Free to Die

by Bob McElwain

  From the folder, he picked out the earlier report and compared the two. Only one bullet had been recovered from Gerald Allison’s body and it was distorted, having lodged against bone. The other two had completely penetrated and had never been found. In this, both reports concurred.

  The new report was quite different, however. It seems the gun Brad Ashton had with him had killed Gerald Allison three years ago. “Bullshit,” he said aloud.

  But there was no one to hear, no one to read the anger in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, or the tremble in his hands holding the second report.

  He found the name he needed. Lt. Stratford had requested the second test. But why?

  He gazed out into the squad room without really seeing it, his thoughts drifting, but seemingly determined to focus on Lt. Stratford. What did he really know about the man? Why was he so determined to lock Brad away? That he had no answers, did not bother him. Answers could be found. The trick was in asking the right questions.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the opening of his office door. Captain Haywood entered without preamble and settled into a chair. As always, he was immaculately dressed, his nails clean and polished, his shoes shined beyond requirements.

  “Lt. Stratford tells me you’re thinking of doing something very foolish.”

  “I was with Sgt. Bradson when he made this first test,” Walters commented, holding up the report. “I’ll testify as to the results, if that’s what you mean. And Bradson will have to confirm my statement. We’ll let the jury decide which one is right.”

  Captain Haywood shook his head slowly.

  “Worried about the department image?” Walters’ lazy smile tightened. “Like we don’t make mistakes?”

  Captain Haywood sighed and straightened his tie. “I’m not concerned about images right now, only about you. You’re one of the best; possibly the best I’ve ever worked with. But we may have to get along without you.”

  “Are we talkin’ off the record?”

  Captain Haywood thought about it a moment, then nodded.

  Walters leaned forward and said, “What makes you and your team better than most in the department?” He leaned back. “It’s all about loyalty and support. You support your people, so they support you. And each other.”

  “There are other factors, but that one is important.”

  “To me, too. But add this. I also support my friends.”

  “Do they appreciate that?” Haywood asked.

  “They often don’t. But that’s not the point. Supporting my friends, you, and our team is part of who I am. Take that away, and I’m somebody else.”

  Haywood nodded. “But Ashton has crossed the line. He’s no longer entitled to your support.”

  “You’ve been listening to the wrong people.”

  “For instance?”

  “Sgt. Broadmore. He claims he’s got a witness who saw Ashton enter Lydia’s home at about 3:30.”

  “Claims?”

  “It never happened. First, Ashton lived in that house for a time; he’d know how to get in without being seen. Second, point him at a place he’s never seen, and he’d be inside before anybody could identify him. That witness is lying.”

  “Did you explain this to Sgt. Broadmore?”

  “He’s not buying.” Walters shook his head. “I also told him that Jeffery Walden, Ashton’s attorney, has hired Lambert & Banks to help him build a defense for Ashton. They have a witness who was there at 3:35; he saw things differently. First, he didn’t see Ashton or anybody else. Second, there was a car parked on the lawn backed up to the front porch. Broadmore’s witness didn’t notice it.”

  “Didn’t he check this out?” Haywood asked.

  “I don’t know. But he said he was satisfied with his witness.”

  “Santino and Farley aren’t happy. What have you done about that?”

  “Ashton was working at Overnite Air as Fairchild, so he had to stick with that name when talking with our guys. It explains the few things he said that weren’t so.

  “I did talk them into checking where Ashton worked as Fairchild over the last three years. Ashton gave it to them straight. So he’s no longer a serious suspect.”

  Walters continued by telling about Brad being followed and shot at, that the slugs came from the same .38 that killed three people at Overnite Air. He spoke of Mike Rinolli and the two guys who had tried to grab him last night. And of Feldersen and the DEA.

  When he’d finished, Walters leaned back in his chair and gazed up at the ceiling for a time.

  “Is that it?” Haywood asked.

  “No,” Walters said softly as he leaned forward in his chair. “Buried in all this we’ve got a dirty cop.”

