They met in the parking lot of the diner in Franklinton. The food was an atrocity for the most part, made edible only by the concentration of fat and a generous amount of salt. The clientele was dodgy—par for the course in this part of Columbus—but mostly kept to themselves. The owner, a Ukrainian guy who had several aliases and could never quite explain where he came from or how long he’d been here, appreciated it when the cops came by for lunch or dinner or stopped in for coffee. Their presence, he said, kept the riffraff away. The waitresses felt safer walking to their cars or the bus stop at closing time. The sight of a city-issue Crown Vic with all the trimmings warded off even the most determined homeless who liked to sleep out by the dumpster at the back of the building. According to the owner’s wife, Mila, thanks to Columbus’s finest, the place hadn’t been robbed for going on two years now.
Damon Bertrand had been coming to this little hole in the wall the entirety of his career, which would span thirty years this month. During that time, the ownership of the diner had changed hands eight times. The name had changed at least six times. Once, the place had closed for two weeks without explanation and without so much as a sign on the door. In the course of a welfare check, the police discovered the owner’s body in the kitchen. He’d hanged himself with an electrical cord attached to the deep fryer.
Despite the seediness of the neighborhood and the dubious nature of the establishment and its patrons—or maybe because of those things—Bertrand would continue to frequent the diner. A bottomless cup of coffee was hot and bitter and free of charge if you had a badge. The pancake-and-scrambled-eggs breakfast was decent enough—mainly because even the most inept cook couldn’t screw up bacon. He thought maybe it was the one thing he’d miss when he retired.
The big silver Suburban rolled up next to his unmarked Crown Vic, headlights on, wipers waging a losing war against the snow. He watched the driver leave the cab, pull up his collar against the cold, and trot across the space between their vehicles. The door swung open, a swirl of snow blowing in.
“Hell of a day to be out.” Ken Mercer shook snow from his coat, his expression sour, as he slid onto the passenger seat.
“Welcome to Ohio in January,” Bertrand muttered.
“Yeah, well, one of these days I’m going to move to fucking Miami.”
The two men sat in silence for a moment, giving the rise of tension a moment to settle. Bertrand had known Ken Mercer for going on sixteen years now. He was a good guy, a good cop, and had recently been promoted to detective in the Narcotics Bureau. A husband and father of four, he coached Little League in the summer, counseled inner-city kids every other Saturday, and took part in the Division of Police fundraiser for juvenile cancer every Christmas. But Mercer also had a fondness for nice clothes, a small herd of kids to put through college, and a wife whose tastes he couldn’t afford. At just forty-two years of age, he’d already been with the department for twenty years. Like Bertrand, he was a lifer.
They’d ridden together back when Mercer was a rookie. They were like-minded and had bonded the way cops do. For years, they’d enjoyed weekend barbecues with spouses and kids, Friday-night beers at the cop bar over on Sullivant, and the occasional weekend at the fishing cabin on Lake Erie. It was the kind of relationship that suited Bertrand to a T. Simple. Beneficial. And easy to walk away from when you were through. He figured they had another year or two, until he retired, anyway.
Cursing beneath his breath, Mercer reached down and turned up the heat. “You get a line on Colorosa?”
“I got nothing and it wasn’t for lack of trying.” Bertrand looked at his passenger and frowned. “Last night was an epic fail.”
Mercer shrugged. “That raid was textbook. We—”
“Colorosa isn’t some dumb-shit drug dealer.”
“She knew we were coming.”
“No one talked to her, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” Bertrand made the statement with conviction, but he wasn’t sure he believed it. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure who he could trust these days. “How’d we miss the pickup truck?”
Mercer sighed. “She must have figured we’d come for her. She was ready for us. Had a plan.”
“You search the place?”
“We tore that place apart. The house. The yard. Garage. We even searched the neighbor’s place. It wasn’t there.”
“She’s got it with her.” The thought made Bertrand frown. “Now we have people sniffing around things we don’t want sniffed. We need to find her. Get this cleaned up. No loose ends.”
“Blood we found at the scene hers?”
“Not back from the lab yet.”
“If she’s hit and goes to a hospital or clinic, we’ll know about it,” Mercer said.
“Maybe.” Bertrand knew the situation would not be that simple. Not with Colorosa involved. She was street smart, tough as nails, and a survivor. “We got all our ducks in a row on this end?”
Mercer nodded. “We’ve got a shitload of dirt on her. I’m talking hard evidence that’ll stand up in court, if it gets that far. All the items entered into evidence in the course of the warrant last night. Assistant DA says it’s a slam dunk. Colorosa is going down and she’s not coming back up.”
“Not quietly. That bitch hasn’t done anything quietly since she learned to talk.”
“All we have to do is find her,” Mercer said. “Make the arrest. If she starts talking—and I suspect she will—there’s not a soul on this earth who’s going to believe a word comes out of her mouth.”
Bertrand glanced toward the diner. Through the steamed-up, snow-caked windows, he spotted his favorite waitress, a red-haired beauty, standing at the counter, taking someone’s order. “Colorosa got any family?” he asked.
“Not that we know of,” Mercer said. “We’re checking known associates.”
“Cell phone records?” Bertrand asked.
“Warrant should come through any time.” He looked at his watch and frowned. “Once we get that, if we can triangulate to the nearest tower where it last pinged, we’ll know which direction she went.”
Bertrand was still thinking about known associates. “What about cops? She tight with anyone?”
“We’re looking at that, too. But you know Colorosa. She’s kind of a loner. Never got too close to anyone.”
Bertrand glanced toward the diner, watched the waitress hustle away from the table, and he thought about the night he’d met the pretty redhead four years ago. It was raining and cold and he offered to drive her home. On the drive, he’d learned she was from the Ukraine, too. She was young and pretty with big crooked teeth and eyes that had likely seen more than their share of trouble. When he’d asked about her citizenship, she’d admitted she was way past her visa and then she’d proceeded to give him a blow job right there in the parking lot of her apartment complex. He didn’t even have to ask.
“The longer Colorosa is on the street, the more likely this is to come back to bite us,” Bertrand said. “That can’t happen. Do you understand?”
“We’ll get her,” Mercer assured him.
“We have a good thing going, Ken. We trusted her and she turned on us. Stabbed us in the back. I don’t want that bitch screwing it up for the rest of us.”
Mercer hit Bertrand with a red-eyed glare. “I said we got it covered.”
Bertrand looked away, turned his attention back to the diner, trying to catch a glimpse of the redhead through the fogged-up windows.
“Keep me posted, will you?” he said.
Without another word, Ken Mercer swung open the door, and stepped into the swirling snow.