Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set

by Gordon Carroll

  The bullet that killed him was a 5.56 mm ball round.

  The colors matched. The music harmonized. The equations equated.

  In other words, the pieces of the puzzle slid perfectly into place.

  Detective Sammy Rothstein realized that for unknown reasons, on that fateful day in the Afghanistan city of Khost, on a hot rooftop of a commandeered hotel, Second Lieutenant Ben Nassif and then Staff Sergeant and now Police Trainee Dominic Elkins had engaged in a shootout with each other which resulted in the Lieutenant’s death and Dominic’s near fatal wounding.

  The United States Marine Corps had investigated the matter and declined to prosecute. That left two questions for the detective.

  Why had it happened? And what should he do about it?

  Part VI

  44

  Enrico Da Vinci

  * * *

  Anticipation

  * * *

  Enrico sat in his apartment below Cinnamon’s. He’d already been to a private doctor — a private discreet doctor — who patched up both his cheek and his ear. The ear took over fifty stitches, the cheek nine. The doctor proved very good; scars would be minimal.

  Cinnamon wasn’t home yet. All his cameras were operating, as were the microphones. He’d seen her message as soon as it hit his e-mail after being routed through numerous sites. He was impressed with her courage and initiative, but even more than that he was excited in a way he hadn’t been in years.

  She wanted to meet him.

  Was it possible that she understood what he was doing?

  Maybe.

  He pulled up his files on the detective…the one that was sleeping with her.

  Enrico had access to several of the best hacking software programs in the world. Computers were not his forte, hence the programs. They were very user friendly, designed personally for him. All he had to do was fill in certain blocks of information, hit the send key and wait for the data to stream in.

  Sammy Rothstein. Two of the pictures were as new as this year, others went back all the way to his childhood. Amazing the amount of data available these days. Enrico had access to his school records, his birth certificate, his social security number, his hospital records, his academy scores, his address and phone number, his job performance scores, his locker number — better still, he even knew the combination to the lock on the detective’s locker, which the program had accessed by finding the serial number of the lock as noted in an obscure file in the police maintenance records, then cross-referenced with major lock manufacturer’s sealed records, found the match and popped it up on the screen for him to see.

  As Enrico read through the files he found himself smiling. He’d thought the detective just another boring cop. He was anything but; genius IQ; near death experience as a child, National and Grand National shooting championships. Highest solvability rate in the state — per capita. Highest conviction rate in the state — also per capita, after all Gunwood was very small, although many of the big agencies made it a practice to come to him for assistance on difficult cases.

  Excellent.

  True art could only be achieved through diligence and worthy competition. The detective might just prove to be such a challenge.

  The detective’s assets were formidable, but the master sculptor looks beyond the strengths of the marble before the first hammer’s strike, to the weaknesses inherent in the stone. The flaw showed there, in the form of physical handicaps; chief of these the detective’s vision. Very strange, usually top marksmen have incredible sight. Enrico’s vision rated at 20-12, and he could easily see and define differences in objects from at least twice the distance of the average man. But shooting accuracy utilized more than just vision. There were also complex calculations and coordination between objects, distances, trajectory, wind speed and direction that required precise interaction between the retina, the visual cortex and the brain itself. None of which lent themselves to a visual handicap.

  The detective was shaping up to be, in his own way, as much a piece of art as Cinnamon herself and as such deserved special consideration and care.

  A tiny beep sounded alerting him to the presence of someone in Cinnamon’s apartment.

  It was her.

  He felt his heart speed up. All the great works of art combined in one small package; the soul of art.

  He watched as she sat two bags of newly bought clothes on her specially made couch. She stretched, yawned, went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of wine. She poured herself two fingers worth in a goblet that looked huge in her tiny hands. She downed it quickly and poured another before returning the bottle and going to the living room where she turned on the big screen TV and sat next to her bags. Cinnamon slipped off her shoes, ran one smoothly tapered foot seductively along the other leg almost as though she knew he were watching her. She took another drink, this time sipping; every act graceful and alluring.

  Enrico dragged his eyes from her so he could check the time; eight thirty-three. The sun dipped below the tops of the mountains.

  Cinnamon watched TV for the next half hour and Enrico watched her. At nine o’clock she got up from the couch, went to her bedroom, took her bathrobe from a hook in the closet and went to the bathroom.

  It was almost time, but there were precautions to take.

  He picked up the specially made briefcase and left the room. The rooftop afforded an excellent view of the surrounding area. He’d been up here several times already and had mapped out the vantage points and designated fields of fire. A breeze ruffled his hair as the last of the sun’s rays splashed the wispy clouds with magnificent reds and oranges and purples. He assembled the rifle while he watched God’s beauty fade from the sky. There was no need to see what his practiced fingers were doing; they knew their job well. Once the scope snapped into place and locked down he began scanning. Primarily he looked for the detective.

  Cinnamon certainly had well developed street-smarts; otherwise she could not have survived and prospered as she did, but would she have thought to contact him on her own? Possibly, but also possible was that this was a trap engineered by the detective to catch him.

