Let the Hunt Begin

by Alex Ander

  He pondered her words while staring beyond her right shoulder.

  “It’s like what you told Ms. Witten when we were at her house.” Devlin took a few seconds to recall his advice to the hurting woman. “Pain comes and pain goes, but,” she paused, “but until that happens,” another moment, “know that others who care are...are there to help you.” She shook her head. “Or something like that. Anyway, know that I’m here to help you.”

  He turned away and squinted at the officers for a few beats. “Thank you. You have helped me. I do feel a bit better now.” He faced her a moment later, a twinkle in his eye.

  She noted the subtle change in his demeanor. “Uh-oh. You have that look that says something off-color is coming.”

  He shook his head. “No. No. I was only thinking.” A beat. “I believe I’ve just heard,” he grinned, “my first Pops story from you. Okay, well,” he wavered, “call it a dad or a Father Mahoney story, but still...”

  Devlin faced forward and gaped through the glass like a deer caught in headlights, “Oh crap,” before she dipped her chin and rubbed her forehead. “I’m turning into you.”

  His head rocking backward, the chauffeur laughed. “See? What did I,” he sniggered some more, “what did I tell you? Everyone has stories. They just need to muster the courage to let them out.”

  She huffed and closed her eyes.

  Randall noticed one of the officers meandering toward the Chrysler. “Well,” he got his amusement under control, “they’re probably out there wondering why it’s taking us so long to get out of the car, so...”

  The agents pulled on handles and pushed open doors, each one putting a foot on the concrete.

  “Hey, Jess?”

  She turned back to see him. “Yeah?”

  “Seriously, thanks. I appreciated the pep-talk, the story. It helped.”

  She smiled. “No problem.”

  ∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞

  .

  Chapter 23

  Search Warrant

  4:32 A.M.

  Once handshakes and introductions had been doled out between the law enforcement officers and the federal agents, Devlin showed the nearest LEO the burner phone Randall had bought her.

  In his late thirties with a paunch, graying hair in his mustache and goatee, the five-nine Officer Sanders eyed the digital copy of a search warrant Devlin had acquired for Duke Hammer’s home then nodded. “Okay then.” He hooked thumbs behind his duty belt near the buckle. “How do you want to carry this out?”

  Stowing her cell, she glimpsed the other three uniformed patrol officers, then eyed the two cruisers, before coming back to Sanders. “How many rams do you have?”

  He pivoted his upper body ninety degrees to spy a second officer on his four o’clock.

  That man nodded.

  Sanders squared shoulders once more with the female marshal. “Two.”

  “Then I want two teams. You’ll come with my partner and me, and we’ll breach the front door while,” Devlin swung an index finger to include the others, “you three will enter through the back. These people are suspected of multiple armed robberies as well as gunning down an off-duty cop.” She let her eyes settle on each man behind Sanders. “So, don’t take any chances.”

  The men nodded before the largest one popped the trunk on his vehicle and hefted a battering ram from the compartment.

  “We identify ourselves, blow the doors, and sweep the structure. Architectural plans put the staircase to the second floor near the front door, so my team will clear the upper level. Any questions?”

  Multiple headshakes.

  “All right. Let’s get into position.”

  Devlin and Randall walked to the rear of their vehicle. He dug out the car key from his pocket and pressed a button.

  The trunk lid opened.

  He faced her and held out his right fist. “Take one for you.”

  She gave him a fist bump, “Not if I take one for you first,” then leaned into the trunk to grab two black vests.

  With having said their customary mantra, a ritual before entering dangerous situations, now complete, the two went to work preparing to execute the search warrant.

  *******

  4:44 A.M.

  All three having donned bulletproof vests—two of the three emblazoned with U.S. MARSHAL on them—Devlin, Randall, and Sanders crept onto the front porch of the two-story home that sported faux brick on the street-facing side and red vinyl siding over the rest of the structure.

  Sanders stood in front of the door, the ram in both hands and inches away from the doorknob.

  On Sanders’ one o’clock, his right shoulder against the house, his Walther PPQ45 in hand, Randall stared at his watch.

  On Sanders’ eleven o’clock, her left shoulder in contact with the siding nearest the doorknob, her Colt 45 in both hands, Devlin observed her partner.

  When his timepiece read 4:45, he pointed at her and assumed a two-hand hold on his 45 ACP.

  Devlin pounded on the door. “U.S. Marshals. We have a warrant to search the premises. Open up.” She nodded at Sanders.

  Sanders sent the heavy steel rod toward the door.

  The barrier flew inward, left to right, before swinging backward.

  Holding her gun high and horizontal, she used her free hand, her left, to keep the door from hitting her while she burst into the front room and hurried toward her two o’clock.

  Randall went straight.

  Having exchanged the ram for his duty pistol, Sanders followed the other man then darted down a hallway on his nine o’clock, “I got left.”

  Devlin took the staircase to the second level, Randall on her heels.

  The two covered each other while leapfrogging down a hallway and poking their guns and heads into three bedrooms and a bathroom.

  Randall backtracked into the hallway and leaned over a railing. “Upstairs is clear.”

