by Pamela Cowan
The only problem was that every time he played that scenario it reset to another one, with him holding the gun while his father laughed his ass off. No way would he be able to bluff that crazy bastard.
The next best plan that came to him wasn’t his at all. It was his ex-girlfriend, Krista’s idea. When he started dating her, she’d been working at Shirley’s Market, a neighborhood store in a Hollis suburb. He’d pick her up and sometimes he’d get there too early so they’d hang out. They’d eat chips and sneak beer out of the cooler, filling up a slushie cup in case a customer came in or they got caught on camera. Luckily the only camera was pointed at the till, keeping an eye on the clerk’s sneaky fingers, so that wasn’t too hard to avoid.
Once she could leave and they were in Willy’s truck, Krista would talk about how easy it would be to rob Shirley’s. “Just hide your face, buy an old jacket at the Goodwill, come in and hold a gun on me. I’ll be so scared I’ll give up all the money in the till. Plus the extra money.”
“Extra money?”
She explained that when the till got over two hundred in it, they were supposed to count out the extra, put it in an envelope, and drop it in the safe. Only no one did that. Instead, they’d tuck the envelope next to the till, hiding it in a bunch of paperwork. That way if they ran short they could pull money out of it rather than call the owner, the only one with a key to get into the safe.
Krista said afterward they’d meet and split the money. Willy had always laughed off the idea, pretending she was joking, even when he knew she wasn’t.
Then one day he’d shown up at the store and another guy had been there, hanging out with her. He was an older man with a better car. Krista had told him how sorry she was. How she’d found someone else. He was pretty sure she was hoping he’d fight the other guy, or at least act hurt. Instead, he’d looked at her bleached blond hair with its dark roots, a sort of reverse skunk effect. Noticed the black gunk around her eyes and how her lipstick clumped in the corners of her mouth. Then he looked at the guy with her, said, “Good luck,” and walked away. It had been the smartest move he’d ever made.
Krista’s plan could still work though. He knew about the envelope. Knew the store’s cameras. At least as long as they hadn’t changed them. He hadn’t seen Krista in about a year but he doubted she worked at Shirley's anymore. She wasn’t the kind of employee to keep a job for long.
He drove away from his home without looking back. Behind him a cloud of dust rose and hovered in the air. He ran through the plan over and over. What he would say. What he thought the clerk would do. How he would react to. He stopped, looked both ways, then drove from the dirt road onto the highway. He was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice the car that drove onto the highway and fell in line not far behind him.
* * *
Inside the unmarked police car the deputy spoke into his cell phone. “I’m heading south on 97, vehicle in front of me, two for cover.” This told his team that he was following Willy Keene south, down Highway 97, with two cars between them.
* * *
When Willy pulled into the parking lot of Shirley’s Market his hands were shaking. He wiped his damp palms on his jeans. This is dumb. This is a dumb idea. He put his hand in the pocket of his jacket. His fingers brushed the cold steel of the gun.
There were only two cars in the parking lot. The one parked farthest from the door probably belonged to the clerk. He waited until the driver of the second car, a woman carrying a soda and unwrapping a pack of cigarettes, left the store.
She looked barely old enough to smoke. Her short dark hair had pink streaks. Under a brown corduroy jacket she wore a pink t-shirt. She also had on faded jeans with frayed hems and neon-orange sneakers. Willy realized his brain was working overtime. He was staring at the woman, seeing and cataloging everything about her as if his life depended on it.
Breaking his gaze he sat motionless, staring straight ahead, until he heard her car start up and drive away.
“Time to go,” he said under his breath, and climbed out of his truck. His knees wobbled a bit but he forced himself to move.
Once inside, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. The clerk was male, early twenties, a little heavy. He nodded a welcome to Willy from behind the register, then went back to looking at his phone.
Willy wandered around the store, making sure they were alone. He picked up a small package of chocolate donuts and grabbed a strawberry milk from the cooler. All an excuse to let him circle the perimeter of the small space. No one else was there.
Carrying the items to the counter he set them down. Then, before he could lose his nerve he said “Put the money from the register in a paper bag. I have a gun.” The sound of his own voice, so calm and direct, surprised him.
The clerk’s eyes went wide and he seemed frozen. Willy spotted a stack of small paper bags on the edge of the counter. He took one and handed it to the clerk. “Put the money in this. Open the register. Now!”
The clerk jumped, then took a half step to the left and hit a button on the register. The drawer slid open noisily making Willy jump. The clerk reached into the register, pulling out the money, fumbling and dropping some of it as he tried to open the bag and stuff money into it at the same time.
Willy, afraid that someone might drive up, tried to keep his eyes on the clerk and on the parking lot at the same time.
The clerk, his name tag said Brice, tried to hand the bag to Willy but he didn’t take it. “The envelope,” he said. “The money you keep out so you can refill the till. Get the envelope.”
“We . . . we aren’t allowed to refill the till.”
Willy stared at him, saw his eyes dart to and then away from where Krista said they kept the envelope.
He drew the gun out of his pocket. Brice stared at it, licked his lips. Willy thought he looked scared enough to wet himself but he could understand. The gun’s grip was so slick with his sweat he was afraid he might drop it.
