Sadie pressed, “Never in your desk?”
Brad slammed his palms on the steering wheel. “No. Sadie, let this go.”
“A little late to turn yourself in. Griffin is still pissed he let you walk away.”
“He’ll get over that,” Brad said.
“You hope.”
Brad leaned into the steering wheel. “I take the heroin and make the trade. Heroin and me, for Michael.”
“Are you serious?” Sadie gasped. “He’ll kill you and Michael and have four kilos of heroin. That’s your plan.”
“If I deliver the drugs, then I’ll always know where they are. I can rescue Michael and arrest the sick bastard.”
“The killer or killers will take the drugs, kill you, and then kill Michael. That’s a stupid plan.”
“It’s the one I’m working on. I have no intention of getting killed.”
“It won’t be as simple as setting the heroin on a park bench, and when they grab it, you make the arrest. Whoever has Michael will make you run around the city until they know you’re alone, then they’ll still have Michael, but also have you and the drugs.”
“I won’t be alone. I’ll have TSU close by.”
“Oh, brilliant plan. Bet the kidnapper never figured you’d get your buddies to back you up.”
“I’m counting on it.”
Sadie snorted. “You have no idea what you’ll be walking into. Maybe one guy, maybe five or ten. Archer confiscated your guns.”
“They took the ones they knew about. The present from Annie for Sissy was two guns and ammunition. I’m using my older TSU Hi-Power and a CZ75, I uh, had as a spare.”
Sadie rolled her eyes. “The kidnappers search you and take your guns. Then a strip search, beat the shit out of you, then kill you. They’ll have the heroin and Michael is no longer needed. He dies. They never find your bodies. But we know they got the heroin because we see more overdoses and additional heroin deaths.” She rubbed her eye and rested her head against the window. “Did I miss anything?”
Brad cocked his head to the side. “That covers it. Except in my version I come out with Michael and the heroin, and the killer is dead.”
“You live in a dream world. Or have a death wish.”
Brad dropped Sadie back at the TV station and swung out onto Banff Coach Road, heading east. He’d been frustrated with Sadie’s questions about his gun. It was a part of him. He’d be lost without it. In fact, when he went out without the gun, he felt a part of him was missing. He couldn’t think of a time he’d ever forgotten his gun for work, or any moment when he realized he’d set it down. It wasn’t like a wallet or car keys. He always knew where his gun was.
Sadie was right, though. Ballistics on his gun was enough to convict him. Twenty-five to life for the pimp and his bodyguard, the three asshats at the tattoo parlor, and who knew how many more murders they’d attribute to him.
He followed Bow Trail past Shaganappi Golf Course toward downtown. The kidnapping didn’t fit into the other crimes—all murders, though Vinnie Bevan was barely hanging on. Was he wrong? Was this simply a crime wave? Unrelated crimes, murders and an abduction. Was he creating conspiracy theories where there weren’t any? Nope. Most of the crimes were linked to him. No one else.
The evidence pointed to him. Sure, some of it was circumstantial—except for his gun. Last year he had the new Hi-Power fine-tuned to his specifications by a gunsmith. He’d also had the barrel replaced since he’d fired thousands of rounds through the original barrel. That was the one time it had been out of his control.
He still spent a lot of time at the range and fired thousands of rounds each year. An hour at the range would be soothing. At the range—
His head jerked to his rearview mirror as a siren sounded. An unmarked police vehicle had pulled in behind him. Shit. Traffic cop. Brad’s initial reaction was to hit the gas and flee. That might work in his Trans Am. Not a chance in the truck. He pounded his palms on the steering wheel and pulled to the curb. He rolled down his window and waited. Eyes ahead, he hoped it was merely a traffic violation for the expired plates. However, once he gave his driver’s license, backup would be called. He’d be surrounded and arrested. He was sitting in his truck in his last few moments of freedom.
The crunch of boots in the snow approached his door. Brad glanced over his shoulder. His eyes widened. He knew who the killer was.
