The Last Good Place

by Robin Burcell

  And then she walked off.

  Casey stood there, wanting to follow her, stop her. Deep down he knew it would be a mistake.

  There was too much about her he didn’t know.

  What if she had kids?

  What if she didn’t?

  Does it change things? He realized that he couldn’t answer her question. And until he could with any certainty, she was right. He wasn’t ready to go out with her. Probably not with anyone.

  “There you are!”

  He turned to see Al striding toward him from the elevator.

  “Thought you were heading upstairs,” Al said.

  “Yeah. Got caught up in something.” He hit the elevator button, trying to push Becca from his mind.

  And failing. At that moment, all he could think of was the image of Becca sitting astride him, dressed only in her jeans and black lace bra. Was that all he thought of her?

  “Earth to College Boy…”

  “What?” Which was when he noticed the elevator had actually opened. Al was holding the door with his foot. “Clearly I need more coffee.”

  “At the least.”

  Once again Al and Casey walked into briefing and found their desks occupied by those working the operation. A table in the back had two empty seats, and Casey took one, while Al remained up front near the door.

  Becca walked in a few moments later, eyed Casey and the empty seat next to him, then crossed the room to stand near the window.

  Great. Total brush-off.

  Even so, several times while the lieutenant and then Edwards spoke about the morning’s op, Casey found his gaze wandering in Becca’s direction.

  She never once looked at him.

  “Any questions?” Edwards asked.

  “Yeah,” said one of the investigators near the front. Casey didn’t see who, nor did he recognize the voice. “How is it we think he’ll strike here of all places? We’re not talking much of a landmark. Maybe a few blocks to the south, but on Stockton Street?”

  “Right now, it’s our best lead to date, since our team followed him to the Stockton Tunnel last night. Hence the map, in case we end up there.”

  “Hardly a landmark,” the investigator countered. “Not to me, at least.”

  Al raised his hand. “Take it up with the press. They’re the ones who dubbed him the Landmark Strangler.”

  Edwards said, “Or even better, you catch him, you get to ask why. Right now, we have no idea if he simply has a fascination for watching cars zip through or he’s casing the place for something bigger. But there are several spots there that are out of public view. A few alleys, parking garages, the twin staircases leading down to Stockton street from Bush. In other words, a lot of places for us to lose him. So we’re going to have a team and decoy there first.” Edwards glanced at the clock. “According to our babysitters, he hasn’t yet emerged from his mother’s house after returning from the tunnels last night. So let’s set up at the rendezvous points for your respective teams. And see if we can’t get him to pounce on one of our decoys.”

  A few more questions followed, and once those were answered, Edwards finished by verifying that the street teams—decoys and their backups—all knew where they’d be positioned and where the surveillance vehicles were going to be parked.

  Casey remained in the back of the room, watching them file out. Becca left, not even looking his direction.

  “Too damned early for this,” Al said.

  Casey drew his focus from the doorway. “What?”

  “Grab your radio. Let’s get out of here and get some coffee.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  “You going to be okay?” Al asked Casey as they walked through the fog from the Sutter Stockton parking garage to the Starbucks on Grant.

  “What makes you think I’m not?” Casey replied as they got in line behind business-suited patrons waiting for their caffeine fix.

  “Let’s see. Ear glued to the tac channel and parking garage practically on top of where they’re working.” They reached the front of the line. “Two medium coffees, please.” Al put a ten on the counter. “She’ll be fine. Sometimes these surveillances go on for days before the guy makes any moves.”

  “I’m not worried about her.”

  “Bull.” Al took the change from the cashier, put some of it in the tip jar. When she turned to get the coffee, Al leaned closer to Casey, saying, “Don’t date a cop. Nothing good comes of it.”

  “You’ve been talking to my mother?”

  “No,” he said as he tucked his radio beneath his arm, then picked up both cups of coffee, handing one to Casey. “But you should listen to her. Too hard to separate your feelings and step back. Especially when something big like this is going on.”

