Charlie-316

by Colin Conway

  “You think so?” Farrell asked doubtfully.

  “You don’t?”

  He considered, then shook his head. “No, I think it’s classic Noble Cause Corruption. Cops shave corners to put bad guys in jail. End justifies the means, but it’s a slippery slope. They start out small, massaging facts in reports, maybe planting evidence on a guy they know is guilty. Then one day, they’re hitting a drug dealer’s house and taking thirty grand from the safe and splitting it with their partner.”

  Clint scoffed lightly. “Some Ph.D. came up with that shit for his doctorate.”

  “It happens.”

  “So, do solar eclipses. Just not that often.” Clint took a swig of beer. “He’s probably just a classic sociopath.”

  “Those are rare, too.”

  “Not as rare as an eclipse.” Clint sighed heavily. “Forget the why. What really grinds me is to see him getting away with it all, being hailed as a hero.”

  “You want to give up?”

  “Hell, no. Not a chance. He dirtied the badge.”

  Farrell nodded in agreement.

  “Not only that,” Clint said, an edge in his voice. “He made it harder for any black man to carry it. He played me for a fool along the way. That cannot stand.”

  For the first time, Farrell thought maybe he truly understood Wardell Clint. Perhaps not all the wild conspiracies, maybe not even everything Clint believed about Garrett, but Farrell now had an inkling of exactly who the man across from him was truly. What he saw was someone much braver than he would ever be.

  “You think you stand a chance?” he asked.

  “He’ll make a mistake. Sometime. Somewhere.”

  “I hope so.”

  “What’s next?” Clint asked.

  Farrell snorted. “The world turns. Sikes gets re-elected. Baumgartner brushes away all the shadows of this case, makes a hero out of Garrett, and probably Talbott and Pomeroy, too. Garrett gets a settlement and his job back, and the other two get bagpipes and a seven-gun salute at the funeral. For my part, I’m going to sit here and get soundly drunk. Maybe look into retiring my way out of this shit. What are you going to do?”

  Clint gave Farrell a flat stare, but his eyes burned with anger. “I’m going to bury that fucker the first chance I get.”

  Farrell smiled at that. He raised his beer and clinked Clint’s glass. “Buona fortuna,” he said. “You’ve got the weight of the world lined up against you on this one, Wardell.”

  “Same as always,” Clint agreed matter-of-factly, and they both drank.

  Chapter 59

  Cody Lofton brushed several strands of hair away from Amanda Donahue’s eyes. She had lain her head in his lap while they rested on his couch. She was wearing a pair of white shorts and a Mariner’s jersey. They had huddled together to watch the fallout from Garrett’s release following the mayor’s poorly handled press conference the night before.

  A half-eaten pizza and two glasses of wine sat on the table in front of them.

  Lofton’s mind drifted to the hastily scheduled press conference the mayor made him call after the conference room meeting. The mayor stood in front of a small group of press and announced to the world that the city of Spokane was “one hundred percent behind Officer Garrett” and, indeed, issued an apology for how he was treated. Sikes even made the announcement that he would seek to meet with Garrett’s attorney to discuss a financial damages package for him. It didn’t take long for that story to go viral. As the day spun out of control, the mayor went into hiding. No one could find him, leaving Lofton to field calls from city council members, the press and irate citizens throughout the day.

  Everything Sikes did during the past week showed him to be a man in a position he wasn’t suited to serve. A nagging thought had plagued Lofton since the meeting late yesterday afternoon.

  “I can’t believe Sikes,” Amanda said, absently.

  Lofton watched the silent footage of the press conference being aired on The Rachel Maddow Show. Sikes had a big smile during the conference, proud of himself for taking control. Chief Baumgartner stood behind him, nothing more than well-uniformed window dressing, a puppet with a badge.

