by R. E. Donald
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he told her. “You’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty. You’re a treasure, Cory. An absolute treasure.”
As he hung up the phone, he couldn’t suppress a grin. “Shot in the dark, huh, Merv?”
Forget that Merv was his senior, in more ways than one. This was Russell’s case, his first real chance to show what he could do. The case had his name on it, he could feel that right from the start. The techs would’ve found it eventually, but yesterday morning Russell had even been the first to see the label stuck on the bottom of the Iceman’s Nike. “What’s that?” he had asked one of the crime scene techs as they were waiting for the county coroner to arrive. “That white thing on the bottom of his shoe.”
The tech - a tall, gangly redhead they called Stretch - bent down and practically put his ear in the dirt to take a close look. “It’s some kind of self-adhesive label,” he said. “A barcode label. Amanda!” he called to the young female tech with the camera who was photographing footprints a few yards away. "Come get a picture of this." Amanda walked over and took a look, then frowned, eyeing the ground warily. "Here," said Stretch, holding out his hand. "Give me the camera and I'll take it." He stretched out on the dirt on his belly, took a couple of close-up pictures of the bottom of the shoe, and handed the camera back to her. Then he carefully peeled the label off the shoe and held it up by a corner for Russell to see. Russell could tell that Stretch was just barely containing some kind of reaction. A gag? A cough?
“No shit,” said Russell in wonderment. He met Stretch’s eyes and they both burst out laughing. Amanda looked over from where she had gone back to photographing footprints and frowned with disapproval, but neither Stretch nor Russell could stop. The label read Canada Grade A Beef.
Merv looked as blankly at Russell now as he had then. “Needle in a haystack, huh, Merv?” Russell said, picking up the phone again. “Well, let’s just follow the thread attached to this little needle and see what’s at the other end.”
At the other end was a trucking company in British Columbia, Canada.
“Watson!” El barked into the receiver. She’d just hung up on some pinhead of a driver who had asked if it was okay to park a load for a couple of days to attend his brother’s wedding in Boise, Idaho. “You were supposed to deliver that load in Chicago today,” she’d told him. “Where the hell are you at now?”
“Boise,” he’d said. “The wedding was Saturday, and I got just too shitfaced to drive until now.”
“Well, get the fuck out of there!” she’d bellowed at him. “Now!”
Needless to say, she wasn’t feeling too charitable toward drivers at the moment. She was glad when the caller identified himself as a policeman from L.A.
“L.A.P.D.?” she asked, intrigued.
“L.A. County Sheriff’s Department,” he said. “And I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me track down one of your drivers. It’s very important that we find him, as he may hold the key to an important investigation we’re conducting.”
“Oh yeah?” El never used to like cops, since her experience had been mostly limited to receiving citations and fines for traffic violations, but since she’d gotten to know Hunter Rayne, a driver who used to be a Mountie, she’d gained a lot more respect for them. Of course, detectives wouldn’t all be like Hunter, but this guy sounded like he had a good head on his shoulders, and seemed cheerful and easygoing, just like Hunter was, most of the time. “I’ll help if I can. What do you need?”
The cop explained that they had reason to believe one of Watson Transportation’s drivers had been a witness to something the cop wasn’t at liberty to divulge at this point and that it was imperative they locate him, “for his sake as well as ours.”
"Your cooperation could save a life, Miss...?"
“Elspeth Watson,” said El. “But call me El. Miss sounds downright prissy and Ms. makes me feel like a dyke.”
He laughed.
“I’ll take your word for it, Detective�� what did you say your name was?”
“Kupka. But call me Russell.”
El wrote his name down, and his phone number, just in case. “What do you need?” she repeated.
“One of your drivers was hauling a shipment of Canada Grade A beef from a shipper in Burnaby, British Columbia to Fullerton, California. He crossed the border on Friday.”
“They,” said El.
“They?”
“Ray and Sharon Nillson. They drive as a team. Just got married a month or so ago, made a detour to Las Vegas on their very first run.”
