by Chris Culver
“What’s your plan?”
“Mason Stewart is dirty, Reid Chemical’s security consultant is dirty, and I don’t trust the kid, either,” I said. “The kid’s the weak link. I don’t know what’s going on at that plant, but I think Logan Reid does, and I think I can break him.”
“If you go after him, be careful,” said Harry. “Mason Stewart will have an army of lawyers, but I’ll do what I can to keep them from you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m on my way to the office to run a background check, so I’ll talk to you later.”
“Good luck, Detective.”
I thanked him and hung up. It was midday, so few cars crowded the roads. When I got to my station, I parked in the lot and walked inside, where Trisha flagged me down at the front desk. She had a plastic Tupperware container in front of her and a flimsy plastic fork in her hand.
“I was hoping to catch you,” she said, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “Sheryl over at Rise and Grind called about half an hour ago. She’s got two guys there that are creeping her out.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Any reason they’re creeping her out?”
“They’ve been there since eight this morning. Sheryl said she doesn’t recognize them, and they’re not too interested in talking.”
“Okay,” I said, nodding. “Have they acted inappropriately toward anybody?”
“No, but they’ve been there for almost four hours, and neither has said a word except to order more coffee,” she said, before lowering her voice. “We’ve had three murders this week. When two creepy strangers show up at the town coffee shop, I thought you might be interested. Sheryl said there’d be free coffee in it for you if you chase them off.”
With three bodies on the ground so far, any break from the normal routine was notable. I nodded and reached into my purse for my keys.
“You should have led with the free coffee. Call Sheryl and tell her I’m on my way. Put two or three uniformed officers on standby, too, in case these creepy strangers decide they don’t like me.”
“Will do, Detective,” she said, already calling up the patrol map on her computer. “Alicia Maycock is nearby. You want me to have her meet you?”
“No, but have her stay in the area,” I said. “I might need a hand.”
Trisha nodded and picked up her radio to call it in. I left the building and jogged to the SUV I had signed out. Rise and Grind was one of St. Augustine’s hidden gems. Their coffee was always good, but their house-made pecan rolls were better than anything I had ever eaten at any bakery in any big city. Sheryl, the lady who owned it, was an attorney who had decided the law wasn’t for her and had retired early to open a coffee shop. I’d never met her when she was practicing law, but every time I saw her now, she had a smile on her face. I’d say she had found her calling.
Rise and Grind took up the bottom floor of a brick three-story Italianate building downtown. There were antique stores, restaurants, and bars all around. An old-fashioned candy shop up the street made its own fudge, hard candy, and chocolates. Tourists loved this stretch of downtown. During our Spring Fair, the crowds became so thick you could hardly walk down the street. The area was lively in the summer, but I didn’t have to worry about bumping into anyone. I liked that.
I parked about a block away and checked my firearm before climbing out of my SUV. A pair of squirrels chased one another down the sidewalk in front of me, while trees overhead provided a little relief from the hot midday sun.
From the street, Rise and Grind looked almost empty, but even if people had sat at every table, I would have known which guys had given Sheryl the creeps. They were sitting at the front window. One of them had a tattoo of a spider’s web on his neck, while abstract tattoos ran up and down the wrists and arms of the other man. Neither looked happy to see me.
I pulled the door open and walked to the counter. A teenager worked the register, but as soon as she saw me, she walked to the kitchen for Sheryl. She came out momentarily.
“Hi, Joe,” she said, smiling as she walked toward me. Sheryl was in her mid-forties, but she could have passed for thirty. She had black hair past her ears and bright green eyes that lit up every time she saw someone she liked. I didn’t know her well, but she was almost always jovial and happy. Today, though, she gave me a nervous grin as her eyes flicked toward the men near the front window.
“Trisha told me what was going on,” I said, leaning against the counter, my voice low. “They’re just drinking coffee, right?”
