Returning Fire

by Frans Harmon

  “I think Lewis caught Jirair in his ritual burning. He chased Jirair, lost him, and my guess he picked him up again at the Bookie’s Hideaway, same place I did. Jirair was acting spooky as he moved down Sproat that night. It didn’t make sense then. I thought I had been made, but now I can see it was Lewis chasing him at the same time I was following. And on the roof, Jirair wasn’t afraid of me, it was Tuller. He must have been behind me.”

  “He was on the roof with you? How do you figure?”

  “The pigeons, they all flew from their coop when they saw him, that’s what I heard before I blacked out. Likely he clocked me from behind.”

  “So, what was it that you now think you remember?”

  “Lewis, not me grabbing hold of Jirair, lifting him up, and tossing him off the roof of the Eddystone.”

  Anstice picked up her phone and examined it again. “Mom. I’ll deal with her in the morning.” She tapped her phone. “Turning it off.”

  Mace took another pizza slice. “Did you meet with Emmitt Friday?”

  Anstice nodded as a grimace flashed across her face. “I gave him the recording, and he was a jerk about it.”

  “And? He buy it?”

  “Totally, but it tore me up to think about giving him the recording behind your back, now I feel worse. Like watching a car wreck as it happens, except you realize what is happening, and your mind sees it in slow motion. I hope you know what you are doing. Sooner or later, he is going to get a warrant.”

  “Just playing out the line, the warrant is at the end, but so is the hook. Emmitt didn’t buy it. I know him better.”

  Anstice stared at Mace, finished her beer, and laughed. “God, why was I so worried. Living with you has got to be spooky.”

  “Is that an offer or a threat?”

  Anstice pulled her feet under her in the chair and held her head in an elbow propped hand. “I’ll let you know, and not to change the subject, but what did Brok have to say about your car?”

  “He found a blue-tooth amplifying device under the dash. He compared the wiring of Coria’s and Trina’s vehicle and believes the same device was used in their vehicles but then removed. Which makes sense, once a phone call was received using the car’s integrated phone system, Sar took control. For the unsuspecting women, he was the black knight coming to their rescue.”

  Anstice sat upright. “Sar, oh my God,” she said, a hand flying up, “I almost forgot. At the tractor supply, I saw a receipt for thirty fifty-pound bags of Nature’s Way Urea purchased by Salpmore Enterprises. Sar worked there, it had to be him.”

  “Ammonium nitrate, about the same amount that brought down the federal building in Oklahoma.”

  “Mace, we’re talking about a lot more than three bodies.”

  “And we have four days to figure this out. I’m going to need your help.”

  “I can’t Trayn’s got me locked into his squad at the eighth.”

  “You have the payoff money here?”

  Anstice nodded.

  “Well,” Mace said, standing and pulling her toward her bedroom, “you need to use it, but now…”

  Anstice beamed, her eyes locked onto Mace. “Tension release therapy?”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The incessant buzzing on his nightstand broke through to his consciousness. “Hmm,” is all he could manage as he rolled over to the offending phone and answered the call. “Yeah.”

  “Emmitt?”

  “Ants? What the hell, Ants, it’s three in the morning.”

  “I’ve got what you need, just listen. ‘me grabbing hold of Jirair, lifting him up, and tossing him off the roof of the Eddystone.’ Is that good enough?”

  Emmitt wiped his eyes. “Yeah, for a warrant.”

  “I want Trayn taken care of today, Emmitt.”

  “Little thin on lead time, Ants, but I’ll take care of you. Keep an eye out for Lieutenant Ramsey from IAD, looks like his face belongs on Mount Rushmore. Do not play games with him, and follow his lead and keep your mouth shut, Ants.”

  * * * *

  Anstice shut down her phone. After they took care of what she considered her insurance policy, Mace departed for Ypsilanti to freshen up, and she left Trayn’s office for her Dearborn apartment to wait out the night. She lay in her bed, staring into the gray twilight of the urban night. The scene from Friday morning, Emmitt returning Trayn’s nod, kept paying in her head. Would it be the Emmitt that so wanted to marry her after high school, or the one, angry and spiteful, after the divorce, that would take care of her. Sleep wouldn’t be caught tonight. She gave up, showered, and put on fresh clothes and drove back to Detroit’s Eighth Precinct hours before her scheduled start. From a distance, she saw Trayn arrive and slid down in the front seat to avoid being seen.

