She took another step toward me. Took hold of the railing.
“But you listen to me now. You let this seep inside that skull of yours, past the booze and whatever else, and you listen to me. That partner of yours? He’s a user, Thomas. He’s playing you, has been since you got here. Whatever he’s doing—whatever he’s done? It’ll come to light, it always does. Lit up like a bare bulb. You carry on down this path and you’ll answer for your part. I’ll break down your goddamn door myself if I have to. So you go on keeping your mouth shut, and you go on pretending I’m not here. But I don’t know how to make this any more obvious, so I’ll just say it out loud. I’m coming for you, Detective. And you best make whatever peace you can before I do.”
I stared at her. Above us I could suddenly hear the sound of footsteps, of people moving about the cramped office. Mansfield held my gaze, her expression blank. She tried to act cool but when she unwrapped her fat little fist from the railing I could see her palm was red from holding on so tight. I could see her nails, too.
She had dirt under them.
After she left, I stayed behind. Sat and watched the fluorescent light of the morgue as it flickered and danced on the bottom steps, warping and shifting through PVC strips caught in the eddies of an air conditioner set too high. I took the label out of my pocket, ran my thumb over the print sealed inside. The noise above seemed to fade, and in the quiet stairwell I could hear the faint sound of a neon bulb, popping and singing to itself beyond the swaying strips of plastic where the light was cold, and where the body of a man and a woman lay in temperatures even colder.
Chapter Twenty-Five
In case you’re wondering, I didn’t go through with planting the print. Maybe I was tired of committing crimes to cover my tracks. Maybe part of Mansfield’s speech got through. More likely my conscience just finally kicked in, a few years too late.
In some ways DC had been simpler. I’d known where I stood there. Worse than that, I’d enjoyed it. I recognized a lot of myself in Joe—a lot of who I had once been. I reckon he probably saw something similar in me. But how could I confront him about Foster—about whatever it was he was involved in—if I was just as dirty?
I’d told Mary I wanted to be better. Then be better, she’d said. I thought of those words as I tossed Simon’s print into the trash. I’m trying, Mary. I’m really trying.
I still had options. Cards I hadn’t yet played. I tossed them around a little, saw what was left. Mansfield had dirt under her nails and it wasn’t hard to guess whose yard it was from. If she had the money, then what was she waiting for? That feeling like I was being played came back hard.
Some things were becoming clear. Joe, Simon, Mansfield; I knew the time was coming where I’d have to pick a side. Turn on others if I wanted to save my own skin. I’d done it before and it’d hurt like hell, but like most things I figured it’d be easier second time around. I was a scrapper, a survivor. I’d get by. Besides, I still had until the end of the day.
Walking into the main office, it was clear I’d missed something. A gathering of some kind. Officers were standing about. Raised voices and hands being clapped on backs. Took me a couple of minutes to work it out, but when I did I felt that net closing in a little tighter.
The driver of the evidence van had woken up.
I went to my desk and flipped open a file. Held it up like I was reading. Told myself that he didn’t know anything. That his partner certainly hadn’t. And that even if he did, his broken jaw would keep him from talking a while longer. For a few moments I even entertained the idea of paying him a visit to make sure.
“Hang on, give me a second.”
It was Mansfield. Striding past my desk, cell pressed tight to her ear in a pudgy hand. I watched her over the top of my file as she snapped her fingers at a young officer. I think it was Gordon. Same kid who’d brought me the Foster files earlier in the week.
“You,” she barked. “I need you to run a license plate for me.”
Gordon scrambled to log into the nearest computer and fire up the search.
“Ready,” he said.
“Okay, give it to me again,” she said into her cell. Then to Gordon, “Two-four-eight UGN.”
My stomach flipped.
“License plate is registered to a red Nissan Sentra,” Gordon was saying. “Owner is a James Catterson.”
“You got his address?”
“Right here in town.”
“Good. Note it down. Get a judge on the phone. I want a warrant in the next five minutes.”
Mansfield turned to leave and caught me looking. I thought I saw the beginnings of a smirk. I lowered my file.
“Break in the case, Detective?” I asked, a little surprised at how level my voice sounded.
“Officer Casey finally decided to join us,” she said.
“So I hear. He must have had some good news for you.”
“Maybe.” She paused. Tried to read my expression. “Said he saw a red Nissan pull up by the reservoir just before they were ambushed. Sat there the whole time.”
“Possible witness?”
“Or a lookout. Casey said the car headed off after the hijackers when they were done. Even managed to memorize the license plate.”
“Casey said a lot for a guy with a broken jaw.”
Mansfield smiled. “He writes just fine.”
Gordon piped up from across the floor. “Detective? I’m on hold with the judge now.”
She gave me a final glance, then turned back to the young officer. I swung my chair away and dropped the file on my desk. I still didn’t know for sure that Simon was at the Catterson place, but I was soon going to find out. There was always a chance Mansfield’s excavation was a bust, the money still buried in the frozen earth. But if she got her hands on Simon—or worse, on the photographs—then I was finished.
