by Nick Petrie
This was why he was the Dog, not the Wolf. The Dog could smile and be friendly to people he might otherwise chew the ass out of, could wag his goddamn tail and pretend to be domesticated to get the job done.
“You need to be pretty careful with those,” the clerk said. “The dosages are all over the place with edibles. Was she freaking out, before? Paranoid?”
The Dog nodded. “Yeah. She smacked me one right here.” He touched the side of his head. “Pretty hard. Then she tried to run away and fell over. Now she’s just really sleepy. I kept shaking her on the way here, to keep her awake, but she’s probably passed out in the car by now.”
“But she’s breathing okay? Like, full, deep breaths?”
“Oh, sure. When I got on the freeway she started snoring.” He gave a short laugh. “So I guess she’s okay?”
“Well, I’m only an English major,” the clerk said. “But she’s probably fine. Just let her sleep and keep an eye on her.”
“Thanks, man. That makes me feel a lot better. Listen, do you have a room on the first floor? I don’t want to have to carry her up a flight of stairs. And maybe around back, so the afternoon sun won’t come in the window?”
32
From across the lot, Daniel Clay Dixon watched as Leonard drove the banged-up Mustang around the building.
Dixon went in the opposite direction, arriving as Leonard backed into a parking spot. He watched as Leonard made a show of trying to wake the woman, then hopped out of the car, propped open the motel room door with a chair, picked her up gently in his arms, and carried her into the room.
Dixon got out on the far end of the row of rooms, walked down the sidewalk under the balcony overhang like he belonged there, and followed them in.
Two double beds, a combination desk and TV stand, light-blocking drapes over the big front window, industrial carpet. It would do.
He shoved the cheap chair back to the desk, freeing the door to slam shut behind him. “Nice work.”
With the girl drugged up and in clear view of the desk clerk, Dixon had been afraid Leonard lacked the soft skills to make it work, but the man was disturbingly capable. It made Dixon wonder what else Leonard might do.
“Secret is, you do everything out in the open,” Leonard said. “Daylight like this? In a damn electric-blue convertible? What can I possibly be hiding at two o’clock in the afternoon?”
He stood with the girl in his arms as if deciding which bed to lay her out on. Then bent his head and took a deep sniff at the angle where her neck met her shoulder. He showed his teeth in a grin. “Man, she smells good enough to eat.”
“Put her down,” Dixon said. “And keep your hands off. You want a girlfriend, find one the normal way, once the mission’s over.”
“You got it, boss.” Leonard grinned again, and Dixon suppressed a shudder.
Leonard was turning out to be more than he’d bargained for.
Dixon looked at his watch. They had most of an hour before the sedative would begin to wear off. He had some decisions to make. And a phone call.
Leonard laid the girl down on the bed farthest from the door, then straightened out her limbs. It was an excuse to touch her, Dixon thought.
Time to clarify some things. He took a pistol out from under his jacket. It was a Beretta M9, the same model sidearm he’d carried for almost thirty years. He held it down at his side.
“Leonard, step away,” he said. “She’s not part of this. Off-limits. Do you understand me?”
Leonard looked at him. Amusement coming through despite his utter lack of reaction. “You threatening me?”
Here it comes, thought Dixon. “I’m just reminding you who’s running this show,” he said. “You think I don’t have leverage on you? You think I don’t know who you are? You should see your psych workup. I don’t know how you made it into the Army, or how you lasted twenty years.”
Now Leonard’s eyes narrowed, but he turned from the bed and took a step toward Dixon.
Dixon lifted the Beretta in his right hand, his index finger inside the trigger guard.
“Leonard, you work for me,” he said. “If you’re not clear on that, I can find a hundred more like you. Happy just to get paid and willing to follow orders.”
Leonard’s sidearm was in his bag in the back of the Mustang.
He took another step forward. It wasn’t a big room. His voice was soft. The man truly was a predator. “What if I don’t want to follow orders?”
