by Neal Griffin
Tia exhaled with relief. “Sounds fair. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet. But you’re damn sure buying the coffee.”
The two cops pulled onto the quiet street in the unmarked police car, unnoticed save by one person. He fell in behind the large black sedan, wondering what the hell a cop from Newberg was doing all the way down here in the Land of Lincoln.
THIRTY-FIVE
Ben spent three hours with Alex before he finally left the jail through the staff entrance. Once their emotions had leveled off, Alex and Ben spent time talking about how to deal with the reality of their circumstances. They laughed about Marquette, the public defender, who could probably save them a hundred grand if Alex could just come to grips with the idea of spending a decade in prison. They agreed that Ben needed to level with both Lars and Jake, especially Lars. The man deserved to be told his daughter was jammed up on a bogus murder charge. Alex had been dumbfounded to hear Ben’s news of her father—excited that he had spoken but frustrated she wasn’t part of the moment.
Before he left, Corporal Reynolds told Ben to call ahead before his next visit and promised to make sure the on-duty staff was dialed in on the new arrangements. He also let Ben know that Alex would be reassigned to a more secure unit with a private cell. As a cop’s wife, she rated increased security. When he left, Ben noticed that the attitude of all the guards had improved. The experience stood out as a single bright spot since the arrest, and he knew he had Tia to thank for it.
At Newberg Convalescent, Ben walked into Lars’s private room and wondered how to break the news. Easy, he thought. Tell the truth.
“Hey, Lars. It’s me, Ben.” The old man’s eyes fluttered open. Ben had never seen Lars look more gaunt and worn. What does he know? What does he think has happened?
Ben pulled a chair near the bed. “Lars, I need to talk with you about Alex. I need to tell you some things.” Lars turned his head to face his son-in-law with a look that said, It’s about damn time.
Ben laid out the story of Alex’s arrest and the case against her. He told Lars that he knew beyond any doubt Alex was innocent and the only possible explanation was she had been framed. He spoke with conviction. The two men, the two cops, held eye contact with one another, and Ben felt a rekindling of the kinship they had lost years earlier.
“Lars, I don’t know who would do this to her. The guy that got killed, Louis, they were friends. He was a good guy. But from what I can tell, he was just a guy with a coffee shop. Nothing else. None of it makes any sense. I can only figure—”
In a sudden and quick movement Ben would have associated with a man a good bit healthier, Lars grabbed Ben by his shirt. The grip was weak but meaningful. Lars opened his eyes wide and poised his mouth to speak. No words came, but Ben waited. The withered hand still gripped his shirt and Ben took hold of it.
“Take it easy, Dad. Don’t get excited. Stay calm. We got plenty of time.” Ben realized he hadn’t called his father-in-law Dad since high school and saw that it had registered with Lars as well. The old man closed his eyes and steadied himself. Finally the sounds came. The pitch of the voice was strained.
“Harrr-leeee.”
“Lars, who is Harley? You’ve got to tell me more. Does it … does he have something to do with Alex? With Alex getting arrested?”
Lars tapped lightly on Ben’s chest.
“Harr-Leeee. Ben. Har-leeee.”
Tears streamed from the old man’s eyes as the grunting tones continued. “Allllll-lex. I’m soooorry.” Ben watched as the man sobbed, rocking his head back and forth.
Alex was right. Lars Norgaard had the answer. The answer lay trapped in his mind, and the old man was fighting like hell to get it out.
THIRTY-SIX
The Danville Café was half empty in the midafternoon. The smells of chicken grease and freshwater fish left a permanent flavor in the air. A gray-haired waitress whose uniform was adorned with a button that read TIPS ARE SEXY ignored Tia and greeted Seale with a wink. The two cops followed the stout waitress to the seating area, and three more patrons greeted Detective Seale by his first name as he passed by. Tia stood off and watched Seale work the room, shaking hands and offering hellos like he was walking down a rope line. Tia figured the man should retire and run for mayor. After wrapping up a conversation about his recent performance in a local bowling tournament, Seale walked with the waitress to the back of the restaurant and Tia followed along behind. Seale motioned for Tia to take a seat across from him in a secluded booth. The waitress poured out two large mugs of steaming-hot coffee, gave Seale a final wink, and walked away. Facing her across the table, Seale turned all business.
