by Colin Conway
He let out a long slow sigh and relaxed the fists he had balled.
Cardwell was a real estate agent who lived in the wealthy South Hill neighborhood. Garrett knew a fair amount about him now. He’d done some homework after running the Audi’s license plate through Department of Licensing.
He wasn’t supposed to use the system for personal things like that. But how would anyone know, really? He ran license plates all the times in a search for stolen vehicles. Then he would run the names of the registered owners in a search for warrants. He had plausible deniability if anyone ever asked why he ran the name of William Jefferson Cardwell.
Garrett slipped out of his car then quietly closed the door. As he walked toward the house, his house, he pulled a knife from his pocket and flicked it open. The weight in his hand felt good.
At the rear of the Audi, he bent and stopped. He flipped the knife over, raised it for a strike into the side of the tire, and suddenly paused.
What the hell am I doing?
He froze like that for a minute as he considered what he was about to do. Then he straightened and closed the knife. He turned around and walked back toward his car.
Tyler Garrett wasn’t the type of guy to slash a tire to get an ounce of retribution. He wouldn’t do that, especially if it meant alerting someone that they had made an enemy. No, it was better to let a sleeping dog lie.
For a while, at least.
He quietly got back into his car, started the engine, and drove away. His anger began to dissipate.
Soon enough, he’d come up with something special for William Jefferson Cardwell. That’s when he’d get his pound of flesh.
A pound was better than an ounce.
That’s the type of guy Tyler Garrett was.
TUESDAY
The truth is rarely pure and never simple.
—Oscar Wilde, playwright and poet
Chapter 15
Captain Dana Hatcher’s hands wrapped around her cup of coffee. She stared into the black as if it contained some secret.
Édelie Durand watched the captain struggle with her thoughts.
They were seated at Indaba Coffee in Kendall Yards. The shop was walking distance from the department. They made small talk—the weather, mostly—until they arrived and ordered their drinks. An espresso for Durand. Plain drip coffee for the captain.
Durand wanted to talk away from the station. She thought a change of venue might loosen Hatcher’s tongue, especially if she wasn’t being constantly reminded of her duty as a captain.
The conversation started easy enough. When asked what she thought of the department and its officers, Hatcher defaulted to the expected position of support. Good men and women doing a hard job, the captain had said. She then built a house of platitudes around that central base.
When Durand asked what she thought about Chief Baumgartner’s leadership, Hatcher mumbled, “It’s fine,” and clammed up to stare into her coffee.
That’s how they’d been for the last several moments.
“It’s okay, Dana,” Durand said. “We’re only talking.”
“Talking,” Hatcher muttered. She lifted her eyes. “You know who you should talk to?”
“Who’s that?”
“Maggie Patterson.”
“Maggie?”
“Margaret. She’s a councilwoman. She’ll give you an earful about the chief. I have her number, if you want it.”
“All right, but I want to hear what you have to say.”
Hatcher turned to look out the window.
“Let’s do it this way,” Durand said. “We’re really interested in a few key incidents. Namely, the murders of Officer Gary Stone and Detective Talbott.” She had the captain’s attention now. “We’d also like to discuss the shooting of Todd Trotter by Officer Tyler Garrett.”
Hatcher slowly put her coffee down. She then crossed her arms.
Mirroring Hatcher’s body position, Durand crossed her own arms. “There was also a shooting that Officer Ray Zielinski was involved in that—”
“Ray didn’t shoot anyone,” Hatcher interrupted.
It was an interesting reaction, Durand thought. Up until then, she had been aloof in the conversation, but the mention of Zielinski brought a quick response.
“Why do you think that was?” Durand asked.
The captain tightly pursed her lips. She probably realized she’d answered too quickly about Zielinski.
Durand wondered if there was some sort of relationship between them. Confidantes? Friends maybe? Perhaps lovers? None of that mattered unless it came to violating policies and laws to protect one another.
Finally, Captain Hatcher said, “Ray’s a professional.”
Durand accepted the answer for now. It wasn’t worth digging any deeper on, but she made a mental note to look for any connections between Hatcher and Zielinski in the reports they were reviewing.
“Were you involved with the ambush of Officer Tyler Garrett?”
Hatcher cocked her head.
Durand smiled apologetically. “Poor phrasing. Were you involved with the investigation of the ambush that led to the shooting of Todd Trotter by Officer Garrett?”
“No.”
“Do you have any thoughts on why the department has still not found those involved with the ambush?”
Hatcher’s brow furrowed.
“You didn’t realize it was still an open question, did you?”
“I didn’t.”
“It seems a number of people have forgotten about it. You would think Chief Baumgartner would want an answer to that question.”
Hatcher’s furrow deepened. “He should. Yeah.”
“And Captain Farrell. He’s the head of Investigations. Shouldn’t he want his team investigating who was responsible for the ambush?”
Hatcher began to slowly nod, and she relaxed her arms. Throwing Farrell into the mix seemed to make her happy. Casually, Durand mirrored her action.
