“I understood what you said,” Cam replied, keeping his hands still, even though the nearest weapon was in the front hall closet. “But not why. Who the hell are you? What’s this all about?”
“This is about your going away on a long trip,” the man said, keeping his voice steady, entirely matter-of-fact, as if holding another cop at gunpoint was routine. “You’re rich now, so you can go anywhere you want. An ocean cruise, maybe. A long one—around the world. But mostly you have to leave. And sooner is better than later.”
“And if I don’t?” Cam said.
“Not an option, Lieutenant. You have only two options. One is to leave. The other involves everyone getting into dress uniform, a parade, a bagpiper. I’m sure you get the picture.”
“This is because I suggested that cops might have killed those suspects? Cops doing that electric chair business?”
“They said you were smart. Now prove everybody right. Go away.”
“Who are you guys anyway?”
The man made a click of disappointment. “Now you’re proving everybody wrong. Maybe you’re not smart at all. Think about it, Lieutenant. Use your ass. You’ve got a ton of money coming to you. You don’t have to work anymore. You don’t have to be a cop, get your hands all sticky with the pond slime, sweeping the shit off the streets night after night. You can do anything you want. Go anywhere you want. Get any woman you want. A new woman every night. Get yourself a brand-new Merc, instead of that antique you drive around in these days. The one with the green ignition wires? What do you care about law enforcement in Manceford fucking County anymore?”
“Murder is murder, Sergeant,” Cam said, noticing the stripes for the first time. But he wasn’t from Manceford County—too much belly on him. Bobby Lee would have had this guy going for five-mile runs with him. He also didn’t think the man would just shoot another cop. He’d been sent to warn him off. Sure about that? a little voice in the back of his head asked.
“Murder is what happens to decent human beings, Lieutenant. To individuals in good standing with the rest of the human race. Not to landfill seep like those two assholes.”
“Judge Bellamy was hardly street trash,” Cam said. He wanted to keep the man talking, memorize that voice and soak up what facial features he could see around those glasses. Something about the face was wrong—it was too white, an inside face, not a working deputy sheriff’s face.
“Judge Bellamy was a facilitator, Lieutenant,” the man said. “One of those judges who makes life on the street possible and profitable. She let two confessed murderers walk out of her courtroom, and she was proud of it. And you know what they say about pride, right? By the way, word on the street is that the feds are taking a look at you for the bombing. All that money. That true? They doing that?”
“Who knows,” Cam said, becoming increasingly uneasy. He remembered what he’d said about Will Guthridge and making assumptions about the immunity of cops. “As you can see, I’m still here.”
“And that’s the problem, Lieutenant. That is the problem. We want you gone. Easy way or hard way.”
“Who’s ‘we,’ Sergeant? You leave your robe and hood home tonight?”
The man just laughed. “Listen,” he said. “We don’t want to mess with you, Lieutenant. We’re sorry for your loss and all that happy horseshit. But in the meantime, take that trip, why don’t you? Make it a long one.”
“As in, go the fuck away and live a lot longer?”
“There you go,” the deputy said. His gun hand twitched and Cam heard the .45’s slide rack forward and lock. He hadn’t been aware that the gun had been racked open. He’d mostly been concentrating on that great big hole at the business end. Now it was chambered and cocked and pointed right at him.
“Everyone will understand,” the big man said. “Your woman’s dead, all the fun’s gone out of policing, and you suddenly have more money than God. You fold your tents and steal away into the desert night and that will make perfect sense. And here’s the thing, Lieutenant: Either you can arrange it or we can arrange it.” He stopped talking for a few seconds, then said, “Bye now.”
The man stepped back into Cam’s house. Cam heard the dogs barking up on the hill and mentally swore at them. He waited until he heard the front door shut and then hurried through the house. He heard a powerful engine start up outside. He swept aside the curtain and saw what looked like an unmarked police cruiser headed up the cul-de-sac. He tried to catch the plate or the county letters, but the plate light had been turned off. There were no white dazzle side numbers visible as it drove under the streetlight.
