by P J Parrish
He held the plastic tight, down against the barrel. Damn, the serial number had been filed off. Without it, there was no way to prove it was a throw-down. A lab might be able to raise the number but he knew that only Steele could make that happen now.
Louis poked his head outside the grating and scanned the room. It had thinned out some, the search called off because of darkness.
“Hey,” Louis called out to one of Steele’s aides. “Steele around?”
The man looked over. “Nope.”
“Where is he?”
The man glanced at his watch. “Probably at about 35,000 feet right now.”
“What?”
“He’s the keynote speaker at some banquet in Detroit. Starts at nine. He said not to interrupt him unless Lacey is either in custody or dead.”
Louis rubbed his forehead. His eyes drifted to the sweatshirt. He pulled it from the plastic bag, laying it across the open box, revealing the hole and brown stain just below the MACKINAC ISLAND lettering.
From the folder he had brought in, he pulled out the autopsy photo of Angela’s chest. The bullet hole was dead center in her chest but the one on the sweatshirt was lower. He moved the sleeve up, as if her arm had been raised over her head, and the hole in the sweatshirt fell into place, center of the chest.
He stared at the sweatshirt, his anger rising. How the hell had they expected to get away with this? And where had they gotten the throw-down in the first place? They wouldn’t use one of their own weapons and there was no easy black market in a location like this. The most logical answer was that the gun had come from another evidence bag that no one had reason to ever open again.
He started moving bags and boxes, searching randomly, trying to remember anything from the case files he and Jesse had gone through. His eyes scanned every name and number but nothing registered. Then he stopped, his eyes locked on a brown bag tucked far back on a top shelf.
HAMMERSMITH #75-88961. The dead motorcycle guy who had been arrested in Loon Lake eight years ago for drawing a weapon.
He pulled down the bag, slipped his finger under the dried, cracked tape and reached in. His fingers hit something sharp and he withdrew them. Cursing, he pulled out a broken beer bottle, set it aside and carefully patted down the bag. Nothing. No gun. It should have been there and it wasn’t.
He pulled the evidence log out of the bag. Hammersmith’s gun was listed, a 9-mm Beretta, serial number SYL61829.
SYL61829…
It was the number in Pryce’s notebook, the number he had written on the back of the legal pad.
Louis felt his skin grow cold. Pryce knew. He knew that Hammersmith’s Beretta had been used in the raid.
Pryce knew about what happened at the cabin and it explained a lot of things. It explained Pryce’s secrecy and his sudden desire to get out of Loon Lake. But why hadn’t he done anything with the information?
“Louis?”
He spun around.
It was Edna. She was standing just outside the grating. “The chief just called for you.”
“What did he want?” he asked.
“I don’t know. He just asked if you were still here.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“Just wanted to know if Mr. Steele was here too.”
Edna gazed at him over the top of her cats-eye glasses. For several seconds she just looked at him as she munched on a cookie. “Want one?” she asked suddenly, holding out the bag.
Louis shook his head. She withdrew the bag, her eyes drifting down to the sweatshirt draped across the evidence box and then back up to Louis. She trudged back to the dispatch desk, shooting Louis a final look over her shoulder.
Louis let out a long breath. Had she told Gibralter he was in the evidence room? Had someone else seen him? No, no, he was getting paranoid. No one in the department could possibly know what he was doing. But why the hell was Gibralter checking up on him? Christ, maybe he was just trying to find out if he was with Zoe.
He was clammy with sweat and the small, warm room seemed to close in around him. It hit him in that instant, the gravity of what he was doing. He wasn’t just breaking the rules; he was breaking the code among cops. He was turning against his own.
Gens una sumus. “We are one family.”
Had Pryce had the same doubts? Had he come to the same choice? Is that why he hadn’t acted on what he knew? Had he simply decided to turn his back and get out? But there was no way to know what Pryce’s plan had been because it was cut short by Lacey.
