Lethal Target

by Janice Cantore

  Bender pulled the ATV close to the two men and Tess could hear the argument. She worked hard to listen and not take sides until she heard both perspectives.

  Arthur was a genial man and good friends with several of her officers. Tess knew him as well as she knew anyone in her new town. He was generally well thought of and always involved if something called for volunteers. It was highly unusual to see him get upset.

  Gaston Haywood looked every inch a Southern California surfer, with his blond, nearly white hair, washed-out blue eyes, baggy board shorts, Vans sneakers, and a La Jolla sweatshirt. He’d moved from California to Oregon specifically to grow and sell recreational pot. Tess had heard that after she’d recovered the loot taken from the Hang Ten, he’d marched next door to Arthur and offered to buy his “piece of junk home” for cash outright. That served to widen the chasm between the neighbors, something that was already Grand Canyon–size.

  At least today, Haywood was not wearing a sidearm.

  “I don’t want your people crossing my property to go up the canyon. If you were neighborly, I might not mind, but you’re not neighborly,” Arthur was saying as he shook his head.

  “The canyon is public property. If you can go up it, so can we.”

  “Not on my land. Go around.”

  “You’re not going to tell me what I can or can’t do. I don’t appreciate you spying on me.” Haywood was red-faced.

  “Why would I spy on a bunch of lowlifes?” Arthur was calm and matter-of-fact.

  “Okay, okay.” Tess raised her hands as she walked toward the men.

  She had read reports written by her officers who had mediated several disputes between these two. She knew that when Arthur refused to sell his property, Haywood had begun a harassment schedule, playing his music loud, speakers directed toward Arthur’s home.

  Arthur was not amused and took to letting his dog defecate on Haywood’s property, and a feud was begun. Tess wondered when they’d get to the respective restraining order stage.

  “Chief, I’m more than willing to let bygones be bygones, but this kid, he’s ruining my quality of life. He plays that stuff they call music so loud I’m afraid my ears will bleed. He puts a notice in my mailbox every day telling me to sell. I ain’t selling. He won’t back off.”

  “’Cause I’m tired of stepping in dog poop! Old man, you got one foot in the grave. My business is growing and you’re fading. I’m looking to take on a partner. I want to expand. Sell me your house and move into one of those assisted-living places.”

  “Enough!” Tess stepped in before Arthur could respond. “Mr. Haywood, Arthur is not going to sell; stop asking. And he’s not spying on you. Keep your music down. I can issue citations for that.”

  Haywood rolled his eyes in disdain and Tess added, “Believe me, the fines will add up.” Turning back to Goding, she said, “Arthur, keep your dog on a leash or in your yard; that is also a citable offense. Let’s all behave like adults.”

  “Figures. You’re taking his side,” Haywood said. “Just remember, Chief, my taxes pay your salary, and I put a lot more money into this community than this dried-up old man.” Haywood harrumphed like a spoiled brat and stormed away, back toward his home.

  Tess watched him go. That was the first time she’d heard the “I pay your salary” rant since she’d come to Rogue’s Hollow. Different state, same bluster.

  “Chief, I’ll do my best to get along,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “But that kid is a pain in my neck.”

  “Arthur, I can’t go there unless there’s evidence of a crime.”

  “I trust you. But like I said, me and my dog are leaving soon to head south for a nephew’s wedding. Be gone a few weeks. Kind of worried about the place. Don’t want to come home and find a nasty surprise.”

  “We’ll keep an eye on your home.”

  “Appreciate that. I have a neighbor kid coming over to feed my livestock. All I can do is hope that Haywood doesn’t offer him more money than I got to do some mischief.” Arthur held out his hand and she shook it. “I’ll try to stop being a nuisance. But can’t say I’ll be supporting cannabis anytime soon.” A pensive look crossed his face. “On a more positive note, how do you like the vehicles?”

  “Love them. Thanks again. Both vehicles will be a welcome addition to the PD.”

  “Let’s get them loaded on my trailer,” Gabe said.

