He scanned the rest of the lot. There were two men way down at the other end. They were talking, their backs partially to him, so he stepped quickly across the intersection and continued to the next aisle.
There was no activity on this one at all, just rows of jailed cars waiting for their owners to bail them out. He moved on.
The third aisle appeared equally empty, but as he started to head for aisle four, he noticed movement near the midpoint. It wasn’t exactly in the aisle, though. It was within the row of cars. Whatever or whoever it was had moved out of sight, so he decided to get closer.
To hide his movements, he walked to the fourth row, also empty, and turned onto it. He was seventy-five feet away when a person stood up at the spot where he’d seen the earlier movement, and walked around to the back of a vehicle.
It was the woman. And she wasn’t looking at just any car. She was looking at the black four-door BMW he and Timmons had used on the job, then abandoned in a downtown lot.
He could feel his senses heighten as he automatically began to switch out of observation mode.
His assignment had just changed.
16
Detectives Hubbard and Young left Jake sitting alone for over five minutes. The urge to look back at the hallway door was nearly overwhelming, but Jake maintained his control, and sat stoically in the chair, the cutting image of the obedient cop.
As the second hand on the wall clock approached the end of the sixth minute, he remembered the calls he’d received. He pulled out his phone. Both had been from Berit. She’d also left a message. He selected it, and hit the playback button.
“You’re not going to believe this,” Berit’s voice said. “I found the BMW. At least I think I did. It got—”
“Officer Oliver?” Sergeant Stroop, his immediate supervisor, was standing in the doorway to the hall.
Jake jerked the phone away from his ear. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Come with me.” She turned and disappeared to the left.
Jake stowed his phone and hustled out to the corridor. Berit’s message would have to wait.
“Hurry it up,” the sergeant called out. She was standing in front of a meeting room door.
He double-timed it down the hall, slowing just before he reached her. “What’s going on, ma’am?”
She nodded her head quickly to the right. “Inside.”
Jake went in, and the sergeant followed right behind him.
When he saw who was there, he felt the blood drain from his face.
Hubbard and Young were present, of course, as was their immediate boss, Sergeant Sykes. It was the man sitting in the middle on the other side of the table whom Jake had not expected to see at all.
“Officer Oliver, please have a seat,” Commander Ashworth, head of the substation, said.
* * *
Berit lowered the trunk and latched it back in place.
She may not have found anything to seal the case, but at least she’d found the car. That was a pretty damn good bit of detective work, she had to admit.
She was just about to step around the vehicle and return to the office when something scraped the ground behind her.
Right behind her.
Spinning around, she found a man standing just a few feet away with a smirk on his face. She stepped back, not scared, but definitely surprised.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
He moved back into her personal space. “I was going to ask you the same question.”
Instead of retreating again, she put a hand out, an inch from his chest. “Excuse me. Do you mind?”
“Not at all.”
He leaned forward until his shirt brushed the tips of her fingers. She jerked her hand away.
“Look, I’m a police officer. So back off right now.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I know. I’ve always respected cops. That is, as long as they don’t poke into things they shouldn’t.”
He leaned to the side, placing a hand on the trunk of the BMW.
“Don’t do that,” she said.
“Why? Is this yours?” he asked.
“It’s part of an investigation. You could be damaging evidence.”
He snickered, then lifted his hand. “Sorry.”
“What do you want? Do you work here or something?”
“Me?” he asked as he reached up and ran his fingers through his dark hair. “Nah.”
That’s when it clicked. The dark-haired man from the RPL footage. Mr. Walters.
She took a step back, suddenly wishing she was armed with more than just her badge.
“Put your hands on the car, and spread your legs!” she shouted.
For a second, he froze, then he smiled and said, “I thought you told me you didn’t want me touching it.”
“Put your hands on the car. Now!”
“No problem, Officer Davies,” he said, placing his palms on the top of the trunk.
He knows my name! How does he know my name?
“Spread your legs,” she ordered.
“I could say the same to you, but I don’t want you thinking I’m coming on to you.”
“Shut up,” she said, keeping her voice as calm as possible.
“Because I’m not. You’re not my type.”
“I said, shut up.”
“I prefer my women less…curious.”
She grabbed her phone out of her pocket.
“That’s not a good idea,” the man said.
“Don’t move!”
Without taking her eyes off him, she started to dial 911.
“I did warn you,” the man said.
Before the last word was completely out of his mouth, his leg flew up, his shoe smacking into her hand, knocking the phone to the car. She heard it hit then skitter across the ground, but she didn’t take the time to look where it ended up.
Instead, she ran.
* * *
Spread out on the meeting room table were the items Jake had shown the two detectives.
“I understand you undertook a little investigation on your own,” Commander Ashworth said.
“I…uh…was just playing a hunch. That’s all,” Jake said.
The commander’s face remained impassive. “You removed evidence from the crime scene.”