She nodded. “They bought two pecan rolls, too. The one on the right has a gun on his waistband on his lower back. I feel silly for calling the police, but I don’t like them in my shop. They’re scaring Molly. When my employees get nervous, I get nervous.”
I nodded again and smiled at her, hoping I looked confident. “Don’t worry. I’ll talk to them and see what’s going on. You never know. Maybe they got a flat tire, and they’re waiting around for a tow.”
“Maybe,” she said. She hesitated. “Did you see a car with a flat tire outside?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “You go back to work. I’ll talk to them.”
She nodded and walked to the kitchen but didn’t send Molly out front again. I crossed the room, pulled a chair from a table near the two men, and sat down. Up close, the two men were ugly, and at least one of them smelled like body odor. I didn’t want to talk to them, but I put a smile on my face anyway.
“Hi, guys,” I said, pulling on the lanyard around my neck so they could see my badge. “I’m Detective Joe Court with the St. Augustine County Sheriff’s Department. You two new in town?”
The man on the left raised his eyebrows as he checked me out. Cigarette smoke had stained his teeth a light brown, and his nose swept to the left—likely because he had broken it in a fight and left it to heal on its own. The other guy had straight teeth, shaggy hair, and a beard like a threadbare quilt on his chin. He smelled like he had recently left the gym. He seemed like a Stinky.
“Have we done something wrong, Officer?” asked the bar fighter.
“Nope,” I said. “I’m here to chat. We’re a tourist town, and we like to welcome newcomers. This time of the year, our bed and breakfasts are full of couples on romantic weekends. Are you guys having a good time?”
“We’re not a couple,” said Stinky. I couldn’t quite place his accent.
“Is that a Bosnian accent?” I asked, furrowing my brow.
The two looked at one another. Then the bar fighter sighed.
“He’s Ukrainian. What do you want?”
“How do you like the coffee?” I asked. Neither had made a move toward me, but both men had at least fifty pounds on me each. I wouldn’t win a fight if it came down to that, so I kept my hand near my firearm. “You must like it. You’ve been here for hours.”
The bar fighter locked his eyes on mine while Stinky looked toward the register.
“Don’t look over there,” I said. “We’re talking. It’s rude to look away.”
Stinky stood. He was bigger than me, but he was slow. I could get to my feet faster than him and use my chair as a club, but I couldn’t do much damage to a man his size. Not only that, I’d still have to deal with his friend. I put my hand on my firearm but didn’t pull it out yet.
“Have a seat,” I said. “And put your hands flat on the table. That goes for both of you.”
Stinky looked to his partner. The older guy nodded—having seen my firearm—so Stinky sat down.
“I’m here to talk, boys. I can’t ask you to leave town, but I can make you miserable. So why are you here?”
“Camping,” said the bar fighter.
“You’re going camping, great,” I said, nodding. “This is a good area for that. Where are you pitching your tent?”
The bar fighter shrugged. “Haven’t decided yet.”
“That’s unfortunate. Every campsite in town is booked right now. I think you boys might have better luck going home.”
The bar fight
er smirked and turned his head. I followed his gaze to see Molly at the register again. She had blond hair with brown roots and freckles on her cheeks. She was seventeen or eighteen, and the lecherous look the bar fighter gave her made my stomach churn.
“We’d rather stay,” he said. “I like the view.”
I didn’t turn my head. “Molly, go back in the kitchen.”
A moment later, I heard a door open and close. My throat tightened, and my heart pounded in my chest. I should have brought backup.
“Now why’d you do that?” asked the bar fighter. “I think she liked me. What’s the age of consent in Missouri?”
“This is a private establishment,” I said. “It’s time you two moved on.”
“No,” said Stinky, lacing his fingers behind his head. “I like it here.”
“Okay,” I said, nodding. “Then you won’t mind staying here a moment longer while I call for backup. I’ve asked you to leave on behalf of the establishment’s owner, but you’ve refused. You’re under arrest for trespassing. I plan to disarm you and call for backup. We will place you in custody and take you to my station. From there, we’ll work things out. That sound okay with you?”
