He had more problems than he did men to solve them. The department only had twenty-six officers and some of those were part-time. “I don’t want to ask for more overtime unless it’s a crisis; we’re already pushing the men hard. What else happened in town overnight?”
“We had three calls reporting a prowler out on Kerns Road that haven’t been resolved. Someone took Goodheart’s pickup again; officers found it out of gas down by the lake pavilion. Overall, it was a pretty quiet night.”
“We needed one. I need to have a frank talk with the union steward today. If a man can’t pay his bills, he gets angry. If a man can’t feed his kids, he gets desperate. The other side of desperate is dangerous. We need a better handle on how guys on the picket lines are doing.”
“I’ll see what I can arrange.”
Nathan spotted the chief dispatcher. He leaned out the office door. “Eileen, how’s your voice doing?”
“Raw, but there. Just don’t come near me and catch this.”
“The pharmacist has your prescription refill ready. Call over, and he’ll deliver it here.”
“What did you do, bribe him?”
“Anything to keep my favorite lady answering my radio calls.”
She laughed. “Thanks, Nathan.”
He looked at the clock. “Will, after you deliver that file, why don’t you head home and get some sleep. You can spell me around dinner.”
“I can take tomorrow morning for you.”
“I’ll take you up on it.” Nathan had yet to find a substitute to take his Sunday school class of junior high boys and the last day he had off—it had been before the strike started. “If you need me in the short term, I’ll be patrolling on the highway, keeping speeds down while they clear that wreck. After that, I’ll be over at the plant.”
Will nodded. Nathan pulled on his gloves and headed back out to patrol.
* * *
Death was such an interesting process. Nella’s eyes flickered open. She tried to focus on him. Her eyes began to water as they widened. Her hand pushed against the blanket to slide out but didn’t have the strength to push the heavy weight aside. Her breath began to come in gasps. He watched, interested in the way her nerves reacted as the seizure hit. Her neck stiffened and tilted back. Her blue eyes filmed over as membranes broke. She bit her tongue. As seizures went, it was small and lasted less than a minute.
Her breathing stopped.
He watched for death changes, in her eyes or in her muscles, and saw her go slack. A double dose of the new formula killed; there was no surprise there. The tougher question would be to find a dose that gave the euphoric high without killing as it wore off.
He turned away and swung his legs to the floor, sitting on the side of the bed and stretching. He picked up his shirt.
He tugged against her weight to free the sheet; her limp body settled into the bed and pillow. He tossed the blanket back up and made his presence in her bed less obvious. He buttoned his jeans and bent to pick up his shoes.
He had to force the window to get it to rise in the aged frame. The window screen had numerous tears in the wire mesh; he used his finger to widen a few of them. He let the window come down under its own weight and it jammed off center, half an inch from closed. He rocked the frame with his hand and it just jammed tighter. Good. Let the bugs come in.
He turned on the ceiling fan and closed the bedroom door. In the hallway, he turned the thermostat to eighty-four. Nella liked to keep her rooms warm; she complained to everyone about the heating bills and how her poor circulation gave her cold feet. He’d attest to the fact that her feet were cold; it had annoyed him for the last four years.
In the kitchen he retrieved the last of the wine he’d brought and poured himself another glass. He walked to the window. The rising sun left the woods between the house and the town of Justice in dark relief.
He could go home or back to work or to meet the guys at the union hall. He considered that and the absolute senseless way this weekend was going. Had she just been able to keep her mouth shut, he could have had another couple hours of sleep. But she liked to talk to strangers.
He finished the wine, took the bottle with him, and closed the front door, letting it lock behind him.
2
What did she know about being a private investigator? Cheating spouses, missing child support, employee theft, insurance fraud . . . Rae winced just thinking about the cases she’d likely see in her first year working with Bruce. The shift from the intensity of undercover work to working small jobs for the public was going to be an abrupt change of pace. She’d learn to enjoy the work or she’d suffer the boredom.
She rubbed at her right forearm. She didn’t care if there was a scar; she just wished the gash would stop itching as it healed. She had dealt with a lot of violence in her undercover career, but never before at the hands of another agent.
Reaching down, she changed the radio station. She could tell she was nearing her childhood home. The talk radio had turned conservative, snow-covered fields dominated the landscape, and she grew accustomed to passing semis and tanker trucks that stacked in the right lane in long convoys. She loved the Midwest even though she’d not been back very often in the last decade.
Sirens interrupted her thoughts.
She instinctively looked ahead at the heavy interstate traffic and then looked in the rearview mirror and saw flashing lights.
She checked her speed and immediately eased up on the gas. She had a faint hope those lights were not for her but as the police car closed the distance it moved into the lane behind her.
Rae sighed and turned on her blinkers, acknowledging she saw him. She slowed. There were no exits ahead she could see but there was a wider shoulder where the railroad joined to flow alongside the interstate. She pulled to the side of the road, activated her hazard lights, and put the car into park. She’d made it all the way to her home state before getting pulled over; she didn’t know if that was a blessing or a curse.
