Talon Winter Legal Thrillers Box Set

by Stephen Penner

  “So, what are you going to do with it?” Curt asked.

  “Nothing now,” Talon answered with a grin. “Then everything.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Lieutenant Johnson had given Talon a queen for her chessboard. But when it really came down to it, Talon wasn’t playing chess. She wasn’t playing checkers, or backgammon, or field hockey either. She was a lawyer, and she was trying as hard as she could not to play games with the life of her client.

  ‘Trial is fast approaching’ became ‘Trial is tomorrow’ fast enough. Faster than expected. But that’s how it always was. The final days leading up to the start of the trial accelerated, each shorter than the last, with more to get done, until there was no time left for anything except that one last jail visit, the night before trial, to hold the client’s hand and tell him to at least try to get some sleep. They had a big day tomorrow.

  “You scared?” Talon asked Luke, her voice reverberating ever so slightly off the painted cinderblocks of the jailhouse meeting room walls. She was alone. This wasn’t a conversation for Curt. This was the bond between an attorney and the person who had no choice but to put all of his faith in his attorney.

  Luke hesitated, then nodded lightly. “Yeah,” he admitted.

  “Good,” Talon said.

  Luke looked incredulous. “Good that I’m scared?”

  “Good that you told me the truth,” Talon answered. “I already know you’re scared. You’d have to be. You better be. But now I know something even more important. You’re done lying to me. I know I can trust you. And that’s going to be vital starting tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh.” Luke nodded and looked down for several seconds. He looked up again at Talon. “Are you scared?” he asked her.

  The truth was, Talon was scared. Scared of losing. Scared of failing him. Scared of a system driven by the whims of prosecutors, and dependent on the judgment of twelve random people who could never really understand the seriousness of the decision being put to them. Scared of not doing every last thing she could possibly do, as well as she could possibly do it, to save Luke from spending the rest of his life in prison.

  Scared of losing.

  But it wasn’t chess. It wasn’t a game.

  It was a young man’s life.

  And it was all on her.

  “No, I’m not scared,” she lied. “I’m ready.”

  CHAPTER 36

  In case Talon didn’t fully understand that it wasn’t all just a game, the point was made clear when she pulled out of her parking spot on South 9th Street to head down the hill from the jail to the waterfront, but instead of stopping at the red light at Tacoma Avenue, she blew right through it, her brakes failing completely.

  She stomped on the brake pedal repeatedly, but only picked up speed as she barreled toward Fawcett, Market, and finally Pacific Avenue. Finally, because if she didn’t figure out how to stop her car with the brake lines cut, she was going to hit the bottom of the hill and launch right into Commencement Bay.

  The light at Fawcett was green, so she didn’t have to worry about cross traffic, but the light at Market was definitely red, and she was definitely speeding toward it. The hill down to the waterfront wasn’t quite San Francisco proportions, but it was close. Every second she wasn’t slowing down was a second she was speeding up. And if she remembered her high school physics class right, her rate of acceleration was accelerating too.

  The brake pedal was pressed to the floor, with no effect. The speedometer read 37 m.p.h. and increasing. And a minivan was making its way through the intersection directly ahead of her. Talon jerked at the wheel to swerve around the back of the crossing vehicle, her tires squealing and her heart in her throat.

  She started honking her horn to warn the other drivers and pedestrians, but that wasn’t going to slow her car down any. Ninth Street was actually a series of inclines between the flat sections of the cross streets. When she hit Broadway, literally, she was over 45 mph and bottomed out her car, slamming her against the seat and sending sparks flying. She had two blocks left before she shot across Fireman’s Park and plummeted down the hill onto Dock Street and into the water below.

  She reached down between the seats and pulled up as hard as she could on the emergency brake. It didn’t stop the car—she was going too fast—but it slowed her down slightly, and locked her wheels, sending the back end of the car swerving. It didn’t stop her, but it did give her an idea. Ninth went flat for a block between Pacific and the park, with a curve to the right onto A Street. It was her only chance.

  The lights at Commerce and Pacific were green—small mercies—so she focused on getting her car to slow, even a little bit. She released the emergency brake, then pulled it up again just as she hit the flat out of Commerce. That slowed her a bit more than it had when she was headed directly downhill, but it didn’t stop her. Not even close. She had one more chance.

  She hit Pacific hard. The front of her car slammed into the four-lane road and she heard a pop from her front driver’s-side tire. It took her a moment to regain herself enough to pull up again on the emergency brake and turn hard to the right. The car screeched into a moderately controlled spin, slowing as it tried to carry its forward momentum on tires locked sideways. As the car approached the end of Pacific and the start of the small patch of grass between her and the drop-off to the water, Talon released the emergency brake and pumped the gas pedal. Her wheels engaged and she was propelled in the direction the car was actually facing: down A Street.

  ‘Street’ was a generous label. It was much more of an alley. It was narrow and crowded, with street parking on either side, and telephone poles sticking out of the narrow sidewalk right next to the road. She pointed the car for the last telephone pole on the left, pulled the emergency brake up one more time, and braced for impact.

