by J W Becton
“He a friend of yours?” Tripp asked.
“He’s not on my Christmas card list if that’s what you’re asking. I encountered him while undercover at Allred Racing,” I said. “Saw him earlier tonight with Justin, actually. Before all hell broke loose.”
“We haven’t processed anyone by that name yet, but if we do, I’ll hold him for questioning. We’ve already got an APB out for him.”
“Good,” I said, nodding and looking toward Vincent, who stood, left Justin, and came toward me.
I met him halfway.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
I found passing irony in the fact that I should be asking him the same question.
Instead, I said, “No. Tripp told me that Carla is denying everything. Insists that Michael Lacarova was the abductor.”
“Yeah, she said something like that when I arrested her,” he said.
“So far they haven’t found him,” I said, hoping they would soon. “We should send a car to Allred Racing, check his place in Woolfolk Fort.”
Then I hesitated.
“I can do that,” I said to Vincent. “You take care of Justin.”
Thirty-four
Seeing Vincent all wadded up in the driver’s seat of Justin’s Civic, I should have laughed, but the grim set of his features and their reflection in his son’s face sobered me. I had no idea what deal he had worked—if in fact he had worked one—with the MPD regarding Justin. But the kid wasn’t going to jail that night.
I could practically see the foreign-built machine jolt as my partner threw it fiercely into drive, and when the whiny whistle of the turbo finally faded away, the night became silent and serious.
Pulling my sweater tighter around me, I hurried back to the 442. The temperature had dropped, and my coat reeked too much of pepper spray and urine to be worn. Behind me, the parking lot was still lit up like an arcade, lights flashing in brilliant reds and blues, creating a nauseating effect.
Or maybe it was the lingering odor of the pepper spray.
I slipped the key in the 442’s ignition, willing the engine to warm up so the heat would actually work. In the meantime, I would have to make do with the futility of rubbing my frozen hands together.
If Lacarova were the abductor, then where was he? How had he gotten out before the police swarmed in?
And where was he now? His house in Woolfolk Fort? Allred Racing?
Lacarova must know that he was wanted in connection with the crime. If he were smart, he’d be halfway to California by now, and that thought hurt. I hated the idea that the man who might have drugged and locked a three-year-old in a trunk all day in the cold might walk free.
Determined to see this to the end, I drove the 442 into town. My plan was to stop first at Allred Racing, where the MPD had already sent patrol cars.
As I approached the garage, I saw police and ambulance lights casting their strobe effects on the night sky.
Rolling down the manual window on the 442, I leaned out to one of the MPD officers and showed him my badge.
“What’s going on?” I asked, watching someone being pushed out of the building on a stretcher.
“A woman was beaten and tied up in a closet inside,” he said.
“You got a name?”
“Tammy Wynn.”
At that I jumped out of the 442 and dashed to the gurney.
“Tammy,” I said, wedging myself between two paramedics who were none too pleased with my intrusion. “Who did this to you?”
Tammy stared up at me, bandages around her head, neck braced.
“Lacarova,” she said.
“Where is he now?”
It looked like she tried to shake her head, but the brace prevented the motion.
“Don’t know,” she said. “Heard someone outside in the garage earlier. Might have been him.”
“Crap,” I said. We’d just missed him.
“You know what he’s driving?” I asked, hoping we could put an APB on the vehicle.
“Could be anything,” she answered weakly. “The keys to every car on this lot were on the Peg-Board.”
Great. We were looking for a guy in any vehicle that had been at the shop.
I dashed to the 442, eager to get to Lacarova’s house in Woolfolk Fort.
I told one of the officers to try to get a bead on the car he was driving, and then I left the strobe lights in my rear view as I charged toward his house.
But I didn’t quite make it.
As I traversed one of the many cross streets in the city, the 442 suddenly jolted, and I was shoved to the left. A vehicle had appeared from the shadows, lights off, and was embedding itself into the metal of my doorframe.
Dazed but apparently uninjured, I looked out my now-shattered passenger window to see a large, low-slung sedan whose driver was all too familiar, and I sucked in a breath as everything suddenly became clear.
Lacarova.
My eyes narrowed at him. He narrowed his at me, obviously pissed that the impact hadn’t knocked me out or killed me, and I felt his car begin to push harder at the 442. No hesitation there.
The sedan obviously had a powerful engine because I was still being shoved sideways toward the ditch, and though I didn’t think I was in a life-and-death situation, I couldn’t let him use the terrain to roll me over. I couldn’t allow the 442 to be disabled.
Rather than pulling forward, I slammed the gears into reverse and felt the rear wheels start to drag backward, struggling to dislodge the sedan.
I pressed harder on the gas, hearing the engine roar and the rocks hit my wheel wells.
When I finally heard the metallic groan of separating metal, I had pulled back forty feet, dragging the sedan along with me. Now it was situated parallel to my car, our front passenger fenders touching, but facing opposite directions.
I met Lacarova’s eyes again.
He was going to run. I knew it before it happened.
And an instant later, I heard his tires squeal as the sedan lurched forward away from my vehicle.
I laid down on the gas again, shooting backward at warp speed, and then my police academy driving techniques overtook my body, just like the instructors said they would.
