
Are you lost?
Caleb’s question came back to her and she brushed it from her mind. She wasn’t lost. She knew exactly where she was going, toward the truck stop. And she had a plan.
Just east of the Interstate onramp, the bright orange sign for the EZ Trip Travel Center beckoned. Slowing the cruiser, Lacey pulled in. She rolled down her window and slowly drove past the gas pumps, scanning the area for any sign of Barry Owens’ truck. The smell of diesel and burnt coffee beans carried on the chilly afternoon breeze. A handful of cars were parked beside the pumps fueling up. Several more filled the slots in front of the convenience store. None of them matched the description of the stolen truck.
Sweeping the area, Lacey heaved out a disappointed sigh. She’d been wrong. Her hunch had amounted to nothing, and worse, she had wasted precious time. There were two other gas stations on the far side of the freeway she could check.
Lacey circled the building and pressed down on the accelerator. She pointed the squad car in the direction of the exit when a truck in the employee parking lot caught her eye. The sight of it sent a prickly sensation rippling down the length of Lacey’s spine.
Several transports were parked a short distance away in the lot reserved for truckers. Designed to segregate the commercial traffic from the passenger vehicles, it had a separate entrance, which lay 200 yards down the road. That lot also provided the sole access point for employee parking.
Lacey proceeded to the exit and turned right onto highway 34. Easing into the second entrance, she parked the cruiser between two rigs where it was safely hidden from view.
She picked a careful path that led behind the truck scales, keeping the employee parking lot in sight. From this angle, if he was inside the building, he wouldn’t see her coming. Her palm grazed the butt of her service weapon as she approached the truck from the rear. The plates matched. The windows were clear. The truck was empty. Cautiously, Lacey approached.
He must be inside, using the facilities, or buying food for the road. She was peering through the passenger’s side window of the beat-up truck when the building’s rear exit opened.
Red cap instead of black. No hoodie. But it was him. She was certain. The suspect spotted her at the same moment and took off.
“Freeze. Police,” she yelled.
He didn’t freeze. And worse, he had a step on her. Lacey pumped her arms, channeling her explosive power into the sprinter she used to be. This time, he didn’t pull away. Lacey gained on him. Stretching out her hand, she slapped her palm against his back. Grabbed his T-shirt. Yanked.
The suspect resisted. He jerked his head to the side, and the amber blaze of the golden sun cutting a strip through the dark clouds struck Lacey full in the eyes, blinding her. He threw and elbow into her face, catching her across the nose. The smack of bone against cartilage caused a starburst explosion of white-hot pain. Instinct took over. She let go.
Tears flooded her eyes. She couldn’t see. She yelled for him to stop. Again. But it was pointless.
The suspect ignored her. By the time Lacey recovered, he was already five strides away and had almost reached the end of the building. She was too late. He was too fast. She’d barely caught up to him the first time and once he cleared the other side of the driveway, there was nothing but open field and the freeway looming ahead. He was as good as gone.
The suspect glanced over his shoulder. His eyes were locked on Lacey’s.
He was looking the wrong way, which was why he didn’t see it coming.
A blue pickup darted out from behind the building. The suspect crashed straight into the side of the truck. The sudden impact threw him off balance and sent him careening to the ground.
Lacey caught up. He was moving, trying to rise, when she drilled her knee between his shoulder blades and pinned him to the ground.
“Hands behind your head,” she yelled.
The cuffs were out and ready by the time he complied.
6
There was a cold deliberation reflected in the iron caste of the suspect’s jaw that unsettled Lacey. Her attempts to engage him were futile. He spent the entire drive to the station in stony silence. Lacey lifted her gaze to the rearview mirror and studied him. A jolt of fear slithered in the pit of her gut as his icy blue eyes met hers.
“Why don’t you tell me where you got the gun? We know it was taken from a house in Bellingham. How did you get it?”
His lips curled into a slight smirk. His contempt was palpable. Lacey called the station requesting backup. Although she was sure she could manage him herself, she didn’t want to take any unnecessary chances. He was dangerous. When Spencer emerged from the building, Lacey suppressed a groan, wishing it was the chief. Someone she trusted.
Spencer came on with all the over-the-top bravado of a small-town cop as he manhandled the suspect from the car and roughly patted him down. Lacey stayed close, not taking her eyes off the suspect as he was led into the station.
Finding no weapons during the pat down, Spencer shoved the suspect through the security door and directed him into a small interrogation room for questioning. But Lacey decided not to question him right away. She wanted to see what else she could find out about him. She was hoping for something that would knock him off balance and crack his cool veneer.
“Spencer, keep eyes on him while I run down a few more leads.”
“This guy needs a firm hand, Lacey. I think I should be the one to question him.”
