Killing Frost Page 13

  Back in the kitchen, plastic plates and glasses in the upper cupboard. He struck it rich when he dropped to his haunches and opened the doors to the lower cupboard. Boxes of ammunition, oil, tools to clean weapons. In one of the drawers were a Glock and a couple of knives, binoculars and two scopes, one with a laser. In the tall, narrow cabinet beside the sink, tucked between broom and mop, were a standard .22 rifle and an M40, the US Marine sniper rifle.

  She had minimal tools of the trade, but good choices.

  Something hit him in the back, smashing his face against the edge of the cabinet. Something sharp pierced his jacket. Something climbed on his shoulder. Claws dug into the back of his neck and the back of his head, up to his neck, cutting into the flesh. Shanahan turned and twisted. He reached back with his good hand, feeling fur and muscle. He pulled twenty-five pounds of angry animal away, throwing it with as much force as he could. The cat hit the back of the sofa and bounced on the floor. It shot past him and into the bedroom.

  Shanahan checked himself out in the bathroom mirror. His neck was scratched and bleeding. So were the backs of his hands. And his nose. The little sliver of ear shot off earlier by the cat’s owner bled again. Shanahan looked more than a little roughed up. He pictured the cat in a little electric chair.

  Shanahan was pretty sure the fierce feline wasn’t trained to guard the trailer. It was merely batshit crazy.

  He checked out the small medicine cabinet for something to sterilize the wounds. Nothing. Then again, the wounds were not serious. The medicine cabinet often offered great insight into its owner’s character. No prescription painkillers. She was on the pill. Nothing else. If she had a stash of coke or weed, it would be hidden somewhere. Shanahan didn’t care enough to look. And the cat just might be planning another attack. He made sure no one had pulled in then hurried back to the Lexus.

  ‘Here,’ Harold said, handing Shanahan a couple of tissues. ‘Don’t get blood on the upholstery.’

  Shanahan used the outside mirror to clean up a little more.

  ‘You run into Mike Tyson in there?’ Harold asked as Shanahan slid into the backseat.

  ‘A relative, maybe.’

  What happened?’

  ‘I’d rather not talk about it,’ Shanahan said.

  ‘And …?’ Harold asked.

  ‘She’s our lady.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Here.’

  Shanahan went inside the motel. They still had a public phone. Lots of stuff went on here, he thought. Drugs, prostitution, probably gambling.

  ‘Collins here,’ came the voice.

  ‘It’s definite,’ Shanahan said. ‘Guns, ammunition. Night-scopes, day-scopes, laser-scopes. She’s the shooter.’

  ‘You better be right. We could invade a small country with what we’ve got ready. When?’

  ‘I’ll call. You want her in the trailer with it.’

  Harold kept himself entertained with the electronic device he held in his hand. Shanahan made a couple of trips to the vending machines and drifted in and out of sleep, sitting up. The sun started dropping from the sky a little before five in the evening. It was dark by six.

  Harold took turns with the car running and not. Keeping the edge off the chill.

  ‘It’s like we’re at the drive-in,’ Harold said. ‘Most boring times in my life were waiting for the movie to begin. Ten more minutes to show time, it would say. And now I ask you, Shanahan, how many minutes until show time?’

  There was no guarantee. She could have been off killing someone in Kansas City. The presence of the cat suggested she might return sometime soon.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m just hoping there is one.’

  Cars pulled out. Cars pulled in. Some backed in as Harold had. After six, there was a bit more traffic to watch in the parking lot. None of it Samantha.

  The silver Malibu made the turn in the parking lot at an unwise speed, then made another into the opening that led to the trailer. Both Shanahan and Harold sat up straight. Shanahan started to exit when a white pickup truck, also speeding, made the same turns. Shanahan got out of the car, walked toward the gap into which the two vehicles disappeared. As he approached he heard doors shut, laughter, loud shouts in a kind of wahoo moment.

  ‘Told you, you couldn’t lose me,’ said the male voice.

  ‘What else are you good at?’ the female voice shouted.

  ‘You’ll see, babe, I’ll be right on your tail the rest of the way.’

