Not Before Midnight (Sheriff Bud Blair Oregon Mystery Series Book 5)

by Rod Collins

  “What happened to a small, quiet ceremony?”

  “This will be small, but I want our families here. Okay?”

  “Well, hell. I suppose I don’t have a say in the matter.”

  She choked back a laugh. “You sound like a little boy who lost his ice cream cone. Of course, I’ll marry you. And today is just fine. We’ll have a big reception later.

  Let me call Jenny Latimore and see if she can marry us this afternoon. And I’ll have to get the Colonel to sub for me. Let’s see … wear your best uniform, and I’ll wear my white sheath, and … oh, my … I suppose BB will be best man … and I’ll ask Carol Connor to be my bridesmaid … and I’ll need a bouquet.”

  Bud breathed a sigh of relief and said, “I’ll take care of the flowers.”

  ***

  At noon, Reverend Jennifer Latimore smiled at the couple standing before the altar. She knew Nancy slightly from the few times she’d attended services, but all she knew about the sheriff was what she read in the Lake County News or heard through church gossip.

  Reverend Latimore thought Nancy was one of the most striking women she had ever seen, and in spite of the worry lines creasing his face, she thought Bud looked handsome in his blue dress uniform. But he seemed a bit uncomfortable. She contained her impulse to laugh. Strange behavior for a man who just bluffed fifty bikers.

  She nodded at Nancy and said, “We are gathered here in the sight of God to unite Henry Blair and Nancy Sixkiller in holy matrimony. If anyone knows of any reason why they should not be wed, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  She paused and BB said quietly, “Well...”

  That earned him a nasty look from Bud and a chuckle from Sonny. It ended with a frown from Reverend Latimore.

  Samuel Adams, photographer and digital expert for the Lake County News, snapped pictures for the paper when the brief ceremony was “sealed with a kiss.”

  Bud turned to look at a sea of faces. He whispered in Nancy’s ear, “Well, so much for a small ceremony. Half the town is here.”

  Near the back of the chapel, Doc Saunders, reached into his wallet and handed his longtime veterinarian assistant, Brenda Brown, a twenty-dollar bill. She smiled sweetly. “I told you so.”

  Chapter 73

  Shooter

  THREE HOURS AFTER Smith called FBI Special Agent Stanley Johnson, SAC of the Salem office, a ten-person FBI SWAT team joined an eight-person Salem Police Department tactical team at the Salem police department armory. Chief of Police Roger Littlefield waited until coffee cups were filled and the team members had each picked a chair, before calling the meeting to order. There was noticeable tension as the two units sized each other up. None of the officers liked working with strangers when there was the possibility of a shootout.

  From the rear of the room, Special Agent Johnson leaned against the wall and watched Littlefield. He knew about Littlefield from reading an FBI briefing file, but this was his first chance to meet him in person. He was impressed. Distinguished looking, wavy hair turning silver, dressed in a dark blue uniform with four stars on his epaulets, Littlefield carried the aura of command.

  The chief looked around the room at the officers, almost all were men in their early thirties, though the group also included two tall, athletic-looking women. All were lean and tense, their serious attitudes mirrored by their black uniforms.

  Chief Littlefield said, “Before we get started, I want to say the Salem Police Department welcomes the help of the FBI. We’ve been working to take down The Romans for the past couple of years.” Johnson smiled at that. The Chief is making his territorial claim … and very neatly.

  “Introductions.” He pointed to a man sitting at the head table on his right. “This is Marion County District Attorney Justin Black. And this gentleman,” nodding to his left, “is Assistant U.S. Attorney Robert Hall. At this point I’ll turn the briefing over to them.”

  Hall, a lean thirty-five-year-old dressed in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and red tie, claimed the right to go first by standing up and frowning at the assembled officers. He made eye contact with as many of the officers as he could, cleared his throat, and said, “We want clean arrests. Make sure there are no grounds for dismissal based on sloppy procedures. The chain of evidence needs to be tight. And these citizens are entitled to hear their Miranda rights. We’re bringing in additional prosecutors in anticipation of multiple arrests, but the main target is Henderson, also known as Shooter.”

  He opened a file folder lying on the table and handed out a stack of photos. “Pass these out, please. He held up one and said, “This is Shooter. We want him for a range of crimes, including murder and murder for hire. Our FBI profiler says he is a sociopath with psychotic tendencies … in other words, he’s a cold-blooded killer. It would be very useful to bring him in alive.”

  Hall looked at District Attorney Black and sat down. Black was a husky six-foot, broad-shouldered man. Women loved his intense blue eyes and dark curly hair. Chief Littlefield privately thought Black’s election was based on good looks, not competence, but the DA’s office was staffed with young, bright prosecutors, so maybe Black best served the citizens by making the DA’s office look good.

