by Carolina Mac
Jesse shrugged. “What if Ward knew about you and Sienna and he hired a hitter. The hitter saw Sienna at the window and thought it was you?”
“You mean Ward Ingram tried to kill me?” Bartley was huffing out indignation.
“I’m not saying he did. I’m only speaking hypothetically and laying out possibilities. What might have happened.”
“Well, I didn’t do it. That’s the only thing I know for sure,” said Churchill. “In a way, I’m glad you know about Celia, it makes me feel unburdened.” He stood up and paced. “Even though I was in lust with another woman, I wouldn’t kill my wife for any reason. I loved Sienna. She was a good person and my best friend. We may have got around to a divorce at some point, but I’m not sure of that either. We were comfortable with each other.”
“But Celia wanted you to divorce Sienna?”
“Oh, yes she did. Ward was in big trouble financially, and Celia wanted out. She said creditors called constantly.”
“Why didn’t she leave him?”
Bartley shrugged. “I can’t answer that.”
“Did you offer her the townhouse?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Why not, if she needed a place to go?”
“I guess I didn’t want to complicate my life. The sex was good, but to me that’s all it was. I didn’t want to marry her.”
“Did you argue the point?”
“All the time. She was becoming tiresome.”
“Did you hint that you might end it and stay with your wife?”
Bartley nodded. “I might have said as much in the heat of an argument.”
Jesse turned off the recorder and stood up. “Thank you for your candor, Mr. Churchill.”
BLAINE dispatched the boys, each with a list, to begin checking out the sighting calls from Mary’s story in the Statesman. He planned to use the rest of the morning do in-depth research into the finances of Celia Stone and Ward Ingram. If one of them hired a hitter, the money had to come from somewhere. He poured a coffee to take into his office and his cell rang. Austin PD. Homicide. “Lieutenant Lopez, what can I do for you?”
THE BODY of Sergeant Ruth Brooks had been removed by the time Blaine and Farrell arrived in the evidence locker. Lopez had met them at the door and escorted them to the basement filling them in on what Austin homicide knew so far.
“Only a skeleton crew here when this went down,” said Lopez.
“And we know why, don’t we?” asked Blaine. “Because that’s the way Thompson planned it. Clear the track. Here I come.” Blaine clenched his fist and squelched the desire to pound something. “Did he sign in at the gate when he came in?”
“Uh huh,” said Lopez. “The only name on the clipboard.”
“And what was it?” asked Blaine. “I can’t wait to hear it.”
“P. Leighton.”
“Oh, Jesus, I better call Travis,” said Blaine.
“What would he want in an old file box?” asked Farrell. “Is there a record of what was in the box?”
“There has to be a list of what the box contained,” said Lopez. “Maybe in a computer file.”
“Or on microfiche,” said Blaine. He stared down at the floor and carefully stepped around the outline of Sergeant Brook’s body.
“Nobody has touched the box,” said Lopez. He pointed to it up on the shelf. Black marker on the front showed the case number and one word in block printing. THOMPSON. “No techs available and won’t be for a while. They’re all helping out at the bombings.”
“Uh huh.”
“How did Thompson kill Sgt. Brooks?” asked Farrell.
“Suffocated her with an evidence bag,” said Lopez.
“He emptied the evidence into something,” said Blaine. “He must have brought a bag or a briefcase or something with him.”
“Is there list of contents in the box?” asked Farrell. “We could figure out what he took.”
“I’ve got gloves,” said Blaine and pulled a pair out of his back pocket.
Lopez shrugged. “Okay, take it down.”
Blaine lifted the file box down from the shelf and carried it into the next room where there was an aluminum table and a couple of chairs set up for examining evidence. He removed the lid and there was a list of contents inside. He picked up the list by the corner and held it towards the overhead light.
“Only one thing missing,” said Blaine. “Bank insured cash in the amount of two million dollars.”
FARRELL hopped into the shotgun seat of Blacky’s truck in the Austin PD parking lot. “Why in hell would they leave two million bucks sitting in a box for years and years? That money was from one of his first robberies.”
