“That's great, thank you for helping. I'll get Cordero to follow up on this. I'd like to chat, but I need to get to a meeting. Let's talk later.”
Before Hank could add anything, the phone was silent. Okay, tomorrow.
While Hank focused on reviewing his notes for the next assignment, the phone rang. “Hello?”
“Mister Carson, this is Detective Jim Sherman with the Reno PD. Have you got time to talk?”
“Of course, Jim. What can I do for you?”
“I reviewed your statement and the video. Why were you at the motel?”
“I needed a break from the case I was helping with. Since I was close by, I wanted to check out Reno. I haven't been there for many years. A little gambling seemed like fun. I also went to The National Car Museum. Anything else?”
“Were you armed?”
“No. I haven't carried since I left LAPD. I have a Glock locked in my motorhome, but haven't used it in years.” What's he after?
“Do you know any of the victims?”
“No.”
“I called to thank you for your help. Your statements of the shooting scene got verified by several of the guests at the motel that night. There are more details you might find interesting.”
“I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but it's unnecessary. I'm sure you're busy.”
“Yes and no. If I were in your situation, I’d be curious if someone shared a little background on the shooting victims.”
Hank laughed at his perceptiveness. “You’re so right. I'm always intrigued to find out what happened. Plus it brings closure to the incident. Who were they?”
“The woman, named Patricia Wentworth used the stage name, Trixie. She had an on-again-off-again relationship with Mitch Cobern, a trucker, and a member of the Reno Hells Angels chapter. They had been living together for about a month this time when she became attracted to Matthew Friedmore from Truckee; you know the North Lake Tahoe town. Anyway, they often met after she left work as a dancer at a local strip club. Cobern broke into the motel room where Trixie was in bed with Friedmore. They struggled, and Cobern shot him. Friedmore survived and confessed to sharing drugs and booze with the woman.”
“That's not surprising. What else?” Hank asked.
“As you assumed, Wentworth and Cobern were pronounced dead at the scene. The autopsy showed she had a blood-alcohol level of .201 and a substantial amount of cocaine in her system. Cobern was high on meth. It all fits doesn't it?”
“Oh, yes, that scene happened many times in L.A. Thanks for the info. Is there anything I need to do?”
“Nope. I only wanted to thank you and let you know what we learned. The case is closed.”
“What about Friedmore and the patrolmen who got shot?”
“He and Jeffers, the patrolman, both got shot in the side, and the bullets hit no vitals. They will recover without more than a scar. The other officers got scratches from flying glass, which only needed Band-aids. I've got to go now. Enjoy your retirement. I hope to do so in a few years.”
“Thanks for sharing. Bye.”
Hank, glad to hear the injured patrolmen weren't badly hurt. The whole situation sucked, but at least innocent people survived the debacle. He made himself a stiff Makers Mark drink and relaxed on the couch while listening to soft jazz and petting Molly.
THIRTY
Later in the afternoon, Alicia was about to call Hank when the phone rang.
“Hi, Bernie. Your timing is perfect. How was your first week at Sierra College?”
“Not as hectic as I expected. The kids were good, yet sad about Mrs. Woodsen, but they acted as if they were okay with me. I hope it continues to improve. How are Hank and you doing?
“We've only had a few dates, since you, and I talked. He took me to a Mystery Dinner Theater on the river boat. It was fun. We laughed and relaxed.”
“Anything else?”
Alicia felt herself blush. “Well, we spent two days skiing and playing.”
“You did what? Went skiing and screwing?” Bernie laughed.
Alicia described the days at Boreal and her accident. “I'm doing okay.”
“Have you gone out again? Last night?”
“No, it was a work night, and I declined the offer,” Alicia said.
“So what's next? This weekend have any possibilities?”
“I've to get caught up on paperwork tonight and tomorrow. I hope he calls, or maybe I will. We're enjoying our free time together.”
“What about Dean?” Bernie asked.
