"No, she's just nuts."
Joe stood up and extended his hand to shake Bill's. "Thanks for your help. I appreciate it. I know you and Steve were tight."
"Yes, indeed," Bill responded. In a tone sounding like a concerned parent, Bill said, "A little word of advice, kid. Stick to the cases you're paid for. There's not enough time to save the world."
If this hadn't been a case in which Steve had been involved, he might have heeded the advice. However, it had been Steve's case – one of his last cases – and somehow he felt obligated to help out. It also gave him a little piece of Steve back. Something about this case nagged at him. Maybe Steve's death wasn't an accident. If, in fact, there were dirty cops involved, then there could've been a cover-up of his accident as well. He wouldn't stop until he had the answer.
Joe looked at the stack of files on his desk, the phone calls he had to return, and the reports he still had to write. It would be at least three hours before he could eat dinner. He walked to the vending machine and bought a package of Oreo cookies and a soda.
Seven o'clock arrived before Joe finished what he needed to and felt comfortable leaving. Though not anxious to go home, he had nowhere else to go. Since his girlfriend, Jennifer, had left him, his social life had dwindled. Other than his workout every morning, he didn't do much outside of work.
He had to admit that even when Jennifer had been around, he spent most of his time being a cop, but at least when he went home at night, he had someone to talk to. Joe would work too many hours and then go home and spend the next couple of hours re-living his day with Jennifer. He hadn't been a very good listener, either. Her crisis at the Art Museum didn't seem as important to him as locking up the scum bags walking the streets of Atlanta. Joe knew he was too absorbed in his work to make a relationship work, but he hadn't realized it until it was too late to fix the damage.
Joe pulled into the drive-through at Burger King and bought a Whopper, fries, and a soda. He tried not to eat so much fast food, but there was nothing to fix at home. If he stopped at the grocery store and then cooked dinner, it would be yet another hour before he ate. He picked up his food and drove out of town.
The closer he came to his home, the lighter the traffic became and the faster he drove. Joe could feel the pavement on the two-lane highway below him speeding past under the dark sky with just a sliver of a moon, the only other light coming from his headlights. He gained on the SUV in front of him. The taillights came closer and closer. He moved into the left lane to pass, but the SUV went with him. The son-of-a-bitch came right at him. Joe swerved. He heard a loud crash, metal against metal, ringing in his head as he felt the impact. His car hit the gravel on the side of the road. He turned the wheel and managed to straighten it out. He pulled the car back onto the highway, but the SUV drove at him again. This time Joe's car started to roll and the noise grew louder, clang after clang. He turned the wheel, but everything was spinning. He lost control as he saw ground, then sky, and felt his body hit the door. French fries hit him in the head as they flew by, and a splash of soda felt cold against his face. Suddenly, it all stopped.
Joe raised his head and looked around. His face felt wet. He thought it was his soda until he saw blood all around him…his blood, everything red, his arm, his shirt. It felt like someone was pouring water on the right side of his head. He touched his head with his right hand, and brought it back covered in blood. What the hell? He tried to focus, looking at the blood, at the car, outside the window, but only darkness lurked before him, except for one dim headlight.
He had to get out of the car and he needed help. He tried to move his legs, but excruciating pain and a wedged leg wouldn't allow him to budge. He reached for the phone on his belt, pushed the call button, and the face lit up a bright pink. He wiped it on his shirt, but only made it bloodier. His fingers hit the numbers 9-1-1. "This is Detective Joe Carriage. Someone just tried to kill me. They ran me off the road with a black Ford Bronco."
"What is your location, Joe?" the dispatcher asked.
"I'm north of town, just past the old Jefferson Plantation."
"Are you hurt?"
"Yes, I'm bleeding, and I'm stuck in the car. I need help," Joe said, just before his phone went dead.
