Brad glanced around the shop. “Yeah.” Brad set the knife blade on the counter. “I drove over my knife. Do you think it can be fixed?”
The clerk picked up the knife. “The blade is sharp. I don’t think you can replace the plastic sheath or hinge, but I’ve got a do-it-yourself repair kit. You might be able to attach a handle or strap. I’ll throw in a clip-on leather sheath.”
Brad paid cash for the purchase.
Before he left the store, he changed into the winter gear. He had a few things to do before he searched for a room for the night. His stomach growled. Food first.
Brad headed down a dark back alley in Chinatown, through a heavy metal door, and up three flights of stairs. The Royal Garden Chinese Restaurant wasn’t much bigger than the kitchen at Brad’s farmhouse. It had tables for two dozen customers, but you’d be jammed in. Tonight, the blizzard kept most people at home. Besides himself, there was a Chinese couple across the room. The ceiling lights were dim, and a small lantern illuminated each table.
Brad sat in the back corner of the Royal Garden Chinese Restaurant in Chinatown. It was the perfect place to sit back and figure out what the heck had happened today, as well as his next steps.
Sadie was right, the food was outstanding. His chopsticks sped back and forth to Brad’s mouth. He was starving. He figured he hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours. With about a dozen coffees in between.
In the corner to the left, on a shelf, sat a dated black-and-white TV. He glanced to the TV. Even Charlie’s Angels couldn’t keep his attention—at least not in black and white.
He cleaned his plate, leaned back, and took a large gulp of Coke. His eyes drifted to the TV. He thrust forward out of his chair and over to the TV. He increased the volume. Sadie was doing a broadcast outside his farm. He listened to her report, then saw the RCMP ERT racing toward her. The audio and video went dead.
Son of a bitch.
“That was a scene outside Detective Brad Coulter’s home earlier tonight,” the news anchor said. “Ms. Andrus and her cameraman were arrested. We could not speak to them, although our company lawyer is at police headquarters. We will interrupt programming as additional information becomes available.”
An idea formed.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Steele slammed on the brakes and their SUV skidded sideways toward the three Mounties standing in the middle of the road. Steele threw the truck in park and they both jumped out.
“Get back in your truck,” the ERT sergeant said.
“Move your fucking trucks,” Steele said. “Or we’ll push them out of the way.”
“You’re not getting past us.” Two of the Mounties stepped forward, their rifles at the ready.
“You’re fuckin’ hilarious,” Steele said. “Posturing with rifles won’t intimidate us. You might bully a reporter and her cameraman. You’re in shit for that.”
“We don’t want a fight with you,” a Mountie said. “Go back to the city. You have no jurisdiction here.”
A siren grew louder, and a black sedan raced toward them. The car slid to a stop. The driver’s door opened. Jackson stepped out. “What the hell is this? The shoot-out at the O.K. Corral?”
No one moved.
“You’re a bunch of idiots.” Jackson stepped between them and swatted the RCMP rifles down. He glared at the ERT team. “Put the fucking long guns away.” He glared from Steele and Zerr to the ERT sergeant. “Make sure the cameraman and the reporter are not hidden away in your lockup. Order your men to drop the news crew at our arrest processing.” He handed a radio to the ERT sergeant, who stepped away. They couldn’t make out his side of the conversation. Finally, he returned.
“Pack up, boys. We’re not needed.”
The ERT trucks pulled away and Steele steered their SUV up the lane. Jackson followed. As they approached the house, Lobo raced around the corner, barking, fangs bared.
Steele slowly got out of the truck. “Whoa, Lobo.” Steele cautiously held out a hand.
Lobo glared, hackles raised, growling. He blocked the way to the house. When any of them took a step, his barking continued. Then Annie strode around the corner, a shotgun at the ready.
“Oh, it’s you three.” She lowered the shotgun. “I thought Lobo and I were gonna bag us some ERT cops out of season.”
“Those assholes will always be in season.” Zerr headed over to Annie and kissed her. “You going to invite us inside?”