Alicia paused. “You remember that before he left for Washington, he asked me to marry him. I said no then because I didn't want to give up my job. We both have important careers. But he called me last night and is returning to Sacramento. I think he wants to marry me.”
“Is that a problem?”
“I don't know. Enough about me. What are you doing? Can we get together?”
“Not this weekend, tomorrow is for homework and planning for next week. Plus I need to look for a place to live. Sunday, I'm going to see my folks.”
“Do you have any prospects? Are you looking at Loomis or Roseville?”
“Yes, both, plus a few places closer to Carmichael. I'm not in too big a hurry. I want a comfortable place that I can afford. Hustle and get your work done, call Hank and have fun. I've got to get work done, too. Let's try to link up next weekend.”
“Okay, Bernie. Thanks for the call, see you later. Love, ya!”
“Ditto, bye.”
THIRTY-ONE
Alicia had free time after completing her work assignments, so she and Hank went to see an afternoon movie, The Imitation Game. After the film, they had dinner at the Bluewater Seafood Grill, a casual cafe that only served seafood grilled over Mesquite wood. They spent the evening talking about the movie and the uniqueness of the British cryptanalyst Alan Turing, who decrypted German intelligence codes for the British government during World War II.
“Now that was a tough case to solve. Much more complicated than the cases we encounter,” Hank said. “So tell me about your career and what your plans are.”
“My plan is to stay where I am. It's been a quick journey since I joined eight years ago. I find the work stimulating, and my team has accepted a woman as their boss.”
Hank asked, “Have you considered moving to the FBI or Homeland Security?”
“No, I'm happy with the Bureau, especially with this SIT team.
Hank drove her home by eight o'clock. Instead of inviting him in, Alicia said she was tired. Frustrated and disappointed, Hank wondered if he’d lost his touch or if something else was happening.
Sunday, December 8
A wet kiss on his cheek awakened Hank. Aroused, he reached for Alicia only to discover his affectionate playmate was Molly.
Less than happy about being awoken so early and finding Molly licking him instead of Alicia, he murmured, “Hi, girl. Waking me is becoming a disturbing pattern, but I’ll get up.” It wasn’t as if he had a choice.
The dog was excited to see Hank sit up and put his feet on the floor. Wide awake, he rubbed her belly, wishing he could do that to Alicia. Throwing on clothes, he followed Molly to the dog run. They played Frisbee in an open area of the RV park. After a granola cereal breakfast, Hank read the paper before reading his emails and adding to his blog.
After lunch, his cell phone rang. “Hi, Alicia. I’m glad you called.” Not sure of why she was calling, he played it safe, sticking to business. “How's the case going?”
“Nothing noteworthy. We’re still waiting for the complete DNA report from the knife and napkin. Ther's unknown fingerprints from the wine cooler. This case is taking longer than I expected. I’m eager to make an arrest and close this matter.”
“I can relate to that. How's your ankle?”
“Much better. I use an Ace bandage, but may not need it tomorrow.”
“That's great. Is there anything else that would help with the case?”
“The team's working hard on
this, and they’ve got enough evidence on another case that will soon be turned over to the DA.”
“Would you like to do something today?” Hank asked.
“No, I need to stay home and take care of my duties, fun things like laundry and vacuuming.”
“That doesn't sound like fun. Need help?”
“That’s sweet of you, Hank, but I have to take care of business. If something comes up tomorrow, I'll call and let you know if we need your help. Enjoy the day. You can relax. Bye.”
Hank couldn’t figure out what was different. Instead of brooding, he spent a lot of time playing Frisbee with Molly. He never had to worry about how much Molly loved him. When she looked at him, he saw the love in her eyes. After lunch, he watched a football game, but his mind kept going over the recent conversations with Alicia.
At five o'clock, he received a call from Alicia. “I'd like to meet you for dinner tonight,” She said.
“Oh? That's great. Want me to pick you up?” His heart raced at the thought of seeing her again. Maybe tonight he’d get lucky.
“Unnecessary. How about meeting me at the Rusty Scupper about seven? That's off of I-5.”
