by Claire Booth
Sheila repositioned, laying herself flat on the new ceramic tile and steadying her Glock with both hands. Another crack split the air. She tensed, but nothing flew by her. Instead, the glass on a framed Euford poster hanging near Rasmussen’s position exploded. She looked over her prone shoulder toward the door. Just behind the opening was the most beautiful shaved head she’d ever seen.
Sammy fired one more shot from the cover of the door and then ordered Rasmussen to put down the gun and kick it over. Rasmussen refused in a string of four-letter words that made up in volume what they lacked in originality.
‘You can leave in handcuffs or in a body bag,’ Sam said. ‘Those are your only two choices.’
Sheila grinned. Then she readied her weapon. There’d need to be one more shot, and she didn’t want Sam to take it. His psyche was still too fragile. Rasmussen kept swearing. She could see through the clothing pile that he still had a firm grip on his semi-automatic. She fired.
Raker loaded Euford into the back seat of his unmarked car. Hank moved to join him.
‘You’re going to sit back there with him?’ Raker said. ‘Why? What’s he going to do, escape?’
‘It’s been known to happen.’
Raker shrugged and climbed behind the wheel. Hank slid in next to the musician, who looked like he’d aged twenty years just walking from the house. The lean face seemed gaunt now, and the chin weak. His shoulders kept slowly rounding forward, shriveling him into a ball of aged anguish. Hank just watched.
They were just taking the onramp to southbound Highway 65 when Euford shifted from staring at the seat back to looking out the window.
‘I never should’ve trusted him.’
It almost wasn’t even speaking, he said it so quietly. Hank just waited.
‘I found him. It took me three years, but I found him. And I had him dead to rights. So I thought I could trust him.’
That might make a lot more sense if Hank knew who he was talking about.
‘But Frank decided to turn the knife over to the cops. Hmm.’ Euford was still talking to the window. Hank strained to hear. ‘That means he hates me more than he wants his freedom. Now, that’s one to ponder, that is.’
Gunner had to be talking about Rasmussen. Hank still had no idea what the T-shirt man had to do with all of this, but Raker had essentially referred to him as a co-conspirator.
‘Why would he hate you, Euford?’ he said softly.
Euford’s shoulders curled inward even more. Hank noticed that Dale’d passed the turn for the police station and was headed on what could be a long loop around the city. Good call. He got comfortable and didn’t take his gaze off the old man.
‘Because I wanted my money back. That he stole from me. And I told him I’d turn him in if I didn’t get it. He’s got priors, which I didn’t know about originally. When I hired him as my business manager. But he’s got a record, and he’d get the full-on max in Tennessee if he got convicted on the stealing.’
Rasmussen had stolen two-point-three million from Euford and fled, the singer said quietly as he continued to stare out the window. Tennessee police had nodded and smiled and not much cared about what’d been Euford’s only chance at a decent retirement. So Euford tracked him down on his own. And made him a deal. He wouldn’t turn the bastard in if he repaid the money. Because he knew if Rasmussen went to prison, he’d never see any of it.
And so Entertainment Enterprises, Inc was born. Rasmussen used the company to hire an unsuspecting Vivian Gillam, who thought it was just another concert show promotion entity. Then he funneled money through there to Euford.
‘Much more money than I was worth.’
He let out a weak chuckle, and finally turned away from the window and looked Hank full on. ‘And no, I don’t know exactly where the money was coming from. And you know what? I didn’t care. I’d earned that money, and I wanted it back. We agreed that he’d be the stage manager so he could keep skimming whatever he was skimming and keep on reimbursing me through the shell company. And then I could also keep an eye on him. That’s why I hung around so much during the construction. I was waiting for him to show up.’
None of this had anything to do with the knife, Hank thought. It didn’t explain why Euford thought Rasmussen had given it to them. That must’ve been clear on Hank’s face, because Euford sighed and looked out the window again.
‘With the shell company, we were almost, what’d you call ’em – accomplices,’ Euford told the glass. ‘So he was the one I thought to call that night. After.’
Raker took another turn that led farther away from the station. The only sound was the hum of the engine. And the rattle of Euford’s breath.
‘I’d just gone to find Patrick. That’s all. I was just worried. He hadn’t been home in a few days, and that wasn’t like him. I just thought he might’ve got hurt or something.’
He knew about the apartment – had seen the address in a text that popped up on Patrick’s phone at one point. He’d been so pleased Patrick was making friends, since the two of them were going to be settling here and all. The kid could get a little down on occasion, and Euford thought friends his own age might help with that.
He parked down the street because all the spots in the apartment complex lot were full. He wasn’t even sure Patrick would be there that night, but he was. And he was angry. Out of breath and angry. He’d tried to hide it, and he’d told Euford to leave.
‘I told him it’d be best if he came home with me. That we could fix whatever it was, and he should just come home. I picked up his sweatshirt that was on the floor and started for the door. He backed away, and so I followed him into the back room of that apartment. I think I repeated myself, and that’s when he started to cry. Said I wasn’t going to want him no more. I thought he might be drunk – I mean, when else does a man cry? – and I took hold of his arm.’
