by Dana Marton
“I appreciate it.” Joe nodded. None of them had expected Keith to actually show up. Hell, if he’d known, he wouldn’t have gone to Philly.
“Keep an eye out for a short Mexican guy. Paco,” he told Mike.
“For what?”
“He cut Wendy’s brake lines. I got tangled up with him in an unrelated case. If Keith could track down my house, so can Paco.”
“Nobody’s getting through me,” Mike promised.
As Mike lumbered up the driveway, Joe hopped into his shot-up Camaro and made a note to call Artie about scheduling some bodywork. As it was, it hurt to look at the car. And the bullet holes would draw attention too. But he didn’t dwell on that as he drove down the street. He thought about Wendy.
He wanted her, he wanted their baby, raising the kids together as a family. He wanted it all, wanted everything. Shit. When had that happened? The thought should have made him feel trapped. Instead, the possibility of a future with her made him feel happy.
He drove to the station where he had to fill out another injury report for Leila’s files.
“How bad is it? No bullshit.” The captain watched him through narrowed eyes.
“It’s nothing. My cell phone took most of the hit. I was stuck in a basement, had to shoot my way out. I shot down the first guy, clipped the second, ran out of bullets so the third one got me before I rushed him.”
“How did you get out?”
“Grabbed their guns and climbed the dead guy to push out a window. Then up to the roof, since there was a bloody war going on on the ground.” He’d used missing stones and window sills as stepping stones. “I picked off a few gangbangers from up above.”
“You went missing.”
“Might have blacked out up there for a spell. The wound bled a little.”
The captain shook his head. “You lost enough blood to pass out.”
“All replaced. A pushy nurse dripped a whole bag of IV fluids into me in the ER.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re fit for duty.”
They spent ten minutes arguing over whether or not Joe should go back on sick leave. He won on that, so after he was done at the station, he drove into Wilmington.
The day before, Wilmington PD had searched the city for Keith while the captain and the rest of Broslin PD had combed Broslin, but Joe wanted to take a shot at it. He knew where Kline lived, where he worked, which country club he golfed at, what restaurants he liked for lunch. He was determined to find the bastard.
He planned out his morning as he drove, where he wanted to go first. But then his thoughts returned to Wendy.
The plain truth was, he wanted her. He wanted to keep her in his life. He needed to figure out how to accomplish that.
He hadn’t come up with any brilliant ideas by the time he reached the insurance company where Keith Kline worked.
“We had police here already,” the department director told him, an older guy who looked near retirement. He wore an impeccable three-piece suit, Italian leather loafers, and an old-fashioned gold signet ring. “Keith didn’t come in yesterday, and he hasn’t shown up yet today either.”
“Does he have a personal relationship with anyone at the company?”
“Sure. He’s a great guy. He goes out golfing with the other brokers all the time. Some people grab a beer after work now and then. He’s fun to be around. Outgoing. Good at sales.”
“Any female friends? Maybe something that goes beyond friendship?”
The director shook his head. “I don’t think so. But we do have a company policy against fraternizing with coworkers, so if people do date, they usually don’t flaunt it around the office. But I’ve never noticed Keith spending extra time with anyone like that.”
“Any history of violence?”
“Look, he’s a great guy.” But something in the man’s tone changed.
Joe waited him out.
“It wouldn’t be fair to besmirch his reputation because of one mistake.”
“This is a police investigation,” Joe reminded him.
The man pressed his lips together. “He had an argument over a project with a coworker six months ago. Keith threw a chair in the heat of the moment. A laptop got knocked off a desk and broke. He paid for damages, made apologies. He worked it out with HR.”
Joe asked a few more questions, but none of the responses proved helpful toward figuring out where Keith might be, so he ended with, “Could you show me his office?”
The man hesitated, but only for a moment. “I’ll have to call security to let you in. The other officers yesterday already looked through it,” he added.
“I’d like to check it again, if you don’t mind.”
The man called security and walked him over. They only had to wait a couple of minutes before a uniformed guard showed up with a master key and let them in.
The director stayed. “If you want to take anything, I’ll need a warrant. He has client files in here. Those are confidential.”
Joe nodded. He wasn’t particularly interested in the client files. He wanted to get a better feel for the man, for the way he thought, to figure out where he’d go to hide.
Keith would have known that he’d gone too far, that Wendy would have to go to the hospital, that there’d be police involved. So where would he go to regroup? Not far. He wouldn’t leave everything behind and take off permanently.
Nobody had seen him attack Wendy, no witnesses. He was probably thinking right now that all he needed was a good lawyer and any charges would be dismissed. The case against him was too weak to go to court.
Joe’s job was to make it stronger. He looked around carefully.
Keith had plenty of awards and certificates on his walls, clearly driven at work. He had pictures, taken at golf courses, with what Joe assumed were key clients, but nothing personal, no pictures of his son or Wendy.
Joe hesitated over the photo of a boat. “His?” Maybe he had a boat Wendy didn’t know about.
But the director shook his head. “I rented that for the department for a team-building event last year.”
Too bad. If the boat belonged to Keith, they might have found him on it.
“Are you aware of any favorite places he has, where he goes on vacation, any suggestions where he might be?”
