by Diane Kelly
It had all been a mistake. A horrible, stupid mistake.
And now all three of them would have to face the music.
Or would they?
Chapter Twenty-Five
A Brush with Death
Megan
The blue brush swung down from the ceiling, the bristles whipping against me, threatening to rip my skin from my body. I’d thought I’d be able to sneak along the wall, but the margin was much smaller than I’d anticipated, only six inches or so. There’d been no way to avoid the deluge of bubble-gum scented foam that nearly blinded me, the long hanging cloths that bitch-slapped me from both the left and right, and the high-pressure undercarriage spray that blasted me from below, going right up my nose.
Dear God, this was a stupid idea! Brigit had been right to refuse to come into the car wash.
What did it say that my K-9 partner was smarter than me?
Kadunk. Thirty feet into the bay the twirling sprayers dropped down in front of me, spinning like the blades of an airplane propeller. No way could I make it safely past them. I had to turn around or risk a concussion.
Arghhhh!
I emerged, drenched and humiliated, but still undeterred. I untied Brigit, ordered her to stay by my side, and stepped to the corner of the building where I could keep an eye on the entrance yet watch for action at the exit, also. A hundred and twenty feet away, Derek crouched next to the building, his gun held at his shoulder.
As I watched, a freshly cleaned forest green pickup pulled out of the exit, gleaming in the sun, leaving a wet trail as the remaining water dripped from it. The black man at the wheel cast a glance my way as he drove past. He had no idea how close he’d come to Fort Worth’s three most wanted.
Derek stood and gestured frantically. “Get down here, Luz!” he shouted. “The Accord’s coming out!”
I ran as fast as I could to the exit, leaving my own wet trail, Brigit galloping along beside me. I reached the exit to find Derek staring slack-jawed at an empty white Accord that had rolled off the conveyer. The car remained in neutral and the engine was still running, the keys in the ignition.
“What the hell?” Derek growled. “Where are they?”
“Help! Help me!” came a voice from the car’s closed trunk, the desperate cry followed by a bang-bang-bang as the hostage pounded on the inside.
I ordered Brigit to stay where she was. Running around to the driver’s side, I hopped inside and steered the car to a stop where it wouldn’t be hit by the Cadillac now emerging from the bay. I turned off the engine, yanked the keys from the ignition, and leapt from the car, running around to the back and pushing the trunk release button on the key chain.
Pop!
The trunk flew open to reveal a middle-age man as wet and soapy as me.
“Three men came at me in the car wash!” he bellowed, his eyes wide. “They had a rifle and forced me out of my truck!”
Truck?
Holy hell! The guy who’d just driven the pickup past us must have been one of the robbers. The other two had probably hunkered down on the seat and floorboards or laid low in the bed, out of sight. I mentally chastised myself for not having the foresight to check the truck before allowing it to depart the premises.
You screwed up, Megan.
The guys we were after were either incredibly clever or incredibly lucky. I wasn’t sure which. But either way it looked like I wouldn’t be taking them in, after all. Everything in me told me go home, clean up, and meet Seth for that margarita. But, no. My dogged determination refused to let me turn the case over to the evening shift. Besides, I had some leads to follow up on.
We obtained the truck’s license plate from the man and I had dispatch issue an all-points bulletin.
Derek shoved his gun back into its holster. “I’m done running in circles after these assholes. They’ve probably ditched the truck already. I’m going home.” As he opened the door of his patrol car, he cut a glance my way and paused. “Why are you wet and soapy? You didn’t do something dumb like go into the car wash on foot, did ya?” He issued a nasty cackle and had his phone out before it could register with me. Click.
Great. Derek was sure to share the embarrassing photo with everyone on the force. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how ridiculous and inept I felt.
“I do whatever it takes to get the job done,” I spat back at him. “I’m a dedicated cop.”
He snorted. “You’re an idiot is what you are.”
I looked down at Brigit. Her expression said, Sorry, partner. I’m with Derek on this one.
After Derek left, I turned back to the man who owned the truck. “The men who stole your car robbed a bank and a convenience store earlier today. Started a couple of fires, too.”
His brows shot up. “Really?”
“Mm-hm. Stole three cars, too, including yours.”
“My truck’s got OnStar,” he said. “Should I call them?”
Hell, yeah! “Right away,” I said. “See if they can g-get a location and slow it down.”
He nodded and pulled out his cell.
As he contacted OnStar, I radioed for a crime scene tech to come to the car wash and check the Accord for possible prints. Any on the outside had likely been eliminated by the brushes and bubble-gum spray, but it was possible one of the men had left a print inside.
Brigit and I returned to our cruiser. I moved it from where it blocked the entrance to the car wash and took a parking spot along the side of the building before placing a call to the pregnant woman and her husband. “We found your car,” I told them. “It’s intact. Baby seat’s still in it, too. Believe it or not, the car-jackers even washed it for you.” Of course the inside was a little wet, too, but it would dry out eventually.
“Thank goodness!” the husband said, his wife hoo-hoo-hah-hahing in the background. “I’ll send my in-laws over to pick it up.”
