by Allen Kent
I was just smart enough to know that I ignored any policy at my own peril. Able Pendergraft, who’d practiced law in Crayton since before Grace was born, had written every will in town, and had served as legal counsel for ten thousand minor offenses, wouldn’t have touched a lawsuit against me. And Judge Werner would have thrown it out as baseless. But I knew some young Springfield attorney might see the shooting incident in the News-Leader, smell an officer abuse case, and come after me. He’d demand a change of venue to Greene County, try to select a jury of folks who’d had some run-in with the law, and turn Sal into a victim. Give the case a “Sheriff Shoots Lover’s Boyfriend” spin. My only protection was a thorough investigation.
Dave Johansson had wheeled into the drive while I was still crouched over Larry Newby, trying to stem the bleeding from a shoulder wound that had knocked him all the way to the back of his patrol car. Grace had come out onto the porch, taken a panicked look at the two downed bodies, and fallen back into an old rocker, clutching her knees and staring at Sal while Marti stroked her back. I glanced up as Dave came around the back of Newby’s cruiser carrying his service weapon and a powerful flashlight. He was dressed in civvies.
Dave knelt beside the deputy. “How bad is he?”
I pressed a wad of gauze from Newby’s first aid kit hard against his shoulder. “He’s unconscious, but alive. He’s lost a lot of blood. When he didn’t answer me, I thought he was dead. But it looks like the door may have knocked him out. The shot hit the frame and ricocheted into Larry, slamming the window bar back into him.” I pointed at a long red welt across his forehead that was quickly darkening to purple.
“Have you called an ambulance?”
The distant scream of a siren answered his question.
“Chase is on his way. He and his wife were having dinner at Waterman’s, so I think the doc is with him.” With one bloody hand, I reached to my hip and handed Dave my Sig. “Sal’s on the porch. You better go look the scene over and get some pictures while Chase runs Larry to the hospital. He can come back for the body later and take Sal to Springfield.”
Johansson stood and looked from Newby to the porch. “You sure Sal’s dead?”
“Pretty sure. I hit him in the middle of the chest.”
“And he shot Newby?”
I glared at him across the fallen man, but knew it was a question he had to ask. “Sal got off eight or ten shots. Six at me, and a couple at Larry. I was over across the yard behind that oak and figured Larry’d been hit when he didn’t answer. Then, when Sal shot the lock out of the front door, I had to take him down.”
Dave turned and waved the approaching ambulance over to the patrol car. “Did you warn him before you shot?”
“Over and over. Marti and Grace were inside and could hear everything. They can tell you how it all went down.”
Grace had pushed suddenly from the rocker, stepped around her fallen boyfriend, and rushed from the porch as if she’d just become aware that Newby was down. She dropped onto her knees beside him, joined by Doc Waterman, as Chase pulled the rolling stretcher from the rear of the ambulance.
Grace grasped the deputy’s limp hand, looking at me pleadingly. “I’m so sorry, Tate,” she sniffled. “This is all my fault. Is Larry going to be alright?”
The doctor pulled my dressing away from the wound, slid a hand under Larry’s back to see how much the bullet had spread, then waved us back to clear a path for the stretcher. “I don’t think it hit any bone,” he guessed. “He’s lost a lot of blood, but not enough to be critical. I think he’ll make it. We need to get some fluids in him.” He pointed up at the bruised swath just above Newby’s nose. “What happened here?”
I stood and fingered the crease on the inside edge of the window frame. “The way I see it, the shot kicked the door back hard into him as it glanced into his shoulder. The combination knocked him out.”
Doc Waterman grunted and helped lift the deputy onto the cart. “I’m not sure he got hit by the whole bullet. Not that much spread. Any reason I need to check on the other victim?”
“Either you or Chase needs to pronounce him dead at the scene,” I suggested. “I don’t see any reason to move the body until Chase gets back and, for the record, it would be good to make it clear we didn’t need to be rushing him to the hospital.”