CHAPTER 19
Sirens screeched and lights flashed all around Joe. He heard banging and shouting, "Joe, hang in there. We'll get you out." Joe tried to sort out the chaos. He remembered the accident, the blood. He heard a horn honking. It was deafening. He managed to lift his head from the steering wheel and turn towards the window. When he did, the honking stopped. Men in uniform stood all around and a familiar voice said, "Joe, the door is stuck, but we'll get you out. Just sit still. Don't move."
Joe smiled at the sight of his partner, Brett, who nodded his head in response. He struggled to hold his head up off the horn, but it hurt when he moved. The men worked arduously, until Joe felt a gust of cool air hit his face. He heard a loud screech, more banging, and clanging as they pried the door open. "My poor car," Joe moaned.
"Sorry, buddy," Brett said. "It's you we need to take care of." Joe nodded his head. Brett spoke again, "Can you move your legs?"
"Not far. I'm pretty jammed in here."
"Okay, just sit still," he commanded.
The officers forced open the passenger door and worked from both sides. Within minutes they had him out of the car. The paramedics had a stretcher ready for Joe, but he refused. He had to see if he could walk. He stepped down one foot at a time; at least his legs functioned. He felt stiff, his ribs and head pounded, and the bleeding wouldn't stop. They encouraged him to lie down, but he wouldn't. He reached back in the car and retrieved his backpack. He pulled out Steve's notepad and tucked it in his jacket pocket. Someone yelled, "Get him on the stretcher."
Two paramedics and three police officers walked over to Joe. "Come on, man. You're bleeding all over the place. Let us take you in and get you checked," one of the officers said.
Joe acquiesced and sat down on the stretcher. They put his feet up and he laid his head down on the pillow. Brett stood near his head, trying to comfort him. Joe clutched the notepad inside his jacket with his left hand, and with his right he reached up and grasped Brett's shoulder, pulling him close to his face. He whispered in his ear, "Meet me at the hospital. I need to give you something."
Before Brett could respond, the paramedics raised Joe up, placed him in the back of the ambulance, and started to work on him.
Lights flashing and siren blaring, the ambulance sped off with Brett close behind. When they arrived, Brett jumped out and met Joe as they removed Joe from the ambulance. "You're going to be okay, man," Brett said as he ran alongside the stretcher.
"I know," Joe said. He reached inside his pocket, pulled out the notepad, and slipped it to Brett. "Here, take this and don't let anyone know you have it, especially anyone in the department. Put it somewhere it can't be found. It may be the reason I'm here."
"Sure thing, buddy."
"And here," Joe said as he stuck his keys in Brett's hand. "Stop at my house and pick me up a change of clothes. Okay?"
"You bet."
By the time Brett returned to the hospital, Joe had been x-rayed, stitched up, and had taken care of the paperwork. "Hi, buddy. How you feeling?"
"Not too bad, considering." Joe folded his receipt and put it in his pocket. He turned to Brett and said, "Let's get out of here." As they walked out, Joe asked, "How'd you do? Did you stash it away?"
"Sure did. I'll show you where it is later," Brett said. "I brought your clothes. They're in the car. You going to the department to clean up?"
"No. I'm going to stop at the gym and shower there. There are some things I need to do before I go into the office."
"Joe, what's going on?"
"I don't want to involve you," Joe said.
"I'm already involved. Whatever this is, it doesn't sound like you should be doing it alone." Brett paused. "I hate to add to your troubles, but someone broke into your house
and tore it apart. What were they looking for? The notepad?"
"I think so." Joe sighed. "How bad is my house?"
"It didn't appear, from first glance, anything was missing. Your television and stereo were still there. Mostly it's a mess. They didn't take time to break things up much."
"Well, I guess that's something."
"Joe, I'm concerned about you. First, you're run off the road, and now your house is ransacked. Do you know who's after you?"
"I have a pretty good idea."
"So, what can I do to help?"
"I appreciate it, Brett, but I don't want to put you at risk. I'll tell you this much. I think it's inside the department."
"A cop?" Brett's right eyebrow curled up. "Are you sure?"
"No, I'm not certain yet, but if it is a cop I don't know if he's acting alone or what. I just don't want you caught up in the middle of this."