  Tess drove the Kubota and Gabe the single up onto the trailer. As she watched them tie the vehicles down, she considered the dispute they’d just mediated. She knew Arthur had a legitimate beef with Haywood over the music and the pressure tactics—not to mention the man’s obnoxious personality—but Haywood wasn’t breaking any serious law that she could see. The whole situation was a mutual combat, mutual nuisance type of deal.

  Why was he so bothered by Arthur’s forays into the canyon? Was it the robbery or something more? Was something else not kosher going on at the farm?

  But the biggest question on her mind at the moment—did the activities at the Hang Ten have anything at all to do with Tim Harper’s death?

  6

  Saturday afternoon, Oliver sat in his office and listened to Drake Harper pour out his grief over the loss of his only son. Drake made it home sixteen hours after his son’s lifeless body had been removed from the house by the coroner.

  “I can’t believe this is happening.” He closed his eyes and rubbed his chin, fatigue and grief seeming to crush the strong man who’d been serving in the Army for twenty years now. “I raised Tim better than that. Drugs?” He cursed and stood to pace.

  “That’s a preliminary finding.”

  “It makes no sense.” He threw his hands up in frustration. “The chief said she found paraphernalia? Someone planted it. Tim would not do drugs. I need to get to the bottom of this.”

  “I agree with you—this is senseless. But I trust the chief to work it out.”

  “She’s already made her mind up. Tim’s dead and she’s going to take his reputation away by saying he was a drug addict.”

  “No, I don’t believe that. Chief O’Rourke only wants the truth. She herself said the coroner’s report would tell us what happened.”

  Drake sat back down, tears evident. “Tim was a good kid, Pastor Mac. A good kid. Why? Why?”

  Oliver got up and sat next to the broken man, placing a supportive hand on his shoulder while he cried. His own chest tightened. He’d asked that question a million times. It was the question he heard most often from hurting people . . . and the question God was least likely to answer.

  – – –

  Bryce Evergreen hurried and finished up the list of things his employer had asked him to do. Yesterday his boss had had a run-in with the local PD at the neighbor’s, and fearing that if there were some problem with the cops, his afternoon off would be canceled, Bryce did everything as quickly as he could. The running feud between his boss and the neighbor was no secret, and Bryce bet the cops’ presence up there the day before had set his paranoid boss off.

  All Bryce wanted to concentrate on was seeing Tilly. He washed up and changed his clothes to head into town. All he had to wear was either a beat-up pair of jeans or a not-so-beat-up pair of jeans, so the not-so-beat-up pair would have to do. He brushed them off as best he could. His boots were the newest things he owned, and he stomped the mud and gunk off and did his best to spruce them up. He’d just been paid, so he had the means today to take Tilly to dinner before she had to go to work.

  He checked his watch. If he hurried. It was at least a twenty-five-minute walk to the inn. He needed to get going. Bryce grabbed a cap, set it on his head, left his trailer, and walked down the driveway toward the gate. He heard a car start up behind him and moved to the side so the car could get by. But it didn’t go by; it slowed when it reached him.

  “Hey, Evergreen, want a lift?” It was Don Cherry, another employee at the farm, although what he did, Bryce didn’t really know. He was a big man, an ex-con, and he gave Bryce the creeps. He’d n
icknamed him “the Hulk.”

  Even though he wanted to hurry, Bryce said, “Nah, I don’t mind walking.”

  Cherry stopped the car. “Get in.”

  Bryce stopped. The Hulk was still smiling, but his tone told Bryce it wasn’t a request. He opened the door and got in the passenger seat.

  “Where’re you headed?” Cherry asked after clearing the gate at the end of the driveway.

  “The inn.”

  “To see that girl?”

  Bryce flinched and shot Cherry a glance, not at all sure he wanted the guys he worked with to know about Tilly. The Hulk was grinning. Or at least Bryce thought it was a grin.

  “Secret’s safe with me, dude. I saw the two of you go to church last Sunday. I figured you’re close.”

  “She’s a friend. We grew up together.”

