One unnecessarily dead cop, that’s what.
Like so many other things in this world, Durrie had seen it coming. Any of the organizations he worked for would do well to hire him to lead them. Of course, he’d never take one of those jobs. He was more than content with his little slice of the pie, and happy to let lesser men handle the big picture. He was satisfied with knowing he was always right.
Peter came back on the line, his tone more controlled. “We need this situation contained. A dead cop has a way of spiraling out of control. I’m counting on you to take care of it.”
“It’s not going to be a problem,” Durrie said, meaning it. “I’ll set things up so that, worst case, we can tie the woman into what’s going on with Officer Oliver.”
He could sense Peter hesitate, and knew the head of the Office was thinking this was a tricky strategy that could easily flare up into a larger issue if not handled properly. Durrie, however, had no doubts. He was the one dealing with it, so it would be handled properly.
“It’s not going to be a problem,” he repeated.
“The connection gets made only if there’s no other choice.”
“Of course.”
“All right. Do it.”
It was an unnecessary order. Durrie was already planning to do it.
“About Oliver,” Durrie said. “What’s the status?”
Earlier, Durrie had received a call from Detective Kearns, telling him that Oliver had been called in to talk to the commander. Durrie had relayed this information to Peter, but had been unable to follow up on it because the situation with Larson and the woman had blown up not long after.
“Oliver’s been suspended,” Peter said.
“The information he presented?”
“Ignored.”
Good. That hole was plugged. Still…
“Were you able to find out what he’d learned?” Durrie asked.
“I was.” A hint of anger had returned to Peter’s voice. “It seems, in addition to the matchbook, Officer Oliver had a printout from a security camera that showed both Timmons and Larson together.”
Durrie was dumbstruck. How had a rookie cop picked out two seasoned professionals from what must have been hundreds of people in the footage, and connected them to the termination at the barn? How? How? How?
“That’s not all,” Peter said. “Oliver traced the two men to a coffee shop near the operation site.”
Durrie knew in his bones that’s what the cop and his friend had been doing at the coffee shop, but he’d been unable to accept the reality of it until now.
“One more thing,” Peter said.
More? How could there be more? This was already too much.
“He had other photos from the operation site. Marks in the sand where someone had been hiding behind an empty tank of some kind…”
The hairs on Durrie’s arm began to stand on end. That’s where he had been.
“…and one of a mark closer to the barn that looked like it had been made by a wire lying on the ground.” Peter paused. “Are you there?”
Durrie was, but he had no idea what to say. This kid had almost single-handedly exposed the entire operation.
“I’ll take care of the girl,” he finally said. “What do you want done with Oliver?”
“One dead cop we can work with. Two becomes an epidemic. So we’ll take his future day by day. Tomorrow is going to be even worse for him than this afternoon was. It’s possible you may not have to do anything. Then again…”
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Durrie said.
“I know you will.”
Before Peter could hang up, Durrie asked, “And Larson?”
“He stays with you.”
“Come on, Peter. He’s poison.”
“He stays with you. Use him, don’t use him, I don’t care. But know where he is at all times.”
The implication was clear. No matter what happened, there was a good chance this was going to be Larson’s last job.
The real question was, would it be Durrie’s, too?
* * *
Jake barely remembered driving to his apartment. He barely remembered opening the door, or dropping down on the couch. The sun going down — he had no memory of it at all.
Suspended.
That was not the notation he’d been hoping to add to his file. He’d be lucky if he ever got out of a patrol car now. He’d been a fool from the beginning. He should have known they wouldn’t listen to him, a rookie cop sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.
Of course, the brass would have been hard-pressed to believe him even if he’d been on the force for ten years. It was the men at the hotel. No matter how he worked it, there was no way to explain why he’d picked them out of everyone else, other than to say, “I just knew.”
Since he’d left Minnesota, Jake had become fascinated by the puzzles created by a crime. Getting the chance to solve them, like he had tried to do with the Goodman Ranch Road murder, was what had drawn him to law enforcement. If that wasn’t in his future, then he needed to look elsewhere. He’d have to see how things went, and if it looked like his career had already topped out here, he’d find a police force somewhere else that would give him a fresh start.
The thing he was having the biggest difficulty with was that he knew he was right. Forget how he came to finger the men at the hotel. They had been involved somehow. Yes, he was the one who found them, but who cared? No one else would have even looked in that direction. But because it was Jake and not Detective Hubbard or Young, the men were going to get away.
Perhaps another piece of evidence would have helped sway his superiors. Perhaps if he could have shown them—
He sat up.
Berit.
His apartment had turned dark while he’d been sitting there, so he fumbled around on his coffee table, searching for his phone until he found it.
There were no new calls, just the two from Berit and her message. He played it again, listening to the whole message this time.
“You’re not going to believe this. I found the BMW. At least I think I did. It got towed into an impound yard yesterday. Same description, same license plate number. Look, I’m going to go check and see if it’s the same one. I’ll call you once I’m there.”