I told them I’d leave the keys with the attendant, whom I’d spotted returning with a bag from the taco place next door. “The crime scene tech will want to check the vehicle for prints before it’s released, but that shouldn’t take long.”
I went to the office, explained the situation to the car wash attendant, and handed him the keys. The stolen Accord dealt with and the truck owner still on his phone with OnStar, I used my radio to check in with the officer handling the accident the robbers had caused on their way to the car wash. “Any injuries?”
“Nothing serious,” he reported. “Only a few cuts and scrapes.”
“Good to hear.”
Again, the bad guys had gotten lucky. If anyone had been killed, they could have found themselves facing charges for criminally negligent homicide.
The loose ends now tied up, I logged onto my laptop to follow up on my theory that Christopher Vogel and Lewis Blakemore might somehow have a connection via trains. I typed in their names and the word train.
Bingo.
A site popped up for the Tarrant County Model Train Association. Vogel was noted on the site for his recent award, while Lewis Blakemore’s name appeared among current board members.
I whipped out my cell phone and dialed Detective Jackson.
She answered on the second ring. “Hello, Meg—”
“I figured out who robbed the bank and stole the bus!” Well, I’d figured out who two of the three men were, anyway. With a little more time and digging, I could probably discern the identity of the third member of their criminal enterprise.
After I’d told her what I’d found out and where I’d found the information, she pulled up the same website on her computer to take a look. “Good work, Megan. I’ll send teams to keep an eye on Vogel and Blakemore’s houses in case they return home.”
The wet man who owned the pickup stepped up to my cruiser and waved a hand.
“Hold on a second,” I told the detective. “The owner of the pickup may have some information from OnStar.”
I unrolled my window.
“The guy at OnStar says my truck i
s heading south on McCart. It’s just north of Berry Street right now.”
I relayed the info to Detective Jackson.
“Gotta love technology,” she said. “I’ll radio dispatch and get cars there pronto.”
With that, we ended the call.
I started my cruiser. “We’re going after them,” I told the truck’s owner. “Tell OnStar to slow the car. I’ll be back in touch.”
With tires squealing, siren wailing, and lights flashing, I pulled out of the car wash. Chances were another unit would reach the pickup before me, but if nothing else I wanted to witness the guys being cuffed and hauled away. I’d busted my butt on this case all day. I deserved some closure, the satisfaction of seeing my work pay off with a bust. If nothing else, I’d like to blow the men a big old in-your-face raspberry. Pfffft. Maybe I’d perform a little victory dance, too, force them to watch.
At the Collinsworth and University intersection, I cut my siren momentarily and eased past the evening shift officer directing traffic and a tow truck operator using his winch to pull the crushed Avenger up onto the truck’s platform.
As I turned onto University once again, my radio came to life. “Units in hot pursuit of bank robbery and car thief suspects,” the dispatcher said. “Pickup now heading north on University Drive.”
North on University?
The bad guys are coming back this way!
Blood racing through my veins, I turned my siren back on, drove halfway across the bridge, and pulled onto the median to await my quarry.
There they are!
The pickup raced toward me, two cruisers on its tail. Evidently OnStar hadn’t yet activated the slowdown feature. I floored my gas pedal and pulled into the oncoming lanes at an angle, blocking the way the best I could.
I performed my own version of Lamaze breathing as a surge of adrenaline caused my breath to come in quick, anxious bursts. Ha-uh-ha-uh.
The situation posed three possible outcomes.
One, the pickup would skid to a stop, and the men would realize they were blocked by cops at their front and rear and finally give themselves up. This was the best-case scenario.
Two, the pickup would skid to a stop, the men would bail from the vehicle and attempt to flee to the front or rear. Depending on whether any of them displayed a weapon, the men would be shot, tackled, Tasered, whacked with a baton, pepper-sprayed, or taken down by my furry, fleet-footed partner—assuming, of course, that the men didn’t take out us officers with gunfire first.
Or three, the driver of the stolen pickup could slam directly into my cruiser at a hundred miles an hour and we’d all perish in a horrific fireball, Seth left to find someone else with whom to drink margaritas. Gulp. I hoped the natural human instinct of self-preservation would lead the driver to swerve. I really wanted that margarita.
Just in case they were stupid enough to go with option three, I ordered Brigit to lay down in her enclosure, knowing the position would pose the least risk of injury to her. On instinct, I whipped out my baton and flicked my wrist to extend it. Snap!
Screeeeee!
The truck’s tires smoked as they grabbed the pavement on the bridge. The truck veered side to side as it careened toward my cruiser. Instinctively, I clenched my eyes closed, threw a hand up to cover my face, and held my breath. Ha-uh—!
The screeching stopped.
I opened my eyes to see the hood of the pickup millimeters from my passenger window. Thank God it had stopped in time.
“We’re up, girl!” I threw open my door, jumped from the vehicle, and let Brigit out of her enclosure.
The doors of the pickup flew open and three men emerged—Christopher Vogel, Lewis Blakemore, and a third who appeared to be in his early twenties. I’d been right about Vogel’s and Blakemore’s identities. Woo-hoo! All three looked frantically around, noted the two male officers charging them from the south, and turned to head my way.