  Shit! Her eyes shot open. Ensnared by her elusive sleep, her oversized wristwatch said eight. She wasn’t late but had lost any early arrival advantage. She sprinted through the entrance and down a hall snaking through the building to the rear. She surged through the outer doors to the bull-pen area. It was eight-ten. She spotted Trayn, Jack, the uniform patrol, her raid partner, and two plainclothes, already waiting in Trayn’s office. Which Emmitt had called this meeting?

  One of the detectives looked fifty-something, tall, rigidly straight, and Rushmore faced, as Emmitt had described. The other seemed younger, his black hair conservatively cut, smooth-faced, and a softer body on the verge of surrender to age and gravity.

  Trayn saw her before she could reach her cubicle and waved her over. She signaled that she was coming but first detoured to her desk to store her weapon. The state of her desk spoke volumes, her plan was in play. She stymied a smile as she stowed her gun and went immediately to Trayn’s office.

  “What’s up, Lieutenant?”

  “These gentlemen have some questions for you.”

  “I’m detective Ramsey, IAD,” Rushmore face said, flashing his shield, “and this is detective Warfield. Were you a part of the takedown, at the Stem Tractor Supply, Friday?’

  Throwing me under the bus. Trayn’s or Emmitt’s plan? “Yes, I was. I was lead.”

  “So, you were Control for the bait money?” Warfield asked.

  Anstice nodded.

  “Did the buy ever take place?’

  “No, it didn’t. The lieutenant called it, said the equipment wasn’t stolen as previously reported. But you knew that all along, right, Lieutenant?”

  “Problem is,” Ramsey said, nodding as he did, “the bait money returned to property was light about ten-grand.”

  “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, sergeant? Trayn asked.

  “The briefcase was never opened in my presence,” Anstice said, “and I took possession after the deal went south. So, no, I have no idea how it could be missing.”

  “Saw you, Sarge,” Jack said, “carrying out a package from Stems wrapped in his signature brown STS paper, about the right size for ten-grand.”

  “You’ve got it wrong, Jack. It was a set of box wrenches for the lieutenant, here.”

  “Wrenches,” Warfield said, then why it end up in a concealed drawer in your desk?”

  “A gift. It was a surprise. The lieutenant and I go back a while, when we both worked in Dearborn Investigative Ops. That right, Lieutenant?”

  Trayn stared for a minute, his head bobbing, and then from behind him, he grabbed the package and tossed it into Anstice’s arms. “Open it.”

  Anstice mocked a sad face. “Ahh, your surprise, you spoiled it. But, took it from my desk and didn’t open it? You afraid of my female cooties or something?”

  “We don’t need any more of your lip, Ants. Do it.”

  Anstice dropped the package on Trayn’s desk and tore off the packaging tape. She unfolded the wrapping revealing stacks of neatly cut dollar-sized paper padding a set of various sized box wrenches encased in plastic.

  Trayn jumped up from his chair, his eyes large. Jack turned for the door. “Freeze, Jack,” Trayn shouted.

 
; “Okay,” Ramsey said, “takes care of that tip. So, you sticking to your story, Sergeant, you have no idea where the money might be?”

  Trayn’s eyes locked onto Anstice. “Could I have my office for a minute, Detectives?”

  The detectives walked out of the room, followed by Jack, who shut the door behind him.

  “Look, I don’t know how you did it or what kind of a game you’re playing here, Ants…”

  “Game? Me? Seems to me you’re the one doing the setup, Trayn. Tell you what, you turn over the IAD files from Dearborn, you’ve squirreled away, and I’ll show you where the ten-k is.”

  Trayn continued to stare at Anstice, his head bobbing, and Anstice knew, fuming for revenge. “All right, Ants, I’ll do that,” Trayn said and waived the detectives back into the room. Jack was gone.

  As the detective entered, Trayn unlocked a file drawer in his desk and removed a brown manila envelope marked ‘IAD Eyes Only.’ He handed the envelope to the detectives. “The sergeant here will show you where the money is, but you should also take a look at this.”