Jake looked at his phone log again. That was hours ago. Why hadn’t she called back?
He accessed her number and called her.
Four rings. Five, then, “Leave a number after the beep, and I’ll call you back.”
“It’s Jake. What happened? Did you see the car? Call me. I’m…I’m at home. Long story, but, well, just call me.”
He hung up.
Today was her day off, so, with his sudden suspension, it was possible she’d been called in to take his shift. It would certainly explain why she hadn’t answered her phone.
He dialed the substation operator, but cut off the call before the connection was made. The operator would see his number and maybe even recognize his voice. Could be it wouldn’t matter, but then again someone would wonder why the suspended Officer Oliver was calling Officer Davies.
“Dammit,” he said. He would have to wait for her to call him back.
His patience lasted nine minutes.
With a frustrated grunt, he retrieved his phone and keys, then headed out to his car. He could at least make sure she wasn’t home.
18
The impound yard closed at 5 p.m., with the last of the daytime employees not leaving until 6. In the following three hours, Durrie counted two security guards. They seemed to be taking turns walking the yard while the other stayed in the main office.
The camera situation was minimal, primarily focused on and around the main building, with one camera on each of the gates that allowed cars in and out. Through his binoculars, Durrie was able to determine the brand of the cameras, and knew that he had a jammer in his kit that would effectively disable the whole lot of them.
The only frustrating thing was, no matter how many varia
tions he ran through for how the rest of the operation would go, he couldn’t come up with one that avoided needing Larson’s help. With reluctance, he’d told the gunman to meet him at the observation point at 9:15 p.m.
Larson didn’t arrive until nearly 9:30.
Asshole.
“What’s the plan?” Larson asked as he climbed into the passenger seat.
“You do exactly what I tell you and nothing more.”
Larson smirked, but didn’t respond.
Durrie swept the binoculars across the impound yard once more, making sure there wasn’t anything he missed.
“The body?” he asked without setting the glasses down.
“Straight back from the building. Fifth row. An old, blue Mazda sedan.”
The angle from where they were parked was one that gave Durrie a view of much of the lot, so he was able to pick out the car. “Model?” he asked anyway.
“Hell, I don’t know. I told you it’s a Mazda.”
Durrie’s already-low opinion of the man sunk further. The cleaner was a firm believer that knowledge could be the difference between living and dying, a philosophy Larson didn’t seem to share. In Durrie’s mind, even a little thing like knowing the model of a car could be what stood between an agent and a bullet in the head.
He continued his survey, but all was as it had been. He turned his attention to the parking lot in front of the building. There were three cars there — two by the office and one parked closer to the road.
“The car by itself in the visitor’s lot,” he said. “That’s yours?”
“Yeah.”
Larson had at least been smart enough to take the woman’s car when he left earlier, so it wouldn’t be found. Durrie momentarily considered removing the extra car when they finished, but decided it was more effort than it was worth. It was stolen already. Might as well leave it where it would end up anyway. If Larson hadn’t been smart enough to avoid leaving any traces of his presence in it, too bad.
He set the glasses down, then laid out the parts of the plan Larson needed to know.
“Easy,” Larson said when he was through.
“No improvising.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
Durrie said nothing. Worry was not something he’d ever feel for Larson. Concern about what Larson might do was the issue at the moment, because for the next ten minutes, their lives would be in each other’s hands. That didn’t sit well with Durrie.
Without any preamble, he started the engine and drove to the impound yard. Instead of pulling into the visitor’s lot, he parked at the curb along the street, parallel to the building’s entrance.
Durrie pointed out an imaginary path across the parking lot to the fence. “Just like that,” he said. “No deviations.”
“You’re sure?”
Durrie stared at him for a moment. “Yes.”
If Larson did as told, Durrie was confident the assassin wouldn’t be picked up on any of the cameras. This wasn’t just a guess. It was based on camera angles and Durrie’s knowledge of the equipment.
“All right. I’ll do it,” Larson said, as if it had actually been his choice.
Ignoring the comment, Durrie retrieved one of his kit bags from the back seat. From inside he pulled out two sets of comm gear, giving one to Larson, and donning the other himself.
“As soon as you’re in position, let me know,” he instructed. “I’ll tell you when you’re clear to move again. Time to go.”
Without a word, the smug bastard opened the door and got out. Durrie watched for a few seconds to make sure Larson was sticking to the path, then he pulled the jammer out of the bag. He took a moment to adjust the input settings, then hopped into the passenger seat and opened the window. Carefully, he stuck the magnetic base of the transmitter to the outside of the door so that it was facing the impound yard. Then he waited.
Thirty seconds later, Larson’s voice whispered in his ear, “In position.”
“Stand by.”
Durrie checked the settings on the control box in his lap once more, then flipped the “activate” switch. He could feel the box vibrate, then the digital indicator bar started rising. When it hit sixty percent, he knew the cameras would already be experiencing issues. At seventy percent, they were most likely disabled. But he waited two more seconds until the bars reached eighty-five percent, then said, “Now. And no kills.”
