by Leslie Nagel
“Yeah, the plan’s a little thin on details.” Charley studied his face a moment. She could tell he was holding something back, something important. This issue definitely required further discussion, but now was not the time. She rolled her shoulders and pulled out her cellphone. “Speaking of which, there’s one detail that can’t wait.”
Once the call connected she placed it on speaker. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”
Dmitri chuckled. “Like that ever stopped you before. Catch any killers today?”
“Working on it. In fact, I could use your help. We need to run one last letter in ‘Ask Jackie.’ Can you still make the deadline for next Tuesday’s edition?”
“If it’s in by five o’clock today, I can. What’s up?” he demanded. “I thought you wanted me to stop the column.”
“I do, but first we’re going to catch a killer.” She outlined what she needed. “It has to be a direct callout on the murders, but ambiguous enough that it’s not clear what I’m going to do next.”
Dmitri hummed. “And it needs to be obviously from you, without saying it’s you.”
“The killer knows I’m involved in the case, so just a hint should do it,” Charley replied. “I found both bodies, after all.”
“And she’s a local legend,” Marc put in. Charley made a face, and he smirked.
“Hello, Detective,” Dmitri said. “Glad to know we’ve got official backing for this little caper.” Charley and Marc exchanged glances; now was not the time to start announcing his professional status change. “Okay, you two crazy lovebirds, I’m on it. You’ll have a draft within the hour.”
Charley clicked off. “Today is Friday. The OR won’t come out until Tuesday. That gives me time to get the other information we need to force that confession, starting with locating Brandon. None of this works without him.” She sighed. “It’s going to be a long weekend for Oliver, sitting in jail.”
“If you’re correct about all this, jail might be the safest place for him.”
Her eyes widened, then she nodded in grim understanding. “If we’re wrong, we’ve lost nothing by trying. But I’m not wrong.”
The rumble of a distant engine grew steadily louder until Vanessa roared up on her red motorcycle, popped the stand, and killed the engine. She pulled off her helmet and strolled up to the porch, dressed in her black road leathers.
“I just talked to Heddy. Dale is going to be fine.” She plopped down into a wicker armchair. “Did you have any idea about those two?”
“None,” Charley admitted. “Doesn’t say much for my observational skills.”
Vanessa laughed. “She had us all fooled. What are you two up to? Still trying to figure out who killed Sarah?” When they remained silent, she straightened. “Crap. That’s exactly what you’re doing. What’s happening? Who’s the killer? Is it Brandon? Can I help? You have to let me help.”
“Slow down.” Charley held up a hand. “We’re working on a couple of things, the most urgent of which is finding Brandon Sharpe. He knows more about the night Sarah died than he’s admitted so far. Getting him to talk might be the only chance Oliver has.”
“You’ve got an angry kid off his home turf and running scared. Where would I go?” Marc wondered aloud. “What would I do?”
“Get drunk?” Vanessa suggested. “Get laid?”
“Leave town,” Charley decided. “He thinks he’s a suspect. Or he thinks his father is, and that the cops will force him to incriminate dear old dad. That’s why he ran.”
“How can he leave town? He doesn’t know anyone,” Marc objected.
Vanessa waved a hand. “Kids always find a way.”
Charley blinked at her. “You know what? You’re right.” She pulled out her cellphone, opened up a list of contacts titled IRREGULARS, and started composing a text. “I’m trying to find a frightened, pissed-off teenager with no money, no car, no friends. I think we’ll stick with tenth grade and older on this one.”
“Will that work?” Vanessa asked. “School doesn’t let out for hours.”
“I’ve got a few kids who’ve graduated but stayed local for college,” Charley replied. “Plus, everyone who gets this will forward it to others who might be able to help. They may be stuck in school, but they keep their phones handy, believe me.”
“Local legend,” Marc murmured. Charley elbowed him in the ribs, and he grunted.
A red pickup truck pulled to the curb behind Vanessa’s bike. Mitch Cooper leaped out, clearly distraught.
“Detective? I just heard. You quit? I mean, you can’t quit!” he exclaimed. “The department needs you!” At his announcement, Vanessa gasped with shock. Mitch stopped abruptly. “Oh, hi.” His ears flamed.
