by Colin Conway
Baumgartner never wavered from his conviction that, ultimately, he was the one to be held responsible, not Stone. Garrett doubted the chief would ever do something like that for him, nor for many other guys on the department. Only his pets.
The chief also refused to call it a cover-up even when Kelly Davis continued to prod him in a subsequent interview. He stated she was bordering on the edge of fake news, a term that he borrowed from Mayor Sikes who himself had appropriated it from a recent presidential race. When supporters of Baumgartner began showing up outside city hall with #fakenews placards, Sikes soon championed the chief’s position. That was a dog whistle for the mayor’s diehards and before anyone knew it, there were daily crowds outside city hall in support of Sikes and Baumgartner. Garrett wondered if these were the same people who called for his firing following his shooting.
Councilwoman Margaret Patterson had immediately called for the chief’s resignation which Baumgartner declined to even entertain. She then called on the mayor to fire him. In a display of rediscovered loyalty, Sikes stood behind his man, saying that he was sure Baumgartner had learned from the incident following his three-day suspension and would be clearer in his directions next time. Patterson threatened a council resolution of some sort, but with the current state the council was in, no one believed her capable of mounting a serious threat. She continued to bark, but there was no bite. Garrett liked the woman for her tenacity, but she was the type of person whose ambitions were too easily detected. Even he could see why she wanted to get rid of Baumgartner and it wasn’t a good look in light of a young woman’s suicide. It reeked of opportunism.
As for Dennis Hahn, his world collapsed after the story. A hospital employee leaked that he had been voluntarily committed to Sacred Heart following a suicide attempt. His wife and children went to her parents’ where she was interviewed by a local news channel. It wasn’t the flattering portrayal of a devoted spouse most politicians would enjoy. Patterson called for the council to remove Hahn, along with Patrick Armstrong and Justin Buckner, for violations of their moral turpitude clauses. When Hahn returned home, he packed a bag and fled Spokane. The man was weak. He should have stayed and fought like both Armstrong and Buckner. It was unlikely that those two would retain their seats, but at least they would go out fighting like men, not rolling over and curling up like Hahn.
Garrett exited his car and quietly shut the car door. The evening sun was setting, and he smiled. He might call in later and ask his supervisor for some comp time. He wanted to leave early tonight so he could spend some extra time with Tiana.
He studied the small house. For the past couple of workdays, he needed a viable reason to leave his sector. Tonight he finally got one with a hit-and-run suspect who lived in north Spokane.
He keyed his shoulder microphone. “Charlie three sixteen.”
“Three sixteen, go ahead,” a male dispatcher responded.
“Following up on a hit-an-run investigation in Baker sector. I was just flagged over at the corner of Wellesley and Haven. Also.”
“Sixteen, go ahead.” The dispatcher sounded bored.
“Female complainant stated there is a strange smell emanating from a nearby house where transients appear to be coming in and out.”
“Sixteen, copy. Do you need an additional unit?”
“Not at this time. I’m code four,” Garrett said. “Let me see what this is, and I’ll advise.”
“Charlie three sixteen, copy.”
Garrett walked confidently around to the rear of the house. The smell wasn’t strong, but if he focused, he could pick it up—the cloying smell of death. At the back, he pushed the door and it opened easily. He pulled his flashlight from his duty belt and yelled, “Spokane Police Department.”
He felt foolish yelling into the house.
No one was going to answer him, but it was partly for show as much as it was for officer safety. Skunk hadn’t been found yet. Garrett had been diligently watching for a call of a dead body, but no one had alerted the department. With each passing day, a worry grew in his gut that maybe someone had seen him in the neighborhood prior to killing the man. He’d learned to trust those nagging voices in his head. If someone had seen him near the house and the body was discovered by someone else, he would have a tough time explaining his presence the neighborhood. However, if he was the one who found the body, and someone reported seeing him in the neighborhood, he would at least have some plausible deniability that they were mixing up their officers.
Garrett covered his mouth and nose with his gloved hand and walked inside. He quickly ensured that no one else was in the house. He doubted they would be, but he needed to be sure. Then he opened the door to the basement stairwell and saw Skunk, still lying in a heap.
He turned and exited the house. While he walked back to his car, he breathed the fresh air deeply through his nose. The stench of rotting flesh was hard to escape. It was then he realized he hadn’t smelled the rancid shit coming from the bathroom. Small blessings. “Charlie three sixteen,” Garrett said into his shoulder microphone.
“Three sixteen. Go ahead.”
“Sixteen,” Garrett said, then released the mic button as he stifled a yawn. “Sixteen,” he repeated, “confirming there is a dead white male at my location.” He read the numbers off the front of the little house.
“Three sixteen, do you need a medic?”
“Negative. He’s been there some time. Start a supervisor and some additional units.”
“Three sixteen, copy.”
Garrett tuned out the dispatcher then and opened the passenger door to his car. He pulled out his nylon lunchbox and tossed it on the hood of his car. He proceeded to remove a ham and cheese sandwich.
As he ate, he watched the setting sun.
