No matter how many times he pored over these pages, they offered little catharsis for the vileness worming constantly into his thoughts. Akin to picking at a scab, the wound might heal if he could stop worrying at it, but he could not. All he knew was that he needed this. He needed to stoke the rage…and remember. Remember what his mistakes had cost him.
It seemed Spence might stand there staring for the rest of the night.
“Okay, okay. I promise I’ll knock off in a minute. Now get out of here so I can finish up,” said Marlowe.
“Finish up driving yourself bonkers? Be my guest.” Spence waved him off in frustration and headed up the stairs.
Marlowe closed the files and placed them with care, like holy relics, into the cardboard box. With a few deep breaths, he reined in his emotion, and pushed Katy’s terrified eyes out of his mind. In truth, Marlowe had other matters on his agenda this evening—other reasons for staying late, other reasons for this vigil in the basement. The siren call of those old case files had been hard to resist; he hadn’t planned on staring at them that long.
Although police work demanded around-the-clock personnel, most of the support staff left at six p.m. The department utilized a skeleton crew this late at night. The dispatcher and a few uniforms milled around the lower floor. Detectives from the various units—Homicide, Vice, and Criminal Investigations, would be home, but on call. Custodians worked throughout the complex. Luckily for Marlowe, they took care of the basement first and had completed their duties some time ago.
The basement floor of Birmingham Metro housed two main areas—file storage and the evidence locker. Active case evidence remained in one area under lock and key. Gaining access to the active cases required signing in with the clerk. Evidence for older inactive cases got shifted to storage off site.
Vice employed a different protocol. The evidence locker held drugs associated with active cases. Caches from older, finalized cases, however, were transferred to an adjacent storage unit to await destruction. Normally, seized drugs found their way to the incinerator or were used in sting operations. Marlowe intended to employ them for the latter…more or less.
Someone had busted the lock on the drug cage a while ago. Several requisitions were sent to maintenance, but still not repaired—more important fish to fry, as it were. Marlowe knew a simple credit card inserted between door and frame would pry it open. He placed his card into the crack, and wiggled it up and down.
“Detective? Detective Gentry?” came a voice from behind.
Marlowe felt like an electric shock passed through his spinal cord. He pictured the cartoon scene where the frightened cat launched itself onto the ceiling, claws dug in. How was he going to talk his way out of this one? He slowly turned.
“Jesus, TJ, you scared the shit out of me,” said Marlowe.
TJ, a sixty-something custodian, stared at him for a moment. “Sorry bout that. Didn’t know no one was down here. I didn’t see you during my clean up earlier.”
“I think I came in right after you finished. Floor was still wet, almost slipped and broke my neck.” Marlowe put on his best disarming smile.
“What you doing there? You need some help? I got a master key if you need it.”
“No, no thanks. Case coming up next week, an appeal. I thought we were done with it. I’m just making sure the evidence is still present and accounted for. Drug bust went bad—couple of guys killed,” said Marlowe.
TJ, a long-termer with the department, longer than Marlowe, knew everyone’s jobs, and that included Marlowe working in Homicide and not Vice. He must have been wondering why Marlowe was presently getting into the drug locker. Marlowe hoped he bought the lame explanation.
“I got ya,” said TJ. “Well, I left my key card down here somewhere. Ah, here’s the little devil. Hung it on the cage. Mind’s the first to go, ya know.”
“You’re telling me,” said Marlowe with a forced grin.
“Okay, see ya later, Detective.”
“Later, TJ.” Marlowe watched TJ until he disappeared up the stairs. He listened for the basement door to open and then shut.
Christ. I should have brought a second pair of underwear.
He waited several minutes to make certain TJ did not return. Marlowe sighed and regained control of his frazzled nerves. He jimmied the lock and entered the storage locker. It was packed with row after row of rickety steel shelving, and Marlowe needed to turn sideways to navigate between the narrow aisles. Finally, he made it to the rear of the storeroom.