  “Are you certain?” Haywood demanded sharply.

  Walters picked up the new ballistics report. “There’s only one way this report could have come up.”

  “And that is?”

  “Somebody switched the original test bullet and the barrel in that Colt .45. It had to be somebody here in the department.”

  “Nobody could get to that weapon.”

  “While Sgt. Bradson was running that first test, I could have made those switches, if I’d had a bullet and a barrel.”

  “But that would mean one of our people killed Gerald Allison, then kept that .45 all these years.”

  “That’s true, Cap.”

  “Have you got a name?”

  “Maybe. But only for you.”

  Haywood nodded.

  “Lt. Stratford.” Walter sighed. He picked up a folder, then dropped it back to the desk. “The problem is I don’t like the guy, so I may be biased. Still, he was there when the gun was tested the second time. He could have made a switch.”

  “Damn,” Haywood muttered. He sat without moving for several minutes. Slowly, he stood. He placed his knuckles on the desk, then leaned out over them. “What you have is plausible. If you’re right, Ashton is clean. But you can’t leave him out there.”

  “That VC prison camp did him in, Cap. He’d lose it in a cell.”

  “It would give him a good alibi. If whoever is behind all this gets lucky, they can build a better frame, one that works.”

  “We’ll have to risk that.”

  “He’s fair game for any cop looking for a gold star.”

  “Ashton isn’t easy to kill, Cap.”

  Captain Haywood shook his head slowly, frustration deeply etched in his features. “I hope you’re as good as I think you are,” he said evenly. Slowly he turned toward the door.

  “What do I tell Internal Affairs?” Walters asked.

  Without turning, Haywood said sharply, “Everything you told me. And any details you overlooked.”

  “But not Stratford’s name, right?”

  Haywood nodded. “Not until we’re certain.”

  * * *

  James and Blakefield from Internal Affairs were not as patient or sympathetic as Captain Haywood had been. Nor did they believe him. At the end of two hours, Walters stood abruptly. “You’ve got all I know. I can’t see any sense to more of this shit. If you want my badge, it’s yours. If you want to do it right, check out what I said.”

  James and Blakefield looked at one another, then back at Walters.

  “It would help if you’d tell us where Ashton is,” said the older man. “Better yet, go bring him in.”

  “I don’t know where he is.” He could guess, but they hadn’t asked him to guess.

  “But you’d tell us if you did?”

  “I don’t know that either.” But he knew he wouldn’t.

  “I guess that’s all for now, then. A word of caution?”

  Walters waited silently.

  “Be careful. You’re stepping on mighty big toes.”

  “That’s true.” It was the first time he’d agreed with them.

  * * *

  It was full dark when Willard Tuckman rose from behind his scarred desk and put on his coat. If his two bodyguards, also standing, were disturbed by the lat
eness of the hour, there was no hint of it. The shorter man with the baby face, loosened the pistol in its holster and walked quickly to the door. He was the first one outside, followed by the big man with the pock-marked face, then Tuckman.

  At the car, both men waited as Tuckman glared disgustedly at the right front fender of his new Cadillac. It was badly torn and crumpled; the midnight blue paint was streaked with a light beige color. “It was like this when ya picked it up?”

  The slender man nodded.

  “And there ain’t nothin’ else wrong with it?” His wave encompassed the entire car.

  “Runs sweet as ever.”

  Tuckman grunted, then settled himself in the back seat. The pocked-face man drove. The man with the pistol also sat in the front seat, alert as always. The side mirror on his side was adjusted for him, not the driver.

  “Get it fixed tomorrow,” Tuckman muttered.

  “Right,” said the driver.

  Tuckman leaned back, his thoughts drifting. He knew he didn’t have all the facts and he hated that. It was tough to build a deal without all the facts. He did know Lydia was dead and a couple of hotshot mechanics at Overnite Air. He didn’t give a thought to Lydia, but good mechanics were hard to find. All he knew for sure was that if he was going to make a deal with Ashton, it’d have to be real soon. Otherwise, the man would be dead or buried in a jail cell. But he was frustrated and knew it. He didn’t have a clue to a next move.

