Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

“No.” She shook her head. “Another agent. Odoms has been relocated.”

  Murdering Scumbag Protection Program, Sandy thought. Then another question occurred to him. “The file?”

  “Doctored,” she said. “It has correct information, but all the photos were doctored to put our agent’s image in his place.”

  “Another set up,” Sandy muttered.

  “Another?” she asked. Her gaze went from McNichol’s wound to meet Sandy’s eyes. “What does that mean?”

  A second set of sirens joined the first, then a third. The sounds grew closer and louder.

  Sandy waved off her question with the muzzle of his .45. “How did you know about the Odoms file?” he asked. “How did you even know about this operation?”

  Agent Lori paused. Sandy moved the muzzle off of her and onto McNichol. “I have about ten seconds before I hit the point of no return,” he told her.

  She shuddered slightly. Then she whispered, “Brian Moore.”

  Sandy’s eyes narrowed. “You were onto Brian?”

  “No,” the agent said. Her eyes flicked to the .45 leveled at McNichol. “He’s our C.I.”

  “What?” Sandy shook his head in disbelief.

  “Brian Moore is working for us. He’s our snitch.”

  Sandy shook his head again, her words not registering. “Brian?”

  She nodded without looking at him.

  “Since when?”

  The agent swallowed. Her eyes flicked down to her partner then back to Sandy. “Maybe a month or so.”

  “Christ,” Sandy muttered, his stomach sinking. “He was wired when he came to my apartment the other day, wasn’t he?”

  She gave him a short nod.

  “Christ,” he repeated. He wanted to ask more questions, but the yelp and wail of the police sirens were getting too close. He was out of time. If he didn’t leave now, it was all over. He rose to his feet.

  “Has his bleeding slowed down?” Sandy asked her.

  “What do you care?” she snapped back.

  Without a word, Sandy turned and ran down the hallway to the front door.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Sandy slammed the door behind him and set off at a trot, heading in the direction of his car. Then he realized that hiding in plain sight wouldn’t work. Even with her bloody hands pressing on McNichol’s thigh, he was pretty sure Agent Lori What’s-her-name would find a way to broadcast his description to the responding local police.

  He broke into a steady run, loping down the street. His car was about three blocks away. He could cover that in less than a minute. But he’d cut it close with the responding police units, staying as long as he could in the kitchen with the interrogation. There was no way he was going to make it to his car before police arrived in the area. He could only hope that they approached from a different direction than the one he was heading in. Most cops would have the Pavlovian response of heading directly to the house. The smart ones would anticipate his moves and try to cut him off.

  Sandy hoped for cops who were rummy from working all night, running on automatic pilot. He doubted he’d get his wish. Sirens were blaring all over the neighborhood now. In moments, residents would start poking their heads out to see what the big production was. Some would have the sense to call 911 about a man running full tilt in a gray sweat suit.

  Ahead, he needed to make a right. Two more blocks down that street, around the corner to the left and two houses up sat his Mazda.

  As he pumped his legs, he forced his mind to stay clear the revelations of a few moments ago. He tucked away the rage for Larson and the swirling, ambivalent feeling about Brian’s betrayal. He could examine that when he had time to think. Right now—

  A police car screamed around the corner ahead of him. A patrol officer looked at Sandy in surprise, then slammed on the brakes. The car screeched to a halt less than ten yards from him.

  Sandy turned without hesitation. He had to get out of the open. The patrolman would have to radio in his location before getting out of the car. That gave him an extra three seconds. He used it to run straight toward the six foot fence than ran along the sidewalk. He leapt up, grabbed the top and vaulted over into the backyard.

  Then he crouched against the fence and waited.

  It was a calculated risk. If the officer held his ground and radioed in his position, Sandy knew was probably screwed. Police would flood the area, set up a perimeter and bring in a K-9 for tracking. The K-9s were virtually foolproof if patrol set a hard perimeter. They’d come at him with the dog, a handler and a cover squad. Spokane had a progressive department, so he knew that patrol officers were issued long guns. That meant if he wanted to shoot it out with them, it would be his .45 versus their Colt AR-15s. Hardly a fair fight.