Drugs, here as in most cities, were a popular recreation. So much so, Birmingham Metro was usually backlogged with a stash awaiting destruction. Earlier, Marlowe had prepared several bricks of baking soda wrapped in the same brown paper as used in evidence. He would take the drugs and replace them with the baking soda. No longer needed as evidence, and merely destined for the ovens, Marlowe doubted anyone would sift through individual bricks checking authenticity.
He made the switch, tucked the cocaine into a dufflebag, and left the station. A quick call to dispatch gave him the present location of Officer Michael Drenning. To his relief, Drenning had gotten off duty a few hours earlier; his patrol car was likely sitting in the driveway at home.
Marlowe drove to Emerald Lane and parked two blocks away from the Drenning house. In his suit, albeit a wrinkled one, he would pass for a resident, at least in the dark. Well past midnight, no lights were on in the house, but a single floodlight blazed over the driveway.
Shit. Do I take my chances no one sees, or knock out the light? Decisions, decisions.
He decided busting the light seemed riskier. Marlowe strolled up the behind Michael’s patrol car like it belonged to him. Lucky again, Michael was stupid—or arrogant—enough to leave the car unlocked. Marlowe hit the trunk release to the left of the steering wheel and eased the door closed. He hurried to the back of the car, lifting the trunk to expose the Mossberg mounted to the underside. He shuffled through the usual stuff, blankets for victims, spare ammo, first aid kit, and a spare uniform, and pulled up the floor mat to expose a hollow by the wheel well. He packed the duffel into the space and put everything back as it had been. With some luck, Michael would not find it. With a larger dose of luck, he would not have cause to open the trunk at all. At least not for the next forty-eight hours. Now to get Vice involved.
* * *
The next day, after checking in with Raze, Marlowe met with Detective Ricky King in Vice. A small man with piercing blue eyes, Ricky had come up with Marlowe in the department. They patrolled together for a year shortly after joining the force.
“Gentry, long time no see.” Ricky rushed over to clasp hands with Marlowe.
“Too long. We work in the same building, yet I never seem to run into you.”
“Vice is night work. The cockroaches only crawl out after dark.”
“How’s the family?”
“Gregory is bigger than me now. So is my wife, but don’t dare tell her I said so,” said Ricky, laughing.
“Not a chance.”
“Oh, you’ll never guess who I ran into last week. Willie ‘Jets’ Johnson.”
“Really? He finally got out, huh?”
“Yep, only now he’s Reverend William Johnson. Pastor down at Trinity Church of God, you know, over on 6th Avenue. Ha, we must have busted him a dozen times. Guy boosted more stereos than Joan Rivers had face lifts.”
“Amazing how ex-cons always seem to find religion. Tend to lose it again pretty quick though. Once they’re out again.”
“Too true. God doesn’t pay as well as a good fence,” said Ricky. “So, what brings you to our fair corner of crime and mayhem?”
“Dirty cop and drugs. Interested?”
“Singing my song, dude.”
“I’ve got a snitch ready, but I need you guys to orchestrate the bust. Location and time are set.”
“Done all my work for me, I likey.” Ricky rubbed his palms together in mock excitement.
“Tomorrow night, eleven p.m.
Westside Industrial Park. Warehouse 15.”
“Good choice. Open, only two ways in and out by car. Two doors on each wall—front and back. Used it once or twice myself. How many perps?”
“Just the one. Name’s Michael Drenning. He’s a patrolman with County. Our snitch will be in a white Camaro—’85 model. Black t-shirt and jeans. Safe word is ‘Protect and Serve.’”
“Nice touch,” said Ricky, grinning. “We’ll set up at both exits and cover all the doors once the perp pulls in. Take him down after he makes contact with your snitch.”
“Sounds good.”
“Want to tag along?” asked Ricky. “It’ll be just like old times.”
“Love to, but I better sit this one out. I have some history with Drenning. Might taint the bust if I’m present.”
“Gotcha. No worries, we’ll handle it.”
“Thanks Ricky. I knew I could count on you.”
Marlowe left Vice and made his way to Homicide Division. Nothing more to do now but wait.
