by Lee Killough
“Maybe they hid it,” Garreth said. “As long as we think they’re driving the van, the vehicle is what we’ll look at first. If we find the van abandoned, we start looking at every driver. Whatever else this albino is, he’s a thinker and a gambler. He could have run me off the road anywhere, but he took the risk of waiting for a location where he could inflict maximum damage.”
“You don’t think he just got desperate when he saw you gaining on him?” an Osborne County deputy said.
Garreth shook his head. “We all learned one-eighties in the academy, right? But could you pull one off where he did, let alone in a panic? That took nerves of steel.” Considering Irina’s comment the other evening about when she learned to fly, for all he they knew this bastard could have learned one-eighties in a chariot. “I saw his face before he sideswiped me. He knew exactly what he was doing, and was enjoying every minute.”
As he perhaps also enjoyed the blood pumping from that dog’s slashed throat, and maybe from the wrists of the girl in Billings, Garreth speculated angrily. Anger and fear and impatience all spun together in Garreth. He felt Time whirling away from him. Where was this bastard? What was he? They needed a lead. Grandma, help me out here!
A hand landed on Garreth’s shoulder. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I need to speak with Mikaelian.”
Here came that chat.
Danzig pulled Garreth through the group and out onto the porch. Garreth tried not to wince, though out here daylight felt doubly oppressive. He put on his cap, pulling it down to his eyebrows, and sat on the swing.
Danzig kept his cap tucked under his left arm. Propping a hip on the porch railing, he sighed. “I wish I knew what the hell goes on in your head. I’d have expected you to show better sense. Walking out of the hospital? And what the hell kind of voodoo have you pulled on Nick Reichert to make him let you work on his investigation? And send you to Cheyenne!”
Why did he so often end up feeling like a truant child? Garreth found himself slinking down in the corner of the swing, at the same time angry at himself for doing so. He had no time for this! The albino roamed out there perhaps about to kill someone else, or worse be stumbled over by officers who might kill, if not him, then the bobbsey bitches! “I can’t sit doing nothing!”
He realized he had spoken too emphatically when Danzig’s forehead creased in a wary frown. His chief leaned toward him. “You don’t think that being the victim compromises your objectivity, let alone the fact you’re no way fit for any kind of duty? Have you seen yourself in a mirror? You look like death warmed over.” His expression and voice sharpened. “That’s amusing, is it?”
Garreth hurriedly blanked his expression. “No, sir.” How did he counter Danzig’s arguments? He could just walk away and to do what he had to do, but would feel better with, if not a blessing, then at least his chief’s acquiescence. Garreth moved over to sit on the porch rail beside Danzig. He hunched his shoulders against the sun’s assault on his back. “Sir, I’m only helping collect background information. I’m unlikely to ever come in contact with the suspects.” He crossed mental fingers against the lie. “Even if I should, by some chance...with all due respect, I think that over the years I’ve demonstrated an ability to remain professionally objective and employ the least force possible in a situation. Believe me, I want to see the suspects captured alive, with no more bloodshed, either theirs or ours.” No lie there!
Danzig shook his head. “Will the media and general public believe that if anything untoward happens? We’ll be roasted alive.”
“I’m not about to do anything to cause that.”
Danzig eyed him sidelong and sighed. “You remind me of my youngest brother. Always well behaved, always polite and respectful, yes sir and no ma’am...but when he wanted something, he never gave up until he wore everyone down. So...all right.” He spread his hands in surrender. “I totally disagree with this, and told Reichert so, but...it’s his investigation and if he wants to gamble on you, you’re his for the duration. Just keep it by the book and don’t make him regret this, okay?”
Garreth tried not to grin in relief. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t, sir.”
Danzig stood and put on his cap, sliding his fingers along the brim. “And if there’s anything I can do to help, call. Good luck.”