Okay, he thought, definitely not Manceford County. But had he been a real cop? Anybody could doctor up a Crown Vic.
As he walked back into his house, he realized his heart was beating at twice the normal speed. Then he heard the phone ringing and grabbed it.
“Good evening, Lieutenant Cam,” Jaspreet Kaur Bawa said. “I hope I am not disturbing you.”
You’re hardly as disturbing as the past few minutes have been, he thought. “No, not at all, Ms. Bawa. Jay-Kay, I mean.”
“Oh, good. I always hesitate to call police officers at home. Although I understand you will be spending more time at home.”
“Looks like it,” Cam said. “I’m on a leave of absence. But I suppose you already knew that.”
“I had heard that, Lieutenant Cam,” she said. “What will you do, then? Take a trip perhaps?”
“Not you, too,” Cam said.
“Pardon?” She sounded genuinely confused, and Cam realized she had probably just been making polite conversation.
“How’s the electric chair investigation going?” he asked. “Or are you even still involved? Do you work with ATF, too?”
“I work for the Bureau only,” she said. “But the Charlotte field office is, in fact, working closely with the ATF. They know what the explosive was, but there is still discussion about how it was set off.”
“Well, I’m out of that loop right now,” Cam said. “I think the whole Sheriff’s Office is out of that loop, actually. And to answer your question, I don’t know what I’m going to do. It won’t involve police work, though.”
“That was a terrible thing that happened. And the agent and I had only been gone for, what, an hour? I was frightened, actually.”
“I can understand that. Dodging a bullet doesn’t make the fact of the bullet go away.”
“Are you sad, I mean, that this woman was killed? I understand that you knew her other than as a judge?”
Cam explained the history between him and Annie Bellamy. “So yes, I am sad. I think we had a shot at something permanent.”
“I am sorry,” she said. “I was very angry with her for letting those two killers go free. But I understood there were legal issues. And this country is obsessed with legal issues, isn’t it? The story is that you will inherit a great deal of money.”
“So it would seem,” he said. “That was all news to me, though, and I think it will take some time. Lawyers. Real estate settlements. Taxes. Is this all they talk about around the coffeepot in Charlotte?”
She laughed. It was a pleasant sound. “It made for an interesting bit of gossip, I’m afraid,” she said. “The drama of the bombing, the possible connection with the Internet executions, and then your ‘surprise’ inheritance. Much more interesting than hunting down the latest terrorist alert. But some of the talk was perhaps more serious, Lieutenant Cam.”
“You can call me just Cam if you’d like. I’m a paper lieutenant right now.”
“Very well, Just Cam,” she said. It was his turn to smile.
“So what are they saying?”
“That the motive to execute the two robbers was much stronger than the motive to kill the judge. Until they found out about the will.”
“Cui bono,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“Cui bono. It’s a Latin term that means, roughly, ‘who gains’? It’s a first principle in homicide investigations. Who stands
to gain by the victim’s death. Apparently, that’s me.”
“Yes,” she said. “I think that was the thrust of the conversations. Mr. McLain did not take the notion all that seriously, but the ATF people apparently still do.”
“Glad to hear I’ve got McLain on my side,” he said. “So, Jaspreet, is that why you called? To warn me that I might be a suspect in the Bellamy bombing?”
“Well, yes,” she said.
“Not to worry. I didn’t do that. I had no knowledge of any will or inheritance, nor any reason to expect to benefit in any way from Annie’s death. Just the opposite, in fact. But I appreciate your concern.”
“Well, someone did this terrible thing, Just Cam,” she said.
“Yes, someone did, Jaspreet. And I have every confidence that the combined resources of the Bureau and the ATF will find them and get them. Don’t you?”
It was her turn to hesitate. “I’m not so sure,” she said. “There seems to be more going on with this investigation than a search for one person. But of course I’m only a consultant, so there is much I am not privy to.”