  DA Black, in contrast to Hall, smiled and said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen … and ladies. This is a terrific opportunity to deal a blow to crime – not only in Marion County and Salem, but in the rest of Oregon. The city of Portland Police Bureau lists over three hundred gang members in that fine city. They perpetuate drug use, prostitution, murder, and extortion on a grand scale. You have an opportunity to hit back. The Romans are not the largest criminal gang on the West Coast, but they are among the most dangerous. Bring them to me, and I’ll see they are prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Thank you.”

  Agent Johnson shook his head and watched the handsome Black sit down. I wonder if he expected applause?

  Chief Littlefield nodded and said, “Thank you, gentlemen. I’m sure our officers will take that to heart. For those who don’t know me, I’m Roger Littlefield, Chief of Police for Salem. The gentleman in back is FBI Special Agent in Charge Stanley Johnson. I thank you all for being here. And now, let me introduce Officer Wallace, who has spent the last seven months working undercover to infiltrate The Romans. I suspect he’ll be looking for a new job after tonight.”

  That brought the expected round of chuckles. “Wally,” the Chief said, “tell us what we’re up against.”

  Officer Wallace was a medium-sized man, bearded, with sleeve tats on his muscular arms and diamond studs in his earlobes. He wore a black leather vest with The Romans logo. Standing there in his leathers, he looked like the real deal … a bona fide, mean-assed biker. A warrior, Chief Littlefield thought.

  Wallace cleared his throat and scanned the crowd. “The Chief asked me to brief you about what we’ll be up against. Every Roman is armed. Most prefer a 9mm handgun. They all carry sheath knives and know how to use them. Our primary target, street name Shooter, birth name Larry Henderson, carries a sawed-off shot gun loaded with buckshot. He keeps it behind the bar when he isn’t on the road. Do not take these people lightly. They live by intimidation and cruelty. And there are lots of them.

  “Forty or fifty gang members gather most evenings at the Stone-Cold Tavern on South Commercial. Ostensibly, it’s a public bar – but outsiders have the good sense to stay away. The gang likes that location because there are three roads they can use to boogie if they need to. Shooter has an office in the back of the building to keep books and take care of ‘special business.’ There’s a back exit from that room. Here, let me show you...”

  Officer Wallace used a white board to sketch the floor plan of The Stone-Cold Tavern: one entrance, three exits, with a bar running down the north wall. “The front of the bar is made of oak planks backed by a sheet of quarter-inch steel. That makes a good barrier, especially for lighter pistol rounds.

  “There is a boogie door at the west end of the bar. It leads to the bathroom hallway and to a back ex
it. One thought is to chase them out that exit and trap them there.”

  A hand went up. Wallace pointed and said, “Go ahead.”

  “Do they have an evening ritual? A recurrent pattern?”

  Wallace nodded. “Yes. They drink, smoke dope, gamble, and generally get drunk or stoned into the wee hours of the morning.”

  A member of the FBI Swat team held his hand up and asked, “So you think we hit them after midnight?”

  Wallace nodded. “There’s one complication. Two bikers we call ‘soldiers’ are posted to guard the bikes. They stay sober, because Shooter is liable to kill any soldier who gets drunk or stoned on duty.”

  “So, we need to take care of those first…” the leader of the Salem Tactical Team observed.

  Wally nodded. “My pal Sloppy Joe and I will take them down. They know us. The real risk is if the bartender – who also stays sober – is watching the security cameras when we engage.”

  A voice from the back of the room said, “Sloppy Joe?”

  Wallace smiled. “I guess you could say I ‘turned’ him. He’s a long-time biker who wants out of the life. But he’s scared of Shooter. Says Shooter has no qualms about killing people who try to quit. I convinced Sloppy Joe to help me in exchange for a new identity and some traveling money. He’s solid. He’ll help me tonight. And he’s kind of scary himself. Imagine a giant red-headed Viking with a skull helmet coming at you swinging a broadaxe. That’s Sloppy Joe. Please don’t shoot him … or me … tonight.”

  That brought a few chuckles.

  Special Agent Johnson pushed away from the wall to enter the conversation. “Let me get this straight. They get drunk and stoned almost every night. And then they ride off into the night?”

  Wally shook his head. “No. If they get too messed up to ride, they walk a short half-block to the bunkhouse.”

  “How many?”

  “Depends, but as I said, generally there are forty to fifty bikers in the place, and sometimes more. Shooter never sleeps at the bunkhouse. We’ll have to engage him at the bar.”

  Chief Littlefield interjected, “Okay. Listen up. We want you to work on a plan to pick them up one at a time as they walk to the bunkhouse. Quietly. Patrol cars will block the streets and divert traffic away from this den of inequity. Maybe we knock out the power to the tavern and bunkhouse, then round ‘em up. What do you think Agent Johnson?”

