Stafford tied a long rag around the cop’s eyes to blindfold him, zip-tied his hands behind his back, and bound his feet with a bungee cord. All in under a minute. Smashed Kryzinski’s cell phone, tossed it in a dumpster outside the store’s loading bay. Then he sat on the floor of the cargo area, breathing hard, collecting his thoughts, identifying his options.
He had only two: kill him now, or kill him later.
Fuck.
Killing a cop. That was a line he hadn’t anticipated, one he’d never wanted to cross. First and foremost, cops weren’t baby-killers. Most of the cops he’d known shared his convictions: the role of men in society was to protect the innocent, demonstrate strength, with force, if necessary. Comrades-in-arms. Silent supporters of the cause.
Second, it could jeopardize the mission. The mental distraction alone would weigh on him, and he needed all of his focus for the real targets. Stafford’s shooting the day before was bad enough without that type of distraction.
Third, someone might hear the gunshot, or hear him scream, and all hell would break loose.
But mostly, killing a cop?
No. Cops weren’t the enemy. They protected the enemy at times, although most—okay, many—of them seemed sympathetic to the movement, from Stafford’s experience.
Then again, he’d thought Kryzinski was on his side until a few minutes ago.
That decided it. He’d do it. Kryzinski was the enemy, and the enemy must be eliminated.
Those thoughts made his stomach churn, and a surge of bile burned up his throat. This was not the plan. He’d veered way outside his lane, and the Powers That Be would never approve.
Perhaps there was another way…
At any rate, he couldn’t do it right away. This whole stop-and-capture exercise had delayed him too much. Killing, disposing of a body, erasing evidence—all would take even more time. Stafford’s plan required execution before the afternoon sun sank too low and cast a distracting glare into his eyes. He needed to get back on schedule. Accomplish the mission. Keep his eye on the prize.
He rolled the cop’s body into a spare tarp and shoved him up against the passenger-side wall. He’d wake up eventually, not knowing where the hell he was. With any luck he’d remain unconscious until Stafford could find a safe place to do what he needed and dump the body.
He retched. The prospect of killing a cop bothered him more than shooting abortionists. Way more.
Stafford started up the truck—
“Hey, you got a delivery?” A man in gray overalls waved to him from the now-open loading bay.
Stafford shook his head, waved him away.
The guy shot him a puzzled look and climbed down the ladder from the loading platform to the pavement. Stafford put the truck in reverse, backed away from the loading area. The man reached the ground and trotted toward him. “Wait up!” he yelled, waving again.
Stafford jammed the truck into first and slammed the gas pedal. The truck spit gravel, then lurched forward, missing the gray overalls guy by less than a foot. He jumped away from the truck, and Stafford turned the wheel hard, again slamming the accelerator. His fender scraped the brick, but the impact didn’t slow him at all. A moment later, the truck raced around the side of the building, past the parked Explorer, and through the parking lot to the highway, heading west toward Fairview.
“We’ve got him!” Val said, carrying the plastic bag containing the original signed contract with RS Security from VeroniCare. “We’ve proven that Tank’s behind the break-in, at least, and probably connected to the murders. Finally, we can put an end to all this.”
“Not so fast.” Jan followed Val to their personal cars, parked nose-to-tail on the street. “All we know for sure is that he has inside knowledge. We can’t prove—yet—whether he passed any of that on or engaged in some material way with the break-in.”
“Won’t his prints be on the contract?” Val said. “If so, we could match them to the evidence from the scene. The pills, for example.”
Jan nodded. “Let’s bring it in. If they match, then yes, we’ll know he was involved.”
“I already know,” Val muttered to herself once inside her car. That said, she also understood the value of proper procedure.
They drove straight to headquarters and requested a rush on the forensics analysis. The uniformed officer taking their evidence shook his head and smirked. “Everybody thinks their case is top priority.”
“It’s related to a murder case,” Val said. “The mass shooter. Heard of it?”
The uniform pointed to a four-drawer file cabinet behind him. “We got forty unsolved murder files in those drawers, and that’s just the last two years. You’ll get the results when you get them.”
“Yeah, I know about those,” Val said. “I’m working on some of them. Could you at least move us up ahead of the cold cases?”
The cop glared at her. “A couple dozen senior detectives might make an even stronger case for a rush, Patrolman Dawes.”
Val gritted her teeth. Male detectives, no doubt.
“Dawes?” A familiar voice echoed out of a private office behind the uniformed cop. Moments later, the curly-haired, rotund figure of Detective Dalton Fletcher, already sweaty and unkempt at 9:00 a.m., emerged and waved to Val and Jan.
“We’ve got evidence that may help us in the shooter cases,” Val said. “Collected at VeroniCare Spa and Salon, but we think the perp may be linked.”
“Mark that as number one priority and get it back to the lab,” Fletcher said to the now-exasperated uniformed cop. “Put our best team on it. What you need? Prints, ink analysis, handwriting?”
“The works,” Jan said, cutting off Val’s more modest reply. “Prints ASAP. Also, see if they match the ones on evidence pulled from the spa last week—and anything we have on the shooter.”
