Freckles was stranded in the concourse. He tried to make a run for it, but Bumper sprinted toward him, quickly covering the distance. With outstretched arms, he grabbed Freckle’s head with both hands and leaped into the air. His momentum carried his body past Freckles in a wide arc, snapping the man’s neck with a loud pop.
Trent was marveling at Bumper’s athletic agility and his acrobatic moves when he heard a dull-hollow slapping sound. He turned and saw Thumper driving the cop’s head again and again against the nearside wall. When Thumper dropped the man, his lifeless body bounced on the floor then lay still as a bundle of old clothes. His face looked like it had done fifteen rounds with a metal fan.
The concourse smelled of cordite and blue smoke hung in the air. Trent tipped the stunned shoeshine man a twenty and made a straight dash for the glass doors and the street. He looked over his shoulder and saw Thumper and Bumper boarding their bus as the pneumatic doors began closing behind them.
#
Trent hurried down a sidewalk that paralleled the bus terminal. He was stopped at a red light when he heard the heavy diesel clatter of a Greyhound bus that was rounding the terminal exit ramp. As the bus motored slowly through the intersection someone began banging loudly on a passenger window. Trent glanced up in time to see Thumper and Bumper grinning largely and waving at him. He raised both arms in a victory salute to his new friends as the bus accelerated and pulled onto the interstate.
Chapter 39
Minutes later Trent was seated at a small table inside a Caribou coffee shop. He sat warming each hand in turn on a chai latte because the heat was barely working. He dialed Priest’s mobile phone. “It’s Palmer.”
“You are wasting my time. Good day.”
“I’ve got the proof. We can get to the bottom of this scandal; catch the Midtown Murderer.”
“Take your cock-and-bull stories to Clay’s office.”
“I can’t. You’re the only one I trust.”
“Another day, Palmer. I’ve got a developing situation at the bus terminal to deal with.”
Trent paused while two fine-looking Latin girls strode past his table and out the door; despite the cold they wore short skirts and skimpy tops. “Butler’s reporting of the meth lab fire that killed the four Midtown officers is far from accurate,” he said, watching the girls cross the street.
“Come to my office,” Priest said.
His tone, Trent thought, had a more alert, sharpened quality now. “No. Meet me at the Caribou Coffee on Tenth and Juniper; and come alone.”
“I could have you arrested for withholding evidence.”
“You won’t.”
“Palmer—”
“This is about finding Chloe.”
Trent was keeping an eye on the door when Priest walked in.
“Tell your story, Palmer,” he said, removing his fleece-lined cap and then seating himself in a chair across from Trent.
Trent turned his iPad toward Priest. “Watch this slideshow.”
Priest was studying the photos, and his concentration was so great that he didn’t notice the waitress had stopped at the table. Trent ordered coffees and croissants and then described how the survey pilot had captured the two cars on two separate days at the two sites.
Priest gave him a dubious look. “You have an overactive imagination, Palmer. My gut says there’s a logical explanation.”
“Not so fast,” Trent said. He laid the GID report on the table. “Compare those pictures against Butler’s; I’m sure he doctored the report.”
Priest’s face flared with anger. “Where did you get that?”
Trent cleared his throat and said a little awkwardly, “The night I shot Triple’s brother you interviewed me in a room that the Atlanta GID had used. The report was lying under a chair; heisting it is the only illegal thing I’ve done since I moved to Atlanta.”
“You committed a felony,” he said through clenched teeth.
Trent eyed him tolerantly. “Just look at the pictures.”
“What are you trying to get out of this?”
“Chloe. That’s it. Period.”
“Uh-huh,” Priest said, eying him cautiously. He took the magnifying glass and studied the differences between the GID reconnaissance photos and the survey pilot’s images. A band of sweat had formed across his forehead. Occasionally he glanced around to ensure that no one was looking. Trent could sense a fear building in the big man.
“The guy pointing at the shed could be Butler,” Trent said, leaning across the table and tapping the screen with his pencil. “If it is him, then the three goons by the car might be cops. My money says they’re the ones who killed Winston and attacked me at the Wire Tap Lounge.”
Priest was startled out of his concentration when the waitress set down the coffees. “I signed a leave of absence request for one of McClure’s GID officers, a fellow named Steve Butterson; said a close relative had become gravely ill. And that he’d be off the roster for a while.”
Trent buttered a croissant and eyed Priest across the table. “Is he a short guy?”
“Yes.”
“He could have been the mime I cut. How about the other two? Do any of the officers at the Midtown Police Plaza have long-range shooting experience?”
Priest’s voice softened a little and he said, “McClure’s number-one man is a guy named Dana; he was a Gulf War sniper. But you know as well as I do that all police officers know how to shoot.”
“True. What about Roe?”
“He came over from Lawrenceville a few months ago to work for Butler. I don’t know much about him.”
“So, who’s in the back of the car?” asked Trent.
“I do not know.”
“If Butler is up to his neck in the GID deaths,” Trent said with undeniable logic, “no alibi in the world’s going to help him. The time and date is printed at the bottom of each photo.”
Priest studied the pictures repeatedly with Trent’s magnifying glass.