  Seconds later, Sanders: “Main floor’s clear.”

  The deputy marshal holstered his weapon and looked around before eyeballing Devlin. “Where do we start?”

  She slid her 1911 into its resting place on her right hip while glimpsing a master bedroom in disarray. “Looks like they left in a hurry.”

  Male and female clothing articles lay strewn around the floor. The bedcovers were rumpled and pulled back. Pillows rested haphazardly on powder-blue sheets. Open dresser drawers contained no apparel.

  Randall approached the bed and glanced at a darker, oblong, amoeba-like spot in the middle of the sheets. “But not before having one last romp, it would seem.”

  Lobbing a frown his way, “And just what,” she strolled around the room searching for clues to Hammer’s whereabouts, “would the significance of that discovery be?”

  He flicked open his pocketknife and used the tip to lift a pair of lace panties from near the stain. “It might mean our fifth robber, the woman, is romantically involved with Hammer. And that tidbit could lead us to Mr. Hammer himself...or maybe give us a future tactical advantage.”

  She bobbed her eyebrows once and secretly agreed with his points. “Well, let’s get with Sanders then and come up with a plan to go over every square inch of this—” she turned around to see Randall studying the panties hanging from his knife. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m trying to get,” he squinted at the sexy garment, “a,” before wavering, “size on these.” He tipped the cutting tool and let the underwear fall to the mattress. “Extra small.”

  She cocked her head at him.

  Spotting her quizzical expression, “Meaning, whoever Hammer’s been,” Randall pointed the knife at the stain, “hammerin—” he paused to clean up the rest of his sentence, “with...whoever Hammer’s been with is roughly the same size as the thin woman in the video surveillance from the bank robberies.”

  “And you couldn’t have gotten that information from,” she waggled a finger in the air, “any one of a number of blouses lying around the room?”

  He p
eeked at the female tops on the floor, tipped his head from side to side once, then dragged out his next word. “Yeah. I suppose that would’ve been easier and not so,” he wiped the blade on the blanket, “intimate shall we say.” Folding the knife and returning it to his pocket, he came back to her and held a shrug, his face reddening. “Hey, at least I didn’t pick them up with my fingers.”

  ∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞

  .

  Chapter 24

  Beautiful Vista

  8:42 A.M.

  NORTHWEST OF

  REDDING, CALIFORNIA

  Faith drove her gray Hyundai Elantra rental car down the winding dirt road. On either side of her, thirty yards away, a solid forest of evergreens blocked out any signs of civilization. She went up and down a ridge, and a sprawling ranch home came into view five hundred feet ahead.

  A generous swath of green, manicured lawn rolled out to greet visitors at the end of the turnaround driveway, split-rail fences marking the dividing line between the different terrains. Similar patches of luxurious grass went along both sides of the house before disappearing into a sea of dark-green pines behind the dwelling.

  Faith made a right and parked the car in front of a gap between two sections of weathered wooden fencing. She climbed out of the mid-size rental, faced the house, and spotted a mid-fifties man in blue jeans and a red flannel shirt off to her one o’clock.

  Coming from behind the house, a taller, leaner, younger man wearing overalls and work boots—bare chested under the straps holding up his clothing—pushed a wheelbarrow toward the older gentleman.

  Making the trip up the sloping landscape, she saw a beautiful vista of trees and a distant mountain materialize before her. When she reached the man with the shovel, she gazed beyond him and saw parts of a valley over the treetops.

  “May I help you, ma’am?”

  Faith blinked a couple times to block out the scenery and refocus on why she was here. “I’m hoping so. Are you Mister William Hammerstein?”

  He pushed the shovel into the ground near the toes of his cowboy boots, crossed hands over the end of the handle, and let the tool support some of his weight. “Last time I checked.” He poked his chin at her. “And who might you be, little lady?”

  “This little lady’s a,” observing his features—gray-haired stubble covering cheeks and chin, pointy nose, wild salt-and-pepper eyebrows, and gray hair sticking out from under the band of a straw cowboy hat—she pulled back the right half of her short, waist-length burgundy leather jacket, “United States Deputy Marshal. Faith Mahoney.”

  Hammerstein glimpsed the badge on her belt before studying the shiny pistol just behind it. He cleared his throat and went back to work sticking the shovel into grass and depositing the sod into the empty wheelbarrow.

  ‘Overalls’ adjusted the gloves on his hands and joined Hammerstein in the task at hand while casting glances at the visitor.

  “I understand you work for Barker National Bank. You’re a Senior District Manager there. Is that right?”

  “May I ask what this is about?”

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions about a string of robberies at three different banks...all of which are owned by Barker.”

  Hammerstein cleared his throat again. “Which branches would you be referring to?”

  Taken aback by the query, Faith paused. “The two where the robberies just took place in the last few days as well as the one in Redding last year. I would think you’d remember, since you were working at those locations at the time of the thefts.”

  Nodding, he drove his spade into the loose dirt like a spear and peeled off his gloves. “Look,” he picked up a bottle of water from a stack of landscape timbers and twisted off the top, “why don’t you just come out and ask me what you came here to ask me, little lady.” He took a drink, screwed on the cap, and tossed the bottle. “I’ve been through this multiple times, and nobody’s yet to find me guilty of anything.”