  “You really want to do this, Trayn?”

  Trayn set his jaw, his arms braced knuckles down on top of his desk, he said nothing.

  Anstice took two strides to a file cabinet to the right of Trayn’s desk.

  “Hey, hey,” Trayn said, reaching toward Anstice, “what are you doing.”

  The detectives restrained him.

  Anstice pulled the top, and the third drawer of the file cabinet open an inch. She then grabbed the front facing of the cabinet and swung it open, revealing a large standing safe. “Still using your ex’s birth date, Trayn?” She spun the combination dial on the front, left, right, and left again. She pushed down on the safe’s handle, which yielded with a metallic clunk. “Never did get over her, did you? A habit with you guys.”

  The door swung away, revealing three file drawers inside. Anstice pondered her options and then pulled open the middle drawer. She retrieved an object wrapped in the brown paper of Stems Tractor Supply. She tore the package open and dumped its contents on Trayn’s desk, eight stacks of fifty-dollar bills. “Oops! Look what we have here. I bet you ten thousand.”

  Trayn fell into his chair, his hand over his face. “Trayn Robers, you have the right to remain—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Trayn said, his eyes once again locked onto Anstice, “I know the drill. But your work is not done here, open that file.”

  Ramsey broke the seal on the envelope and extracted the file. He held it his hands and flipped through several sheaves of paper, his eyes darting from its contents to Anstice. A pain of regret stabbed through her. She wanted the Emmitt she had married to be there for her. This was the moment she would find out.

  “Is this all true, Lieutenant Trayn?”

  “Every word Ramsey.”

  “Well, then this is quite a file here, Sergeant. You had a very productive career in Dearborn, the city of Detroit is lucky to have you.” He handed the file to Anstice. “You may want to keep this; it is service you can be proud of.”

  Warfield cuffed Trayn, who stared at Anstice, his mouth poised to question, but unable to form words. “You may want to have a talk over a beer with Emmitt when you get out, say in five to ten.

  Oh, I should mention, I filed a complaint with HQ. They weren’t keen on my forged transfer, but hey, it’s been an exciting weekend at the Eighth.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  “We put those windows there for a purpose, ya know, and plastering them with keepsake photo’s wasn’t one of them.”

  Mace smiled. Mo’s voice was a comforting sound, and he had hoped Mo would show up early. He finished taping a photo of Sar’s white van to the glass and turned to watch Peter Mock rolling his wheelchair through the doorway. “Sorry, Mo, not much room in your—”

  “Our.”

  “Our, yes, right, our office for a whiteboard, and I need to focus.”

  Mo pivoted his chair behind his desk. “You still think the Feast of Sacrifice is part of his end game?”

  That was precisely what Mace’s gut sense was telling him, but his head wasn’t buying it yet. “Perhaps, but now I think more is at stake than the lives of the three women, could be the lives of hundreds.”

  Mo pursed his lips, his meaty hands grabbing the edge of his desk and pulled himself into it. “How so?”

  “Anstice, working a C-Ops sting, discovered Sar purchased fifteen-hundred pounds of Urea a week ago.”

  Mo let out a low whistle. “Another federal building bombing?”

  “In this case, I don’t think it is, and I don’t know how the women fit into this?”

  “Hostages?”

  “No, I think there is more to their purpose.”

  Mo scanned the photos Mace had taped to the glass and the last one, taken of the abandoned casket, with the word ‘red’ scrawled on the inside.”

  “Red,” Mo said, “that, a white truck, and three women. Not much, Mace. The feast is in four days. Not sure that jibes with the timeline for packaging, fusing, arranging a detonator, and all. Besides, ‘red’ could be about the next blood moon in three months.”

  “Then why buy the Urea now? He had to realize a large purchase like that would draw attention sooner or later.”

  “That’s where you are wrong, Mace. He bought it from a supply that is dealing in stolen equipment. I assume that was what the raid was about. So not likely they were going to report it.”