She touched a button to lower the window. The temperature immediately dropped. The radio was blaring outside and she hit a button to shut it off. In the rearview mirror she could see the officer sitting in the police car, talking on his radio, likely calling in her license-plate numbers and location of the stop.
The officer got out of the squad car, a tall man with dark hair blowing in the stiff breeze, his jacket a deep blue and designed for the cold.
She left her hands on the steering wheel as she watched him walk toward the car. He was watching her as well as studying the car. She waited until he drew even with her before moving to rest her arm on the open window frame.
“Good morning, Ma’am.” He scanned the interior of the vehicle. “Do you realize you were speeding?”
“When I heard your sirens I did. I’m afraid my thoughts were elsewhere. My error.”
“I clocked you crossing eighty miles per hour. May I see your license and registration please?”
“My purse is in the backseat.”
He nodded and she turned to retrieve it. She fumbled unzipping her purse. He patiently waited while she figured out how she had zipped fabric into the zipper teeth and got the inside compartment open.
Her leather case that had held her badge for so many years was empty, but she didn’t think she’d have tried to ask for a law enforcement courtesy to get out of the ticket even if she still carried it. Speeding was her own private little demon and she paid for it regularly. She handed over her license and car registration.
He added it to his clipboard. “Washington, D.C. You’re a long way from home.”
“Yes.”
Explaining everything was in storage or in transport, her house was with a Realtor, and her friend was picking up her mail, seemed like more information than was warranted. She’d also lost twenty pounds since that license was printed. She wanted to mention that too but didn’t.
She slid off her sunglasses being used to block the sun’s glare off the snow and read the officer�
��s name tag. Sheriff Nathan Justice. The town of Justice was just ahead. That was too much of a coincidence not to be connected. It had to be so strange to live and work in a town your family founded. “I don’t suppose there’s any way you can not write that.”
“Sorry. You were speeding.”
“Just checking.”
“No problem with checking,” he agreed easily. His face wasn’t pretty, too prominent cheekbones and chin, his skin weathered by too many days in the sun and wind, but his smile was nice and the brown eyes kind.
He wasn’t missing details; the pause when he had seen the scar on her arm had narrowed his gaze, and the stack of coffee cups piled together in her cup holder had brought a smile. Altogether the man who led the Justice Police Department left a nice impression. He finished the registration card and handed it back but held on to the license. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Rae watched him in her rearview mirror as he walked back to the patrol car. She would be working with the man in the coming days or at least trying to get information out of his department. Why was a sheriff out making traffic stops? The Justice jurisdiction was that small?
The sheriff reached inside his squad car for the radio and stood leaning against the car as he talked with dispatch. The way he leaned to shift his weight—maybe it was just projection on her part—but the man looked like he was, like her, also ending a very long week.
He must live around here somewhere, eat at the local restaurants, shop at the local mall—running into the man under less awkward circumstances shouldn’t be that hard to arrange. She needed to make a better impression than this before she asked for her first favor.
He signed off the radio and leaned into the car to replace it, then walked back to join her. A semi rolled past and the wind rocked her car.
The sheriff offered her the clipboard. “Sign at the X and I can return your license. If you wish to contest the ticket or raise any mitigating points with the court, you have ten days to do so, by mail if you wish. The address is on the back of the form.”
She nodded, read his neat handwriting listing her name and information, and signed where indicated.
She handed back the clipboard. He gave her a copy of the ticket and returned her license. She wrestled with her purse zipper pocket again to put away her license. “Could you by any chance give me directions to the Chapel Detective Agency?”
Her question surprised him; he took his time putting his pen back into his pocket before he responded. “As you head into town, the third stop light is Tremont Road. Turn right. You’ll find Bruce’s office between the pharmacy and the bank. If you pass the Fine Chocolates Shop you’ve gone too far. If he’s not at the office, at this time of day you’ll likely find him at Della’s Café.”
“Thanks.”
“You have business for Bruce?”
“Possibly.”
“He’s a good guy. Just for reference, the speed limit in town is twenty-five.”
She smiled.
He smiled back. “The road might appear clear, but it’s deceptive; there are still patches of smooth ice under the underpasses around here. Drive safely, Ms. Gabriella.”
He stepped away and she lifted her hand, then closed the window.
She’d planned to drop her things at her uncle’s home and get some sleep, then see Bruce tomorrow. She hadn’t realized Justice was so close to the interstate that she actually entered the town’s jurisdiction for a brief stretch of highway. Her uncle was not expecting her until Monday and it would be easier to talk schedules with him once she had details with Bruce worked out.
She put the ticket into the glove box to deal with later. “Sixty-five dollars. We’re going to have to talk to Bruce about an expense account that covers speeding tickets.” She put the car back in gear. “Welcome back to Illinois.”
* * *
Nathan watched from his squad car as the older-model Lexus reentered the flow of traffic. He knew just about everyone in town and Gabriella wasn’t a family name he recognized.
What trouble did she have that needed Bruce’s attention? Or was she one of Bruce’s friends from days past? He was still meeting them. Something specific had her coming to Justice. Nathan couldn’t remember the last time someone from Washington, D.C., had intentionally come to visit their town.
