The John Milton Series Boxset 2

by Mark Dawson

  She pressed the remote to switch on the TV, flicked through the channels, but couldn’t find anything she liked: ads, a show about monster trucks, a comedy that had stopped being funny about six seasons ago. She took out the phone again and dialled another number.

  “Ellie?”

  “Ryan. You busy?”

  “Never too busy for my little sister. Where are you?”

  “Up in Michigan. The Upper Peninsula.”

  “With the Yoopers? Too much fun.”

  “This weather’s nuts. It’s hardly stopped raining.”

  “What you doing up there?”

  “Those boys who’ve been robbing banks? There was a potential lead. Just a maybe, not even that, but Orville wanted to check it out.”

  “You up there with him?”

  “Don’t start.”

  “What you call him again?”

  “Napoleon.”

  “That’s right, Napoleon. He’s up there, too?”

  “Yes, he’s here. Mostly why I’m in a bad mood.”

  “He still married?”

  “Don’t.”

  She finished the cigarette and fished another from the pack. The sign on the door said there shouldn’t be any smoking in the room, but the place was a dump, and she doubted that anyone had ever taken any notice of it.

  “So what’s he done?”

  “I think he’s got it in his head that I liked him because he was older, like it was some kind of father-figure thing, except it wasn’t, never was anything like that. Problem is, now he’s got that fool idea in his head, and he thinks he can dispense advice like he really is my old man. He’s been doing it tonight, and I’ve had just about enough of it.”

  Her brother’s tone changed, becoming less frivolous. “You know what I think about that whole thing.”

  “Don’t…”

  “I’m not lecturing, Ellie. Just saying.”

  She sucked down the smoke, listening to the rain beating on the motel window. “Fuck it, what does it matter? I’ve kind of decided it’s all over.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. It was a dumb idea.”

  “You know what I think about that.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “Keep your chin up, little sis.”

  She inhaled and exhaled again, blowing smoke up at the ceiling. “I saw a hell of a thing tonight. We were in the local bar, talking to the girl who brought us up here, and these two guys got into a brawl with one of the other guys there. One of them was as big as a bear, mean looking, but this other guy kicked the shit out of both of them.”

  “Sounds like my kind of bar.”

  “I’m serious, Ryan. Two punches—one, two—they’re on the floor. Sheriff arrests this guy, though, but doesn’t do a thing about the others even though they started it.” Headlights from a car, pulling into the lot, glared through the open curtains and painted a narrow stripe across the ceiling. She heard passing traffic on the call, too. “So what are you doing?”

  “I’m in the car. Outside the apartment of this shit-bird a client’s had me tailing for the best part of a week. You wouldn’t believe this guy. He’s a serious douchebag. She thinks he’s been messing around with his secretary, and she was one hundred percent right about that. Thing is, he’s been schtupping the Pilates instructor from his gym at the same time as the other one. She’s with him now. I’m just waiting for them to come out so I can snap them. Then I’m going home to drink some beer.”

  “Sounds delightful.”

  “Like I said, the bureau ever gets to be too much, you know I could always use an extra set of hands down here.”

  “Tempting.”

  “I’m serious.”

  She took a beat, not wanting to sound like she was dissing the business that he had built down there. “Thanks, but, you know… no. This is nothing with Orville. I should never have let it happen, but now that it has, I’m just going to have to put on my big girl pants and get it over with. And I will. Soon as we get back into Detroit, it’s done.”

  “When are you going back?”

  “He’s going tomorrow. I’m going to stick it out another couple of days.”

  “Why? You think your boys are up there?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Probably not. Almost certainly not. But there’s something I can’t put my finger on. I need to dig around a little.”

  “Well, if you want a little distraction right now, the Steelers kick off the second half in ten minutes.”

  “Shit. I totally forgot.” Ellie had been a Browns fan when they had been little kids while Ryan had always pulled for the Steelers. Ever since college, they always had fifty bucks riding on those two divisional matches each year. “Score?”

  “Browns are trailing ten-zip. Big Ben’s carving them up. Double or nothing, make it interesting?”

  “Fuck it. Go on.”

  “Later, sis.”

  “Later.”

  Ryan was thirty-three, two years older than her. He had been an all-state linebacker in his teens, and there was talk of a full scholarship to Penn State until a defensive lineman rolled up his knee and tore all sorts of ligaments that were never meant to be torn. He’d bummed around for a couple of years, worried Ellie with a string of unsuitable women and what was pretty obviously a drinking problem, until he’d accepted that digging his nose into other people’s affairs was his family inheritance and set up Ryan Flowers Investigations, Inc., working out of Melvindale, just south of Detroit. It was a solid business, doing work for insurance companies for the most part, getting evidence on drivers who arranged to have someone crash into the back of them and then claimed for whiplash or other injuries that couldn’t be disproved until Ryan snapped candid pictures of them shooting hoops, out for a run, or picking up their little girl and flinging her into the air. The claims were always dropped pretty quickly after that, and Ryan pocketed a nice percentage of what would have been paid out. He’d made enough for a down payment on a two-bedroom apartment in Riverview, a second-hand Lexus, and cable TV. He appeared to be happy with all of that.