“I got a call this morning,” he said. “Came through nine one one and got forwarded to my desk. Anonymous. Fella said he wanted to report a body. Least, he thought it was a body. Told me he saw a guy putting a roll of carpet in the trunk of a car. Looked like a foot sticking out of the end.
“It was a convincing call. Definitely worth checking out. Said the car was parked on Lakeview Drive. Gave a description of the guy and the car. Even gave me the license plate. Everything. When I asked for his name, he hung up. I tried to the trace the number, but it came back to a drugstore pay phone.” Seale looked at Tia and concluded with a note of sarcasm. “But I guess I shoulda called you, huh?”
Tia went straight to the truth. “I did some time in the Marines. Counterintelligence in Afghanistan. Still got a lot of friends. I got out and became a cop, but a few of my former coworkers … let’s just say they’re still in the business.”
Detective Seale couldn’t keep the intrigue out of his voice. “Go on.”
Tia had meant to keep her methods to herself, but too much was at stake and she got a good feeling from Seale.
“I burned a copy of the Newberg nine one one call. Had a friend of mine download it into a satellite-based voice-recognition database. Kind of a legitimate government thing, but not really. I figured the guy would eventually make some more calls, public or private, Wisconsin, Illinois … hell, he could call from Mars, it wouldn’t really matter. If he picked up a phone and said ‘boo,’ we’d know it.” Tia sipped her coffee and looked at Seale to see if he was handling the revelation well enough that she should continue. The man was stoic and hard to read. Tia went on.
“My idea was capture a call, then set up surveillance on the guy. Then all I would need to do is wall off the source of the info and approach the guy from a blind. Some bullshit traffic stop … or maybe his car would conveniently get broken into and he’d report it to the cops. Then we’d get an ID on him. Start working it from there. Nobody would ever know the difference, and we could build a case independent of the all the illegal shit. Used to be normal ops for me.”
She paused. “But I get it—that was a different rule book and I pushed the envelope a bit. I didn’t mean to step on your work. Last thing I expected was to end up with a copycat of the case from Newberg.”
A moment passed before Seale gave into a wry grin. “You might just end up in Leavenworth, but you are, without a doubt, the ballsiest and most interesting female cop I’ve ever met. And after twenty-plus years in Chicago, that’s saying something.”
“I appreciate the compliment, Detective,” Tia said, “but I’m not much interested in the Leavenworth gig. You think we can work around that?”
“Yeah.” Detective Seale said, his face gone dead serious. “I think we can work something out.”
Tia prodded. “Can I ask? The info off the call, did it pan out?”
Seale took a long look at Tia and spoke slowly. “Yeah, you could say that. I took a couple of uniform guys and went to the address. A car that matched the description was parked right where he said it would be. The owner of the car was home and he was a dead ringer for the guy the caller identified as loading the carpet roll into the trunk. Sure enough, once we got in the trunk, we found a dead he-she whore. Probably missing from the city. Got its skull caved in with a ball bat. Little more brutal than most
, but it happens now and then to men who pass themselves off as hookers. Your average guy can get pretty pissed once he realizes he just got head from another dude.”
“So you’ve got a suspect ID’d. Let me guess,” Tia said. “The case kind of just solved itself?”
“Yep,” Seale said, “until you came nosing around with your secret agent shit. I knew the minute we opened that trunk this case was too good to be true.”
“Where you at with it?” Tia asked.
Seale took a big sip of his coffee and looked at her over the top of the mug. “I was pretty far along. That’s why you got stuck in the lobby. Spent most of the morning at the scene. Pretty straightforward. Once we got into the trunk, one thing led to the next. Recovered the murder weapon from the garage. Thirty-six-inch Louisville Slugger. Solid ash with, wouldn’t you know it, a funny-looking red stain on the business end. We hooked the guy, and of course he lawyered up real quick; he’s nobody’s fool. I think he’s probably been around the block a time or two at some point in his life. He’s got a rap sheet, but most of it goes back quite a few years. Up in your neck of the woods, actually. Florence County.”