“That’s not all the bad news,” Trent said. “Butler and his three stooges could be masquerading as the Midtown Murderer. Say they killed Jack, and Chloe stumbled onto them; they might have abducted her.”
Priest sat silently, not moving. Finally he said, “You did good, Palmer; no doubt you uncovered some strange patterns.”
“At first,” Trent said, “I thought Radcliff was the Midtown Murderer, but now . . .”
Priest shook his head. “Not Radcliff; he’s been through some tough times, but he’s no serial killer.”
“If there is a scandal in the department, what steps would you take?”
“Investigating a Law Enforcement Officer is a very difficult task,” he said, sipping his coffee. “Our Internal Affairs would start the process. I need to think . . .”
Trent showed him a road atlas and said, “I located the sites and plotted them on a map. Let’s take a drive. You can think on the way.”
Priest drained his coffee and got to his feet. “We’ll take my Crown Vic. First I need to take a leak; grab a few bottles of water then meet me at the car.”
Chapter 40
They drove northeast out of Atlanta into the Georgia countryside. After the dirty slush of the city, everything looked white and clean, like a Grandma Moses landscape. The interstate was clear and traffic moved quickly.
As Priest drove, Trent had to constantly fight an urge to look in the rearview mirror. He had little doubt that there was someone other than McClure at the Midtown precinct searching for him. And whoever wanted Trent dead had to know he had spoken to Priest; and that could mean he had set Priest up as a target. But there had been no choice. Priest had to go with him; it was the only way to convince him there was a conspiracy.
“There’s no one following us, Palmer,” Priest said with a grin.
Trent spread the map on his knees. “We’ll know soon enough.” After a while, he motioned for Priest to exit the interstate.
Priest turned onto a winding two-lane blacktop. “Miles and mi
les of nothing,” he said, waving a hand at the bleak landscape of lakes and forests. Staring out his side window he added, “You sure we’re heading in the right direction?”
Trent studied a large aerial photograph. “Yes. That water tower is right here,” he said, tapping the photograph.
“You say so.”
They reached a T-junction devoid of any direction signs.
“Which way?” Priest asked.
“Right,” Trent said, as if he knew where he was going.
Priest turned and followed a dirt road that became a trail, and petered out altogether. He bit his lip and looked worried.
“We’ll find it,” Trent said, more in order to relieve Priest’s evident anxiety than because there was any reason to believe it.
Priest turned the car, careful not to get bogged down in a ditch, and they drove on in silence.
Twice more that afternoon they took wrong turns to follow roads that became trails.
“One more dead end, Palmer, and we’re heading home.”
Trent’s heart sank. He chewed on his fingernails and said, “I have a feeling we are very near the site.”
“You sound like a broken record.”
Trent ignored him and indulged in a leisurely survey of the countryside. He thought of Sylvia and the warmth and memories of her small apartment that always smelled of fresh-baked bread.
He smiled at how Sylvia and her aunt would close the kitchen door when they cooked, their voices rising through the apartment, and mingling with the warm cooking smells. He would wait in the living room, and when the kitchen door finally flung open, Sylvia would proudly show off her home-made dinner. He could still hear the sound of her infectious laughter like a soft moving of dove voices. They were the closest and clearest memories he had of her, clearer even than of the day she died.
Trent’s mind was occupied with Sylvia when Priest called his name.
“Yes?”
“I’m curious, Palmer, do you enjoy finding missing people?”
“Very much so,” he said. “It was work at first. I had to solicit my services around town; but now I get most of my jobs word of mouth. I have the freedom to call my own shots.”
“Or get shot at.”
“Now you’re a comedian.”
The narrow road led over a rise and passed close to a reservoir. Gray crusts of ice had formed along its rim.
Trent tapped the photograph. “That’s the reservoir,” he said triumphantly. “The turnoff is right past it; then we’ll have a mile-long drive through the woods.”
“We better find it before dark,” Priest said with a scowl.
Trent ignored him. “Turn here.”
Priest braked and turned onto a curving dirt road that disappeared into a forest of dense pines. The trees veined in the late-afternoon sunlight.
Trent thought about the killers again. He was sweating from apprehension. What if they’re waiting for us? He wished he’d called Radcliff for a backup.
Pine branches brushed the sides of the car as Priest negotiated several sharp turns and ridges that jolted the car to the point of damage. A few minutes later they came to the end of the road.
“It should be through those trees a bit,” Trent said, tracing his finger around the burned-out structure in his photograph.
Priest made a U-turn in a small clearing with a few deeply-rutted car tracks. With the engine switched off, all was silent, the forest soaking up every sound of their movement.
Priest scanned the heavily-wooded property. “Let’s take a hike,” he said, pulling on his fur cap.
With Priest in the lead, they walked single file down a forest path at a leisurely pace. There were blue jays and sparrows foraging for food. The clouds were scurrying away to reveal some blue skies, but a light snow continued to fall.
Five minutes later they stepped out of the tree line beside a small lake. Their appearance, and the noise they made, sent dozens of birds into the air with a clattering of wings; they circled low over the water, then disappeared beyond the trees.