Euford stopped and considered the passing scenery for a good long moment. Hank willed himself to stay silent.
‘He pushed me. I pushed him back and he swung at me and I swatted at him. I thought a drubbing might be what he needed. To clear his head. I swung again, and then he pulled a knife.’ He coughed, to cover the congestion that was starting to creep in. ‘I was close in, you know, and I pushed at it. Pushed it away from me.
‘He fell on the floor and there was nothing I could do. It happened faster than playing a single chord. He was there, and then he wasn’t. And I didn’t know what to do. I could barely stand. So I called Rasmussen. It couldn’t have been too long before he showed up. He made me give him my bloody shirt and said he’d get rid of the knife. I couldn’t stay there one more second.’
He turned and looked at Hank.
‘I guess I should’ve considered that he’d keep it to use against me later. Didn’t occur to me, obviously.’
Hank didn’t tell him that what Rasmussen had done was worse. He’d left that knife right where it was, expecting that the police would find it, identify the fingerprints, and immediately arrest Euford. That hadn’t happened only because of Emily Fitch.
Raker kept going the long way around.
‘Why was Patrick so angry? Why did he have a knife?’ Euford contemplated his hands, rubbed at them a bit. ‘You never really know who people are, I guess.’
FORTY-EIGHT
‘That looks like it’s going to take Dr McCleary a long time to fix.’
Sam stared down at the screaming Rasmussen, whose wrist was no longer in one piece. Sheila holstered her Glock.
‘He wouldn’t be hurtin’ if he’d just come quietly,’ she said.
They each took a side and hauled the bastard to his feet. She did regret the work that’d be needed to put his arm right again. And the paperwork, she was going to regret that, all right. But she didn’t regret the shot. No way.
There was commotion outside the room, and Sam shouted an all-clear. Two BPD patrolmen burst in, guns drawn. She told them to put the damn things away, call for an ambulance, and escort Mr Rasmussen ou
tside because she was about done with his hollering.
Once the cries faded away, Sam turned to her.
‘I guess we’ll have to wait to find out how his print got on that knife,’ he said. ‘I’m super curious about that.’
So was she. She dragged herself over to one of the makeup chairs and sank into its leather cushioning. She was a grown woman and had no business crawling around on the floor. She was pretty sure she’d bruised her knee. And her arm was really starting to sting. She eyed Sam in the mirror.
‘I thought I told you to stay put out front.’
‘Um. Yeah. I heard you radio for backup, so I knew someone would be coming pretty quick. It seemed like the best place for me to be was helping you out.’
He met her gaze full on, which was exactly what she was hoping for. She smiled. ‘Well, that turned out to be a good call, didn’t it?’ She paused. ‘Thank you.’
He turned the color of a ripe raspberry and shuffled those big feet.
‘But how’d you get in?’ she asked.
‘Eh. I picked the lock. Been working on that lately. You know, broadening my skill set.’
She was still laughing when Larry Alcoate showed up and cut the sleeve off her uniform. The track Rasmussen’s bullet had carved was deeper than she’d thought, but she didn’t care. This damn case was over.
She closed her eyes and let Larry work. Finally the pressure on her bicep eased, and she felt something on her head. Larry adjusted the cowboy hat he’d pulled off a costume rack and grinned at her. Sam doubled over with laughter.
‘For our very own gunslinger,’ Larry said. Both of them tipped imaginary caps at her reflection. ‘Ma’am.’
These men.
They had Euford in the same interview room he’d sat in before, although they really just needed to book him into the jail in Forsyth. He’d quit talking. Which was fine, because Raker had used his cell phone to record the whole conversation in the car. That was going to make the prosecuting attorney very happy.
Not as happy as Raker, though. The guy came dancing into the break room, positively gleeful at the confession. He explained that Handlesman had called and fully briefed him about Rasmussen’s prints while he was outside banging on Euford’s front door. Hank nodded and sucked down his second cup of coffee and wondered when the side of his face would stop hurting.
‘Come on. Cheer up. This is fantastic. Case closed. On both Gunner and Rasmussen.’ Raker poured himself a coffee and did a few more two-steps. ‘Oh, yeah,’ he said. ‘Your wife’s out in the lobby. Something about her minivan.’
‘Oh, shit.’ He’d completely forgotten. Had it gotten towed from where he’d left it out on Shepherd of the Hills Expressway?
‘She also wanted to know if you were here. She looked pretty concerned.’ Raker pondered that for a second. ‘Is she more concerned about you or the car?’
‘I don’t have the strength right now to answer that honestly. So we’re just going to stick with me. She’s concerned about me.’
Hank trudged out to the lobby feeling pretty concerned himself, especially when he saw the expression on Maggie’s face. He explained, and that didn’t help at all. He tried again and got the same result.
‘What the hell were you thinking? One, you could’ve been seriously injured. Two, that’s the family car. What’re we supposed to do now, squeeze all five of us and two car seats into Dad’s old Camry? You’re going to be the one wedged in the backseat. I’m not going to climb back there and—’
Raker burst into the room. Shots fired at the Country Song. Suspect hit. Deputy hit.