Thank God they were right about some things.
Simultaneously, I yanked the parking brake and spun the wheel hard to the left, finishing by slamming the gears into drive. The 442 slid and spun with a loud screech of tires and a cloud of rubber smoke, and suddenly, I was behind Lacarova and accelerating forward at a breakneck pace.
It wasn’t a beautifully executed textbook J-turn, but it got the job done, and within seconds, I was driving in pursuit of the sedan, thankful for the V-8 engine as I began to close in on the kidnapping, murder-attempting bastard.
At the thought of what Lacarova had done to Sasha—not to mention what he tried to do to me and the damage he had done to the borrowed 442—I became even more determined.
I should call for backup, I knew, but I couldn’t take my hands off the wheel even for a second. Until we hit the highway, there were numerous streets and cross streets where he might turn and disappear.
And I was not going to allow that to happen.
Lacarova was apparently weighing his options and decided he could outrun me, which wasn’t a bad assumption, given that the 442 was suddenly pulling hard to the right.
Crap, I thought.
The impact of Lacarova’s sedan might have damaged my axle, or I might have a flat on the front right. Either way, it was only a matter of time before I lost control or was driving on rims.
Well, dammit, I would take him down on rims if I had to.
I looked ahead, seeing a long straightaway, and I watched his sedan beginning to pull away from me.
No, I thought, jamming my foot onto the gas and hoping the muscle car would live up to its name even with a disabled something or other.
Slowly, I gained, but my steering felt spongy, and I knew I had to act fast before the vehicle was totally incapacitat
ed.
Thankful that the road was empty of other traffic, I edged into the left lane, forcing my way beside the sedan until my front quarter panel was lined up just behind his left front tire. Without another look at the bastard in the other car, I cut the wheel hard to the right, and my world jolted and spun around me. I heard the shriek of metal, hoping it was the sheet metal on Lacarova’s car being jammed into his wheel well, causing it to stop spinning freely.
That was my plan anyway.
Quickly, I yanked my wheel to the left, sharply oversteering in order to counteract my previous maneuver, and the 442 wobbled sickeningly. The car wasn’t going to last much longer. I didn’t have more than a few seconds before I was dead in the water.
Thankfully, Lacarova’s vehicle was indeed damaged, and I watched out of the corner of my eye as his car skidded toward the ditch in a shower of sparks and then turned on its side.
I managed to grind to a halt nearby.
Grabbing my phone, I dialed 911 and shouted my identity and location into the phone before leaping from the 442 and rushing to the sedan.
Lacarova, conscious and swearing, hung partially out of the driver’s window and was clawing at the cold earth, gamely trying to drag himself from the car.
Still trying to kill me despite the blood pouring from his head.
“Lacarova,” I said, pulling my weapon. “Don’t move. Help is coming.”
“Screw you,” he said, managing to pull his torso through the shattered window and simultaneously giving me a hard, low-browed look that told me he was not giving up.
“Stop,” I commanded. “Stay on your belly. Arms out.”
He eyed me, saw I was serious, and seemed to comply.
Lines of blood trickled down the exposed skin of his arms and dotted the ground around him.
“I’m putting you under arrest for kidnapping Sasha Keller, aggravated assault upon a peace officer, and generally being a huge pain in my ass,” I said, reholstering my weapon and reaching for my cuffs, glad I’d worn the full regalia that night.
I came around Lacarova with the intention of securing his hands behind his back.
“Lie still.”
Because of the way he hung from the car window, I couldn’t get into an ideal position to cuff him, so I dropped my weight onto a shoulder and clipped the closest wrist. At the feel of the restraint, Lacarova began to writhe, cutting himself on the broken glass beneath him, I was sure.
“What the hell?” I demanded, as I reached for the other arm. “Why did you t-bone me?”
“You know why, you stupid whore,” Lacarova growled. “I’m going to kill you. You hear me? Kill you.”
He began to writhe again as he heard the sirens approaching in the distance, and he managed to use his free arm to gather a handful of debris and fling it into my face. I flailed blindly for his loose hand, trying desperately to keep my eyes open despite the grit.
Geez, first the air bag, then pepper spray, and now probably glass shards.
I was going to make some ophthalmologist rich.
I kept my weight centered over Lacarova as he struggled to free himself, and soon, we were both surrounded by lights and cops and medics. I squinted at them and identified myself while still attempting to secure Lacarova’s other hand without being able to see much of anything.
“Play nice,” I said, finally wresting his other hand into some semblance of the correct position, cuffing it, and then pulling him up from the ground. Once we were both standing, I gave him a shove away from me, keeping him slightly off balance before pushing him toward the waiting police car.
That is, I thought I’d kept him off balance, but he managed to wheel around and face me.
“You bitch!” he shouted as he came stumbling toward me in a football-style tackle. Before I could evade his attack, our heads collided. I felt no pain, only righteous anger, as I managed to fling him sideways and gave him an indelicate shove back to the ground. Two MPD officers jumped on him, and we all jammed him into the cruiser, safely locking him away.
“You okay, Special Agent Jackson?” the first officer asked.