Priest pointed at a pile of rubble with a few scorched half walls jutting out of the ground. “That’s it.”
“Could have been a moonshiner’s shed,” Trent said, kicking the hard ground to dislodge the mud that had caked to his shoes.
They were standing by the structure now. The air of death that permeated the concrete-block shell was deeply depressing.
Priest must have felt it too, because he touched the wall gingerly as he leaned into a scorched rectangular opening. “Can you imagine what the officers thought when it went up?” he asked grimly.
“Hope they didn’t suffer,” Trent said, stomping his feet against the cold. He was imagining their final seconds trapped in a blazing building, knowing they were about to die. He looked at the gaping hole in the roof and whistled. “Fire punched through the roof.”
“Blew it sky-high,” Priest said, stepping lightly through ankle-deep ash to examine the broken remains from another angle.
“Whoosh,” Trent said, peering inside. Below the crumbling concrete floor was a dark hole that housed the well pumps and plumbing that had once irrigated the land. “Must have been a hot number to go up that quick.”
Priest squatted with his elbows between his knees. “The killers flooded the basement with a pool of Kerosene; at least a hundred gallons. They were human torches.”
Trent pulled a cigarette from behind his ear and lighted it. “The arsonist had to have been a pro.”
Priest hung his head and traced a path with his finger in a clump of dirty snow. “Lieutenant Ramsey radioed the station that her team had secured the building. ‘The lab is empty; the building has been secured’ were her last words. The officers were inventorying the lab supplies when it blew.”
“How do you explain the photo? If Butler was holding a control box . . . and he detonated the building?”
“That’s the puzzle,” Priest said. “But I’m not convinced it is Butler. And that call is way above my paygrade.”
“Maybe he forced her to make that call,” Trent said. “Then he shot her.”
Priest exhaled deeply. “I don’t know what to think.” He took the photo from Trent, then turned on his heel and walked to where the sedans had been parked.
Trent gained his side. “What if Butler knew the chopper would pass by? Maybe he waited and then blew the building.”
“No. Someone called FOX News and reported the fire. They relayed to the pilot; then he circled to film it.”
“That makes sense,” Trent said. “The killers could have been down the road by then.”
“Over there,” Priest said, holding the photo up to match the spot. He walked briskly toward the Pecan trees and said, “An unmapped fire road snakes past that stand of trees.”
“They didn’t count on that survey aircraft,” Trent said. He started to turn. “Let’s drive to the other—”
He looked over his shoulder and saw a figure shrouded in a heavy down parka the color of a baboon’s ass making his way toward him. It was Lieutenant Detective Butch McClure.
Chapter 41
They stood across from each other. McClure was wearing a different suit under his parka, and there was an assortment of red scratches on the side of his face where Bumper had raked him with the scattershot. Other than that he looked great.
“Too bad about your goon squad,” Trent said.
McClure projected his head forward and said, “Too bad is right. Being involved in those cop killings was your point of no return.”
“Your point?”
“Point is this: You’re a cop killer; a dead man walking.”
“You think you can get everything by fear. Not this time. I’m a murderer. You know that. And I’m not afraid to kill you.”
“You’ll be dead soon enough,” he said angrily. “Besides, I’ve got the key.”
Trent grinned. “You opened that storage unit yet? You can have any of the old stuff in there; just don’t take that barbecue gri
ll. Great fucking grill.”
No answer.
Trent searched the ground and picked up a brick. He stepped aggressively toward McClure.
“Stay put,” McClure said, pulling a Beretta M9 from his parka far enough for Trent to see.
Trent dropped the brick when he saw Priest walking toward them. “Meet me here tonight, McClure. Alone. We’ll settle this once and for all.”
“What, like a duel?” McClure said, pocking the Beretta.
“No weapons. A fight to the death.”
“No one will miss you when you’re gone.”
“You’re a coward. And a murdering thug.”
Priest joined them and they stood in a neat triangle by a clump of trees. McClure gave his voice a sideways trajectory and said to Priest, “I had a flat tire.”
Trent shoved his hands deep in his pockets so the cops wouldn’t see how much they were shaking.
Priest rested a hand on McClure’s shoulder and said to Trent, “Don’t be frightened; you’re safe with us.”
McClure nodded and said to Priest, “Find anything unusual, Inspector?”
“No. Not here.”
“I didn’t think you would,” McClure said crisply. “I’ve been over this place with a fine-tooth comb.”
“Come with me, Detective,” Priest said, motioning McClure out of Trent’s hearing range.
They talked and occasionally glanced at Trent. He licked his lips apprehensively and figured that if Priest was dirty, then this could be the killing moment. No one lives forever, he thought, breathing deep and examining the scenery around him, trying to imprint its beauty upon his memory.
After a few minutes Priest and McClure turned toward Trent. With a note of exasperation in his voice Priest said, “Leave it to Palmer; he has one more stop on this sightseeing tour.”
McClure’s thin lips curved into a sly smile. “No kidding? Where?”
The wind had sprung up, a sharp breeze that was frost cold against Trent’s skin. He turned to face it and said, “I found an identical pump house fifteen miles from here.”
The Midtown Murderer Page 14