“Hi, yourself,” she said before turning to Marc. “You quit? Talk about burying the lead.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, Coop, but no one is irreplaceable.” Marc turned back to Charley. “Texting your informants isn’t a bad way to gather information, but this kid could be armed. We talked about this. You cannot place these minors in danger.”
“I’m only asking for a location. But you make a fair point.” Charley sent a follow-up text: HE’S A PSYCHO. DO NOT APPROACH.
“Who are we talking about?” Mitch asked. As Charley brought him up to speed, he frowned. “And you think he’s the murderer?”
“The jury is still out. But either way, he’s got information we need,” Charley said. “The problem is that he thinks he’s a suspect, and if he’s got a gun…”
Her phone chimed. She tapped the incoming photo to enlarge it, and clucked in satisfaction. “That’s him. Brandon’s at Bell, Book and Comic on Patterson Road; they’ve got a private room in the back for tabletop gaming. Brandon bought his way in with a baggie of weed. Loser. Now they’re…” As she scrolled through more photos and read the accompanying text from her Irregular, her heart sank. “Oh, crap. Marc, there’re at least six people back there playing World of Warcraft, including my guy, Allen. It’s a long, narrow store. There’s a delivery door in back that stays locked. If Brandon’s armed, he could barricade himself in. We could have a hostage situation.”
“We need a distraction, some way to draw him out.” Marc scowled. “I picked a hell of a time to quit.”
Charley’s phone chimed again. “Shit. He’s getting ready to leave.” She read with growing alarm. “Brandon asked some other player for a ride to Columbus. Allen doesn’t know the other guy or what he drives. He’s going to try and delay the end of the game, but we only have ten or fifteen minutes before it breaks up.” She stared at Marc in dismay. “If they leave that shop, Brandon will disappear, maybe for good.”
“I’m off duty, but I should call this in.” Mitch pulled out his cellphone, but Marc stopped him.
“Call what in? There’s no warrant out for Brandon Sharpe.”
“But if you and Charley need to talk to him, and if he’s armed and possibly dangerous?” Mitch’s face was a study in conflict. “What do I do?”
“You go in, but you do it smart, not stupid.” Vanessa had been swiping through the pictures on Charley’s cellphone. “You need undercover who can blend, and you need them right now,” she declared.
“Good idea,” Marc agreed. “I’ll go.”
Mitch shook his head. “With all due respect, Detective, you could wear prison scrubs and roll in a gutter, and you’d still look like law enforcement.”
And with that remark, any sign of indecision disappeared. Mitch strode swiftly down the front walk toward his truck, the three others following.
“What are you going to do?” Charley asked.
“Improvise.” Mitch reached behind the passenger seat and pulled out a gym bag. “We’ve got a report of a suspicious individual who appears to be carrying a weapon. That’s enough to detain and question. I wish I had time to call Camille or Kyle to go in with
me, but if I can’t grab one stupid kid out of a—”
Marc held up a hand. “Out of the question, Officer. You need backup. Stand down, and that’s an order.”
“You quit, remember?” The look of consternation on Marc’s face was almost comical. Mitch added, “But I could use backup outside that rear door.”
“If I can’t talk you out of this?” When Mitch said nothing, Marc gave a quick nod. “You’ll have it. Christ on a raft,” he muttered.
“I’ll go in.” Mitch stared at Vanessa as if she’d just announced plans to knock over a liquor store. “Mitch, Marc’s right. You shouldn’t do this alone,” she said. “Let me help.”
“No.” He turned away, peeling off his department windbreaker and pulling out a pair of ratty gym shoes.
“Come on, Officer Cooper. Look at me.” After a brief hesitation, he did so, his eyes traveling from her black high-heeled boots up her long legs and, with a blush-inducing detour over her chest, up to her face. He swallowed hard. “Have you ever been in a place like that?” she demanded. “They don’t get a lot of women in there. I’ll freeze time, guaranteed.”
“Not happening.” Mitch slammed the passenger door and turned to Marc. “Text me when you’re in position, sir.”