Annie glanced at Steele and Jackson. “Do I have to invite the other two?”
Zerr nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“Dang.” She grabbed his hand, and they headed to the house. Everyone shed their winter gear in the entranceway. While Annie brewed coffee, the guys sat around the kitchen table.
Jackson stretched his long legs away from the table and clasped his hands behind his head. “This is a nightmare.”
“How do you think Brad feels?” Annie glared from the coffee pot. “He’s out there alone.”
“He enjoys being alone,” Steele said.
“No.” Annie frowned, her eyes on the verge of tears. “He enjoys being alone with Lobo. There’s a vast difference. Now he is completely alone.” She sniffled, then grabbed the coffeepot.
Lobo wandered around the kitchen sniffing pants and socks.
“See,” Annie said. “Even Lobo knows something isn’t right.”
“Sarge,” Steele said. “Tell us what the hell is going on.”
While Annie poured coffee, Jackson told them what he knew.
Annie sat, hands wrapped around the white coffee mug, and stared at the swirling steam. “That matches what Brad told me.” Then she told them about helping Brad escape and the ERT team assault on the farmhouse.
“Why did Lobo think Brad was in the trunk?” Steele asked.
“Because he was.” Annie grinned.
“I don’t follow.” Jackson sipped his coffee. “The Mounties didn’t find him.”
Annie smiled. “Brad’s always thinking ahead. He knew either Calgary cops or the RCMP would be here. I stopped a mile from here. Brad left his T-shirt there, then headed off on foot. I drove here, into the gun sights of a half-dozen Mounties, sure Brad was in the trunk. They were pissed when he wasn’t, so they took it out on Lobo and me.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Zerr asked.
Annie tried to cover her wrists, but Zerr grabbed her arm and saw the redness from the cuffs. “Son of a bitch. They’re dead.”
Annie pulled her hands away. “Not now, Charlie. After we help Brad.” She stared at her coffee. The cup shook. “What do we do? We don’t know where he is.”
“He’ll contact us,” Steele said.
“He doesn’t have a vehicle,” Annie said. “I don’t know how much cash he has. Every cop in the city and the RCMP are searching for him.”
“Not every cop.”
They hadn’t heard the back door open. Briscoe strode in, shaking snow off his fake fur hat and stomping his overshoes. “I heard I could get a coffee here.” He slid off his police issue parka and plopped into a chair.
Annie poured him a coffee, then got another pot brewing. “I guess none of us are sleeping tonight, so I’ll keep the coffee going.”
Briscoe sipped his coffee. “Ah. The lot of you look miserable, morose.”
“Morose?” Steele said. “Where did you learn that word?”
“He used it properly, though,” Jackson said.
Briscoe ignored them and drank coffee. “You know he’s not dead, right? You’re acting like this is a wake. Get your shit together. We have to help him.”
“We don’t know where he is,” Steele said.
Briscoe drank some coffee. His eyes sparkled. “But he knows where we are.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The desk sergeant handed Sadie a bag of her belongings. “Sign here.” He slid a form across the counter.
“It better all be here.” Sadie glared at the sergeant as she put on her black knee-high boots, slid on her b
lack parka and knit wool beanie, then wrapped her red silk scarf around her neck.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t fucking patronize me.” She signed the form, grabbed her black purse, slung it over her shoulder, and stomped to the back door. She stepped out into the alley and slid on her leather gloves. Her cameraman had been released before her and went to get the van. She leaned against the outside wall in the back alley, waiting for her cameraman to pick her up. Cops came and went from headquarters. A few grinned as they passed.
Bastards.
An early sixties, rust-bucket truck drove slowly down the alley and stopped opposite her.
Now she wished there were cops in the alley. Her eyes darted up and down the alley, then to the back door. She had no problem screaming for help. But no cops were around. She thought about running. Then a head poked out the driver’s window. “Sadie, get in. Now.”
Coulter?
“Now.”
She sprinted around the front of the truck to the passenger side. She was barely inside when the truck jerked away. The momentum forced the door shut. She grabbed the dash.
