by Susan Fox
“Looks like Richie’s out,” she said. There was no sign of the van she’d told him Richie Snyder drove: dingy white, lettered to advertise his business. That was a relief. It was Pete they had the evidence against, plus MacLean figured him for the weaker, and dumber, of the two brothers.
“Don’t count on it,” he warned her. They couldn’t afford to make assumptions. The van might be parked around back, or in the shop for repairs.
Cautiously they exited the cruiser, hands on their firearms. The dogs backed away, still snarling. Jake glanced at MacLean. “Here we go.”
She gave a quick nod and he saw the blaze of excitement and trepidation in her eyes. This was hardly a normal day for a small-town cop.
A man appeared on the sagging front porch, dressed in ragged jeans and a dingy undershirt. Jake recognized Pete Snyder. Didn’t look like he was carrying, but the jeans were baggy enough there might be a weapon in the pocket, or tucked in the waist at the back.
“What the fuck’s going on?” the man demanded as the two uniformed officers mounted the steps.
“Hey, Pete,” MacLean said. “Where’s your brother?”
“Richie’s repairing a roof over at the Youngs’ house. Fuck, man, what you want him for? He ain’t done nothin’ .”
While they spoke, Jake sized the guy up. Snyder was MacLean’s height, three or four inches shorter than Jake, slim but out of shape, with eyes that said he was stoned. He didn’t look like much of a threat, but there was always the possibility he had a weapon. He struck Jake as telling the truth, not because he was a naturally honest guy but because he had no reason to lie. That didn’t mean the house was empty, though.
“Mind if we come inside?” MacLean asked.
“Fuck, yeah, I mind.” The man propped fisted hands on his hips and glared at them. “You got a fucking warrant? What’s your beef with Richie?”
Jake would’ve liked a chance to search the house, verify that Pete was alone. He stood a few paces back from the other two, keeping an eye on them, the house, and the dogs, alert for any movement that might indicate someone else’s presence.
Snyder squinted at him. “Who the fuck’re you?” The guy sounded confused, like he really couldn’t believe there were two cops on his doorstep.
“Corporal Brannon.” In a level tone, he added, “Drug squad.”
The man blanched. “Where’s Miller?”
MacLean’s shoulders hunched as her muscles tensed.
Jake’s heart beat a little faster. It was circumstantial—it wasn’t even evidence—but it was the first thing they’d heard that linked Sergeant Miller to drug crimes.
“We’ll get around to that,” he told the man. “Let’s talk about you first.” He nodded to MacLean.
She began the spiel. “Peter Snyder, you are under arrest. . . .”
That was their plan. Arrest Snyder for trafficking, then offer him a deal if he set up his boss.
Jake let MacLean handle the arrest. Snyder didn’t ask for a lawyer. Instead he said, “You got it wrong. Talk to Miller, he’ll tell you.”
Jake exchanged a signal with MacLean and she stepped back to cover him as he moved into Snyder’s space. “Miller can’t help you this time,” Jake said. “We saw you selling drugs to three high school boys yesterday, out on Greenbrier Road. And we know about the grow op, and Jango and Herb. How many kilos of Bud come out of those trailers in a year?”
Pete’s jaw was hanging. “Shit, it was you that night.”
The guy really was an idiot. “At the grow op? Yeah, it was me. And I’ve got a bone to pick with the guy who shot me. Guy who drives a black truck, looks just like the one parked over there.” He crowded Pete, getting up close and personal in his face. “Figure you’re that guy.”
“No!” The smaller man backed away. “Richie, it was Richie. We were both out there but he was the guy who shot you.”
Jake could barely stifle a grin. Looked like this loser was going to make their case for them. “Guess you and your brother’ll be going to prison together then. Nice to have company. It’s not a friendly place.”
“Jesus, I don’t wanna go to prison.”
MacLean spoke up, playing her prearranged good-guy role. “Pete, you’ve screwed up this time. It’s gonna be hard avoiding doing time. But I know you’re not a bad guy. Richie either. I mean, it’s just a few drugs, right? Everybody does drugs.”
