by Chris Culver
Contents
Half-title
Copyright
Title
Other novels
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
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About the Author
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Chris Culver
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: [email protected]
First hardback edition October 2018
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A Joe Court Novel
BY
CHRIS CULVER
ST. LOUIS, MO
Other books by Chris Culver
Ash Rashid novels:
The Abbey
The Outsider
By Any Means
Measureless Night
Pocketful of God
No Room for Good Men
Sleeper Cell
Gabe Ward Novels
Counting Room
Stand-alone novels:
Just Run
Nine Years Gone
To my mother.
1
Megan’s hands trembled as she unlocked her motel room’s deadbolt. Clouds covered the sky all the way to the horizon while bright sodium lights hummed like giant bug zappers as they illuminated the parking lot outside her room. Once she pushed open her door, the smell of stale cigarettes, bleach, and some kind of lemon cleanser wafted over her. No one was around. Even the prostitutes had left to attend the fireworks.
Megan should have brought a gun. She knew half a dozen people who would have sold her a pistol without asking a question, but her sister had persuaded her not to get one. If the people chasing her found her unarmed, Emily had argued, they might simply take her hostage. If they found her with a gun, they’d kill her without hesitation.
According to the calendar, it was early spring still, but winter had relinquished its grasp on St. Augustine months ago. The crocuses had already bloomed and returned to the earth. Soon, there’d be daylilies and honeysuckle growing alongside central Missouri’s roadways and streams. Spring was usually Megan’s favorite time of the year. It symbolized new beginnings.
Now, she couldn’t help but feel chilled despite the balmy weather.
She slipped her key into her purse and then looked over the parking lot one last time to make sure she was alone. Lights from the strip club across the street flashed, and a semi pulled out of the truck stop down the block. Aside from two scruffy-looking men walking beside one another along the side of the road, nobody was out. Neither of them looked toward the cheap motel across the street, and neither seemed to notice her at all.
The moment she stepped into the room, she shut the door behind her, drew the curtains over the window, and then locked the deadbolt. The suite she had rented only had one exit and one large window. She would have liked a second escape route, but she didn’t plan to stay long enough for anyone to find her.
She sat on the bed and leaned forward, running her hands through her hair. She had made it. She was safe. She had left in time.
A tear slid down her nose and onto her jeans. Megan tried to hold it in, but a sob welled in her gut. Twelve years ago, Megan and her sister had framed a gangster for murder. It had worked perfectly. The police had arrested Christopher and sent him to prison for the rest of his life, and for twelve years, Megan and her sister had hidden from his crew.
Now, hiding wasn’t enough.
A week ago, Christopher’s men had found them, and Megan and Emily had been running ever since. It was the most exhausting thing she had ever done. She deserved a break.
Marijuana was illegal in Missouri, but that didn’t stop people from buying and smoking it. Megan and her sister, Emily, specialized in selling high-end strains to doctors, lawyers, and business people. When working, she and her sister wore business clothing and carried briefcases. They took credit cards and gave invoices with fake product names. Anyone who saw them dropping off their illicit goods might think they were attorneys or realtors; instead, they were two of the most successful drug dealers in St. Louis.
Megan reached into her purse for a small glass pipe hand painted in psychedelic colors. Though she sold marijuana, Megan had never seen herself as a drug dealer. In her mind, she helped people who needed help, none more so than the cancer patients she was lucky enough to service. Where modern medicine gave them poison so powerful it robbed their lives of joy, she gave them relief. She was proud of that.
She sorted through her sample packages until she found an Indica strain her cancer patients loved.
Almost the moment she lit up, the knot in her belly unwound, the muscles of her shoulders loosened, and she felt better, more like herself. Everything would blow over. She’d be fine.
She took deep breaths before putting her pipe on the dresser beside the television and then reaching into her purse for her cell phone. Megan hadn’t told any of her clients when she left town. Some of them would feel betrayed, but they’d find new suppliers soon enough. Only Emily knew where she was. That was how it should have been. Her sister was the only person she could trust.
She took more deep breaths and then closed her eyes. Her suite had cost three hundred dollars a night, but she was lucky to even get that. It was Spring Fair week, something St. Augustine was famous for.
Megan had never been to St. Augustine’s Spring Fair, but everybody in the state knew about it. For one week, St. Augustine—a tiny college town along the Mississippi River—turned into the biggest tourist attraction in the Midwest. There were free concerts every night, fireworks displays, art fairs, beer gardens, and then a hot air balloon race to close the festivities. The fair brought in tens of thousands of people. Megan would disappear in the crowds.
