J Bertrand - Back on Murder

The detective rears back, then lets the ram do its work. The metal cylinder coasts forward, seeming to move too slowly to do any real damage. But when it connects, the door crunches open, splintering at the dead bolt. He lets go and the ram thuds to the ground.

We rush the entrance with a frenzy of shouting, advancing into the apartment, making sure no corner goes unswept by the barrel of a gun. My feet thunder through the hardwood entry, breaking right into a wide-open living space with floor to ceiling windows at the far end, and a balcony that overlooks Memorial. Cavallo fans out beside me, circling a white leather sectional. The bedroom is at the far side. I’m the first one there, my gun sights resting just below my plane of vision, ready to snap off a round if necessary.

Over my shoulder I hear the others calling out.

“Clear!”

“It’s clear.”

“Everything clear.”

A low platform bed with bookcases rising on either side. Another window, its light baffled by shades. No sign of him. The bathroom door is open, the light on, casting a golden glow into the room. I step toward it, hugging the wall for cover, canting my barrel into space. Getting closer, I use the mirror to scan the room. The glassed-in shower is empty. No sound of running taps or movement of any kind. Taking a deep breath, I push through.

“Clear,” I say.

The team regroups in the living room, where the surveillance guys exchange a shrug.

“Maybe he went down to do some laundry?” one of them says.

“Or walked across the street to the Starbucks?”

I go to the balcony, pulling the sliding door open. Glancing down to the parking lot, I see the reserved spot is now empty.

“His car’s gone.”

There’s nothing more ridiculous than a roomful of drawn weapons and no one to point them at. A spate of dejected re-holstering ensues, then we have a look around the place. The desk in the living room corner has a faint dust line where a laptop computer used to sit – the power cable is still plugged into the wall. A chunk of clothes seems to be missing from the closet, exposing a recessed safe, its door ajar.

“We didn’t just miss him,” Wilcox says. “He skedaddled.”

He gets on the phone, putting the word out to patrol to keep an eye out for Keller’s car. It isn’t much, certainly not enough to soften the collective adrenaline crash.

“What now?” I ask.

He pauses to consider. “Okay, we need to keep some people here, and we’d better send some to Salazar’s place, too.”

“Got it,” one of the IAD detectives says.

“And that warehouse they’re renting – ”

“We’ll take that,” I say, heading for the door, motioning Cavallo to follow.

“I’ll send some backup to join you,” he calls after us. “Meanwhile, we need to tear this place apart.”

I wait until we’re in the elevator to say anything, and then I slam my fist against the wall instead. The ringing in my knuckles feels better somehow.

“I knew that was too easy.”

Cavallo nods, leaning back against the railing. “Why’d you choose the warehouse?”

“Instinct. I figure they rent that place for a reason, and if he’s split in a hurry, maybe he’ll need to drop by there first. It’s better than chasing our tails back there. I want to keep moving.”

When we reach the car, I remember Cavallo’s lead foot and toss her the keys. She doesn’t miss a beat, sliding behind the wheel and starting the engine. Out on Memorial, as we race past Starbucks, I glance over just to make sure Keller’s not in there, slurping on a Frappuccino.

No such luck.

A feeling builds inside, a fear really, that I’ll never catch up to him. He’s flown for good, escaped the net, cheating me one last time.

We pull up outside the padlocked gate, the block of gray warehouses almost indistinguishable from one another. I knock on the security booth’s shuttered window, but there’s no response from inside. The sun beats down. Behind the glare on the windshield I see Cavallo thumping her fingers on the steering wheel.

With a pair of bolt cutters we’d be inside in two shakes, but as far as I know we don’t have a search warrant on this place, and even if we did, we don’t have the cutters. I dial Wilcox for further instructions. Before he picks up, Cavallo starts pointing to the fence. When I turn, Wendell Cropper is standing halfway between the nearest warehouse and the gate, frozen in place.

“Come on over here,” I call out.

He advances, stopping about twenty feet off, blading his body sideways, his pistol on the far hip.

“Can I help you with something?” he asks.

“Open the gate.”

Cropper lifts one foot, then hesitates, like he’s not sure whether to move forward or back. If I tell him it’s the warehouse we want to see, he might make a stink about seeing a warrant, so I try a different tack.

“We need to have a talk with you, Mr. Cropper. Open up.”

He squints at me, feigning recognition. “Oh, it’s you. I didn’t recognize you at first, Detective.” But he still doesn’t move toward the gate.

I grab the padlock and give it a shake. “If you don’t mind, we’ve got other stops to make, so I’d like to get through this pretty quick.”

“Well,” he says, digging through his pocket. “All right, then.”

His hands shake so bad that he has trouble sliding the key into the lock.

“You nervous about something, Mr. Cropper?”

Once he pulls the padlock free, I walk through, pushing the gate wide as I advance, motioning Cavallo to drive through. As she does, Cropper moves to block her path. I take him gently by the arm.

“Don’t get yourself run over,” I say.

She parks just inside the gate, then gets out. The security guard backpedals, positioning himself between the car and the warehouses. I follow. When Cavallo joins us, she stands on his opposite side, forcing him to backpedal some more just to keep an eye on us both.

“Is something wrong?” I ask him. He’s got that wide-eyed fight-or-flight look, and he’s still blading his strong side away from us. I flick my jacket back, revealing my holstered gun, just to test his reaction. His hand twitches slightly, then relaxes. Cavallo catches the movement, too.

“Put your hands on your head,” she says, resting hers on the butt of her pistol.

Cropper looks at her, aghast. He doesn’t move.

Over his shoulder, the metal warehouse door trundles upward. As it rises I glimpse the back end of a black Ford pickup, an enclosure covering the bed. On the opposite side of the entrance a pair of legs advances toward the vehicle. The door lifts and I see a box held in two hands, a lidded file box like we use in the office. Then a muscled torso and the tanned face of Tony Salazar. He glances over, casually surveying the scene, then sees us and stops in his tracks. The box hits the ground.

“It’s him,” I say.

As soon as the words are out, Cropper makes his move. His hand flashes to his side arm, the gun clearing leather, the muzzle coming up. Cavallo’s nearest, so he points her way.

Training takes over, years of muscle memory. I draw in a smooth, single motion, not waiting for the sights to come online. Instead, I let the first round go at his belt line and the second, aided by recoil, hits just below the sternum. The third is in the upper chest, and then the empty brass lands at my feet and Cropper’s staggering backward, his Glock in midair.

Next to me, Cavallo stands flatfooted with her hand still on her holstered gun, shoulders hunched by the loud reports.

“Get back to the car!” I yell.

She draws and turns toward the fallen security guard, kicking his gun clear. But Cropper’s not a threat anymore. I grab her sleeve with my free hand, yanking her back, just as the first muzzle flash erupts from the warehouse. The shot whistles through the air at head level, a near miss. After a pause, Salazar keeps shooting, and I fire back while beating the retreat, hoping to throw off his aim.