Jumper: Karma Police Book One

by Sean Platt

  My heart races.

  It’s him, but I can’t say anything, not without a lot of explaining.

  “Who is that man to Peter Bova’s right?”

  “Why?” she asks, still confused.

  “He looks so familiar,” I say, hoping like hell that she will remember him in some fashion. While she hadn’t seen him, I’d lied to the detectives while in her body, saying she had. I hope she’ll have some recognition from my memories.

  She looks at a text file associated with the photo file’s name.

  “The man to Peter Bova’s right is his son, Alexander Bova.”

  Her eyes widen.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “I think that’s him.”

  “Who?”

  “Gavin! The man who killed Lara!”

  “Are you sure?” I ask, jumping up and down inside, screaming, Yes, yes, yes!

  “I think so,” she says.

  “We’ve got to call the detective,” I urge.

  She reaches for her phone.

  Suddenly a voice calls out, “Put down the phone!”

  We both turn, surprised that someone sneaked through the back door, and is now standing here, pointing a gun at us.

  The man is wearing a black mask, but I’d know Vinnie’s voice anywhere. He’s here to clean up the mess.

  **

  Yvonne slowly lowers the phone.

  “What do you want? We don’t have money on hand.”

  “I know,” Vinnie says. “I’m here to ask you to reconsider the story you’re running.”

  “What story?” Yvonne asks.

  “The one that Pastor Williams came to you with. You need to kill the story.”

  Yvonne is too pissed to take his suggestion. “Excuse me. Who the hell are you to walk in here thinking you can tell us to kill a story?”

  She reaches into her desk where she keeps her gun.

  Vinnie fires two shots, one to the head, one to the chest. Yvonne slumps over.

  I scream, “Vinnie, no!”

  Vinnie’s gun is already on me. There is a moment of pause in his eyes, but his finger is already squeezing the trigger.

  I hear him say, “Sorry,” and then there is nothing.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 7

  Friday, 5:00 a.m.

  I wake up gasping for air, hearing the bleating alarm.

  I hit the off button and sit bolt upright, flicking on the light next to the bed.

  I’m in the body of Detective Hector Ramirez, alone in his bedroom. A picture of his ex-wife and twin girls is still on his nightstand, though she took the kids when she split two years ago.

  They’re still the first thing he sees each morning — a reminder of what he sacrificed for the job, and a mental note to never let the bullshit get to him.

  Unlike waking up inside the dazed and confused Thomas and Vinnie, I feel crystal clear and laser focused as Hector. It’s as if he’s been waiting for me.

  One can only hope.

  I get on the phone immediately to my sergeant, asking for an update on last night’s shootings. I tell him I saw something on the news, even though I’ve yet to turn on the TV.

  “You want info on the shootings or the fire?” Sergeant Shields asks.

  “Everything.”

  “Two gunshots, one DOA, one airlifted to Bay Cove General.”

  “There was a survivor? Who?”

  “Yvonne Lopez, she’s in critical condition. Doctors don’t know if she’ll make it.”

  I’m surprised she survived the two shots, particularly since one hit her in the head.

  “What about the fire?”

  “Whoever did the shooting torched the place. There’s nothing left of the Chronicle.”

  “Jesus.” Anger courses through me. I want to find Vinnie and arrest him. But I have more important things to do right now — chief among them, find Alexander Bova and save Allie.

  I’m about to hang up when I get a flash of memory from Hector. “Who’s heading the case?”

  “Parker and Gillespie.”

  Given that those two clowns are among the estimated 30 percent of the sheriff’s department, including the sheriff himself, who are either crooked or somehow involved with Mr. Bruno’s criminal empire, this doesn’t bode well for Yvonne’s odds of survival.

  And there’s nothing I can say, to Shields, anyway, that won’t put Hector in the crosshairs. My only hope is that the deputies won’t do something insanely stupid, like attempting to kill Yvonne while she’s still in the hospital.

  “Thanks,” I say to Shields, then hang up.

  I take a shower, sorting through Hector’s memories, searching for the best way to find Alexander Bova in a way that won’t draw attention from my superiors. If I look him up in the database, there’s a good chance someone will see it, then Hector will wind up with a bullet in his head, too.

  First, Lara is murdered; then Allie is kidnapped. Now Vinnie’s killed Tommy and sent Yvonne to the hospital.

  I can’t risk another life. I have to play this safe.

  My anger builds as I dress.

  No, I can’t play it safe. I need to go on the offensive.

  I get a flash of memory from Monday night, the call that Hector was first on scene for — Vinnie’s club.

  The money and hard drives I logged into evidence lockup until the case is closed.

  **

  I arrive at the sheriff’s office, make my morning rounds, then head to evidence lockup, saying I need to check on something.

  I sign in, am buzzed into the evidence room, and close the door behind me. I follow Hector’s memories to locate the shelf where the evidence is stored.

  I find several sacks of cash in one bag, and seven hard drives, each in their own evidence bag.

  But something’s wrong.

