4 Shot Off The Presses

by Amanda M. Lee

  “Yeah,” Eliot said dejectedly. “I didn’t want to at first, but there was no way that guy could pass the psych profile without a little help.”

  “He was crazy?”

  “Crazy is a subjective word,” Eliot countered. “He was uneven. He was all over the place. He was blood thirsty, too. He wanted to go out on missions that he thought would have a high body count – and he didn’t care if kids were involved in that body count.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No,” Eliot said grimly. “He was a jackass.”

  “How long did you serve together?”

  “Only six months.”

  “And Jake was there, too?”

  “Yeah,” Eliot said. “In fact, Turner is the reason Jake and I don’t get along.”

  I didn’t like where this was going. I had to know, though. “What happened?”

  “I can’t give you the specifics,” Eliot warned. “I can tell you we had a mission to extract a high level Hamas operative from a small village. It was just supposed to be a snatch and grab.”

  I waited quietly, letting Eliot tell the story in his own time.

  “When we got to the village, it was really quiet,” Eliot continued. “We went to the house where we were told he would be and we entered. I went in the front with Turner and Jake went around the back with another guy from our team.”

  Eliot’s face looked pained.

  “Turner went in first. I didn’t even see what happened. I just heard him start firing. I raced in behind him, but it was already too late. There were two people in the room, and they were both dead.”

  “So you lost your Hamas contact,” I said.

  Eliot shook his head. “He wasn’t there. I don’t know if he was ever there. The only two people in the room were an elderly woman and a young girl, her granddaughter.”

  I covered my mouth in both horror and surprise. “Were they armed?”

  Eliot shook his head. “No.”

  “Why did he shoot them?”

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Jake raced in from the back and I had to stop Turner from shooting him,” Eliot said. “He was like a rabid dog. It was like he couldn’t differentiate between the enemy and anyone else.”

  “What happened?”

  “Jake was pissed, I mean really pissed,” Eliot said. “I didn’t blame him. I was pissed, too.”

  “He attacked him.” I didn’t know how I knew, I just knew.

  “You could say that,” Eliot said. “I just know that it took everything I had to wrestle Jake off of him. When it was over, Turner had a broken arm, a black eye and a bloody nose.”

  “Sounds like he had it coming.”

  “He did.”

  “So he was removed from Special Forces?”

  “Not exactly,” Eliot shook his head.

  “How could they keep him on?”

  “They weren’t going to do anything, at first,” Eliot said. “Jake made a formal complaint, though. I told him he was stupid to do it, which was a mistake on my part.”

  “Why did you tell him that?” I was honestly curious.

  “I was worried,” Eliot admitted. “Turner’s father had a lot of juice. I knew he did. I thought Jake was painting a target on his own back.”

  “So you didn’t file a complaint.”

  “No,” Eliot conceded. “In retrospect, I wish I did. I’ll never forget Turner looking at me, when it was all said and done, and telling me that what happened in the field stayed in the field. I wanted to punch him myself.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No, I didn’t. One of the great mistakes of a life that has had a lot of mistakes.”

  “And Jake thinks you betrayed him?”

  “He would be right,” Eliot said miserably.

  I was at a loss. Eliot looked so sad. I got to my feet and walked over to him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. “It was a long time ago. You shouldn’t beat yourself up over it.”

  “Those people were innocent.”

  “And Turner was the one that was guilty.”

  “Yeah,” Eliot agreed reluctantly, running his hand up and down my arm. “He was guilty.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Well, instead of getting brought up on war charges and being drummed out of the military Turner was transferred to a cushy office job overseas – complete with a raise.”

  “That’s unbelievable.”

  “It is what it is,” Eliot sighed.

  “That’s why Jake went to confront Turner,” I said thoughtfully. “He thought that Turner was bloodthirsty enough to shoot someone from a freeway bridge.”

  “He would be right,” Eliot agreed.

  “Do you think he did it?”

  Eliot looked genuinely torn. “I don’t know enough about the shooting to say either way.”

  “This sucks.”

  “It definitely sucks,” Eliot agreed.

  I tightened my arms around his neck. “Thank you for telling me.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I have no idea,” I admitted. “It’s not like I have a source in the military that can give me information without anyone knowing.”

  “And the information on Turner is going to be buried. Deep.”

  “I need to give it some thought,” I said finally. “If I wasn’t already suspicious of Turner, though, I would be now.”

  “Stay away from him,” Eliot warned. “He’ll have no problem going after you. And, given your ties to both Jake and me, he probably would enjoy it. I have a feeling you weren’t exactly respectful when he called you into his office.”

  “Why would you say that?” I asked with faux outrage.

  “I’ve met you.”

  “Oh, that.”

  I pressed a comforting kiss to Eliot’s temple and then pressed my forehead against his for a second. “We’ll figure this out.”

  “What?”

  “Getting Turner,” I said easily.

  “Getting him? You’re going to go after him?”

  “I’ll just add him to my list.”

  “That list is getting long,” Eliot said.

  “You have no idea.”