Chapter Fourteen
Garreth had no mental image of Bradshaw, yet he found himself caught off-guard by the detective trotting down the corridor to meet him at the front counter of Cheyenne’s Criminal Investigations Division. The round face, seraphic smile, and vestigial fringe of hair around Bradshaw’s head looked more suitable for someone wearing a monk’s habit than a Beretta 9mm in his armpit.
He shifted the suit coat he carried to his other arm and extended a hand to Garreth. A clean smell of deodorant soap mixed with the blood scent drifted from him. “Dana Bradshaw. Glad to meet you.” His whispery voice made every sentence sound like confidential information. Behind the round lenses of his glasses his eyes measured Garreth, taking in everything from Stetson and sport coat to jeans and boots. “I was going to suggest walking to the bookstore since it’s only five or six blocks away in the Historic District, but...you look wiped out, so let’s drive.”
Branshaw presumably attributed that to an all-night drive. Which Garreth had enjoyed...leaving after sunset and taking advantage of the long straight stretches and almost non-existent traffic on the Kansas prairie roads to turn the Porsche loose. It had leaped forward, engine snarling in exultation, driving him into the bucket seat. The wind blasting in through the open windows bought a rapid succession of scents, of farm suppers, of pungent farmyards and the warm blood smells of livestock, of sunbaked grass and new mown alfalfa. Being the only vehicle on the road even let him drive without lights after dark. He and the Porsche flew like shadows up the ribbon of highway–grey in his night sight–beneath an infinite dome of stars. A freedom which ended at I-80, sadly, where he had to switch on his headlights and slow to a speed compatible with driving in traffic...and with traffic enforcement.
He welcomed Bradshaw’s suggestion, however. The sunlight seemed heavier and more glaring than ever at this altitude. “We can take my car.”
Bradshaw shrugged into his suit coat. “Lead on.” He exchanged his glasses for sun glasses. “My idea is to come on chummy...invite Greenstreet to have coffee, then give him the chance to tell us on his own that he recognizes one or more of the females. If he won’t--” He broke off as they reached the Porsche, staring at the SO emblem on the driver’s door, and grinned. “Kansas rural law enforcement is better off than I thought. What’s the rest of your fleet like, Beamers and Mercedes SUV’s?”
Garreth unlocked the doors. “What were you saying about Greenstreet?”
“Oh, yeah. How’s your Andy Sipowicz impression?”
Garreth slid under the wheel. “I...don’t have one.”
Bradshaw stared at him. “What do you do when you have to play hardball?”
“In Baumen everyone’s always cooperated with me.” Not that they had much choice.
Bradshaw eyed him...trying to determine of Garreth were putting him on? Finally he pulled the passenger door closed. “Maybe I should check out Kansas job openings. At the corner turn right and head south on Carey to 17th.”
The New Wine Bookshop sat in the middle of its block, its door flanked by windows that each showed an amphora on its side with wine flowing out and down to form the letters of the store name. Through the windows Garreth could see a bright, airy interior with shelves holding not only books but statues of angels and cherubs--Caucasian and Black--cute animals, crucifixes, rosaries, chalices. Behind an open-tread stairway leading to a mezzanine Garreth glimpsed café tables and easy chairs.
Bradshaw switched back to his regular glasses. “Can you lose the Terminator shades while we’re playing Officer Friendly?”
Reluctantly Garreth pulled off his glasses and tucked them in his breast pocket. “Anything for the cause.”
Bradshaw rapped on
one of the windows.
A girl inside looked around, frowned, and came to the window. Her voice reached through faintly. “We don’t open until 10:30.”
Bradshaw held up his ID. “I need to speak with Mr. Greenstreet.”
She headed for the door. At the same time they saw her turn her call into the back of the store. After letting them in, she relocked the door behind them. “Mr. Greenstreet will be right with you.”
The man coming around the staircase, wearing a forced smile, had to be Gerald Greenstreet. He matched the descriptors from the driver’s license check Colby had run. His suit and grooming were those of a prosperous man--Christian books had obviously done well for him for him--and Garreth suspected that normally Greenstreet radiated an air of moral superiority and righteous good will. Right now he looked nervous as hell, eyes shifting from Bradshaw to Garreth and back. The acrid odor of sweat almost overwhelmed his blood scent and an artery pulsed hard under the angle of his jaw. It lit a tickle of thirst in Garreth’s throat.