“Okay. I think I've seen it at the river near the airport. I've got GPS, so I'll find it.”
“That's it. I'm being called. See you then.”
“I'm looking forward to it, bye.”
THIRTY-TWO
The restaurant was easy to find. Hank waited in the lounge, decorated in a nautical theme with weathered, whitewashed wood paneling. Seaport photos and paintings adorned the walls, along with draped hemp mooring ropes and glass buoys. Custom made mahogany and brass ship's hatch covers topped the bar and tables. Alicia arrived ten minutes after he did. They shared a quick hug before being seated at a table overlooking the river.
“Any more news on the case?” Hank asked.
“I think we'll get a print match tomorrow. We've gotten prints from all the employees on the train and the guests. The problem is that the one significant print is only a partial, but since it has a tiny blood spot, there may be enough for a myocardial DNA test.”
Alicia ordered the Red Snapper with a Vera Cruz sauce. Hank selected the chargrilled Halibut steak. They agreed on a bottle of Kendall Jackson Chenin Blanc. Silence hung between them until the waiter served the wine.
“To us,” Hank said, raising his glass in a toast to Alicia. Hank thought he detected hesitation before touching glasses.
“Cordero tried to connect with Stan Klein, but no luck. He's due to work Wednesday night at the French Café,” Alicia said.
During dinner, instead of speaking they concentrated on their food. Hank felt uneasy, wondering why her temperament appeared reserved. He poured more wine into her half-filled glass.
Alicia pushed her plate away. Clearing her throat, she said, “Hank, you know I enjoy being with you. We are compatible in so many ways, but there is someone else who keeps me from moving forward with you. I haven't been entirely upfront about my past.”
“How so?” Hank's heart dropped and then ended up in his throat. Oh, shit! I dread her next words.
“I told you that my condo belongs to a friend. His name is Dean,” she sipped her wine before continuing. “He and I lived together until he left to work in Washington, D.C. We were a couple, and I believed we had entered a committed relationship until he took the job. We agreed to wait and see how things worked out. He called me last week and again last night. He's working for Darnell Morgan of the 6th Congressional District. When Dean went to D.C. two years ago, he joined the Congressman's staff. Dean will manage the District office here in Sacramento if he's accepted.”
Alicia paused and sipped her wine. “I think he wants to marry me. Before he left for Washington, he asked me to marry him. I said no then because I didn't want to give up my job. We both have important careers.”
“And what will you say now?”
“I don't know. Hank, I love being with you, but I'm not sure if I want to get married.”
“To Dean or me?” Hank gulped down the rest of his wine, then motioned to the waiter.
”There’s the rub. I care about both of you. You’re much more sensitive and caring than Dean. I love my career, but my personal life is conflicted.”
The waiter arrived and asked if they wanted dessert. Alicia shook her head.
Hank felt numb. He said to the waiter, “I'd like a double Maker's Mark on the rocks.” He focused back to Alicia and said, “I get it. I would love to continue our relationship. I sensed you felt the same way, but now I see I was wrong.”
“Oh, Hank, I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”
Hank chose his words, “A long-term commitment needs to be mutual. If you aren't committed, I can only share my feelings, and we have enough in common to be happy together. I've shared my past marriage failure with you and my devotion to my job, and understand that your career is important to you. I've been there, aware of the pitfalls.”
Hank's drink arrived. The waiter removed their plates and asked if they wanted coffee.
“Yes, please,” Alicia said. She waited until he left. “The problem isn’t you, Hank. It’s me. I don't know what I want.”
“I wish you’d been more open with me about Dean.” Hank gulped down half of his drink.
After being served the coffee, Alicia continued, “I don't want to hurt you.”
“No, Alicia, don't apologize. Take your time as I will. When will you see Dean?”
“He's coming here this Thursday. I don't think I will have an answer for him though.”
“Why don’t you wait to see how you feel when you get together with him. If he’s what you want, okay. If not, you know how to get in touch with me.”