  Ellie had never fought her genes. She’d always known that she would end up working for the government. She’d wavered about which branch she might go into for about six months, had even considered the Secret Service until she had figured out that it was full of wannabe jocks, who got off on wearing black sunglasses and running beside limos, until she eventually accepted that she was always going to follow her old man into the bureau.

  Ellie was five eight, the same height as Orville, and knew that she was something to look at when she bothered to make an effort. She had a small, delicate face, smooth white skin with a scattering of freckles, thick hair that she had to work on all the time, and hazel eyes that sparked with life. But she hadn’t been bothered tonight, and then she had been half drowned by the rain; she caught sight of herself in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door and grimaced. She unbuckled her belt with the holstered .40 Glock 22 and rested it over the back of the chair. She removed the pistol and laid it under the second pillow on her bed. Strange town, strange people, she didn’t take chances.

  They had more hardware in a locked rack under the pad in the rear cargo area of Orville’s car: a pump shotgun, an M4 carbine, two ballistic vests, leg irons with chains, and four sets of cuffs. Orville was very particular about making sure they always had all the armaments they might need. He never tired of reminding her about the case down in Miami in 1986, the two Vietnam vets who had been turning over banks. Eight feds found them, but all they were packing were handguns and the robbers had AR-15s. Two of the agents had been killed and five injured. The bureau wasn’t shy about going in heavy now.

  Ellie slumped back against the stained headboard. Had they really thought that they’d use them on the trip, that they might find something in the tip-off, more than just another example of someone blowing smoke up their asses? Maybe, maybe not. Ellie was young for an agent, but she had inherited her father’s instincts and wi
sdom. There was enough about the girl’s story that she couldn’t just forget about it and walk away. Orville could; that was what they had been arguing about, although that was a useful cover for all the other things that they had been arguing about, too.

  Orville.

  Fuck.

  She switched channels to the game and watched as the Steelers kicked off. The return guy fielded the ball at the two, danced up to the fifteen, and then got crumpled by the gunner who had come down the field at a hundred miles an hour. He ended up on his back, the ball popped up, and the gunner scooped it up and waltzed into the end zone for the easy score.

  Sixteen-zip, and tack on another for the PAT.

  Ellie thought of Ryan listening to the game on his car radio, and allowed herself a smile. They usually arranged for the loser to buy dinner. She would gladly pay for that to spend an evening with her brother.

  Who was she kidding?

  Things weren’t so bad.

  Chapter 7

  MILTON SLEPT well and woke at six as the sun rose. He rolled off the bed and, stripping off the jump suit, worked through his usual routine of sit-ups and press-ups. He would normally have stopped with five hundred of each, but he still felt ready for more, so he pressed his back against the bars, reached up to grip the horizontal bar that joined them and, by raising his knees to his chest, added two hundred crunches. By the time he was finished he was slathered in a fine sheen of sweat and his muscles were afire.

  Lundquist must have seen that he was awake in the feed from the camera. Milton heard him as he came down the stairs, muttering to himself, as he struggled with the door handle and, after managing to open it, backing into the room with a tray. It held a plate of toast and two mugs of coffee. The bread smelled wonderful.

  “Morning, partner,” Lundquist said. He balanced the tray on the chair and passed one of the mugs through the bars of the cell. “White, one sugar.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And I thought you might appreciate something to eat.” He slid the plate with the toast through the space between the bars and the floor. “It’s korppu. Cinnamon bread. You dip it in your coffee. It’s Finnish. My grandpa used to eat three slices every day, and he lived to a hundred and three, so I guess there must be something in it, right? Patti heard you were in here overnight, and she brought some over for you. We don’t get many in overnight. Patti thinks we should be hospitable.”

  Milton took a bite of the toast. It was hard, almost burnt, and yet still sweet. He finished both pieces quickly.

  “Thanks.”

  “Sleep good?”

  “Like a baby.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that.”

  Lundquist went back to the door and reached down for the bundle of clothes that he had left on the stairs. He placed them on the chair.

  “Left them on the radiator last night to dry them out,” Lundquist explained. He took a key from his belt and unlocked the cell door.

  “Thank you.”

  Milton dressed. The clothes were warm. He pulled on his boots and laced them up.

  “The sheriff’s upstairs. He wants to see you before you go.”

  LESTER GROGAN was sitting at his desk. He was in uniform this morning: khaki slacks and a dark blue shirt with his badge pinned just below the left tip of his collar. It didn’t fit him particularly well. He had allowed himself to become a little overweight in recent years, and the shirt was stretched tight over a generous belly that sagged out a little over the belt line. He greeted Milton warmly and invited him to sit in the chair opposite. Milton did.

  “You sleep okay?”

  “I did.”

  “And Morten got you something to eat?”

  “A burger.”

  “From Johnny’s? They’re usually pretty good, right?”

  “It was fine.”