  The couple, a stringy blonde woman and a man with a slender build and a baseball cap, went inside. Shanahan heard the trailer door lock. Lights went on inside.

  ‘Now what?’ came a whispered voice in Shanahan’s ear. Harold was beside him.

  He gave Harold the numbers. Harold punched them in. Shanahan took the phone.

  ‘Two of them,’ he said. ‘The girl and her boyfriend, probably a pick-up date. Doubt if he knows who he’s dealing with. We’re at Benzie’s on US 31 South. The trailer, a single, pink trailer, is behind the motel in an open field, pretty good size. If she’s spooked she can get lost in the farms and woodlands behind. She’s a pro. She might well have an escape plan. The entrance is through the motel’s parking lot, a break in the high shrubs. Her Chevy and the guy’s pickup are inside, almost blocking the front door of the trailer and tight just inside the entrance …

  ‘Is there a back door?’ Collins asked.

  ‘Two doors in front. None in back. Only windows. We’ll be here. You might want to come in quiet.’

  Collins laughed. ‘You have no idea.’

  ‘When?’ Shanahan asked.

  ‘Five minutes.’

  ‘What’s up?’ Harold asked.

  ‘If you have to pee, do it now.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  The sound beating against Shanahan’s chest nearly knocked him down, the bush branches reached out to slap at him, scratch him. The lights, from the night sky, directly above him, finally retreated, leveled. The trailer was lit like an encounter of the third kind, soon mixed with flashing red and blue of surrounding police cars and the pummeling beat of the chopper wings, bass for the whooping sirens.

  The chopper had landed between the trailer and open country.

  Three-dozen cops wearing shields, helmets and bulletproof vests pushed into the open field. A guy in a suit with a bulletproof vest came in close to Shanahan and Harold.

  ‘You, Shanahan?’

  ‘I called it in. Yeah, Shanahan.’

  The guy nodded. ‘Two inside, right.’

  ‘The male probably doesn’t know what’s going on.’

  ‘I’ve found that to be true on a number of occasions,’ Harold said. ‘I didn’t know you had all this drama inside you.’ He smiled, headed back to his car.

  There was a rush inside the trailer. Lights flashed inside. There was shouting.

  Collins came up to Shanahan after Samantha and her friend were sorted out. They were put in separate squad cars. He looked to be eighteen, a know-it-all in for a rude awakening. She was a little older. She looked angry, but not frightened. People in blue jackets were taking the trailer down to its bones. Someone came up to the trailer with a cage. Looked like attack kitty might be arraigned for assault.

  ‘Good work. Glad you were on our side,’ Collins said.

  ‘That takes care of who pulled the trigger, that’s all,’ Shanahan said. ‘My guess is she’ll hold it together better than Card. Without at least one of them, we can’t get to the man pulling the strings.’

  ‘Or woman,’ Collins said. ‘You want to ride with us? Get you home quicker.’

  ‘Not this time,’ Shanahan said, thinking he might be in line for sainthood – not leaving Harold behind – though in fact Harold might have preferred it.

  ‘We’re not setting a precedent here,’ Maureen said, bringing him a shot of J.W. Dant bourbon and a glass of Guinness. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Surprisingly sleepy, considering I slept most of the way back. But I should be doing this for you. You fou
nd the trailer.’

  A fire in the fireplace warmed the room, both in terms of temperature and of light.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ she asked.

  ‘Theoretically, it’s the last day of pay and of Harold. And I have no thoughts about next steps.’

  ‘Some news. Might be good. Might not.’

  He waited for her to continue.

  ‘A few of the people who own property in the zone have signed an option to sell with Tyrus Investments.’

  ‘That’s great.’

  ‘Well, maybe. They don’t have any contact information. Kowalski found some as well. But …’

  ‘Someone had to sign it for the corporation or it isn’t valid,’ Shanahan said.

  ‘Halston Fournier.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Halston Fournier.’

  ‘Before he died?’

  ‘That’s what I’m guessing.’

  ‘Don’t smirk. In the criminal world dead men may not dance, but they might do things like vote or buy property.’