Hank finished his drink as Alicia sipped her coffee. The waiter arrived, offering refills. Alicia asked for the check. Hank reached for his wallet, but her look told him to back off.
In the parking lot, they hugged, looking each other in the eyes. Hank thought she had a guilty and confused expression. He hoped his face didn’t show how angry and disappointed he was. He walked away without saying another word.
It was all Hank could do, to not curse the gods. Her decision was out of his control, and he had no choice but to accept whatever she decided. All he could do was to wrap up this case and give her the time she needed.
At the motorhome, not even Molly’s enthusiastic greeting could diffuse his depression and let down feeling. After taking Molly out to do her business, he poured a double shot of Maker's Mark with ice, sat in his desk chair and pondered the situation. Three sips later the glass was empty. Beautiful Alicia was on Hank's mind.
Was she honest? Did I read more into our relationship than was possible? Was I overreacting to our intimacy? I have no regrets for pursuing her, but I hate this.
Sensing the rejection rise upwards towards his mouth, he slumped forward, placed his hands on his head and sobbed. After a few minutes, he got up and poured himself another drink. He drowned his sadness in bourbon.
THIRTY-THREE Monday, December 9
Hank woke with a foggy head and dry mouth. He stumbled to the galley, grabbed the orange juice from the fridge, and guzzled it down. The bottle of bourbon sat on the counter, almost empty.
He took a long shower before forcing himself to take Molly out for a quick walk. “No playing this morning, girl.”
After a cappuccino and a toasted bagel, he felt more human. Hank called the Bureau office before noon. Paulette Murphy answered, “I'm sorry Hank, all the agents are out on a case. Only Austin is available.”
“Okay, can you connect me with him, please?”
Hank, shocked by the information relayed to him. Austin told Hank about Scott getting shot in his house. “The CSU team, Smith, and Ferguson are there investigating. Agent Bridge and the boss are at the hospital. Michaels and Donovan were following leads about a suspect visitor last night. Scott is out of surgery. That's all I know now,” Austin stammered.
“Thanks, Aust
in.”
Hank drove to Scott's house wanting to get more information from Cordero Smith.
After a brief hello and sharing information about the shooting, Cordero said, “Since we had an APB out on Scott we received a call about this incident. When we arrived, some neighbors said they heard people yelling around 11 p.m. When they heard a gunshot, they called 911. The cops arrived and entered to find Scott, alive, on the floor in his makeshift office with a wound to his abdomen. They called for an EMT.”
“Did anyone see what happened?” Hank asked.
“A tall man wearing gym clothes was seen running to a silver Mercedes four-door sedan, but no one followed him. Scott got transported to Sutter General Hospital on Alhambra Boulevard.”
“Thanks, Cordero.” Hank headed to the hospital.
At the hospital, Alicia and Bridge were waiting for Scott to become conscious. Alicia allowed Hank to listen in when they entered Scott's room.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Scott?” Agent Tomlinson asked.
“Not well. I hurt,” Scott said, not opening his eyes. Saliva glistened on his lips.
“Do you know who shot you?”
“Ah... Yes,” he slurred.
“Who?”
“Drummer,” Scott mumbled.
“Do you mean Stephen Drummond?”
“Yeah, I think. Yeah, him.”
“Why would Drummond shoot you, Mr. Scott?”
“He thinks I saw something.”
“What did you see?”
“I saw him near the wine room,” Scott mumbled.
“You mean the room where the wine was, the wine cooler on the train?” Alicia asked.
Scott nodded, eyes closed, appearing heavily medicated.
Alicia called the Attorney General's Office to get an arrest warrant out for Drummond. She ordered Bridge to send out an APB for his arrest.
Bridge called Michaels, who discovered that Drummond has a car matching the description and partial plate number of the vehicle seen leaving the scene. Bridge sent Michaels and Donovan to pick up the arrest warrant at the Attorney General's office, then to Drummond's place to bring him in for assault with a deadly weapon and questioning.
Killer On The Train Page 16