Sadie shook the snow off her red parka and stomped her feet. Her toes were frozen. Was it too much to ask that the truck had heat? The world appeared upside down. A decent cop was being hunted for murders she didn’t believe he committed. She had the inside scoop on the story of the decade, and she didn’t report it. She glanced out the door at the retreating truck. One man against the world. Then a dark van passed in front of the entrance doors and followed Brad out of the TV station’s exit. Oh, shit.
It wasn’t a marked police van, but something about it shouted cops. Had the cops figured out about her and Brad? Was it the Internal Affairs detectives?
Brad always said there was no such thing as coincidences. She had no way to contact him. Even if she could, it would be too late. There was one chance. She raced down the hall to her office.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Finally, Dice’s patience paid off. Sadie Andrus sprinted out of the TV station and into an old truck. The vehicle pulled away from the curb.
Dice let the truck get several blocks ahead and then followed. Instead of heading into downtown, the truck veered right, out of the city. Ms. Andrus, where are you going?
During surveillance the past two days, Dice hadn’t seen Andrus with the truck. Surveillance had been brief, but Dice discovered nothing about Andrus having a boyfriend. She was separated from her husband and according to court documents Dice acquired, it would be a long and nasty process. That’s what happens when physical abuse is an issue.
Outside the city it was a challenge to keep distance while also keeping the truck in sight. Dice grinned, thinking about the mayor’s nephew and his suffering. For hours, his own heroin had been administered, then reversed. The highs and lows had him screaming, begging for the drugs to stop. Now he knew the pain his smuggling activities had subjected hundreds of addicts to. Eventually an overdose would be given. But not before he lived through hell, over and over.
The brake lights of the truck interrupted Dice’s thoughts. Damn. Daydreaming had gotten Dice too close. The only hope was to pull off the road. Damn. Damn.
Dice quickly pulled onto a farm lane, swung around in the farmyard, and slowly headed back to the road. There was no sign of the truck. Decision time. Head west on the highway or head back to the TV studio.
Out of town made no sense. Andrus might meet with someone with a new tip, or a boyfriend for some afternoon delight. No matter, she’d have to be back at the studio for her broadcasts. Shit. Dice swung onto the highway and headed back to the TV station.
Twenty minutes later, the truck drove up to the main doors of the TV station. Andrus jumped out, then leaned back into the truck.
Goodbye smooch? Last words? Then she shut the door and jogged to the main doors.
The truck pulled away, sliding on the ice. The driver expertly steered through the fishtail and drove past.
“Coulter.”
Sometimes all the planning in the world wasn’t enough. Other times, luck was all you needed.
Toscana spotted the old truck driving along the Shaganappi Golf Course. Deep snow covered the fairways and greens. As she got close, she noticed the license plate tag was expired by two years.
She swung in behind the truck and hit the lights.
The truck’s brake lights flashed once. The truck sped up, then slowed and pulled to the curb.
Toscana stopped behind the truck and exited her vehicle. With one hand on her gun, the other holding the long black tube at her left side, she approached the truck. The driver’s window was down, and the driver sat motionless with his hands on the steering wheel.
Tosca
na stood at the driver’s shoulder and leaned forward. “Good afternoon, Detective.”
Coulter’s head swung toward the window, eyes wide. “Toscana?”
“You look like shit. Talking again when you should have been listening?”
“Something like that.”
“The entire city is searching for you.”
“How did you find me?”
Toscana grinned. “Wild guess and a lot of luck. I knew your friends were being watched closely, yet you still evaded capture. Someone had to be helping you. Then I remembered a while ago some of my cops talked about you and the TV reporter, Sadie Andrus, and something about you two having breakfast. I took a chance and staked out the TV station.”
“What happens now?”
Toscana watched Brads eyes as they flicked from side to side. He was evaluating options just like she knew he would.
“We’re having a friendly chat while you wait for backup to arrive?””
Toscana saw Brad’s left-hand slide toward his gun.
“Nope. No backup.” Toscana jabbed the cattle prod into Brad’s chest.