“Home? He takes golf trips to Myrtle Beach, but not this time of the year.”
Joe planned on checking Keith’s penthouse apartment next, although he didn’t think Keith was dumb enough to be sitting on his couch, waiting for the police.
He thanked the director, but then he thought of something else on his way down. He got off the elevator on the next floor and asked the first person he saw, “Could you tell me where I might find the HR department?”
“Third floor.”
“Thanks.” He got back on the elevator and went down one more level.
The HR department had its own reception desk, so he headed there. He flashed his badge and asked to see the head of the department, a middle-aged woman who introduced herself as Lashanda Jefferson.
She was nearly as tall as Joe, wore her hair in a tight bun, dove-gray suit well cut and crisp, fancy high-heel shoes, no jewelry, no frills. She had a let’s-get-it-done air about her, reminding Joe of Leila. If she kept her department as shipshape as Leila kept the station, they were in good hands.
Joe flashed his badge. “I understand that one of your employees, Keith Kline, had some issues about six months ago and worked out some kind of deal. I need to find out more about that.”
The incident had to have an HR report written up about it. That would prove that Keith had a history of violence, which would improve the chances of the assault and battery case going to trial. As it was, the attack on Wendy would come down to Keith’s word against hers. Her injuries had been documented at the hospital, but she had no way to prove that Keith Kline had been the attacker.
The HR manager flashed a tight smile. “I’m sorry, Officer. I can’t discuss employees. If you want to look at Mr. Kl
ine’s file, you’re going to need a warrant.”
“But there’s a file?”
“All incidents requiring disciplinary action are fully documented,” she said smoothly.
Joe called that in to the captain on his way to his car. The crime had been committed in Broslin, Pennsylvania, but Keith worked in Wilmington, Delaware. Not only a different jurisdiction, but a different state. Fact was, the captain had more pull, more weight to negotiate with Wilmington PD than Joe.
Asking for help didn’t bother him. He’d learned team-playing on the football field. It didn’t matter who scored any one point; everyone worked together to make the team win.
He drove to Keith’s apartment building next, a fancy place with a doorman whose uniform looked like a theater costume for the toy soldiers in the Nutcracker: red wool with golden braids.
“Mr. Kline is not in,” the old guy informed Joe, as stiff as an English butler.
“Can you tell me when you saw him last?”
“Yesterday morning.”
Joe flashed his badge. “I’d like to go up anyway.”
“May I enquire why?”
“I’d like to talk to his neighbors.”
“I’d better announce you.”
But Joe had lost patience with protocol by that point and strode by the man to the elevators. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
He went all the way up. There were only four apartments on the top floor. He knocked on Keith’s door first, just in case. “Police, open up.”
No response came. Wilmington PD had been here yesterday, according to the captain, with a search warrant. Keith hadn’t been home. The cops didn’t find anything that pointed to his whereabouts.
Joe knocked again, louder.
A neighbor stuck her head out the door to scrutinize him, an elderly woman holding a tiny white dog under her arm. They wore matching pink tops. At least the dog didn’t have on sequined gold pants with it. The woman dripped jewelry, and Joe could swear the dog’s collar had gemstones embedded in the leather.
Since he wasn’t in uniform, he pulled his badge and held it up as he strode over. “Officer Joe Kessler, Broslin PD. I’m looking for your neighbor, Mr. Kline.”
“I haven’t seen him in a couple of days. I’m sorry. What’s this about? The officers yesterday wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“Official police business.”
She flashed an annoyed scowl. She didn’t look like the kind of person who was used to others naysaying her.
Joe couldn’t have cared less. “Any idea where Mr. Kline might be?”
“Certainly not. We up here on the twenty-second floor like to respect each other’s privacy.”
Right. Definitely not the block-party-type crowd. Their neighborly relationship probably consisted of polite nods in the elevator.
Since she had no actionable information and the other two neighbors weren’t home, Joe drove to Keith’s country club next.
“He was in this morning,” the gym manager said, a young woman wearing nothing but Spandex. “Must have changed his mind, because he was in and out. I don’t think he spent more than ten minutes here.”
Could be he’d come in to shower. He didn’t want to go home. He thought the police might be waiting for him there. Joe thanked the woman, then drove to the next address on his list, Brett Astor, ex-coworker, workout buddy, best friend, according to Wendy.
Brett was on sick leave for a busted knee. He came to the door with smiles and apologies for being slow. Even on crutches, he looked the quintessential yuppie, wearing designer khakis and a polo shirt.
“Yeah, Keith slept here. There was a gas leak in his apartment building. He went back this morning. What do you want from him?”
Joe didn’t sugarcoat. “He’s wanted for assault and battery.” He handed the man a business card. “If you see him, you need to call me.”
The guy stared at him. “Was it his girlfriend?”
Ex-girlfriend. “Did he say something?”
“Just cursing her out. I figured they had an argument. She’s a lying, cheating bitch, if you excuse my French. Does whatever she can to keep his son away from him. I wouldn’t believe much she says.”
