Code Four

by Colin Conway

  CODE FOUR

  A Charlie-316 Novel

  Colin Conway and Frank Zafiro

  ACCLAIM FOR CODE FOUR

  “Frank Zafiro knows cops and he knows the streets—especially my streets. With Code Four, he and Colin Conway have written a timely and compelling crime novel.” —Jess Walter, Edgar Award-winning author of Citizen Vince and The Cold Millions

  “For those who like their mystery/thrillers filled with plenty of action and intrigue and a realistic edge (reminiscent of Joseph Wambaugh police-procedurals), look no further than Conway and Zafiro. These two write with authority, because they actually worked the job.” —Robin Burcell, New York Times bestselling author of The Last Good Place and Wrath of Poseidon

  “Top-notch crime fiction…a realistic tale of murder, corruption, politics, and greed. But at its heart Code Four is a personal and brutally honest look at the men and women of law enforcement. Those who walk a razor edge between right and wrong and risk everything for justice.” —Bruce Robert Coffin, award-winning author of the Detective Byron mysteries

  “Code Four is a tightly written procedural laying bare the infectious reach of corruption when officers believe the ends justify the means. Loaded with authentic detail, Zafiro and Conway deliver a thrilling, and heart-pounding conclusion to the Charlie-316 series.” —James L’Etoile, author of At What Cost and Bury the Past

  “The real deal. Emphasis on real.” —Colin Campbell, author of the Jim Grant thrillers

  “Code Four is a must-read in the canon of modern police procedurals. From personal vendettas to consent decrees, Conway and Zafiro don’t shy from the inherent paradox to police work—that justice isn’t so cut and dry as we’d like to believe. We humans may be the only species that writes and enforces laws, but we’re not immune to savagery or misjudgment or corruption. Code Four is an authentic look at people who are cops...not cops masquerading as people.” —Matt Phillips, author of Countdown and Accidental Outlaws

  “A timely and recommended read.” — Brenda Chapman, author of the Stonechild and Rouleau series

  “Conway and Zafiro have capped their gritty police procedural Charlie-316 series the only way they could have: with booming escalation. All at once engaging, authentic and driving, they give the reader insight into the reality of cops’ lives with the added extremity of the series’ drama. See what comes from guys who’ve done the job and are now writing about the most riveting parts of it.” —Ryan Sayles, author of Together They Were Crimson

  “A more than worthy finale to an outstanding series. Like all great endings, I put down the book with the idea these people’s lives were continuing, but I wasn’t going to get to see them anymore.” —Dana King, two-time Shamus Award nominee and author of the Penns River novels

  “Code Four is a body slam to traditional procedurals with a taut line of suspense and an unblinking look at the inner workings of a major police department. A truthful tour de force of real police work.” —Gray Basnight, author of Madness of the Q

  “Relentless and compelling, Code Four grabs your heart and batters it with a powerful, disturbing and headline-real story of crime and police work, public and private politics and pure procedural mystery. Conway and Zafiro are the best cop writers on duty today. Code Four hits with the shock and brutality of a brick through your windshield. A violent and unforgettable tale of the pull of corruption and the power of truth.” —Mark Bergin, author of Apprehension

  “The story grabs you and doesn’t let go till you find out who wins—if anyone.” —Paul D. Marks, Shamus Award-winning author of White Heat and The Blues Don’t Care

  “A fitting finale to Conway and Zafiro’s series of incisive police procedurals, Code Four pulls you in from the first page. It is both timely and terrifying in its portrayal of police brutality and corruption.” —Richie Narvaez, author of Noiryorican

  “Code Four is a hard-hitting, complex, and unsettling read.” —Cynthia Kuhn, author of the Agatha Award-winning Lila Maclean Academic Mysteries

  “Code Four is a book about cops, written by two former cops who know all about that job. It’s a book about crime and criminals, violence and the system, written by two former cops who know all about those things too. The result is a great read, full of unquestioned authenticity. The writing is seamless, tight, tense and clean. The characters are so well developed you swear you know them. Like the book title, Zafiro and Conway have everything under control and they’re in charge of the situation.” —Jim J. Wilsky, author of Sort ’Em Out Later

  “This terrific police procedural explores what lies beneath the surface. An intriguing wrap-up to a suspenseful series.” —John Shepphird, Shamus Award-winning author

  Copyright © 2020 by Colin Conway and Frank Zafiro

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by Zach McCain

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Code Four

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by the Author

  Preview from Deep Red Cover by Joel W. Barrows

  Preview from The Better of the Bad by J.J. Hensley

  Preview from Madness of the Q by Gray Basnight

  This one is for Brad Hallock, the man responsible for our friendship.

