Dirty Deeds

by Sheri Lewis Wohl

  A gun was the key and she knew guns. Anyone who worked the job knew guns, but her level of knowledge wasn't enough. She needed an expert, someone who lived and breathed weapons. Harry would be a good start except he wasn't here and he wasn't answering his phone. He knew weapons as well or better than most. They'd been his specialty in the Rangers. She could wait for Harry to show up or she could move to Plan B. She decided on Plan B.

  Chucky Reisen had been a friend since grade school days. Fierce and blond, he'd been the neighborhood tough kid who in reality was about as nice as they came. Only later had she realized that tough had been his way of dealing with a hugely dysfunctional family. Toughness had kept him sane in an insane environment. Today he was the head of the crime scene unit for the Spokane Police Department. Armed with a Ph.D. and an incredible eye for detail, he'd been snapped up after completing the police academy and had never looked back. He still had the tough-guy exterior that kept everyone, except those who knew him well, at arm's length.

  He'd be in. For as long as she'd known him, Chucky was in his lab early and out late. Didn't make for much a social life, but it did make him one extraordinary expert. She grabbed the reports and her notes, stuffing them into her pocket. Time to take the hunt for a killer into her own two hands. She wasn't going to wait on her sisters and brothers in blue a second longer. They'd had their chance.

  * * * *

  A clever man would never hold on to weapons used in a murder or two. He was a clever man, but he was also a man of superstition, and his guns were important to him. The rifle was a gift from his grandfather and a sacred blessing had been laid upon it. That his grandfather had given it to a killer was a bit of information the old man hadn't needed. He loved that weapon, although that love was only one of the reasons he could neither destroy it nor discard it. It was precious.

  Besides, hadn't he heard at least one homicide detective declare that "if you ever want to get away with murder, do it yourself and never tell another living soul." Well, he had killed, and he never told a single person. Granted, those he worked for might suspect he had a hand in the "housecleaning" here and there, but they never heard that info from his lips. He didn't need to brag; he knew how good he was.

  What he couldn't do under any circumstances was get rid of the rifle. As long as he kept his mouth shut, no one would ever be able to connect him to any of the shootings, either current or past. He was a careful man.

  So instead of throwing it into the raging waters of the Spokane River or burying it in an out of way spot in Riverside State Park, he took it apart, cleaned and reassembled it, then as he always did, put it in the lighted gun display case. He shut the glass door and listened for the click of the lock. It would be safer in the gun vault downstairs with all of the other weapons he collected except down there he couldn't look at it every time he walked into the room. A little bit of danger made life more exciting and so the rifle stayed upstairs in the case.

  Leaving the house, he drove downtown where he treated himself to large cup of excellent coffee at Four Seasons. So far, the clean-up work appeared to be done. Time to put on his hat of respectability for the start of his day.

  Of course, not being a stupid man, he realized the danger hadn't passed completely. Louie Russell could be trouble. A little smarter than the average bear, he thought with a grimace. He didn't know how many from the underside of the city knew how lucky they were she was no longer on the police force. She was certain to have kept her ties with the friends she made during her days with the department and, without the restrictions placed on law enforcement, her nosiness could be a problem. But all she'd need was a little nudge in the wrong direction and the problem might very well go away.

  On the passenger's seat, a bundle of twenty dollar bills seemed to glow in the morning light. Certainly, the glow was all in his imagination and that was okay. Stacks of cash had a way of making his whole world brighter. After all, cash was what made the world go around regardless of what the Bible thumpers and Pollyannas had to say. It sure made his world go around. When he didn't have it, and there'd been more days than he'd like to admit when he'd been broke, everything was dark.

  Thanks to some very ambitious folks from north of the border, bust wasn't something he'd been for a long time. The arrangement had been an act of desperation that eventually evolved into a labor of love. It worked for them, it solved problems for him. And every once in a while he got to relive his glory days at the end of high-powered rifle. He touched the stack of cash and started to whistle.