“Chase,” the doctor called to the ambulance owner. “You’re the coroner. Why don’t you go make sure we don’t have another live one we need to transport before we leave. I’ll work on this wound.”
Dave Johansson took Grace’s hand and lifted her to her feet. “Are you okay, Torres? Would you like me to take you somewhere to be checked over?”
Grace folded her arms tightly across her chest and shook her head mutely.
“Let me walk you through how this all happened for your report, Dave,” I offered. “I’ll stay here with Sal until Chase gets back and can take him up to the morgue.”
“You gonna be alright, Tate?” he asked.
I nodded, still feeling my pulse thumping a few beats above normal, but without a shred of guilt about having taken down Sal Becerra.
A second state patrol car sped toward us along one of the section lines. “That’ll be Mike Holland,” Dave said. “He’s the duty officer tonight. I’m going to let him walk you through everything and file the report so it’s official. I’ll add what I can tomorrow.” He handed my weapon back. “Give this to Mike. Then, I suggest you call Bobby Lule. As of now, you’re on suspended leave, and Grace is in no shape to take over.”
We had no internal “shooting team” in the department and, even if we had, half of us were either the shooter, the intended victim, or in the hospital. The investigation fell to the state patrol and, to my relief, into the hands of Mara Joseph. It wasn’t that I was worried about being exonerated. I knew it was a clean shoot, made under fire, and with two innocents in immediate mortal danger. Every possible warning had been given to the deceased. But internal investigations have a way of being unpredictable, of dragging on for weeks, and can be a complete pain in the ass. We didn’t have time for a sideshow, and I didn’t have the patience to be jacked around by an inquest when the facts were so clear. Joseph would do her job, and would do it quickly.
I’d stayed at the scene until Chase came back for the body, made sure Grace would be alright with Marti and Nolan, then driven over to the Newby place. Larry’s wife, Tammy, needed to hear from me that he’d been shot, but would be okay. I ended up staying for nearly an hour while she pulled herself together and called a neighbor to drive with her up to the medical center. By the time I got ahold of Rocky D’Amico to tell him half the department was out of service and he was in charge of the day shift until I got cleared, it was 3:00 a.m. I vaguely remember driving home.
Joseph called at 10:00, just as I was rolling out after six hours of restless tossing.
“Can you meet me at the Bleasdale place at 11:00?” she asked. “I’d like to get this investigation out of the way as soon as we can, and it needs to start with you. I have Officer Holland’s report, which looks pretty straight forward, but would like to take a look at the scene with you before we have other interviews.”
I reached Marti’s house five minutes before the hour and found Joseph there with a young state trooper named Owens, who had been assigned to be the other part of the shooting team. I recreated the scene while both took notes and snapped pictures.
“I have Newby’s weapon,” Joseph said. “He fired two rounds. Are you sure it was you who hit Becerra and not Newby?”
I pointed at the gash in the porch siding, now scrubbed a washed pink, but not repaired. “Larry was firing cover shots while I ran for the oak,” I said. “He wouldn’t have been trying to bring Sal down, but keep him from firing at me. If you check the angle of the shot that went through Sal and into the wall, you’ll see it came from my position over there. And dig out the slug. It will be from my Sig.”
She sent Evans to the porch to confirm my explanation. When he was ou
t of earshot, she turned away from him and said, “This all looks clean, Tate. But I want you to stay away from the office until you get a call from me to come in. We met with Larry this morning. He’s doing pretty well and his story corroborated yours exactly. We’re leaving here to talk to Grace and Marti in town. As long as we don’t hear something unexpected, I plan to meet with the commissioners this afternoon and recommend they put you back on the job tomorrow. I’ve got a couple of new pieces of information you’ll be interested to hear. Maybe we could meet this evening.”
“You met with Larry this morning and didn’t say anything about it?”
“Procedure, Tate. We wanted to hear your account before you knew we’d heard his. Since they corroborate exactly, it makes the testimony stronger.”