  * * *

  “Yes,” said Mike Rinolli into the phone.

  “Your line clean?”

  “It doesn’t hurt to be careful. What do you want?”

  Soft light bounced off the red stone in his ring, as he moved the receiver to his other hand. “I’ve closed down this end for now. And I’ll soon take care of the other end.”

  “So Ashton wasn’t involved at all?”

  He laughed. “Not in that.”

  “In what, then?”

  “Ashton saw Sanchez pick up the last load; he followed me.”

  “To me?”

  “Do you find that interesting?”

  “Who is this guy?”

  “Some sort of special investigator, I suspect. That’s all I can think of.”

  “That seems unlikely,” Rinolli said suspiciously. “He doesn’t have those kind of moves.”

  “I tried to take him last night, but he got lucky. He’s running now and I can’t find him. Unless you believe I’m lying, one of us had better get him. And sooner than later.” The red stone flickered once more as he returned the phone to its cradle. He was smiling broadly as he turned toward his car.

  * * *

  Mike Rinolli remained motionless, the dead receiver clutched tightly in his hand. “Damn that sonofabitch,” he said as he slammed the phone down. There was a good chance it was a lie. He remembered the last pickup. The man had insisted he handle it personally. He hadn’t liked the feel of it; he’d been careful. There wasn’t any way Ashton or anyone else could have seen him. Then again, there was always that outside chance. He hadn’t gotten this far taking unnecessary chances. “Georgio,” he yelled.

  First he’d get Ashton, even though he was sure it wasn’t necessary. He knew Ashton hadn’t killed Gates, Talbert, or Sanchez. And he certainly wasn’t a special investigator. Yet how could one know? The smart move was to act, to diminish any possible risk.

  Then, he thought, smiling, I’ll hit that smooth-talking sonofabitch just for kicks. Christ. He didn’t even check with me before making his move. He looked up at Georgio, standing in front of the desk. “Get some people,” he said. “And find Ashton.”

  “You wanna talk again?”

  “I don’t want him talking to anyone, ever.”

  Georgio smiled broadly and left the room.

  CHAPTER 11

  Sunday

  By the angle of the sun’s rays, Brad knew it was late in the morning. Never had he had so little sleep and felt so refreshed. He turned to look at her. He wanted once again to run his hand across her silky thighs.

  Then he thought of Hank and all the crap of that other world descended suddenly, heavily. He sighed and rolled gently out of bed. He slipped on his pants, picked up his shirt and moved to the living room, closing the bedroom door quietly behind him. He dialed Hank.

  “What’s happening?” he asked.

  “Thought you were goin’ to call last night.”

  “Got busy.”

  “The broad?”

  “I don’t think she’d like that word.”

  “You at her place?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t go nowhere. I’ll be right there.” The line went dead.

  Brad went back into the bedroom, sat on the side of the bed and began stroking Josie awake with his fingers on her back.

  She opened her eyes, then smiled. “I thought I wore you out,” she said sleepily. His shirt was unbuttoned; her fingers traced idle patterns down his bare chest.

  “Close,” he said smiling. “But Hank will be here in fifteen or twenty minutes.”

  “That’s not enough time for what I want.”

  “Maybe it’s enough to get underneath some clothes?”

  She sighed, rolled out of bed, gave him a kiss and walked to the bathroom.

  * * *

  When Walters stepped inside, Brad knew he had the picture, but he made no sign. Brad also knew he never would.

  “Coffee?” Josie asked.

  “Another cup can’t hurt much.” He sat down on the couch beside Brad. A moment later, Josie handed him a cup and sat in the chair facing them.

  “It’s not working out too well, is it?” Brad asked.

  “Cap Haywood wants you tucked into a cell. For your own good, of course. Internal Affairs wants to salt me down permanently, if I don’t make it happen,” Hank said.

  “I’m not up to that.”

  “Then do as I suggested,” Josie said. “Pick a spot somewhere and let me get people to cover you around the clock.”