Uh-oh.
Brigit and I could handle one or two of them, but all three? This would be a challenge.
With Brigit prancing excitedly by my side, I brandished my baton. “Stop!” I hollered.
They didn’t stop, though. Not that I really expected them to. Bad guys aren’t the best listeners.
As I prepared for the onslaught, I realized Brigit and I didn’t actually have to stop all three of them. All we had to do was slow them down enough so that the other cops could help catch them.
Vogel reached me first. A solid whack on his left shin with my baton and the guy screamed in agony, grabbed his lower leg, and hopped on one foot three times before falling sideways onto the asphalt.
One down. Two to go.
Blakemore attempted to circle around me and Brigit, but I stretched out my arm, delivered a solid whomp to his loins, and his evasive maneuvers were for naught. Down he went, clutching his groin and groaning.
Two down. One to go.
The third, as-yet-unidentified guy spotted his cohorts writhing on the road, raised his hands in the air, and clomp-clomp-clomped to a stop a few feet away. “Don’t hit me!” he cried. “I give up!”
Smart choice.
Using my left hand, I whipped my cuffs from my belt and approached him. “Keep your hands in the air and turn around!”
He did as told, turning to face the bridge railing. He stood still for a moment, but just as I was on him he bolted toward the railing.
“Are you crazy?” I shrieked at his back.
The guy grabbed the railing and, before I knew what was happening, flung himself over it.
Holy crap!
I reached the rail to see him falling and flailing, leaving a cloud of green bills fluttering in the air behind him, before performing the world’s most-perfect, most-painful belly flop into the Trinity River dozens of feet below.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Making a Splash of Himself
Brigit
Brigit watched as the young man hurled himself over the railing and disappeared from sight. What a squirrel brain. Thankfully her partner hadn’t given her the signal to pursue the suspect. No way would Brigit jump off a bridge.
Her ears pricked as she heard the sound of the man hitting the surface of the river.
SMACK! Splashhh!
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Assorted Nuts
The Conductor
Ooooh. That’s gotta hurt.
His balls certainly hurt, but the pain told him he was alive. That was more than he could say for his dim-witted partner in crime. The sound of Smokestack belly-flopping into the Trinity River was so loud it could probably be heard as far away as Oklahoma, maybe even Kansas. If Smokestack had somehow survived the leap from the bridge, he’d likely suffered some major internal injuries, maybe a ruptured spleen. It would serve the guy right. He really was too dumb to live.
How the hell had he and Chris let the moron cajole them into this stupid crime spree? Lewis knew how. Smokestack had caught them both in a moment of weakness, when their egos were as bruised as his balls were now and both were in need of redemption.
Oh, Lord, what will my wife say when she finds out what I’ve done? What will we tell the children and grandchildren?
That I lost my marbles, that’s what. It’s the truth, after all.
Lewis only hoped he could pull off a temporarily insanity defense, maybe cop a plea that would get him out of prison before the next family reunion five years from now.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
What a Splash-hole
Megan
The guy disappeared into the greenish-brown water and, for several seconds, I wondered if the impact had killed him or shattered his ribs. Brigit padded up next to me, stuck her head through the bridge beams, and looked down as if she, too, were wondering what had become of bank robber number three. Hundred-dollar bills, fifties, twenties, tens, fives, and ones floated down, landing on the surface of the water like valuable chum. A small turtle sunning on a log dropped into the water, swam over, and nibbled on a single.
A moment later bubbles boiled on the surface of the river and the guy bobbed up, emitting a cry of pain that echoed off the concrete bridge. “AAAAAHHH!”
AAAHH!
Aah!
Ah!
He turned onto his back and looked up, his eyes meeting mine.
“Swim to shore!” I hollered down to him.
“Fuck you!” he hollered back, grimacing with the effort.
Now that’s just rude.
Signaling Brigit to follow me, I raced across the bridge, turned, and headed down the brushy embankment to the river’s edge. Next to me, Brigit danced a doggy jig, ready for action.
“Go get ’im, girl.” I ordered her to round up the suspect.
She hurled herself into the water. Splash!
Bank robber number three issued another expletive as he noted Brigit furiously dog-paddling toward him, leaving a wake in the murky water.
I pulled my gun now and aimed it at the guy. “If you hurt my dog,” I hollered at the young man, “you die!”
I meant it, too. Brigit and I had gone through a series of ups and downs, and she could be a stubborn and demanding partner. But through it all, we’d had each other’s backs. We’d grown close and—dammit!—I loved that dog.
Number three frantically swam downriver, doing his best to outswim Brigit. Not gonna happen. My partner gained on him, was nearly to him now.
Evidently figuring out his only chance of besting my K-9 was an evasive maneuver, the guy took a deep breath and dove down, his black Converse fluttering on the surface before he disappeared under the water. Brigit turned her head, looking about and swimming in a circle, trying to figure out where he’d gone.
A few seconds later, a fresh round of bubbles broke the surface fifteen feet downriver and his head popped up again, his mouth gaping as he gasped for air.
“There he is!” I shouted, pointing.