This homicide, Garrett mused, should be classified One-David—officer response, no report needed. No one would miss Skunk, not even his family. He was a waste of skin, an oxygen thief, a burden on society. Spending time on a homicide report was a waste of valuable resources, unless Wardell Clint caught the call. Then fuck him. Let him spin his wheels on it. Waste his time. But for everyone else, Skunk didn’t rate.
Which was too bad, because Garrett had hopes for the man. Unfortunately, he had turned out to be a moron, a guy with a soft head, and a weaker ability to reason. That cost him in the end. Hell, it cost Garrett, too, but he would overcome it. He always did.
And there would be more guys like Skunk out there. Garrett believed that. More than that, he knew it. There would always be more guys.
Because that was the first rule that he learned about building a drug crew.
Junkies and dealers are a renewable resource.
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AUTHORS’ NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While this police procedural is based in a real city and mirrors reality in many ways, it is a work of fiction. The authors have taken a great many creative liberties in the interests in the telling of this series. For instance, no characters are directly based on anyone, with the exception of some positive homages. No actual incidents are rendered here, either. Some police codes or procedures are slightly different than in reality. Additionally, the political structure and history of both city government and the police department has been modified for dramatic purposes. While we’re certain that astute readers will notice those differences, we’re equally confident they’ll forgive the discrepancies.
The authors wish to thank the following early readers for helping make this book what it is: Melanie Donaldson, Dave Mather, John Emery, Kristi Scalise, Carla Warren, David Conway, Cheryl Counts, Judy Orchard, and Bonnie Conway.
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ABOUT THE AUTHORS
COLIN CONWAY is the author of The 509 Crime Stories, a series of novels set in Eastern Washington with revolving lead characters. They are standalone tales and can be read in any order. He served in the US Army and later was an officer of the Spokane Police Department. He’s a commercia
l real estate broker/investor, owned a laundromat, invested in a bar, and ran a karate school. Colin lives with his beautiful life partner, their three wonderful children, and a crazy, codependent Vizsla that rules their world. Find out more about him at his official website: ColinConway.com.
FRANK ZAFIRO was a police officer in Spokane, Washington, from 1993 to 2013. He retired as a captain. He is the author of numerous crime novels, including the River City novels and the Stefan Kopriva series. He lives in Redmond, Oregon, with his wife Kristi, dogs Richie and Wiley, and a very self-assured cat named Pasta. He is an avid hockey fan and a tortured guitarist. You can keep up with Frank at FrankZafiro.com, where you can score a free book just for signing up for his newsletter.
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BOOKS BY COLIN CONWAY AND FRANK ZAFIRO
Some Degree of Murder
Charlie-316 Series
Charlie-316
Never the Crime
Badge Heavy (*)
Code Four (*)
BOOKS BY COLIN CONWAY
The Cozy Up Series
Cozy Up to Death
Cozy Up to Murder
Cozy Up to Blood
The 509 Crime Stories
The Side Hustle
The Long Cold Winter
The Blind Trust
The Suit
Tales from the Road (with Bill Bancroft)
BOOKS BY FRANK ZAFIRO
River City Series
#1 Under a Raging Moon
#2 Heroes Often Fail
#3 Beneath a Weeping Sky
#4 And Every Man Has To Die
#5 The Menace of the Years
#6 Place of Wrath and Tears (*)
#7 Dirty Little Town (*)
Stefan Kopriva Mysteries
#1 Waist Deep
#2 Lovely, Dark and Deep
#3 Friend of the Departed
SpoCompton Series
#1 At Their Own Game
#2 In the Cut
with Eric Beetner
#1 The Backlist
#2 The Short List
#3 The Getaway List
with Lawrence Kelter
The Last Collar
Fallen City
with Jim Wilsky
The Ania Series
Blood on Blood
Queen of Diamonds
Closing the Circle
Harbinger
Other Novels
At This Point In My Life
The Last Horseman
Chisolm’s Debt
The Trade Off (with Bonnie Paulson)
A Grifter’s Song Series (creator and editor)
#1 The Concrete Smile
#6.5 Come the Apocalypse
#12 Down Comes the Night
#12.5 The Reckoner
Guns+Tacos Series
#3 A Gyro and a Glock
(*) Coming Soon
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Here is a preview from Occam’s Razor, a crime thriller by Joe Clifford.
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CHAPTER ONE
Oz’s red eye flight from Los Angeles to Ft. Lauderdale touched down a little after seven a.m., and by the time he headed outside to his rental car the temperature was already pushing a hundred. Oz had forgotten how much he hated South Florida, especially in the summer, where swampland heat made any movement murder. Glaring sunlight smacked off the asphalt, shimmering in waves; he felt like he was breathing in a broiler. A long time had passed since Oscar Reyes played ball down here in college. There was a reason he moved away.
He dropped his bag in the trunk, cranked the AC, and made for the Intracoastal, wondering what was so important that Delma couldn’t tell him on the phone.
