Devil Sent the Rain

by Lisa Turner

  A world-weary female patrol officer had nicknamed him “Detective Cool” because she said he never let the bad guys see him sweat. The name didn’t apply tonight. He was bouncing off the walls.

  At 9:32 pm the magistrate issued the warrants. The charge against Dr. Sharma was first degree murder.

  The night was cold and moonless. A vanload of tactical officers and three cruisers followed Billy’s and Frankie’s cars to Sharma’s two-story Georgian home at the end of a cul-de-sac. Lights burned in the back of the house. They were close now.

  They posted a cruiser at the opening of the street then quickly rolled into the cove. Another cruiser angled into Sharma’s driveway to block the garage bays. Two tactical officers slipped to the back of the house in case the doctor tried to run.

  He and Frankie assembled the rest of the team at the double front doors. Billy spoke quietly. “The suspect owns handguns. Assume he’s armed.” He glanced at Frankie. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  He rang the bell and rapped several times with the metal knocker. “Police, Dr. Sharma,” he shouted. “It’s Detective Able. Open the door.”

  Frankie looked at her watch, timing one minute. She nodded.

  He pounded the door with his fist. “Police. Open up or we’re coming in.” He bent forward, listening. No movement on the other side. He felt pressure building behind him, the men’s anticipation. They were ready to breach the doors. He counted down slowly from twenty-five still listening. Then he stepped aside.

  A burly officer came forward with a thirty-pound metal battering ram. He took a side stance and swung it in an arc at the door. The wood cracked and splintered. A second swing and the doors crashed open. Three officers in tactical gear hustled in with their weapons drawn, their boots squeaking on marble tiles. He and Frankie followed with their SIGs drawn. She moved with the officers through the downstairs, clearing room by room, the burglar alarm beeping its countdown. The alarm converted to a whooping siren upping the tension. Billy directed one officer to the garage and another to the kitchen to answer the security company’s call on the landline.

  Frankie came running back. “Not down here.”

  “Upstairs,” he said. They pounded up the steps with officers close behind them. Billy took the master, the place Sharma would most likely be hiding. Frankie and an officer hurried down the hall to clear the other rooms.

  Billy stopped short of the bedroom’s open door, all juiced up, his heart slamming in his chest. “Dr. Sharma,” he called. “It’s Detective Able. Step into the open with your hands up.”

  He peered around the casing and scanned the room then eased inside, the barrel of his SIG pointed skyward. One bedside lamp burned dimly in the corner. The bed was made, pillows propped against a bolster and a tall gilded headboard. A closet door stood open on the wall to his left. On the far side of the room, the bathroom door stood partially open with its light on.

  He waved to the officer to look under the bed and in the closet. He crossed to the bathroom. “Sharma,” he barked, and kicked open the door, moving into the spa-like bathroom with its shiny tile surfaces and gleaming fixtures. He checked the shower and water closet, and then turned to see one of the officers from downstairs standing in the doorway.

  “Detective, the Escalade is gone. I found this on a charger in the kitchen.” The officer held up a mobile phone.

  Damn it. Sharma didn’t forget his mobile. He left it so he couldn’t be tracked. An old trick. Cops think they have a crook pinpointed. They race to some remote location only to find a phone sitting on a stump.

  He came out of the bathroom to find Frankie pacing the Tibetan carpet at the foot of the king-sized bed. The glance she threw him said she knew about the mobile and was just as disappointed. Too frustrated to speak, he passed her and went to the nightstand. Inside the drawer lay a revolver on top of a stack of pharmaceutical pamphlets. He reached for it then decided to leave it for CSU.

  Frankie peered around his shoulder at the gun. “I’ll have Sharma paged at the MED, and I’ll drive by the Baptist Hospital and Shelby Farms parking lots. He may not carry his phone when he’s jogging.”

  Billy gritted his teeth. “That doesn’t make sense. The son of a bitch skipped on us.”

  “I’m going anyway,” she said.

  He walked her to her car. Neighbors stood in groups on the sidewalk wearing coats over their pajamas. Officers waved them back and encouraged them to go inside. The CSU van arrived. Billy went back in the house.