“Call back in a few hours,” Fletcher said. “If you really think this is tied to our shooter, best get working on your request for an arrest warrant now. We’ll want to move fast once we ID the guy.”
Val and Jan hustled upstairs to the WAVE Squad office to get started on the warrant. She noticed an email from Shelby “Important Data Find—VeroniCare.” She gave silent thanks for Shelby’s talents and timing—this could provide the final nail in the coffin for Tank.
Except the actual revelation surprised her.
Interesting nugget: Nora posted on Facebook in 2013—she was going to have a baby sister. But she’s an only child. And her mother, Stephanie, is on the donor list to Safe Haven. Coincidence?
“Like your uncle always said,” Jan said when Val shared it with her. “There are no coincidences.”
“So do we shift gears and go after her first?” Val said.
Jan shook her head. “”That’s interesting, but not enough for a warrant. “Let’s work on Tank first and see what else we can find on Nora. Maybe Tank will give us some dirt on her.”
“Makes sense,” Val said. “Okay, you’re the lead, so where do we start?”
“I’ll work on the sections detailing the charges and the big-picture justification,” Jan said. “You pull together a summary of the evidence. We’ll need a draft by noon if we hope to get it approved by dinnertime.”
“Before noon,” Val said. “I’m taking my friend up to Fairview this afternoon, remember?”
Jan winced. “That’s today? Any chance you can—”
“No,” Val said, her tone sharper than she intended. “I can’t reschedule.”
Jan held up her hands and backed off. “Understood. Let’s get going on this, then.”
Val opened the VeroniCare and shooter case files to pull evidence narratives into their warrant request, but found it hard to concentrate. She hadn’t heard from Gil since his wee-hour texts, so she sent him another quick check-in message. When he didn’t respond in the next half-hour, her concern grew to worry.
She opened the Family Tracker app on her cell phone and searched for the geographic location of Gil’s cell. They’d shared access to each other’s devices a few months before, promising to use it only in emergencies. This counted. She waited while the app pinged his device, seconds passing in agonizing slowness. Finally it responded: “Device not found.”
Val groaned. Gil had said his phone’s battery had gotten low. Surely he’d charged it by now. She checked the number and tried again. Same results.
“How’s your part of the warrant request coming?” Jan said from her adjoining desk.
“Good, good.” Val jumped back to her desktop computer. “There’s just a lot to pull together.”
“Ping me when you’re ready to read my part and when I can review yours,” Jan said. “We should make sure we’re consistent in what we say.”
“Good idea. Give me a few more minutes.” Val copied, pasted, and edited some details from the case files—her own work, most of it, which made the task easier. Her biggest difficulty: they didn’t have the prints back on the contract. Until they filled that hole in the evidence, they’d lack the critical connective tissue between the two cases.
Before informing Jan that she’d finished her first draft, she excused herself for a bathroom break. On the way back, she ducked into an empty meeting room and called Dispatch.
“Sorry, no word from Gil here, either,” the lieutenant in charge said in response to her inquiry. “We were hoping you’d be able to tell us something.”
Val checked the time: almost 11:00 a.m. Her worry veered toward panic. Where was Gil? Why hadn’t he reported in? She conducted her breathing exercises, learned in jiu jitsu, to center herself around calmness, and focused on what she knew. Gil had twelve-plus years of policing experience and a good head on his shoulders. He’ll be fine.
“Knock knock.” Jan appeared in the doorway of the small meeting room. “Is this the new ladies’, or did one of us get lost?”
“Sorry.” Val reddened. “I needed a private space to check in with Gil…and I didn’t want to piss you off.”
“Why would that piss me off?”
Val cleared her throat. “Because you’re so on task, and here I am getting all nervous about Gil…”
“Why would Gil make you nervous?”
Val frowned. “He’s on an undercover assignment. I can’t talk about it.”
“I get it,” Jan said. “It’s distracting, and we’re both better off if you can put it to rest. Anyway, it would take a real asshole to get mad at you for checking on him. I’m not an asshole…am I?”
“Of course not. Sorry. I should’ve trusted you.”
Jan rested a palm on her shoulder. “I’ll try to be more trustworthy. So…no word from him?”
Val shook her head, lips tight.
“Maybe he’s not in a place where he can talk. That happens. He’ll call soon.”
“Thanks.”
“On the good news front,” Jan said, “we got the analysis back from forensics. The prints on the contract match the ones on the pills—and on that shell casing from the shooting site. That’s more than enough for a warrant to bring in Tank, take his prints, and get a DNA sample.”
“Awesome! When will that happen?”
Jan waved toward the WAVE Squad office. “If we can get that request written up, we should receive it by early afternoon.”
Val’s heart sank. “I need to go to Fairview. I promised.”
Jan nodded. “Do it. Go. We’ll pick up Tank and get him processed. You can join in on the interrogation fun when you get back. I promise I’ll save you a couple of choice questions for him.”
Val laughed and followed Jan back to the office. She remained worried about Gil, but at least they’d have the shooter off the streets—soon.