“Can’t tell you,” said Blaine. “The bank must have got their money back from an insurance company or something. The list said insured money.”
“But Thompson didn’t forget about it,” said Farrell. “He probably thought about it every day he was in prison.”
“Gave him something to plan for if he ever got out.”
“And they let him out. What a fuckin disaster,” said Farrell. “Think we should double up on the DA?”
“Definitely. I’ll send in reinforcements for Travis. Get him on the line, bro and we’ll tell him what’s going down.”
Farrell scrolled to Travis’ number. “Hey, Trav, boss calling. I’ll put him on speaker.”
“Things are shaky here after the bombings,” said Travis. “We’re all a little nervous about what’s coming next.”
“Ask Mr. Leighton if he’d be open to moving to a safe-house with his wife for a few days. I’m thinking of sending Calhoun there too.”
“Okay, good idea. We’ll discuss it and I’ll get back to you.”
“Don’t tell the DA this, but Thompson signed himself into the evidence locker as P. Leighton.”
“Oh, shit,” said Travis. “We better move him soon.”
“I’m sending Lane to y’all.”
“Okay, we won’t leave the building until he gets here.”
Farrell ended the call and Blacky headed for home. “Do you want to call everybody in and regroup?”
“Yep, get them all back to the Agency and we’ll go over what they’ve got.”
“Lil might have another whole list by now,” said Farrell.
“We need one person who actually saw Thompson somewhere specific.”
“The junkers haven’t had any luck and they’ve been beating the bushes for hours.”
“Call them in too. We’ll have a beer and make a new plan.”
TRAVIS sat in Adele Simpkin’s office right outside the DA’s closed door talking to Farrell on his cell. When he ended the call, she raised an eyebrow and wanted to know what was going on.
“Blacky is sending another man from the Agency. We can’t leave the building until he gets here.”
“Why? Is something happening?”
“Maybe.”
“Please tell me,” said Miss Simpkins. “I won’t alarm Mr. Leighton unnecessarily.”
Travis took three steps closer to her desk and leaned a hand on the corner. “Thompson broke into the evidence locker and stole money—money left in evidence from one of his old robberies.”
“Yes. And tell me the rest of it.”
“He killed the officer on duty.”
“And…?”
“And… he signed in as P. Leighton.”
“Oh no.” Miss Simpkin’s hand flew to her mouth. “That’s an overt threat.”
“Boss wants me to push the idea of a safe-house for Mr. Leighton and his wife.”
“Absolutely.” Miss Simpkins was on her feet. “Let’s talk to him now. What’s the name of the deputy coming over? I’ll have to let reception know downstairs.”
“Lane Forget. Former Navy Seal.”
Miss Simkins smiled at Travis. “Aw, a compadre.”
Travis nodded.
She knocked on Leighton’s door and pushed it open.
Perry Leighton looked up from a case file he w
as reading and peered at the two of them over his silver-rimmed glasses. “Something, Adele?”
“Yes, sir, Major Bristol would like to speak to you about moving to a safe-house for a few days.”
Leighton frowned. “I don’t think anything that radical is necessary. Why now?”
“Thompson is ramping up, sir and Blacky feels the man is ready to make a move. Now would be the time to take added precautions.”
Leighton set his pen down and focused. “Blaine must have a reason. There isn’t a more logical thinker on the planet than Blaine Blackmore.”
“Uh huh, you’re right, he does have a reason.” Travis explained about the sign-in sheet.
“Might be just another threat,” said the DA, “but judging by the devastation he’s already caused in the city, his threats have to be taken seriously.”
A tap on the door behind them and Travis let Lane in and introduced him. “A new addition to the Agency staff,” said Travis, “former Navy Seal, Lane Forget.”
“A pleasure to meet you sir,” said Leighton, and shook Lane’s hand.
Miss Simpkins stepped in. “Shall I call Mrs. Leighton and have her pack for you, sir?”