As his truck pulled away, Vanessa made an elaborate show of checking her watch. “Is that the time? I’m out of here. You kids behave.” She hopped onto her motorcycle, revved it twice, and roared off.
Charley stared after her. “Should I call Mitch? Let him know she’s going to crash his party?”
“We don’t know that. And it might distract him, which could put him in greater danger.” Marc dragged a hand through his hair. “This whole thing is ridiculous. What the hell’s gotten into that kid?”
“You never did anything crazy to impress a girl?”
Marc’s brows rose. “Oh.” He sighed, then headed toward his Mustang. “You’re staying here.”
“My ass,” Charley said flatly, climbing into the passenger seat. She chose to ignore his growl of displeasure. “Drive, pal, or it’ll be over before we get there.”
Chapter 21
Mitch Cooper slouched into Bell, Book and Comic with the air of someone who had nowhere to go and all day to get there. He wore faded jeans that sagged in the seat, revealing a few inches of his red-striped briefs. His loose black hoodie was zipped halfway up, concealing the weapon he carried in a shoulder holster, but allowing for a quick cross-body draw.
With a bored expression, he perused the contents of the display cases near the front of the store. Action figures cast from pewter and plastic filled dusty shelves. Covering every available inch of wall space, garish posters advertised comic books featuring muscled superheroes rescuing improbably buxom women, the latest Marvel movie release, and something called “Hour of Devastation.” Radiohead played from hidden speakers at a surprisingly humane volume. A sallow-faced salesclerk with a stringy ponytail and multiple eyebrow piercings threw a dismissive nod at Mitch before returning to whatever game he was playing on his cellphone.
Moving slowly but deliberately, Mitch moved along a series of bins, flipping through comic books in cellophane covers, working his way toward the back. Every flip conjured the smell of moldy paper and stale body odor. He was the only patron in this part of the store.
The sound of muffled voices came from behind a closed door in the back. Marijuana smoke filtered through the crack at the bottom. As he approached the door, the clerk finally spoke. “Private group, dude. No spectators allowed.”
“Why not?” Mitch asked. “I just want to check it out.”
“No can do.”
Mitch gave what he hoped was a conspiratorial smile. “I’m a fan. I heard about the action, you know?” He reached out and grasped the doorknob. Locked. He tried to hide his dismay. Now what?
“Hey, asshole, I said no admittance!” The clerk seemed to take a close look at Mitch for the first time. He frowned in suspicion. “Who the hell are you?”
As he reached for a wall-mounted telephone, the door opened and a female walked in. From the comical reaction of the clerk, this was a rare occurrence. Of course, this woman would make any guy’s jaw drop. Nearly six feet tall in her biker boots, Vanessa filled the doorway, hands on hips, a furious expression on her face. She’d ditched her heavy jacket and now wore a tight, purple satin tank top over her black leather pants. She’d teased her long, lustrous hair out around her face and shoulders into a tangled cloud. From a face made hard and dangerous-looking through the magic of cosmetics, her enormous black eyes smoldered and snapped with fury.
She marched up to Mitch and grabbed a handful of his hoodie. Mitch gaped at her, speechless.
“You lying, cheating sack of shit!” she shrieked. “How could you?”
Mitch blinked once, twice. Then, seeing the clerk’s hand hovering over the wall phone, he pulled himself together with an effort. He held up his hands. “Baby, calm down. I don’t know what you’re—”
“Don’t give me that!” Vanessa yanked on his hoodie again. The voices from beyond had fallen silent. The clerk’s eyes were out on stalks. “You slept with her! She admitted it! Don’t bother denying it, buster, because I’d believe her over you any day!”
Mitch was no fool. He knew an opportunity when one grabbed him by the hoodie. As Vanessa leaned in he pretended to trip, moving back several steps and clearing enough space for all the unseen occupants to exit the back room. At the same time, he shifted his and Vanessa’s positions so they were standing sideways to the door, but several steps to the right. Vanessa was closest to the bins lining the back wall. In order to witness the female member of this epic fight, anyone in the back room would have to step completely into the front room.
