Once outside and walking east along Broadway, CJ punched up Dan's number. When Dan answered he said, "When can I have my car and life back?"
"Where are you?" Dan said.
CJ told him.
"Stay put. I'll be there in five minutes and run you over to the impound lot. Your apartment should be released in about an hour. The team is there right now."
CJ sat down at a bus stop and waited, a layer of sweat already building on his skin. How hot was it going to get today? Anything over 100 was just too damned hot. He'd about had it with everything concerning southern Arizona, Tucson especially. The heat; the crime; the people. Everything.
A bus pulled up, discharge a half dozen passengers who scattered as though they were all late for work, and then was gone, exhaust billowing in CJ's face. He closed his eyes and held his breath until it cleared and then thought about what he was going to do. He had one more subpoena to serve. After that he had no more obligations, not one single open case. Of course that also meant he had no income, but he did have money invested from half of an inheritance when his mother died a seven years back, the other half of which was putting Trish through school and had allowed Josh to disappear. He could tap into that, get away for a while, maybe disappear himself.
There was a honk and then Dan's unmarked pulled up. When CJ was in and Dan had pulled back into traffic CJ said, "I'm really sorry I screwed up the crime scene. I don't know where my head was."
"Your head was having a party with Mr. Daniels. In the long run I don't think there was any harm done. We're dancing with the Feds now and I think we've gotten you removed from their sights. You may be hearing from them, of course, as they go back over ground we've already covered, but strictly as a witness, not a suspect."
"I saw the news."
"Yeah. That was unfortunate. What were the chances there'd be a camera pointing at you right at that moment? You can't even scratch your ass anymore that someone doesn't get it on video. At least no one's going to accuse me of giving favoritism to my friends or ex-cops."
But to hell with my reputation, CJ thought. He bit his lip and watched businesses pass by.
At the impound lot Dan said, "I'll call you when the apartment is released. Hang loose until then. Keep a low profile for a while. When we catch this lunatic everybody will forget about you." Just then Dan's phone chirped. When he hung it up he said, "Your office is cleared."
CJ watched Dan drive away, not sure if he was abandoned or set free, not sure if he appreciated Dan for being a friend or hated him for being a cop, not sure where the hell he stood with Stella.
CJ Washburn wasn't sure of one damn thing.
He signed the paperwork, drove his car until he found a gas station and then parked to look at the mess that had been made. Is this the way cops always treated suspect's property, or was it just him, the ex-cop, the one who abandoned his fellow soldiers in blue? Sure, he still had friends on the force, but there were many who were indifferent and a few who flat out didn't like him because he rolled over into the private sector, the ones who had no respect for P.I.s. The rest didn't know him at all.
He gathered together everything that belonged in the glove box and stuffed it back in. The rest, outside of his P.I. folder, was his own trash that the officers just pushed around and made a little messier. He gathered that into two piles, one to keep and one to throw, left the keep on the backseat and carried the rest to a nearby trashcan. Back in his car he opened the P.I. folder. It appeared to be as he left it, the one subpoena remaining to be served. He considered his appearance, decided it wasn't as bad as it could be, looked through his notes for the individual's work address and then headed out.
He'd do this last thing for the county and then that was it. He could be accused of a lot of things, but not doing his job was not one of them. Already on 6th Avenue, he continued south into South Tucson, found the body shop, the individual's place of employment, and walked right into the open bay doors. There were three men making a big racket on a monster truck.
"Enrique Santiago!"
None of them heard him. He was in no mood to pitter-patter around. He spotted a short piece of two-by-four, picked it up and slammed it against a slab of sheet metal leaning against a workbench. All three men looked up. CJ suddenly wished he had his piece, which was, he hoped, still locked in his desk in his office.
"Enrique Santiago!" CJ said again with much bravado.
"What?" one of the men said.
CJ approached him and said, "Are you Enrique Santiago?"
The man nodded his head. "Yes."