“Really?” said the cop. “A couple? You’re sure that’s the shipment I’m talking about?”
“Sure. The Hanratty load. It’s the only meat shipment I had out of here on Friday.”
“Looks like I really lucked out, El, getting hold of you. I wonder if you’d be able to estimate where this Ray and Sharon Nillson would be about now, maybe tell me what their truck looks like, the license plate number, that sort of thing?”
“I can go one better,” El said. “Ray’s truck has all the bells and whistles on it, including a satellite pager and a cell phone. I’ll get them on the blower and find out exactly where they are.” She had her finger on the hold button when she heard the cop say, “Wait!”
“What?”
“It might be best not to let them know we’re looking for them. Some drivers are a little nervous about the police, if you know what I mean.”
Was the cop sounding a little nervous himself? El considered this silently for a few seconds, wondering if she’d been too quick to accept this guy for a cop, too quick to cooperate.
“What I mean, El,” he continued, “is that I’d hate to upset them, make them worry and wonder about why the police want to talk to them, until we’ve had a chance to explain it to them fully.” He sounded so relaxed that her doubts vanished. “I wish I could divulge more to you, right now, at this very instant, but that’s just not possible. Once we’ve discussed it with them - Ray and Sharon - of course, we’ll give them the okay to talk to you about it. In confidence, mind you, and only to you. It’s never a good idea to spread information about active cases, except to the most senior and trustworthy people, if you know what I mean.”
“Of course,” said El, deciding that she’d have to talk to Hunter about this. Any information would be safe with him, and the L.A. cop couldn’t have any objection to her discussing it with a former RCMP officer, could he? “Of course,” she repeated, reaching for the hold button. “I’ll just make it sound routine.”
“Yes!” said Russell, pushing back his chair and punching the air with a happy fist. “Yes!”
“What?” asked Merv. Somewhere during Russell’s conversation with the butch trucker in Canada Merv had wandered off to the can and now he was back, hitching up his pants. There were a few dark spots among the usual grease stains on Merv’s khaki slacks, and Russell, momentarily and with distaste, wondered if they were water, or not.
“Let’s go,” said Russell, snatching up his jacket.
“Go where?” Merv was fiddling with his pant legs near his crotch, probably trying to straighten out his boxer shorts, as he reached for his pork pie hat with his other hand.
“To pick up our suspects for questioning.” My suspects, he corrected himself mentally. My suspects.
“What suspects?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Ray and Sharon Nillson,” said Russell over his shoulder, barely able to suppress a grin. Yes! This was his case. Things were clicking into place so beautifully it almost made him giddy.
“Where?” asked Merv, falling further behind.
“Hurry up,” said Russell. “If we step on it, we can pull them over this side of the Ventura Freeway.”
“Shit, Cupcake! I'm supposed to give evidence in the Cutter case in an hour.”
“So do it then,” said Russell, waving over his shoulder. “I’ve sent a couple of black and whites out to locate them and sit on their tail until I get there, so I won't be alone. Go to court,
Merv. I can manage this on my own.” He heard Merv’s footsteps stop.
“Yes,” said Russell, as the door closed between him and his partner. “Thanks for the help, Merv, you old porker, but I can manage this case quite well on my own.”
Ray had volunteered to drive the Kenworth through the L.A. traffic, but Sharon told him she had to learn to do it sometime. Right at the start, they had decided that it would work best if she did most of the day driving and he did most of the night driving, but unless they had a real tight schedule, they'd pull over for at least a few hours in bed together during the night. They were practically still on their honeymoon, after all. So after picking up the load in Anaheim, Sharon took the wheel and Ray was relaxing in the passenger seat, trying to get forty winks so he'd be able to drive most of the night. She couldn't see his eyes behind his dark glasses, but from the tilt of his head and slack of his face, she thought he must have dozed off. Peaches slept curled up on his lap. The sleep of the innocent, she thought for the hundredth time.