  “That’s cool. I didn’t really want to talk about her. I was wondering about the church.”

  “The church?” Bryce’s eyes narrowed. Was the Hulk going to tease him about going to church?

  “Yeah. I went to chapel in the joint.”

  His tone was matter-of-fact, not mocking, and Bryce relaxed.

  The big man continued. “That holy stuff helped me get early parole for good behavior. I just wonder if the local padre is as good as the jail padre was.”

  Bryce cleared his throat. “Pastor Mac is a good guy. I, uh . . . like him a lot.”

  “Hmm. Might give the place a try.” He came to a stop across from the inn, and Bryce hopped out, still nonplussed by the odd conversation. Up to that point, Cherry hadn’t spoken more than three words to him.

  “Thanks for the ride.”

  “No problem,” Cherry said, then continued down the street.

  – – –

  Saturday night, Oliver got home for dinner a little after six. He felt drained after his interaction with Drake. The man’s grief hit like a blast of air from a furnace, blazing hot. In the best of times, he never really looked forward to eating alone but decided a while ago that he needed to get used to it. And today for the first time since Anna’s death, he came home happy that she wasn’t there. The murder of Tim Harper would have broken her heart.

  There was still no pressing need for him to learn to cook, however; even after a year, the meals ministry saw to it that he would never go hungry. Tonight he was looking forward to heating up some homemade enchiladas. One of the women in the church made some great hot sauce, and he was thinking about that when he stepped up on the porch.

  He went to open the door—he never locked it—and for some reason the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He turned to his right. Someone was on the porch, in the shadows.

  Suddenly fearful, Oliver stepped back from the door. “Who’s there?”

  A large man moved to where Oliver could see him. Oliver almost relaxed. He knew of the man, had heard people talking about a big scary guy who worked at the pot farm on Chainsaw Ridge, but he’d never met him. What made the apprehension linger was that he’d also heard the term ex-con in relation to the man. Why was he hiding in the shadows?

  “Evening, padre,” he said as he stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Name’s Don. Do you have a minute?”

  Oliver appraised the man for a few seconds, working to relax completely. He shook the offered hand, and his own was engulfed by Don’s large, rough mitt and firm handshake. Don let go and held Oliver’s gaze. Oliver couldn’t read him, but there was no malice obvious. He thought about telling Don he usually counseled at the church and stopped. Why was he a pastor if not to reach the lost? And from what he’d heard, Don Cherry was lost.

  “Hello, Don, nice to meet you. I was just going inside to heat up my dinner. Care to join me?”

  The big man looked Oliver up and down and then looked away. “You aren’t afraid of me?”

  “Should I be?”

  “No.” He rubbed his chin. “But if I come in, can we keep this to ourselves? Don’t you have to be quiet about anything we talk about?”

  “I’m not a priest, so this isn’t a confessional, but if you want to keep our conversation confidential, I can do that. Unless you tell me something I’m required to tell the police, like you’re planning to hurt someone or yourself.”

  He grinned, a gold tooth on the far right side of his mouth showing. “Nothing like that, padre. Nothing like that. My coworkers just won’t understand you and me conversing.”

  Oliver moved forward and opened his door. “Then come on in. I hope you like enchiladas.”

  7

  Tim’s death occupied the weekend for Tess, though technically she was off. After speaking to Drake Harper, which was difficult, she kept track of the investigation as Bender and Jonkey worked to find and talk to everyone who was at the party. Nothing surprising or damning came from any of the interviews. The only mystery was one older guy everyone saw there, but no one knew his name. And they had no luck contacting Coach Whitman. Tess tried to shelve her unease about the case because of the upcoming raid. She wanted to be all in for that.

  At 1:30 a.m. Monday, Tess shifted gears and picked Gabe up at the station and began the drive to Yreka. This bust was something she’d been looking forward to since she arrested Roger Marshall last year and found out he was a pipeline for illegal drugs. Two weeks ago, DEA Agent Marcus Ledge had told her that they were getting close to Marshall’s supplier.

