Hers to Protect

by Catherine Lanigan

  He rubbed the side of his strong jaw. “Hmm. Right after I gave the order to withdraw surveillance—for the time being.”

  Sal glanced at Bob, whose expression was granite.

  Violet knew that both Sal and Bob had requested to stay on stakeout—even on their personal time. She’d heard them say they thought it was important.

  “And it was while I was busy with the fund-raiser for the foster home,” Violet added, feeling guilty and conflicted. Yes, she’d thought staying close to Josh was the priority, but she’d also felt community service was more than part of her job. It was a calling of its own. She couldn’t imagine not helping Mrs. Beabots and the kids who’d wind up homeless, joining a gang or—desperate enough to be part of the methamphetamine cookers who would soon descend on the farmhouse. At the same time, if Violet had been on stakeout, she might have caught the gang members who’d filled the farmhouse garage with acetone, anhydrous ammonia, lithium, hydrochloric acid and lye—the lethal ingredients in methamphetamine. All thoughts that had to be going through the heads of the rest of her team members.

  Trent leaned back in his chair. “It’s doubtful they know of our presence on the site. Otherwise they wouldn’t have stocked the place. The fact that you broke protocol is noted. However, I’m not above coloring outside the lines when we’re this close to our mark.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “With all this product, it looks to me like these guys plan to move in for quite some time,” Trent said. “Did you go around back? See any trash?”

  “There was a garbage can in back, but all I found were empty pizza cartons, fast-food wrappers and beer bottles.”

  “No red-stained coffee filters? Empty Drāno? Antifreeze?” Sal asked.

  “No, there wasn’t.”

  “What about solvent smell?” Bob asked.

  “No. And no hoses hanging out of the windows.”

  Trent stood and clasped his hands behind his back. “So, we’ve got them before they’ve cooked the first batch.” He frowned.

  Violet watched as deep furrows creased his brow. “Sir? That’s good, right?”

  “Not exactly,” Sal interjected.

  “Sal’s right,” Trent continued. “We need to catch them in the act.”

  “But before they distribute,” Violet concluded.

  “Yep,” all three men chorused.

  Violet felt a rush. Her discoveries were valuable to their investigation. They looked at her as a contributor. “Sir, I’d like to move forward with that search warrant.”

  “Yes. Put it in motion, but we’re not going to move on the farmhouse until we’re certain we’ve got the gang leader.”

  “And you think that’s Miguel Garcia?” Violet asked, knowing the answer but she wanted to hear it. For the record.

  “I do. However, Richard Schmitz tells me that his men tailed him to Oak Street Beach yesterday where he appeared to join in a friendly family picnic.”

  “Garcia is still in Chicago?” Sal asked.

  “He is,” Trent replied.

  Violet peered at Trent. Something didn’t make sense to her. “But Miguel doesn’t have a family.”

  “That we know of.”

  “This could be another ruse,” she countered.

  “Richard has a man who has been trying to infiltrate the gang since Le Grand’s arrest.”

  “Was Richard’s man at the picnic?” Violet asked.

  “No. But he was at the beach and recorded a great deal. He took these...” Trent picked up a manila folder and opened it, looking at the pages.

  Violet, Sal and Bob huddled over the photos of three men, dressed in shorts and casual shirts holding beers and paper plates of food, talking to each other. The expressions on their faces were intense. Trent continued. “The taller one in the middle is Garcia. The other two are his lieutenants. Now, look at the next photo.” He showed Violet another shot and then another. “These two guys leave, and in minutes we see this other guy talking to Miguel. He’s only there a few seconds.” Trent pointed to the time line printed out on the bottom of the picture. “He walks away and another guy comes up. Miguel talks to him for one minute and fourteen seconds. In this next photo, he hands this unnamed guy a set of keys. We cropped it and enlarged the keys.”

  Sal took the photo and inspected it. “That’s a Ford truck key.”

