by Rod Collins
“Yeah. With me.”
***
Alone in a stark, gray interview room, Miss Verna Williams, analyst, FBI, Portland, Oregon sat in a hard metal chair bolted to the concrete floor in front of an equally hard metal table, both wrists handcuffed to a big eyebolt welded to the table top. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. Sweat beaded her forehead. She was screwed and she knew it.
After thirty minutes, her breathing slowed to a more normal rate. She felt better after concocting a strategy she hoped would help her make a deal. If she helped trap her controller, a handsome young Arab who had swept her off her feet and then moved into her apartment over a year ago, maybe the FBI would go easier on her. Yeah. Sure girl. Dream on, fool…
Chapter 42
Push Back
IMPATIENT AT THE CONSERVATIVE SPEED of the police caravan taking Road Kill, Turkey, and Starbucks to Lakeview, BB waited for the first long straight stretch through the farm fields, and then powered his bronze Lexus SUV around the line of police cars, the speedometer reading ninety before he passed Bud’s pickup. Bud hit the lights in the grill, but didn’t speed up.
Roger raised his eyebrows and looked at Bud. “Where does he think he’s going?”
“I’d guess,” Bud said, “he’s headed to the hospital to check on Miranda. And to hook up with his friend TJ Wildish.”
“Gonna write him a ticket?”
“Nope.”
The vehicle radio crackled and they could hear Sonny’s voice. “I got his license number.” And then he laughed. “You want me to catch him, Boss?”
Bud chuckled and keyed his mic. “I think I know where to find him.”
***
Under the watchful eye of Deputy Roger Hildebrand and Deputy Beatrice Tusk, Technical Deputy Karen Highsmith processed Calvin Culpepper, aka Road Kill, Anthony James, aka Turkey, and Gary Gentle, aka Starbucks into the Lake County Jail. Fingerprints, mug shots, proper ID including given and surnames and home addresses from driver’s licenses … bright orange jumpsuits concluded the process before the handcuffed bikers were walked one at a time down the hallway and locked in individual cells.
BB, TJ, and Miranda Wright, her left hand heavily bandaged, were talking to Bud, District Attorney Howard Finch, and Police Chief Gus Hildebrand when Roger and Beatrice walked back to the booking room.
Roger nodded to Gus and said, “Hi, Dad.”
Gus held out his hand and said, “Howdy son. I see you’ve been busy.”
Roger grinned and said, “Now and then.”
Bud said, “Everybody coffee up, and then let’s go the conference room. You too, Special Agent Wright. How’s the hand?”
She held her left hand up and peered at it like it was some kind of foreign object. “Buggered, it is. The surgeon said there was no permanent damage, but I’m to see a specialist when I get back to Portland.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Why? You didn’t shoot at me, and you didn’t ask for all this trouble. No, this goes back to Portland. Speaking of which, I need a ride back up there. Have you talked to Dutch Vanderlin? He’ll want to know what’s going on down here. And…”
Bud cut her off and said, “I’ll talk to Dutch and get you back to Portland.” They watched the others walk into the conference room, and Bud added, “By the way, BB says you did good out there.”
She smiled and pulled Bud close to whisper in his ear, “I’m flattered. That one is a warrior.”
***
They crowded into the small conference room, and Bud nodded at Roger. “Okay. Let’s hear what Gary Gentle, aka Starbucks, has to say.”
Roger keyed the prompt on his cell phone, turned the volume as high as it would go, and placed it on the conference table. They heard Gentle’s gravelly voice describe a phone call from someone in Salem with the street name Shooter, and how Shooter gave Gentle directions to BB’s cabin and orders to kill TJ.
The recording carried Roger’s voice asking, “What’s Shooters real name?”
They heard Gentle say he didn’t know.
Roger then asked, “How much were you paid?”
“Five thousand each when the job was done.”
At this point, Special Agent Wright slipped quietly out of the room and into the hallway. She awkwardly thumbed in a text message to FBI Special Agent Wilcox, wincing each time she used her left thumb: Hit hired by a Salem biker named Shooter, a member of The Romans gang.
Wilcox texted back almost immediately: Will track this guy down. Who have you told? We have a mole in analysis. Don’t trust anyone but me, Douglas, and Dutch.
Miranda texted back: Just found out. Haven’t told anyone else.
Wilcox sent: Good. Keep it that way. How’s your hand?