“I-I forgot,” Brice lied, and reached between the register and a display of lighters where inventory lists, purchase orders and miscellaneous papers were kept. He pulled out a small manilla envelope.
“Put it in the bag,” Willy told him.
Brice did.
“Now hand it to me.” Willy took the bag and backed toward the door. “You stay. You stay where you are. You hear me?”
Brice nodded. His face was pale as paper, except for bright pink spots high on his cheeks.
Willy pushed through the glass door, headed toward his truck at a quick pace, the gun held tight against the side of his leg.
The street was quiet. Weirdly quiet. No traffic. No kids on bikes. Nothing. No, not nothing, a squirrel was chirping and in the distance he could hear the sound of a lawn mower.
Willy looked around, scanning the neighborhood, the street. The grange hall, a large community building with a dirt parking lot was across the street.
The sun broke from the clouds. A flash of light caught his eye. Behind the grange he spotted a dark fender, the sun reflecting from the surface of a spotlight mounted on it.
Police. A police car had been backed in, behind the grange. They were there. Hiding. He broke into a cold sweat.
“Fuck.”
Everything was still amplified, colors sharper, smells stronger, sounds louder. Only time seemed muffled, strangely slowing.
There was a sound. Something he’d heard before. The soft rattling of a small stone rolling across asphalt, then the scuff of a shoe. He started to turn, saw another police car parked in the driveway of the house next door.
“Hands up! Police! Get your hand’s . . . “
Willy heard loud excited voices shouting at him. Orders coming from every direction. Confused and scared, he spun toward the loudest voice. The gun in his hand swung loosely at the end of his arm as he turned.
“Gun!”
The first bullet slammed into his side just above his right hip, traveled diagonally upward and lodged itself just below h
is left rib cage. It didn’t hurt. Willy thought it felt like someone had thrown a snowball at him. Still, something made him go to his knees.
The second bullet tore through his left bicep, smashed into his ribs and knocked him sideways. The gun fell from his hand and skittered across the parking lot.
The third bullet hit his jaw and kept traveling, bone and bullet fragments tearing through his brain and ending his life.
The fourth and fifth bullets punched through his thigh, and although the target was dead, the impact moved the body and one of the officers fired again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Monday, September 17
Once more the Major Crime Unit met in the main conference room of the DA’s office to discuss the Keller murder. This time there was a different feel to the room. A sort of unspoken sense of a job well done. No one congratulated anyone however. Someone had died. Besides, an officer involved shooting was always a pain in the ass. An internal investigation would take place. Accusations of police brutality would hit the news. However, in this case, no one seemed to think there would be too much kick back. William Keene, Jr. had been armed and was caught in the commission of a felony when he was shot.
“We all know this was a bad guy,” Beale said. “Sheriff Plummer, would you mind filling us in?” Beale didn’t mind giving the man the room. It was a good move politically and kept the focus off of him, just where he liked it. Besides, he’d met with Plummer to help formulate the narrative so he didn’t expect any surprises. There weren’t any.
“Our working theory is that this all started in July when that warehouse on Market went up,” the Sheriff explained. “You guys remember that?” A few heads nodded. “We now believe that William Keene set the warehouse on fire. The warehouse was owned by Dodge Keller. He paused for dramatic effect, then went on. “The fire was meant to draw Dodge out. We think Keene hid himself somewhere, where he could watch the property. When Dodge arrived he planned to kill him. However, Dodge didn’t show up. We think he then came up with a different plan.”
“Why do you think Keene wanted to kill Dodge?” someone asked. Beale looked up from the notepad where he’d been doodling but didn’t catch who’d spoken.
“For money. We believe he was hired to do so.” explained the sheriff. “Ernesto Padillo had threatened to kill Dodge Keller. As most of you know, the Padillos run a drug operation that we, along with the feds, have been investigating for the past year. Keller runs a smaller operation out of the reservation. We got wind of a disagreement between them. When Miguel Padillo committed suicide his brother, Ernesto, blamed it on Dodge Keller.”
“Why would he think that Dodge had anything to do with his brother’s death?” asked one of the young officers “I remember that. Wasn’t it suicide?”
“That’s what the coroner said, and that’s what we have to go on. What’s important to know is that whether it was a suicide or not, Ernesto believed Dodge had something to do with his brother’s death and he wanted him dead.
“However, it wouldn’t be that easy for him. Dodge had a lot of men paid to protect him. Padillo couldn’t drive out to the reservation without being recognized. He knew the smart thing would be to hire someone who could get around out there without being noticed. We think that’s why he hired Keene.
“Keene’s father is known out there as The Banker. He’s the local lender for folks who can’t get money the normal way.”
“Like a loan shark?” someone asked.
“Exactly,” said Sheriff Plummer. “He drives all over that area, and so does his son. No one would have thought twice seeing him out there. Plus, we know for a fact he was there. He was seen by several locals the morning Keller was killed. Doesn’t leave much doubt.
“As part of our investigation, we put our special operations team on surveillance in hopes of catching Keene and Padilla in a meeting. A meeting between them would strengthen our case. Instead, Keene was caught robbing Shirley’s Market. He brandished a handgun and was shot.”