“Trafficking’s illegal,” Jake snapped. “They should get the max.”
“Oh come on, Brannon,” she said. “Don’t be such a tough big-city cop. Don’t you think it’s unfair how it’s always the little guys like Pete and Richie who end up in jail? While their boss is sitting in the bar, merrily belting back Caribou Crossing whisky?”
Jake took a deep breath and played his next card, praying he was on the right track. “I’ll lock up Miller if you get me the evidence.”
“Miller!” Snyder’s eyes widened. “You mean you know about—” He broke off abruptly.
Triumph sent adrenaline flooding through Jake’s veins but he didn’t let on. Just said, “Yeah, we’re on to him but we don’t have the evidence. So we’ll have to lock up the small fry like you and your brother. We’ll be asking for the max, to discourage anyone else from working with Miller.”
“Hell, Miller’s the one who got us into this! He should do the time.”
Jake saw MacLean glance his way and knew she wanted to flash a victorious grin. But she hardened her expression and focused on Snyder. “Then let’s make sure he does. Help us take him down, Pete. Things’ll go easier for you if you do.”
“A deal? You’ll cut me a deal? I can get off without going to jail?”
“Depends on what you give us,” she said. “The more you help, the better the deal.”
Two hours later, Jake and MacLean were out at the grow op. The RCMP cruiser and Jake’s car were parked back in the trees with the hippies Herb and Jango cuffed in the backseat of the cruiser. A few migrant workers were cuffed together in the locked bunkhouse.
After scouting the site, Jake had decided he and MacLean would hide in one of the trailers and have Pete Snyder, out on the steps, lure Miller into a conversation.
Jake wrinkled his nose against the pungent scent of cannabis plants in flower and drummed his fingers nervously on a workbench. Under his breath, he said to MacLean, “Snyder’s stupidity worked for us in the beginning, but I don’t know if he’s got the wits to carry this off.”
She glanced toward the open door, where Snyder sat on the step, one leg jiggling at high speed. “Know what you mean. And if he fails, then Miller’s been alerted. He might even try to kill Pete.”
“That’s not so bad. Then we’ve got Miller for attempted murder. Of course we’d intervene and stop him.”
She held up a hand. “I hear a car!”
Snyder heard it too. He stood up. “It’s him.”
“Okay,” Jake said from behind him. “You know what to do. Get him into the trailer and get him talking.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t search the trailer,” MacLean whispered to Jake.
“He’s confident. He’s never had any reason to be otherwise. He won’t suspect it’s a setup.” Jake hoped he was right. He gave MacLean’s shoulder a reassuring pat; then they each faded into the hiding spots they’d picked, her squeezing into a cupboard and Jake cramming himself under a workbench in a dark corner. He pulled his Beretta.
“Pete? What the hell did you bring me out here for?” Miller said, his voice coming through loud and clear as he shouted at Snyder.
“Come into the trailer. I don’ want Jango and Herb to hear.”
“Where are they?”
“Workin’ in the other trailer.” So far Snyder was sticking to the script.
The trailer shook as the hefty Miller negotiated the steps. “I’m losing patience, Snyder.”
Footsteps sounded inside the trailer, and the door closed.
“Okay, here’s the thing. I want out. It’s gettin’ too fucking dan
gerous.” Snyder’s voice sounded high and shaky, but Miller would see that as natural under the circumstances. “You know someone broke into the grow op. They’re on to us.”
Jake’s position was such that he couldn’t see either man, and, hopefully, they couldn’t see him. Footsteps paced, and from their heaviness Jake identified them as Miller’s.
“You and your brother must have been imagining things,” Miller said. “You say you shot some intruder, but no one’s seen hide nor hair of the guy.”
“Someone opened that squeaky door on the other trailer.”
“It was the wind.”
“No fucking way. It was some guy, some dude who escaped on a bike. He might’ve been a fucking cop.”
“I’m the cops around here.”
“W-word is, you’ve been doin’ too much talking.”
“What the hell?” Miller sounded astonished. “Talking to who? About what?”