  The living room had the sleek opulence of Italian contemporary furniture mixed with jewel-toned fabrics from India. Billy searched the downstairs for a gun safe then went to Sharma’s study.

  A young detective seated at the desk stood when he entered. “I’ve found a weapon, sir.”

  Billy went around the side of the desk to see the stainless steel barrel of a Beretta 92F in the bottom left hand drawer. “We’re missing a .45 Colt, a 9mm Glock, and a .32 revolver. Could be more guns around. Keep your eyes open,” he said to the detective.

  He picked up an envelope on the desk addressed in an elaborate hand. The return address was New Delhi. Sharma’s sister had written to say their mother was suffering from depression because of the wedding cancellation and wouldn’t leave the house. The sister admonished him as a bad son and said he should’ve come home after heaping so much humiliation upon them. Family was paramount in Sharma’s culture. His feelings for Caroline must have suffered after receiving that letter.

  Across the room stood a wall of bookcases filled with medical books and framed diplomas from Cambridge University, Oxford Medical School, and Johns Hopkins. There were also commendations from two international charities and appreciative letters from patients. A brass box on a top shelf contained the Glock. A detective had found the Colt in a kitchen drawer next to the back door. That left one missing .32 revolver.

  “Detective Able,” a woman’s voice called from the entrance hall.

  He stepped out to see a Rubenesque tech with wavy auburn hair on the second floor landing, leaning over the railing. “Could you come up, please?” He took the stairs and found her in the master bedroom.

  “I’ve bagged the revolver for the ballistic comparison,” she said. “We’re almost through the walk-in closet. Two pairs of slacks have minuscule spots of blood on them, which isn’t unusual for a surgeon who does rounds. I’ve reviewed the shoe impressions taken at the scene. None of his shoes are even close, but we’ll bring everything in. There might be more in the garage.”

  “He doesn’t strike me as the type to leave a pair of shoes in the garage,” he said.

  “No. Everything in the closet is expensive and kept in perfect order.”

  She held up a plastic evidence bag containing a prescription bottle. “I found this in the bathroom. It was caught between the trashcan and its liner.”

  The bag contained an empty prescription bottle with no pharmacy or doctor’s name, only a string of chemical symbols on the label.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve seen just about everything,” the tech said. “These docs are geniuses at hiding their prescription drug habits.”

  He went downstairs, mulling over Sharma’s possible drug abuse. Cold air poured through the broken doors as he monitored the evidence bags going out. The temperature had dropped to just above freezing. Frankie, wrapped in a trench coat, hurried up the front walk toward him.

  “I’ve spoken to Security on duty at the MED and the Baptist,” she said. “They haven’t seen Sharma or his car. And I drove by Shelby Farms. That guy Munford Hale was sitting in the parking lot with his car’s engine running. We had an odd conversation.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He said he was on a stakeout, waiting for Sharma. He told me to leave.”

  “The old war horse. Good for him,” he said.

  “He thinks he’s on the job.”

  “He’s just bored with sitting at home. Can’t blame him.”

  She shrugged
and watched a CSU tech come down the stairs with a bag of clothes. “How’s it going?”

  “We’ve found every weapon except the second revolver.”

  “Better let Middlebrook know what’s happening.”

  “I want to talk to Vanderman first.” He dialed, waited five rings. It was late.

  Vanderman answered. “Yes, Detective.”

  He told the attorney about the arrest and search warrants and that Sharma had left his mobile on the charger.

  Vanderman was silent. “Hold on.” Billy put the phone on speaker so Frankie could hear. Vanderman came back two minutes later. “I’ll have Dr. Sharma at your office tomorrow morning. Does nine o’clock work?”

  “You’ve spoken with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s the doctor sleeping tonight?”

  “I don’t ask my clients those questions.”

  “Tomorrow then, Counselor.”

  “Have a good night.” Vanderman hung up.

  “Well that was civil,” she said.

  “Vanderman isn’t burning any bridges. He may want me to cut his next client a break. You noticed he got in touch with Sharma immediately. The doctor must have bought a burner phone and given the number to Vanderman.”