This, Jake knew, was his biggest mistake. He should have turned over the matchbook right away. He could have still looked into things without it. “I didn’t mean to, sir. I just didn’t think that it was—”
“Let me stop you right there,” the commander said. “You are aware that unauthorized removal of evidence from a crime scene is illegal?”
“Uh…well, yes, sir. But I was under the impression that the area had already been—”
“Did you remove the matchbook from the crime scene?”
Jake took a breath. “Yes, sir.”
“So now I’m sitting here with one of my officers who’s broken the law,” Commander Ashworth said.
“A rookie officer,” Young said.
Ashworth said nothing to correct the detective. His eyes were locked on Jake. “Well?”
“Sir?” Jake said, not sure what Ashworth was asking.
The first sign of displeasure crossed Ashworth’s face. “What made you think that you were even qualified to investigate anything?”
“I, um…it’s just…uh…”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry, sir. Nothing made me think that.”
“I don’t think it was nothing, Oliver,” the commander said. “I think it was arrogance and stupidity, wouldn’t you agree?”
No, he wouldn’t agree. It hadn’t been an ego trip that had driven him. It had been curiosity. Besides, the point everyone seemed to be missing was that he’d actually found something.
“Sir, did they tell you what I learned?”
The commander picked up the photo of the two men. “You mean this? Detective Hubbard and Detective Young couldn’t explain for me how you were able to link these two men to a book of matches.
”
“Well, sir…” What was he going to say? That he’d seen one of them pick up a book as they left the hotel? They could probably look at the footage and find a dozen other guests who had done the same thing. Tell them it was just a feeling? Jake was screwed. “Sir, we placed them at a coffee shop near Goodman Ranch Road the night of the murder.”
“We?” the commander asked.
It took every ounce of Jake’s will not to show that he’d made a mistake. “The force, sir. I was talking about us as a whole.”
“There was no we, Oliver. There was only you.”
“I’m sorry, sir. You’re right. I placed them at the coffee shop near Goodman Ranch Road.”
The commander leaned back, his lips pressed tightly together. After a moment, he started picking up each piece of the evidence Jake had given the detectives. “You know what I see here? Crap. It’s all crap.”
He turned to the side and dumped everything into a trashcan next to the wall.
“Officer Oliver, you are suspended for the remainder of the month. If this ever happens again, you’ll be lucky if I even let you work parking enforcement. Now get out.”
* * *
It was fun to toy with her. In most of his assignments, Larson didn’t have that option. His employers liked to play things by the book. Clean, quick and quiet — that’s what they wanted. He could do that, of course. It wasn’t as enjoyable, but he did get a certain sense of satisfaction out of it. Every once in a while, though, he needed a little more. So he was delighted by the unexpected opportunity that had just presented itself.
Calling Durrie had never even crossed his mind. For one thing, the situation had changed too rapidly for Larson to waste time on the phone, but most importantly, it would have denied him this gift.
She hadn’t heard him until the last moment, then he’d heightened her obvious unease from finding him there by crowding her space. That was energizing.
But then the bitch had nearly derailed his agenda.
She knew who he was. He saw it in her eyes a second before she ordered him to put his hands on the car. She knew who he was!
Durrie had been wrong. The two cops had somehow fingered him on the security footage. That just solidified the fact that the cleaner was an idiot, and that Larson was doing the right thing.
He’d been able to get the phone out of her hand, but she was on the run now. That was fine as long as she didn’t reach anyone.
In fact, it was more than fine. It was fantastic.
* * *
Berit’s choices had been to either run toward the main building or away from it. Part of her had screamed the latter wasn’t a choice at all. She should run toward the building. Help was there. Witnesses. Escape. But the other part knew she’d left the passenger door to the BMW open, and it would have taken seconds she didn’t have to move it out of her way. So she had gone the other way, toward the back of the lot, and away from any potential help.
The sketchy plan she had in her mind was to get to the next aisle, then race down one of the crossing aisles back to the building. But the man was quicker than she expected, and was only a few feet behind her. On an open straightaway, he’d have the clear advantage.
Yelling for help wasn’t an option, either. She’d never be heard over the sounds of the concrete plant. So she ran across to the cars parked in the next row, but instead of going straight through to the aisle beyond it, she twisted to the left, and turned down the narrow space where the two rows of cars were backed up to each other.
She heard the man smack into one of the cars as he followed her, his footsteps falling a bit further back. Ahead, two cars were backed so close together that their bumpers were touching. Not missing a stride, Berit jumped as she reached them, placing her hands on one of the trunks and using it as a pommel horse. This gained her another ten feet. A few more like that and she thought she could make her move back to the main building.
Opportunity came when the man let out a grunt as he clipped a spare tire mounted on the back of a Jeep and stumbled. She allowed herself a quick glance back, and realized this might be the best chance she had.