  Johnson nodded in agreement. “Yes, maybe. But not before midnight. We want them as inebriated as possible.” He grinned and said, “Chief, why don’t we take our attorney friends and go have a quiet drink someplace ourselves … let our teams work out a plan. We’ll come back in a couple of hours for a briefing. Agreed?”

  Chief Littlefield and Special Agent Johnson turned the action over to their subordinates and left the meeting room. Black and Hall followed them to the hallway and waited until the door closed.

  DA Black held out his hand and said, “Thanks. This could get interesting. I’m afraid I can’t join you. I have a meeting with the mayor I need to get to.”

  Assistant U.S. Attorney Hall said, “I too have some business waiting for me. Later, maybe.”

  Littlefield and Johnson watched the men walk down the hall and out the door. Chief Littlefield said, “I’m not sure what to make of this. The FBI making nice and working as equal partners with the City of Salem? What’s going on?”

  Johnson grinned. “In some cities, three on this coast I can point to, we find very little cooperation. So, when we have a happy opportunity to work as partners with a local agency, we jump at the chance.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “That bad. In San Francisco, the mayor actually ordered the city police to not cooperate with us. It makes enforcing federal laws very difficult. We can’t even use local jails.”

  Littlefield took a deep breath. “In that case, let’s make tonight’s effort a showcase for cooperation.”

  “Agreed. First round is on me.”

  Chapter 74

  Basma

  When Brant and Miranda briefed Agent Smith about their hunt for Winslow Butler, he looked surprised … and then envious. He studied the picture of The Runaway, shook his head and marveled. “A black 52-foot Krogen. Wow! Most of us can only dream about owning one of those.”

  Brandt looked sideways at Miranda, then back at Smith. “Uh, boss? What’s it about? The boat or Butler?”

  “Oh. Sorry. I dream of owning my own cabin cruiser someday. A smaller one, I’m afraid.”

  Brandt and Amanda stared in disbelief. Smith’s reaction revealed a human side they had never suspected. A dreamer? Smith? Political Smith? Unbelievable.

  “Okay. Okay,” he said. “Sorry. So, you think he may be headed for Homer, Alaska?”

  Miranda nodded. “Maybe. Even likely.”

  “What are you going to do about it?” Smith asked.

  Brandt shrugged. “Running away in a boat is about as dumb as it gets, especially in a Krogen. How do you hide a boat like that? At some point, you need to stop for fuel and supplies. I guess you could lay up in some sheltered bay for a week or so, but not forever. We sent a BOLO out to every harbormaster and Coast Guard station on the west coast. An ‘Observe, but do not approach’ BOLO.”

  “Good. And tell the harbormaster in Homer exactly what to look for.”

  Brandt said, “On it boss,” and started to rise from his chair, but Smith stopped him. “Sit down. You can take care of that after we’re through. Good job, by the way.”

  He pulled a file from his top drawer and pushed it across the desk. “Read this and then go interview this lady. She works for the Portland Water Bureau. She and her husband may have been feeding information about Portland’s water system to a terrorist cell. I suspect, as does Dutch, they intended to poison our water.

  “She lives in a bad neighborhood, so I’ve arranged for a tactical team to go with you.”

  Brandt shook his head. “Sorry, but Dutch made it clear that finding Butler is our first and only priority.”

  “I talked to Dutch. And since you are in a holding pattern for the moment, he said I could use you for this one job.”

  Brandt looked peeved, but Miranda just opened the file. She read the first name in the file and nodded. “Basma, wife of Hamas … formerly Benjamin Green, if I remember Reverend TJ Wildish’s story correctly.”

  Smith nodded. “There’s an address in the file. Agent Woodson, our SWAT team leader, is waiting for your call. Coordinate with him. My source says she Basma is at home today … drinking bottled water.”

  “Source?”

  “Yeah. A city inspector. Apparently, someone made an anonymous call about a gas leak.”

  Amanda smiled and said, “You didn’t?”

  Smith shook his head, but his smile told the tale.

  “That’s sneaky,” Brandt said, with a hint of admiration in his voice.

  ***

  Their trip through North Portland gave Brandt and Miranda a close look at the once-flourishing area. Residential neighborhoods were now home-based businesses sporting small neon signs advertising hair care, small engine repair, electronic repair, sewing, child care … people trying to earn a living in any way possible.

  Miranda noticed an unusual number of pawn shops. Many of the taverns had bars on the windows, and some of the convenience stores employed security guards to protect the property.

  She sighed and said, “This used to be a place people could raise families.”

  Brandt nodded. “I know. Neighborhoods used to be sanctuaries for families. But now that we are a sanctuary city, our neighborhoods aren’t safe for anyone anymore. I don’t know where this is going to take us.”