“Detective Brady.” His voice boomed in false heartiness. “To what do I owe the pleasure today?”
Bradshaw’s Buddha smile went even more serene. “Detective Bradshaw, Mr. Greenstreet. I’m so sorry to bother you again, but this shouldn’t take long. My superiors just want Officer Mikaelian and me to dot some i’s and cross some t’s. Let us buy you coffee at Lexie’s or the Java Joint and we can be comfortable while we talk.”
The pulsing artery in Greenstreet’s neck said he saw no way to be comfortable in their company, here or anywhere. “I...have to be here to open the store.”
Bradshaw’s smile never wavered. “Not for an hour yet. We should be finished well before then.”
The frown deepened. “I’m not sure what details we have to talk about. All the checks are accounted for now and I’m not out anything except for the first two. Surely any questions you need to ask you can ask here.”
“Well...no.” Bradshaw reached into his coat and brought out papers he unfolded and held up before Greenstreet. Sketches of the bobbsey bitches.
Now Greenstreet reeked of fear. “I told you yesterday I don’t recognize any of these people.” His voice lowered as he said it, sending a quick glance toward the two women at the cash register.
Bradshaw’s voice went silky. “Then perhaps I ought to show to them to your clerks. The girls may have come in here sometime.”
Greenstreet paled. “No, no, I’m sure they haven’t!” He called, “Ingrid, Tracy, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Officer Friendly or not, Garreth put back on his glasses as they left the store.
They walked down the street and turned up Capitol Avenue to the Java Joint with Garreth wishing he had brought his Stetson from the car. The sunlight felt crushing.
At the café Bradshaw secured them a semi-isolated table, then studied his menu. “It’s one of the pleasanter places in Cheyenne to have breakfast. I highly recommend their pastries. Mr. Greenstreet? Mikaelian?”
But only he ordered a cheese Danish. Pasty-faced, Greenstreet asked for just coffee.
Garreth sipped tea, concentrating on how soothing the hot liquid felt. He should have used that last stop for gas and a shave to drink another pint in the electric cooler in the rear seat. Once ignited by the pulsing artery in Greenstreet’s throat, his thirst had grown from a tickle to a smoldering fire. But the tea helped, along with the food smells in the cafe--coffee, toast, bacon, waffles--which drowned most of the blood scents around him.
Bradshaw handed Greenstreet the sketches. “Take your time with these. It’s possible that being preoccupied yesterday with running your business you didn’t study them very closely. Now do you recognize either of these girls?”
Bradshaw had given Greenstreet wiggle room. If Greenstreet only used it.
But with barely a glance at the sketches Greenstreet said, “No, they still don’t.” Then, obviously realizing he had spoken too quickly, he added, “I’ve been thinking about them since yesterday but really, they don’t ring a bell. Sorry.”
Anger flashed through Garreth. The jackass! This could have been easy on him, but no, he thought he could stonewall them.
If Bradshaw felt anger, it never showed. He cut his Danish into small bites with his fork. “Tracing these people is very important to us. They murdered a police officer.”
Greenstreet went pale. “Murder... But she wou--you mean the guy killed the officer, right? These girls are just kids.”
Bradshaw sighed. “We won’t know the extent of their involvement until we talk to them. Which one of them did you meet?”
Greenstreet barely hesitated. “I already told you, I’ve never seen either of them.”
Enough of this crap! Garreth peeled off his glasses. “Mr. Greenstreet.”
Greenstreet jumped, then stared, as if he had forgotten Garreth’s presence.
Garreth used that to trap Greenstreet’s gaze. He stared deep into Greenstreet’s eyes, a variety of angry openings running through his head. Did we mention that the murdered officer is a woman...and my partner! We all know why you’re lying. Can you say: indecent liberties with a child? He chose: “Mr. Greenstreet, a man like you, solid citizen, religious, I can tell that you’re being eaten up inside by what you aren’t telling us. Don’t let it destroy you. Talk to us. Tell us about the girls. Tell...us...about...the...girls.”