“We’re not armed,” said Stinky.
“I saw your weapon when I walked in, dumbass. It’s tucked into the waistband of your pants,” I said. “I’m guessing your partner has one, too. One at a time, I want you both to unholster your firearms, unload them, and put them on the table. This need not escalate. If you cooperate, everyone will be fine.”
Though I tried to convey a sense of calm confidence, every muscle in my body felt tight. Neither man moved.
“You first,” I said, looking to Stinky. “Reach behind your back and remove your firearm from its holster. Remove the magazine and any round in the chamber and put it on the table. If you fail to comply, we’re all going to have a bad day.”
He stared into my eyes as he complied. I thought he would spit at me, but he did what I wanted. The older guy did likewise.
I picked up the firearms and moved them to another table.
“Both of you, keep your hands flat on the table,” I said, reaching to my purse for my phone. Trisha answered at the station and called in my backup. Officer Maycock was there within a minute. She wasn’t much bigger than me, but she was armed, and she wore a uniform. Sasquatch—Officer Preston Cain—arrived a minute or two after that, allowing me to breathe a little easier.
Sasquatch led the two men outside and put them in the back of two separate cruisers, while Alicia collected their firearms. Once we had everything secure, Sasquatch handed me their IDs. According to their driver’s licenses, both came from Chicago. The older guy was named Kurt Wilkinson, while the other guy was Stephan Kushnir. Neither had an open warrant against him, but Stephan Kushnir had had a felony conviction for felony assault.
In Missouri, trespassing in the first degree was a class-B misdemeanor. If I charged them, they’d pay a fine and go on with their lives. Meanwhile, I’d have an hour or two of paperwork and more headache than the arrest was worth. I didn’t plan to take them in. Now that I had seen their driver’s licenses, I had everything I needed.
Sasquatch let both men out of their respective squad cars and removed their handcuffs.
“Okay, gentlemen,” I said. “We’ve decided not to press charges. Mr. Wilkinson, we’ll be returning your firearm; however, we will keep Mr. Kushnir’s. Since Mr. Kushnir has a violent felony conviction, he’s ineligible to own a weapon in the state of Missouri. If you’ve got an attorney, he or she can contact my office. We’ll return the weapon to you once you’ve left the state. Does that sound good with you two?”
Kushnir grumbled, but Wilkinson nodded. Sasquatch gave Wilkinson his firearm back, and then the two of them climbed into a red sedan and drove off. I walked to Officer Maycock.
“Alicia, have you got the firearms we confiscated?”
She nodded.
“Good. Take them to Darlene and ask her to run ballistics on them. We’ll see whether they match the rounds pulled from Jennifer McKenzie or Laura Rojas,” I said. I turned to Sasquatch. “Preston, get in your cruiser. Follow our new friends. If they leave the county, great. If they don’t, keep on them. Don’t bother hiding. Let them see you.”
“On it, boss,” he said, hurrying back to his car.
I didn’t know who those guys were, but we needed to watch them all the same. I watched Sasquatch drive off before heading back to the coffee shop. Sheryl and Molly had returned from the kitchen. Both looked shaken, but they’d be okay.
“They’re gone,” I said. “I’ve got one of my officers following them, so they shouldn’t bother you anymore. If they come back, call us. We’ll send somebody to pick them up.”
“Thank you, Joe,” said Sheryl, drawing in a breath. “I feel silly for calling you, but they scared me.”
“Calling me wasn’t silly. They were scary dudes,” I said, nodding and looking around. I hesitated and smiled. “Before coming, I heard something about free coffee.”
Sheryl smiled. “For you, it’s on the house.”
“I knew there was a reason this is my favorite coffee shop in town,” I said, smiling.
“This is the only coffee shop in town,” said Molly.
“Just adds to the air of exclusivity,” I said. Sheryl came back a moment later with a tall paper cup full of steaming black coffee. I thanked her and put a dollar in the tip jar despite her protests. “You deserve a tip. Your coffee and pecan rolls are the only reason I get up in the morning.”