  Earlier, Maddow had torn Sikes apart for announcing the backing of Ty Garrett before the district attorney’s office could officially announce their findings. This was after Sean Hannity had ripped Sikes apart on FOX News for the same thing. Hannity went so far as to call Sikes a moron for announcing his intention to offer damages before an attorney for Garrett made any threat of litigation. Both sides of the media had rallied against the city and everyone was crying foul. The common consensus was something stunk in Spokane and no one was looking at Garrett. The day had started out at a simmer. The national fervor was now at full boil.

  “I’m going to quit,” Amanda said.

  “Me, too,” Lofton whispered, finally addressing the nagging thought in the back of his mind. “I realized that after the meeting in the conference room, yesterday. I guess today was the topper. When he vanished, leaving me to take the heat, it made me realize that I don’t believe in him anymore.”

  She turned her head and looked up into his eyes. “What are you going to do?”

  Lofton shrugged, his eyes still on the TV. “I don’t know. Brush up my resume, I guess.”

  Amanda sat up, turned to him and crossed her legs. Her eyes were wide, and her lips parted. “I know what you have to do.”

  Lofton smiled. His problems melted away in her eyes. Everything was clear to him now. He leaned over and kissed her.

  She quickly pushed him back. “No, this is serious.”

  “Oh, I thought…”

  “They’ll be plenty of time for that. This is about our careers.”

  Lofton focused on her. “Okay, what am I missing?”

  Amanda pointed at the TV. “What do you see?”

  Lofton turned to the screen and watched. “A city still under siege by the media. A mayor who clearly can’t pull his head out of his own ass. What? What should I be seeing?”

  Amanda thrust her finger at the TV twice. “Opportunity.”

  “What?”

  “I know you want to do it. Everyone knows. It’s not a secret.”

  Lofton studied her until he understood what she was saying. When he turned to look at the TV again, he saw it with new eyes. No more was it ugly and depressing. Instead, it was beautiful and hopeful. A smile grew on Lofton’s lips.

  Amanda climbed into his lap and took his face in her hands. She studied him. “It’s time you announce your candidacy for mayor. Let’s kick Sikes in the balls. It’s time to remake this town in your image.”

  Cody Lofton laughed and then kissed her.

  Epilogue

  To betray, you must first belong.

  —H.A.R. (Kim) Philby, British traitor

  Tyler Garrett pulled to the curb and parked his Nissan Murano. He climbed out and smiled. His Roka Aviators protected his eyes from the sun. He loved being in his old neighborhood, especially when he wasn’t working.

  A little more than a month had passed since the shooting of Todd Trotter and he’d been reinstated. Initially, the administration assigned him to a desk until the media storm died down. It took only a week and a school shooting in Alabama to divert the press’s attention. Once Garrett was yesterday’s news, he was back on the street.

  Angie and the kids had returned from Kennewick after his release from county jail. Life struggled to get back to normal. Angie looked at him slightly different, but he believed time would heal all wounds with her.

  Garrett walked the half block, enjoying the sights and smells of his neighborhood.

  He pulled open the door to Oak’s Barbershop and stepped in.

  Son Seals’ “I Believe to My Soul” played through the speakers in the shop. Delmar Oakley sat in the corner with his eyes closed, bobbing to the song.

  Garrett removed his sunglasses and watched his friend enjoy the music.

>   As the song faded out, Oakley opened his eyes and focused on the young man. The joy in his eyes faded. He slowly stood and turned down the volume before the next song could start.

  “Hey, Oak. How you been?”

  The old man nodded.

  Garrett ran his hand over the top of his head. “Been some time and I’m looking a little rough. You think you can fit me in?”

  “I’m full up right now, kid.”

  Garrett looked at the empty chairs and then back to old man. “What gives?”

  Oakley slowly walked to the front door and flipped the sign to Closed. He turned back to Garrett. “We have some unfinished business.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My gun. You took it and never brought it back.”

  Garrett nodded, then ran his tongue over his top lip. “I’ll get you a new one, Oak.”

  “Don’t want a new one. That old one has special value to me.”