  “I want all three of you working on this one. There’s a truckload of drugs coming in from Detroit tonight. Intel informs me that we’re looking for a brand-new Ford 450. Silver or gray.”

  Sal whistled. “Nice ride.”

  Trent scowled. “Payload on this one is close to five thousand pounds of heroin. So the truck will be riding low.”

  He held the photo up. “The driver is going to be this guy here.”

  Violet memorized the man’s features—thirties, dark hair, on the short side. Overweight. Although it had to have been hot at Oak Street Beach yesterday, when temperatures in Indian Lake were grazing close to ninety, the man wore heavy work boots and jeans along with his muscle T-shirt. She could only imagine the brawn it would take to unload five thousand pounds of heroin.

  “I’ll venture a guess that one of these other guys, if not a couple of them, will be helpers,” Trent added.

  “Sir, do you have a lock on the exchange point?”

  “Indian Lake Marina boat warehouse.”

  “This is why you pulled the team off the farmhouse?” Violet asked.

  “Yes,” Trent replied firmly. “Hawks, I want you to be lookout. I’ve commandeered a ten-year-old Chevy truck, rusted and in need of a new back fender for you to drive. Park at Redbeard’s Mini-Mart across the street from the warehouse. I want photos. Video. Everything.”

  Trent turned to Sal and Bob. “Both of you will be on the inside. Stay close to the doors. I’ll be in the warehouse yard, out of sight. It’s going to be a quick exchange. This truck will pull in, possibly followed by the next driver.” Trent sat on the edge of his desk. “One of two scenarios will transpire. There will be an exchange of drivers and the loaded Ford 450 will continue on. Or, what I’m hoping for, they transfer the drugs to the next truck.”

  “But either way, we’ve got them,” Violet offered.

  “Correct, Hawks,” Trent confirmed. “Transferring the drugs would take time and gives us the chance to arrest them. I want to avoid a highway chase. That’s all.”

  “Got it.” Indian Lake with its web of country roads, interstates, farm roads and state highways was exactly why drug dealers chose the area for these drop-offs, transfers and deals. Escaping cops in cars was their norm.

  Fast cars reminded her of Josh.

  As they walked out of Trent’s office and Sal and Bob went to their desks, Violet took out her phone and texted Josh.

  Hi. I hope you’re good. I was thinking about you and wanted to wish you well in the time trials.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  JOSH CLIMBED OUT of his Indy race car, took off his helmet and smiled at his engineer, Stubby Kits. Stubby exemplified his nickname. Five feet five inches tall, he’d worked with drag cars, NASCAR and Formula One all of his seventy-one years. Stubby claimed he would never die as every internal organ in his body was permanently ossified by gas fumes and engine oil.

  “Josh! My man!” Stubby slapped Josh on the back of his red-and-blue driving jumpsuit. “You did it.”

  Josh’s smile faded. “I didn’t make the pole position. Crash Crain did.”

  “Only by two seconds,” Stubby informed him.

  Josh whistled. “Closer than I thought.”

  “You’re number two position. And how many times have you won top position? Three, four? Heck, even six?”

  “I should have taken this,” Josh said as they walked out of the pit, his crew fast at work.

  “Harry’s here,” Stubby told him.

 
“Yeah. I saw him before the trials.”

  “He said he wants to talk.”

  Josh grinned down at Stubby and put his arm around the older man. “Stubbs, one thing you gotta know about Harry—he always wants to talk.”

  * * *

  JOSH LIFTED AN enormous pork tenderloin sandwich, the traditional food of choice of the Indianapolis racetrack and peered at Harry just as he was about to take a bite. “What?” he asked. “You look, uh, not happy.”

  Harry clasped a can of beer. “How’re you feeling?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “No worries? No superstitious tingles about the fact that you just lost to your nemesis?”