There was pleasure on the verge of euphoria as she heard sparking and watched incredible pain rip through Coulter’s body as his muscles contracted and threatened to snap. His breath came in gasps, but he was unable to scream. His eyes widened as the pain increased, then he collapsed onto the steering wheel.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Steele and Zerr were parked off Eleventh Street, southwest by the Planetarium. Snow fell gently, and the wipers cleared the window every ten seconds. The clouds were low and gray. The weather matched their moods—dismal. No new leads. Archer still hadn’t included TSU in his rescue plans for Kearse’s nephew. They were in the dark.
“I hate sitting here doing sweet F-all.” Steele stared out the window and chewed a nail.
Zerr spit sunflower seeds out his window.
“It’s minus ten Fahrenheit and you have the window open.”
Zerr shrugged. “I can spit the shells on the floor if you’d like.”
“I’d prefer you not chew sunflower seeds.”
“They’re healthy for you.”
Steele glared. “You use more energy eating than any nutrition you get.”
Zerr spit out a wad of shells. “You’re whiny.”
Steele rolled his eyes. “Give me a handful.”
They cracked seeds and stared at the falling snow. Their pagers buzzed one after the other. They read the message, then their heads swung toward each other. “Call Sadie Andrus. ASAP or sooner.”
They jumped out of the Suburban and sprinted into the Planetarium. As they approached the reception desk, Steele said, “We need to use your phone. Police emergency.”
The receptionist placed the phone on the counter. Steele grabbed it and dialed. He heard ringing.
“Sadie Andrus.”
“It’s Steele.”
Zerr pushed his head next to Steele’s “It may be nothing, but Brad picked me up at the station.”
“What? Why?”
“No time for that now. When he dropped me off, a van followed him.”
“Where was he going?” Steele asked.
“I don’t know. But he headed toward downtown.”
“What’s he driving?”
“His old farm truck. Has he been arrested?”
“We’ve heard nothing on the radio,” Steele said. “No one has said they pulled Brad over or called for backup. They’d be crazy to arrest Brad alone.”
“Maybe it’s nothing,” Sadie said.
“No, go with your gut,” Steele replied. “We’re not far away. We’ll head in your direction, then double back. I’ll call you if we find anything.”
They raced back to the Suburban and swung onto Sixth Avenue, then onto Bow Trail. Zerr sped up the hill.
“You in a hurry?” Steele asked.
“Time is important,” Zerr replied.
“But we don’t know where we’re going.”
Zerr grinned. “But we’re making great time.”
Steele glared at Zerr. “Glad you feel you’re being useful.” Then Steele’s eyes widened as he stared past Zerr. “There. There.”
Zerr followed Steele’s gaze. “Holy shit.” He swerved into the left lane, spun a U-turn at the next intersection, and raced back toward downtown. He slid the Suburban to a stop behind a truck. They jumped out, guns drawn, and headed up the sides of the vehicle.
Steele peered into the passenger’s seat, then across to Zerr.
“Shit.” The truck was empty.
“You sure this is Brad’s truck?” Zerr asked.
“Oh, yeah.” Steele tried the door. It opened. The passenger’s side floor mat was littered with empty coffee cups and fast-food wrappers. “At least his diet hasn’t changed.” He sifted through the garbage.
Zerr held up a thin folder. “Registration and insurance. Both expired.
“Where was that?” Steele asked.
“Driver’s floorboard.”
Steele frowned. “That makes little sense.”
Zerr shrugged. “It’s not like Brad’s had this truck detailed—ever.”
“True.”
Zerr unfolded a small piece of paper that was loose in the insurance folder. “This is interesting.”
Steele raised his head from the pile of garbage. “What?”
Zerr passed it over. Steele glanced at it. One word was scrawled on the paper.
“Toscana.”
Briscoe parked his van behind the Suburban and headed to Steele and Zerr. As he hiked, he zipped his issue parka, slipped on gloves, and placed his fake fur hat on his head.