  But it was still early enough in the morning that these officers were probably graveyard troops at the end of their shift. And graveyard troops tended to be more action-oriented than those on day shift. If the guy who spotted him was a high speed, low drag Type-A graveyard cop –

  The fence rumbled and shook. A pair of hands grasped the top.

  Sandy tensed.

  The black clad officer swung over the fence and landed with a heavy thud.

  Sandy waited another beat.

  The officer took a step in the direction Sandy would have run, then slowed and turned back in his direction.

  Sandy sprang at him.

  He flashed out a left jab at the point of the cop’s nose. The blow was weaker than he’d like, all arm but still stinging. He planted his feet and followed with a straight right. The punch crunched into the officer’s left cheek and sent him staggering back. His radio fell to the ground. His eyes were dazed. He wavered on his feet.

  Sandy didn’t hesitate. He lashed out with his lead foot, landing it heavily in the groin. The officer grunted and dropped to his knees. Sandy stepped around his large frame and snaked his arm around the officer’s neck. He compressed the sides, pressuring the carotid arteries. The officer flailed at him briefly with his hands, but all he could muster were weak slaps. A moment later, he succumbed to unconsciousness.

  Sandy maintained the carotid hold for five more seconds. Then he let the officer slip to the ground as gently as he could. He grabbed the officer’s gun and pulled, but it remained secure in the holster. Sandy examined the holster for a moment, recognized the security measure and withdrew the weapon. He threw the gun across the yard. Then he picked up the radio, released the battery pack and threw the two pieces in opposite directions.

  Sirens filled the air. Sandy took a deep breath and launched himself at the fence again, scrambling over the top. His feet hit the pavement. He ran straight to the police car. The driver’s door hung open and he slipped inside, hoping things hadn’t changed radically in the twelve years since he’d driven a patrol cruiser. A laptop computer in the center console immediately dispelled that hope. He snapped it shut.

  The control panel for the lights and siren was virtually the same as when he’d left the job. Sandy shut down the siren, leaving the overhead lights working. He pulled the door shut, dropped the car in gear and flipped a u-turn, heading in the opposite direction of the house.

  The police radio blared with a mish-mash of voices announcing that they’d arrived on scene. A frenetic dispatcher tried to direct patrol units and relay information from the FBI. Sandy heard his name and description broadcast. He wondered how many of the responding officers would recognize him as a former brother.

  He shut down the overhead lights and swung the patrol car in the direction of his Mazda. He heard no mention of his car on the police radio.

  “Charlie-457?” the dispatcher asked.

  There was no answer.

  “Charlie-457, an update?”

  No reply.

  Sandy figured that Charlie-457 was the cop in the back yard. He’d be awake again by now, searching for his radio and his gun. If he didn’t find it right away, he’d probably climb back over the fence and try to flag down another patrol unit.
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  “I need a unit to check on Charlie-457.” The dispatcher put out the location. “Last transmission, he had a possible suspect running southbound.”

  “Charlie-453, got it. I’m ten seconds off.”

  “Copy.”

  Sandy pulled up to the curb just around the corner from his Mazda. He looked around the car for any equipment he could use. An AR-15 sat upright on the secure rack between the seats. In Sandy’s day, that’s where the shotgun was kept. He knew where the release button was and considered taking the gun. His .45 was miraculously still in his pouch pocket, but the rifle was a much better weapon.

  He decided against it. He’d have to ditch the Mazda soon and unless he stole another car to replace it, there’s no way he could conceal a rifle. Right now, stealth was his only hope. Firepower was not a priority.

  Sandy turned off the patrol car. He left the keys in the ignition. He exited the vehicle and ran quickly around the corner and up to his Mazda, right where he’d left it. He got inside, started it up and backed smoothly out of the driveway. He dropped the car into gear and drove away south, away from the house.