Lacey was in no mood for Spencer’s sit-down-little-girl-and-let-the-grown-men-talk routine today.
“That’s a negative,” she said.
“But—"
“But nothing. Sit your ass down and watch the video feed. Unless he sets himself on fire, you will not enter the interrogation room. You will not speak to him under any circumstances without running it by me first, do you understand?”
It was unusual for Lacey to be so heavy handed, but she couldn’t risk Spencer’s clumsy, directionless, “start-talking-and-hope-something-comes-of-it” technique, creating even the slightest ambiguity for the perp to exploit. Spencer’s reaction was instantaneous and predictable. He pulled himself up to his full height of six-foot-one and stuck out his chest.
“Last I checked, we both responded to the burglary,” Spencer said, taking a deliberate step toward her. “What makes you the lead?”
Uncowed by Spencer’s manly display of masculine superiority, Lacey impassively
stared back.
“My collar. My lead.”
“Do as she says,” the chief said.
Lacey frowned, wishing he would back off and let her handle it. She didn’t want Spencer or anyone else thinking that the chief needed to fight her battles for her. Spencer’s expression hardened and he dropped his gaze to the floor.
“Yes, sir,” he muttered.
Soon, they would have prints from the truck. And once they had prints, she’d have a better handle on who this guy was and what he was really into. More information would give her a better source of leverage when she did interrogate him.
Lacey had no way of knowing just how wrong she would be.
Everything was taking longer than it should. Half an hour later, they still didn’t have prints. Deciding that she’d stalled long enough, Lacey removed the icepack from her nose and set it on her desk.
Her nose throbbed and her eyes had started to swell, and that was just perfect. Not only would she spend her tenth anniversary alone, not in Cannon Beach, she’d probably have a twin set of black eyes to boot. Lacey strode down the hall toward the interrogation room in no mood for Spencer’s shit. Instead of keeping his eyes on the suspect through the video feed, like she’d asked, he was busy flirting with Tayla, the pretty twenty-year-old records clerk they’d hired a few months back. As far as Lacey knew, Tayla was engaged, and a good ten years younger than Spencer, but neither of those two facts seemed to bother him. He was so busy pouring on the charm that he didn’t notice Lacey’s approach.
One look at Lacey’s expression and Tayla took the hint. Clutching a stack of file folders to her chest, she gave Lacey a fleeting smile before leaving Spencer’s desk. Lacey was about to blast Spencer when she happened to look over at the screen. Her whole body went rigid.
Their suspect was lying face down on the desk. Spencer, finally picking up on the fact that something was desperately wrong, followed the trajectory of Lacey’s stare and turned toward the monitor.
“What the holy hell…?”
Spencer’s curse jolted Lacey into action. She ran down the hall to the interrogation room with Spencer hot on her heels. Jerking to a halt outside the door, she paused, long enough to unholster her weapon, only to have Spencer shove her aside.
He burst through the door.
7
It was the smell that hit Lacey first.
The moment she passed through the doorway; she detected the unmistakable coppery scent of blood. Spencer rushed around the table toward the suspect. Pooled blood dripped from the table onto the floor.
“Chief,” Lacey called through the open door down the hallway.
For a fraction of a second, she took her eyes off the suspect. Too long. He reared up. Blood smeared across his face. Spencer fumbled for his Glock. The gun cleared the holster. The suspect rose, lightning fast, and dealt Spencer a quick, brutal uppercut to the jaw. Lacey heard Spencer’s breath leave him in a rush. His head snapped back with the force of the blow.
For a moment, Spencer’s glazed eyes appeared to be staring at nothing at all, as if his very soul had departed his body leaving behind an empty shell. Lacey’s pulse raced.
“Freeze!”
Lacey raised her weapon, taking aim. Spencer regained awareness of the situation, and the two men fought for the gun. She couldn’t get a clear shot.
“Clark, down.”
Her command went ignored as the two men engaged in a life and death struggle.
Spencer lurched back, distancing himself from the suspect. Lacey drew a bead on her target. The roar of a gun blast rocked the room. Blood sprayed across the white walls. Spencer crumpled to the floor.
Lacey’s breath caught. “Oh, Christ.”
It wasn’t her gun that had fired. Her eyes locked with the suspect’s. A heartbeat passed, long enough for the hint of a smile, then he thrust the gun, still smoking from the last shot, under his chin and pulled the trigger.
Within the span of five seconds, everything had changed.
Part II
8
The store manager, Mrs. Yang, continued to argue in broken English. Noah Hall nodded patiently as though he hadn’t already heard it a hundred times over. How a flock of teenaged girls swooped into the store like sparrows, and how when Mrs. Yang was watching the ones over by the cosmetics, the other girls would fly out the door, pockets stuffed with stolen bath bombs.