CJ handed him the subpoena. "You've been served." With that he turned and walked out. As CJ accelerated out of the parking lot, Enrique was standing just outside the bay doors, looking down at the subpoena and appearing very confused. "Welcome to the legal system, Enrique," CJ said to his rearview mirror.
Chapter 13
Unlike his car, CJ's office was only a partial wreck. The normally locked desk drawer, where he kept his Glock, along with its permit, was standing open. The gun was gone. Of course it would be gone. Ballistics had to be run on it even though all three of the victims were strangled, not shot.
He was surprised the computer was still there. He pushed Stella's desk drawers shut and pressed the computer power button. While it booted up he went looking for a drink. He kept his Jack Daniels in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. The drawer, surprisingly, was closed, and even more surprisingly, the half full bottle was still in it.
As he studied the bottle, however, he realized that getting drunk again was probably not one of his better ideas, but just having a finger or two.... He closed the drawer and went to his mini-refrigerator.
Two beers and two sodas looked back at him. He debated about it for a time and then snatched out a soda. He opened it and sat down at the computer. It was still booting. He thought a little more about the beer and took a long slug on the Dr. Pepper. The carbonation did feel good and in some weird way made his face hurt a little less.
When the computer appeared to be ready, he opened Internet Explorer. Stella had it set so that Google was the default home page. He wished she was here now to help him, but then she was part of the reason he was doing this. He couldn't remember the name of the website he wanted so he put "maps" in the search box. The second thing that showed up was mapquest.com. He clicked on that and when the page was open carefully entered his origination, Tucson, AZ and the destination, Moscow, ID.
The results displayed fast. Just under 1400 miles, routing through Las Vegas. Good place to spend a night... or two.
He wondered when Dan was going to call to let him know his apartment had been cleared. They'd had more than enough time to toss three apartments the size of his. He leaned back in Stella's chair, sipped on the soda and looked at where the wall met the ceiling until his eyes drifted closed.
When CJ's eyes snapped open he was pouring soda in his lap. He jumped up and the chair flew back. "Son of a bitch!" He fetched a towel from the bathroom and cleaned himself up as best as he could. He looked at his watch. He'd only drifted off for ten minutes or so. Where the hell was Dan?
He grabbed his keys and locked the office door behind him.
As he pulled into his apartment complex parking lot he spotted a uniformed police officer coming out with someone in civilian clothes he recognized, one of those who didn't particularly like him. Bryan something. CJ parked to the side and waited. He didn't want any kind of confrontation or another question and answer session. They tossed a small duffle into the back of a police van and then loaded up and left, paying him no attention.
He pulled around and parked where the van had been and went in. He paused at his apartment door for a few seconds and then unlocked it. He eased it open far enough to flip on the light and then gave it a shove and stepped aside. The door stopped halfway. CJ's hand went to his hip where his Glock would normally be. Swearing under his breath, he scanned what he could see of the apartment, saw no motion, no shadows, looked thro
ugh the crack and found that it was his footstool stopping the door.
He let out a breath and stepped in, pushing the door closed behind him. He wanted to utter all kinds of expletives, at the top of his lungs, but what would be the point. He didn't do this kind of thing when he was a police officer and he doubted trashing a suspect's home was a standard today. These were simply a couple of scumbags with badges who had a beef against him for some reason. This was personal.
CJ spent the next two hours putting his apartment back together; vacuuming, cleaning the kitchen and bathroom, getting it not quite to Stella's standard, but not bad as far as he was concerned. Then he pulled out the remainder of the chicken Stella had left for him, grabbed his last beer and sat down to eat and think.
Was there something driving Dan to have him arrested and searched besides his claim to get him immediately off the suspect list? Granted, if the roles were reversed he might have taken the same action.
Or would he have?