  ‘Kowalski said that he believed Tyrus intervened when back taxes got to the point of confiscation,’ Maureen said, ‘and Tyrus offered creative solutions that enabled owners a chance to get something out of it.’ She looked perplexed. ‘But if Halston is dead?’

  ‘That is the question. It was in his will or trust and went to Alexandra Fournier when his heart failed him. Alexandra, it appears, turned it over in some fashion to her brother, Charles, who was eliminated after receiving a substantial amount of cash, probably to turn over Tyrus to … whom? Daniel Holcomb, the videotape suggests. For how much? For what appears to be probably a pittance compared to what Tyrus is worth.’ Shanahan took a sip of bourbon. ‘What percentage of the landowners in the area do you think you and Kowalski talked to?’

  ‘Not even a percentage. I managed to find ten or so who could even understand the question. Two came up with Tyrus. I think Kowalski got three. Top speed is ice age.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It’s not likely they could or would even want to buy or take an option on it all. Just key properties here and there, without which a large, master development plan couldn’t fetch such a price that people were killed over it.’

  ‘You’ve been thinking about this.’

  ‘I have. I feel like a tycoon,’ Maureen said.

  ‘Key properties, maybe used as leverage. Then option or buy up more as the plan develops,’ Shanahan said.

  ‘Or the judge was not as astute as we give him credit for. Or the value could be for one property,’ Maureen added.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We saw this as a whole development plan incorporating various neighborhoods.’

  There was no other indication that Charles was on some grand plan, just an amateurishly rendered map that may be no more than the beginning of a con for Charles. Sleep was about to overtake him. Shanahan tried to stay awake long enough to finish his thought. Buried in the list of generally worthless options was one real jewel. Someone knew it.

  Morning was sudden for Shanahan. Not for Maureen. He was able to slip out without so much as a moan or a squirm from her luscious body on the other side of the bed. If his luck continued he’d get through his first cup of coffee and the morning newspaper before she flip-flopped down the hall.

  A photograph of the helicopter and silhouettes of cops in helmets with shields occupied half the page above the fold of the Indianapolis Star. Shanahan imagined the same was true for the South Bend Tribune.

  Shanahan read the short accompanying story:

  In a joint effort, the Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department (IMPD) and the South Bend Police Department (SBPD), made an arrest in the sniper murders of Alexandra Fournier and her brother, Charles Bailey. IMPD Captain M. Anderson Collins said the suspect might be connected to another death as well. The arrest was made in a field behind Benzie’s Motel on South Bend’s far south side.

  The suspect was not named, but Collins said several firearms and a large quantity of ammunition were recovered, indicating they were correct to consider the arrest dangerous enough to use the SWAT strategy in the apprehension.

  The coffee pot beeped. The toast popped up and the phone rang.

  ‘I thought I’d give you the news,’ Collins said.

  ‘I’ve just read the news, you know, where you saved the earth from an asteroid.’

  ‘No, the new news.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Leonard Card has been absolved of any wrong doing in the death of Justice King.’

  ‘Do we know who voted what way?’ Shanahan asked.

  ‘That’s not the way it works. They came to an agreeable statement that indicated that “evidence wasn’t conclusive enough to offset his years of service,” I’m reading now, “and the emotional and dangerous situation in which the officer acted.”’

  ‘That takes the heat off him for the Hernandez death as well, doesn’t it?’ Shanahan said. ‘What about our friend Samantha? Maybe she can shed some light on Card.’

  ‘We talked, she and I. Shanahan, she’s tough. She’s not new to this. She knows no one named Card. She shoots rabbit and duck, not people, she says. When she’s not outright defiant she feigns confusion, but I doubt if we’ll see a tearful confession. And I doubt if she’ll flip.’

  ‘How does she explain Card?’

  ‘She doesn’t. Doesn’t know him. Never heard of him. Maybe you got the license plate wrong,’ Collins said with more than a hint of sarcasm.

  If Samantha was as tough as Collins said and Card, who had weathered two separate serious investigations and was toughened by years on the force in rough assignments, was equally unbreakable, where was the weak link?

  Daniel Holcomb came to mind as he was about to get his toast and just as the phone rang again.