  Mace shook his head and slumped into a chair in front of Mo’s desk. “This is planned. He’s meticulous. The cell tower hit we got on Sharlene’s phone wasn’t her taking a chance to get help, it was deliberate. He wanted us there, the bomb he left proves that.”

  Mo nodded a hand stroked his jaw and down over his jowls rolling down his neck. Then his eyes widened. “You there, he wanted you there.”

  “What?”

  “I read SWAT’s after-action report. They checked the van, found it locked, and moved on. The explosion happened after you approached. At the MCS scene, if it hadn’t been for that unfortunate biker getting cocky at the wrong time, you would be the dead one. And your car, losing control, crashing into gas pumps. Man, Jirair has been targeting you all along.”

  “Makes sense, except for the Jirair part.”

  Mo pushed back in his chair, a beefy finger stabbing at the air. “You’re a stubborn one, I’ll give you that, but there is a time when you have to let go of your assumptions and face the truth.”

  Anstice had been careless with her video, and while she was on the phone, he had looked. “It’s more than an assumption, Mo. Just say it’s something I found in a package a friend of mine had.”

  “Package, that reminds me,” Mo said as he pulled open a desk drawer. “This came for you while you were running around tripping explosives.”

  Mo tossed a brown manila envelope into Mace’s lap. Mace flipped it over and examined the postal stamp. “Another from the Sault.” He ripped open an end and pulled out a videotape. Mace studied the tape. “Well, I think I know where your missing person, Mr. Lew Tuller the Third is, and that he is alive and following the news. You have a VCR hiding under one of your boxes in here?”

  “No, in the stacks.”

  Mo wheeled around his desk with Mace behind him, heading for the door, when Brok met them there. ‘Thought you would be here, Mace. Got the blood results.”

  Mo stopped and twisted around to Mace with a look of confusion. “The word ‘red’ was written in blood,” Mace said. “Who’s was it, Brok?”

  “That’s what I came to talk to you about. There was no match to any of the women. It was type O.”

  “Universal type for transfusion,” Mo said, “There some sort of crazy purification going on?”

  “Feast of the Sacrifice, it’s happening,” Mace said. “Thanks, Brok. You were right, that is an important piece. Mo, look at this tape for me, I’ve got to escalate this to Dorian.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Mace, breathing heavily
from his run up the stairs, stopped cold at the entrance to Dorian’s office. Two of the lieutenant governor’s security detail stood like black-suited knights in dark glasses alongside Dorian’s massive oak doors. Cassandra was inside, not a routine occurrence. He stepped briskly to Dorian’s receptionist seated to the right, her focus on a computer monitor.

  Hands waving, Mace glanced at her desk, nameplate. “Cheryl, I need to talk to Dorian as soon as possible.”

  “He is in conference with Lieutenant Governor Meiler.”

  “I gathered that, but this is critical.”

  She opened her mouth to replay as her interphone buzzed. “Cheryl, call Mace Franklyn and get him in here ASAP.”

  “Yes, commander,” she said, and with a raised eyebrow, asked Mace, “How critical?”

  “What’s going on?” Mace mouthed.

  Cheryl leaned forward. “Don’t know,” she breathed, “but five minutes ago, LG stormed through here, and your four letters were mentioned among a volley of expletives. You might want to make yourself scarce for a while.”

  Mace furrowed his brow. He had taken pains to stay under the press’s radar. That left Emmitt’s Vulcan play with Anstice. Mace hadn’t expected him to act so quickly. “Were other letters mentioned? Three specifically, as in FBI?”

  With a tight smile, Cheryl nodded.

  Mace rolled a hand motioning for Cheryl to continue and inform Dorian.

  She spoke into the intercom. “As it so happens commander, he just arrived, shall I send him in?”

  Muffled voices and a clicking sound were the only response.

  One of the men in the security detail pressed a finger to his ear then approached Mace. “Gun, ID,” he said.

  “What? Okay, fine, whatever, I need to talk to them. The other agent opened one of the oak doors, both followed as Mace rushed inside. Cassandra and Dorian were sitting on facing sofas, Gavin was standing nearer the door facing the settees. He turned as Mace stopped abruptly next to him.

  Cassandra wasn’t looking at him, and Dorian had the stone face of a death row Chaplin. “What going on?”