by Colin Conway
It looked like he had been in a car collision while not wearing a seat belt.
Royal really did a number on him. Might have to give him a bonus.
When Cardwell started to sit, Garrett moved toward the deck railing. This caused the man to pause mid-squat with his eyes firmly on Garrett. Even though he was physically uncomfortable, Cardwell had remained standing out of politeness.
Garrett stared into the backyard where he used to play with Jake and Molly, where he had invited his department buddies over for beers, and where he once made love to Angie under the stars. Now, it looked different somehow. Almost like a stranger’s yard.
He fought back a smile as Cardwell straightened. The man had decided to wait on sitting.
“Angie and I appreciate you looking into this.”
The lisp sounded ridiculous. It was probably only temporary from the cut lips and broken teeth, but Garrett hoped it was permanent. He couldn’t see Angie dating an older white guy with a lisp.
Tyler Garrett nodded at Cardwell’s comment, but continued looking into his former yard.
Why was she with this jerk off? Was it because he had money?
Garrett had money when he was with her. She didn’t know about it because he wanted to keep her safe from his other life. If he told her about the money, would she still be with him?
“Guy did a real number on me,” Cardwell said. He sat now, politeness be damned.
That irked Garrett, truth be told.
Just for that, he should turn to the man and tell him about fucking Angie in the middle of this same backyard. He could explain how he clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle her catlike moans because he feared the neighbors might hear. He could share how they giggled like teenagers afterwards as if they had just gotten away with something naughty. Then Garrett wondered if it would bother Cardwell to know that about his new girlfriend—his ex-wife.
The way Cardwell looked expectantly up to him, he doubted it.
Garrett moved his neck to the side and popped it. The man would probably be one of those understanding types. The kind of guy who would say the woman had a life before him and none of it mattered now. Weak mother—
“Is there anything you need…?”
“Need?” Garrett asked. “From you?”
Cardwell seemed taken aback. “Like the phone number of the guy who set the meeting?”
“You already reported it.”
Besides, Garrett had broken that burner phone and thrown it into the trash. That number was about as worthless as Cardwell had been in his fight.
“Right,” the white man said. “So you read the report?”
“I did. As I told Angie, I’m not sure what I can do, but I’ll ask around.”
“Who will you ask?”
Garrett leaned an elbow on the deck railing. “Excuse me?”
“I didn’t mean any offense. I was only—”
“I’ll ask lowlifes and mopes. Who do you think I’ll ask? I doubt they’re people you know.”
Cardwell looked chastised and he turned away. Garrett glanced toward the sliding glass window and realized Cardwell was examining their reflections.
“Listen,” Garrett said, “this is weird.”
“Weird?”
“You’re seeing my wife.”
“Oh, hell. I thought you two were divorced.”
Garrett sniffed. “We are. Force of habit. Still weird seeing someone new in my house. Thinking about you in my bed.”
Cardwell’s complexion, the parts that weren’t bruised or broken, blanched. Garrett thought the man might vomit. “I didn’t think of it that way,” he said.
“It’s fine,” Garrett muttered, even though he didn’t mean it. He pushed off the railing and moved toward the door. “I’ll ask around.”
“Angie said,” Cardwell blurted, but he never finished his thought.
“Said what?”
“She said I should get a gun.”
Garrett shook his head. “Don’t get a gun,” he said as if talking to a small child.
“But you have one, right?”
“Sure.”
“You carry it with you?”
“All the time.” He reached behind his back to touch the gun tucked into the back of his pants. He didn’t pull it out, though. Cardwell seemed scared enough just by the motion.
“But I…I shouldn’t get one?” he asked.
Garrett asked, “Can you fight?” but he knew the answer.
Cardwell pointed up to his face. “This is why I want the gun.”
“So, someone comes up to you, threatens you, and you pull out the gun. They’ll take it away from you unless you can fight. Then you get killed with your own gun.”
Cardwell looked away.
“I’m not trying to make light of what you went through. I’m trying to help you survive.”
The white man rubbed his hands together.
“Be smart. Don’t do things that will get your ass beat.”
Cardwell turned back to Garrett. “What did I do to deserve this?”
“I don’t know, man. Maybe do some soul searching. Figure out who you might have pissed off.”
“But I didn’t piss off anybody.”
“I don’t know,” Garrett said with a wave of his hand. “Maybe it was karma.”
“Karma?”
He shrugged. “Maybe you’re paying the price for something you did in a previous life.”
“Oh, man,” Cardwell said. He bowed his head and stared at the deck floorboards. “I hope not.”
Garrett frowned. Seriously? What the hell did Angie see in this guy?
He left him then and stepped into the house. He slid the glass door closed, not bothering to see if Cardwell followed him.
Garrett hugged his kids and kissed them goodbye. Jake mumbled something he didn’t understand. He was too distracted to find out what he wanted.
Angie’s eyes were on the white man sitting alone on the deck and not him.
That pissed Garrett off.
Jake pulled at his dad’s hand.