CJ placed himself in Detective Payne's shoes and attempted to see the scene behind the restaurant from his perspective. The person who called 911 had the victim's hair and skin cells on his hands, had left his own blood on the victim, had been seen hanging around the drop area, had been drinking—CJ didn't want to admit that he might have been flat out drunk—and had absolutely no verifiable alibi for the estimated time of death. There was also no other witness to the dark-colored van he said he'd seen.
He thought about the news video. It was obvious that he'd pushed Officer Bentley. If he had been in Bentley's shoes he'd have had the inebriated perp—okay, so he might admit he'd had a few—on the ground and handcuffed, no questions asked. That's what a police officer was trained to do. Was the force excessive?
CJ felt the scabbing on his face and chewed on the chicken.
He could have subdued him without dropping him, maybe. He thought about the fact that he was two inches taller than Bentley, and trained to fight, and that Bentley knew that.
Okay, so maybe it was mostly justified.
He emptied his beer and set the can on its side next to the chicken carcass. He wanted another beer, or better yet, a tumbler or two of Jack Daniels. He was glad that he was out of both or he'd be on his way to shit-faced. The last thing he needed to do right now was go down that road. He rose as though hefting another fifty pounds and carried his plate to the trash, scraped it clean and dropped it in the sink.
He stood with hands in his pockets for a time, staring out the window at the parking lot, then turned on the TV. Unable to focus on any of the 200 plus channels, he wandered around the apartment, eventually coming to stop in front of the photo of his children. He wished he knew where Josh was. What was he doing with his life? Why did he run away?
He studied Trish's smiling face and wondered how her life was going, considered trying to call her again. Instead he put his phone on charge and pulled his duffle bag out of the closet. There was nothing keeping him in Tucson right now: No cases to run down, no subpoenas to serve, no girlfriends to entertain and Dan didn't say a thing about not leaving town. He realized, also, that the decision had already been made when he researched it on MapQuest at the office.
He started transferring items of clothing from drawers and closet to the duffle.
Duffle bag staged next to the door, he sat down in front of the TV and thought about how it would be good to get out of the heat, literally and figuratively, for awhile, and how good it would be to see Trish. And then he fell asleep in his easy chair.
Chapter 14
CJ was showered, dressed and on the road just at the leading edge of dawn, rolling into Las Vegas in the noon hour. He parked in the Monte Carlo Casino parking garage and spent the afternoon walking from casino to casino playing primarily slot machine blackjack. Just before leaving he stopped back in the Monte Carlo and played the last $10 of the $50 he started with, figuring he’d go when he lost it. He picked a $1 slot machine and put the $10 dollar bill in and sat down. The first four tries got him nothing, and then the fifth rang a couple of bells and started ringing up credits. Now feeling good he played a little more and won a little more. When finally he cashed out he was $383 over the $50 he started with.
He celebrated with an early dinner then drove on to Caliente to spend the night. Before turning in he spent some time again trying to get his trunk open, not understanding why neither the button on his fob nor the release from inside the car worked, and then why his key would go in and not turn. He hadn't worried too much about it that morning since all he packed was the duffle bag, which he threw into the back seat. Now it was bugging him. How could both the electrical and mechanical fail together? After a time, he gave up and went to bed. He'd have it looked at in Idaho while he was visiting with Trish.
Up again at dawn, CJ pushed forward, stopping only for gas and fast food, arriving on the outskirts of Moscow, Idaho right at 8:00 p.m., surprised that it was still daylight. In Tucson it would be dark already. He followed the GPS through the town, coming almost out the west side before he found the Palouse Inn just off Pullman Road.
He got out and stretched, pleased with how he held up with nearly 14 straight hours behind the wheel. He thought about calling Trish, then decided he'd get checked in and grab some dinner first. Besides, she'd probably not answer her phone anyway. He'd put her address in the GPS and surprise her at her front door. He couldn't wait to see her face.