Evans had satisfied himself on the porch and was headed back toward us.
“Why don’t you come out to my place this evening?” I suggested. “It might not look good if we have a casual get-together in town the day of the investigation.”
“I’ll call you,” she said and moved away to meet with the patrolman.
17
The last time Mara Joseph had been to my house, we’d spent the night together. We had just returned from our investigative trip to Mexico where we’d been tempted but resisted because we were on business and because we weren’t both supposed to be there. On the off chance we’d bump into someone who knew one of us, we wanted to be able to say honestly that it hadn’t been a rendezvous. Maximum deniability. The truth was that she thought it wasn’t a smart thing to do, and I didn’t feel like I could pressure her into changing her mind. We’d both been in recovery at the time: me, from the loss of Adeena, a death that I felt responsible for. Joseph, from a work-related romance that had turned sour. But somehow, during our post-Mazatlán rehash at my place, we had decided our recovery would benefit from some renewed intimacy.
What had started as a “Why don’t you use my spare room so you don’t have to drive back to Springfield tonight,” had turned into a “Let’s enjoy each other’s company and see if this feels right.” To me, it felt perfect. She had immediate regrets. Something to do with “once bitten, twice shy” and not wanting personal complications to get in the way of that requested transfer to St. Louis.
When she called shortly after 6:00 p.m., I’d just finished scrubbing down the kitchen side of the house and the back of the garage with my bristle brush and was thinking about reheating some spaghetti and marinara sauce left over from the weekend.
“Good news,” she announced. “Officer Evans and I both concluded the shooting was not only justified, but necessary to save lives. We reported to the commissioners this afternoon. They support full and immediate resumption of duties. I’ll file my report with the patrol in the morning but wanted to let you know right away.”
“That is great news. And thank you.” I hesitated, then asked, “Are you still planning to come by?”
“If you have time. There are a couple of things we need to talk about.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Not yet. If you haven’t, I can bring something with me. How about a Casey’s pizza?”
“Half supreme and half whatever you like best,” I suggested. “I have plenty of beer.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour.”
By the time I cleaned up and set dishes out on the table on the deck, I heard her pull onto the garage pad. As she had when she’d come to the house before, she gave two quick knocks and walked in, the pizza box balanced on one hand.
“Chicken Alfredo on the other half,” she announced. “If you don’t like it, I’ll be glad to take care of my share.”
I took the box and led her through the great room and out onto the deck. Sunset had painted the western sky a rich tangerine, and at the bottom of the ridge, the glassy surface of Mill Creek reflected a paler peach. Four white-tailed does grazed their way across the meadow beyond the creek, and barn swallows swooped and darted overhead after evening insects. Somewhere behind us in the woods, a pair of cardinals courted in the twilight.
Joseph stopped a step onto the deck and gazed out over the meadow. “I’d almost forgotten how beautiful it is out here,” she murmured reverently. “And peaceful.”
I grinned at her across the table. “I’ve tried to get you back for a reminder.”
“You have. And I haven’t been good about replying.”
I nodded toward one of the chairs, inviting her to sit. “Well, nice to have you back. And thanks again for a quick and positive report. Let’s eat and you can tell me what news you have.”
I’d turned the table to give two sides an open view of the valley. We sat with a corner between us as the evening darkened, saying little while we finished a couple of slices and washed them down with the Michelob I’d chilled. She took a long, slow draw on her beer and settled back.
“The Bureau thinks it’s found where the C4 came from,” she said matter-of-factly. “The ammunition depot in Iowa.”
“The place near Burlington?”
She nodded casually, as if we were discussing some tealeaf revelation by the Webber Sisters.
“How much?”
“Six M183 kits.”
“Do they know what happened to them?”
She shook her head just as casually, as if her mind was somewhere else. “There’s camera surveillance all over that plant. They seem to know what batch it came from and are studying the video since the last inventory was taken.”
“And how far back was that?”