  “We had a breakthrough. A snitch came through with some good information. We took down a drug house in Rio Linda. More information came from those we arrested. Now we have two more targets to hit up your way, in Yreka, California. We think it’s the heartbeat of the operation, at least in the northern part of the state.”

  For Tess, it was great news for two reasons: first, it tied up loose ends regarding Roger Marshall’s arrest, and second, too many people were dying because of illegal drugs. She wanted to stop whatever she could.

  “Opiates seem to be everywhere lately,” Ledge noted. “The group we’re taking down is tied to the Mexican mafia and was probably supplying Marshall. The cartels shifted to fentanyl production a few years back. It’s cheap to produce and gets them more bang for their buck. One gram of pure fentanyl will make a hundred grams of fake heroin. I’ve got people in Yreka getting things ready for an early morning warrant service.”

  He’d initially said they would hit the homes in the middle of the week but moved it up two days to Monday.

  “Just a gut feeling,” he’d said. “Something tells me that we need to move faster. Can you move it up and still join us?”

  “You bet.” She carefully took notes as Ledge outlined the operation.

  Now, as she remembered the call, she wondered if they could really stop the illegal drug flow and save kids like Tim. This was one dragon Tess really wanted to slay.

  – – –

  “Wow, look at these guys,” Gabe Bender said as Tess pulled into the parking lot where the DEA’s takedown teams were staging. “They look as if they’re going to war.”

  Tess nodded as she took in the scene herself. DEA entry teams were suiting up, readying weapons, and completing last-minute equipment checks. You couldn’t be too careful when dealing with drug dealers in general and the Mexican mafia in particular. The sight was welcome and familiar to Tess; she’d been involved in many such high-profile operations with Long Beach PD. This was a first for Gabe. They were here because after Marshall’s arrest, both Gabe and Tess put in a lot of hours working out the drug trafficking operation Marshall had been involved in. Some of their investigation helped the DEA get to the search warrant stage.

  The early morning search warrant strategy was to capitalize on surprise and overwhelming force to avoid resistance that would be a danger to officers as well as suspects. Tess had seen the confusion generated after a couple of flashbang grenades went off; they typically paralyzed people and allowed for their safe apprehension.

  “We are going to war,” she said as she parked the car. “I, for one, want to win it.”

  “Won�
�t argue with that.”

  They found Agent Ledge at the communications vehicle, studying a couple of maps. Next to the maps were wanted flyers with photos of the targets, a handful of men they’d discerned were heading up the drug operation. Tess had the posters up on the wall in her office. One had no photo because they only had a possible name but no positive ID. José Garcia was the name that popped up most often. While that was the equivalent of a Mexican John Smith, Ledge was fairly certain it was correct. Garcia was slippery, the subject of rumors and tall tales. He went by the moniker “Fantasma,” or “Ghost” in Spanish. He was short. Some descriptions gave him a jagged scar on one side of his face; others just called him scary-looking. They got a little more information on him every time someone in his crew was arrested.

  Tess knew that arresting these most wanted individuals wouldn’t end the drug trade completely, but it would plug some big holes.

  The communications vehicle was set up like a compact comm center, complete with computers and TV monitors and a dispatcher to help with the raid. The police action would be carried on an off channel. Most bad guys now had scanners or apps that monitored police activity. Tess knew Ledge and his team would take every precaution to prevent the targets from being tipped off.

  “Ah, Chief O’Rourke, Officer Bender, glad to see you made it.” Ledge extended his hand and Tess shook it. “We’re buttoning everything down now.”

  Tess liked Marcus Ledge. The man was about as thick as he was tall and all solid muscle. His voice was a combination of Bruce Willis’s and Clint Eastwood’s. He was easy to work with and very good at what he did.

  “Any questions?”

  “Just one.” Tess pointed to the map. “At house number one, that field behind it—it’s lumpy. What’s under the lumps?”

  He grinned. “You studied the intel I sent—”

  “It’s a dirt bike course, that’s all,” a different voice interrupted Ledge.