Tia made a mental note of it. “Florence County? That’s all the way up at the top of the state. Not much up there but forest and homesteaders. Real live-off-the-land types.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Seale said, changing the subject. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll keep your extracurricular activities off the books for now. Keep it to ourselves. We can compare your Newberg case with the murder here in Danville. Something legit has got to match up. That way we can wall off your clandestine shit and give the connection a legal angle. With that, maybe we’ll take another run at our so-called suspect. See if he gets a little more talkative.”
Seale looked at Tia across the table. “Unorthodox as hell, Tia, but I gotta tell ya, it’s hard to argue with the results. You’re a hell of a cop.”
Tia fought against the urge to stand and shout with the excitement of a heart that sensed vindication. She reached for her cell phone. “I need to get hold of Ben Sawyer. He’ll want to know about this.”
“Yeah, okay.” Seale took a final taste of coffee and motioned the waitress for the check. “Don’t go into a lot of detail over the phone, but tell him if his wife isn’t home by dinner, her lawyer ain’t worth a damn. I could get her out based on this crazy shit.”
Tia began to search for Ben’s cell number in her call history when she saw another man approaching the detective with a sense of apparent familiarity. Feeling the makings of an intrusion, she put the phone aside. “Hey, Tony. Don’t look now, but here comes another member of your fan club.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Harlan had followed them from a distance and waited a full minute before entering the diner. He was glad to see the light crowd as he took a seat at the counter. The Danville detective and the female he recognized as a uniform cop from Newberg were laughing. A couple of old men were sitting nearby—nothing to worry about. The sole waitress finished with the cops and came over to greet Harlan.
“Good morning. What can I bring ya?” Her cheerfulness was wasted on him.
“Just coffee. Black.” Harlan feigned a thick southern accent and did his best to avoid eye contact. He made sure to touch nothing. Looking toward the back of the restaurant, he shook his head in apparent disgust.
What the hell are you two talkin’ about? he thought, wondering how the two cops had met.
Harlan had kept an eye on the Danville detective all morning, and the man had done everything Harlan had expected of him. Right after the call, the detective had headed out to the house with a couple of cops in uniform. Before too long, they’d discovered the body and arrested the obvious killer—the man who, years ago in a courtroom, identified Harlan as the one he’d seen fleeing the scene of a murder. All had gone according to plan, and that score was now nearly settled. Harlan had intended to leave Danville by nightfall and head north for good.
Now this bitch cop shows up, he thought. Harlan almost laughed at the thought of all the trouble the cop must have gone through to somehow end up here in Illinois. Impressive, but all for nothin’.
“Here you go, sir. Will that be all?”
Harlan remained pleasant and kept up his “southern charm.” “Yes, ma’am. I believe it will.”
The waitress walked away, and Harlan resisted the urge to sip the coffee.
Remember, he told himself, they’re cops. They’ll be packin’. Hang back six feet or so. Spread it out even and be quick. Harlan stood. For a moment he fumbled in his pocket, until he fixed his grip. Then he walked toward the booth shared by Detective Seale and the officer from Newberg. He pasted a corny smile on his face, doing his best to appear clumsy and disarming.
THIRTY-EIGHT
The words “fan club” still hung in the air when Tia heard the loud crack of two quick shots. For an instant Seale’s expression turned to one of mild surprise, and then profound sadness. His eyes grew unnaturally wide just as he disappeared in an explosion of blood. Tia felt and tasted a warm sticky liquid spray out, getting in her eyes and covering her nose and mouth. Seale fell forward, and what had been his face settled unevenly against the Formica surface. Tia looked on in horror as the table turned into a growing sea of red liquid. There was a gaping round hole at the base of Seale’s skull and most of the top of his head was gone. Two shots. Both lethal. Seale was most certainly dead, and the man who killed him stood less than three feet away.