“Lane will stay here,” said Travis, “and I’ll pick Mrs. Leighton up because she knows me.
The DA nodded his head. “Makes sense and I don’t want her frightened. I’m also thinking if something is about to happen, I don’t want her anywhere near me.”
“Okay,” said Travis, “I understand that thinking.”
“Take Mrs. Leighton to my place,” said Miss Simpkins. “I’ll write down the address.”
“Good idea, Adele. Why don’t you go now with Major Bristol to pick up Freda? I don’t want my wife upset. She hasn’t been well.”
BLAINE sat at the kitchen table with the boys going over the leads they’d been checking out all day, and the most promising ones seemed to be coming from the area around Austin-Bergstrom.
Pablo had covered that area and had interviewed at least three people that were convinced they had seen Ewing Thompson after seeing his picture on the front page of the paper. The three random people who’d sworn it was him all said the same thing—he had blond hair and wore a suit.
“Makes sense,” said Blaine. “He’s hiding in plain sight. Dyed his hair and he’s posing as a business man staying at one of the hotels near the airport. It’s perfect.”
“Could be,” said Farrell. “Nobody said he was stupid.”
“Grab a beer while Carm makes us a sandwich. I’ll print off a list of the hotels near the airport, we’ll round up the junkers and show Thompson’s picture at every hotel until we find out where he’s registered.”
ANNIE WATCHED the eleven o’clock news and wondered why she hadn’t received a phone call.
Maybe he’ll let me quit. I hope so.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Friday, the 13th.
ONE A.M. and Farrell still hadn’t found Taffy. She wasn’t on her regular corner and there was no sign of Kamps near any of the clubs. Farrell was dead on his feet and needed sleep.
Once more around the downtown area and he was calling it. Tomorrow would be another brutal day and he couldn’t function on zero sleep. He turned a corner and spotted a skinny girl down the block. High heels and a short, short skirt, long blonde hair. Could be her. He cruised alongside, slowed and lowered the passenger window.
“Get in, Taff,” he hollered.
She shook her head and started to run. Not an easy task in stilettos. Before she’d gone ten feet, she tripped and fell.
Farrell stopped the truck and got out to help her.
“Look what you made me do, you fuckin… cop.” She sobbed. “I can’t talk to you or I’ll be dead.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I know it.”
“What I want to ask you has nothing to do with Ewing Thompson,” said Farrell.
“What do you want?”
“Heard anything about a pro in town for a paid hit?”
“Why would I care about shit like that?”
“You’re in the information business, that’s why.”
“I’m out of that business now.” She leaned down and wiped the blood off her scraped knee. “My knee hurts, fucker. Get outta here and leave me alone.”
“See Kamps tonight?”
“Saw him once behind T n T doing business.”
“Thanks.” Farrell handed her a twenty. “Sorry about your knee.”
“I’m crippled for twenty lousy bucks?”
“Looks that way.” Farrell jumped in his truck and headed for the roadhouse, hoping to make it before they closed.
He parked in the lot out back and it wasn’t crowded close to closing time. No sign of Kamps. Inside the band was playing its last set and Lou Thompson was blasting out a Tom Petty cover. He seemed to favor those.
Farrell gazed around the dimly lit bar looking for Kamps and didn’t see him. He sat on a stool at the bar and ordered a Shiners.
One beer and I’m sacking out.
A couple minutes later a guy he’d talked to a couple times sat down on the stool next to him. “Hey, Sal.”
“Donovan.” Sal stared at him for a few seconds and said nothing. He was a little wobbly on his stool and was either drunk or high.
“Got something for me?”
“Maybe. How much you paying?”
“Fifty if it’s good.”
“What if it’s better than good?”
“Benjy.”
“Show me.”
Farrell opened his wallet and put a hundred on the bar.
Sal nodded and pointed to an empty booth near the door. Farrell picked up his beer and the money and followed. They sat, and Sal leaned in close. “Friday the thirteenth is gonna be unlucky.”
“For who?”
Sal looked up and saw someone coming towards their booth and ran out the door.