“But why wouldn’t you be upset about the unsolved mystery as to the shooters?”
“I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t know?”
“I mean I wasn’t involved in the initial investigation. I thought it was being looked after.”
It seemed a reasonable answer, but Hatcher slowly lowered her eyes as she was lost in thought.
“What is it, Dana?”
“Garrett.”
“What about him?”
“You’d think he would make some noise about this. I mean, I’d want to know who shot at me and why.”
“Huh.” That was something Durand hadn’t considered. “Why do you think that is?”
The captain shrugged. “Probably some macho SWAT bullshit.”
“As in a typical testosterone reaction. Rub some dirt on it and everything will get better?”
Hatcher chuckled. “That sounds about right.”
Durand’s eyes flicked to the silver bars on Hatcher’s collar. “How many female captains are on the department?”
“I’m the only one.”
“And lieutenants? How many are female?”
Hatcher’s eyes narrowed. She paused before answering. “None.”
“What about sergeants?”
“Where is this going?”
“I’m just making conversation. I can get this data elsewhere if you don’t want to—”
“Three. There are three sergeants.”
“Three. So, four women in leadership positions in a department of three hundred plus officers.”
Hatcher crossed her arms again. “What are you saying?”
Durand shook her head. “I’m not saying anything.”
“Yeah, you are. You’re saying something. You’re just not being direct about it.”
“A direct question, then. Do you like the way the department is run?”
“It’s fine,” she snapped. “I already said that.”
“Okay. Let’s talk about Gary Stone’s murder.”
“No,” Hatcher said. Her
face was reddening.
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to.”
“I can’t compel you.”
“That’s why I said no.”
“Dana, I’m sorry if I upset you. This was supposed to be a friendly conversation.”
“A visit by Justice is never friendly.”
Durand nodded in understanding. “Sort of like when the police show up. The law says you have a right to not be afraid. But when a cop has a badge, a gun, a nightstick, and some handcuffs, that’s a lot of intimidating tools for you not to be concerned with.”
The captain remained quiet.
“So what about Gary Stone upsets you?”
She looked out the window.
“Was it the actual murder?”
Hatcher slowly shook her head but continued watching something outside. Her voice was soft when she eventually said, “It shouldn’t have happened, but it happens.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s stupid,” the captain said. “Besides, it’s nothing that matters for what you’re doing.”
“Why don’t you let me decide that?”
Hatcher faced Durand. “I’ve used that on suspects before.”
“I don’t consider you a suspect.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because something stinks. We’ve smelled it all the way across the country. Spokane popped up on the radar a couple years ago with all the press the police department got. It’s basically been on the radar that whole time. Maybe there’s something. Maybe there’s nothing. We could be all wrong. If that’s what it is, then great. All we did was come out and have a few conversations. But maybe what we smelled was a piece of rotting fruit. And we need to get rid of it before it spoils the whole barrel.”
“You don’t think the whole barrel is already rotten?”
“Do you?” Durand asked.
“No.”
“If that’s the case, why don’t you tell me what bothers you about Stone’s murder?”
With a single finger, Hatcher tapped the edge of the table. “It’s not the murder. It’s how Stone got there.”
“To the site of the murder?”
“No, to the team. ACT. The Anti-Crime Team.” She sighed. “This is going to sound petty.”
Durand shrugged. “I’m sure I’ve heard worse.”
“The team idea?” Hatcher tapped her chest. “It was mine.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And Tom Farrell stole it.”
“He stole it?”
“That’s right. He fucking stole it. With Baumgartner’s blessing, I might add. Then he put people on it who had no business being there.”
“Stone, you mean?”
“And Jun Yang. For Christ’s sake, she was still on probation. Who thinks that’s a smart idea?”
“Why would he do that? Put a rookie on a team?”
She blurted, “Because he’s an idiot.”
Durand raised her eyebrows.
“I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Durand assured her. “It won’t go into any report.”
Hatcher rested both of her hands on the table and nodded. “I appreciate that. That was uncalled for. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s okay, Dana. Really. What was it about Stone, though? He wasn’t a rookie, so what reason was there to keep him off the team?”
“He wasn’t street ready. Ask Garrett or Zielinski. I’m sure they’ll confirm it.”
“And Yang? What will she say?”
“Who knows? She quit after Stone’s death.”
Durand sat back and inhaled deeply. “So what I’m hearing is this. Captain Farrell stole your idea for a directed enforcement unit and staffed it with a couple officers who had no business being on such a team. Basically, he endangered the lives of two officers.”
Hatcher’s eyes widened. “Shit. When you put it that way—”
“I didn’t put it that way, Dana. You did.”
Captain Dana Hatcher wrapped her hands around her cup of coffee and pulled it into her chest. She then stared into the remaining black liquid and searched for an answer.
Finally, she muttered, “Yeah, I guess I did put it that way, didn’t I?”
Chapter 16
Wardell Clint paused at the front door of the small house, listening. Inside, the drone of a television provided the baseline of sound, almost overwhelming the two voices he heard. One was distinctly female. The other was less identifiable, but he believed he knew who it was.