  Our close moment was interrupted when my cell phone beeped with an incoming text message. I sighed as I pulled away and fished my cell phone from my purse. I frowned when I read the text display.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s been another shooting.”

  “Where?”

  “The 12 Mile and I-94 overpass. Right by my house.”

  Eliot looked grim. “Let’s go.”

  Sixteen

  I let Eliot drive while I busily texted Fish during the ten-minute ride.

  “Take Gratiot down, not I-94,” I instructed him.

  “I’m not an idiot,” Eliot clenched his jaw.

  “I didn’t say you were,” I said irritably. “It’s just that you’re not used to driving to a crime scene.”

  “I’m a private investigator on the side,” Eliot reminded me.

  “You go to a lot of crime scenes in your capacity as a private investigator on the side?” He was starting to wear on me – or maybe it was just the situation. Either way, I was pretty much teetering on a precipice with the possibility of tumbling over into bitchy at any second.

  “More since I met you,” Eliot replied grimly. I had a feeling I was starting to irritate him, too, which was completely ridiculous.

  Once we got down to 12 Mile and Gratiot, Eliot glanced around. “Where do you want me to park?”

  “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “No, I really want to know where I should park.”

  “There should be some form of command center being set up,” I said, leaning forward to glance around the area. “Park in that liquor store’s parking lot.”

  “Is that because you feel like drinking?”

  “Maybe in a little bit,” I conceded. “You’re drivin
g me to it.”

  “Right back at you.”

  Eliot maneuvered into the parking lot and killed his engine. He turned to me expectantly. “Now what?”

  “Now? Now I wander over there to see if I can see down.”

  “Won’t that piss the cops off?”

  “It’s what I live for.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “You don’t have to come,” I reminded Eliot. “You can wait here.”

  “I’m coming.”

  I couldn’t figure out why Eliot was so adamant about the situation, but he clearly wasn’t going to give on this particular subject. I shrugged. I didn’t really care either way.

  Eliot followed me across the exit ramp from the freeway to 12 Mile, which had been shut down at the source by the sheriff’s department – with a little assist from the Michigan State Police, if I had to guess. I led Eliot to the sidewalk on top of the bridge. I could see a myriad of lights flashing below me, but I couldn’t quite make out what was happening down below because it was too dark.

  “You see anything?”

  “No, it’s too dark,” I grumbled. “I can see one of the photographer’s cars down there, though,” I pointed towards the median. “At least we’ll get some decent pictures.”

  “There’s two ambulances down there, too,” Eliot said. “It doesn’t look like they’re in any big hurry. Maybe no one was hurt.”

  “Or the victim is already dead.”

  “You’re a pessimist.”

  “I’m a realist.”

  “You dress up and play Star Wars games on your Kinect. That’s not a lifestyle based in realism.”

  “Why are you riding me?”

  Eliot looked surprised – and then chagrined – by the question. “Sorry. It’s just been a weird couple of hours.”

  “You don’t have to be here,” I reminded him.

  “I already told you I’m staying,” he snapped.

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  “Excuse me, the two of you are going to have to move along. This is a crime scene.”

  I swung around and frowned at the sheriff’s deputy standing in the empty exit ramp behind me. “We’re just looking.”

  “This is a crime scene,” the deputy repeated.

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Ma’am, you need to move along.”

  “We’re not hurting anyone,” I shot back.

  “I’ve been ordered to clear the scene.” The deputy was using what I’m sure he considered his sternest voice. I wasn’t impressed.

  “The scene is down there,” I pointed. “Go nuts.”

  “We’re searching the area up here, too.”

  “For what? Shell casings?”

  The deputy narrowed his eyes. “Why would you ask that question?”

  “Because I’m a reporter for The Monitor and this is the third serial shooting in the last few weeks,” I answered honestly.

  “They’re setting up a media area down in the parking lot at the corner of Gratiot and 12 Mile,” the deputy said briskly.

  “Great. I’ll alert the media.”

  The deputy took a step towards us but I noticed a figure move in behind him and stop him with a hand on his arm. Even though it was dark, I recognized the silhouette.

  “I’ll handle Ms. Shaw, Deputy Bryson,” Jake said calmly. “Why don’t you go and see if you can find any witnesses at the liquor store.”

  “Yes sir,” the deputy actually clapped the heels of his shoes together and then moved away – but not before he shot me an angry look.

  “Made a new friend I see,” Jake said dryly.

  “That’s a daily occurrence, what can I say?”

  Jake stepped forward, nodding at Eliot as he did. “Kane.”

  “Sheriff Farrell,” Eliot nodded back.

  “You’re now going out on stories with Avery?” There was a coldness to Jake’s voice.

  “We were together when she got the tip,” Eliot shrugged easily. “I figured she would be safer if I brought her.”

  “Safer from what?” Jake asked.

  “Herself,” Eliot responded.

  Jake smiled, despite the effort he was exerting to remain stone faced. “That’s probably a good idea.”

  “You know I can hear the two of you, right?”

  “Hear? Yes,” Jake said. “Listen? That’s a whole other thing.”