Joe nodded. The guy only knew the story from Keith’s point of view. “You can see why it would be important for us to hear Mr. Kline’s side of the issue. If he comes here again, I’d appreciate it if you could call me. He is wanted by the police. If you don’t call, you will be charged with harboring a fugitive, obstruction of justice….” He let his voice trail off.
The man shoved the card into his pocket with a scowl.
Joe thanked him and left, hoping the guy was smart enough not to want to get sucked into Keith’s troubles with the law.
So he knew where Keith had slept last night and been this morning. He’d gone to the gym after leaving his friend’s place, but probably not to shower. He could have done that at Astor’s. Maybe he’d had something at his locker at the gym. Change of clothes, money, maybe a gun. Joe didn’t much like that last thought, but he had to consider it.
He called the house.
“Hey,” he said when Wendy picked up. “How are you today?”
“Better than yesterday. How did I end up upstairs?”
“I went up to brush my teeth, and you followed me like a puppy. You tried to seduce me to bed, but I’m not easy. I resisted.”
“In your dreams,” she said, but he could hear the smile in her voice.
“Frequently,” he admitted, then got to the reason he was calling. “I hope you’re taking it easy today. Stay off your feet.”
“Yes, sir, Officer Kessler,” she mocked him.
As soon as they hung up, Captain Bing called.
“We have a hostage situation here at Sophie’s place. That old couple who are renting? Some guy named Paco took them hostage, demanding to talk to you. You know what this is about?” His words snapped through the line.
“Brant Street Gang.” Joe stepped on the gas. “I’m on my way.”
He wanted Paco. Paco had almost killed Wendy and Justin when he’d sabotaged her car.
Paco, the freaking idiot. So he wasn’t as smart as Keith. Obviously, he couldn’t figure out where Joe lived, had fixated on the house that Joe had driven to the night Paco had followed him, the night the bastard cut Wendy’s brakes.
Not only was he not smart enough to lay low when he knew every cop in Wilmington was looking for him, he couldn’t even get the house right.
Joe drove as fast as he could, found the entire Broslin PD at the house. He pulled up behind the cruisers and walked forward in the cover of the other cars. He nodded to the captain, to Jack, Chase, and Harper, who were huddled behind the first vehicle. They made room for him.
Paco must have seen him from a window, because the front door opened a crack. “Motherfucking cop!”
“Hey,” Joe shouted back. “Let’s talk about this.”
“You come in.”
The Captain shook his head.
“You come in, or I’ll pop Grandma and Grandpa,” Paco threatened. “Then I’m gonna shoot up the rest of your sorry asses.”
Sounded like he was feeling his strength or, more likely, the false strength some drug was giving him. Joe thought about that for a moment. He was trying to go for rational assessment, but all he could see was the Prius with Wendy and Justin as they dangled over the abyss.
Paco had done that. The little bastard had escaped the dragnet in Philly. Joe couldn’t let him get away again.
There was a time to play as a team, and then there was a time to hold on to the ball and run with it. Joe held his gun high up in the air and stepped out of cover. “I’m coming in.”
The Captain swore behind him, but Joe stepped forward before anyone could grab him and yank him back. He tossed his weapon to the ground. “Let them go, Paco. You don’t need them. You got me.”
He walked slowly, steadily to the door. “You let them out; I come in.”
The s
ound of shoes shuffling came from behind the door. An older woman stepped out first, pale and shaking, then her husband behind her, walking with a cane.
Joe waited until they scrambled down the stairs, then he moved forward. Paco stood a few steps beyond the door, holding his gun on Joe, his eyes bloodshot.
“Fucking cop.” He motioned Joe in with the weapon.
He stepped inside.
Paco scanned him for weapons. “Close the door.”
Joe did.
Paco swore in Spanish. “Rashard’s dead.”
Joe held his jumpy gaze. “That’s a chance you take when you go on a drive-by. I’m more concerned for the innocent jogger.”
Paco aimed the gun at his head. “Shut up.” Sweat rolled down his forehead.
“Hey, I got a kid on the way,” Joe told him. “Just found out.”
“Shut up.”
“How are your girls?”
“Shut the fuck up!”
Joe kept his shoulders relaxed. “There are a lot of cops out there.”
“You lied to me! You’re a fucking liar.”
“Those girls love you, man, you know they do. The cops out there have nothing on you. They don’t even know for sure if you were involved in the shootout. This here—” He shrugged. “A year or two. You get out. But if you shoot a cop, it’s over. Those girls go to your funeral. That’s how you want them to see you, man?”
Paco’s finger twitched on the trigger, hate darkening his face. “Motherfucker!”
Joe stood his ground, calm, keeping things level. “Drop the gun. We walk out together.”
Behind Paco, he saw Mike duck by the sliding glass door. Joe gave a faint shake of his head, hoping Mike would catch it. Not now. Not yet.
Joe glanced back at Paco in time to see the change in his eyes. The man’s lips flattened, his knees locked.
Joe lunged forward, went low, just as Paco discharged his weapon.
The next second, the whole Broslin PD was in the house, shouting, “Drop your weapon! Drop your weapon!”
Then Mike and Harper were on top of Paco, crushing Joe in the process, like an old-fashioned football pileup. Joe untangled himself and let them have their target.