  As he drove, Sandy rolled down the window. He listened to the sirens. After a short while, the sirens stopped. That meant the area was sufficiently flooded with cops. He hoped that he was outside their perimeter. By now, he had no doubt that the officer had recovered and made contact with his fellows. They’d be looking for someone in a patrol car. That might buy him some time.

  Sandy drove south at the speed limit until he hit the next arterial. Then he turned and drove along the arterial, heading into the business district. Traffic was still extraordinarily light. His heart was thudding in his ears as every car approached, wondering if it was a patrol cruiser. The FBI knew his car. They would put out a description soon, if they hadn’t already.

  Ahead on his left was a shopping center. Sandy signaled and pulled into the lot. Cars sparsely populated the parking spots, but that would change as employees arrived to work. Sandy found a small cluster of cars and slid into an empty stall in their midst. He cracked his window, then turned off the engine. He lowered his seat back until he was lying down.

  He stared at the ceiling of the car. He would have to wait for the businesses to open. For more cars to get on the road. Then he would make his next move.

  That would be several hours.

  In the meantime, he had to think.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The strains of a Guns n’ Roses guitar riff chimed out of the suit jacket on the passenger seat. He fished out the cell phone and flipped it open.

  “Hey.”

  “Are you on scene yet?” she asked.

  “Nope. Still about five minutes off. You?”

  “The shift commander called me fifteen minutes ago. He’s all in a twitter because of the inter-jurisdictional issues going on.”

  “What’s the problem? It’s a city homicide.”

  “The FBI is always a problem. I’ve already got a call from some asshole of a SAC telling me he was on his way to assume command of the crime scene.”

  “Fuck him. He has no jurisdiction.”

  “He has jurisdiction.”

  “How so?”

  “Jesus, Lee. Federal agents, his agents, were involved in the shooting while investigating a federal case. If I were him, I’d be planting the flag, too.”

  He shook his head. “What the hell were federal agents doing following Banks?”

  “I have no idea, but it scares the hell out of me.”

  He thought about it for a minute longer, mulling it over in his mind. If the feds were onto Sandy Banks, what else had they seen? Were they aware of the meeting he had with Banks at Brian’s house? Were they up on Banks or the operation itself?

  “Are you still there?” she asked.

  “I’m here. Just thinking it through.”

  “Did you take care of the other loose end?”

  “About an hour ago, yeah.”

  “Good.”

  Yeah, he thought. If I wasn’t followed.

  “We could be screwed,” she said. He was surprised at how matter of fact her tone was. “If they’re onto Banks, they might have had surveillance during the times you met with him.”

  “We’ll know soon enough.” He tried to project a confidence he wasn’t sure he felt.” I’ll be on scene in a few minutes. I’ll know by the questions they ask me if they’re onto us.”

  “You know that they’ll ask you where you were last night.” Tension crept into her voice. “What are you going to say?”

  “That I was fucking you.”

  “Goddamnit, Lee! I’m serious.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, soothing her. ‘I’ve got it covered. A buddy of mine will vouch for me staying with him.”

  “That won’t hold up,” she said. “Not if they start looking hard. Or if they push the guy.”

  “It will hold up,” he assured her. “My guy won’t break. And I won’t lie about not being home. I’ll even tell them that Kelly and I were having some marriage problems and that’s why I wasn’t there.”

  “Are you kidding me?” She sounded aghast. “Marriage problems? Talk about giving them a motive. Why don’t you just confess to killing her?”

  He smiled. “Baby, this ain’t the 1950s. Marriage problems happen all the time. Husbands move out and stay with buddies. The couple either works it out or they don’t. It doesn’t add up to murder.”

  “It did in this case.”

  “But it doesn’t in most.” He paused, then said, “Listen, they’ll look at it, yeah. They have to. But the life insurance on her isn’t out of line. There’s no other woman that they’ll be aware of. My alibi will check out. Plus, the agents saw Banks. They’ll know it wasn’t me that did it.”

  “There’s a lot of supposing going on in there, detective.”