  “You think they’ll come in tomorrow?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, but Vanderman is staking his reputation on it.”

  Chapter 38

  Billy left Sharma’s house, winding through back streets to get to Poplar Ave. Little traffic. No moon. The search had been a misfire. It was like bringing a SIG up smooth and balanced. Pull the trigger. All you get is a click.

  Frankie had agreed to stop by the Baptist Hospital and ask the pharmacist to try and decode the compounds listed on Sharma’s prescription. Even though Frankie and the tech thought the bottle was evidence of drug addiction, they couldn’t be certain until the compounds were identified. However, addiction would explain some of Sharma’s recent behavior.

  Frankie would go home and get some sleep. In the morning they would work up an interrogation strategy in case Sharma and Vanderman did show up.

  Billy passed a darkened Chick-fil-A and the bright lights of a 24-hour Walgreens. Sitting at the cross street on his right was a yellow 1970 Boss 302 Mustang. It tore out in front of him, the kid in the passenger seat whooping out the window as they whipped around the next corner. Billy reached to light up the Charger’s LEDs and give chase, but then stopped. Not his job tonight. He had a lot to think about. Plus, there was something pulling at the back of his mind.

  He slowed at a red light and watched the cross traffic. Thoughts churned to the surface. Back at his uncle’s house, Highsmith had said, This isn’t over by a long shot. At the time he’d thought Highsmith meant their conversation wasn’t over, but that wasn’t right. The look on his face had said a lot more.

  Billy had once witnessed a pit bull dangling five feet off the ground from a rope tied to a barn rafter. The dog had jumped up and grabbed the swinging rope in its jaws. It refused to let go. Highsmith didn’t appear to be the pit bull type, but it’s a mistake to make assumptions about people. Highsmith had failed to get the information he needed and was now locked out of the law firm. He could still be planning to go in after those files.

  A car behind Billy honked. The light had turned green. He hit the gas. Okay, damn it. He’d closed a lot of cases trusting his instincts. Right now his instincts said to cruise by the law firm and make sure Highsmith’s judgment hadn’t been knocked off the rails.

  He drove the mile and a half to the firm. Slowing, he approached seeing no lights on in the building except for the downstairs foyer. He decided to go ahead and check for the Saab in the back parking lot. As he was changing lanes to make the turn, headlights filled his rear view mirror. A black Ram ProMaster cargo van shot past him and made the turn into the firm’s driveway, hitting the upslope so hard the vehicle went airborne. It then disappeared behind the darkened building.

  He and every other cop in the city knew who traveled in that van and several others like it. They were the KODA Group, an elite security service hired to protect wealthy individuals and their property. What made the service so effective were the 24/7 mobile units able to respond to a security breach within minutes.

  No reason for the Lee Law Firm to have that kind of protection unless they were expecting an intruder.

  Billy turned into the driveway, cut his lights, and rolled quietly into the illuminated back parking lot. The van was angled at the rear entrance with its cargo door open, the crew already inside the building. His tension eased when he realized Highsmith’s Saab wasn’t in the lot, only the van.

  The KODA Group protects what is irreplaceable—works of art, extravagant jewelry, vintage automobiles, and the lives of people who fear retaliation or abduction. KODA’s job was to show up fast and stop an intruder before he could do damage or make off with the goods. To do that, a KODA client’s security system feed was routed to the vans and monitored there. Breakins were never reported to law enforcement. That meant no cruisers would show up at the Lee Law Firm tonight. Just him. Unmonitored responses meant KODA was free to take intruders to what’s known as “back alley court” and apply their own form of justice. The intruder is then dumped at the ER if he’s lucky. Rumor had it that some intruders disappeared altogether.

  He rolled down his window and listened. No commotion inside. Must’ve been a false alarm. He put the car in reverse and was backing around the van when he saw Highsmith’s Saab parked in the shadows behind the building next door.

  Oh, hell. If Highsmith was inside, he was in trouble. Now what, call for backup? If he did that and KODA had proof that Highsmith had broken in, he’d be locked up for sure. He flung open his car door and ran to the rear entrance. He could handle this, he hoped.