“Unless, of course, you turn loose those big mainframes and start reading other people’s E-mail,” he said.
She laughed again. “I must confess to letting people think I can do much more than I really can do,” she said. “Federal ciphers are provided by the NSA. No one breaks NSA code.”
“Unless they let you into the office,” he said. “And then let you open up a workstation to examine office fire walls and other security devices. Like we did in the Sheriff’s Office. And at the courthouse.”
“Sometimes that level of access is necessary if I am going to help my clients,” she said primly.
“And your computers never forget a line of code, do they?” he asked.
“That is their nature,” she said.
“You be careful, Jaspreet,” he said. “Like you said, the feds have really big computers these days, and they’re looking at all of us now. If they look your way, they’ll see you.”
“I am always careful, Just Cam,” she said. “And I have every respect for this government’s computers. But perhaps less for the people who operate them? Anyway, you, too, should be careful, I think. Stay in touch?”
“As best I can, Jaspreet,” he said. “As best I can. And I may be hitting the road for a while.”
“Take that Dell portable with you, perhaps,” she said. “The one you bought two years ago?”
He chuckled. She was showing off now.
“Let me ask you something,” he said. “Have you looked for James Marlor?”
“I have not. Would you like me to try?”
He told her about the cabin. “I couldn’t tell if it had been used recently or not. But it seems the perfect place to lay up.”
She asked if he could give her a precise location. He retrieved his notebook and gave her the GPS coordinates they’d given the helo pilot.
“You have a good night, Just Cam,” she said. “And stay in touch, yes? Of course you will. Bye.”
After he hung up, he remembered that he’d meant to ask her what she had found in Annie’s computer, if anything. On the other hand, that was probably a moot point right now.
30
THE NEXT MORNING, HE inspected the Merc, looking for signs of intrusion in the electrical and ignition systems. He looked underneath, checked the brake lines, fluid reservoirs, the locking gas tank cap, the fire wall, and the entire interior of the vehicle. Then he checked for surveillance tracking devices behind the license plate frames and all the other places where he and his people routinely put such devices.
Then he pulled out the Blaupunkt radio and examined it for “extra” features, such as a second antenna or an additional tiny circuit card. A car’s radio was a favorite place to put a locating transmitter, because it had constant internal power and was hooked to an antenna. He found nothing out of the ordinary. Then he checked the permanently mounted cell phone, but that also looked undisturbed. The police radio was a multichannel transceiver, but it could not access the Sheriff’s Office secure communications system without someone entering a code that changed daily. Because it was a crypto device, it was a totally sealed unit, and there were no signs of intrusions there, either. He checked all the external antennas, looking for extra connections or splices in the antenna cables. Still nothing. He checked the front and rear frames for signs of recent towing. His guys had done that once—picked up a target’s car with a platform tow truck in the wee hours of the morning, taken it to the lab for installation of a surveillance system, and then towed it back to the street lot where the crook had parked it. There were no marks on the attachment points of his car.
He then ran all the same checks on his pickup truck, which was a full-size four-wheel-drive Ford with close to eighty thousand miles on it. When he was done, he sat in the truck’s front seat and thought about what he’d been doing. No signs of anyone screwing around with his rides, unless it had been a really sophisticated job. So that “deputy” talking about his ignition system? That had been a threat, pure and simple. Bellamy’s car had blown up when she’d started it. Yours can, too, partner, he told himself. On the other hand, the ATF report had said they’d found the remains of a timer in Annie’s yard. Their opinion was split: Either the timer had been the ignition device or it had been put into the car to deceive those who’d be doing the subsequent investigation. Some of their people were convinced that starting the car had set off the bomb. In their favor was the fact that the bombers couldn’t have known Annie would go down there at that particular moment. More important, the word circulating in the Sheriff’s Office was that it had been in the ignition circuit. The man last night had kept urging him to take a trip. Okay, maybe he would. There’d been no calls from Kenny Cox asking for details about this case or that, so if there were any loose ends, Kenny was handling them. And like his visitor had said, he was free to go anywhere. The round-the-world cruise might have to wait, but there was no sense in sitting at the wrong end of a shooting gallery, waiting for something bad to happen. He rubbed his chin and felt the beginnings of a heavy beard. He decided to let it grow out—a small statement of his newfound independence. There were no beards permitted in Bobby Lee’s Sheriff’s Office. And he’d stop getting a haircut every ten days, too. Enough of this Marine Corps stuff. He thought about taking up tobacco again, then smiled. It had taken him two years to quit, and there were some fires too dangerous to play with. But first he’d make one important change. He went back in the house and called his local Ford dealership to find out what they had in the way of new pickup trucks.