She pressed the power button on her phone to wake it up. She had sent her sister a dozen text messages over the past few hours, but Emily had yet to respond. It made her gut twist. Once more, she called her sister’s number, and just as before, Emily’s phone didn’t even ring before going to voicemail.
“Em, it’s me. Where are you? I’m in St. Augustine. I went by Joe’s house, but I couldn
’t find her. I’ll try again later tonight. I know she’ll help, but I’m getting worried. I need to talk to you. I’ve sent you a dozen messages. Where the hell are you?”
She paused for a moment, feeling her throat tighten again.
“I’m scared. I don’t know where you are. Please just tell me you’re safe. Call me, okay?”
She pulled the phone from her ear and ended the call. For a moment, she stared at the screen, expecting it to light up with an incoming call or text message. Nothing happened, though, so she leaned back on the bed and rubbed her eyes. She wanted to smoke again, but that’d knock her out, and she needed every ounce of awareness she had.
As she lay there, the room’s silence weighed on her chest, making her lungs tight. She’d have to get used to silence, though. Until she and Emily were safe, they’d each have a lot of silent nights far from home.
Their plan had been simple. Emily would prepare a cabin in Mark Twain State Park while Megan went to St. Augustine to get help from the only cop in the world who would help them. Cell reception near the state park could get spotty, but Megan needed to hear her sister’s voice. She needed to know Emily was okay.
Megan took deep breaths, calming herself and allowing the cannabis she had just smoked to work its potent magic on her system. She had to think this through. It was almost nine at night. Joe was a police officer, but even police officers had to come home. Megan had already spent most of the day trying to track her down, but she hadn’t been able to find her. She’d swing by her house again after the fireworks, but for the moment, she let herself sink into the soft bed. Slowly, she began to drift to sleep.
Then, somebody pounded on the door.
Megan’s breath stopped, and she bolted upright, shooting her eyes around the room for a hiding spot. She thought about squeezing under the bed, but the people after her weren’t stupid. She had nowhere to go, so she dug through her purse for a can of pepper spray. She had bought it years ago but never needed to use it. Hopefully it would still work.
The person at the door knocked again.
“Pizza.”
It was a man’s voice, one she didn’t recognize. The men who had found her earlier both had the raspy voices of lifelong smokers. This voice was smooth and mellow. She held her breath, waiting and hoping he’d go away, but he knocked again.
“I’ve got your pizza,” he called again. “Get it while it’s hot.”
Her fingers trembled, and her belly ached, but she palmed her pepper spray and walked to the door to look through the peephole. Her legs felt like rubber. The man outside wore a red shirt and matching red hat from a place called the Pizza Palace, and he carried an insulated pizza delivery box.
“You’ve got the wrong place,” she called, only realizing once the words left her mouth that her voice trembled. She coughed and drew in a deep breath, forcing her voice to sound calm. “I didn’t order a pizza.”
The driver stepped back and looked at his order slip. Then he furrowed his brow and looked at the door again.
“You sure?” he asked. “I’ve got a medium, hand-tossed pepperoni with a small Greek salad and a side order of cheese bread for room 127 at this motel. It’s already paid for and everything.”
“That’s my room, but I didn’t order anything. Just take your pizza and go. Okay?”
“Okay. Sure,” he said. “Sorry to bother you.”
He took two steps but then stopped and turned toward the door.
“If you’d like, I can leave it at the front desk for you to pick up. Or I can even just put it on the ground. It’s paid for. Tip and everything. If I take it back, we throw it out. I’d hate to waste good food.”
Megan’s stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast almost twelve hours ago.
“Fine. Just put it on the ground. I’ll pick it up.”
“Great,” he said, kneeling. “Have a good one.”
The driver walked back toward his truck just as a firework burst over the distant tree line. It took a few seconds for the sound to hit. Somewhere close, thousands of people would be watching the display without a care in the world. It seemed unfair. As the pizza guy pulled out of the lot, she cracked open her door and then looked left and right before picking up the box.
More fireworks crested the hill, illuminating the night sky in reds and purples. She leaned against the doorframe, allowing herself to enjoy the spectacle. To her surprise, the dazzling display calmed her. It seemed so normal. Everything would be okay. Joe was a cop. She’d help them survive. This wasn’t the last fireworks display she’d see.