Greenstreet trembled. “It was an accident,” he whispered. “I don’t know how it happened. She gave me a hug and kiss to thank me for buying her a bus ticket home and--”
Garreth said, “Which one was it and do you know her name?”
Greenstreet almost sobbed. “The dark-haired one. Her name’s Valerie Daniels.”
Garreth reached into his coat for his notebook.
Bradshaw pulled out a notebook, too. “So where did you meet her?”
“The first and only time I remember was in the lot where I park my car.” He took a deep breath. “Mondays I work late going over accounts and sales receipts. That night I left about nine-thirty...”
* * *
Greenstreet checked the street as he locked the store behind him. Half past nine. The late hour did not really worry him, however. In all these Monday evenings, he never felt even threatened. He made his way to his car confident that the Lord protected him.
At the entrance to the lot, however, a muffled scream made his heart skip. He froze, trying to determine the direction of the sound. Then he saw them...a man and woman struggling near his car. The man had his hand over the woman’s mouth and was dragging her behind the car.
Greenstreet reacted automatically “Hey!” He ran toward the pair. “What are you doing? Stop that!”
The man half turned. Greenstreet glimpsed a shock of unkempt hair. Then the man dropped the woman and fled, bolting toward the rear fence and scrambling over it.
Greenstreet hurried to the women, who huddled on the ground, sobbing. He reached down to touch her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
She recoiled, flinging up an arm protectively across her face. “No, please, don’t touch me again!” Then she stared up at him over her forearm, great dark eyes widening. “Mr. Greenstreet?” She sighed in relief. “Oh, thank god!” Her hand reached up to him. “Is he gone? You chased him away?”
“He’s gone.” He helped her to her feet. “Do I know you?”
He did not recognize her, and surely he would...a pretty little thing like her with those huge eyes and mane of dark hair. Her clothes gave no clue--cowboy boots, worn jeans, an oversized sweatshirt lettered: Frontier Days, Cheyenne--and the parking lot lights turned her makeup garish, making it difficult to judge her age, perhaps eighteen or nineteen?
“I’m Valerie. I wait on you at Rusty’s Cafe.”
“Oh, of course.” A lie, but he was ashamed to admit not recognizing his waitress. “Do you know the man who attacked you?”
She shook her head. “He--he just jumped me.” She clung to his hands, trembling. “How can I ever thank you? If you
hadn’t come along...I--I don’t know what would have happened.” She glanced around. “Do you see my purse? I know I held on to it while he dragged me here.”
Greenstreet vaguely recalled something flapping from the mugger’s hand. He grimaced. “I’m afraid I didn’t save your purse.”
Valerie stared at him in horror. “Oh! Oh, no!” Her grip tightened on his hands as her voice rose in despair. “All my tips for today were in there! And my paycheck! All the money I have in the world!” She burst into tears. “What am I going to do!”
He squeezed her hands back. “The first thing, obviously, is to call the police. You can use the phone in my store.”
She nodded and looking dazed, let him lead her back to the book store. There she sank into the chair he pushed up next to his desk and sat hugging herself, shivers wracking her.
Obviously in shock, poor child, Greenstreet reflected. If only he had a blanket to put around her and something hot for her to drink.
The nearest he could find was a cloth they used on the table for author signings and tea made with water as hot as it came from the tap in the restroom, but Valerie gave him a wan, grateful smile. “Thank you. I’m sorry to be such a baby.”
He patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry; it’s a perfectly natural reaction.” He picked up the phone to call the police, then put it down as she burst into noisy tears. Anxiety shot through him. Was she going to be hysterical? “What’s wrong?”
“It’s stupid.” Her voice squeaked through the tears. “Suddenly you sounded just like my father and I--I--god, I miss him! I wish I could go home!”