  “Yeah? I didn’t know that. What value does it have?”

  “It proves you’re innocent.”

  Garrett pursed his lips.

  Oakley walked past Garrett and leaned on one of the barber chairs. “You remember that crazy-eyed brother that you called here when you were trouble?”

  “Clint,” Garrett said with a sneer.

  “Right. He came by the shop a couple weeks back.”

  Garrett’s eyes widened for just an instant, but he quickly recovered. “What did he want?”

  “He came spinning a story of how maybe you shot that man in the back on purpose.”

  “That’s a lie. I was ambushed. Even the district attorney cleared me of the shooting.”

  “That’s what I said, but Clint said to listen to his story. He can be very convincing when he wants to be. He said you were caught up in some drug dealing with a couple of dirty cops.”

  Garrett looked away from Oakley, anger flashing across his face.

  “He told me how one of those cops ended up shot to death. He thinks you did that. Then four people were murdered in connection to some drugs, and he seems to think you’re responsible for that one as well. The one I didn’t get was how you convinced a man to kill himself, but that four-eyed bastard seems to think you managed that as well.”

  Garrett looked at the ground, his jaw flexing.

  “How many is that? Six? That’s a lot of people in the ground, son. He kept trying to pin that all on you. I told him he was full of it.”

  The younger man lifted his head, looking at Oakley.

  “He then tells me he found a link between the man you shot in the back and the drug dealer that was murdered. He believes you shot that man on purpose. He’s not sure why, but he says he’s still working on that angle.”

  Garrett shook his head.

  “Then you know what the crazy son-of-bitch said?” Oakley said. “He said, the one thing he couldn’t figure out was where you got the gun to do all them killings.”

  “I didn’t shoot anyone, Oak. Clint is just lying to stir the pot. He’s upset about the two detectives and thinks I’m part of it. Those guys were his friends.”

  Oakley shook his head. “See, that’s a lie. I could always tell when you were lying, son.”

  Garrett stared at him.

  “Looks like the only one telling the truth around here is Wardell Clint.”

  Garrett raised an eyebrow.

  Tears filled the old man’s eyes. “I dirtied my soul by lying for you. I don’t know if I’ll ever get that lifted. I love you like a son, Garrett, and I wouldn’t give that man what he wanted to know.” Oakley wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I need you to go. You’re not welcome here no more.”

  “Oak…”

  The old man held up a hand and walked over to the stereo, turned up the music and sat back in the corner chair. Little Milton’s “I Play Dirty” popped through the speaker. Oakley closed his eyes and started bobbing his head to the music.

  Garrett watched him, expecting him to talk to him further. When he didn’t, Garrett finally turned and left.

  He stood on the sidewalk, looking up and down the street, taking it all in.

  A car honked, and the driver stuck his finger out the window at another car. A pregnant young woman with tattoos on her arms pushed a baby stroller while a Rottweiler trotted alongside her. Across the street, a large black man argued with a skinny Hispanic woman. Without warning, he slapped her across the face. When he turned to walk away, she trotted behind him, yelling “I’m sorry.”

  Garrett took it all in before laughing.

  He put his sunglasses on and lifted his face to the sun. Then he turned and strutted to his car.

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The authors wish to thank those essential first readers who helped make Charlie-316 the best novel it could be: Dave Mather, Melanie Donaldson, C.W., Judy Orchard, Brad Hallock, John Emery, Cheryl Counts, David Conway, and Kristi Scalise.

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  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  COLIN CONWAY served in the U.S. Army for four years and later was an officer of the Spokane Police Department for five years. He writes crime fiction novels, short stories, and anything else that might prove interesting. He lives in Eastern Washington with his beautiful life partner, Carla, their three wonderful children, and a crazy, codependent Vizsla that rules their world. Learn more at ColinConway.com.