"I'm your partner. If it's a cop after you, I'm already suspect just by virtue of being your partner. So it's better if I know what to watch out for," Brett said.
"You're right, Brett. I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Let's just get this guy, or guys, or gals, or whomever. So what's the story?"
On the way to the gym, Joe gave him the Reader's Digest version and told him he would fill him in on the details after he cleaned up. "Okay," Brett said. "Just be careful. Go on in. I'm going to get us some sandwiches from Daria's Deli, and I'll meet you back here. We can go in one car from there."
"Okay. See you in a bit." Joe hobbled off. He felt stiff and the medication was wearing off. He didn't exactly know where to go from here, but he was glad he had some help.
Joe took a shower and scrubbed the blood out of his hair, trying to avoid the bandage. He felt better. Brett returned with the sandwiches, and they ate them in the car as Brett drove.
"So where do we start?" Brett asked.
"I'm pretty certain Bill Davis, Steve's old partner, is the one after me. He thinks there's a lot more on that notepad than there really is. I think Steve got too close."
"So we start with Bill. We need to check into his background and his associations. It may be difficult to find out what he engaged in five years ago, though."
"And we can't do it through the department because we don't know who all is involved," Joe said. He and Brett were both well aware of the consequences when someone turned on a fellow officer. You better be one hundred percent sure or you better not nose around, especially with one of the 'good old boys.' Bill had been with the department for over thirty years and everyone liked him. He wasn't an overly zealous cop, easy to work with, and considered trustworthy. If they started asking questions and turned out to be wrong, they'd never be able to work in Atlanta again. "We can use the notepad as bait. He still needs to get his hands on it because he isn't certain what's in it," Joe suggested.
"That's too dangerous, Joe. He's already tried to kill you once. What's to keep him from completing the job?"
"You got a better idea?"
"Let's see what we can find out about Bill for starters."
When Joe returned to the office, instead of a greeting of sympathy for his accident, he met with discontent. No one asked him what happened or inquired about his well-being; instead, they hardly spoke to him.
He got one of the clerks to confide in him. The rumor going around the office was that Joe falsely accused another cop of something. The clerk didn't know the identity of the cop, and no one seemed to care.
Bill was way ahead of him. He knew if he started a rumor about Joe, it would ruin any opportunity he had to get information. He wouldn't dare ask questions about anyone within the department.
After work, Brett called Joe and they met in a state park, where no one would see them. "I'm sorry, man, about what's going on at the department. I hope you realize why I let them think we weren't working together."
"No need to apologize. I trust you. You're in a difficult situation. If you side with me, you will be ostracized, too, and nothing will be gained from that. So, just let everyone think you're unhappy having me as a partner. You'll still be suspect for awhile, but you may hear something that'll help," Joe said.
"Well, one thing for sure, it's got to be Davis. It was pretty clever of him to start the rumors."
"Yeah, it really ties our hands. Any ideas where to go from here?"
"I say we hit the streets and find out what's out there. They always know the bad cops before we do."
"Good idea. And," Joe said, "thanks for sticking by me."
"I know you'd do the same for me. So, let's get to it."
They spent the rest of the evening trying to find out anything and everything they could about Bill Davis. Most of their investigation led to dead ends, until they came across "Action Jackson" dressed in a cheap, navy blue pin-stripe suit, a pink, ruffled shirt, three heavy gold chains, and a top hat, and carrying an oak cane with an enormous fake emerald on the tip. After some cajoling, a little cash, and the "good cop, bad cop" routine Brett and Joe played so well, they burrowed some information out of him.
"So what do you know about Bill Davis that we don't know?" Joe asked.
"His money goes back to the streets."
"Drugs?"
"No, he wouldn't touch that stuff. No, he's a gambling man."
"Poker?"
"Nope. He's the worst kind – bets on sports, especially the races. He really likes the ponies, and he bets heavy on them. A few years ago he got in way over his head with the creditors, both the banks and the street sharks. He was about to file bankruptcy, which was the least of his worries. The word was out he was a dead man if he didn't come up with the money for the sharks. Then suddenly he was cleared for more loans, and he kept his house and all."