  Code Four: a radio code issued by police officers to indicate everything is under control and officers are now in charge of the situation they were dispatched to.

  Night

  There was no moon out.

  Not that it mattered in this neighborhood.

  At the west end of the block sat a McDonald’s, its interior dark and quiet. A couple of hours had passed since the last burger was sold for the evening. A rusty pickup remained in the parking lot, but no employee was inside the building. Overhead lights encircled the property and bathed it in a bright, sickly white.

  Across the street to the south was a vacant lot. Standing in the middle of the property, a real estate skid sign leaned from a broken support. Had it been in another neighborhood, this land might have been dark. However, the McDonald’s provided enough illumination for two parcels.

  The Burger King immediately next door furnished even more light. Newly constructed with modern finishes and updated logos, the establishment proudly announced its presence with brightly illuminated signs and even more energy-efficient parking lot lights than its competitor.

  It didn’t matter that both fast-food restaurants were on Division Street, the most heavily trafficked corridor and busiest retail strip in Spokane, Washington. It also didn’t matter that both restaurants were now closed, and the gleaming parking l
ights were only to deter criminal activity and promote public safety.

  What really mattered was that there was no physical barrier from the rear of either establishment before the start of the nearby neighborhood filled with post-World War II houses. A row of trees at full bloom would have been a welcome relief to the residents of the small, mostly rental homes. Much like the light pollution, the trees were probably an afterthought. Which meant that the nearby tiny houses with postage-stamp yards were lit up every night almost as severely as a prison yard.

  Almost, but not quite.

  At least, that’s what Tyler Garrett supposed.

  Even though he’d been a police officer for more than a decade, he had never been inside a prison. Not that this was any kind of anomaly, since most cops had never seen the inside of a prison. For that fact, most had never been inside a local jail. Oh, they would have seen the booking area, of course, and probably even the in-processing station, but that was about as far as most officers would take any curiosity into the correctional system.

  Garrett, however, had actually seen the inside of a jail cell. He’d been in there after he was in-processed, escorted to a cell, the lock was secured, and a jailer walked away. It had occurred a couple of years ago, but that was in the rearview mirror now. And if he was honest with himself, which he was nothing but these days, it wasn’t as bad as everyone made it out to be.

  The jailers couldn’t get inside his head any more than others outside those concrete walls could. If that was the case—if his mind could remain his own—then he was free to be himself. A game was still a game and the pieces had to be moved.

  Who cared where the board was?

  Garrett checked his watch to find that it was shortly after two. He needed to get some sleep soon or tomorrow’s shift would be a bitch. For almost an hour now, he’d sat off the little tan house, the one directly behind the vacant lot, the one awash in light from both the McDonald’s and the Burger King. This was the last known residence of Veryl Wooley.

  Veryl.

  It was a redneck name, for sure, but the man had been a good earner. Smart and loyal, too. At least, that was what Earl Ellis had told him. Garrett never had direct contact with Wooley, so he had to go with Earl’s feedback.

  It had been a few days that he’d sought the man. Garrett knew where he lived and what he drove. Well, where he supposedly lived and what he supposedly drove. Garrett observed this house at various times and never saw a 2012 Mazda 3 in front. The little house didn’t have a driveway and, therefore, didn’t have a garage.

  Perhaps Wooley had moved. Maybe he was staying with a girlfriend. Or he could have taken a trip to see a family member. Hell, his car might be in the shop. There was an endless list of reasons for the car to not be there. The same could be said for Veryl Wooley.

  Garrett could give himself a headache thinking about the reasons.

  Hunting Wooley might be a fool’s errand. That didn’t panic him, though. Besides, why should he worry? He knew what risks faced him now and he’d done his best to contain them. He minimized those few he couldn’t control by compartmentalizing them—they couldn’t hurt him if they couldn’t get close to him. Therefore, worrying now was a waste of energy and imagination. His energy. His imagination.

  The only thing that truly bothered him at that moment was getting enough sleep. The new day shift assignment was a crimp in his lifestyle. It wouldn’t stop him from doing what needed to be done, but it still sucked.

  With a resigned sigh, Garrett reached for the ignition switch. He felt its tension against his gloved fingers as it waited for the opportunity to fire the engine to life. In mid-turn, he froze, stopping before the engine could alert anyone of his presence. His fingers now returned the ignition switch to its resting place.

  The front door to the little tan house had opened. Even though no light came from inside the house, nor a porch light, the figure who emerged was illuminated by the neighboring parking lot lights.