  FRANK ZAFIRO was a police officer in Spokane, Washington, from 1993 to 2013. He retired as a captain. He is the author of numerous crime novels, including the River City novels and the Stefan Kopriva series. He lives in Redmond, Oregon, with his wife Kristi, dogs Richie and Wiley, and a very self-assured cat named Pasta. He is an avid hockey fan and a tortured guitarist. You can keep up with Frank at FrankZafiro.com.

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  BOOKS BY COLIN CONWAY AND FRANK ZAFIRO

  Some Degree of Murder

  Charlie-316

  by Colin Conway

  Tales from the Road (with Bill Bancroft)

  Lost in Middle America

  by Frank Zafiro

  River City Series

  #1 Under a Raging Moon

  #2 Heroes Often Fail

  #3 Beneath a Weeping Sky

  #4 And Every Man Has To Die

  #5 In the End

  Stefan Kopriva Mysteries

  #1 Waist Deep

  #2 Lovely, Dark and Deep

  #3 Friend of the Departed

  with Eric Beetner

  #1 The Backlist

  #2 The Short List

  #3 The Getaway List

  with Lawrence Kelter

  The Last Collar

  Fallen City

  with Jim Wilsky

  The Ania Series

  Blood on Blood

  Queen of Diamonds

  Closing the Circle

  Harbinger

  Other Novels

  At Their Own Game

  At This Point In My Life

  The Last Horseman

  Chisolm’s Debt

  The Trade Off (with Bonnie Paulson)

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  Here is a preview from The Ornery Gene, a murder mystery by Warren C. Embree.

  Click here for a complete catalog of titles available from Down & Out Books and its divisions and imprints.

  Chapter One

  Wednesday, 9:15 p.m.

  Sam Danielson slowed his pickup to a stop beside an old cattle chute, switched off the engine, rolled the window all the way down, and listened. He absentmindedly counted the cricket chirps for ten seconds, added forty to the number of chirps and calculated it to be about sixty-five degrees or so outside. A trick his dad had taught him. It was a little chilly for July in this part of the hills, but he had heard the low rumbling of thunder on the drive out. It smelled like rain; there was a storm moving from the northeast that was cooling things down. There could even be some ice in it. He checked his watch: nine-fifteen
. Just past twilight. He opened the pickup door and took a deep breath. He reached over, grabbed the flashlight from the glove box, and slid out of the driver’s seat onto the soft sand.

  Off in the distance, he heard a mama cow lowing. This was the life he had chosen, and he had never looked back. It hadn’t been easy working for, and then with, his dad. They had gone back and forth on the best way to select the bulls and broncos they supplied for “rough stock” events at the rodeos in the Sandhills of western Nebraska. There was only one way for Dad. “You don’t have the feel for how much the bull don’t want rode,” his dad would say. But Sam had gone to school and studied twentieth-century methods of livestock rearing. For his dad it was a way of life; for Sam it was a business. Sam liked the numbers. He liked to narrow the odds by more than just a feeling. He had tried to show his dad the value in breeding techniques and genetic tracking in estimating the probability that a particular bull would do well in the arena. His dad would just laugh it off. “Show me the ornery gene,” his dad would laugh. “I’ll have five bulls picked before you decide on one.” But Sam knew his would be a better one than the five. He could prove the temperament of a bull before anyone tried to ride it. He had never convinced his dad. The ornery gene had been elusive, but not the genetic makeup of the ornery bulls. He had been right, and he had a genetically identifiable line of stock to prove it.

  During his travels from his ranch outside of Laramie, Wyoming, Sam had been made aware of a genetic curiosity in one of the cattle he purchased in Colorado in the spring. Being off in the records would end up being off in the genetic makeup of the calves. There never was just one gene that made the difference. It was a matter of multiple generations. He had traced the lines that looked the most promising, and closely followed the leaders in the industry. Discovering that curiosity had led him into this part of the Sandhills of Nebraska. Talking about it at the bar had got him into an argument with the old cowboy, and listening to the old man had brought him to this particular spot.