She'd be glad to get out of California. Ray said that if El could find them a load from Vancouver to the Midwest, he had a few contacts that could give them loads out of Chicago, maybe just short hauls for starters, although she wouldn't officially be able to drive when they were moving loads from one place to another in the U.S., at least, not until she had her green card. Yes, that could really happen, she reminded herself.
Sharon tried to picture things way in the future. Her with her green card, being able to drive anywhere in the United States. The two of them spending time at that lakefront cottage Ray owned in Minnesota, having his brother and their family over for barbecues sometimes. She'd never met Ray's brother and his wife, but she'd seen pictures. She imagined herself and her sister-in-law working together in the kitchen while the two brothers were out on the porch discussing the day's catch. She pictured herself sharing confidences with her sister-in-law as they scrubbed potatoes and tore up lettuce for a salad, throwing a few funny remarks out at the men from time to time and laughing, just like a real family, like she'd always wished her own family had been. It felt good to think about the future. As the hours had gone by, what had happened Monday morning slipped farther and farther away, until it now felt more than ever like just a bad dream. They might forget about it completely, with time. It seemed to Sharon that they had made an unspoken agreement to do just that.
When she saw the first police car pass her, she felt a twinge of fear in her stomach, but it disappeared when he settled into the stream of rush hour traffic one lane over just ahead of her. She couldn't spend the rest of her life freaking out every time she saw a cop car on the road, for Pete's sake. It had been there for ten or fifteen minutes when she saw the second one come up beside her, staying level with the cab of the truck. One cop car nearby in traffic, that she could handle. But two sticking close by? She caught the cop in the passenger seat looking up at her with that unreadable expression cops have, and her stomach lurched. She wondered if she should wake Ray.
Get a grip on yourself, girl. She managed a tight little smile, then decided to try an experiment, taking her foot off the gas and letting the gap between her and the car in front widen. The cop car beside her nosed ahead at first, then slowed to keep pace. Sharon felt a wave of heat rise up her face and it occurred to her that she might faint. She took a deep breath. This can't be happening, she told herself. This has to be another bad dream. Just then the flashers on both police cars went on, and the cop beside her, looking right at her, pointed at the exit up ahead. Sharon suddenly turned cold and just as suddenly hot again. Could she just pretend she didn't see them? that she didn't understand? She fought the urge to put the pedal to the floor. There was nowhere to go, and if this was just a traffic stop, trying to run would only make things worse. A traffic stop. Maybe it was just a traffic stop.
Sharon eased the truck down the exit ramp, and pulled over on the shoulder just behind the first police car. Ray's hands had started moving, adjusting Peaches on his lap, so she knew he was awake. She tried to speak but her mouth and throat were so dry, she had to suck on her tongue and swallow before any sound came out. "Police," she said. "They've been following us a long time, Ray." She could see her own worried face reflected in his glasses, tried a smile, but it wouldn't take. "It's not a normal traffic stop, is it, Ray?"
Ray looked as stern and strong as she'd ever seen him, and part of her stopped worrying long enough to marvel at how handsome it made him look, as if she were watching this happen in a movie.
"Don't say a word," he said in a low voice. "You hear me? Not one word to any of them, ever. Nothing!" She'd never heard him talk that way before, with such force and anger.
"But, Ray. I don't know..."
"No, Sharon. When I say not one word, I mean it. You don't know how these guys can twist things around on you. Don't say nothing! Remember, you got a right to remain silent, whatever they tell you. Don't say a word."
"I can tell them I don't know anything, Ray." She couldn't keep her voice from shaking. She looked down at her hands and they were shaking, too. Shaking as bad as they'd ever shook when she was in withdrawal.
"Promise me, Sharon," said Ray, grabbing her hands and pressing them together, holding them still. "Promise me that you won't say a word."
And then a man's voice yelled, "Get out of the truck! Keep your hands where I can see them, and get out of the truck!" Sharon looked around her. There were six of them, now. Six cops standing at intervals around the cab, and every single one of them pointed straight at her and Ray, with a gun.