  A short, skinny white man now stood on the concrete steps of the tan house.

  Even from this distance, Garrett was sure it was him—Veryl Wooley. He’d seen his booking photo on the department’s computers.

  Wooley wore loose-fitting jeans, an over-sized shirt, and a baseball cap turned backwards. He glanced up and down Heroy Avenue once, then twice. He reached back and pulled the door closed before looking down the block again. Satisfied he was alone, the man bounded down the stairs. He held his unbelted jeans around his waist as he did so.

  “Shit,” Garrett muttered.

  Wooley either didn’t have the Mazda anymore or it was parked elsewhere. Once on the sidewalk, he headed west toward Division Street. It was too late to catch a bus—they stopped operating shortly before midnight—so either he was going to the nearby convenience store or he was meeting someone.

  If Veryl decided to bolt across the busy arterial, there was no way for Garrett to cross the concrete median in his car. He would lose the man as well as alert him that he was being followed. It was a sucker’s play to do that.

  Garrett slipped out of his car. His hand touched the gun holstered in the small of his back to ensure it was secured. He wore a long-sleeved black T-shirt, black jeans, and ankle-high black patrol boots.

  At Division Street, Wooley paused for the three lanes of northbound traffic. Even at this hour, the flow was sporadic enough with the late-night bar crowd heading home to make caution worthwhile. Wooley took an unnecessary look north to ensure no traffic was heading the wrong way then stole another glance south. Something in that second glance must have caught his eye because he looked back from where he came.

  Garrett was only a few feet away when Wooley’s eyes widened, and he stepped into the road.

  A northbound Mustang slammed on its brakes and skidded. Its squealing tires sounded extremely loud at this late hour. The Ford’s horn pierced the night.

  “Stop!” Garrett yelled. It was a foolish command, especially since he wasn’t in uniform.

  Veryl Wooley sprinted across the northbound lanes of Division Street over the concrete median then the southbound lanes. Garrett was on his heels, albeit a bit slower as he heeded caution to avoid oncoming cars.

  Maybe it was instinctual or maybe that’s where he had planned to go all along, but once Wooley made it to the safety of the well-illuminated Office Depot parking lot, he turned north and ran toward the gas station at the corner.

  Garrett sprinted after him. He was faster than his quarry. Some of this was physics since he was a bigger and stronger man. Some of this had to be training, since Wooley was not the type to have spent any time in or around a gym.

  As he neared the man, Garrett yelled, “Veryl!”

  Hearing his name, Wooley glanced over his shoulder and saw Garrett within arm’s reach. The man panicked and turned deeper into the parking lot, forsaking the convenience store.

  This move surprised Garrett and when he planted his foot to turn, it slipped out from underneath him. He slammed to the asphalt. He grunted as his shoulder and hip hit the ground at the same time. Without hesitation, he scrambled back to his feet and ran.

  When Wooley made it to the darkened alley behind the office supply store, he turned southbound. A neighborhood abutted the corridor.

  Garrett leaned forward and pushed himself harder. The rubber soles of his boots slapped the asphalt. When he entered the rocky, uneven terrain of the backstreet, the rhythmic slap of his soles changed to a crunching beat.

  The short stretch of alley was dark but in the distance was light from the next road several hundred feet away. He couldn’t remember the street’s name, but—

  Garrett suddenly slowed. Where did Wooley go?

  The alley was empty and there was no way that the shorter man could have run the entire length of the shopping center to turn back into the front of parking lot. Garrett’s trot slowed to a walk. Blood pounded in his ears as he inhaled deeply through his nose. He held the breath for several seconds before pushing it out in a long,
slow exhale.

  Did he jump a fence into a nearby yard?

  That’s what I would have done.

  But Wooley hadn’t done anything Garrett might have considered.

  First, Tyler Garrett would never have left the safety of the lit Office Depot parking lot.

  Second, he would have continued toward the sanctuary of the convenience store where there was more than likely an employee working. That meant a witness.

  Third, he would have stayed at the lit intersection where the heavy traffic would have provided additional witnesses.

  But Garrett had to give the man credit for something. Against all the things Garrett wouldn’t had done, Veryl Wooley unexpectedly broke left toward the darkened alley and got away.

  So where will he go now? Home?

  That seemed the natural play. It might take some time, but he would eventually go there.

  Garrett turned around to head back the way he came and suddenly stopped. It was hard to place over the traffic sounds on the nearby arterial and the blood still pulsating in his ears, but he thought he’d heard something.

  His eyes strained to see in the low light. Trash cans lined the length of fence that separated the houses from the alley.