Chapter 43
Turf Wars
BUD’S CELL PHONE VIBRATED and he stepped into the hallway in time to see Miranda put her phone in a pocket of her vest. He turned his back on her and answered the call. “Bud Blair.”
“This is Dutch. Our little buddy, Cletus Falls can’t get ahold of BB. He’s worried the bad guys killed him.”
“BB’s phone is on the bottom of Dog Lake. He lost it when his canoe tipped over. Tell Cletus BB’s okay. Right now, we’re all listening to a recorded confession by one of the bikers. One of the hit men, a Gary Gentle from Klamath Falls, says he was hired by a man called Shooter, a member of a Portland biker gang called The Romans. Gentle doesn’t know Shooter’s real name.”
Dutch hesitated and finally said, “We’ll work on that. Now, then. Because the thugs in your jail assaulted a federal officer, the Assistant U.S. Attorney wants to prosecute them in federal court.”
“You can’t do that until we finish with them. First, we prosecute for attempted murder, trespass, murder for hire, and for assault on a police officer. Then you can have them.”
“Listen, Bud, if I have to I’ll send a couple of US Marshals down there and bring them back forcibly if necessary. We want ‘em!”
Suddenly, very angry, Bud said, “Let me make myself clear, Dutch. Friendship aside, I will see them prosecuted here in Lake County, and I will send a message to the criminals that law enforcement in Lake County is swift, stern, and certain.”
The phone carried the sound of a deep sigh, and then Dutch said, “Is your DA any good?”
“Bright, seasoned, and dedicated. He’s good.”
“Don’t mess it up, Bud. I’ll keep the Assistant U.S. Attorney off your back as long I can. And I’ll hold you to the swift and certain part.”
Bud nodded into the phone, turned and took a step or two down the hall before saying, “Thanks, Dutch.”
“How is my analyst?”
Despite himself, Bud grinned and then laughed. “She’s standing right behind me, trying to eavesdrop on our conversation. This woman is a real buttinsky, but gutsy as hell. BB said she did a good job…for an analyst. You’re lucky to have her, Dutch.”
“Put her on. I want to talk to her.”
Bud handed Miranda the phone and stepped back into the conference room. He saw Beatrice Tusk stifle a yawn and take a quick peek at the digital wall clock which read 10:00 p.m.
“Okay, my friends. I don’t know about you, but I’m bushed. It’s been a long but productive day. Let’s call it quits. I’ll see you all in here at eight o’clock. Okay? Let dispatch know where you’re staying.”
***
Bud nodded at BB and motioned to his office. “Where are you going to bunk tonight?”
BB said, “I’m taking Miranda and TJ back to my place. I don’t think anyone will come after us tonight.”
“And tomorrow?”
BB frowned and said, “I need a safe place for TJ. I need his rental car turned in at the K-Falls airport. Then I’m going back to Portland. I need to put a stop to this, and I can’t do it from here.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“Nope. You stay here, get yourself re-elected, get married, make some babies, and keep Lake County safe. I got this.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. You mentioned a safe house in Klamath Falls. Can you get that set up? I’ll have Miranda drive TJ over there in the morning, turn the rental in, and then she can fly back to Portland. I’ll need some wheels, so I’ll drive up.”
“You want to travel as a deputy sheriff?”
“What I have in mind might have some blowback. No. You stay clear of this. I got it.”
Bud shrugged and said, “I’ll make a call.”
Michelle Trivoli, former Lake County Deputy Sheriff, sounded sleepy when she answered her phone. “Yes?”
He would always picture his former deputy in a shooters stance, her pistol jumping with each shot as she banged away at William Casey, the man she thought had shot her sheriff. Bud missed her.
“Michelle, this is Bud. I need a favor. Can you play host for a couple of days to one of BB’s friends? He is a Reverend TJ Wildish from Portland. He needs a temporary hiding place.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Some very bad people are looking for him. We need a couple of days to run them to ground. Then he can go home again.”
“Tonight?”
“No. Tomorrow. An FBI agent named Miranda Wright will bring him over in the morning.”
“The FBI can’t handle this?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I thought so, Michelle.”
“I don’t like it. I’m not a cop anymore, and I have Mariah to think of. Why not ask our sheriff?”
“Because we don’t know who to trust.” He briefed her on the efforts to kill TJ, the arrest of three Bikers from The Romans gang, and the suspicion of an FBI mole in Portland.
He heard her sigh and then say, “Give me a few minutes. I think I know someone who might help. I’ll call you back.”
“How is Mariah doing?”