Jake tightened his grip on the Beretta. Could Snyder pull this off? He’d already given them enough to connect Miller to the grow op, but Jake really wanted the man for Anika’s murder.
“Got a call from a Death Row d-dude in Vancouver. Asked what the hell was goin’ on with our operation. Said you were a . . . uh, what was that fucking word?”
Jake held his breath, then let it out again when Snyder continued. “Weak link, that’s what he said. You’d been talkin’ to some fucking whore, givin’ stuff away about our operation.” Snyder was talking faster now, too fast, hurrying to get through his lines.
Miller laughed. “Hell, is that all? I took care of that little problem.”
“Huh? How’d you do that?”
There was a pause and then Miller said, “Like this.”
“Christ, Henry, that’s a knife!”
Snyder sounded scared out of his wits and every muscle in Jake’s body tensed. He made a “stay back” gesture in MacLean’s direction, hoping she could see his hand and would hold on for just another few seconds.
“Damn right it’s a knife. It’s got that girl’s blood on it and it’ll have yours too if you don’t pull yourself together. Weak link? Hell, you’re the weak link.”
Go! With his hand Jake telegraphed the message.
Before he’d finished, the cupboard door slammed open and Karen sprang out, Smith & Wesson drawn. “Henry Miller!” she called.
Jake eased out from under the bench, prepared to provide cover and backup, to deal with anything unexpected.
Now, for the first time, he could see what was going on. Snyder was backing his way toward the closed door, one hand behind him as he fumbled for the knob. Even if he escaped, Jake knew the idiot wouldn’t get far on foot. He focused his attention on Miller. The fat man had frozen, knife raised, gaping at Corporal MacLean.
“Drop the weapon!” she ordered.
“MacLean? What the hell are you thinking?” the man blustered.
“You’re under arrest for the murder of Anika Janssen.”
Miller’s mouth fell open. He dropped the knife and fumbled for the firearm at his belt, clearly not believing his corporal would shoot him.
“Hands in the air!” Jake bellowed at exactly the same time MacLean shouted the words.
Miller swung toward Jake, his hand still at his belt, his eyes wide with shock. He made no move to draw his weapon, but nor did he put his hands in the air.
While MacLean trained her firearm on the sergeant, Jake approached the man and relieved him of his gun, baton, and pepper spray. He pocketed the knife and searched Miller, wishing like hell he could rough the guy up a little. Prison was too good for this asshole.
After retrieving a .22 from Miller’s pants pocket, he faced the man.
Miller still looked utterly stunned. “Pitt?” he croaked.
“Corporal Jake Brannon, out of Vancouver.” With a feeling of deep satisfaction, he went on, “Corporal MacLean’s going to finish reading the charges and give you the proper warning. We want to do everything by the book, don’t we?”
He turned to MacLean and saw her triumphant smile as she stepped forward.
Brooke had been useless all day. She’d even put burgundy highlights rather than sienna in Kim Tam’s black hair. Kim had been great about it, saying she loved the new look, but Brooke was annoyed at herself.
She was furious with Jake too. How dare he invade her Caribou Crossing life, make her care for him, then go out there and risk his scarred hide.
She kept imagining what might be going on. A shoot-out? Sergeant Miller was a murderer, and a highly trained cop. He wouldn’t surrender easily.
In a break between clients, she called Dr. Allenby and made an appointment for later in the day so she could ask about getting her meds adjusted.
Each time a phone rang, each time the door opened, her heart leaped in fear.
When, finally, her cell rang, she croaked, “Hello?”
“It’s me. It went fine.”
The voice was Jake’s and it was not only healthy, it was victorious.
“F-fine?” Her lips could barely form the word and she realized tears were pouring down her face.
“Pete Snyder came through. MacLean and I both heard Miller admit not only to the grow op but also to Anika’s murder. He, both the Snyders, and the workers at the grow op are in custody.”
“And you’re okay?”
“Okay? Oh sure, MacLean and I are both fine. It ended up being really tame.”