Louis put the beer bottle shard back in the Hammersmith evidence bag. He hesitated then folded the log and slipped it in his pocket. Refolding Angela’s sweatshirt, he put it back in its evidence box but stuck that log in his pocket, too.
He picked up the plastic-wrapped Beretta, turning it over in his hands. With a look back at Edna, he turned his back and slipped the gun in his belt under his shirt. After putting the raid box back in its place on the shelf he left the evidence room, locking it behind him.
Edna didn’t look up at him. No one in the office did, as he went back to his desk. He stopped short.
The two German shepherds were staring at him. A trickle of sweat made its way down his back. Holding his breath, he reached between the two dogs for his jacket. Slowly, very slowly, he backed up, moving toward the door.
CHAPTER 35
The damn Mustang wouldn’t start again. Louis looked at his watch, deciding against calling Dale for a jump. The kid had his own problems after yesterday’s mess with Cole.
Grabbing the black garbage bag off the seat, Louis climbed out, slamming the door. It was snowing, a wet snow that coated everything like heavy cake icing. Gray clouds hung low in the morning sky and a mist hovered over the lake. Hefting the bag under his arm, Louis turned up his collar and started to walk.
A church bell clanged somewhere in the distance. A few cars puttered down the street. Everything seemed to be running in slow motion this morning, even his mind. He hadn’t slept. Partly, it was because he was afraid that Gibralter would discover the Beretta missing from evidence.
But mainly it was because he was uneasy about what he was going to do this morning. He had decided to go to Steele with the evidence he had against Jesse and Gibralter. It had to be done, but that didn’t make things any easier. It didn’t make his thoughts less chaotic.
As he walked, he had a vision of Jesse and Gibralter being hauled off in handcuffs, the damn TV cameras capturing it all for national feed.
He could see Steele standing there, spewing out his self-righteous crap about corrupt cops. As much as he hated what Gibralter and Jesse had done he couldn’t stand the idea that Steele would come out of this with another notch on his belt. What did Steele know about cops? The man had never worn a uniform, had never known what it felt like to be pushed to the limit.
He himself knew. He had felt it that day at Red Oak when he knocked Cole Lacey back in the chair. He knew what it felt like to teeter on the edge.
Another image flashed into Louis’s mind. Jesse’s face caught in the glare of headlights that night they rode with Lovejoy’s body in the flatbed truck. I wanted to be a cop….I had to be a cop. He could see Jesse standing in Lovejoy’s cabin, staring at that stinking dog cage. Shit, Jesse would eat his gun before he’d go to prison.
Louis rounded the corner onto Main Street. The garbage bag under his arm held only the Hammersmith gun, the evidence logs and a copy of the raid file, but it felt heavy. He gripped the garbage bag tighter. There was no turning back, no room in his head for second thoughts. Kids were dead. Soon, cops’ careers would be dead.
Maybe even his own. Until last night, he hadn’t really considered his own position in this mess. But now he could see it clearly. His own career was about to go on life support. Some cops might agree with his decision to turn in his chief but he would still be branded a traitor.
He stopped a block from the station. There was a large crowd of reporters and a new van with NBC NEWS on its side. Loui
s saw Delp in the middle and turned left to duck in the back way.
Delp spotted him and hurried over. “Hey, Kincaid!”
Louis ignored him. Delp fell into step with him.
“Give me a quote, man.”
“About what?”
“Cole Lacey.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Delp pulled a folded newspaper from his coat and thrust it in Louis’s face. The headline said: COPS BEAT JUVENILE.
Louis stopped and took the copy of the Lansing State Journal. He looked back at the crowd. “Steele show up yet?” he asked.
Delp shook his head. “That’s what we’re all waiting for.”
“Can I keep this?”
“Sure. Were you there?”
Louis shook his head, heading to the alley.
“Does the kid know where his old man is?” Delp asked, keeping pace.