“Well?” Steele asked.
“Toscana is supposed to be off duty,” Briscoe said. “But she signed out a van this morning.”
“Does she have court?” Steele asked.
Briscoe shook his head. “Nope. She said nothing to anyone about why she needed the van.”
“So, what’s she up to?” Zerr asked.
There was silence as the three men shivered in the cold. Snow stuck to their clothing.
Briscoe stared at the darkening downtown skyline shrouded in low clouds. Fingers of exhaust reached to the sky from every building. “Did you two know Brad was using the truck?”
They shook their heads. “I didn’t even think of it,” Steele said. “He just uses it around the farm. Maybe an occasional trip to the dump.”
“In an unregistered, uninsured vehicle?” Briscoe asked.
“He’s a rebel, for sure,” Steele said. “Probably get life for that.”
“Smartass,” Briscoe said.
“Maybe it was a traffic stop,” Zerr said. “Some cop spotted the expired plate.”
“I checked as soon as you called me,” Briscoe said. “Communications says the plate wasn’t checked through the computer. Coulter’s name wasn’t checked either.”
“What about an alias?” Zerr asked.
“Are you serious?” Steele asked.
Zerr shrugged. “Why not? Maybe he made up one.”
“Why would he do that?” Steele glared at Zerr.
“He might, if he were guilty,” Briscoe said.
“That’s bullshit,” Steele spat. “I won’t listen to that kind of talk. It’s not helping us at all.”
Briscoe held up his hands. “Don’t snap at me. You need to accept that there may be things we don’t know about Brad. If he wasn’t a friend, we’d all believe he was guilty and hunt him to the ends of the earth. He’s a friend, but he still might have committed the murders.”
Steele threw his hands in the air. “Fuckin’ great. Now Griffin has you thinking Brad is guilty. I’m sorry I called you.” Steele stalked away to the shoulder of the roadway.
“I hit a touchy spot,” Briscoe said.
“You just said out loud what we’re all trying hard not to think,” Zerr said. “You don’t think Brad is guilty, do you?”
Briscoe dusted the snow off his parka.
Cha
pter Sixty-Six
Sturgeon swung the door open and stepped into the gun lab. The familiar odor of gunpowder and lead hung heavy in the air all the time. But he detected the odor of fresh gunshots. Gayle and Angie stood beside a long wooden table with stripped guns on top. A long fluorescent table light shone onto the guns. Analysis reports were taped to the wall.
Gayle grabbed Sturgeon’s arm and pulled him to the table. “We’ve got it figured out.”
“Great. Show me what you have.”
“We took the pistol apart and examined each piece,” Gayle said. “Hard to say when the gun was last fired, but it had been cleaned. Most of the gun was spotless.”
“Most of the gun?” Sturgeon asked.
“Yes.” Gayle picked up a black tube. “Except for the barrel.”
“What?” Sturgeon took the barrel and peered down its length. “The barrel wasn’t clean?”
“Sure, it was clean.” Gayle pointed to a row of plastic containers. “We analyzed what cleaning solution had been used on each component.”
“The department doesn’t issue cleaning solutions,” Sturgeon said. “Every cop buys their own.”
Angie picked up two plastic bottles. “True, but would a cop clean all parts of the gun with one solution, and the barrel with another?”
“That would be unusual, to say the least.” Sturgeon’s eyes grew wide. “Two cleaning solutions for the same gun?”
“Exactly.” Gayle nodded enthusiastically. “And there’s one interesting thing.”
Angie slid an analysis over to Sturgeon. “The barrel was not as clean as the rest of the gun.”
“My guess is the barrel would be the cleanest,” Sturgeon said. “It’s the easiest part of a pistol to clean.”
“Exactly.” Gayle picked up a different gun. “So, we checked Coulter’s backup gun.”
Sturgeon’s eyebrows rose. “And you found?”
Gayle grinned. “The CZ was cleaned with the same cleaning solution as Coulter’s pistol.”
“Except his barrel,” Sturgeon finished.
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