“But why rob a small store if he had just fulfilled a contract to kill someone?” asked one of the deputies. “Wouldn't he have been paid pretty well?”
“That may be another thing we will never understand,” offered Beale. “Criminals are not wired the way the rest of us are.” He noticed there were nods of agreement all around the table. With this level of unity the meeting should wrap up soon. He hoped so. After all, he had work to do.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Monday, September 17
With four people in it, Emma’s office was filled to capacity. Emma had rolled her office chair out from behind the desk and they now sat in a circle, El and Gwen in her guest chairs, Leo perched on the edge of the desk. He had one foot tucked under the other leg and was bent toward her, listening. His intense focus left her feeling a little breathless.
She looked at Gwen and continued to fill her in on what had taken place while she was in Hawaii. “The police think it was Willy who set the fire at the warehouse. He was shot when he robbed Shirley’s Market.”
“It was on the news,” Gwen said. “How awful. You have to wonder why someone would make such bad decisions. He was so young and not to sound like a cliché, he had his whole life in front of him.”
“I know,” agreed Emma. “From the research I did on him, he was a decent student, involved in sports and other activities. It’s hard to believe but I guess you never know what’s going on in someone’s life.”
“There’s a lot of poverty in this county,” suggested Leo with a shrug. “The haves and the have nots. But it’s hard to say that’s the only reason. A lot of poor kids make it and some rich kids fail. Drugs, alcohol, all kinds of addiction. Seems to be an equal opportunity issue. Money helps, but it’s not always enough.”
Gwen nodded. “Money isn’t everything, that’s for sure. Speaking of money, we’re going to pay the claim. The police say the fire was set by a third party, this Willy kid, and the policy holder wasn’t a party to it, so his estate will get the money.”
“At least it’s over,” said Ellen. “Em won’t have to keep looking into it.”
“True,” said Gwen. “If I’d known the fire was part of a plan to kill someone, I’d never have gotten Emma involved, she said apologetically.”
“You couldn’t have known,” said Ellen.
“Hey, knock it off,” said Emma. “I’m sitting right here and you’re making it sound like I can’t be trusted to take care of myself. This is what I do for a living. You get that, right?”
“Sorry,” said Ellen. “Big sister syndrome.”
“Me too,” said Gwen, “I mean, sorry if I made you feel like that but I still mean it. I would have left this to the cops if I’d known the kind of people you’d be dealing with.” Shaking her head she reached into her purse and pulled out a checkbook. She filled out a check and handed it to Emma. “Now take this and don’t argue. You did a lot of work and I’m grateful. This is hours, mileage and a tiny bonus, because I’m pretty sure you shorted the invoice on both.”
Emma couldn’t argue. Gwen was right. She took the check.
The phone rang and as Emma reached for it, Gwen got up, gave a silent wave, and left. Leo slid off the corner of the desk and took the chair she’d vacated.
“Richland Investigations,” Emma said.
“He was here. I think he came in last night, while I was at the senior center bingo,” said a woman breathlessly.
“Mrs. Evers? Grace?” asked Emma, recognizing the quivering voice.
“Yes. Can you come check the camera now?”
“I’m sorry, Grace. Didn’t I explain? I can check the cameras from anywhere. Let me do that now and I’ll get back to you, okay?”
“Yes. I’ll wait to hear. Just please, hurry.”
“Problem?” Ellen asked.
Emma shrugged. “Client of mine. I set up some cameras to try and catch someone she thinks is breaking in, going through her things. I need to check the footage, see if it picked up any
thing.”
“Sounds like you need to get busy. Me too. I’ve got a group of women coming in for tea-and-target training.”
“For what?” Emma asked, incredulously.
“Tea and then targets. What, you’ve never heard of this before?” she asked with feigned surprise.
At sight of her sister’s befuddled expression, Ellen explained. “We sit around, drink tea, eat cookies and watch a PowerPoint presentation about gun safety and then we hit the range. Going to a tea and target shoot, taught by a woman, attended only by women and with no men allowed, makes certain women more comfortable.”
“Certain women?”
“Yep. Women who need to learn to shoot but don’t have a particular interest in guns. Most of the women in this particular class have never so much as seen or held a gun before and would really rather not.”
“But they want to hold one now?” asked Emma,
“Afraid so. Most of them have left an abusive relationship. They’re pretty distrustful of men and they know they might be in danger from a former partner. A lot of them heard of us through domestic violence shelters. We also try to put flyers in places women frequent. These particular classes are designed for them.”
Emma could relate. Though Mark had never been physically abusive, his lies had hurt deeply and made it nearly impossible to trust. “They must be angry,” she said. “Are you ever afraid one will take her training and use it to go after the guy who hit her?”
“No, I just have to hope the training teaches them to be wise enough to avoid confrontation, but to be ready if it happens. The women who attend the teas are all different. Sure, some are angry and aggressive but others are timid as mice. The funny thing is, once we get out on the range, the mousy women are often more badass than the ones that seemed tough. We also get a variety of ages, everything from fourteen to . . . I don’t know. How old was our oldest client do you think?” she asked Leo.