  He was still whistling when he parked his car in the lot that was at least three-quarters full. Looked to be a busy day. With coffee in hand, he headed into his office. He had a strong feeling it was also going to be a very good day.

  * * * *

  Clouds seemed to follow Paul from the moment he pulled away from the Blaine-Pacific Highway border crossing and began the journey to the home of his youth. Any other day he'd have found both the road and the clouds comforting. Spokane was only a few hundred miles away from Surrey and yet they were a world apart. Where Spokane was dry and sunny much of the year, Surrey with its closeness to Vancouver was often cloudy and gray. Today he found the gloominess to be, well, gloomy. He dreaded having to face his parents as much as he hated the thought of Jamie lying cold and dead inside a wooden coffin.

  "Damn it, Jamie," he said out loud. The whole thing just pissed him off. What Jamie put the family through wasn't right. That he'd lost his life over some stupid marijuana wasn't right either. Jesus…dope? Who really got killed over dope these days? Even premium, buzz-guaranteed dope. But, leave it to Jamie to find a way.

  There had to be more to the story. People got arrested all the time for crimes far more serious than Jamie's and they weren't dying. People jumped bail all the time and they weren't dying. So, why then did Jamie have to die? No matter how Paul looked at it, one and one kept adding up to five. He might be nothing more than a glorified jock but he could do simple addition.

  He was still frowning and mulling over the quandary when he hit the outskirts of Surrey. His first stop was at the funeral home. The most important thing at the moment was that all the details were in place so that his parents' worries were minimized as much as possible. He owed them that much. He hadn't been able to protect Jamie in life. He'd make sure all was as it should be in death.

  Ten minutes and a VISA Gold were all it took to wrap things up with George Halber, Jr. at Halber and Yaeger Funeral Home. A single moment more would have driven him crazy. No doubt Halber wanted to be a caring support in a time of sorrow, but everyone in the funeral home struck Paul as irritating and phony. Not to mention none of them helped him feel one damned bit better. The sickness he felt all the way to his soul couldn't be soothed by any of their proffered kindness, well-intentioned or not.

  He had turned his back on his only brother and left him hanging out to die. If Paul had tried harder to understand, if he'd been there for Jamie instead of telling him to grow up, perhaps things would have turned out differently. A thousand ifs went through Paul's mind in the few miles between the funeral home and the tidy brick house where he'd grown up. The house he and Jamie had grown up in, played in, and shared their dreams in.

  Dreams. They'd both had visions of glory in those days. Paul was going to be the next Wayne Gretsky. Jamie was going to be an artist. For as long as Paul could remember, Jamie made things from any substance he could mold with his hands. Mud, clay, even mashed potatoes. Remembering the dog that a ten-year-old Jamie had fashioned from a bowl of leftover mashed potatoes brought a smile to Paul's face. At the same time, he blinked back the tears that suddenly blurred his vision. "Damn it," he muttered as he wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Enough of this."

  Cars crowded the driveway and both sides of the street near the McDonald house. He wasn't surprised. Unlike Paul, the rest of the family hadn't turned their backs on Jamie. They'd come en masse to mourn the loss of a gentle, if misguided, soul. Like his parents, many made
the choice to see only the good side of Jamie, and they now would pay their respects.

  His friends had probably turned up, too. Jamie had heart and everyone responded to that whether they approved of his antics or not. He'd had charisma, and people liked him even when they were bailing him out of jail, which had blown Paul away while infuriating him. Friends and family had enabled Jamie's slide into irresponsibility. If more had taken a tough love stance, perhaps they wouldn't be gathering together now for a funeral.

  Glancing up at the house, his stomach knotted. He wished he felt confident the gathered friends and family would be glad to see him. In the past he'd returned, first as the hometown boy done good with a successful NHL career, then as the coach to a respectable team. Everyone had been happy to see him.