Just after sundown that day, Cam sat in an old rocking chair in the shadows of Kenny Cox’s front porch. It had cooled off considerably, and he was wearing jeans, a red flannel shirt, his black mountain man hat, and a bulky hunting jacket. He’d driven the old Merc, not willing to let anyone who knew him see him in his new truck quite yet. And his Mercedes was known. He’d passed a Sheriff’s Office cruiser set up as a radar trap while leaving Triboro, and the deputy had waved at him. Just for the hell of it, he’d deliberately misspelled his name on the new truck’s registration papers, hoping to evade the web of curious computers.
He’d brought along his favorite sidearm from his small collection, a replica single-action army Colt .45. He knew that a single-action revolver would not be very useful in most tactical police situations, but he’d been taught to shoot at a Marine Corps school, which stressed the efficacy of wellaimed fire over the fire-hose approach. Having to pull back the hammer for each shot forced the shooter to slow down and take careful aim. The only things it required when some hopped-up bad guy was shooting at you were a steady hand and unblinking courage. Right now, the big Colt made a heavy, comforting lump in one of the coat’s roomy pockets.
He’d parked the car right where Kenny usually parked his own pickup truck—on the circular gravel drive in front of the house. He wanted to talk to Kenny, not surprise him. There was a sliver of a moon out
, and silvery gray clouds were blowing across it in the night sky. The farm consisted of almost fifty acres, most of it bottomland along the banks of the Deep River. The two-story farmhouse was on a small knoll at the back of the property, surrounded by aging oaks and within earshot of the river when it was up and running. Kenny maintained the yard around the house, but the fields and fences had long ago reverted to nature. He could just make out the silhouette of an ancient tractor that was turning into a pillar of rust out in one of the fields.
The house itself was set back nearly a thousand feet from the county road, which gave Cam plenty of warning when Kenny finally pulled into the driveway. The truck’s high beams fully illuminated him on the porch for about five seconds before they were turned off. Kenny got out, closed the door, and came up the porch steps. He was in uniform.
“You didn’t tell me about all the meetings,” he said, stopping on the top step.
“Bureaucratic popularity,” Cam said. “Comes with the private cube and all that extra money.”
Kenny sighed. “You want a drink?”
Cam stood up and followed Kenny inside the house. They went straight back to the kitchen, where Kenny turned on some lights and retrieved a bottle of single malt. He poured them each a measure, handed one glass to Cam, and then hooked a chair out from under the kitchen table. Cam sat down and put his hat on the spare chair.
“One day and you already look different,” Kenny said.
“So do you. Congratulations on the promotion.”
“Very temporary,” Kenny said. “I hope.”
“Maybe not,” Cam said. They both drank some whiskey and stared off into the middle distance. Cam thought Kenny looked tired.
“About the other night,” Cam began, but Kenny waved him off.
“I was out of line,” he said. “You’d just been kicked in the teeth. I had no business being there, or bringing up that … other stuff.” He looked over at Cam. Even sitting at the table, he was still big enough that he had to look down to make eye contact.
The Cat Dancers Page 18