  ‘Is it over?’ Miss Bailey asked.

  ‘As over as you want it to be,’ Shanahan said. ‘I think we have the actual killer of your sister and your brother. Proving it is another matter. I think we know who arranged the hits and who ordered them, but it might be difficult to prove.’

  ‘I see.’ There was a long pause. ‘I believe the question I wanted answered when I hired you was: what was my sister coming to see you about? Do we have an answer to that?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s all in the witch’s brew. I have no idea …’

  ‘You have no idea? I suspect you do,’ Jennifer Bailey said. ‘Justice King. He was a graduate of Second Chance. That’s why she came to see you.’

  Shanahan couldn’t bring himself to break the long silence that followed.

  ‘I’ll send you a check,’ she said finally. Her voice was hoarse, dry.

  ‘You have what you want?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. You did what I asked you to do,’ she said.

  ‘You know Leonard Card was essentially exonerated in the boy’s death. He’s a free man.’

  ‘That’s for the police now.’

  ‘Miss Bailey, you miss the point here. Your sister’s concerns haven’t been addressed.’

  ‘My sister’s concerns aren’t mine. I’ve found out what I set out to find. Thank you for your contribution.’ She disconnected.

  Maybe it was about the will for her. Maybe it was about Tyrus. Knowing was not enough for Shanahan. He wanted the person who hired the sniper to pay. That was true. Perhaps even more, he wanted Card. Even if King’s death was unintended, the death of Hernandez wasn’t. Getting Card was the only way to diminish the haunting.

  Coffee with toast and apple butter on an autumn morning. The sound of Maureen shuffling toward the kitchen, a slim ray of sun angling through a gap in the blinds all struggled to bring a little cheer to the morning. It wouldn’t be enough.

  He’d have to find a way to settle things.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Maureen reluctantly – she didn’t want him out alone – dropped Shanahan off downtown so he could talk to Collins and get a look at Samantha, the hitwoman. Collins had agreed to meet him at the station before Samantha Byer
s was transferred to the Marion County Jail, only a few blocks away but more difficult to access. Shanahan would never have a chance to question her. On the other hand, he didn’t need to. She was it. The only question that remained was whether or not she killed the kid.

  Five foot two and 105 pounds at the most, Shanahan thought as he peered into a room occupied by Samantha, a dirty blonde and maybe someone fighting against the advance of her mid-thirties, and an oily man Shanahan presumed to be her lawyer.

  ‘Where’s her lawyer from?’

  ‘Chicago.’

  It was a shame, Shanahan thought. Kowalski would have loved to defend her, but even his tangential involvement in the case precluded it.

  ‘She’s a tough, wiry woman,’ Collins said, ‘but a garrote?’

  Shanahan nodded. A sharp wire of any sort with a wood handle to leverage the twist would require less physical strength on the part of the attacker. He thought it possible but unlikely. The boy might not have been a linebacker but he was a well-built kid not quite twice her size who grew up in a tough neighborhood and who likely possessed the instinct to punch and kick. The other factor Shanahan thought about was that it was one thing for distance to turn killing into an abstraction and quite another to be up close and personal, actually feeling the life drain from the victim. Ask bomber pilots. Maybe drone operators.

  ‘It was Card who killed the kid in the backyard,’ Shanahan said.

  ‘You can say it, even believe it …’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘We’ll see if Annie Oakley will give us something.’

  ‘In other words you don’t mind there are murderers out there as long as the public thinks the case is closed.’

  ‘I can’t go after Card,’ Collins said. ‘The public committee cleared him. Internal Affairs signed off on their conclusion. He’s back on duty. Anything more would be viewed as harassment. We are not going to keep on pursuing him based on suspicion. Maybe she’ll break or make a deal. For now, we have to move along. It’s over.’

  They stood silent, facing each other. Collins broke the stand off. ‘Some probably unwelcome advice: I understand your reputation for dogged determination and that you’re not easily diverted, but don’t take on Card. I know your history. And I know you can be tough. You can probably be mean. But you would be mean by necessity. Card, guilty or not, is mean by nature. Look at what he’s done. Look at what he’s gotten by with.’