  “I’m fed up with sitting around and letting others decide my future. And even if I have one.”

  “Then you’ve only one option,” Hank said grimly.

  “And that is?”

  “Split,” he said, without hesitation. “Pick a nice new name and bury yourself somewhere while me and her figure this out.” He nodded in Josie’s direction.

  Brad shook his head.

  “Why not? You’ve been there; you can handle it.”

  “Things are different now.”

  “Yes, indeedy. Now you’re wanted for two murders, instead of one. Feldersen is scourin’ this town lookin’ to give you a beatin’, like enough for a wheelchair maybe. And persons unknown are tryin’ to kill you. Buddy, it’s time for farewells.”

  “Not now.”

  “Not even if I go with you?” Josie asked quietly.

  His look was hard. He started to speak, then held back. She didn’t know what she was saying. Crummy rooms in crummier towns, paying more attention to those behind than in front. If it didn’t destroy her, it would at least kill whatever future they might have together. But the words wouldn’t come. “That’s a tempting offer.”

  “Take it,” said Hank.

  “Remember, Hank, that time we got boxed? We could have bellied out. Right?”

  Hank nodded.

  “But we didn’t. We took out the headquarters, the ammo and fuel dumps, then a supply train as well.”

  “This is different, buddy. We don’t have eleven good dudes beside us, and we haven’t a clue to a target.”

  “Maybe not. But following the rules won’t get it done here any better than in Nam.”

  “You always were one stubborn sonofabitch,” Hank noted.

  “That’s so.”

  “What’s different now than last week in Las Vegas?” Josie asked. “You were ready to run then.”

  He stood and paced the room. When he turned to face them, he said, “Me, I guess.” He combed his hair back out of his eyes with his fingers. “I c
an’t just sit back and wait. It’s time for me to play a hand, maybe even deal one.”

  “Just what are you planning?” Josie asked.

  “No. I don’t want either of you taking any more chances. When I leave here, I’ll go alone.”

  “Bullshit. Without somebody coverin’ your back, you won’t last a week.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “I’m not gonna change your mind, am I?” Hank asked quietly.

  Brad shook his head.

  Hank was a pragmatist, if nothing more. His tight lazy smile returned. “Then how do you see it, buddy?”

  “Suppose this whole deal’s smuggling and I happened to walk into it. Tell me a story, one that might be true.”

  “Let me try,” Josie said.

  Hank nodded.

  “When you came back, Brad, someone for reasons we don’t know, felt dangerously vulnerable. He or she decided to close up shop. Lydia was killed, then Gates, Talbert, and Sanchez. He or she must believe you know something, because they tried to kill you, too. We know this because they used the same weapon. It could be Tuckman.”

  “Maybe,” Hank said. “But I think it’s a cop. A guy in narcotics who is dirty could come up with the same inside info.”

  “Stratford?”

  “Might be,” Hank said nodding.

  “Is Rinolli the buyer?” Brad asked.

  “If they’re smuggling heroin,” Josie said, “he controls distribution.” She thought for a moment, then asked, “Why was Lydia killed?”

  “You ask too much,” Hank said. “But as a guess, it looks like Overnite Air’s involved. Maybe she was part of it. Maybe she arranged the right schedules.”

  “And the DEA is on Brad because they think he’s involved,” she added.

  “Funny thing, that. Remember Cogswell?” Hank asked. “It still bothers me, his sudden transfer, I mean.”

  “How’s that?” asked Brad.

  “First, if they’re running a big case like they say, they wouldn’t move a key man. Second, it stinks. I’ve a hunch there’s more here than a transfer.”

  “For now that blond-headed jerk’s enough for me,” Brad said thoughtfully.

  “Forget these things for now,” Josie said. “We need to know what you’re planning, Brad.”

  He lost himself in her dark blue eyes. It came to him suddenly; he’d never be able to lie to her, so long as he could see her eyes. “There’s a word that hasn’t come up.”

  “What’s that?” Hank asked.