“I don’t know.”
“Was anybody else there besides Harrison and McGuire?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’d the kid say?”
“Look, Delp, give me a break here.”
Delp stopped. “Give you a break? I’ve busted my ass for you and you won’t give me shit. I had to read this in the fucking Journal!”
Louis faced him. “Look, when we get Lacey you’ll be in on it first.”
Delp’s lips drew into a thin line. “You can’t make good on that promise anymore. It’s Steele’s show now. You guys are as out of the loop as me.”
Louis shifted the bag with the Beretta in it, staring at Delp. For a moment, he considered telling Delp what he knew. Right now, right here, he could hand him the garbage bag and the biggest story of his life. Why not? Eventually the press was going to find out anyway. The glare of publicity was too bright; it would have to reflect into the shadows of the raid. Why not just leak it all right now to Delp and get out of the way?
Louis’s eyes went from Delp to the NBC truck. No, it wasn’t right. He had made his decision and he would see it through.
“You’re right, Delp, I can’t help you,” Louis said. He turned and started to the back door of the station.
“Fucking cops,” Delp muttered.
Louis made his way through the locker room and out into the office. The place was nuts-to-butts with state flunkies, troopers and K-9 cops. A television in the corner was tuned to a newscast. Louis pushed his way through the uniforms watching it.
A talking head from the Lansing station was giving a report on Cole Lacey, the kid’s juvie mug superimposed in one corner of the screen. The news guy was saying that the “young inmate was in fair condition” at Red Oak. They cut to Warren Little standing outside the center, giving a statement.
Louis looked around for Dale but there was no sign of him. He pushed his way to his desk, setting down the garbage bag. He was pulling off his parka when Steele came in through the front door. Steele had obviously just run the gauntlet of reporters outside and his eyes snapped with anger.
“Where’s Gibralter?” he demanded of the room at large.
Heads swiveled, troopers gazed at him through the steam of their coffees but no one answered.
“Where is he?” Steele said, raising his voice.
Gibralter’s door opened and Steele spun around.
“You got something to say to me, Steele?” Gibralter said.
“Where are they?” Steele said sharply. “Where’s Harrison and McGuire?”
Before Gibralter could reply, Jesse came forward. “We’re here,” he said. Dale was trailing behind, his eyes sweeping the crowd nervously.
“In the office. Now,” Steele demanded, nodding to Gibralter’s door.
Jesse and Dale moved past Steele, neither looking at Louis. Gibralter and Steele followed them in and the door closed. The murmur of the office resumed.
Louis sat down at his desk, his eyes going to the garbage bag. There was no way he could bring this up right now; it would have to wait. He opened his drawer, dropped the bag in and locked it. Pulling the Lansing State Journal from his parka, he put on his glasses to read the story.
It was a sketchy, with Warren Little as the only source and the reporter covering her attempt to get quotes from Gibralter with the old crutch, “Loon Lake police did not return Journal calls.” Louis tossed the paper aside.
Gibralter’s door opened and all heads snapped up.
Jesse came out first, head down, walking fast toward the locker room. A few seconds later, Dale emerged, heading more slowly in the same direction as Jesse. Louis was debating whether to follow him when Steele’s voice drew his attention back to Gibralter’s door.
“Your men interfered with an on-going criminal investigation that I have made clear is out of their jurisdiction,” Steele was saying to Gibralter.
Louis tightened. The asshole was grandstanding.
Gibralter said nothing, his eyes never leaving Steele.
“They are facing criminal charges,” Steele went on, “and you, sir, will be lucky not to go down with them.”
Steele went back to the command desk, his aids quickly circling him. Louis watched Gibralter but the man had not moved a muscle.
“We have a sighting.”
All eyes swiveled to one of Steele’s men, holding a phone. Louis felt his pulse quicken.
“Where?” Steele asked.
“Highway 33, twelve miles north of town.”