  “I’m technically not even involved in this op,” Casey said as he followed Al to the condiment counter.

  “So in other words, you came in early just to sabotage any chance you had with the woman.”

  “Sabotage? You think I did that on purpose?”

  “You sure you didn’t?” Al set the radio on the counter, turned the volume up slightly.

  And as Casey watched him stir two packets of sugar into his coffee, it occurred to him that he wasn’t sure at all. A relationship that never took off couldn’t be deemed a failure—and Casey hated failing. Was that why he’d come in early?

  Al looked over at him. “If you’re beating yourself up over it, quit.”

  “I’m not. I’m just wondering if it’s true.”

  “Maybe it’s—”

  Al’s radio crackled with static as someone keyed it, then spoke. “That him?” It sounded like Zwingler. “He’s moving.”

  Then Becca’s quiet voice. “Definitely someone following me.”

  Al eyed Casey. “You okay?”

  “What if something happens to her?”

  Al replaced the top onto his coffee. “That, College Boy, is why we don’t date the help.”

  “We’re not dating anymore. Sabotage, remember?”

  “And she could’ve said no. But if you’re all that worried, we could sit in the car and drink our coffee in the parking garage. We’re just a radio call away.”

  It was still dark out, the streetlights barely cutting through fog. They walked up Bush Street to the garage entrance, since Casey had parked on the second level. Easier access to both Bush and the Stockton Street tunnel below. Radio traffic was sporadic on the tac channel, just Edwards’s voice with updates as he followed Becca.

  But once Casey and Al were in the car, they heard nothing but static. “Could be us,” Al said. “The parking garage causing interference. Or the tunnel.”

  “What if her mic’s out?” Casey said, reaching for the door. “Maybe something’s wrong.”

  “Sit tight, Hotshot. She’s got two teams covering her.”

  “You hear anyone out there? Maybe that’s what she’s trying to say. They lost her.”

  Al pulled out his phone then made a call, turning it to speakerphone. “Haynes. What’s going on? We’re not hearing any radio traffic.”

  The sound of metal hitting metal filtered in as Haynes said, “Between the fog, the garbage truck picking up trash, and Becca’s mic—”

  Al ignored Casey’s I-told-you-so look. “You have her though?”

  “Edwards has her. They were jogging through the tunnel. Should be—”

  The radio crackled to life. Becca. “He’s on me!”

  “Where?” Edwards asked. “I can’t see you.”

  “Brr—”

  Casey grabbed his radio then bolted from the car, not even bothering to shut the door. He ran out of the garage onto Bush Street, then turned left toward the bridge, hearing nothing but the whoosh of the cars below as they emerged from the tunnel. Casey’s mind raced. Everything he knew about the Strangler was that he’d ne
ver strike out here in the open. The stairs, he thought. Twin staircases led from the end of the tunnel on both sides of Stockton Street on up to Bush.

  The perfect place to assault someone.

  Or kill someone.

  He ran to the stairwell closest to him. Raced down, the smell of urine strong, especially at the bottom. No one there or at the entrance on Stockton Street. To his right, car headlights blinded him as the vehicles sped through the tunnel toward him. The sidewalks were empty. He looked to his left. Any number of doorways she could have been dragged into. But Stockton was a busy street. Too busy. When it was clear, he crossed to the middle, looked to the right. A break in traffic, and he raced up the stairs on the other side.

  Clear.

  He stood there on the top at Bush Street again.

  The streetlights barely penetrated the fog. The sidewalk was slick with moisture. He stopped, listened. No radio traffic. Nothing to indicate anyone else was out here.

  Then the sound of someone running toward him.

  Casey drew his gun, then lowered it as Edwards emerged from the fog.

  Edwards saw him, stopped, out of breath. “You see her?”

  “No,” Casey said. “The stairs are clear.”

  “I missed her…somewhere around here…Could have sworn she ran up the stairs. Fog…”

  Brr “Burritt?”