Dixon stood with his back to the closed door. He raised his left hand and cupped the butt of the Beretta in a textbook two-handed shooter’s stance. He’d fired more than a hundred thousand rounds from weapons just like this one, mostly at the range, but also in combat. He knew the amount of recoil deep in his muscle memory. He didn’t need to count the rounds fired. His hands would tell him all of it.
“Then you can die in this motel room,” he said. “Your choice. Are you going to follow orders, do the job you signed up for, get paid, and walk away? Or end up gutshot, bleeding out in a motel bathtub?”
“What did you mean, you have leverage on me?” Leonard said. He didn’t take another step, but he leaned forward just slightly.
Dixon could see the tension. It made him think of a cable pulled taut, vibrating imperceptibly.
“Your service record,” Dixon said. “The one you wanted cleaned up? I have a complete copy, with full prints and DNA sample, waiting in a PO box. And a letter with an attorney, directing him to take certain actions if I’m not in contact at specified intervals.”
Leonard didn’t appear to move, but something changed. Some deliberate release. He straightened up and shook his head.
“Man, that is one world-class pussy move,” he said. “A letter with a goddamn lawyer? Shit, I thought you were a goddamn Marine.”
Dixon shifted his aim slightly and pulled the trigger. The flat crack of the Beretta was loud in the hotel room. A small hole appeared where the ceiling met the wall, directly past Leonard’s head.
Leonard didn’t flinch, but he lifted his open hands out from his body at shoulder height. It was a casual gesture, but still, a surrender. His smile was tight, showing no teeth.
“All right,” he said with a nod. “You’re the boss.”
Good enough for now, thought Dixon.
“Do your job,” he said. “You can have her when we’re done.”
He tried to sound like he meant it.
Then he took out his outgoing phone.
33
Standing in the cement plaza outside police headquarters, Peter already had Henry’s phone in his hand when it buzzed.
It was an incoming text from an unknown number.
No words. A video.
The Play arrow overlaid a dim, prone form.
Peter took a deep breath, bringing in as much oxygen as he could. He was going to need it. He touched the arrow.
June lay completely dressed on a large, fully made bed, arms down at her sides, legs straight. Eyes closed.
She looked wrong.
Normally, June had a lot of energy. Even working at her laptop, when her fingers weren’t flying across the keys, they were dancing above them, conjuring words out of the air. The only time he’d ever seen her truly stop moving was when she was asleep, and that was always in a tomboy tangle of limbs, like she’d fallen from the jungle gym directly into bed. He liked to watch her sleep. He could see what she’d looked like as a girl.
But he’d never seen her like this, like she was laid out in a coffin. So vulnerable. She couldn’t be dead, he told himself. He could see the slight rise and fall of her chest with each shallow breath.
But someone else had been in the room with her, taking the video.
He clenched the phone so tight he was afraid he’d crush it in his hand.
The bed had a white blanket or comforter on it, the wall behind painted a garish red. A hotel, and not a nice one. The camera zoomed in on her chest, to make sure Peter saw that she was breathing. Then it panned up to
her face. He saw a red mark high on her cheek, the beginnings of a bruise.
“What?” Lewis leaned over to look at the screen. “Oh shit.”
“What?” said Sykes. But the video had ended.
Peter held the phone out so Steinburger and Sykes could see and played the video again.
“Her name’s June Cassidy,” he said. “She flew in today. Was supposed to arrive an hour ago. Some asshole sent me this.”
“Let’s think about this,” Steinburger said.
Peter had already pressed Call. Put it on speaker so everyone could hear.
The man on the other end didn’t ask who was calling. “You got my message.”
“What do you want?” Peter asked.
“I want the seeds.”
“What seeds? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“There was a special package with the money. Seeds, from the grower. You want your girl, you get me those seeds.”