  The back entrance was unlocked. He slipped through a porch area and peered around the corner into a hallway. A darkened stairwell on the right led to the offices upstairs. Male voices coming from above sounded like KODA. The voices grew louder.

  “Back off!”

  That was Highsmith’s voice, pitched higher than usual. Billy took the stairs two at a time. More voices. A scream of pain.

  Billy rushed across the second floor landing and was reaching for his weapon when fingers dug into his shoulder from behind. He ducked and twisted out from under then swung a roundhouse right. His fist connected with a nose. The bone cracked. The man grunted, his hand coming up to protect his face. Billy drove his knee into the guy’s nuts. The man doubled over. He took him down with a hard left to the side of the throat. The guy dropped, out cold.

  Billy bound his hands and feet with flex cuffs, pulled his SIG, and ran down the long hallway, hearing another familiar voice coming from Caroline’s office.

  “Tase the son of a bitch and get him out of here,” Martin yelled.

  “I’m about to light you up, son,” said a heavier voice.

  At the doorway he saw two KODA operatives with their backs turned, one pointing a Taser at Highsmith. Highsmith was behind the desk holding a metal column lamp crossways in front of him. Martin lurked in the corner, his face eager with excitement.

  A man lay on the carpet with one hand at his side. Blood oozed from between his fingers. Apparently, Highsmith had stabbed him with the finial on top of the lamp.

  By damn. Highsmith had some grit after all.

  “Police!” Billy trained his weapon between the shoulder blades of the man holding the Taser. “Drop it! Hit the floor.”

  The operatives knew the drill. They dropped to their stomachs, hands behind their heads. Highsmith looked relieved but didn’t lower the lamp. Martin came out of the corner. This was his building. He was the key holder of the property.

  “We caught him in the act of stealing proprietary information,” Martin said. “And he attacked this man.” He pointed to the wounded guy who was coming to his feet.

  “These people—” Highsmith started.

  “Not a word out o
f you,” Billy said. “And put down that lamp.”

  Highsmith set the lamp on the desk, his face flushed with anger. This was probably one of the few times in his life he’d been powerless.

  “I want him charged with breaking and entering and aggravated assault,” Martin said, knowing he was well within his rights.

  What a foul-up. Billy had to get Highsmith out and fast. “On your feet, gentlemen,” he said to the other men on the floor. They stood. “Keep your hands where I can see them. Who’s in charge?”

  The man who’d been wielding the Taser spoke up. “O.W. Chase, Sergeant USMC retired.”

  “Sergeant,” Billy said. “Are we done here?”

  Chase nodded. “I’m good with calling it even.”

  “That’s not your decision,” Martin hollered at Chase.

  “Shut up,” Billy barked at Martin, “or I’ll arrest you for interfering with an officer.”

  “We’re out of here,” Chase said, hustling the wounded man along.

  Billy turned to Highsmith. “Now you. Hands behind your back. I’m hooking you up.”

  Highsmith froze.

  “Do it!”

  He came from behind the desk and placed his hands at the small of his back. Billy cuffed him and took him by his elbow intentionally jostling Martin hard as he passed. When they reached the parking lot, the KODA van was gone.

  “How did you know I was here?” Highsmith asked.

  “Keep walking. Do not tell me if you got what you came for.”

  Billy helped him into the back seat, certain Martin was watching from an upstairs window. The little shit. Billy got behind the wheel and heard Highsmith squirming against the cuffs.

  “What do you think he’ll do?” Highsmith asked, using a strong voice to cover how shaken he was.

  “He’ll try to figure out what you saw in there and report it to Rosalyn. She’ll worry about what you know. I’ll bet she’ll stay up all night forming a strategy.”

  He heard Highsmith breathing, adrenaline burning up his oxygen. Billy felt the same. He pulled out onto Poplar and headed west. They passed stately homes set far back from the street insulated by brick walls, iron gates, and century-old trees overhanging the sidewalks. He’d like to be in on the KODA debriefing tonight when Sergeant Chase explained how a nerd with a desk lamp had held off his team.