CHAPTER
FOUR
Hunter awoke to the gray light of dawn spilling in through the tiny window of his sleeper. He lay on top of the bedding wearing nothing but his watch and yesterday's jockey shorts, but even so his skin was clammy with sweat. This was his fifth night in the sleeper since he'd left Vancouver, the second one in L.A. waiting for a load. Sleeping in a tin box was starting to wear pretty thin. He would have sprung for an air-conditioned hotel room if work hadn't been so slow. His first thought was to call El. It would sure improve his mood if he knew there was a load for him to pick up today, that he'd be back on the road and getting his rig to pay its keep. He looked at his watch. If she wasn't in the office yet, she would be soon. He knuckled the sleep out of his eyes, and reached for his cell phone. This time of day was free.
"It's about fuckin' time!" said El.
Hunter checked his watch again. It wasn't even six o'clock. "This mean you've got a load for me?" he asked, his mood brightening.
El sighed, almost growled. "Yeah, you could say that."
"What is it?"
"Nacho sauce."
"Nacho sauce? You mean, Ray and Sharon didn't get the nacho sauce?"
"They got it all right." Her voice was grim. "But not any more."
"Stop tap dancing around, El." He reached over and unlocked the sleeper's little door, punched it wide open to the morning air.
"Ray and Sharon have been... uh... detained by the L.A. County Sheriff's department. I don't know what the hell is going on, except that Ray called me late yesterday and said they'd been arrested."
"Why? What have they done?" Hunter arched his back to stretch it, then reached for his blue jeans which he'd folded and placed at the foot of the bunk.
"Nothing."
He waited for her to continue. There had to be more.
"According to Ray, nothing," she said. "Getting an explanation out of Ray was like pulling teeth. He said they were being held for questioning, so I asked how long before they'd be back on the road, and he said he didn't know, but it might be a good idea if I lined up someone else to retrieve the load." She paused for another sigh. "I think it's serious, Hunter. I talked to the asshole cop who arrested them." Her voice was briefly vehement. "He wouldn't tell me anything either, but he did say not to count on them going back to work, that he expected Ray and Sharon to be arraigned tomorrow on suspicion of murder."
Hunter's jaw dropped. "Murd
er? This is Ray and Sharon Nillson you're talking about?"
"Murder," El repeated. "I'll give you the asshole's name and number, and maybe you can talk to him, cop to cop."
"I'm not a cop any more. He'll just tell me it's none of my business, and rightly so."
"But it is your business."
"It's not my business," Hunter said firmly.
"Ray's expecting you. I told him you'd straighten things out, get them lined up with a good lawyer, that sort of thing."
"Me?"
"Who better? You're there, and you know all about how cops work."
It was Hunter's turn to sigh. He ran his hand over his face. It needed the sweat scrubbed off and a good shave.
"Hunter? You still there?"
"Yes," he said.
"Something else," she said, then cleared her throat.
Hunter waited, knowing it was something he didn't want to hear.
"I also promised Ray we'd take care of Peaches."
The first thing Sharon saw when she opened her eyes was her left hand. It lay on a coarse sheet inches from her nose, and her fingers were bare. Her rings!? Where was her wedding ring? She was about to cry out for Ray when she remembered where she was, and the sharp edge of panic was replaced by a cold wave of fear and a churning in her gut. She was surprised she'd finally been able to sleep, and now she wished she hadn't awakened. The oblivion of exhausted sleep was better than this nightmare. She moaned, squeezing her eyes and lips tight to stifle a sob.
"Whatsa matter, girlie? You need a fix?" The woman in the cell with her could have been forty, or she could have been sixty. Skinny as a rake. Her face was badly weathered and she had no front teeth. "What you whimpering for? Ain't nobody here gonna feel sorry for you, precious. Them bitches just love to see you cry."
Sharon shot her a shut-up glare and buried her face in the pillow. She missed Ray something awful. It was like an anvil hanging from her heart, some kind of lead weight pulling at her insides.