Now Peter knew what McSweeney hadn’t told him, what hadn’t been on the manifest. But he was focused on the voice, the same familiar voice as the earlier call. Peter heard the faint remains of a Southern upbringing despite the clipped syllables.
“What did you do to her?”
“Just a sedative,” the voice said calmly. “A few bruises. No lasting harm. Not yet, anyway.”
Peter felt the adrenaline surge, the taste of copper in his mouth, fight or flight rising up in him again. There was no question which he’d choose. But he wanted the voice to keep talking.
“Was that you who took out my friends on the highway? Who chased me across town?”
“No,” said the voice. “That was my subordinate. He’s a dangerous man. You got lucky twice. You don’t want to see him again. You really don’t want him to get too close to your girl.”
By now Peter thought he knew who was on the other end of the line.
It had been years since they’d talked, but that conversation had stuck in Peter’s mind.
It had made the difference between the needle at Leavenworth and four more years at the tip of the spear, taking care of his guys.
“If anything happens to her—”
“Follow orders, Marine. Get me those seeds.” The voice was sharp. If Peter’d had any doubts, they were gone now.
“I can’t,” he said. “I don’t have any seeds. I don’t even know what your seed package looks like. They’re probably in the police evidence locker.”
“You’re a resourceful guy. Make it happen. You have two hours. Keep that phone on you, I’ll be in touch.”
Then the line went dead.
—
Peter closed his eyes a moment. When he opened them again, he looked at Steinburger and Sykes.
“Either of you see any package of seeds?”
Both men shook their heads. “The evidence techs might’ve found it,” Steinburger said.
“I don’t suppose either of you have the authority to deputize a civilian.”
Sykes shook his head. “Those days are long gone,” he said. “You two shitheads need to back off and let us handle this.”
Lewis looked at Steinburger. “Oh, really? Go through channels? Chain of command?”
Steinburger looked away.
“I’m just going to lay this out,” Peter said. “I’m in it with or without you.”
“We could always put you in a cell,” Sykes said. “You and Beyoncé here.”
“You have no basis for that,” said Miranda.
“Protective custody,” said Sykes.
Lewis looked at Steinburger. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
“Paul,” said Steinburger.
Sykes pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t like this, Steve. We were partners, yeah, but that was ten years ago.”
Steinburger leaned toward him. “Don’t go all tight-ass state police on me here. You stood up at my weddings. All three times. And I stood up at yours.”
“Steve.”
“You remember that domestic, back before Cap Hill went upscale? The guy with the meat cleaver? You remember how that turned out?”
“I can’t believe you’re bringing that up,” Sykes said.
“All I’m saying,” Steinburger said carefully, “is we’ve been through some shit together. It’s a dirty fucking job. You and I both know that nobody gets out clean.”
“I don’t even know what he’s got on you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Peter said, louder than he intended, panic climbing his spine. “June’s the only one who matters now. When this is over, I’ll turn myself in, okay? Waive my right to an attorney. You can lay everything on my head. I just need to get her out of this.”
Sykes looked at him like he’d just declared the world was flat. “I’m just supposed to believe you? You lied to us about the car dressed up like a police cruiser, and the guy in the uniform. You lied about getting chased all over town, getting shot at. Hell, you killed four men.”
“He didn’t lie about that,” Lewis said. “He turned himself in. With the money. His word is good.”
“That’s fucking rich,” Steinburger said, “coming from you.”
Lewis turned to Steinburger again, with that stare like a hot desert wind. “Tell me,” he said. That dark explosive force latent in his voice. “How did it go, when we knew each other? Did I do what I said I’d do? Did you get what you needed? How is your mom, by the way? Still in remission?”
Steinburger closed his eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay.” Then turned to Sykes. “Come on, Paul. What’s it gonna take?”
“Give me a better reason,” Sykes said.
Peter looked at him. “You want to catch the bad guys, right? That’s the whole thing.”
Sykes let out his breath and bowed his head. “I cannot fucking believe I’m gonna do this.” Then looked up at Steinburger, then Peter. “But okay. I’m in.”