"Did he win big on the ponies or something?" Joe asked.
"Nope. That's the kind of event 'Action Jackson' would know about," he said with conviction. "I know every big bet and big win that goes down. It's my job to know. No, he found another way to clear his debt and he's still walking, so some kind of deal was cut."
"You said a few years ago. Do you know when it happened?"
"Five, six years, maybe," Jackson responded.
"And you have no idea how he got the money, or how he paid his debts?"
"Nope, and don't care much, either. It's my job to know what bets go down and who wins and who loses. If the 'marks' find another way to pay their debts, it's their business. That's about all I know." Jackson clicked his heels, did a little soft shoe, tipped his hat, turned, and strolled away. Every thirty feet or so, he did his little dance again until he vanished out of sight.
Brett started after him, but Joe stopped him, "Let him go. He doesn't know anything else. Even if he did, he won't talk any more once he starts dancing."
Joe and Brett drove back to Joe's house to pick up a few things. Brett had convinced him to stay at his house at least for the night. Joe shook his head and sighed when he walked into the shambles someone had made of his home. He turned chairs back on their feet as he walked through. He walked over to his answering machine and discovered three new messages.
He hit the button to play them. "Call your mother. She needs to know her baby is okay." Joe smiled and shook his head. The second message was a computer sales pitch; Joe hit the erase key. The third was his FBI friend who said, "This is Howie from Dallas. I tried your cell phone, but got no answer. Please call me first chance you get."
Joe checked to see when the call came in. The machine said, "Friday, 9:13 a.m." He looked at his watch and murmured, "It's too late to call him now."
"Who's that?" Brett asked.
"A friend of mine, FBI Agent Howie Martin. I think I may have told you about him. Back in my rookie days, I stumbled into a mess and ended up saving his life. He feels like he owes me, so he was more than glad to help me out when I called. I found a phone number in Steve's stuff on the Sterling-Murdock case. He's checking it out for me. It may be nothing, but he's going to see who it belonged to back then. He'
s also going to see what he can find out about Bill Davis for me. He knows not to call me at the office. I'll call him first thing in the morning."
CHAPTER 20
After Sabre met with Bob at Clara's Kitchen for their usual Thursday morning tête-à-tête, she went to court, completed her morning calendar, and afterwards, drove to see Alexis at Jordan Receiving Home. She hadn't seen her since the incident with the bat. Alexis smiled when she saw Sabre and greeted her with her usual, "Good afternoon, Miss Sabre."
"Hello, Alexis. You look lovely, as usual." Alexis always looked so tidy and well dressed, though the Jordan staff told her Alexis was quite the little athlete. When she played, she played hard and got as dirty as the rest of them, but she always insisted on appearing "proper" when she "received visitors."
Alexis appeared to be happy to see Sabre. Although she started right in with her chatter about the staff members and the other children, she acted a little more subdued than usual. Sabre put her arm around her; the little girl felt fragile. "I'm so sorry about the incident at my office with the bat. But you know what?"
"What?"
"You were so brave. I'm so proud of you. Who knows how long I would've lain there before someone found me, if you hadn't taken charge and called for the help I needed." She gave Alexis a little squeeze. She felt Alexis stand up a little taller, and watched her face light up.
"Thank you," Alexis said. With a devilish little smirk she added, "Does this mean you're not mad at me anymore for leaving Jordan without permission?"
"Of course I'm not mad at you. You just scared me because you could've been hurt. There are lots of scary things out there."
"I know," Alexis responded.
"Please promise me you'll never do it again. Okay?"
"Okay. Next time I'll call you and you can come pick me up," she said with confidence.
"Deal," Sabre said, reaching her hand out. Alexis took it in hers and shook on it.
Alexis' mood seemed to lighten and her exuberance returned as they continued with their visit. She reported all of the Jordan Receiving Home gossip. She knew about every staff member and each and every minor in the Home, what they did and didn't do, down to the smallest detail.
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