  As I examine one of the hard drives more closely through the clear plastic, I see something that causes my heart to sink. While the bags each have a sticker with Hector’s name and signature and description of the contents, these aren’t the same hard drives that Hector logged into evidence.

  Someone got in here and tampered with the bags.

  Fuck!

  I toss the bags back onto the shelf, seething.

  I want to know who did this. I want their badges. I want to see them rotting in prison.

  Fuckers.

  I compose myself and leave the lockup, then sign out and return to my desk. I can feel eyes on me, and don’t know who to rely on. There are a few people Hector trusts, but no one implicitly. The thing about corruption is that it not only erodes an institution, it erodes the spirit of those who try to stay above the influence of corruption as well. It’s damn hard for most of the deputies on the force to turn down the perks that come with the Dark Side. From little things like extra money and overtime security assignments at posh places to accessing Sheriff Dixon’s inner circle, do what they want, and your path is easy. But to do the right thing, to stay on the straight and narrow, is nearly impossible working under a corrupt sheriff.

  Hector would be a marked man if his father hadn’t been a legend on the force who died in the line of duty. That earned him respect from even the most corrupt cops on the force. It also meant they didn’t ask him to join their little party, or do anything he didn’t want to do.

  He hoped to ride out Sheriff Dixon’s administration. If he could weather the storm until the next election, he could hang onto his job, and hopefully help weed out the bad deputies alongside whoever the next sheriff might be.

  There were a few people on the force, other guys and gals like Hector who were hungry for change. Many of them even said they’d back him if he ran for sheriff.

  Of course Hector said he wasn’t interested. If Dixon knew he was going to run, he’d make Hector’s life a living hell.

  So he bides his time, trying to fly under the radar.

  I don’t know how to keep him invisible now, if I’m going to save Allie and go after Bova’s son. It’s impossib
le to believe I won’t be making enemies.

  I mull my options then head out in my car with an idea.

  If I were Mr. Bruno, where would I hide my hard drives after my club was robbed?

  I’d put them right back in the same place. It’s the last thing the Russians, whoever they are, would probably expect. Hell, Mr. Bruno, or Vinnie specifically, probably took care of them already.

  I decide to test my theory.

  **

  The Emerald Club, despite its reputation as a high-end gentleman’s club, is located in one of the seedier parts of town along a stretch of road known mostly for its airport-adjacent abandoned storefronts, crumbling hotels, and greasy spoons.

  The club is a giant pink-and-black square of a building with no windows, save for the front doors.

  I drive around the back, which faces an old abandoned concrete factory and pinelands.

  I get out of the patrol car, grab a duffel bag from my trunk, empty the contents, then take it with me as I head to the rear entrance.

  “Hello?” I knock. “Sheriff’s department.”

  No response.

  I look around, just to make sure there’s no one in sight, then kick in the door.

  I step inside, gun raised, as if responding to a call.

  “Hello, sheriff’s department?”

  The place is dark, save for dim red emergency lighting. Nobody seems to be home. I find the alarm box and enter the code to cancel the silent alarm before it starts screaming.

  Then I head straight to the office, knowing that cameras are recording me as I do. I’m not sure how I’ll deal with that, but I’ll figure it out.

  I head to Vinnie’s office, knock on that door.

  No response.

  I kick in the door, head to the safe, and begin turning the dial, hoping they haven’t changed the combination, and have returned the hard drives.

  The door clicks unlocked.

  I pull it open.

  I see bags of cash and hard drives, just as expected.

  I smile.

  Finally, a win.

  I grab the hard drives, and the cash to help Hector’s family escape if things go south, then shove them into the duffel.

  **

  Two hours later

  I head into Sheriff Dixon’s office and close the door behind me.

  He looks up from his desk, surprised to see me standing there, much less having closed the door.

  Dixon is a big man, six-foot-five former college linebacker with broad shoulders, a large square jaw, and a big head topped with sandy blond hair. At fifty-six, he’s more gut than muscle, but he’s still an intimidating man, particularly when he’s about a foot and a half taller than Hector.

  “Ramirez, what’s going on?” He doesn’t get up from his seat, and barely looks up.

  I set my phone down on his desk and slide it to him.

  “Press play.”

  He does.

  His brows furrow, face turning red as he watches the video of him cavorting with whores in back of The Emerald Club.

  “What the hell?” He finally stands, fists balled like he’s about to knock me out, or maybe reach into my body and rip out my heart.

  “There are six more like that, so I suggest you sit your ass down.”

  His eyes widen.

  “I said sit.”

  He does, reluctantly.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Don’t worry, sir, I’m not looking to embarrass you. I just need a favor, and it’s probably one you won’t want to do, so I’m setting the stakes up for you now. That’s one of the many videos on drives I stole from The Emerald Club. I have every one they had in their safe, and man, are there some disturbing things on there with some high-profile people.”

  He’s glaring at me. “What do you want?”

  “I need you to find someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Alexander Bova.”

  “The developer’s son?”