Though technically Oz Reyes worked for Delma Dupree, he hadn’t seen much of her over the past decade. Delma was CEO of Ten + 1 Media, the parent company of about half a dozen news outlets and television stations, including the Coastal Sports Network, where Oz was director of security operations out west. Nice sounding title but he was small fish in the grand scheme of Ten + 1’s overarching media interests. His position involved strictly sports—running security for bowl games, building dedications, assorted ceremonies—and Ten + 1’s influence reached much further than that. Oz rarely dealt with the East Coast, and very little with Delma, who preferred to run the show behind the scenes, far away in Miami. Oz’s presence in South Florida was seldom required. But he couldn’t say no. And not just because Delma signed his paychecks. Once upon a time, Delma Dupree had saved his life.
The impromptu trip couldn’t have come at a worse time. Coastal Sports Network’s annual awards show kicked off in two days. An entertaining mix of sports and pop culture, the CSNs were heavily hyped and dominated the ratings. Seemed they spent half the year gearing up for it, training extra security detail, shoring up protocol. This was their first year at the Reagan Cultural Center in downtown Los Angeles, which meant they had to double efforts to ensure smooth sailing. Every stairwell and rooftop had to be secured to prevent some nutjob angling for his fifteen minutes of fame. Oz had been fielding calls all night, sprinting back and forth across town, putting out fires, twelve hours straight without a break. Then someone tripped an alarm at one of their properties, a warehouse on Wilshire. Night watchman spotted some high schoolers fleeing the scene. Whoever it was couldn’t have stolen much—the warehouse housed old paperwork and receipts, accounts payable, nothing of value. Still, he’d had to check it out. Oz’s hopes of squeezing in a quick workout were already fading fast when Delma called.
After reporting the break-in to his team, he turned tail, and sped back to his place by the Santa Monica Pier. He threw a change of clothes and an iPad into a gym bag, and rushed out the door to catch the day’s last flight out of LAX.
Oz hit the A1A, a breezy postcard of a road surrounded by swaying palms and fallen coconuts, boating docks peppered between the oyster bars and beachside grills where they played Jimmy Buffet unironically. Cruise ships and yachts bobbed on the baby blue horizon. If all of Florida could’ve been viewed from the pleasant confines of an air-conditioned car, he might not have loathed the goddamn place so much.
Oz veered into one of the gated communities of Golden Beach, a primo chunk of beachfront real estate, and pulled his phone to locate the exact address. At a golf cart crossing, he waited for a parade of tiny poodles to pass, doing his best not to get swallowed up by the past. Any time Oz returned to Miami, he had a tendency to spiral, fixating on that fateful night and a stupid bar fight.
Over the course of his college career, Oz had been blindsided by countless blitzing linebackers, stood up at the line by three-hundred-pound tackles, and he’d jumped back up like nothing happened. Never missed a game. He couldn’t recall ever ending up on an injury report. How could a punch that didn’t even land—a haymaker he’d juked completely—screw him up so much? In the end doesn’t much matter what causes a knee to twist just right. Or wrong. ACLs and MCLs blow out the same either way.
Still struggling to find the right house, one eye on the road, the other scrolling through his contacts, trying to match street numbers against names, Oz soon realized it was pointless. Delma’s was the one with the three-ring media circus in the middle of the driveway. All that was missing were the giant sky beams swirling the heavens.
A pair of guards stopped Oz at the gate, harassing him about his business there, until Delma’s son, Jackson, spotted his car and motioned for them to let him pass. Jackson maneuvered through the cruisers and emergency vehicles to greet his old friend.
A few years younger than Oz, Jackson had been enamored with the football players growing up, forever hanging around the stadium after practices, before games, a starry-eyed kid. Which was funny in hindsight, given that Jackson Dupree could now buy an entire NFL franchise if he wanted to.
“Glad you could make it,” Jackson said, descend
ing the sloped garden path and offering a hand.
“What’s going on?”
Oz spotted Lew Levine, Delma’s second husband, on the veranda speaking with a couple of men in Panama shirts whom he pegged as reporters, and another grave, bald man—he was guessing doctor—looming behind the trellis. In the turnaround, EMTs closed the doors to an empty ambulance. Lew flashed a suspicious glance in Oz’s direction. A former marine without a speck of athletic ability, Lew Levine had never been his biggest fan. Even fifteen years ago, Lew made his contempt for jocks well known.
“Is your mother okay?” Oz asked.
“She’s fine.” Jackson rolled his eyes like this whole scene was one big misunderstanding. “Follow me.”
“Let me grab my stuff from the trunk.” Oz leaned inside the runner and popped the latch. Two minutes back in the blistering South Florida sun and his undershirt was already drenched. When Oz bent to heft his bag, Jackson came up beside him and snatched it from his hand.
“Take it easy, old man,” Jackson joked. “Don’t want to blow your comeback chances.”
“Not many rookie tight ends with reconstructed knees breaking into the league at thirty-nine. But thanks for the vote of confidence.”
They pushed through the fracas, to the front door, away from the prying eyes of Lew and the others. Jackson dropped the overnight bag on the welcome mat. He didn’t open the door right away. Instead, he squared Oz in the eye.