“You’re no fun, you know that?”
Durrie set the control box in the footwell, then scrambled back into the driver’s seat. After grabbing his kit, he climbed out, then jogged across the parking lot, not worried about being seen.
By the time Durrie joined Larson inside the secured lot, the assassin had already subdued one of the guards. Durrie gave the unconscious man a shot of BetaSomnol to make sure he stayed under for several hours.
“Any others?” Durrie asked.
“Still inside.”
“Wait here.”
“You don’t want me to—”
“No. I don’t.”
Durrie found the other guard on a couch inside, fast asleep. Once he determined there was no third member of the security team, he gave the sleeping man the same treatment his partner received, then went back outside.
It would have been nice if Larson had put Davies’s body in the trunk of the BMW instead of the Mazda, but his reasoning for not doing so was sound. There was a greater chance someone would show up to examine the BMW than the grime-covered Mazda.
The problem was they now had to do something about both cars.
“Get the BMW,” Durrie said. They were standing in front of the Mazda’s trunk where the woman’s body still lay. “I assume you know how to get it started without a key.”
“Fuck you,” Larson said, then walked off.
When he finally brought the car over — several minutes later than it would have taken Durrie — they transferred the woman’s body into its trunk. From his kit, Durrie pulled out a container of lighter fluid, and used half of it to drench the Mazda’s trunk. He then smashed in the driver’s door window with the butt of his gun, and used the rest of the liquid on the car’s interior. He threw the empty can into the trunk of the BMW with the body.
Not yet ready to torch the Mazda, he waved Larson over. “Show me exactly where you shot her.”
“Over there,” Larson said, pointing beyond the cleaner.
Durrie’s jaw tensed. “Show it to me.”
After an exasperated grunt, Larson said, “This way,” then started walking.
Durrie picked up his bag and followed.
“Here,” Larson finally said.
The car Davies had been hiding under when Larson pulled the trigger was one row back and several cars down from where the BMW had been parked.
Durrie set his bag on the ground, pulled out a flashlight and a quart of oil, then held them out to Larson. “Dump the oil on any bloodstains. If you need more, I have more.”
“Come on,” Larson said without taking either item. “That’s your job.”
Durrie didn’t move, his face impassive.
After several seconds, Larson rolled his eyes, then grabbed the flashlight and oil. “Fine.”
He ended up needing two quarts. When he was done, Durrie kneeled down and inspected his work. It would do.
He zipped up his kit bag and rose to his feet. Pointing at the two empty oil containers on the ground, he said, “Those go in the back of the BMW.”
Larson picked them up.
“Is there anything else we need to deal with?” Durrie asked. “Did she tear her clothes on anything? Did you?”
Larson thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Nah. Nothing else.”
Durrie stared silently at him.
“That’s it,” Larson said. “There’s nothing else.”
Once back at the other cars, Durrie told Larson to get the BMW started, then he walked over to the Mazda. The smell of lighter fluid was intense. Any barely competent investigator would immediately know
what had caused the blaze. But that didn’t matter. Cleaning wasn’t always about making things disappear. More times than not it was about distraction and misdirection. In this case, a burned-out car, its blaze started with the same accelerant used in a rash of recent local auto fires.
He lit a match from a booklet he’d picked up at a convenience store miles and miles away, and flicked it into the back. There was a whoosh as flames instantly engulfed the storage space. He moved around to the broken window, lit a second match, and tossed it inside. He slipped the booklet back into his pocket, then climbed into the BMW.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Their work that evening was far from done.
* * *
After Jake knocked on Berit’s door and received no answer, he checked the carport and saw that her car wasn’t there.
Definitely on duty, he decided.
He quickly dismissed the idea of going back to his apartment. He’d go crazy sitting there alone with only his thoughts. Better to be out doing anything else.
To kill time, he drove around for a while. When he got tired of that, he returned to her place, parked, then went for a walk.
19
The staging area for the second part of the evening was a parking lot behind a sporting goods store that had closed an hour earlier. It took them forty-five minutes to get the BMW, Officer Davies’ Charger, and the sedan Durrie had been driving all together there. The car Larson had obtained before meeting up with Durrie at the observation point, they abandoned. It, like the vehicle Larson had left in the impound yard’s visitor lot earlier in the day, would only lead to an owner who would be happy to get it back.
Durrie and Larson parked the BMW and the Charger in the darkest part of the lot, then took Durrie’s sedan to Davies’s townhome complex. To complete the scenario Durrie had mapped out, they would need to pack several of the woman’s things into her own luggage and take them away.
It was the classic leaving town in a hurry ruse. Some ops agents went overboard, creating complicated backstories to explain a person’s disappearance, but in Durrie’s experience, the less the better. If you seeded some basic information and took the right things from the person’s home, then people would jump to their own conclusions.
Becoming Quinn (jonathan quinn thriller) Page 10