  She hit the pole at about twenty miles an hour. Fast enough to rattle her bones and snap her head forward, but slow enough to finally stop the damned car. The front end was crumpled, but the telephone pole held.

  Talon just sat there, slumped in the driver’s seat, sweaty and panicked and breathless and relieved. After a minute, Talon raised her gaze and looked at the telephone pole that had saved her life. There was a sign bolted to it: ‘2-Hour Parking Only’.

  She dropped her head again. “Tow me.”

  She wasn’t moving her car. She was barely moving herself. But the adrenaline already in her bloodstream from the incident was joined by more, triggered by her realization that whoever had cut her brake lines could be coming up on her right then to finish the job. And she knew, whoever they were, they had a gun.

  All cops had guns.

  She undid her seatbelt, grabbed her briefcase, and pulled herself out of the car, a dozen questions competing for her attention.

  Who did this?

  Why?

  When?

  How did they know where I was?

  It was that last one that won the competition. She looked at her car. They could have seen her car and run the plate. But cutting her brakes hadn’t been a crime of opportunity. It was planned. They knew where she was and they came to her car, knowing she would be inside the jail for long enough to meet with her client—and to sabotage her car.

  They knew where she was. And she knew how they knew.

  She reached into her briefcase and pulled out her cell phone. She’d been doing criminal defense long enough to see the warrants cops used to be allowed to track a person’s phone. With the right equipment—and they had the right equipment—they could narrow down a person’s location to a particular room in a house. They weren’t supposed to use the equipment without a warrant, but she felt pretty confident that anyone who was willing to cut her brake lines—and burglarize her office and trash her car—wasn’t going to be worried about the niceties of the Fourth Amendment.

  She tossed her phone on the floor of her car and locked the car door. She was going to have to walk, but at least they’d have to find her the old-fashioned way. Track
her down on the street. Fortunately, it was getting dark and her condo was only a mile or so up the street.

  The thought of calling the cops and hoping for actual help flashed momentarily through her mind, albeit uninvited. Maybe she could contact Lieutenant Johnson. He seemed like one of the good cops.

  But no. She couldn’t trust him.

  Johnson was still a cop.

  And all cops were johnsons.

  CHAPTER 37

  The quickest way to her condo was due north on Pacific Avenue until it turned into Ruston Way. On any other day, it would have been a beautiful walk, right along the water, with a view of the bay, Vashon Island, and the Kitsap Peninsula.

  But it wasn’t any other day.

  It was night—almost—and Talon didn’t care about having a view of anything. What she cared about was making sure no one had a view of her.

  So instead of the quickest way—the predictable way—Talon walked three blocks back up the hill and turned north on St. Helens, then zigzagged her way through Tacoma’s Stadium District, alternating her route between the main streets with corner stores and street lights and the side streets with tall trees and craftsman homes. Past the Landmark Theater, Stadium High School, and Annie Wright Academy, until she reached the far end of the Old Town neighborhood, where her condo was. She knew she needed to approach it from the rear. She just didn’t know how she was going to get inside without going around front.

  She hurried toward the back of the condo building and confirmed what she was pretty sure she already knew. She’d never really had a reason to consider all of the entrances and exits to her building before, but examination of the exterior revealed only three options: the front door, which she was trying to avoid; a side service entrance, which she didn’t have a key for; and an entrance through the underground garage, but the secure gate to the garage was down.

  Talon took a moment to consider her options. She could stand near the side door and wait, hoping someone might exit through it. But she had no reason to believe that would happen, and she didn’t like the idea of standing still for that long.

  She could wait for someone to drive out of the garage and duck under the gate. That was more likely to happen than someone using the service door, but then she’d find herself in a poorly lit parking garage. Not exactly the definition of safe. If someone were waiting for her in the shadows, she wouldn’t see them until it was too late.

  That left the front door. They might be watching it, but they didn’t seem to be guarding it. She peered around the corner from the far side of the building. There was no one near the door. If she moved quickly, maybe they wouldn’t see her.

  And if they did, well, then let them come. There was a reason she decided to go home instead of hiding out at some other, improvised location.

  She hurried to the front door, her key extended. Insert, turn, pull, and she was inside. She pulled the door closed against the resistance of the slow-close mechanism attached to the top of the doorframe. When it latched, Talon felt her heart slow just a bit. She was almost safe.

  The elevators were visible through the glass windows at the front door, so Talon headed for the stairs. Her unit was only on the second floor anyway. In a few moments, she pushed open the door from the stairwell and half-jogged to her door. Another quick flick of her keys and she was inside her condo. Tired, cold, alone, and scared. But armed.

  She locked, bolted, and chained the door behind her, then proceeded directly to her bedroom. She pulled the gun safe out from under her bed and keyed in the combination. 9mm semiautomatic. Two full magazines. She positioned herself on the floor, seated, back against the wall, behind her bed with a view of the door. She slid one magazine into the handgun and placed the other on the floor next to her. Then she waited.