The vehicle continued down the alley, hit the ice on Sixth Avenue, and slid sideways. Brad regained control, then kept to a normal speed.
“Brad.” Sadie swung in her seat to face him, but her back was jammed into the corner. “What the hell is going on?”
He glanced at her. “We need to talk.”
She pushed farther away from him and crossed her arms over her chest. “Sure, now you want to talk.” She gazed out the window and watched the night activity of the city. Midnight. The streets were nearly empty. She shivered at the icy air leaking through rust spots in the floorboards. She sighed. “Fine. What are we talking about? The fact I’m in a truck with a serial killer taking me who knows where to do who knows what to me.”
“You wish.”
Sadie rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”
“Do you believe I’m the killer?”
Sadie scrutinized Brad. Her eyes narrowed and her chin quivered. Finally, she spoke. “Of course not.”
“I’m being framed for the murders.”
Sadie laughed, then covered her mouth with her hand. “Sorry. But that was funny coming from you. How many times have your suspects said that to you?”
Brad’s cheek twitched. “Yeah. I knew you’d pick up on that.”
“Why did you kidnap me?”
Brad’s head swung to face her. “I offered you a ride. You accepted.”
“Why are we talking? You haven’t said it yet, but I’m sure you consider this conversation ‘off the record.’ What about your cop buddies, Steele and Zerr?”
“I can’t get them involved and put their careers at risk.” Brad veered south on Fifth Street. “You know they were at my farm. Archer will make sure everyone I’m close to is under surveillance. I’ll bet they even checked Maggie’s grave.”
Sadie nodded. “But not me. I’m not one of your friends. Other than another ‘scoop of the century’ for me, what do you want?”
“I need a place to hide.”
Sadie’s eyes grew wide. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Someplace no one will search.”
“Gee. Any place you have in mind?”
He glanced at her and grinned. “As a matter of fact—”
Brad parked in front of a forty-year-old sandstone apartment building on Royal Avenue. When it was first built, the rich and famous of the city lived there. They had a doorman and an elevator operator. Eventually, the doorman was replaced with a high-tech security system and the elevator operator, the only one they ever had, died five years ago, so the tenants operated the elevator themselves.
“I suppose I should be pissed you know where I live.” Sadie opened the door and exited the truck.
“At one point, I worried the snipers would attack the media. So, yes, I know where you live.”
“Are you sure you’re not a stalker?”
“I accused you of that.”
“Imagine that, two stalkers finding each other.” Sadie punched in a code and a buzzer sounded. Brad opened the door and followed Sadie to the elevator. They exited on the fourth floor and headed to a corner apartment. Sadie unlocked the door and opened a sliding closet door where she hung up her parka, tossed her knit beanie onto the top shelf, and unlaced her boots. Brad eased out of his camouflage parka and boots.
Sadie prepared a pot of coffee. “I’m going to change. Make yourself at home. Not that you’d wait for my permission.” She headed down a short hall. A door closed.
Brad stood at the kitchen island and surveyed the apartment. It still had its forties atmosphere. The walls were solid oak, as was the window trim. The floor was hardwood and polished to a glossy shine with several area rugs. Rather than decorate with modern furniture, Sadie had kept with the period. Two walls in the living room had enormous windows with incredible views of downtown. A third wall was covered with a full oak bookcase. The first section was filled with world history books. The second held textbooks on journalism, biographies of journalists, and a complete shelf on fashion. He grinned when he reached the third section. He recognized many of the authors’ names—a shelf of Danielle Steele, Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret by Judy Blume, Helter Skelter by Vincent Bugliosi, and—Brad’s eyes widened—The Joy of Sex by Alex Comfort.
Most notably, and certainly required reading by a journalist, All The President’s Men by Bernstein and Woodward.
Brad sat at the kitchen table, leaned back and closed his eyes. It felt good to relax, even for a moment.