  “One and the same,” I say, smiling.

  “And do what?”

  “Arrest him for the murder of Lara Spencer and the kidnapping of Allie Martin.”

  “What? Is this some kind of joke?”

  “No, sir. And you need to find and arrest him before he kills Allie.”

  “How do you know he has her, or that he killed Lara Spencer? I thought it was some guy named Gavin.”

  “I got it from a concerned citizen, a citizen who knows this office is corrupt and won’t act on the tip. So I’m making sure we do.”

  He stares at me. I wonder if he’s going to pretend he’s not corrupt, or try to explain his behavior. Maybe stand and attack me. His gears are turning, and I don’t trust what they’ll come up with once they stop.

  “Before you answer,” I add, “You need to know that if anything happens to me, or to Mrs. Lopez, copies of these hard drives will be sent to several media outlets and the FBI.”

  “Copies?”

  “You heard me. Now, are you going to help me do the right thing?”

  “And if I do?”

  “I give you the hard drives, and the copies. Your reputation remains intact. You and your crooked council members and developer friends can all keep slicing and dicing the city as you see fit.”

  “I want the hard drives, and the copies, first.”

  “This isn’t a negotiation. You’ll do what I ask, and then I’ll deliver.”

  “Why are you doing this? You realize you’re about to make some very powerful enemies, right?”

  “I’m doing it because it’s my duty to protect and serve. And right now there’s a monster out there doing whatever he wants because he knows you won’t stop him. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if the department knew he was a murderer, but didn’t want to rock the boat.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Dixon says.

  “Well then, let’s do the right thing.”

  **

  Sheriff Dixon gets a location on Alex Bova and sets up a squad, of my choosing, to go in and rescue the girl.

  Unfortunately, the most qualified deputies for this engagement are men I don’t particularly trust, save for two. But I have no choice if I want to give Allie the best possible odds. We have a unit of six deputies, dressed all in black gear, rebreathers, and tear gas grenades, including myself.

  As night is falling, we stage three blocks away from the house where Bova is staying, a rental he pays for under an assumed identity.

  Sergeant Edmund, one of the two deputies I trust, is running point. We go over the plan of attack once more before driving to Bova’s block, lights off, and exit four doors down from his house.

  Three of the officers head to the property’s rear.

  I race toward the front door with a battering ram, along with Edmund and Harris. No knocks or warnings.

  We burst through the door, toss the grenades, then storm the house while the remaining agents enter from the rear.

  “Sheriff’s department, get on the ground!” Edmund shouts, though we don’t see anyone through the smoke.

  Shotgun ready, I frantically search for the basement door.

  It’s not in the kitchen, nor the living room, the most obvious of spots.

  “Help me find a hidden door to the basement!” I shout.

  Seconds later, one of the deputies calls over the radio, “Found it, behind a bookcase in one of the bedrooms.”

  I race to join them as they pull the bookcase aside.

  I’m about to enter the room when an explosion rips through the team. A hot blast slams me back into the hallway, hitting the wall behind me, hard.

  Fucking booby trap!

  A high-pitched piercing screams into my ears and kills every other sound.

  I can’t see anything but black smoke and quickly spreading flames.

  “Does anyone copy?” I know I’m yelling but can’t hear my voice. “Anyone?”

  Nothing.

  Shit.

  There’s movement in the darkness, a dark f
igure in front of the flames. Gavin … no, Alexander Bova, standing there with a shotgun aimed at a downed deputy.

  He fires.

  I don’t think he’s spotted me in the hall yet. He steps toward another of the fallen officers and aims his weapon.

  I reach for mine, only to discover that it’s still in the room — dropped when the blast knocked me back.

  My hands scramble for the knife tucked into a sheathe on my belt. I grab it then launch myself up and into the room.

  Bova turns just as I’m about to close in on him.

  He levels his gun at me.

  I scream, reaching out, thrusting the shotgun’s barrel up as he fires.

  The gun booms in his hand; buckshot hits the ceiling.

  Bova tries to wrench the gun away from me, but I drag the blade down and over his left hand, slicing through his white-knuckle grip.

  He screams, dropping the gun.

  I thrust the knife into his gut, then drive it straight up for maximum damage.

  His wide eyes meet mine.

  “You!” he growls.

  I’m not sure if he recognizes me in yet another body, nor do I care any longer. I just want him dead.

  I withdraw the blade then shove it up through his neck.

  He slumps to the ground, my blade still in him.

  Fire is now licking the walls around me. Black smoke fills the room.

  I grab a rebreather off one of the fallen deputies then run through the exploded doorway and down the concrete stairs, glad they’re still intact.

  Allie is lying facedown on the ground, blood pooling around her.

  “No!” I scream.

  He fucking killed her when he heard us coming.

  No! No! No! I can’t let her die. I can’t!

  I run to Allie and flip her over.

  Her eyes open, unfocused, dark, but she’s still alive. I slip the rebreather onto her so she won’t inhale the smoke then scoop her up and carry her up the stairs.