  “Who is the victim?” I decided to change the subject.

  “I’ll give you his name, but I don’t expect you to publish it for at least three hours,” Jake cautioned.

  “Agreed.”

  “His name is Lance Plimpton, standard spelling. He’s a 17-year-old senior from Roseville High School.”

  I gulped. “Is he dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it the same shooter?” It was a stupid question, but it had to be asked.

  “It’s the same caliber of bullet,” Jake sighed. “We won’t be able to confirm that for sure until tomorrow.”

  “It would be a heck of a coincidence to have another freeway shooter in this area,” Eliot mused.

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “Sometimes freeway shootings like this become a rash of crimes.”

  “Like one shooting inspires someone else to do the same thing?” Eliot asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you think that’s what happened here?” Eliot turned to Jake.

  “No,” Jake shook his head. “It doesn’t feel like that.”

  We all heard the staccato sound of a woman’s heels on a hard surface before we saw the figure moving from the neon lights of the liquor store parking lot to the muted dark of the highway overpass. I notice Jake stiffen when he realized who was coming.

  “Sheriff Farrell, I’ve been looking for you,” Christine Brady said as she stepped up on the sidewalk. “I thought you were going to keep me informed?”

  When Christine realized Jake wasn’t alone, she plastered a fake smile on her face. When she saw just whom he was talking to, that smile faded pretty quickly. “Ms. Shaw, why am I not surprised?”

  “Because if you actually changed your facial expression it would cause lines on your face and you would need Botox?” Seriously, I can’t explain why I do it either. It’s a sickness.

  Christine wrinkled her nose. “Sheriff Farrell, I thought everyone was on the same page about certain media representatives getting special treatment?” The woman’s tone was brittle.

  “He wasn’t giving me special treatment,” I shot back. “He was trying to clear me from the scene – and I was putting up a fight. I’m bitchy like that.”

  If Eliot was surprised by my lie, he didn’t show it. Instead, he nodded in agreement. “Sheriff Farrell just asked us to vacate the scene.”

  Jake cast a sidelong glance in Eliot’s direction. He seemed surprised at the backup. “I told them that we were creating a media hub down the street in the parking lot of the strip mall.”

  Christine glanced at all three of us dubiously. “Why don’t I believe you?”

  “Because then you wouldn’t be able to ask questions like that out loud in an attempt to make others think you have some keen insight into the human psyche,” I interjected. Yes, it’s a sickness, I tell you.

  “Perhaps you should make your way down to the media staging center,” Christine suggested coldly.

  I should have done what she told me to, but something stopped me. “You’re not a cop,” I reminded her.

  “So?”

  “You have no authority over me,” I added.

  “No, but Sheriff Farrell does.”

  Jake sighed. He was being pushed into a corner here. Eliot didn’t allow me to make that corner any tighter. “I’ll take her down there,” he said, gripping my elbow and pulling me back towards the liquor store.

  Christine focused on Eliot for the first time. “And you are?”

  “Eliot Kane,” he held out his hand in gre
eting, never removing his other hand from my elbow.

  Christine took it, never moving her eyes from Eliot’s handsome face. “And why are you here?”

  “I drove Avery,” Eliot replied easily.

  “Why?”

  “Because she was at my place when we got the news.” Eliot’s tone was affable and yet standoffish at the same time. It was quite a feat.

  “So, you’re involved with Ms. Shaw?” Christine pressed.

  “I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Eliot answered cooly.

  “I’m just curious about Ms. Shaw,” Christine said carefully. “She seems to have no limit of men willing to jump in and protect her.” With those words, Christine cast a knowing glance in Jake’s direction.

  To his credit, Eliot didn’t take the bait. “She’s does have a certain something about her. It’s like a weird mix of snark, humor and childishness.”

  “Hey!”

  “Don’t forget the hints of loyalty, the constant fashion fails and the never ending need to prove that she’s right,” Jake supplied.

  “That, too,” Eliot agreed.

  Christine looked irritated by the exchange more than anything else. “I guess you have to be a man to see these wonderful traits.”

  “I guess so,” Eliot agreed.

  Thankfully, for all four of us, a tow truck traveling down the exit ramp caught all of our attention. I felt Eliot stiffen beside me when the car that Lance Plimpton had been driving came into view.

  The front end was mangled from running into the base of the bridge after Plimpton had been shot. The windshield was intact, except for a round bullet hole about a foot up on the driver’s side. Even in the dark, I could see the dark stain on the gray fabric of the seat where Plimpton had been sitting.

  “I knew it,” Eliot swore furiously.

  Jake turned to him in surprise. “Knew what?”

  “That’s a black Ford Focus,” Eliot said.

  Jake’s face hardened. “You’re saying . . .”

  “What?” I was starting to get annoyed. The fact that Eliot had figured out something important that I had missed was both impressive and infuriating.

  “I knew the location wasn’t going to be coincidence,” Eliot said. “I just had a feeling.”

  “This is the exit she would use,” Jake nodded.

  “Who would use?” They were both bugging the shit out of me now.

  “You,” Eliot said simply.