I had to get to him first.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It didn’t take long for the main office to become crowded. I guess nothing brings over-eager idiots together like the thought of breaking down someone’s front door. In the mess, I slipped away. Through the bodies and down the main steps, out into the freezing morning air. I’d left my overcoat on the back of my chair. I didn’t mind getting cold if no one realized I’d gone.
I slid behind the wheel of my Impala and started her up. Gunned it out of the parking lot and down the icy streets. Back to the row of houses on the outskirts of town. The snow had stayed away, the thick mist no longer present. That was good. I’d need to be able to see them coming.
It took less than ten minutes to get there. I parked in the alley I’d spotted online. Two attempts to grab hold of my door handle, I was shitting myself so badly. I spent a moment telling myself to wise up and then I was off. Running before my feet touched dirt.
The alley was narrow and I sped through it, jumping a pile of burst garbage bags and sliding out into the patch behind the Catterson house. I paused for a second to listen—nothing—then climbed the tall, wooden fence that surrounded his yard. Grabbed the top, the soles of my shoes sliding on the wet planks. Straining as I pulled myself up and over, falling in a heap at the bottom. Brushing snow from my legs as I scrambled to my feet.
The house had a back door and this time I didn’t pause to knock. Threw my shoulder against it. Felt the lock snap.
I crashed into the kitchen, the door nearly bursting off its hinges. With the blinds drawn and the lights off it was dark, and I stumbled forward, groping for a light switch. It was only after I’d flicked it on that I thought about fingerprints. I scrubbed at the wall with the sleeve of my jacket. Grabbed a dish towel and wrapped my fingers in it.
“Simon!” I roared. “Simon if you’re in here, you need to come with me!”
There was only silence. I moved from the kitchen into the living room, turning on lights as I went. The house was fairly large; most of the downstairs was open-plan. No sign of life that I could see.
I took the stairs two at a time. Clutching at
the handrail with my covered hand, propelling myself upward. When I got to the top I paused. A handful of rooms ahead of me, their doors closed. If Simon was here I couldn’t hear him. Couldn’t hear anything else either, though. Might be they hadn’t left the station yet. I still had time.
First door was a bathroom. Empty. Second was the main bedroom. I pushed the door open, but it was dark inside and as I reached for the switch I recognized the sharp tang of blood.
James Catterson’s body lay on the bed. The sheets were stained crimson. His eyes were red and bulging, his tongue blue. Hanging over his icy lips. Someone had slit his throat, a while ago by the look of him. Seemed like the poor bastard never made his cruise after all.
I took a step back into the hall.
I heard them then, in the distance.
Sirens.
It was history repeating itself. Only this time I didn’t have anyone else to blame.
There was a sudden clatter from below. Whirling, I ran for the stairs. I could feel my gun tight against my chest. I wasn’t going to fire it, not in here. I didn’t want to make the same mistake twice.
“Simon!” I yelled. The back door swung on its hinges. I headed across the living room.
Something crashed into the back of my head. I pitched forward, just about losing my balance before catching myself on a coffee table. I whirled around and Simon was standing there, blond hair flapping about his eyes, arms up like he was boxing. A smile stretched wide across his face.
“Detective!” he cried out. “If I’d known you were coming I’d have made some coffee.”
I growled and lunged for him. He batted me away, laughing. Bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“Dammit Simon, we don’t have time for this,” I said.
He responded with a right hook, hard across my face. I took it standing and stepped back.
“Impressive,” Simon said. “You’ve got more fight in you than I thought.”
I wiped at my mouth. Last time I’d been in a brawl I’d had my ass kicked. This was going to be different.
When he jabbed again I snapped my head back. Ducked under his next swing and when he was off-balance I slugged him hard in the solar plexus. An uppercut that left him gasping. Followed it up with a light left hook and a stronger right. Simon stumbled, tripped over the edge of a rug and went down hard.
“Now listen to me,” I said, panting. “They saw your vehicle when you were taking your photos. That piece-of-shit Nissan parked out front. And trust me, it wasn’t that difficult. Christ, you murdered the old guy just to get his car? They’re on their way, Simon. Are you hearing me? They’re on their way now.”
Simon sat up. Used the table to help him stand. “That would be very bad for you, Tommy.”
“Not just me. Or have you forgotten who’s helping you avoid a murder charge? No more messing around, Simon. I need you to tell me where the photos are. If they find them, it’s game over for both of us.”
The silence between us was punctured by the screech of tires. The slamming of doors. Slices of red and blue washed over us through dirty blinds. We were out of time.
I grabbed his shirt and pulled him toward me. I was frantic now. “Simon, where the hell are those photos?”
“Relax, Tommy, they’re not in the house.”
A pounding on the front door. A man’s voice yelling. I glared at Simon.
“Back door,” I said firmly. “Now!”
A loud crack as someone’s foot connected with cheap wood. The front door flexed in its frame. We flew from the room, falling together through the doorway into the backyard. Behind us the front door exploded and my feet skidded out from under me. We tumbled to the wet ground. Dirty snow smeared across my white shirt. The sound of raised voices, of footsteps thundering through the house. Simon was up and running for the tall fence.
“No!” I hissed, motioning with my thumb. They’d have cars there already. “Between the houses, get out at the end of the street.”