The door down the hall opened and a light patter of feet headed to the kitchen wearing extra-large Calgary Stampeders T-shirt and gray sweatpants. Sadie poured coffee into two white mugs with the CFCN logo and set them on the kitchen table. Sadie headed to the fridge and returned with cream and sugar. She scooped two spoons of sugar and two dollops of cream into her mug and stirred.
They drank in silence.
Sadie slid one leg under her and set the other foot onto the chair seat, cradling the coffee in both hands. “Lovely outfit. You getting your clothes tailored for you?”
Brad sipped the coffee and stared at Sadie. “It’s a new fashion I thought I’d try.”
“Don’t get too used to army camouflage.” She slid a loose strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “I hear prison orange is in.”
Brad’s eyebrows raised. “Thanks for your support.”
Sadie set down her cup. “Most of the time you won’t tell me diddly squat. That’s fine, it’s a game we play, and I accept the rules. Then today, I’m your best friend, maybe your only friend, and I’m supposed to say, ‘Oh sure, Brad. Stay at my house. I trust you.’” She leaned over the table, eyes ablaze. “You have five minutes to tell me what is going on. Don’t bullshit me, leave nothing out. Five minutes. If you don’t convince me in five minutes, I call 911.”
Brad puffed his cheeks and exhaled. “Okay. You get everything. You hold my freedom in your hands.”
Sadie rolled her eyes. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, drop the melodrama. Tell the story.”
Brad started with the death of the dealer in September, then one a few weeks ago, and the recent murders. He thought some were related. She frowned as he talked about the evidence against him.
“That sounds like a circumstantial case.”
He sat back, hands held out. “Sadie. Do you think I’m stupid?”
“What?” Sadie frowned and shook her head. “Where does that come from?”
“Am I stupid?”
“No, you’re very smart, probably brilliant. What does that have to do with anything we’re talking about?”
“Thank you.” Brad sipped his coffee. “Do you think I’d be stupid enough to use my service pistol? That I’d drive my flashy vehicle to commit a crime?”
“You think that truck is fancy?” She smiled weakly. “When you put it that way. Who would do this?”
“The actual murderer.”
Sadie rolled her eyes. “Of course, you’d say that.”
“This murderer is devious. The murders were well planned. They were intended to appear different. We weren’t supposed to connect them. But I did. This person thought far enough ahead to know they might need to set someone up for the murders. Who better to set up than the detective investigating? Some of those murders happened at previous crime scenes where I was involved.”
“That implicates you further.”
Brad took a deep breath, exhaled, and set the coffee mug on the table.
Sadie sat silent, staring at him.
He reached behind his back. Sadie stiffened. He set his handcuffs on the table, then placed his hands next to them. “Fine. Make your call. I won’t resist.”
Sadie stared at the handcuffs. The smart play was cuff him and let the cops deal with it. More than the smart play, she’d be the reporter who captured Brad Coulter. CTV National Desk, here I come. She headed to her living room window and stared down at Royal Avenue. She wrapped her arms around her chest. She loved the view of downtown. Royal Avenue below. Not the snobbery of Mount Royal, but not the crime land north of Seventeenth Avenue.
It was her move. The bright lights and Toronto—or the unemployment line. When she thought of it that way, how could there be any doubt.
She glanced back at the table. Brad hadn’t moved. He stared at his hands. The swagger, confidence, cockiness, and the damned sarcasm was gone. He wasn’t Superman anymore. Whatever was going on, it was Kryptonite to him. Maybe the next in a lengthy line of Kryptonite. It was in his blood—he was poisoned. What the biker gangs had done. What Jeter Wolfe had put him through. What the snipers did to this city—all of it beat him up. But after getting knocked to the canvas, he got up again. This time, it wasn’t the darkness and the evil of crime, it was his own department. And that, he couldn’t fight.
Sadie headed back to the table. “You look awful.”
Slowly, he glanced up. “Thanks.”
She slid the handcuffs to him. “You might need these later. I have a spare room. You need some sleep. We’ll figure this out in the morning.”
Goddess of Justice Page 16