* * *
Marlowe did not tag along with Ricky and his team, he arrived an hour before them. Most of the old industrial park warehouses were equipped with access ladders. Marlowe made use of the one attached to Warehouse 15 and climbed onto the metal roof. He sat next to a window offering a full view of the warehouse floor.
This particular warehouse had been empty for a while. Formerly part of Odell Steel, it was abandoned when the company moved north a few years back, and no new business had bought it. An aluminum structure with steel framing, beams positioned every twenty yards or so crisscrossed below a bare metal ceiling
At ten minutes until eleven p.m. Raze pulled through the north gate in his Camaro. Five minutes later, Drenning drove in the south end. The cars came to a halt ten yards from each other. Raze stepped from his car, nervous as a rabbit with a crack habit. He couldn’t stand still. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he rocked back and forth on his heels. Marlowe could see the whites of Raze’s eyes from his post.
Settle down, Raze. Don’t give the game away.
Michael seemed more in his element. Shoulders back, confident, he strolled to the front of his cruiser. He eyed Raze up and down and peered around the darkened warehouse. Not his first rodeo, Michael knew enough to remain wary.
“I don’t like this, shithead,” said Michael, seeming satisfied the warehouse was empty, and no surprises would spring from a dark corner. “Carlos said you’re good, so I’m here, but you make one wrong move and I’ll drop you. Understand?”
“Yeah, I got it, tough guy.” Raze puffed up and attempted to sound the part.
“So you’re the new middleman. A bit scrawny for the job. Alright, let’s get this done. Where’s the stuff?”
“I’m buying,” said Raze.
“What the fuck? I’ve done this a hundred times. I pick up and drop off, shitlick. Where the hell did Carlos find your dumb ass?”
Raze’s eyes bulged as fear and bravado clashed. “You got the shit or don’t you?”
Michael’s face turned red. “You trying to fleece me, bitch?” For a moment, he simply stood there glaring at Raze. As suspicion deepened, he pulled his gun. His eyes darted around as he backpedaled behind his driver’s side door. “Something ain’t right here.”
Raze ran past the side of his Camaro and ducked down behind the rear, hands over his head. Marlowe particularly enjoyed the expression on Michael’s face as the truth sank in.
“You little fucker. You set me up.” Michael leaned up over his door, trying to get a clean angle with his gun on Raze. He moved toward the Camaro, but held up at the sight of lights outside the building. He ran back and dove in behind the wheel of his black-and-white.
On cue, police vans rolled up to block the north and south entries, floodlights blazing. Ricky and his team stormed in through each end of the warehouse, with more cops swarming through the side doors. The interior of the warehouse lit up with flashlight beams like a Pink Floyd laser show.
“Down, get down now,” yelled Ricky.
Michael refused to give up without a fight. Smoke billowed from the rear tires as the patrol car lurched into reverse. The vehicle smashed into one of the steel support beams, rocking the warehouse with a thunderous boom. Michael spun the car to face the direction he had entered the building. He revved the engine, appearing intent on ramming the vans blocking the exit.
The car bolted forward, tires squealing, cops leaping out of its path, and smashed into the pair of vans in the door, aiming for the gap where their front fenders touched. The heavy utility trucks tilted from the violent collision, and slid back a couple of feet with a resounding bang, but did not part enough for Michael’s vehicle to pass through. The back end of his cruiser pitched into the air and came down hard, bursting both rear tires.
Michael’s airbag exploded on impact, knocking him senseless. He sat behind the wheel, head lolling around on his neck. One of Ricky’s team grabbed him and yanked him from the car. With a dozen officers surrounding him, guns aimed, and Michael helpless on his stomach, they had him cuffed in seconds.
“Search the car,” said Ricky.
Two officers went through the cruiser’s interior while a third searched the trunk. It took about five seconds to locate the duffel bag.
“Got a bag here,” said one officer.
“Unwrap it, see what our friend brought us for Christmas,” said Ricky.
The officer opened the bag and removed several rectangular blocks wrapped in manila paper. Ricky retrieved one, pulled a small knife from his pocket, and sliced into the brick. Touching a finger inside, he withdrew it and placed the tip to his tongue.