“Last month some time. Virtually every vehicle coming in and out of the plant is checked. They’re really concerned about someone getting that much out without being detected.”
“So, they’ve no idea yet where it went?”
“No. Not yet. But they seem confident they’ll find the person who took it and learn what happened to it.”
“Hmm,” I muttered, feeling the same relaxing effects of the company, beer, and evening. The sun had dropped far enough to draw most of the color from the west, leaving a deep blue glow that spread from the horizon midway across the arc of the sky. Two planets had appeared. Mars and Venus, I guessed. The call of the cardinals was replaced by the muted hoot of a lone owl. I rose and flipped on the porch lights. When I turned back, she had stretched out in the chair, her head lolled back and eyes closed. I wondered what she would do if I kissed her on the forehead. As I moved back toward the table, she sighed deeply, then pulled herself back upright.
“Two other new bits of information—one good, one not-so-good,” she said in the same matter-of-fact tone, taking another sip at her beer. “The Bureau went to the address on Jason Anzar’s license in Brandon and he’d checked out. It was a rental, and the landlord said he hadn’t renewed this month.”
I shook myself quickly back to reality. “No forwarding address?”
She shook her head. “No address, and no responses yet to a nationwide APB on the white Mercedes Sprinter.”
I dropped back into my chair and put a foot up on the empty one across from me. “I’m hoping that’s the ‘not-so-good.’ Nothing to work with there.”
“The ‘good’ is that they discovered he had a connection online with a group on the dark web that call themselves The Talismen.”
“Is that Talismen with an ‘m-e-n’ or an ‘m-a-n?’”
“M-e-n.”
I took a pull at my own Michelob, then asked, “How did they find the link? Did he leave a phone or computer behind?”
Joseph chuckled. “One of the things I love about you, Tate, is that you immediately think of the questions it took me ten minutes to come up with. But I did ask. He didn’t leave anything, but made one careless mistake. The landlord lived in the other half of the duplex he rented and said Anzar had had some Wifi trouble. He came over and asked if he could use the guy’s computer just before he split. Based on the time, the Bureau was able to identify the access and followed it to this encrypted site.”
“Could they break in?�
��
“They haven’t yet. Some of these encryption systems are apparently pretty good.”
“Yeah,” I muttered by way of agreement, then sat in silence for a few moments, watching the last reflected light leave the surface of the creek and wondering what she’d meant by “One of the things I love about you.”
“He’s our man,” I said finally. “Anzar killed Farid Sayegh.”
Joseph glanced over with a raised brow. “Because of the connection to the dark web?”
“Because of the Talismen.”
“You’re ahead of me on this one too, Tate. Explain.”
“I think the name’s taken from talisman. With an m-a-n. You know what I mean by a talisman?”
“Well, yes. Like a charm.”
“Like a nazar . . . the evil eye amulet that’s been left with each of these murder victims.”
“You think this is some kind of hit squad?”
I shrugged. “The pieces fit. Our man Jason was in Syria. Yusef Haddad is Syrian and was FSA. Farid Sayegh was Syrian and an Assad informant. Yusef executed the oldest of the Sayegh brothers. It looks like Sayegh was here for revenge but got taken out before he could hit his target. We find an amulet in his pocket that’s an Arab charm to protect people from evil.”
“The pieces may line up, but I wouldn’t say they fit,” Joseph objected. “It’s a bit like having A, D, F, and G, with B, C, and E still missing.”
I challenged her with a skeptical tilt of the head. “So what are B, C, and E?”
“B: How do these Talismen know someone is coming to make a hit? C: How do they know when and where they can find this person to intercept? E: How do they coordinate to have someone at the right place to pick up the target and get the job done?”
“All good questions,” I admitted, standing and picking up the rest of the pizza. “It’s starting to get a little chilly for my blood. Let’s finish whatever you want of this inside. We can figure this all out tomorrow. Is the Bureau going to give some of the case up, or are we still too Ozark to help with it?”
