Dennis Larsen - With Cruel Intent

“Deputy Guest respond, over,” her portable unit squawked.

She took her hand off the weapon and keyed the mic, “Guest here, over.”

“Natalie, Sheriff Lupo wants you to respond to a call from an old guy that you spoke with earlier in the day. Says he’s got some information you may need, something about some questions you asked him earlier. Could hardly make him out when he called, but there’s a message on your voicemail, can listen to it when you’re back at your unit. You got that?”

“Roger, will see what it is and let you know.”

“Alright, Mr. Cummings, we’ll be leaving for now, but I don’t doubt we’ll be back to take a closer look with a warrant.”

“I’ll anxiously await your return,” he said sarcastically, and watched the two walk down the dirt driveway, taking a left, heading back to the service road, his hand caressing the cold grip of the Beretta.

Lester waited a few minutes before he leisurely walked to the end of his drive, stepped out beyond the mailbox to get a better look down the range road, and confirmed that the curious deputy was gone. Her random visit sent a jolt of reality through the thief, his mind active as he ran to the barn. Evidence? What evidence did he have that she may have seen? He was careful the other day to fill his pockets with the spent brass from the.38, should have only been 9mm at the range. He knew he had the paperwork on the Beretta, so there was nothing they could do with those shell casings. He wondered if she’d taken the time to call in the plate on his van, again legally owned, but he didn’t know if it had been reported as a suspicious vehicle. There was one thing he did know, however, the motorcycle had to go. He had plenty of cash to replace it with a newer, bigger one, but there was a degree of sentimentality to the old bike that almost brought him to tears as he wheeled it out from the barn, pushed it up a plank, and into the back of the van.

Tomorrow morning would not come soon enough. It was time to get somebody else in the crosshairs and wrap up this little adventure, and then take the money and run.

The parlor, now quiet following a rousing bit of discussion about the recent crime wave, still, except for Felix, who especially enjoyed the discussion, knew who and what he did. A large portrait above the ornate fireplace caught his attention as he thumbed through his Day-Timer looking for Ms. Beverly Davis’ phone number. Being Sunday, he had hoped to spend some quality time with the librarian, before having to put in his obligatory visit to the realtor. He found the slim and stacked, more appealing than the round and short, but a true soldier; he would do his duty and earn his pay, then rub it in the face of that weasel, Iggy.

He dialed the number from the phone in the parlor; it rang only once before she picked up. The over-the-top approach usually worked well with single women, especially of the widowed variety, and he started there, explaining that he was an entrepreneur representing a small land developer that had heard through the real estate grapevine, that she had a property that they’d like to look at. He could tell through the line that she was more than excited about the prospects of showing the land in question. Ms. Davis explained that the parcel had all but been sold a few days ago, the seller was motivated and the price was right. She hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know. The business woman took his name, Felix Unger, which drew a silent snicker, as it always did from the over 50 crowd, and some particulars about the client, what they were looking for, what they wanted to develop and on and on. Felix tried to stay engaged and interested, but work was work, even for a wise guy.

They made an appointment for later that afternoon, she normally didn’t work or do showings on Sunday, but for the charming Felix, she was willing to make an exception. He would swing by and meet her at the office and they could drive together to the lot south of Moody Air Force Base. He wrote the time into his Day-Timer. Jeremy had stressed how important keeping accurate notes would be when the shit hit the fan. With the work of the morning done, he stretched out on the couch, crossed his legs at the ankles, his arms over his chest, and was asleep before the thought of prostituting himself for a few million dollars floated out of his mind.

Across town Otis was lying on his back, his tail still going, as Angelo rubbed the dog’s belly with his cowboy boot. Deputy Guest had just finished filling her boss in on her encounter with Lester Cummings, anticipating that they would call in the posse, mount up, and ride out to arrest the varmint. The Sheriff was interested, but had seen too many investigations to know that the first subject, regardless of how perfectly they fit the profile, was often the wrong guy. He wanted to proceed with caution and not scare the suspect off. Lester Cummings could very well be just a recluse who valued his privacy. She emphasized the vehicle, a van perfect for a burglar, a shooting range with lots of spent ammo, and a barn for hiding items like a motorcycle.

“But Sheriff, you should have seen the look in his eyes when I made a move toward the barn. I thought Otis there was gonna take his leg off. It was a good thing I had a tight hold on him,” the deputy explained, trying to recreate the look Lester had given her.

Lupo had a hard time not laughing at the antics of the junior officer, but kept it to a smile only. “Okay, bottom line is this, is there enough evidence that we could get the judge to issue a search warrant? Are there any witnesses that put him, or his vehicle, at the scene of any of the crimes? As far as we know, is he in possession of any stolen property? Does he have a motorcycle registered in his name or at that address? Is this Lester a perp with a prior record?

To each of the questions, Natalie sadly had to answer, “no”, or at best, “I don’t know.”

“It sounds to me like you’ve got a bunch of work to do then. Find out the answers to all of those questions and we can go from there, but hitting up the judge now for a warrant, will be a waste of time for us, and an embarrassment for the department.”

“Yes sir, I get your point, I just thought… you know…I had this feeling that he was our guy. You’ve had it before, right in the pit of your stomach, that you just know,” she expressed with all the energy of her soul.

“Don’t get me wrong deputy. I think you’ve done some damn fine work this morning, may break this whole investigation wide open, but there’s some homework that needs to be done before we can go any further. Got that?” he said, pulling at Otis’ collar and lifting his head to his lap so he could give him some attention.

“Yeah, I better do some checking and I’ll keep you posted. Guess I’ll start with a background check on him and his vehicle.” She whistled and Otis begrudgingly left the Sheriff and joined her at the door. “Come on boy, we’ve got some work to do.”

Angelo called after her, “Natalie, don’t get discouraged. Your instincts are good always listen to them. It could save your life someday.”

“Thanks Sheriff, I will.”

The balance of the young deputy’s Sunday was spent submitting data to the computer system, filling out activity reports of the morning, and trying to put some notes together for the unwanted, and unsolicited, presentation before Mrs. Wild’s class tomorrow. She tried to be detailed but succinct, nothing she hated more than filling out forms and sitting in front of the computer. She’d joined the Sheriff’s Office to be on the line, out with the public doing ‘real’ police work, at least she had Otis and did get out much more than the other officers. The voice message she’d received while speaking with Mr. Cummings was all but incoherent. She knew it was the old farmer she’d seen on the tractor earlier in the day but the message did not come through. She had tried a number of times to phone him back but was unsuccessful. Tomorrow after her presentation, she’d run out that way and see if she could track him down. She hoped by then maybe they’d have a better idea who Lester really was and if he was a viable suspect.