He went inside, presented his credit card and driver's license, signed and initialed where asked and then drove around to park near the stairs up to the second floor, thinking about the odd look on the desk-clerk's face. It was a look of shock, CJ thought as he ran it back through his mind, and then as quickly, the look was gone. Something about it bugged him. Maybe by some weird coincidence this guy knew Trish and had put the two names together. Or did it have something to do with his credit card? The clerk would have said something in either case, surely.
He shook the thoughts away as he lifted the duffle from the back seat, noting the McDonald's right next door. His stomach growled. He carried the duffle up to his room, dropped it on the bed and went right back out. CJ could already taste the Big Mac.
The line was short. In less than five minutes he was pushing backwards out the restaurant door, a bag with a Big Mac and fries in one hand and large drink in the other. He navigated between cars in the parking lot and then entered the trees separating McDonald's from the hotel property, hearing a wail of sirens in the distance; multiple emergency vehicles, CJ figured. Just as he started to step out of the trees where he had a view of the hotel parking lot, a Sheriff's patrol unit roared in, silent, lights flashing. The sirens he'd been hearing suddenly went silent and in seconds another deputy and two Moscow police units screamed into the parking lot from different directions. And then there were unformed officers out of their vehicles pointing their police issued weapons at... his car!
CJ took a step back, looked around and then eased deeper into the trees. He knew that the right thing to do would be to present himself and to ask what the hell was going on, however, what his head was saying was the right thing and what his gut was saying was the right thing were not in agreement. Before he was going to make some rash move he had to know what the game was all about. He figured with the dark shadows beneath and behind the foliage in which he was secluded and with the fact that it was now well into dusk, he had as good a cover as he was going to get. It was open ground to get to anywhere else.
As CJ watched, two officers entered the office, ran out no more than thirty seconds later and pointed up to the second floor. He watched, in shock, as they stormed up the stairs, two at a time, gathered at CJ's door, nodded to each other, weapons drawn, then without knocking scanned the key card and rushed in as though ready to engage a gun fight. Down at his car he looked on in horror as a deputy pulled a tool from his patrol unit and proceeded to pry at the trunk. In only seconds there came a loud pop and the trunk flew open. They looked down inside and all CJ could see were their head
s shaking while one spoke into his shoulder mike.
He didn't like the looks on their faces. Whatever was in the trunk was bad, and CJ did not put it there, hadn't even been in the trunk since getting the car back from impound.
He needed a better vantage point. He looked up into the tree under which he'd been standing and then at the meal in his hands. And then he started thinking like a cop. At any moment they were going to start searching the area for him. If he put the food on the ground a sharp-eyed deputy might spot it. One thing would lead to another. He looked back through the foliage toward McDonald's. On the edge of the parking lot, on the grass not twenty feet away, stood a trash can. He edged out, dropped everything into it then returned, grabbed a branch and pulled himself up into the tree. It was an easy climb, the tree full of thick limbs with just enough space for a body to squeeze through. Once as far up as he thought safe he positioned himself to see out. While he had been busy dumping the meal and climbing the tree, the officers had pulled something partway out of his trunk. CJ blinked several times, trying to clear his focus and get an idea what it was.
Then a familiar image flashed in his mind's eye and there came a terrible twist in his stomach. He slipped and caught himself, pulled his bulk upright and looked again. It was a quilt, different from, yet similar to the one on which he'd fallen in the dumpster nearly four days before, and there was no doubt in his mind that wrapped inside the quilt was the body of another Tucson woman.
Chapter 15
Except for lighting from McDonald's and the hotel, and a rising full moon, it was completely dark when the deputies and Moscow officers finished and drove away. His car had been hauled off on a flatbed, his duffle thrown in the back of a police van, and the body handled with forensic care and sent away for further study. But they weren't completely gone. A patrol car cruised by every fifteen to thirty minutes. Sometimes, like right now, it parked nearby for a time. They were watching for his return, CJ assumed. Why in the hell would a perp come back after everything was taken away? What would they think he'd return for?
Deserving of Death (CJ Washburn, PI Book 1) Page 6