Farrell turned and nodded to Lou Thompson.
Why is Sal afraid of Lou?
EWING left the safety of his hotel suite at two a.m. and ventured out into the dark of the night. Most of the cops would be home sleeping. Especially the Latino kid. The kid was smart, or so he’d heard, but not nearly as smart as himself. He’d do what needed to be done and be on his way.
He called a cab from the lobby of the hotel and stood out front, smoking while he waited, his duffel at his feet. The March air was cool and pleasant, his suit jacket heavy enough against the slight breeze.
The cab pulled up and Ewing hopped in the back. “Airport, please.” His hotel was close to Austin-Bergstrom, so in a few minutes the cabbie dropped him off at the front entrance of the terminal.
Inside, he headed straight for the rental desks and Budget was the first one he came to. He showed the driver’s license with his new ID, chose a black Lexus, paid cash and he was on his way.
Not having driven for years, it took him a few minutes to get the feel of the car and ease into the stream of traffic. Being the middle of the night, not many cars were on the road.
Ewing turned on the radio and the Austin country station blasted out a Willie Nelson song. He smiled, feeling good about the night ahead. He lit up a smoke, took a big drag and relaxed into it. He cruised along looking for a place to stop and chose a strip mall all in darkness. All the stores were closed, the parking lot deserted. He stopped, put the shifter in park and reached into the duffel on the passenger seat. He took a few minutes preparing everything for his first stop.
Just a little warning call. I want you to know I’m coming for you.
Ten minutes later, he drove to a residential neighborhood. The street was quiet, all the houses dark. A few outside security lights burned brightly. Ewing parked on the street, jumped out of the car and ran across the lawn to the front window. He heaved the brick and the cocktail with all the force he could muster and laughed when the glass shattered, and the bomb exploded. He ran for the car, jumped in and took off.
One down.
AFTER the DA w
as escorted to the safe-house and his wife went to stay with Mr. Leighton’s secretary, Lane was stationed at the Leighton residence. His first solo job since coming to work at the Agency and he wanted to prove himself. He liked working for Blaine even though it took a bit of getting used to. Never before had he taken orders from a kid in his early twenties. But Blaine Blackmore had a reputation and he’d earned it. The kid was brilliant and tough as nails.
Lane sat in the dark in the living room at the front of the house and waited. The boss was sure Ewing would try something and he wanted to cover all the bases. Headlights came down the street and Lane went to the window. He pulled the drapes back a crack and peered out. Yep, black Lexus stopping in front and the driver was jumping out and running towards the house with something in his hand.
Heart thumping, Lane pulled out his Steyr and tore into the foyer. He left the lights off and jerked the door open. “Stop where you are,” he hollered, and the guy didn’t stop.
Thompson threw the bottle and the brick at him, turned and ran for the car.
Bang. Bang.
Lane got two shots off before Thompson disappeared around the other side of the car. He jumped in and floored it as Lane ran to the street, trying to get a shot at the tires.
Bang.
Too far away. Rubber burned as Thompson tore down the street, squealed around the corner and was gone.
THE FIRST notes of Hells Bells woke Blaine with a start. He grabbed for his cell before it woke Misty up. “Yeah, Lane,” he said in a whisper.
“He threw a cocktail at the house. I got a couple shots off. Black Lexus. Rental. No tag. I hit him. Sure, of it. Left side as he was running—maybe left upper arm.” Lane was hollering into the phone, the words tumbling out.
Adrenaline.
“Great job. I’ll get the BOLO out right now. Bag the bomb, sack out on Leighton’s sofa and get some sleep. He won’t come back there tonight. Not if he’s hit.”
“Yeah, boss. I could use a couple hours.”
Blaine put the cell back on the nightstand and it rang again. “Shit, the Chief,” he mumbled to himself. “Yes, sir.”
“My house is on fire, at least it was. Fire department is here. Asshole tossed a Molotov right through the goddam front window and scared my wife senseless. I should have taken your advice and gone to a fuckin safe-house.”