“Good,” Peter said. “Now I need a couple of favors.”
—
“Can you track June’s phone?”
“Not without a court order,” Steinburger said. “And I’d have to talk to the commander first. So no.”
“It can take a while, too,” Sykes shook his head. “Since Snowden, this has gotten a lot more complicated.”
“What about this car she rented?” Peter pulled up June’s texts again, found the photo of the late-model Mustang convertible. There was a time stamp on the text. “Companies track their cars, right? LoJack or something?”
“Depends on the company,” Steinburger said. “And the car.”
“Let me see that.” Lewis took the phone, zoomed in on the picture, scrolled up and over. “There.” He’d found the bottom corner of a multicolored sign in the background. It was badly out of focus.
He handed Henry’s phone back to Peter. “Better not search on that one,” he said, taking out his own. “Don’t know what they can see.” He pulled up his browser and found a collection of rental company logos. “Got it,” he said. “See that orange triangle?”
Sykes nodded. “I’m on it,” he said, took out his own phone, and stepped away.
Peter looked at Steinburger. “Does Denver PD still have the evidence from yesterday?”
“Yeah,” Steinburger said. “The case’ll probably end up with the state police because of where it happened, but you showed up in the city, so everything’s still in our locker.” He jerked a thumb at the blocky police administration building behind him. Then frowned. “There’s no way I’m taking anything out of there.”
“But can you get access to it?” Peter asked.
“Sure, I’m the lead on the case, at least for now. But I don’t know what I’m looking for.”
“Not yet,” Peter said. He took Lewis’s phone and dialed Elle Hansen.
“Heavy Metal Protection.”
“Hi, Elle. It’s Peter. The doorman at Zig McSweeney’s grow, his name is Tonio, right?”
“Yes,” she said cautiously. “Whose phone are you calling from? Wh
at’s going on? When are you coming over?”
“In a while,” he said. “I’m still with the police. Do you have Tonio’s cell number?”
“Peter,” she said, “we really need to talk. About the future.”
“We will,” he said. “I promise. What’s Tonio’s cell?”
“You still have Henry’s phone, right?” she said. “Antonio Marron, his info’s in there. And I need that damn phone back.”
“You’ll get it,” Peter said. “I’ll be in touch.”
He found Marron in Henry’s contacts and called him from Lewis’s phone.
It rang and rang, then went to voice mail.
“Shit,” Peter said. Then realized Marron was on guard duty. He wasn’t supposed to be answering a call on his company phone from a number he didn’t recognize.
Peter called back from Henry’s phone, now on speaker, and Marron answered right away.
“Who is this?” Suspicious. A little worried. Steinburger leaned in to listen.
“Hey, Tonio, my name’s Peter Ash. I’m with Heavy Metal. You saw me at the grow this morning, I came in with McSweeney.”
“Yeah, I remember. Why do you have Henry’s phone?”
“I was in the truck with him last night.” Peter paused to let that sink in a minute. “Listen, McSweeney gave you something for Henry yesterday. Remember?”
“Yeah. Uh, I better get hold of Mr. McSweeney.”
“Henry’s dead.” Peter used the sharp tone of command. Maybe sharper than he intended. “I’m your supervisor now.” He softened his voice. “You’re not in trouble. You didn’t do anything wrong. Just tell me what it looked like, that package you gave Henry.”
Peter could practically hear Marron making up his mind.
“It was small, a black case like, I don’t know, something you’d put your sunglasses in. Maybe a little smaller. I couldn’t see it real well because it was in one of those semi-clear plastic bags they pack product in, only without all the air sucked out of it.”
“Did it have a shipping label?”
Bulk cannabis, usually pounds and half pounds vacu-packed in plastic, each had a sticker noting the type of product, the licensed facility where it was produced, the licensed facility where it was going, and a unique number for tracking purposes. Part of the state requirements.