  “All right.” Faith shoved fingers into back pockets and shifted her weight to her right foot. “Did you have anything to do with those bank robberies, specifically in providing information on delivery schedules to those who perpetrated the crimes?”

  “No.” He cleared his throat. “I did not. Are we done now?”

  Noting the repeated throat-clearing, a possible nervous tick brought on by lying, Faith took another approach. “What about your son?”

  Hammerstein stood taller. “What about him?”

  “Did he have anything to do with the heists?”

  “You’ll have to ask him that question.”

  “I’d love to. Can you tell me where I can find Mister Duke Hammer?”

  Hammerstein confronted the deputy marshal for a long moment then hefted his shovel out of the ground. “Haven’t spoken to him in quite some time.”

  “Not what I asked you.”

  Hammerstein sighed. “I believe he has a place over in Spokane.”

  “Why did your son change his name?”

  “I’m sure you’ve done your homework, and you know what happened to him overseas.”

  “To him? Don’t you mean what he did...as in going on a rampage and murdering innocent civilians?”

  The shovel in his hands whipping around with him, Hammerstein whirled on her. “He was...”

  Seeing the point of the tool coming toward her, Faith slid her right foot backward and reached for her weapon.

  The visibly rattled Hammerstein jammed the shovel into the ground. “...found not guilty on all charges.”

  She dipped her forehead toward the man whose pale cheeks were now turning red. “Thanks to you spending a whole bunch of money and political influence.”

  Hammerstein huffed and turned away from her while letting the shovel sag in his grip. “It’s because of people like you, hounding us day and night, that my wife drank herself into an early grave.”

  “I thought she died in a car accident.”

  “She did. Two years ago. Got behind the wheel on a rainy night after having too many beers. Drove off the side of the mountain,” he gestured, “not more than a mile from here.”

  Faith recalled reading the accident report which had stated the victim’s blood alcohol level had been three times the legal limit. “So, she had a drinking problem?”

  “Not until all the reporters and cops started coming around and asking their questions.” He hung his head and stared at his boots for a good twenty seconds. “As long as I live,” he faltered, “I will never forget that night. It’s a date that’s burned into my brain.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss. That must’ve been—”

  Hammerstein lifted his head to glare at Faith. “You don’t get to do that.” He shook his head. “No. No. You,” he gritted his teeth, “you...” A beat. “We’re done here.” He jabbed his chin toward the driveway. “Get back in your car over there and get the hell off my property.”

  Faith watched him poke the spade into the ground then drive his foot down on top of the curled lip.

  The steel disappeared into the grass.

  After seeing him slam a heap of grass and dirt into the wheelbarrow, she spun on her heels and strode toward her rental, her mind trying to process his words, his actions. Outside of him clearing his throat several times, she could not find a solid clue to his guilt.

  She climbed into the Elantra, fired up the engine, and drove away, her heart whispering in her ear that she might have pushed the still-grieving man too hard. Her right hand on the wheel, she washed her free hand down her face before scratching her cheek. I don’t know. Maybe he’s innocent in all this, and I’m just trying to find something where there isn’t anything to be found.

  Reaching the crest of the hill, she glimpsed the rearview mirror and saw a reflection of Hammerstein and Overalls standing shoulder to shoulder. Both men were staring back at her, as the car took the downward slope. In the next instant, the men disappeared from her sight, her gut twitched, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Th
en again...

  ∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞

  .

  Chapter 25

  Dodge Ram

  A mile from Hammerstein’s home, Faith navigated the four-door Hyundai along the downward-sloping road, her thoughts drifting back to her conversation with Hammerstein. Was he playing me? Is he somehow behind the robberies and using his wife’s—

  Rounding a bend behind her, an old pickup truck appeared in the rental’s rearview mirror.

  Glimpsing the vehicle, she took the next two turns, a right and a left, before travelling down a short straightaway.

  The pickup truck came into view again and quickly closed the distance.

  Faith touched the brake pedal, cranked the wheel right, and made a sharp turn while spotting a steep drop-off in a narrow gap among the trees on her left. Glancing right, she saw the forest that she knew stretched all the way to the top of the mountain.

  Coming out of the turn, she noticed the truck was within passing distance.

  Up ahead, another straightaway.

  She slowed, rolled down her window, and waved at the driver to go ahead.

  The Dodge Ram surged forward and collided with the Elantra’s rear bumper.

  Faith’s head rocked backward, “What the,” while she gripped the steering wheel with both hands and jerked right and left to first counter the effects of the collision then keep the car heading straight. Her eyes darted from the road ahead to the rearview mirror. Her body braced for more contact.

  The Dodge made another forward lunge.

  Reaching another hairpin turn, she hit the brakes and turned left.

  Bumper hit bumper.

  The Elantra fishtailed right.

  Faith turned the steering wheel into the skid.

  The lighter vehicle slid right, its right-rear tire grazing over the gravel apron.

  The truck backed off to make the bend.

  She got control of the rental and stomped on the gas pedal to put distance between her and her aggressor.