Veryl Wooley.
Wooley was a street-level drug dealer. As a homicide detective, the only time Clint would normally be interested in someone like him was if he was a witness, victim, or suspect in a murder. But Wooley was different. During his surveillance of Earl Ellis before the man disappeared, Clint had observed the two men exchange what he believed were money and drugs on several occasions. Since he knew Earl Ellis was Garrett’s second-in-command, his interest in Veryl Wooley spiked accordingly.
He’d never once spoken to Wooley, so he couldn’t tell if the second voice belonged to the skinny white man or not. But despite not having personal contact yet, Clint knew a lot about the man. His multiple drug arrests for possession with intent to deliver told the simple story of his role within Garrett’s little cartel.
So far, Wooley had managed to avoid prison, though Clint was convinced that it wasn’t necessarily because of any criminal skill, but rather the purposeful ineptitude of the criminal justice system itself. Some of his arrests went uncharged. Others were dropped without explanation in the official record. He only had two convictions. The first was pleaded down to mere possession. Wooley was sentenced to seventeen days in jail, which was coincidentally the time he’d already served awaiting trial before the plea agreement. The second charge was supposed to be vacated by drug court but remained open. Clint assumed that meant Wooley had agreed to treatment of some sort. Like so many instances he was aware of, it seemed likely that the arrangement had failed.
Failed for Wooley. Not for him, though. For Clint, it provided a nice lever, one he intended to use, even as a bluff.
He listened a little longer, trying to make out the words in the conversation, but the television muddied the sound. Clint raised his hand and rapped on the door.
The voices stopped. He heard some shuffling inside, then the female’s voice. “Who is it?”
Clint knocked again. “Spokane Police Department!” he announced loudly. “Open the door.”
There was another silence, but no sound of movement. Clint had been prepared to take the door if he needed to, but it appeared that his quarry was going to go the route of hiding rather than fleeing.
The lock rattled and the door swung upon. A woman with dishwater blonde hair stood in front of him. She wore a man’s white sleeveless undershirt that was too tight, outlining her large breasts. “What’s wrong? I didn’t call the cops.”
“What’s your name?” Clint asked.
She hesitated.
Clint glanced down to the notebook in his left hand, though the action was more for show. He’d memorized his notes about her. “Are you Lori Moran?”
She folded her arms under her breasts and scowled at him. “If you already know, why are you asking?”
Clint slipped the notebook into his jacket pocket. He not only knew her name, but the name of the strip club where she worked. He wasn’t sure if she waited tables or worked on stage, but given what he’d seen thus far, he leaned toward the latter. She was carrying more than a few extra pounds, but still had a decent enough figure.
“I need to talk to Veryl,” he said.
“Veryl who?”
“Veryl Wooley,” Clint said.
“I don’t know anyone named Veryl.”
Clint gave her a flat look. “Then I suggest you ask the man who went into this house five minutes ago and who you don’t know is named Veryl Wooley to come to the door. Now.”
Mor
an was unfazed. “Don’t you need to show me your badge or something?”
Clint brushed his jacket aside, revealing the badge clipped to his belt.
“Fine,” she said. “Then I want to see a warrant. And I’m calling my lawyer.”
“I don’t need a warrant. But you may need a lawyer if you’re not careful.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“You’ve already lied to me in order to protect Veryl and keep me from talking to him. If you continue to hinder and delay my investigation, I’ll arrest you for obstruction. Then you’ll need a lawyer.”
Moran peered at him closely, as if trying to decipher his words. Clint didn’t know why—he’d been very clear.
The conversation lost its relevance when Clint saw a flash of movement behind Moran, headed toward the back slider door.
“Stop! Police!”
Wooley didn’t stop.
Clint shoved open the door and brushed past Moran in pursuit.
“Hey!” she yelled in surprise. “You can’t do that!”
Clint ignored her. He ran through the small living room, hurdling over the coffee table. Ahead of him, Wooley threw open the glass sliding door and fled across the small deck and into the backyard. As Clint approached the slider, a tawny shape leapt from the yard onto the deck, snarling furiously.
It took a half second for the image to register. When the pit bull let out a throaty bark, Clint skidded to a stop. The dog barked again. Its muscular frame tensed to leap forward. Clint reached out and grasped the door handle. As the pit bull launched itself at him, Clint slammed the door shut. The dog’s head struck the glass with a powerful thump. The blow didn’t seem to have any effect, as the animal continued snarling and barking. Saliva flew at the glass and was smeared as the dog tried to bite at him through the obstacle.
Clint looked up to see Wooley going over the fence and into the alley. He flicked the lock on the slider door and turned around.
Moran was looking at him, a cruel expression on her face. “He likes dark meat,” she said, her words dripping with contempt.
Clint ignored the barb. He hustled past her and out the front door. His mind whirred through possibilities and courses of action. He settled on returning to his car. Jumping in, he fired up the engine and sped up the block and around the corner.