She turned down the next gap between cars, and knew in her gut she was going to make it. Her gut, though, hadn’t accounted for the bullet that slammed into her shoulder. She hadn’t even heard the shot, just a weird spit a half second before she was hit.
The bullet felt like someone had hit her with a boulder. Her body involuntarily pivoted to the right, whacking her against the car beside her. She tried to push herself up, but only managed to roll over then slide to the ground.
She wanted more than anything to just sit there, but she knew she had to keep moving, so she fell all the way onto her back and wiggled under the car. The pain in her shoulder was unreal, but it was either put up with it or feel nothing ever again. There was no question in her mind about that. Jamming her mouth closed as tightly as she could so no moans could escape, she continued toward the other side. She knew it would only be a temporary measure, but she hoped something — anything — would break in her favor.
She could hear him. He was three cars away, then two.
She stopped moving, and kept her breathing as quiet as possible. She heard him reach the spot where she had fallen when she was shot.
She wasn’t scared. She had never been scared. Startled, yes, and unnerved for a moment or two, but not scared. The overwhelming emotion she felt was anger — at the man for what he was trying to do to her, at herself for not coming more prepared.
After several frozen moments, the man moved again, coming down the gap. When he was just about parallel with her head, he stopped, pivoted slowly back around, and headed out. He then walked down the gap on the other side of the car before moving on.
She couldn’t believe it. She’d been given a break. For a few seconds, even the pain from her wound wasn’t enough to cut through her sense of relief.
She carefully turned her head to the left, glancing past the gap she’d fallen in and under the other cars. The man’s feet were nowhere to be seen. She turned her head the other way, and the smile that had unconsciously grown on her face vanished.
“I’ve got to hand it to you. You don’t give up easily.” The man was crouched in the gap, his head lowered so he could see her. “I’d really been hoping we could have played a bit more, but as disappointed as it makes me feel, it’s probably for the best.”
She once more considered yelling, but if she couldn’t have been heard above the machinery when she’d been running, there was no way in hell she would be heard from underneath a car.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“The last person you’re ever going to see.” His hand extended under the car. In it was the gun. It had an extra long barrel. A sound suppressor, she realized. That explained why she hadn’t heard the shot.
She started to squirm toward the other side.
“You’ll never make it,” he said. “It might take me a couple shots to get it right, though, so you’ll be in a lot of pain.”
She moved another foot, then stopped. He was right. Instead of looking at him, she closed her eyes. No way was she going to give him that satisfaction. Pushing everything else out of her mind, she thought about her parents.
How supportive they’d been no matter what she wanted to do. Her dad, whose first name graced the middle of hers. Her mom, whose kindness Berit wished she’d inherited more of. How sad she had been when they died.
But now she was no longer sad. In a matter of moments she would be with—
* * *
Durrie’s phone rang. Larson’s number. “What?” he said.
“I need you to do a little bit of that work you’re so good at,” Larson told him.
“What are you talking about?”
“What do you think I’m talking about?”
Durrie was silent for a moment as the realization of what Larson said hit him. “You bastard! What the hell were you thinking?”
“Are you done?” L
arson asked calmly.
Again Durrie paused. “Where is she?”
17
“What?” Peter’s tone matched exactly how Durrie was feeling. “Who the hell authorized that?”
“Self-authorization,” Durrie said into his phone. He was in his car, parked in a supermarket lot, away from the other vehicles.
“Did you tell him he could do that?”
“Negative. He operated outside my specific instructions. He was told to only follow and observe. If anything came up, he was supposed to call in.”
“Well, he didn’t, did he? It’s still your responsibility.”
Durrie checked his rising anger. “I warned you not to send him back here. You can’t saddle me with this.”
“Go to hell, Durrie! You’re the on-scene agent in charge.”
Durrie said nothing. He was the on-scene in charge, but that didn’t mitigate Peter’s role in Larson’s actions.
On the other end of the line, Peter took a deep breath, then blew it out through his teeth. “Where is he?”
“I sent him to go get cleaned up and cooled off.”
“He was agitated?” Peter asked, surprised. Emotion had little place in the world they played in.
“He was…” Durrie paused, thinking of the right phrase. “Pleased with himself.”
“Dammit, what a mess. Give me a moment.”
There was a click as Durrie was put on hold.
Peter’s response about Larson was telling. Usually one of the most efficient men in the business, the head of the Office had apparently been unaware of Larson’s penchant for enjoying his job a little too much.
That’s what you got when you never really met the people you hired and had to rely on reports from trusted operatives — operatives who, like it or not, formed bonds with the people working under them. Some people, like Durrie, wouldn’t let that interfere with the job, and would report everything pertinent, good or bad. Others glossed over things they didn’t consider a problem. The people who usually employed Larson as their trigger man fell into the latter category, Timmons among them.
A little sadistic behavior here and there — what harm did that do?
Becoming Quinn (jonathan quinn thriller) Page 9