“Ah, Merry Christmas,” he said.
“That shit ain’t mine. You framed me. Somebody’s setting me up,” screamed Michael. “I’ll kill whoever did this. I’ll kill ’em.…” His voice cut out as the officers unceremoniously tossed him into the back of one of the vans.
Could not have gone better.
From his perch on high, Marlowe smiled.
CHAPTER
23
“Marlowe? Can you come by this evening?” asked Becca.
“Sure. You working late?”
“No. Come to my house.”
“Your house? What about Michael?”
“I don’t think he will be coming home tonight…or for a lot of nights.”
“Hmm, well in that case.”
Becca hung up the phone, grinning ear to ear. Dancing across the living room to Alanis Morissette and The Cranberries for hours, she laughed and cried at regular intervals. Not tears of sadness, but of pure joy. She would have swollen ankles tomorrow, and she did not care.
Sweet freedom. She tasted it in the air, felt it swirling around her as she swayed to the beat. No more Michael.
She still couldn’t believe it. Ten years of hell ended in one night. It was not something Becca could have done herself. No, all her options and schemes never amounted to more than a fool’s hope of being rid of Michael or escaping him. God, fate, something needed to intervene. Yet neither of those rescued her. Her savior was a man, a mere mortal. For reasons she did not understand, he stepped in and solved a problem that would have killed her in time.
When the doorbell rang, Becca rushed to the entrance. Like a silly teen, she giggled as she opened the door to Marlowe. She wanted to leap into his arms.
Gathering herself, a giddiness coloring her words, she said, “Glad you could make it. Come on in.”
“No problem. Everything okay?”
“I think you know it is. I wanted to thank you in person.”
“For what?” Marlowe maintained a stoic expression, but Becca could see the roguish hint flitting behind his eyes.
“Michael made me feel weak a lot of the time, but I’ve never been good at asking for help. I thought no one could help. Suffer in silence, my mantra. I don’t know how you did it. I don’t want to know. I’m just so glad you did.”
“Sorry, but you’ve lost me.” Marlowe’s fac
etious tone gave him away.
“Fine, we’ll play it your way if you want. Still, you’re going to stay and have a glass of champagne with me. I, for one, am celebrating. Do the honors?”
Becca handed Marlowe the bottle and a corkscrew. He popped the cork, quickly turning the spewing froth toward the sink, but not before dousing Becca and soaking her shirt.
“Shit. Sorry,” he said, embarrassed.
“No harm done.” Becca threw back the glass of bubbly liquid in a few large gulps. She reached down, took her shirt at the waist, and tugged it over her head.
* * *
Marlowe’s eyes went wide. She looked so beautiful staring up at him. Her jet-black hair cascaded down her shoulders and onto her chest, lustrous, glistening in the light, strands raking against the nipples of perfect, ample breasts. She moved to him, pressing her body against him.
“Becca, I…I can’t do this. I want to. God, how I want to. But you are a key witness in a colossal case. I could lose my job.”
“I’m no help to your investigation. I didn’t see anything. I don’t know anything. I can’t help with the case. But I can help with this.…” She pulled his belt loose and thrust her hand into his pants.
“You don’t owe me anything. I’m just glad you’re safe now.” Marlowe managed only a meager protest against her advance.
“It’s not about that. Not all of it. I need this, and I know you do too.” She nuzzled against his chest, one hand squeezing his swollen member.
“What the hell.” Marlowe grasped her beneath the arms and lifted her onto the countertop.
They tore at each other’s clothes, both hungry with need. Marlowe bit her neck, lifting her onto him. She screamed with pleasure as he entered her. Rocking back and forth, aggression and passion, hostility and tenderness, alternated in a struggle to vanquish old wounds.
He did not remember how they made it to her bed. Looking up at her from his back, her fingers digging into his chest, Marlowe grasped at the moment. He gazed at Becca, the silver light streaming through an open window framing her form in an angelic pose. He wanted to hold onto the image—to this feeling—and never let it escape. He wanted to fix it in place forever, to spend the rest of his life in this moment.
A Coin for Charon Page 23