  He saw drunks, bums, whores, addicts, dealers, cops, cabs; people going out to dinner, people coming home from work, people going to work, couples walking along hand in hand, singles walking dogs. An average night in the wildest town in Colorado. The one thing he didn’t find was any sign of undercover cops staking out Cinnamon’s building.

  Good.

  Enrico continued his vigil for an hour. After that he disassembled the rifle, climbed back down through the roof hatch, walked down the stairs to his floor and closed the door to his apartment behind him.

  Cinnamon finished her shower, dressed in a beautiful red gown; blow-dried her long blond hair, and was just finishing her makeup as Enrico sat back in front of his screens. He had thought it not possible for her to look more beautiful. He now saw that he had been wrong. She was a vision — beauty incarnate — perfection.

  Forgotten was the dull throb that radiated throughout his injured ear. The slight pull of the stitches in his cheek. The small divots and tears along his calves and shins. All of his plans, all of his preparations, the things he had done to get to this point; the things he still would have to do, the lives he had taken, the lives he would take, the danger he would face for the rest of his life. All forgotten.

  In all the world there existed only her. In the presence of her beauty Enrico felt something he had not felt in a very long time. He felt weak, insignificant and he didn’t mind, because she would be his.

  Cinnamon went to the door, opened it. Three caterers swept into the room and set up a lavish meal on the dining room table and left two bags of extra items in the kitchen as well as a chrome ice bucket with a magnum of Champaign buried label deep. The three workers left after receiving their tip. Once they were gone, she went to the kitchen, poured herself more wine, walked to the custom made couch, turned on the large screen TV and sat, slowly sipping from the g
oblet.

  She waited… waited for him; again, almost as though she knew he watched her.

  Enrico felt something else he hadn’t experienced in a long time; nervousness. This tiny woman, so slight and frail and fragile, brought up an emotion in him that the most powerful men in the world could never do. She made him afraid.

  Steeling himself, he stood and went to the door. Fear or no fear, it would be rude to keep the lady waiting, and one thing no one could accuse Enrico Da Vinci of was rudeness. He was, above all, a gentleman.

  He took the stairwell to her floor, looked both ways to ensure the hallway remained empty, slipped the lock on her door with a credit card and stepped inside.

  Enrico would not keep the lady waiting.

  45

  Chuck Creed

  * * *

  Suspicion

  * * *

  Sgt. Chuck Creed worked late tonight. Still in uniform his patrol car rested just outside the all night coffee shop he now sat at with his friend and longtime colleague, Sammy Rothstein.

  Sammy rubbed his eyes and took a noisy sip of the black sludge in front of him. The shop, .50 Cal Coffee, offered one, two and three bag pots. Chuck liked the three-bagger, risky this close to his bedtime, but hey — you only live once.

  “So what do you think?” asked Sammy.

  The sap sat inside a plastic evidence bag on the table between them.

  “Looks like any old sap to me,” said Chuck. “They’re a dime a dozen.”

  “Not really, not anymore. Besides, this is an old timer. Look at how worn the leather is, and look at the shine. This thing’s been around a long time and it’s well cared for.”

  “So?” Chuck chewed on an unlit Gurkah Park Avenue cigar. He would have lit up, but Colorado being the schizophrenic state it was outlawed smoking at restaurants while legalizing marijuana. Go figure.

  Sammy smiled. “So who do you automatically think of when you put those two together?”

  Chuck pulled the Gurkah from his lips, took a slow sip of coffee and stared at Sammy through the rising steam. “I don’t know, who?”

  Sammy held up his hands as if the answer was obvious. “A cop.”

  Chuck continued to stare. “A cop?”

  “Sure. But not just any cop, an old timer, one of the tough ones, the old breed, you know, like you.”

  The steam continued to swirl, hiding the hard even look that came to Chuck’s eyes. “Like me,” he said.

  “Exactly,” said Sammy. “Only he’s probably retired, out of the action, living on a pension. You see? Look, he’s old school, retires, only he finds retirement dull, boring. He’s lost the respect afforded to a badge, and he sees scumbags dealing their drugs and hookers selling their wares out in the open and misses the action. Add to that the loss in income and he decides to take care of both issues at the same time. He starts robbing dealers and crooks and gets to thump them a little in the process and hey, it’s the best of both worlds. What do you think?”

  Chuck closed his eyes, took a deep breath, sipped another sip, smiled slightly, nodded. “That’s good, Sammy, very good, very clever.”

  “The rook did a good job on finding this.” Sammy tapped the sap inside the plastic bag. “He also got a good description out of one of the victims, if you can call him that. The vic said the guy that thumped him was definitely older, fifties or sixties at least. And still the guy was able to take out three of them all by himself. That’s not just some vigilante couch potato who saw Death Wish III and decided to come out and play. No. That’s a professional. Someone who’s had to trade punches before, someone who’s used to dealing with hard cases and coming out on top.

  “I’m thinking a retired Denver cop, or maybe a Combat City veteran, definitely someone from a tough jurisdiction with a lot of crime.”