“Third time this week they take something.”
“I know, Mrs. Yang, but I can’t stop the teenagers from coming into your store. They’re customers too.”
“They no buy things. They steal. And you no here to stop it. What good are you, eh?”
She flung an open fist toward him, the backs of her fingers bouncing off the security logo emblazoned on his shirt. Anger clawed up from his belly and expanded in Noah’s chest until he felt as if he couldn’t contain it, as if he might explode.
“The bath bombs are high theft items, the kind of thing that’s small enough to slide into a pocket. We talked about moving them closer to the cash register so you can keep an eye on them.”
“You no tell me how to layout store. You catch thief. That what you paid to do.”
She acted as if it was his fault the bath bombs went missing. He couldn’t help her if she wouldn’t take his advice. He wasn’t her personal security guard. There were over two hundred stores in the mall, and he was responsible for patrolling all of them.
“I’ll write a report—”
“You write report. What good it do? It no help me. Huh?” She gave a snort of disgust and gesticulated toward the door. “I call boss. You go. You go now.”
Boss? He was the security team’s lead. For all intents and purposes, he was the boss, and she knew it. She’d called corporate on him twice and they’d already told her that he’d done nothing wrong. He was handling the situation exactly how he’d been trained. But still, she’d call, and he’d have to explain. Whatever.
Noah raised his hands in surrender and left the store. It was unreasonable to think that as long as the security team patrolled the mall, there would be no crime. People sucked. It only took a momentary lapse in routine for a thief to take advantage, and Mrs. Yang’s store was at the end of a hallway right outside a secondary entrance. It was a high-risk location. She wouldn’t be happy unless he spent his whole shift standing in the doorway, patting down every person who left the store. Under that kind of scrutiny, business would tank. And that would be his fault too.
Blowing out a breath, Noah checked his watch and hurried down the corridor toward the main entrance. Thanks to Mrs. Yang’s never-ending rant, he didn’t have time to return to the security office and head off her irrational complaint.
It was late afternoon and Washington Square Mall, located on the outskirts of Portland, was a veritable mad house. The hallways were jammed with young mothers pushing baby carriages, young professionals in need of a retail fix, and teenagers of all varieties fresh from school, desperate for a place to hang out. Like a salmon swimming upstream, Noah dodged the oncoming flow, cursing Mrs. Yang for making him late.
Rounding the corner just outside of Nordstrom, Noah stopped to catch his breath. From this vantage point, he had a bird’s eye view of the front doors. A constant stream of people entered the mall and Noah scanned the crowd, searching for the one face he was hoping to see.
Ten seconds passed. Thirty. Soon his sinuses began to clog from the heavy muddled scent of the perfume wafting from the cosmetics department. His cell phone pinged with a text message, but Noah ignored it, not daring to look away.
Three minutes had passed. Damn Mrs. Yang and her stolen bath bombs for making him miss what was beyond a doubt the best part of his day. He reached for his phone, to check his text messages when his breath caught.
It was her. Her coppery hair sparkled with droplets of rain beneath the mall’s silvery lights. Laughter filled her blue-green eyes and Noah’s stomach dropped. She wasn’t alone. She was with him. Hayden. What kind of a name was
that anyway? He looked like an Abercrombie and Fitch model with his tousled blonde bangs falling across his forehead and his pouty lips. Even the green canvas jacket he wore was a walking cliché.
Sickened by the sight of the two of them together, Noah looked away. A pointy elbow jostled his side and jarred him back into the moment. The young woman standing next to Noah barely reached his shoulder.
“Hey, earth to Noah.”
She snapped her fingers at him like he was a waiter and Noah felt himself bristle.
There was nothing remarkable about Claire Morrison. She had the face of a Russian peasant, round with broad cheekbones and slate gray eyes. She was dressed identically to the other ladies who worked in Nordstrom’s cosmetics department. Flare-legged black pants clung to Claire’s ample hips. A wraparound black tunic plunged between her heavy breasts. Whatever beauty she might possess was obscured beneath a layer of makeup so thick that it looked as if it had been applied with a trowel.
Eyeing him with concern, Claire asked, “Are you okay?”
“What? Good. Yeah, why?”
An amused dimple appeared in Claire’s round cheek. “Your phone.”
“What about it?”
“Are you deaf? It hasn’t stopped ringing. I heard it all the way in there.” She hooked a thumb over her shoulder toward the store and shook her head. “And I thought you security types were supposed to be observant.”
“Oh. Yeah. Well.” Noah hitched his shoulder in a half-shrug.
He cast a longing look toward the entrance, but the redhead and her companion were long gone. Through the long shaggy fringe of her fake eyelashes, Claire gazed up at him.