As Megan reached behind her for the door, another crack echoed in the distance. It was louder and higher-pitched than the boom of the fireworks. Megan barely registered the noise before the round tore into her chest and all the lights in the world went out one final time.
2
I hated fair week. It was just after seven in the morning, and the line at Rise and Grind, our local coffee shop, was already out the door. If I could believe the conversations people were having around me, the shop was out of blueberry scones and running low on pecan rolls. St. Augustine had a lot of wonderful things, but those pecan rolls were sometimes my only reason for rolling out of bed in the morning. If the tourists took that from me, I’d never forgive them.
I glanced at my watch. My boss had scheduled roll call to start at seven-thirty, but most of my colleagues would show up late. Last night had been long and rough. Tommy B’s, a local dive bar, had given away free beer to celebrate the first night of fair week. It had not gone well. Our uniformed officers on foot patrols had spent half the night breaking up fights while the rest of us arrested drunk drivers. It was not fun.
I crossed my arms and glanced at a little girl standing near me. Her mother struggled to carry a tray laden with coffee cups and pecan rolls while steering her daughter to one of the outdoor tables beside the shop.
“Did you see the fireworks last night?” asked the girl.
I smiled at her and shook my head.
“I was fighting with drunk men at a bar. My partner said he liked the fireworks, though.”
“They were awesome,” she said.
“Glad to hear it.”
The mom hurried her daughter away from me as the line crept forward. When I reached the counter, Sheryl, Rise and Grind’s proprietor, smiled at me.
“Morning, Joe. I thought you’d be by, so I saved you a pecan roll. You want the usual latte to go?”
I smiled my first real smile since getting up that morning. “Yes, thank you. You’re truly a saint.”
“That’s what I’m told,” she said, smiling. “I’ll bring it out as soon as I can.”
I thanked her again and took a step back from the counter to wait. A man in his early twenties stood beside me. He was about six feet tall and looked as if he weighed around a hundred and ninety pounds, most of which was muscle. His black hair was unkempt, and his eyes were bloodshot. He looked and smelled as if he had slept the previous evening in a ditch, but I tried not to judge people. I nodded a polite hello to him and then ignored him.
“I heard you tell that woman outside you were fighting drunk guys at the bar last night,” he said, taking a small step toward me. “Sorry I wasn’t there. We could have been a team.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You need something?”
His gaze traveled down my torso. I wore jeans, a white oxford shirt, and a black blazer. Beneath my blazer, I wore a vertical shoulder holster, which held a Glock 19 chambered for a nine-millimeter round. On my belt, I wore a silver badge from the St. Augustine County Sheriff’s Department. Somehow, I didn’t think he was checking out my sidearm.
“Are you local, or are you in town for the fair?”
“I’m a local,” I said, putting my hands on my hips to push my blazer back and expose my badge. “What do you need?”
He looked at my chest and then my hips.
“So you’re a cop?”
I raised my e
yebrows. “That’s what my paycheck says.”
He didn’t seem too interested in talking after that, which I appreciated. As I waited for my coffee, my phone buzzed. Even in bucolic St. Augustine, early-morning phone calls never portended good news. I sighed before answering.
“It’s Joe. Yeah?”
“Morning, Joe. Hear you got into a fist fight last night. You doing okay?”
The voice belonged to Travis Kosen, my boss. I had met him twelve years ago when I was still a teenager and he was a detective in St. Louis. I must have done something right in those first few meetings because I became a cop seven years later once I finished college and got my first job in his department.
“I’m fine, and it wasn’t a fist fight. A drunk guy took a swing at me, missed, and fell down. I put cuffs on him before he could stand up again.”
“So you won.”
My lips curled into a tight smile. “If that’s your definition of winning, I guess I did. I’m on my way in. What do you need?”
The boss grunted. “We’ve got a murder at the Wayfair Motel.”
I rubbed sleep out of my eyes and groaned.
“I haven’t even had my coffee yet. It’s too early for a body.”
Two or three tourists looked at me askance, but I ignored them.
“Death pays little mind to our creature comforts,” said Travis. “Nicky and Dave were the first on site. You’re the lead. As soon as I can find him, Harrison will be your second on this one.”
Sheryl whistled to get my attention as she placed my order on the counter. I picked my breakfast up, mouthed a thank you to her, and pinned my phone to my head with my shoulder as I stepped from the counter.
“Delgado and Martin won’t appreciate this. It’s their turn.”
“They’re already on a case,” said Travis. “Theft from a motor vehicle out on Pinehurst.”