  “Detective?” He pulled the phone away from his ear, cocking an eyebrow at it. Then he pressed it back to his ear. “Well, Captain, with all the command school training you’ve had, you know no plan survives contact with the enemy. We have to adapt and overcome. We knew that this would be the most difficult time.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “You also know,” he continued, “that everything I just said has the absolute highest probability attached to it.”

  She sighed. “I do know. I’m just worried. If the feds—“

  “If the feds know, we’re fucked. So you stay away from the scene until I call you and let you know the coast is clear. If I don’t call you in an hour, you need to get the hell out of Dodge.”

  “I’m the Captain of Detectives,” she said. “It will look odd if I don’t show up after I’ve been notified.”

  “Relax. It wasn’t one of our officers involved in the shooting. Do your hair or something. No one will complain if the brass bitch takes her time getting on scene, anyway.”

  “I hate that name.”

  “Well, that’s what they call you, baby. So make it work to your advantage. If I call you, show up and flex your captain’s bars. Make that FBI SAC fight to own this crime scene. Maybe even win it for our guys.”

  “Fat chance of that.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. If you’re able to swing it, though, you should assign Jack Dorrance to the case.”

  “I was thinking Marty Hill.”

  “Nuh-uh. Hill’s way too smart. He pulls at all the loose ends. You put him in there, he might actually solve the case. Let Dorrance work it. He’ll cover enough bases along with the feds to put the murder on Banks and let the rest go unresolved.”

  “All right,” she answered, her tone reluctant.

  “Trust me, baby,” he said. “I’ve been working around all these guys for ten years. I know what I’m talking about.”

  “I trust you.”

  “Good. After all the rigmarole at the scene, I’ll have to do the bullshit family thing. So I’ll meet you later.”

  “When?”

  “Say nine-ish?”

  “My place?
”

  “No. Too dangerous. Get a room at the Rutherford.”

  “The Rutherford? What’s wrong with the motel we usually use?”

  “Don’t ever go back there,” he said. “We don’t want to risk it. Our faces are going to be plastered on the news. Especially mine.” He smiled slightly. “Besides, the Rutherford is fancy. We can celebrate in style.”

  “Great. So tonight I’ll either be in a luxury suite at the Rutherford or sitting in a jail cell.”

  “I gotta go, Linda,” he said, ignoring her whining. “I’m just about there. I have to work up some tears of grief that will eventually slip through this tough cop exterior.”

  “Jesus, you’re cold.”

  “Nah. I just let my warm and fuzzy self come out with you, that’s all.”

  “That’s the part of you that I love,” she said. He thought he heard a catch in her voice.

  “After all of this settles down, we’ll be on easy street,” he said.

  “Right now, easy street seems a long ways away.”

  “It’s just around the corner, baby,” he assured her. “A few tough days and then it’s a short term waiting game. I retire in grief, go ahead and get us set up down in the islands. A month later, you hang it up. It’s a perfect plan.”

  “I thought you said no plan survives contact with the enemy.”

  “None do. But you gotta have a plan. And ours will work. Just stick with it.”

  “What about Banks?”

  He laughed. “I wouldn’t worry about Banks. City cops and the feds are looking for him. Hell, he just shot a federal agent. That’s going to get him on their ten most wanted list for sure. He’s got his hands full now.”

  She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  He snapped the phone shut and tossed it onto the passenger seat. Up ahead in the early dawn light, he could see the glow of blue and red police rotators. He needed to put on his game face.

  Think of something sad.

  His mind grasped for an idea that could bring tears to his eyes. All he could think of was the huge piles of money coming his way soon. True, his wife’s life insurance policy wasn’t big money, but it was a start. The real money would come from the sale of the big house on the South Hill that her rich daddy bought them outright as a wedding gift. That would net at least six hundred large, even with a quick sale by a ‘motivated’ seller. When you threw in whatever he could scavenge out of Kelly’s half million dollar trust fund after sharing some with the kids, he would be set.