Adrenaline was still rushing through my body, and I could hardly see, but I managed to recognize him as Tolt. I glanced between him and his partner Jones.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I replied.
“You sure about that? Your eye is swollen,” Jones said.
I raised my hand to the black eye. “Oh, that’s old,” I said.
“No,” he corrected, “the other one.”
Tentatively, I felt around my other eye, and sure enough it was tender and starting to puff.
“Crap,” I said.
The medics examined me, flushed my eyes, and gave me an ice pack. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Finally, they gave me the all clear, and I took a moment to survey the scene. Lacarova’s sedan rested precariously on its side, a total loss, and the 442 was not much better off.
I walked a wide circle around it, realizing it would have to be towed back to the DOI.
Ted would have a coronary when he saw the damage.
And though I was sore, smelly, and swollen, I laughed out loud.
Thirty-five
I spent the greater part of Saturday making arrests in connection with the fraud ring, but I managed to limp my way to Sunday lunch at my mother’s house. Mom, Tricia, and I made it through the meal, and I’d only had to endure a few well-placed barbs about the dangers of my law enforcement career. We were coasting into dessert, and I still had not accomplished my goal: to come clean with my mother and sister about Slidell’s arrest.
And I couldn’t be too hard on myself about it. After all, I was on a high. Sasha Keller had been released from the hospital with a clean bill of health, and Carla Sumler and Michael Lacarova were awaiting trial for their crimes. We had also arrested Mac Dean, Valerie Kitto, Gina Catteneo-Segretti, and Mary Fallsworthy for various degrees of fraud. Not to mention the fact that I had a few words with the higher-ups at Sprig County SD about Deputies Bleakley and South and their creative use of traffic citations.
God, that had been wonderful.
I was feeling good.
And what’s more, my mother and Tricia were also in particularly high spirits. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to tamper with their moods.
Not yet, anyway.
“You aren’t going to believe who we ran into at the mall yesterday,” my mother said, her eyes bright under her puffy bangs as she leaned across the table to gather empty plates.
“I can’t begin to guess,” I said, allowing myself to enjoy her happiness even if I were soon planning to destroy it.
“Tripp’s momma,” Tricia said as my mother disappeared into the kitchen. “Do you know how long it’s been since we’ve seen her?”
I shrugged.
“It’s been years since she and Rob moved to Alabama,” I said, raising my voice so my mother could hear me. “They must be visiting Tripp. He didn’t mention it to me when I saw him the other day.”
“Ellen’s here alone,” my mother said as she reentered the room to load up with more dishes. “And lord! You should have seen her. Alabama has taken its toll on her.”
I had no idea what sort of repercussions the state of Alabama might exact on a person except perhaps making them choose a side in the Auburn/Alabama college football rivalry.
“What? Was she wearing a Crimson Tide shirt?” I asked.
That was anathema here in UGA land.
“No, worse!” my mother said gleefully as she leaned across the table with a catty grin. “She’s had work done.”
She giggled and then glanced around the room as if the tabloids might have sent paparazzi to spy on our after-dinner conversation.
“Really?” I asked, trying to picture Tripp’s mother with a surgically altered face. “Like Botox? Eyelift?”
Tricia patted her cleavage and then used her hands to exaggerate her curves.
“No!” I said, peering between them. “A boob job? Tripp’s
mother? Are you sure?”
“Yes, very sure,” my mother said. “It wasn’t exactly what I’d call subtle. Or natural looking.”
“Oh, yeah,” Tricia agreed. “We’re talking Pamela Anderson’s size meets Madonna’s cone shape. Looks like someone overinflated one of those bras from the fifties. Not pretty.”
“Bless her. I hope she kept her receipt,” my mother said with a sly expression, “because I’d want my money back.”
“I wonder what made her do that,” I pondered aloud.
“Well,” my mother said, “you didn’t hear it from me, but Ellen said she and Rob are separated.”
“Wow,” I said, surprised. “Tripp hasn’t said a word about it.”
Of course, he’d been busy with Slidell and the Keller kidnapping.
“I think the boob job means she’s back in the dating game,” Tricia said. “She looked like she was on the prowl to me.”
I shuddered at the thought of Tripp’s sweet mother being “on the prowl.”
“Poor Tripp,” I said. “He’s not going to take the separation well at all.”
And he wouldn’t. He’d always been the one with the nice, normal family. Or at least they’d seemed nice and normal, but now their crazy was showing, like a slip peeking out under an old lady’s skirt on Sunday morning, and even though he was an adult, it was never easy to see your family disintegrate before your eyes.
I should know.
I took a deep breath, stood, and felt my legs begin to steady themselves under me.
“Here, Mom, I’ll help you carry the last of the dishes,” I said, stacking the serving pieces on my arm and dropping the silverware in the top bowl. I didn’t want my mother coming in until after I had the chance to talk to Tricia alone first, and I knew she’d want to load the dishwasher before dessert.
I followed her into the kitchen and deposited the dishes on the counter.
“Do you need help?” I asked out of habit, knowing she’d turn me down.
“I’ll just load up the dishwasher real quick while you girls sit and chat,” she said, giving me a gentle shove back to the dining room.