‘Who?’ Hank and Maggie said at the same time.
‘Sheila.’ Raker was almost out the door to the parking lot. Hank yelled that he was coming, and Maggie was right behind him, ignoring his plea that she stay put. They piled into Raker’s unmarked. It still smelled like old man and shame. Hank reached across the backseat and grabbed his wife’s hand.
Raker tore up Veterans Boulevard toward Main Street and the Strip, siren screaming. Hank’s phone buzzed just as they crossed over Highway 65.
‘She’s fine. Everybody’s fine. The scene is secured, and everything’s fine.’ Sam sounded completely calm. No one in the car believed him. Sam tried to tell Hank that when he was getting put in the ambulance, Rasmussen had copped to taking Lauren Blenkinship’s phone off O’Connell’s body and told them where he’d hidden O’Connell’s black Ford Mustang and Euford’s bloody shirt. But Hank wasn’t listening. Raker turned into the theater’s parking lot on two wheels and slammed to a stop. They all clambered out to find some MSHP officer chatting with Ed Utley, the Branson police chief, and Larry Alcoate.
‘Where’s Sheila?’
‘I’m right here.’ She came around the side of Larry’s rig, a huge bandage on her left arm. ‘And I’m fine.’
Maggie spoke first. ‘You’re still coming in so I can take a look at it.’ She overrode Sheila’s protests with a look that would have felled lesser mortals. She pointed at Larry and then his ambulance. Alcoate scrambled to obey. She gave Sheila a hug, they both climbed in the back, and the rig trundled out of the lot and toward the hospital.
‘Wait until the doc sees the other guy.’
Hank turned to see a grinning Sam.
‘Seriously,’ the Pup said. ‘Do not pick a gunfight with Sheila.’
He changed into a clean T-shirt and jeans, kissed his sleeping children, and headed into the kitchen. He downed three ibuprofen and then opened the freezer. By some miracle, someone had put Boo-Boo Kitty back properly. He pressed the cat-shaped cold pack against his cheekbone and wandered into the living room. He sank into the couch and decided he wasn’t going to open his eyes again until at least next Tuesday. Or until Maggie got home. Whichever came first. She was still at the hospital, helping to operate on Rasmussen’s wrist. He’d suggested she just slap a cast on it and be done with it, but no.
He tried to doze off, but he kept seeing Johnny Gall’s broken body. All week, it’d been the others – the Branson kids robbed of their futures, and their families, now robbed of them. But the skinny outsider who never got the chance for a father … who hadn’t even gotten a funeral yet … Hank pressed the cold pack harder against his face and concentrated on the physical pain. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting like that when he heard it. A sensible squeak.
‘Hi, Fin.’
He sensed her walking forward until she stood in front of him. He forced his eyes open. She was setting a glass of water on the coffee table. She straightened and clasped her hands in front of her. ‘Can I get you anything else?’
‘No, that’s OK. But thank you for the water.’
She studied his bruised face.
‘You might want to consider just going to bed.’
‘I’m waiting for Maggie to get home.’
‘Oh.’ A pause. ‘You really love her, don’t you?’
‘More than anything.’
She nodded and looked like she was going to say something else. Instead, she turned away.
‘Fin. Why are you here? Really?’
She slowly pivoted back and they stared at each other. He was too worn out to dance around it anymore. She slowly sat across from him and tugged at her walking skirt.
‘I need your help.’
‘Of course. You know we’d help with anything.’
‘No. Just you. Just your help. As a … as a policeman.’
Hank pulled himself out of his slouch.
‘What?’
‘It’s about Lew.’
Oh, God. Was he missing? Had he been this whole time, and she was just telling him now? She read the look on Hank’s face.
‘I kept trying to bring it up,’ she said, ‘but I don’t want anyone else to know, and finding you alone this week has been … difficult.’
He took the cold pack off his face and focused on her completely. She clasped and unclasped her hands several times and finally took a deep breath.
‘I think he’s killed s
omeone.’
He felt the cold pack slip from his fingers. It hit his bare foot as it fell on the floor. He chose his words carefully.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘There was blood. And things were missing. His knuckles were bruised, cut up.’
‘What did he say happened?’
‘I didn’t ask him. I didn’t want to know. Then. But it started to eat at me. Something fierce.’
Hank leaned forward. ‘But what makes you think he killed someone? What was it that led you to that conclusion, instead of something else?’
‘Because his secretary hasn’t been seen in three weeks.’
Oh.
They sat there staring at each other.
‘Did you call the local police?’ he asked, even though he knew the answer.
‘No.’ She looked at him, absolutely transparent in a way he’d never seen from anyone. ‘I don’t want to ruin my marriage if I’m just an old fool with an overactive imagination. But I can’t keep living with him without knowing. Without an answer. And you were the only help I could think of.’
Her voice faded as she spoke, her throat slowly tightening around the words like a vise. Hank knew what that was like. He reached down for the cold pack and again saw the teenage faces that he knew would never leave him. He couldn’t help those families. But maybe he could help his own.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Tell me everything.’