  The sheriff didn’t fit the usual profile of the rural lawman. Milton had met a few of them over the years, and Lester was different. Milton expected sheriffs to be the kings of their counties, with comfortable offices, secretaries and deputies. Their walls would be heavy with awards, photos and plaques, the sheriff grinning alongside politicians and business leaders, always thinking ahead to next year’s re-election. A display case for school kids and their mothers to gawk at, filled with hash pipes and confiscated marijuana cigarettes, guns and rusty knives. Lester Grogan had nothing. Just a crowded desk and some cardboard cartons piled on top of file cabinets in a dingy room.

  “Well, Mr. Milton,” he started, “I got some good news and some bad news for you. The big man from last night, his name is Alan Hooper, and he works in corporate law down there in Detroit. He’s a big wheel, so they say. I went to the Emergency Room on the way home last night. The bad news is you gave him what they tell me is a mandibular fracture. Broken jaw is what I call it. Two places. Wire mesh, eating through a straw for a week, the whole nine yards.”

  “The good news?”

  “The good news is I went to see Mr. Hooper again this morning. He was burning right up to have me throw the book at you, telling me how he’d bring a civil suit against you if I didn’t have you on a felony. I explained to him how that wouldn’t be wise for him to do that because, if he did, I’d have no option other than to bring him into it, too, since he punched first, like we said last night, and how could that be good for his career and all? He fulminated about that for a good thirty seconds, got pretty agitated about it until I told him to calm down or should I take out my cuffs, and that seemed to do the trick. Bottom line, Mr. Milton, is that he’s happy that we leave this as a citation only. So you’re free to go.”

  “Thank you,” Milton said. “I appreciate it.”

  “Least I could do after we got off on the wrong foot like we did, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Nevertheless… you didn’t have to…”

  “No, I did.” He got up from his chair. “Where you staying?”

  “The hotel.”

  “Want a ride over there?”

  “Seriously? After the last ride you gave me?”

  Lester smiled. “This one will be different.”

  “Sure.”

  Milton and Lester rose. Lundquist put his head through the door. “Good morning,” he said.

  “Thank your wife for the toast,” he said.

  Lundquist waved it off. “It’s just toast. You want to try her roasts, you won’t be so complimentary. Ain’t that the truth, Lester? Patti’s roasts?”

  Lester smiled again. “Come on,” he said.

  THEY CAME out of the rear exit, and Lester led the way to the Ford Taurus he used as his police cruiser. He indicated that the doors were open, and Milton got into the passenger seat next to him. He reversed and turned around, and as he nosed carefully over the sidewalk and onto the road, Milton noticed the old Pontiac Catalina that was parked opposite them. It was a four-door sedan, at least thirty years old, dinged up in several places and with a replacement wing that was brown where the rest of the car was dirty white. Milton wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but he had noticed the girl in the woollen beanie who was half slumped in the driver’s seat. She was watching them, her eyes following the car as Lester paused for a space in the traffic, pulling away and heading to the middle of town.

  The sheriff hadn’t noticed, but he didn’t have Milton’s experience, hardwired into him over a decade’s service when a missed detail like that could easily mean his death.

  Milton watched in the mirror as the Pontiac jerked out into the road, one car behind them. Lester drew up at the stop sign and turned to the right. The Pontiac indicated in the same direction and, as they set off down Falls Road back to the Village Inn, it turned with them and followed, keeping back at a discreet distance.

  “What are you going to do?” Lester asked him.

  “Get my gear and set off. I only really came into town for a shower and a warm bed.”

  “Where you headed?”

  “West. I take it day by day. I reckon I can get across to Wakewood if I ge
t away quickly.”

  “Twenty miles? Stay to the road and you’ll have no problem. There’s a campsite just on the edge of town. Wandering Wheels, I think they call it. You got Sunday Lake down there, too. Very pretty. And after that?”

  “I’m thinking about going to Minnesota.”

  They passed Truth Motors, Holiday Stationstore, and a Michigan correctional facility, and still the Pontiac followed.

  “You had a rifle yesterday.”

  “Back at the hotel.”

  “You do any shooting?”

  Milton nodded.

  “What have you got?”

  “Ruger Hawkeye.”

  “All weather?”

  Milton nodded.

  “I got one, too. You want to try it with the .243 Win. Goes together like apple pie and ice cream.”

  Lester kept talking about the rifle. Milton kept enough of his attention on the conversation to know when he had been asked a question, but most of his intentness was on the Pontiac behind them.

  It kept coming.

  Milton kept watching.

  Chapter 8

  ELLIE FLOWERS woke late, at eight. She had stayed up to watch the second half of the ball game, the Steelers winning at a canter, and started to think of a shortlist of places where she could take Ryan for dinner. Applebee’s, maybe, they had that nice place that just opened downtown. When that was over, she had watched hockey for twenty minutes, then flipped channels to watch late night chat shows and trashy TV until she looked over at the clock, saw it was two in the morning, and finally acceded to sleep.

  When she got out of bed, she discovered that she had come to a decision about the situation with Orville. She often found that problems that vexed her would be resolved while she slept, and it seemed like that had happened again. She would have the conversation with him now, right this morning, rather than wait until they got back to the city like she had told Ryan last night. That was cowardly, putting it off, and she knew that she would feel better as soon as it was done. So why wait?