  Talon wasn’t convinced they would actually attack her in her own home. The brakes were proof they wanted it to look like an accident. If her car had crashed into the bay, they wouldn’t have been likely to actually retrieve it, and if they had, the damage from the fall would have hidden what were likely very small punctures in her brake lines—enough to drain the brake fluid, but not as obvious as actually cutting them. An attack in her home would definitely not look like an accident.

  Then again, it could look like just another unsolved murder. It depended on how desperate they were, and what their assessment of her readiness for them was.

  She looked down at the pistol in her hand. She would take out at least one of them. They probably knew that. She hoped they knew that.

  The next hour passed quietly enough. Silently, in fact. Save Talon’s breathing in the empty, dark condo. The second hour was equally uneventful. By the time the third hour had almost passed, Talon was considering letting herself get some sleep. The adrenaline had drained away—most of it anyway—and she felt exhausted, both physically and mentally. She couldn’t stay up all night. And she still had trial in the morning. They weren’t going to stop her from trying the case.

  She could lock her bedroom door, and sleep on the floor behind the bed, the gun within quick reach. She didn’t need much sleep, but she was pretty sure she couldn’t stay awake any longer either. She started to stand up. And that’s when she heard it.

  A noise. The only noise she’d heard for three hours.

  Not the front door. The back door. The slider to her balcony. The loud click of the locking mechanism being released. Then the long, slow scuff of the slider being opened as quietly as possible.

  Talon lowered herself back onto the floor. She raised the handgun, holding it with two hands, pointing it toward the bedroom door. Whoever it was would be backlit from the ambient light behind them. She’d see them before they saw her.

  She listened for footsteps, bumping into unfamiliar furniture, anything that might give her an idea of where the intruder was. But there was no sound until suddenly the silhouette of a large man appeared in her hallway, heading straight for her bedroom.

  Talon pulled the slide back to load a round into the chamber. At the sound of that noise, the intruder called out.

  “Oh my God! Don’t shoot! Talon? Is that you?”

  Talon knew the voice.

  “Curt?!” She lowered the gun. “Curt, is that you?”

  “Yes,” he confirmed in the darkness. His hands were raised over his head. “Don’t shoot me.”

  “What are you doing here?” Talon demanded, her hands shaking from the new dump of adrenaline.

  “I could ask you the same question,” Curt responded.

  Talon thought for a moment. “I live here.”

  “Right,” Curt acknowledged. “I meant what are you doing here in the dark with a gun pointed at me?”

  “It’s not pointed at you anymore,” Talon said. She stood up, still holding the gun, but pointed down at her side. “How did you get in here? Why did you get in here?”

  “Can I put my hands down now?” Curt asked.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Talon answered impatiently. She strode over to the wall by the door and switched on the bedroom light. She squinted against the sudden brightness. “What are you doing here? How did you get inside?”

  Curt squinted, too, and lowered his arms again. “I was looking for you,” he explained. “You weren’t answering your phone. I just wanted to check in and make sure you didn’t need anything else before tomorrow morning.”

  “So, you broke into my house?”

  “No,” Curt said. Then, “Well, yeah. Obviously. But not at first. At first, I went over to the jail. I thought maybe you were still there. But you weren’t. So, I headed down the hill to swing by your office. That’s when I saw your car, parked all weird against that telephone pole. I stopped to check it out. One of your tires was flat and your phone was on the floor. I got worried, so I came looking for you.”

  Talon sighed. “That’s sweet,” she said, “but—”

  “I brought your phone!” Curt interrupted, pulling it out of his pocket.

  “But stupid,” Talon adjusted her tho
ught. “I left it there for a reason. I didn’t want them tracking me.”

  “Tracking you?” Curt asked. “What are you talking about? Who? What’s going on? Why are you hiding here in the dark with a loaded gun?” He looked at the gun still in her hand. “It is loaded, right?”

  “Oh, it’s loaded,” Talon confirmed. “How did you get in my condo?” she asked again.

  “Well, I couldn’t get in the front door,” Curt explained, “so I climbed up the balcony. Those sliders are easy to crack open. That’s why you should have a wooden rod in the slide-track. You don’t, so I’m inside.”

  Talon took a moment, then a step back. “And why are you inside, Curt?”

  “I told you,” Curt answered. “I was worried about you. Your car was crashed. Your phone was abandoned. Your office was empty. This was the last place I could think of to look. With everything that’s been happening, I just—”

  “What’s been happening, Curt?” Talon tightened her grip on her 9mm.

  “Your car being vandalized,” he said. “Your office being burglarized. Then you don’t answer your phone and you leave your car damaged and abandoned? I knew something was up.”

  “Why didn’t you just call the cops?” Talon challenged. Curt was filling up the short hallway to the front area of the condo, blocking her way to the exits.

  Curt tilted his head at her. “Is that a joke? Who do you think has been doing all this? Isn’t that what you asked me?”

  “I did,” Talon acknowledged. “Now I’m not so sure. You wanted to be a cop, didn’t you, Curt?”

  “A long time ago,” Curt admitted. “I already told you that story. I’m glad I didn’t become a cop. I like what I do. I like who I work with. I like…” But he trailed off.

  “What do you like, Curt?” Talon took another small step back. She had enough room to raise the gun.