I led the way. Up and over the smaller fences that separated each yard from its neighbor. Glancing at the windows to make sure we were alone. The last one dropped us back out into the small alleyway. Up ahead was the main street.
I turned toward Simon and he wasn’t there. Then his meaty arm was around my throat. I choked out a cry as he dragged me to the ground. His biceps flexed against my neck and I started to feel dizzy. Stars prickled at the edges of my vision.
“I saw you here before,” Simon snarled into my ear. “Tell me you didn’t tip them off.”
I couldn’t speak, my fingers scrabbling uselessly at his arm. Then he eased off a little, and I breathed in deep lungfuls as I struggled to my feet.
“I just saved you,” I wheezed. “Why the hell would I tip them off?”
He released me fully and I stumbled forward, coughing. I rubbed at my throat. Turning angrily to him, I said, “Tell me where those photos are, Simon. If they find them I can’t help you anymore.”
Simon laughed. “I’m not so sure you’ve been helping me that much so far, Thomas.”
“Why did you have to kill him?”
“Who?”
“Catterson. The old man in his bed. Jesus, Simon, what’s wrong with you?”
Simon stepped forward and grabbed at me. I swatted him away and scrambled back. My shoes kicking a pile of broken bottles. I reached down and picked one up.
“You know what?” he said. “I’m starting to think we’ve reached the end of our association.”
He lunged for me again but I was ready. Stabbing forward, slicing the jagged glass across his hands as he recoiled. I used the space to pull my gun.
“Here’s what’s going to happen, asshole,” I said quietly. “You’re leaving Cooper right now, alright? Tonight. No excuses.”
“Or what,” he spat, his chest shuddering as he clamped his bleeding hands together. “You’ll kill me? You’re a liar. I can see it in your eyes. You’re weak. Murder’s messy, and you don’t have the guts for it.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “Maybe I’ll just take your eyes instead, how’s that sound?”
The sound of more squad cars pulling up at the end of the alley. A short blast of sirens. I turned to look and Simon took off, vanishing down the narrow space.
I tossed the bottle and holstered my gun. Composed myself as best I could. Once I was ready, I walked to the opposite end of the alleyway and onto the street.
“Detective!”
I turned. Officer Gordon was standing there. He waved a hello. I moved toward him and he smiled as I approached, his breath misting in the cold air. He frowned as I got close.
“Damn, Detective. You’re blue. You forget your coat?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I followed Gordon back to the house. Squad cars were scattered outside, their lights twirling silently. I made sure I was collected. A borrowed overcoat, pulled tight over my dirtied clothes. No signs of my earlier scuffle. My anger had abated, slunk back into my bones. I could feel it sitting there. Weighing me down like a physical presence. Like a tumor.
Mansfield was leaning against the hood of a squad car. She was watching the house with narrowed eyes. They swiveled onto me as we approached.
“Didn’t expect to see you here, Detective,” she called.
I shrugged. “Figured you could use the help.”
She stayed quiet. Her eyes did the talking.
I walked past her. Waited by a squad car until her gaze wandered, her attention shifting to a trio of officers emerging from the house. “You’re going to want to see this, Detectives,” one of them shouted.
She pushed herself off the car and started toward the front door. Paused as she passed me, snapping on a pair of latex gloves.
“Well?” she said. “You coming?”
Mansfield led, and I followed.
We wore latex gloves on our hands, our shoes bound in plastic sheaths. Technically I should have entered the house first. Cooper was my jurisdiction; Mansfield was from out of town. A gue
st of the department.
But that didn’t matter to her. She didn’t care about whether or not my pride was wounded, my feelings hurt. She cared about the truth. Finding it, preserving it. More than I did, I’m ashamed to say. And so we wore latex gloves and plastic shoes, and Mansfield led and I followed.
The officers before us had turned on most of the lights already. A necessity, thanks to the blinds. Drawn across every window, every point where the sun’s rays could enter. Every point where someone could have spotted who was really staying there.
We were the only officers here. The others had been told to clear the house until Bob and his forensic team arrived. The place was quiet, and we picked our way through the living room. Mansfield pointed to a fallen lamp, its shade buckled and its frame cracked. Simon’s opening attack.
“Thoughts?” she asked me.
I’m amazed it didn’t break. “Whoever was staying here knocked it over in their hurry to get out.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“It’s not just the lamp. The rug’s been pulled up at one end and the coffee table’s been knocked aside.” She gestured to a collection of enamel elephants, scattered on their sides. I’d not noticed them first time around. “And here,” she said, kneeling by the dining-room table, “there’s imprints in the rug where the legs normally sit. It’s been recently moved.”
“What, you think there was a fight?”
“Don’t you?”
I made a show of scanning the room. Let out a noncommittal noise.
She turned back to the house. Pointed at the kitchen. “Whoever was staying here must have left through the back door.”
“You put officers in the alleyway out back?”
“There’s backyards on either side of the property, they could have jumped the fence.”
I was barely listening to her by then. My eyes running over every inch of the place. Where would Simon have hidden those photos? I had to get to them before someone else found them. Bob and his boys. Or worse, Mansfield herself.
Welcome to Cooper Page 13