  Josh wiped his mouth with a napkin, glanced around the diner, which wasn’t far from the garage area where a lot of drivers and pit crew guys hung out. “Crash Crain is not my nemesis. He’s just another driver. In case you haven’t noticed, there are thirty other guys on the track this year.”

  “Cute.” Harry leaned closer and whispered, “There’s two point four million dollars and change riding on this purse for you this year if you win.”

  Josh took another bite of his sandwich. “I know.”

  “You do know your pit crew guys have bet on you fairly heavily. More than usual.”

  “That’s because the stakes are higher. And I told them not to do that. They have families they need to be concerned about. What if I don’t win? What if they lose too much money? Their wives will be mad. And the kids. How do you tell a kid they can’t go on vacation because there’s no money?”

  “Josh?” Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Since when have you been worried about their finances? You pay them well.”

  “I do. But they should be careful. Plan for the future. If I died out there, where is their next job? I mean, think about it. College is expensive. And what about their pensions? Maybe we should increase their 401(k) percentages.”

  “You’re thinking about this on the day before the race?”

  “Family is important.” He glanced down at the wrapped straw on the table. “Maybe it’s all important.”

  “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re nervous.”

  “Harry, after all this time as my manager, you should know that very little makes me nervous.”

  Josh’s cell phone alerted him to an incoming text. “Excuse me.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Violet.”

  “Ah. I shoulda known. A woman.”

  “Officer Hawks.” Josh raised his eyes to Harry’s concerned eyes. “She wished me good luck.”

  “Yeah?”

  Josh smiled. “She’s thinking about me.”

  Harry leaned back and tapped the table with his forefinger. “It’s a ploy. She’s a cop. She’s up to something.”

  “You think?” Josh couldn’t help smiling broadly now. If he was honest with his long-standing manager and friend, he’d tell Harry the truth, which was that he should have placed first in the trials. He was the best on the track and he knew it. Crash had gotten lucky because Josh had made that last quarter turn, and in that second, he’d thought about Violet.

  In all his years of racing, Josh had never lost his concentration. His focus was the track, his speed, the smell of rubber against hot asphalt, exhaust fumes and the rush of adrenaline through his body so strong he thought he and the car could levitate.

  But he’d been thinking about Violet. Not his mother. Not his father. This time, he’d seen Violet and how she’d looked with her eyes slowly opening right after he’d kissed her. Almost exactly the same time she’d sent this text. He started tapping out a reply.

  “What are you doing?” Harry stuck his hand over Josh’s hand to stop him.

  “What does it look like? Texting her back. You’re the one who told me to be friendly. Show my community spirit to Indian Lake.”

  Harry pursed his lips, glanced around the room in what Josh often referred to as his “reconnaissance scan” to make sure they weren’t being recorded, before proceeding. “You have that seldom seen, but undeniable sappy look on your face. The last time I saw it was four years ago and her name was Andrea.”

  “Andy.”

  “Yeah. And what did she cost us? A couple hundred thousand to go away?”

  Josh frowned. “Okay, so she was a nutcase. And after my money, not me.”

  Harry folded his arms over his chest. “Come clean. What’s with this cop?”

  Josh exhaled and put the phone down. His sandwich had no appeal. “There’s something about her...”

  Harry swiped his face. “I’ve heard this before.”

  “I mean, something different. She’s smart, dedicated, intense, but in a good way. Soft...”

  “Uh-oh.” Harry dropped his forehead to his palm. “This isn’t good.”

  “How can it not be good? So, I like her. Okay? That’s all. She’s a friend of Austin and Katia.”

  “Josh, when have you ever had time for friends?”

  Josh’s reply died in his mouth. He stared at Harry.

  It’s true.

  He didn’t have friends. He didn’t have family. He had responsibilities. He had a manager. An attorney. An engineer. A pit crew. Sponsors. But other than Austin and Katia, he didn’t have any real friends. Josh had been riding the fast track so long, he couldn’t remember what it was like to spend a holiday sitting around a barbecue or dinner table and talking about something other than racing, the next commercial or travel plans to yet another race.