  Unlike his childhood dreams, he hadn't become the next Wayne Gretsky, though he did distinguish himself. Despite taking on an American team when he'd left professional hockey, his family, as well as his hometown, still showed support and pride. They made a lot of Yankee jokes, but they were always delivered in good fun. They remained as true to him as they had to his little brother throughout the good times and the bad.

  Paul's professional success was in direct contrast to his personal failure. He'd met and exceeded every expectation when it came to hockey. The facade was spectacular. On the surface, he was a success as long as a person didn't look beneath the gild. He was worried that the man who would step out of the car today had become tarnished and black. The gild had come off at last, exposing a soul that was dark and ugly. His success was only skin deep.

  His arms resting on the steering wheel, he dropped his head and closed his eyes. His vision became a blur of red as it spread across shredded fabric. He could smell the warm blood, could feel Jamie's body twitching in his arms. Again and again he heard Jamie's whispered words, "I love you."

  "Come on out of the car, Paulie."

  He jumped at the sound of his mother's tender voice. She was standing next to the now open car door. He'd been so wrapped up in guilt and remorse he hadn't heard or seen her. His heart raced. Man, he was a mess.

  "It's all right, son." Her voice was gentle.

  He shouldn't be surprised that she seemed to read his mind. Mom had a way of doing that. Still, she shocked him every time she hit his thoughts right on the head. She'd been able to look inside his head when they were kids and she hadn't lost her touch long into his adult years. She probably never would. He and Jamie would forever be her little boys even when they were old men. He corrected himself—when he became an old man. Old age was a rite of passage that would never come for Jamie.

  "Mom, I'm sorry." He opened the car door wider and slid out to stand next to her. Her petite stature hid a powerful personality that made him proud to call her Mom. She was, and always had been, the glue that held the McDonald family together. Time and tragedy would never change that.

  She put her arms around him and hugged him tight. She was tiny, like a sparrow, and he felt like a dragon. Still, he wrapped his big arms around her and felt her warmth to his heart. Until this moment, he hadn't realized how much he needed her and her strength.

  "This world was always too big for our Jamie," she said with her cheek pressed against his broad chest. Slight as she was, she felt as solid as a mountain.

  "I should have kept him safe." He didn't even try to stop the single tear that slid down his cheek.

  She tilted her head and smiled up at him, the expression on her face sad despite the attempt at a smile. "And, I should have taught him better."

  He was shocked. He was the one who let Jamie down, not his mother, not his father. She had nothing to apologize for. "Mom, you didn't do anything wrong."

  Patting his arm, she stepped back and away from him, her face turned up to his. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears though her smile turned warm. "And neither did you."

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chucky read for twenty full minutes before he looked up at Louie. A frown drew his brows together in a solid line across his forehead. "Have you shown this to Harry?"

  She shook her head. "No. Harry's been scarce lately. I'm pretty much solo on this one."

  With one hand, Chucky pushed tumbling blond hair off his forehead. "Okay, I'm gonna tell you something that's gonna sound weird." Perched on the edge of his stool, he looked nothing like a brilliant forensic scientist. His jeans were old and faded, his button-down shirt wrinkled beneath a pale blue lab coat. He resembled a mad scientist rather than a sought-after expert.

  She smiled at her longtime friend. "Yeah, right. Like anything you tell me now is going to be strange. I hate to be the one to break it to you, Chucky, but you're the definition of weird. Always have been."

  "Hey, I resemble that remark. Seriously, though, I think at least for now, keep this to yourself. Don't show these reports to Harry." He waved several sheets of paper in her general direction.

  "Oh, come on. Not show them to Harry? He knows this crap better than anyone in the city. If anybody can make sense of them, it's Studhorse."

  Chucky's deep blue eyes were not sparkling when his gaze met hers. His mouth was turned down into a slight frown. "That's my point, darling."

  Okay, now she was confused. Or, rather more confused than she already was. It was more than the simple fact Harry knew both guns and the rounds they shot. Harry was, in many ways, her partner. They were a two-person team and had been for five years. He shared everything with her and she shared everything with him.

  "Your point, darling, is over my head. Explain it in nice plain English please."