“I’m both glad and sad to hear that, Detective,” said Sheryl, winking.
I thanked them again and headed out. It was already midafternoon, and the work kept piling on. I yawned and sipped my coffee before heading to my car. No rest for the weary. I had a murder to solve.
27
As much as I liked my truck, my department’s marked SUVs were faster and more comfortable, and they could transport far more gear to a crime scene. More than that, the department’s SUVs had their own laptops complete with 4G internet access. My connection at the station was faster, but it was hard to beat the convenience of a laptop on the road.
I sat in the front seat and used the laptop to look up the number for the Chicago Police Department’s liaison office. After I told the liaison officer the situation with Kushnir and Wilkinson, he transferred me to a lieutenant in the organized-crime division. I sipped my coffee and hummed along to terrible electronic music as I waited. After a few minutes, the lieutenant grunted and answered.
“Lieutenant Jim Cornell,” he said. “What do you need?”
“Lieutenant, this is Detective Joe Court with the St. Augustine County Sheriff’s Department in St. Augustine, Missouri. You got a minute to talk?”
“I might. What do you want?”
“I’m hoping you can fill in some gaps for me,” I said, allowing myself to sink into the warm, black upholstery of my SUV. “I’ve got three bodies on the ground here, and I ran into two guys from your area. Both carried firearms. They seemed shady. I thought you might have heard of them.”
He grunted. It was midafternoon, but he almost sounded as if he were hung over.
“Give me some names.”
I read him the names and waited while he typed. After a moment, he made a deep, throaty growl.
“We’ve got files on both gentlemen,” he said. “Are they still in town right now?”
“I’ve got an officer following them,” I said. “I assume so.”
“Tell your officer to back off,” said the lieutenant. “Dumb and Dumber are both hitters for a Ukrainian gang in town. They didn’t earn their nicknames for their sparkling judgment, and I doubt they’re in your area to see the sights.”
“Do they work in the pharmaceuticals industry?”
“They’re into anything that can make them money. Drugs, guns, girls, you name it. They don’t discriminate.”
“Is the name Reid Chemical familiar?”
He pau
sed. “No. Not at all. Why?”
“Two of my victims worked there,” I said. “Anything else you can tell me about the bad guys?”
“If they’re in town, it’s not for their health.”
I snickered a little. “Somehow, I didn’t think they were here to go hiking. Thanks for your time.”
He grunted again, and I hung up. The moment I did, I called Trisha and asked her to warn Sasquatch about our bad guys. I wanted to assign an additional officer to sit in a car with him, but we didn’t have the manpower to allow that. As long as he kept his eyes open, he’d be okay. After that, I focused my attention on the laptop again.
Even with Kushnir and Wilkinson in town, Logan Reid was my primary suspect. According to the license bureau’s information, he was twenty-one, and he lived six miles outside the town of St. Augustine. If I had to guess, he lived with his parents.
I looked him up on Facebook, but the privacy settings on his profile were so tight I couldn’t see anything but his profile picture. A quick Google search, though, gave me what I needed. He was a member of the Sigma Iota fraternity at Waterford College. I knew the house well, having interviewed Chad Hamilton—June Wellman’s rapist—there. The fraternity’s recruitment board must have liked assholes.
I put my car in gear and headed out. As I had on my previous visit, I first stopped by the college’s Public Safety Office to let them know I was in the area. While there, I also showed them a picture of Laura Rojas on my phone. The officer at the front desk looked at her face and nodded.
“She’s familiar, but I’m not sure from where. I might have seen her around town. St. Augustine isn’t a big place.”
“Have you ever seen her with a student?”
He shook his head. “Couldn’t say. Our door is always open, but we don’t get to know many students.”
“How about Logan Reid? Did you get to know him?”
The officer cracked a smile and nodded. “We’ve picked him up three or four times for public intoxication. He’s over twenty-one, so we took him home and made sure he was safe.”