Acting on extinct, Tia hunkered down to pull her 9mm from her ankle holster. As she bent low, her chest banged against the tabletop and her fingertips touched the hard plastic grips that were just beyond her reach. Tia shifted her body but kept her eyes locked on the man who was now adjusting his point of aim. Tia continued to fumble for her gun even as the snub-nosed barrel swung her way. The gun was poised inches from her face, and Tia could see down the length of the short barrel as though it were the opening of a train tunnel. She watched as the cylinder began to turn.
No time, Suarez.
Tia reached out with her arm and smacked the man’s wrist just as the gun fired. A bright flash flooded her vision as the path of the bullet screamed past her ear along with the sound of patrons running for the exit. A dozen or more dishes crashed to the floor somewhere behind her, and Tia sensed the atmosphere of bedlam. Her ears rang from the gunfire, but as her vision cleared she could see the gun beginning to swing back her way. Tia pushed out of her seat while at the same time she picked up the mug of steaming coffee and flung it at her attacker. He screamed in pain and covered his face with his free hand. In that moment she was on him.
Tia broke free of the restricting table and positioned herself in front of the gunman. She grabbed his gun with both hands while delivering a knee strike to his groin. Tia knew by his forward momentum that she had found her mark. She pulled hard on the gun, but his grip remained firm. Keeping one hand on the gun, she pulled back her other fist to deliver a strike to his face, but his body suddenly pushed forward and forced her to the ground. He landed on top of her, and she felt the hard metal settle against her rib cage. Tia reached down and got both hands back on the gun. She grabbed the cylinder and squeezed her fist around it. Even as she held it, she could feel his finger against the trigger. She knew he too was squeezing hard as the cylinder turned slowly beneath her grip. She squeezed harder and still the cylinder turned. She looked toward his face and their eyes met.
Tia heard the explosion at the same time a burning sensation spread through her midsection. Her hand went numb and her fingertips slid off the cylinder. A second round was less painful, but somehow she could almost trace the path of the bullet as it nicked her spleen and exited out her back. Tia took a desperate breath, forcing herself to be calm and surrender to whatever her fate might be.
Lying flat on her back, searching for a last moment of peace, twenty-eight-year-old Tia Suarez allowed herself to drift away. The gunman pulled himself to his feet and stood over her. He
pointed the gun at her face as she pictured her parents on their farm in Jalisco. She closed her eyes and conjured a mental image of the family she might one day have had. She heard the repeating clicks of the hammer as it fell on empty cylinders. Tia opened her eyes and a child appeared before her, calm and smiling as the gunman limped and stumbled away. A girl, Tia thought her to be four, maybe five years old was out of place in the café that was now deserted and quiet. Tia lay on the floor, and the little girl, ghost-like yet firm, pulled her close. Strength flowed from the child and Tia’s pain disappeared. Her body now weightless, Tia watched the café drift away behind her.
“Come with me, it’s not your time,” the child whispered.
Tia sensed an intense familiarity, although the little one was unknown to her. “Where do we go, mija?”
“No es tu tiempo. Ven con migo y te mostraré el camino a casa.”
Tia took the small girl’s offered hand. Together they walked down a path of shimmering shallow water, moving away from a distant brilliant light. Tia stood straight, overcome by a sense of wonder at the possibilities of what might come next.
THIRTY-NINE
Ben sat at the kitchen table feeling invigorated by the events of the day. Having a real visit with Alex and then leveling with Lars had given him a sense of renewed hope. Bernie had spent the entire day with Jake and then stayed to cook dinner. Over pork chops and potatoes, Ben listened to Jake talk about the dinosaurs at the Geology Museum in Madison. Bernie had insisted if the boy wasn’t going to go to school he needed to do something that was at least remotely educational. Jake’s rare outburst of conversation ended when the phone rang, a harsh disruption of their pleasant evening. Ben immediately thought of Alex, imagining a jail assault or something worse. He practically jumped to answer the call.