  "Stay with me, junior," he said as he laid out the three reports across the long counter, side-by-side. "What I'm talking about here is more than the ballistics match. Your buddy Joe up in Metaline Falls is right; whoever did the shooting is no amateur."

  She tapped her fingers on the counter. So far, he wasn't telling her anything she didn't already know. But why should she keep it secret from Harry? "I know." She couldn't keep the impatience out of her voice.

  "Right. Stay with me a little longer." He reached over and squeezed her lightly on the shoulder. "Take the accuracy of the shooting and combine it with the type of rounds the shooter used and we gots us a conundrum."

  She was just about to open her mouth when his train of thought hit her square between the eyes. "Oh, Lord." She'd come to Chucky thinking things couldn't get any worse. She'd been wrong.

  He patted her on the back. "You got it, baby."

  The conclusion seemed outrageous and plausible all at the same time. "He couldn't be."

  "And maybe he isn't, but the reality is there are only a handful of shooters around here who can do this."

  "Harry's one of them," she said slowly, her eyes still on the reports.

  "Bingo, baby sister."

  She shook her head. "No, I refuse to believe it. It's got to be one of those horrible coincidences." Her hands were shaking as she picked up the last page of the report and read.

  "Then again, you remember what they taught us in the academy?" he asked.

  She'd never forgotten, but at the moment she didn't want to believe it could be true. "There is no such thing as a coincidence," she repeated as if she was the student just called on by the teacher to answer a test question.

  He nodded. "That's the reigning philosophy here, Lou. I really think you need to err on the side of caution. For the moment anyway."

  "Don't tell Harry."

  Tapping the report, Chucky nodded even harder. "Don't tell Harry. I hope I'm wrong. If I'm not, well…"

  She put a hand to his lips. "Don't even say it."

  Harry.

  Christ, Harry.

  There is no such thing as a coincidence. The thought stayed with her on the drive back to the office. She parked in the far corner of the lot or, as she liked to call it, the ding-free zone. Near the rear entrance to the building, Harry's late model extended cab pickup was in its usual spot; he didn't have the same distaste for door dings that she did. For a m
oment, she sat in the car, her eyes narrowed.

  Something wasn't right here and it had nothing to do with her visit to Chucky. Granted, everything around her the last few days had been out of whack. This was something else. Then she realized: Meg. Where was Meg?

  Every day for the last week, Louie had found Meg pushing her silver cart across the parking lot. Now the parking lot was quiet. A rush went up Louie's spine. She hoped Meg was feeling all right. After all, time was taking its toll on the fascinating woman, which worried Louie.

  He gaze rose to the second story windows. Nothing moved. She had to assume Meg was upstairs taking it easy. She hoped so anyway. Later, she'd stop in and check.

  Taking a deep breath, she got of the car and headed to the office. On a normal day, she'd have charged through the door, spread everything out on her desk and picked Harry's brain. He was like Chris in a lot of ways, or rather like Chris used to be. Harry possessed a wealth of experience and could see details everyone else missed. That talent had made both Chris and Harry great Army Rangers.

  The difference between the two men was evident after they'd left the Army. Chris felt his talents were still needed and was quickly snapped up by DEA. Harry turned down the DEA and every other law enforcement agency that offered him a job. He'd done his time for his country, he'd explained, and now wanted to work in his own way and on his own time. Bail bonding was a perfect profession for a wild card like Harry.

  Still, he did have an eye for detail and in this instance she could use his expertise. He'd be able to look at the pictures, read the reports, and then give her the details of her prey as well as any FBI profiler. She could use his help. Except she wasn't going to ask for it.

  What Chucky had told her niggled at the back of her mind, so she'd keep everything close even if she felt disloyal. Harry was the closest thing to family she had since Chris fell into the coma. Nobody could have been more loyal or attentive. The three of them had been close before the shooting, but afterward, she and Harry had become even closer. The seed of doubt Chucky had planted made her sick to her stomach.