  Edwards turned around, looked up at the street sign. Right behind them. A dead-end and barely wide enough to be an alley.

  They ran to the building’s edge, peered into the alley. If any of the streetlights had been working before, they weren’t now. Casey listened once more, heard something metallic and hollow clanging at the end. Garbage cans. This guy liked alleys and Dumpsters. Places to hide, he thought.

  Guns drawn, they raced in. They were nearly to the end of the alley when Casey saw a flash of white. The stripe from Becca’s running suit. “Police!”

  Becca called out as she struggled with a man in dark clothing. They fell against the garbage cans, knocking them over. Edwards had them covered, and so Casey holstered his weapon, grasped the male by his jacket, dragged him off-balance. Something fell from the man’s grasp and clattered to the ground. He turned, swung, his fist striking Casey’s jaw. But Becca grabbed the man’s other arm, bent his wrist in a lock. He cried out in pain as Casey shoved him to the ground. Becca, still holding his arm said, “Cuffs?”

  Edwards tossed his to her, and she cuffed the man’s hands behind his back. “Francis Dunmore, you’re under arrest.”

  She held Dunmore by the arm, Casey taking the other side when he tried to pull away. He said nothing as they walked him out. But when they neared Bush Street, Dunmore glanced up at a placard high on the side of a building.

  Casey followed his gaze, but it was too dark to see what was written there, and a black-and-white pulled up at the alley entrance. They led Dunmore to the car, the uniformed officer taking custody and searching him before he placed him in the back of the unit.

  “Hold up,” Casey asked the officer as he walked around to the driver’s side. “He dropped something back there. You have a flashlight?”

  “Sure,” the officer said, then pulled one from his belt, and handed it over.

  Casey started toward the back of the alley, then realized Becca was on his heels. He waited for her, his jaw aching from the blow. “You okay?” he asked.

  She reached up, rubbed at her throat. “I’ll recover. Just didn’t expect to end up back here, of all places.”

  They reached the end of the alley, and Casey shone the light about on the ground in the direction he thought he’d heard something drop. “About this morning…” he said, as he swung the beam around, searching. “I just want to apologize—”

  “There,” she said, pointing below one of the trash cans. A short baton, the sort a licensed security guard might carry. “That’s gotta be what he held up against my throat.”

  He radioed for a CSI to photograph the weapon, then process it for prints. As he and Becca walked out, he tried once more to apologize.

  “Just stop,” she said then quickened her pace. He considered following her, but figured she’d been through a lot, needed her space.

  Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be, he thought as Al walked up.

  “Got him, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Which was when he remembered the placard on the side of the building. He swung the beam of light up and read:

  ON APPROXIMATELY THIS SPOT

  MILES ARCHER,

  PARTNER OF SAM SPADE,

  WAS DONE IN BY BRIGID O’SHAUGHNESSY.

  Al saw the sign. “Dashiell Hammett. Son of a gun. Maybe it was about the landmarks.”

  Word traveled fast, and by the time Casey made it to the Hall of Justice lobby, he’d received several congratulatory handshakes from officers who were in the building. The other investigators filtered back into Homicide, nodding at Casey, ribbing him for his part. Even Lieutenant Timms came out to shake his hand—just before telling him to get back to work.

  In truth, other than his slightly bruised jaw, Casey felt great. How could he not? He’d played a hunch, and it had paid off.

  Eventually the talk died down. Zwingler and Haynes showed up a few minutes later, Zwingler holding up a large pink box. “Pony up, Kellog. Your turn to buy donuts.”

  “How’s it my turn?” Casey asked.

  “It’s tradition. You promote out, you buy the donuts. Figure with this feather in your cap, you’ll ace that oral board tomorrow.”

  “That,” Haynes said, “and it really is your turn.”

  Casey dug some money out of his pocket and tossed it onto Zwingler’s desk. “I’m only taking the test for practice.”