I should have fucked Cardwell up worse. We should have had this conversation in the goddamn hospital.
Jake mumbled something again.
“See you around,” Garrett muttered to his ex-wife, but she didn’t turn to look at him. He headed toward the door as his son stood silently watching.
Angie absently hollered “thank you” as he stepped through the front door, but she didn’t bother to follow him outside and ask what was wrong.
That bothered him.
The whole thing bothered him.
And it fucking pissed him off.
Chapter 32
The first two things that Wardell Clint noticed about the Liberty Lake Police Department headquarters was that it was much smaller than Spokane’s, and much nicer. He supposed that held true as a metaphor for the department itself.
The building was new and modern, but decorated to evoke the quiet, small town charm that had long been the brand of the bedroom community. Many of its citizens commuted to Spokane daily, causing a miniature rush hour that turned the ten-minute drive on Interstate 90 into a thirty-minute trek.
Clint had interacted with Liberty Lake PD on several occasions but had never been to its headquarters. As he walked in, he noticed that there was no security station. He realized that was because the police station stood alone, away from the rest of the criminal justice campus, which included municipal courtrooms and a small detention center. Any felony arrests were booked into the county jail and the cases were adjudicated in Spokane Superior Court.
At the front desk, he was greeted by a familiar face. Officer Jerry Anderson was a former SPD officer who had lateraled to Liberty Lake. Clint had always liked the heavyset officer, considering him a good cop. He reminded Clint of Marty Hill, both in friendliness and competence. Sometimes cops lateraled away from a bigger city because they couldn’t handle it, but in Anderson’s case, it seemed that the man’s laid-back nature was a perfect fi
t for the style of policing a community like Liberty Lake expected.
Anderson looked surprised to see him. His surprise melted into a smile, but that expression shortened into a slight scowl. Clint knew why there was a run of emotions.
“Hello, Jerry,” he said.
“How’re you doing, Wardell?” Anderson’s tone wasn’t warm but remained polite.
“I’m still at it,” Clint replied. “They’ve got you working the front desk now?”
Anderson lifted his left arm. He wore a brace encompassing his hand and forearm. “Light duty, until this heals.”
“What happened?”
Anderson smiled slightly. “I punched a guy.”
Clint raised his eyebrows. “Why? Did he cut in front of you in the buffet line?”
Anderson chuckled. “Nice one.” He patted his belly. “I was down fifteen pounds before this happened. Sitting here on my ass all day, I packed it right back on.”
Clint didn’t respond, waiting for the story he knew was coming. Every cop he knew loved to tell tall tales. He expected Anderson wouldn’t brag, though. He didn’t need to. Despite his appearance, Anderson was as strong as a bear. Clint had seen him in action on two occasions and had been impressed.
Anderson surprised him, neglecting the opportunity to jump into a war story. “I hit him in the forehead,” was all he said. “Broke my hand. Good thing it wasn’t my gun hand, or I’d be sitting at home on medical leave.”
“The pay’s the same.”
“I’d go crazy sitting around doing nothing. Anyway, why are you here, Wardell?” The slight suspicion had returned to his eyes.
“I need to see Detective Rogers.”
Anderson looked at him. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“He doesn’t like you.”
“No one likes me.” Clint spread his hands. “Otherwise they wouldn’t call me names behind my back, right?”
Anderson looked conflicted. Then he said, “I think he’s still mad at the way you stepped on his homicide scene.”
“That was two years ago.”
“He holds a grudge.” Anderson was quiet for a moment. Then he added, “I was a little mad at you, too, if you want the truth.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it. Jerry Anderson was a good guy and a solid cop, and Clint’s actions that day had taken advantage of both of those traits.
“I believe you,” Anderson said. “I thought a lot about it after you lied to me. Eventually, I decided you were just upset. It was one of your friends who was shot, right?”
Clint blinked. Butch Talbott was the furthest thing from a friend of his, even before he discovered the detective was dirty.
“Anyway,” Anderson finished, “I tried not to take it personally.”
Clint nodded. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.
“I know,” Anderson said. He stood up, affixing a Be Right Back magnet to the front of the desk. “Come on. I’ll take you back to him. I think he’s in-house.”
Clint followed. He doubted Detective Alan Rogers left the comfy confines of his desk chair for much besides lunch or a manicure, but he kept his opinion to himself.
Anderson used his ID card to lead him through two sets of doors and into a typical office area. The furniture and computer equipment looked newer than Clint was used to, but everything else seemed familiar.
“His desk is in the small office there, next to the sergeant’s.” Anderson pointed.
“Thank you,” Clint said.
“You want me to hang out for a few minutes?”
“Why?”
Anderson shrugged. “I dunno. Just in case. Or to walk you back.”
Clint shook his head. “It’ll be fine.”
He walked toward the small office. The door stood open, so Clint didn’t bother knocking. Rogers spotted him as he entered and hurriedly shut down the window he was looking at on his computer screen. The glimpse Clint caught looked to him like YouTube.
“What do you want?” Rogers asked, masking his surprise with a sneer.