  “So you like the cop who caused me to buy acid reflux medication in bulk?”

  “Don’t exaggerate.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry retorted, then pushed aside his beer and signaled the waitress.

  “Yes, sir?” she asked.

  “Bring me a large milk,” Harry said, casting Josh a hard look. “Whole milk.”

  “Yes, sir.” She left.

  Josh finished his text to Violet. I was thinking about you, too. So, thinking about her caused him to lose a few seconds in the time trials. When it came to race time, he wanted to know she was in the stands. Close. And he would see her after the race. After the win.

  While the waitress went to get Harry’s large milk, Josh ate half his sandwich. His phone rang as she reappeared. He checked the ID and answered, “That was fast. How are you, Violet?”

  “Fine. Working. I saw you posted in the second position,” she said.

  “Keeping tabs on me, huh? Is this friendly surveillance?” he joked.

  “The guys in the station are listening to the radio.”

  Josh’s disappointment surprised him. Why would he care how she came to have information about him? “So, I got your text.”

  “Actually, I shouldn’t have sent that. It was a whim. Silly, really.”

  “Yeah? Well, that goes both ways. I thought it was sweet.”

  He heard Harry groan.

  “So, Violet, how’s everything going for you there?”

  “The usual. Lots of bad guys. Not enough cops.”

  “And you’re being careful?” He halted. Harry was concerned with Josh’s welfare, but suddenly, Josh cared only about Violet. If Violet was going after drug dealers and she thought Diego was one now...

  Josh had not hung around Diego’s “drug friends” when they were in school, but he’d seen enough in his years to know drug lords were ruthless. Josh also believed that if Diego was vying for a kingpin position in the drug world, Violet’s ambition could bring her close to real danger, even death.

  “So when can we start in on our charity plans? After this race, obviously,” she said. “And if you win...”

  “When I win, I’ll be jammed for weeks with appearances and interviews. Harry has me booked for most of June until Le Castellet.”

  “
What’s that?”

  “French Grand Prix.”

  “You’ll be in Europe?”

  “Yes. I’m booked there through the bulk of the summer. The British Grand Prix in July.”

  He looked up. “Harry, did we get the Belgium Grand Prix for August?”

  Harry nodded.

  “That’s confirmed.”

  “I...I had no idea,” she said.

  Josh clearly detected a note of disappointment in her tone. He didn’t want to joke around. “I asked you to come to the race. Do you think you could talk to your boss? Or superior or whatever you call the chief?”

  “I could try.”

  “The race is Sunday, two days from now. Austin and Katia are driving down. I’m sure they’d be happy to bring you.”

  “Let me see if I can wrangle the time off.”

  “Text me when you know, okay?”

  “Okay. Will I see you before the race?”

  “No. But after. I’ve already talked to Austin about what we want to do after I tie Al Unser’s record.”

  “That’s ambitious. Four wins. Just like A. J. Foyt.”

  Josh smiled. “You heard that on the radio.”

  “You will find, Mr. Stevens, that I know a few things about racing. And race drivers.”

  Josh said goodbye and put the phone in his pocket. Still thinking about Violet’s challenging last statement, he realized that Harry was staring at him. “What?”

  Harry’s face was implacable. “You listen to me, Josh. Officer Hawks is not some model or soap-opera actress you can make a headline or two with and forget about. She wants something.”

  “Jeez. I hope so.”

  “Wipe that grin off your face. She wants your head on a platter, I’m betting. I wanted you to make nice with the folks in Indian Lake until that arrest charge was forgotten. Hopefully, it’s behind us. Once you win, grab that celebratory bottle of milk and wear the wreath of flowers, we move on. You got that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s what we always do.”

  “Right.” Josh looked down at his half-eaten sandwich. Another race. Another trophy. A plane ticket to Dubai. London. Paris. Brazil. He’d race around the world. Again. It was what he always did.