  “That’s what they all say,” Zwingler replied, opening the box, then pulling out a glazed donut. “But I have yet to see anyone walk away from a promotion. And after today’s arrest, you’d be stupid to turn it down. Timing’s everything, and right now you’re a superstar.” Zwingler lifted his donut in a toast then ate it in two bites.

  Casey bypassed the donuts, pouring himself a cup of coffee instead, thinking about what Zwingler said. Would he walk away from a promotion? It just never occurred to him that he’d get it. But maybe Zwingler was right. Landing in the top five on the written portion, and now the arrest of the Landmark Strangler…

  Something to think about, he told himself as Al’s desk phone rang.

  “Krug, Homicide…Great. Thanks.” Al dropped the phone in the cradle, then called out to Haynes. “Grab the remote and turn on the TV. Channel two.”

  Haynes rolled his chair back and did as asked. Everyone turned to the television and listened to the anchor, Sarah Brighton. “…latest poll showing numbers have dropped significantly since Congressman Parnell’s office was linked to the murder of Trudy Salvatori. Lacy, have the police issued a statement yet?”

  Lacy’s face appeared on a split screen next to Sarah’s. “According to the press information officer, the case is still under investigation, and no one at Congressman Parnell’s offices is considered a suspect. They’re merely looking at every lead that will assist in the investigation. And yet late last night at the Parnell campaign office, there was a very different scene going on. Chaotic even.”

  A clip filled the screen, showing Parnell emerging from his building with the usual cadre of reporters following after him.

  “Congressman! Congressman!” someone shouted. “Do you have anything to say about the latest allegations in the murder of one of your volunteers?”

  Congressman Parnell quickened his pace, trying to get past them. “I have every confidence that the police will get to the bottom of this. I suggest we let them do their jobs.”

  “Sir! Is it true a search warrant was served on your office in regard to the murder?”

  “No comment.”

  “Is it
true that the money found in the killer’s possession came from your campaign accounts?”

  Parnell stopped, then faced the woman who asked the question. Jenn Barstow. Casey about doubled over when he saw her, almost missing the congressman’s answer. “No one from my office is involved in any way in the death of Trudy Salvatori. And if the unthinkable happens and we find out different, then I will be first in line to assist the police in their investigation. Now if you’ll excuse me. I’d like to get home to my wife and children.”

  He turned and left, his aide ushering him into a black sedan that sped off the moment the door closed behind him.

  The picture switched back to the field reporter, who said, “There you have it. Congressman Parnell is neither confirming nor denying that the police are now looking into his campaign office records in the death of Trudy Salvatori. We’re told the police intend to release a statement—”

  Al grabbed the remote from Haynes, then shut off the television. “Can you say screwed? As in we are?”

  “How would she have gotten that information?” Casey asked, glancing over at the lieutenant’s office, wondering how long it would take to filter back to him. Luckily his door was closed. “It wasn’t like we announced it to the world.”

  “Doesn’t matter. That’s what it’ll look like.” Al tossed the remote onto the table, then returned to his desk. “And the first person they’re going to suspect is that pretty little reporter you were working with.”

  “They can suspect all they want,” Casey said as his phone rang. Worried it was the lieutenant, or worse yet, the captain, he was relieved when it turned out to be the secretary. “There’s a Mr. and Mrs. Gregory in the lobby waiting for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  The timing couldn’t be better, Casey decided. After seeing that news report, he needed the distraction of work.

  THIRTY-SIX

  “My boy is not this Landmark Strangler. He just isn’t.”

  “Of course,” Casey said to Mrs. Gregory. A neutral response was always best when you had no idea where someone was going with their statement. Besides, what was he supposed to tell her? We know who the Strangler really is? Your son was just an ordinary hit man? But when she started crying, Casey offered a sympathetic smile, though not quite up to par with the one Al gave. Apparently, though, Casey was getting better, because she didn’t look quite as upset. “Go on.”