“I want to talk about the Butch Talbott homicide.”
“Why? You didn’t finish stomping all over my case last time you were here?”
Clint clenched his jaw. With an effort, he said, “That was unfortunate. It shouldn’t have happened.”
Rogers sat back in mock astonishment. “Well, will you look at that? The mythical Honey Badger is apologizing to little old me? Who’da thunk it?”
Clint ignored the jibe. “Your case is still open, correct?”
“Homicides always remain open until solved. You know that.”
“And you haven’t solved it?”
Rogers narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. It’s a question.”
Rogers continued to stare at him, as if looking for additional meaning. Then he said, “No, I haven’t solved it yet. I can’t even say for sure it’s a murder. It could be justifiable homicide.”
“Because the shooter acted in self-defense.”
“May have,” Rogers corrected. “If you believe all the witnesses.”
“Why would they lie?”
“Why does anyone?” Rogers leaned forward. “I won’t know for sure until I can identify the mysterious black male everyone saw but nobody knew.”
“No movement on that front?”
“Not yet. I have a theory. You wouldn’t like it, though.”
“What’s your theory?”
“No.” Rogers shook his head. “First, you tell me why you’re here.”
Clint let it go and moved on to his request. “I’m interested in the bullets from your scene.”
“Which ones?”
“The ones fired by your mystery man.”
“Why?”
“I’m wondering if they might match up to a different case. One of ours.”
Rogers leaned forward further, his interest piqued. “Which case?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Clint said. “Unless the bullets match.”
“Typical SPD,” Rogers groused. “Wanting info but not willing to share.”
“I’ve got no problem sharing if we get a match.”
“You’ve got the gun in your case? Because I don’t.”
“I know. Neither do we.”
Rogers sat back, disappointed. “No gun to match the bullet to? Then why bother?”
Clint stared at him in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No.” Rogers looked slightly unsure of himself. “Matching a bullet to a gun is the point of examining both, right? If you only have one—”
“You stupid son of a bitch,” growled Clint.
“What did you call me?”
“Unbelievable. You didn’t submit the bullet to the lab, did you?”
Rogers’s face turned red in anger. “You can’t talk to me like that. This is my office.”
“Just answer the question—did you send it in?” Clint asked.
“No,” Rogers admitted. “Why would I?”
“They can match bullets, too,” Clint told him. “Bullet to bullet.”
“What?” Rogers suddenly looked confused, his anger faltering.
“A bullet is like a fingerprint. They can match one bullet to another just like they can match one fingerprint to another. You don’t need the gun for a bullet to match another bullet any more than you need the person for two fingerprints to match.” He shook his head in disgust. “How do you not know this?”
“I…I do,” Rogers stammered. Clint couldn’t be sure if he was telling the truth or not. “I just didn’t see the benefit.”
“You didn’t see the benefit of finding out if the same gun was used in another crime somewhere else? You didn’t imagine how that match might lead you to the shooter in your own case?” Clint narrowed his eyes, peering closely at Rogers. “How many homicides have you worked, Alan?”
“This was my second,” Rogers whispered.
&nb
sp; “A police officer is killed, and you get the case? Your second? Where the hell was the state patrol investigator on this one?”
Rogers cleared his throat. “The state was deferring to the local jurisdiction on their assist cases. Their new chief didn’t want them taking over.”
“They should have taken this one.”
Rogers seemed to recover from his shock. “All right, you made your point. I’ll submit the bullet to the lab.”
“Give it me,” Clint said. “I’ll walk it over for you right now.”
“It’s my case. I’ll do it.”
“Today,” Clint said forcefully.
Rogers scowled. “Yes, today.”
Clint pointed a finger. “You better call in whatever favors you’ve got stacked up over there to get it moved up to the front of the line, too. A police officer was killed, and he deserves better than some goddamn strip mall detective working on his behalf.”
“That’s enough!” Rogers stood up. “I don’t know who you think you are, coming into my police department, and yelling at me in my office, but—”
“I’m a working detective,” Clint snapped, cutting him off. “Something you wouldn’t know anything about.”
“Get out!” Rogers pointed at the door. “I’ve had enough of your holier-than-thou shit. Leave!”
Clint weighed the value in staying longer and decided it wasn’t worth it. He’d made Rogers angry enough to want him to leave, and that was enough. If he pushed him any further, he might drag his feet on submitting the bullet.
He turned sharply without another word and walked out of the office. Officer Jerry Anderson was still standing where he’d seen him last, rooted to the spot with a look of disbelief and disappointment plastered on his face.
“I’m ready to go,” he said.
Anderson hesitated a moment, then got his bearings. “Okay,” he said, and led Clint out of the secure area. When they were past the last door, Anderson turned to Clint. “Why do you always have to make things so difficult, Wardell?”
“I don’t make things difficult,” Clint said. “They manage to be difficult all on their own.”
“No,” Anderson said quietly. “They don’t.”
Clint stuck out his hand. “Thank you, Jerry.”