Michelle’s voice strengthened. “Bud, she is thriving. Starved! She was simply starved for affection. She’s growing like a weed, getting straight A’s in her classes, joined the choir, and has me going to church on a regular basis.”
“Do you see Detective Harmon?”
Fully awake now, her voiced carried a laugh, and she said, “We’re engaged.”
“Wow! Congratulations.”
“Thank you. We plan to be married in June. I want you at the wedding. And bring Nancy with you. I hear congratulations are in order for the two of you.”
“The word gets around fast, doesn’t it?”
“Karen called me.”
“Well…how about that.”
“She also said you were bringing Sonny back.”
“Yes. I had to do something. I don’t have you to be my undersheriff.”
“I always thought you should give that job to Roger.”
“You know, I did ask him, and he said he didn’t want it. Said he liked it in North County.”
“Oh. Okay, let me wake somebody up. Stay by the phone.”
Five minutes later Michelle called back. “Sergeant Booker KFPD will hide TJ for a few days. Let me give you his number.”
Bud wrote Booker’s number on the back of his business card and handed it to BB. “Here you go. K-Falls has had a black community since the first railroad pushed into this country. He’ll just be one more face in the crowd. No one will notice.”
BB glanced at Miranda and TJ. “In that case, let’s saddle up. It’s been a long day.” He turned to Bud and held out his hand. “Your deputies did a good job today, Bud.”
“I’ll tell them what you said. Now, I’m for bed.”
Chapter 44
Scout
AT 10:40 P.M., Winslow Butler drove his Toyota pickup through the open delivery door of a small abandoned warehouse just outside the cyclone fence marking the perimeter of the docks.
In the headlights, he saw a bundled figure rise from a pallet in the corner. Hands shielding his face from the light, a man hollered, “Get out of here! These are my digs.”
Butler opened the pickup door, a heavy 4-cell flashlight in his left hand, studied the bearded man for a few seconds, and then said, “Not any more. I’ll give you a hundred dollars to boogie.”
The man hesitated before saying, “Let’s see your money.”
Butler held a bill in the headlights and then dropped it on the grimy concrete floor. “Gather your stuff and get out of here.”
“It’s raining,” the man whined. “Ought to be worth more than a hundred.”
Butler shook his head and then added another fifty. “Now, either take the money or I’ll just shoot your ass.” He pulled his badge wallet from an inside pocket and flashed the light on the badge. This is official government business.”
“Okay, man. Okay. No rough stuff.” A grimy hand with long dirty fingernails reached into the pool of light and snatched the bills off the old, cracked concrete floor. “Give me a minute to pack my stuff.”
The man’s eyes flicked past Butler, and Butler turned in time to see a young woman, eyes wild in the light, coming slowly at him, a raised club in her right hand. He punched the flashlight on and when the beam of the flashlight blinded her, she dropped the club and shielded her eyes from the light. “Don’t shoot, mister! Please don’t shoot!”
Butler decided she wasn’t much over fourteen or fifteen years old and probably didn’t weigh a hundred pounds. “What the hell you doing here, girl? You with that asshole over there?”
Trembling, eyes downcast, she nodded.
“Both of you … get over in the corner and sit.”
He shook his head as the girl stumbled and nearly fell before she reached the corner.
Butler asked the man, “Is she sick?” The girl’s deep cough was all the answer he needed.
Butler told the bum to get going and watched him stuff both bills in his pants pocket, bundle his gear, and hurry off into the night without so much as a “goodbye” to the sick girl.
Butler helped her up off the pallet, put an arm around her shoulders, and helped her to the pickup. He started the engine, then turned the heater on and set the fan on high. He wrapped her in a thin space blanket and said, “Stay right here.” She could do nothing more than nod and shake from a chill that was coming from someplace deeper than the cold air.
By the time a Portland police cruiser, siren going, lights flashing, led an ambulance to the warehouse, Butler had his personal gear packed and the vehicle wiped down for fingerprints. Damn. I’ll have to find another rig, he thought. But he was feeling better about himself than he had in a long, long time. From the shadows of a willow patch growing along a drainage ditch, he watched the EMT’s load the girl into the ambulance and head back to the freeway, lights flashing as it headed south on I-5.
The police turned the engine off, then spent fifteen minutes searching the vehicle. Butler hadn’t transferred the title, so there was nothing to trace his ownership or his new identity. A computer search by the officers found no warrants or stolen vehicle reports. They looked at each other and then simply left the key in the ignition and drove away. There was no legal way to do anything else.