Tame. He sounded almost disappointed. And she’d been in agony all day. Fury boiled in her chest.
“Brooke? I could be quite late tonight.”
“I’ll see you when I see you,” she said, trying to hold her voice steady. Then she slammed down the phone and hurried toward the ladies’room, ignoring Kate’s worried call. If she’d been a guy—a guy like Jake—she’d have slammed her fist through the wall. How could he do this to her?
She turned to the mirror and saw her drawn, tear-stained face. Automatically she ran cold water.
Jake hadn’t done it to her. He’d done his job, that was all. She’d done this to herself, by letting herself care about him.
Care? Damn him. She loved the rotten jerk.
Thank God he was leaving. She couldn’t go through another day like this. She knew she wasn’t ready for love and she knew she and Jake were all wrong for each other, so how could she have been such a fool?
“Brooke?” Kate tapped on the closed door. “Are you all right? What happened?”
“I’m okay. Out in a minute.”
She would never cry for Jake Brannon again. Well, she might cry when he left, because she’d miss him, but she would never again imagine him on the job and cry out of worry for him.
Brooke splashed cold water on her face, then blotted her skin on a soft, disposable towel. She smoothed on a soothing, cooling aloe vera lotion, then opened the door and went over to Kate, who was nearby, fussing with the coffee machine.
“I’m all right,” she told her. “As for what happened . . . I can’t tell you yet because it’s, uh, a police matter, actually. I’m sure it will be made public soon.” She thought about the town learning the truth about nasty Sergeant Miller, and found a smile. “I can promise you, the next couple of days are going to be very interesting.”
Then she headed for the phone and cancelled her appointment with Dr. Allenby. It wasn’t her bipolar causing her highs and lows; it was Jake. Once he left town and she got her life back on an even keel, she’d be just fine.
Brooke had no appetite for dinner but forced herself to eat a cheese sandwich, some celery sticks, and an apple. Then she went to her regular Tuesday A.A. meeting. Last week when she’d gone, a bandaged Jake had lain on her couch. She couldn’t believe how much had happened in a week—and she really couldn’t say anything to the folks at A.A. until the arrests became public knowledge. Still, the routine and the familiar faces calmed her. A little.
Home again, she tried to read but had trouble concentrating. She wanted to see Jake more than anything on ear
th, but she also wished he had already left town and she could get on with life without him.
When she heard a car drive up around eleven, she closed her book but remained in her chair.
Jake opened the front door and walked in.
“Congratulations,” she said. Then the reserve she’d been cultivating shattered and she sprang out of the chair and rushed to embrace him. “I’m so glad you’re okay. And Karen too. It’s so great you got Miller’s confession.”
He hugged her tight. Very tight, almost as if he’d never let go. But she knew it was a celebratory hug more than anything else. In her small way, she’d been part of his team.
She pulled back. “Are you hungry? Do you want a beer?”
“We got pizza at the station. But a beer would be good. I’ll get it.”
When he returned, she led him to the couch. “Tell me all about it.” She’d thought long and hard about whether she wanted to know the details but had decided she had to. The truth could never be as bad as the things she’d imagined.
Jake told the story methodically, almost like an officer filing a report, and her anxiety level eased.
When he finished, she said, “You must be so pleased. I bet you can’t wait to tell the Janssens.” She touched his arm, not knowing what to wish for. “When are you going back to Vancouver?”
“Day after tomorrow.” He took a long swallow of beer. “There’s going to be a huge investigation. Of the grow op, the Caribou Crossing RCMP detachment, Death Row. Can’t have the local cops run it, except for MacLean, who’s undoubtedly clean. A team’s already on its way. Including Jamal. He and MacLean and I will meet with the inspector who’s coordinating the investigation; then Jamal and I are done with it and back to our regular jobs.”
So they had the rest of tonight, plus one more night. Would he be working late tomorrow as well?
Did she want to spend more time alone with him? The more intimate they were, the more she’d care and the more it would hurt when he left. An idea came to her. “We should have a celebration. Especially if Jamal’s in town.”