  Chuck set his cup back on the table, stuck the stogie back in his mouth. “Okay, so where do we go from there?”

  “Right here,” said Sammy. “It’s why I’m here with you now. You know everyone from every agency and you’ve been a cop for over forty years. I think you know this guy. I’ll bet you’ve worked with him at one time or another over the years. I’d like for you to give it some thought and jot down some names for me. Guys from the old days who were tough enough, savvy enough and mean enough to pull something like this off.”

  Chuck nodded. “Okay, I can do that.” He picked up his cup and took another drink.

  “Thanks,” said Sammy. “Now, how did things go with Sarah and the chief?”

  Chuck grunted. “It’s a close one, I can tell you that. The chief’s on her side all the way for now, but the city attorney’s another story. He wants her canned.”

  “So what’s the real scoop on it? Was she justified or not?”

  Chuck blew out a breath, shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. According to the girl that got rear ended, the guy took a swing at Sarah when she first approached him. If that’s true then it’s pretty much game on in her favor. The problem is another witness, a guy walking by, said he didn’t see the guy swing at all. Said the guy was just trying to hand her his insurance papers and stuff like that. That jibes exactly with what the suspect says. So right now it’s two against two; he said she said. I’ve got Vinnie checking for security cameras in the area to see if anything was caught on video, but nothing yet.”

  “Are we charging the guy?” asked Sammy.

  “Yeah, for now at least, second degree assault on a peace officer and obstruction.”

  “Sarah injured?”

  “No, she’s all right.”

  “How about the guy?”

  “Slight fracture to his right wrist where she popped him with her nightstick; bruises, scrapes and prong punctures from the Taser. Nothing too bad.”

  “Yes, except for the fracture,” said Sammy. “That could go as second degree assault on Sarah if this turns the wrong way.” He thought for a second. “What about the multiple Taser zaps?”

  “That’s no problem so long as Sarah was justified in the first strike. Both the woman and the guy walking by say that once the fight was on the big guy definitely resisted till the end.”

  “What’s Sarah say?”

  “That the guy was screaming at the woman and when Sarah contacted him he turned on her with a raised hand like he was going to punch her. She says she defended herself.”

  “So,” said Sammy, “again, what do you think?”

  Chuck took a sip of coffee, it was starting to cool and the steam was almost gone. “I stand behind my troops.”

  Sammy nodded. “I know that, Chuck. But really — what do you think?”

  Chuck gave it a few seconds, thinking. He downed the last of his coffee, pushed the cup away and popped the Gurkah back in his mouth. “I think she’s a little on edge since she got back; a little high strung. But I also think she’s better than ninety percent of the cops anywhere in the state and I’d want her on my six any day any time.”

  Sammy nodded, finished his own coffee, picked up the bag with the sap in it and slipped it into his coat pocket. “I think the John Doe case is still bothering her more than it should. She just can’t let it go. She came up the other day and about ordered me to solve it — fast — like yesterday fast.”

  Chuck grunted again. “Yeah, well, that sounds like Sarah even before she went nu…I mean before her problem.”

  “Maybe,” said Sammy. “I hope so. I’ve always liked her. I’d hate to see her melt down, but this job does it to a lot of people.” Sammy started to get up, but then sat back down. “I almost forgot, I went over the security plans for Gatling Gams opening that you e-mailed me. Are they really giving away a million dollars?”

  Chuck grinned, chewed on the Gurkah. “Yup. So what do you think, see any holes in my plan?”

  “A couple of weak spots, maybe,” said Sammy. “The fact that they are advertising it so brazenly practically invites trouble. I’ll go over it again and send you my thoughts.”

  “Thanks,” said Chuck.

>   Sammy nodded. “Anyway, think about the sap and get me a list as soon as you can.”

  Chuck looked at him again. “Yeah, I’ll do that.”

  46

  Dominic Elkins

  * * *

  Whiskey and Chocolate

  * * *

  Dominic had the night off. He’d worked out twice today, at nine in the morning and again at six, pumping iron at the gym till the sweat ran and his muscles screamed. After the evening workout he’d gone for a five-mile run, pushing himself at the end to a full on sprint that ripped at his lungs and tore at his thighs, calves and hamstrings. In-between he’d gone to the station’s shooting range and cranked off about a thousand rounds. He had the place to himself so he shot and shot, trying to shut out the conflicting images of Sarah and the rooftop in Khost.

  The dream had been really bad last night, with the lieutenant morphing into Sarah. As soon as the change happened he’d wanted to pull her close and kiss her, only she had a gun pointed at his chest and when he reached for her she shot him point blank — twice. He felt the slam of the bullets as they hammered through the flak vest he wore and bit into his flesh. Without thought he returned fire and watched with sheer horror as her face disintegrated.

  Only that wasn’t the way it really happened — it wasn’t Sarah.

  Dominic shook his head, trying to dispel the memory of both the dream and the real event. He stood outside Sarah Hampton’s front door; flowers and candy in hand. It was after ten at night, but he figured she kept mostly graveyard hours, besides it had taken him this long to work up his nerve.