“Your sister is a skank. I’d never touch her, baby. Not in a million years. Not when I’ve got you.” Mitch’s voice took on a cajoling note as he slid a finger up one bare arm. She slapped his hand away.
“Liar! I should cut your balls off! And how dare you call my sister a skank!” The door to the back room opened several inches, and two faces peered through the gap. No one emerged, and Vanessa rolled her shoulders and took a deep breath. “I suppose you think big boobs make me a skank, too? Or maybe mine aren’t big enough?” she taunted. “What’s the matter? Has it been so long since you got me naked that you forgot what they look like? Should I give you a peek to remind you?”
The rear door opened, and six guys piled out, followed by a cloud of pot smoke. All of them were red-eyed and unkempt-looking. All were ogling Vanessa. None of them was Brandon Sharpe.
“Please, baby. It’s only ever been you.” Without glancing their way, Mitch grabbed her upper arms and yanked her against him, pretending to stumble back again. He was now between the door and the spectators. “I love you.”
“Show him your tits!” one of the guys yelled, and the others whooped and clapped. Vanessa broke free of Mitch’s grip and spun toward the group.
“You want to watch your mouth, asshat.”
While they watched, mesmerized, as Vanessa stalked toward them, Mitch took one big step backward into the private room and closed the door.
Brandon Sharpe slumped on a decrepit sofa that sagged against the far wall. The rear door from Charley’s cellphone photos stood, securely closed and presumably locked, just beyond. Even through the thick stench of pot smoke, Brandon smelled like he hadn’t showered in a couple of days. At Mitch’s entry, he leaped to his feet. Mitch spotted a roughly triangular lump in his jacket pocket.
“What a bitch.” Mitch scrubbed his face with his hands. “Whatever. Good riddance.” He began strolling around the large table, on which dozens of figurines were ranged over a colorful map of an imaginary world. “Cool. Who’s winning, dude?”
“Beat it.” Brandon tried to sound menacing, but it didn’t quite make it.
“Just hanging until the gorgon
queen clears out.” From beyond the door, Vanessa’s voice could be heard fading as she moved toward the storefront. “She’s hot, but the mouth on her. What’s this one do?” As he approached Brandon’s position, Mitch picked up a piece from the board, at the same time jostling the table and knocking several pieces over.
“You dumbass! Don’t touch—” Instinctively, Brandon put both hands out to steady the game table. Quick as lightning, Mitch grabbed his wrist and twisted an arm behind his back. Brandon gasped and sank to his knees. Mitch reached into Brandon’s jacket pocket and withdrew a small black handgun.
“I don’t suppose you have a concealed carry permit for this thing, do you? Thought not.” He pushed Brandon back down onto the sofa, where he cowered, sniffling, while Mitch produced his badge. “Police. Do not move, unless you want this to turn a whole lot uglier.” He stepped over Brandon, unlocked the back door, and waved Marc and Charley inside. “He’s all yours.”
Chapter 22
Mitch tucked his cellphone into a rear pocket and hitched his jeans back up to a more appropriate position around his waist. “I called Detective Brixton in case this situation becomes official. He informs me”—a smile ghosted over his lips—“that because he’s currently down a partner, he’s buried in paper and won’t have time to notify Chief Zehring for at least twenty minutes.”
“That’s more than enough time,” Charley assured him. She and Marc stood side by side, gazing down at a teary Brandon Sharpe. “First Dmitri, then Paxton, and now this guy. I’ve never scolded so many grown men in my life.”
“Two more and you’re an ace.” Marc trailed a finger down the curve of her spine, making her shiver. “You can scold me later, if you want.”
“Down, boy.” She poked him, then bit back a squeal when he pinched her ass. “For pity’s sake, Trenault. One hour off the force and you’re already manhandling the populace.”
Brandon wiped snot and tears onto his sleeve. “Am I under arrest?”
“Should you be?” Marc asked pleasantly. “Our information is that you stole that handgun, for which you have no carry permit. Also, you attempted to barter a controlled substance for personal gain. That’s possession with intent to distribute.” He was stretching the truth to the breaking point, Charley knew. But Brandon didn’t.