He put away the paperwork and glanced at his watch. He was hoping to meet up with the union steward to see if they would limit the number of men walking the picket lines over the weekend. A reasonable request, asked in a reasonable way . . . as his dad said often, you couldn’t get a yes if you weren’t willing to risk hearing a no. It would let him give one more officer an afternoon off.
Another car sped past. Nathan groaned. He punched on the lights and pulled out into traffic. The Porsche was red and in a hurry.
I’m going to take away the car keys. Get his license revoked. Slice the car tires. . . . His grandfather was eighty, his wife had died last year, and he liked to drive fast. If his grandfather didn’t voluntarily slow down this was going to be a long chase and he’d be arresting his grandfather. That Porsche could accelerate.
Nathan passed Rae Gabriella now doing the speed limit and wondered what she’d think about his town after she met some of its residents.
* * *
Rae found the building easy enough and a parking place just a space off the front door. She stretched, studied the quiet street, and nodded to herself. It fit.
Rae pushed open the door to the Chapel Detective Agency II and stepped into the receptionist area. The room was empty. She tugged off her gloves. The thermostat must be cranked toward eighty degrees; the heat in the room was oppressive.
The receptionist desk was clear but for a phone, a day-calendar, and a paperback book (Sam Whitmere’s Murder at Midnight) left resting facedown to mark the page. Salt tracked in by snow-covered shoes had left a white trail on the low-pile, blue-and-gray carpet. Three fabric-backed chairs along the wall looked nice if uncomfortable, and the magazines on the table were current.
Rae shoved her gloves into her coat pocket and turned to look at the window where an Open/Closed sign was turned to Open. Saturday hours were listed as nine to two.
She walked through the receptionist area with no interest in waiting there to the hallway that disappeared toward the back of the building. It was brightly lit, the fluorescent bulbs making a soft electrical hum.
She headed down the hall, listening to the quiet sounds of her own footfalls on the carpet, checking doorknobs on either side as she passed them. The doors were locked. Framed photographs of the Chicago skyline, the White Sox ballpark, pedestrian-packed sidewalks lined the walls in an unexpected display of nostalgia.
Bruce wouldn’t have an office with windows near the front of the building when he could have one with windows facing the alley where he could safely park his precious restored Jaguar. The odds were solid that he still had the car.
The hallway ended with a closed door. Rae tugged the yellow phone slip from the door crack. Bruce, call Heather. Heather’s name was written in caps and underscored. Rae pocketed the slip and tried the doorknob. She wasn’t surprised to find it locked.
She slid a case from her handbag, selected a pick, and several seconds later turned the doorknob. Bruce, Bruce, the things you teach your friends. She pushed open the door and found the light switch.
Nice. Bruce had himself an extra-large office, twenty by eighteen, done in a rich cherry paneling and deep blue painted trim. She cluttered up the desk by adding the call slip.
Rae crossed to the windows and moved aside the blinds. The alley was empty but for a gray painted industrial-size Dumpster, but someone did park out there regularly; the snow had a clear spot and the area around it had been square-cornered by someone with a snow shovel.
Rae let the blind fall back in place and turned to study the office. He’d brought in stereo equipment and a guy-size leather chair. She ran a finger along the black leather of the couch. Back when he worked for the Chic
ago PD she’d helped move this couch into his first undercover apartment. She’d promised him the leather would wear well and it had.
She read the list of cases written on the whiteboard in Bruce’s neat handwriting—Heather Teal’s husband, Larry Broderick store robbery, Tretton Insurance claim, Karen Elan’s sister, Laura’s ex-husband, Nathan’s inquiry. It was a pretty sparse work list.
He said he needed her help, but it looked more like he was offering her a graceful way out of her own troubles.
What do I know about being a private detective, Bruce? And why do you really want to hire me? Knowing Bruce, his reasons would be layered and shared only when he thought them relevant. She just hoped she learned to like the job.
The small refrigerator had nothing decaffeinated. Rae closed it. She could wait for Bruce to come back, but nothing indicated what case he was working on or how long he would be gone. She found a piece of paper.
I arrived early. I’m going to get a room at the Sunburst Hotel and take a nap. I’ll find you in the next 24 hours.
She didn’t bother to sign it; the man had received hundreds of notes from her over the years, most from when they were dating, and he would know her handwriting on sight. She relocked the office door behind her.
3
Nathan walked toward his grandfather’s car, breathing deep and watching the horizon where a hawk was circling in the sky, doing his best to get control of his temper before he reached the driver’s-side door. He pulled his pen from his pocket and opened the ticket book, slipping a blank form onto the clipboard. The back of the Porsche was spotted white as the salt and snow streaked the red panels.
Nathan stopped beside the driver’s door and gestured for his grandfather to lower his window. It was grudgingly lowered. “Henry, you know the speed limit; you know how dangerous this road can be. Do you have a death wish to go along with the new car?”
“If I’m going to get the lecture every time I pull over to let you catch me, I’m not going to stop next time. Just write the ticket.”
Before I Wake Page 2