The office eddied with noise and action. Steele moved to the center of the room, lifting his hands. “Listen up!” he shouted.
The crowd quieted.
“In the wake of the Red Oak incident I must remind you of an additional obligation,” Steele said. “We must conduct ourselves with the utmost professionalism. We are under the microscope now, gentlemen, and every move we make will be scrutinized. I do not want any witnesses touched, harassed or antagonized. I do not want one citizen angered. Do I make myself clear?”
It was quiet but a current ran through the room, the charge of adrenaline.
“I know how you feel about this suspect,” Steele went on, “but if we get a track on Lacey there will be no quick triggers, no hot heads. I want it by the book.”
Louis looked at Gibralter. As he gazed at Steele, Gibralter lifted his cigarette to his lips and took a slow drag. His face was like granite but there was something new in it. Louis stared at Gibralter, trying to read it. Jesus, it was fear. It barely registered, just a flicker in the eyes, but it was there. Gibralter didn’t want Lacey caught alive; he wanted him dead. He needed him dead so he couldn’t talk about what Cole had told him about the raid.
Steele left, going out to face the reporters. Louis looked back at Gibralter. He was gone, his door closed.
Louis rose and went to the locker room. Jesse was gone but Dale was there, pulling on a sweatshirt. He looked at Louis as he approached.
“It didn’t work, Louis,” he said.
“What didn’t?”
“Telling the truth. Steele says I could be arrested for…hell, I was so nervous I forget. Assault and coercion and something else.”
Dale hung up his uniform shirt, running a hand down the front.
“What happened in there?” Louis asked.
“Steele was ripping Jesse apart, saying he was out of control, a renegade. He called him stupid.” Dale looked at Louis. “I had to say something so I said to Steel what you said to me.”
“What?” Louis asked.
“That Gibralter sent us and he did it knowing what Jesse would do.”
Jesus, the kid had guts. “What did Gibralter say?” Louis asked.
Dale’s face clouded. “He denied it, just out and out denied it. I couldn’t believe what happened next. Steele was telling Gibralter that Jesse and me should be fired. Next thing I know, the chief turned to Jesse and said, ‘You’re through.’ Just like that.”
Louis shook his head. “What about you?”
Dale pulled on his parka. “Jesse tried to tell him I didn’t do anything and I trie
d to tell Steele I wasn’t a real cop and I didn’t even have a gun but he wouldn’t’ listen. He was yelling, saying we weren’t fit to wash a uniform let alone wear one. And the chief was just watching, not saying a word.”
“So he fired you, too?”
“I quit.”
Louis stared at him in disbelief.
“I can’t work here anymore,” Dale said. “I just can’t.”
“Dale…”
Dale zipped up his parka. “I gotta go,” he said briskly. Dale brushed by him, heading back out to the office. He stopped then slowly came back.
“Guess I better go out the back,” he said.
Louis reached out to put a hand on his shoulder but Dale moved quickly away. Louis heard the door close and let out a slow breath.
This stunk, every damn part of it. Jesse was beyond his sympathy now, even if Gibralter had sacrificed him to Steele. But damn it, Dale didn’t deserve this.
Louis went back out to the office. The men had dispersed and only two of Steele’s aides lingered. Steele was on the telephone. With a glance at Gibralter’s closed door Louis unlocked his desk drawer and pulled out the garbage bag. He went over to the command desk and stood, waiting.
Steele hung up the phone and swiveled around to face Louis, his eyes dark with anger. “What do you want?” he said.
“I need to talk to you,” Louis said.
“I don’t have time.”
“I have something — ”
The phone shrilled impatiently. “Do something about these phones!” Steele yelled.
Louis held out the bag. “You need to see this. It’s — ”
Steele stood up. “Listen you little ass kisser. There are real cops here working damn hard to save your incompetent asses. Steele grabbed his overcoat off the chair. “Now get out of my way, I have a chopper to catch.”