David Dun - The Black Silent

As he spoke to Ernie, Sam decided on a destination: Haley's house, which was an easy walk to Ben's.

"How the hell can you get into something like this just kicking back?" Ernie asked.

"Trouble always finds me, I guess."

"Sanker is a legitimate business, isn't it?"

"Don't know," Sam said. "But Garth Frick's as bent as you hinted."

"How much does it look like you did it?"

"Superficially, a lot."

"But forensics will support you?"

"Forensics may or may not help, but the truth is the truth."

Emie sighed. "You know I can't jump in and take over a local murder investigation, especially in a matter of hours. Let's see… to get federal involvement, you could file a civil rights complaint. Even then we'd have to follow procedures."

"You can call the local dispatcher and get one of the sheriff's deputies on the phone. Tell him it's crucial not to let Frick control the evidence," Sam proposed.

"I'll try, but I'm afraid it's a long shot. Had you considered just turning yourself in to the staties?"

"I'm on an island, Ernie. There are no state police, and Frick's running the locals.

Sheriff's gone, undersheriff too. I'm guessing the timing's no coincidence. That's why they took Ben Anderson this weekend."

Emie said nothing for a moment. "That could be a problem."

Frick's head hurt, and his face had taken some serious damage. His jaw was swelling out of control, but his mind was clear despite the pain. He made his way down the hall of the main office building and lab complex, hands still cuffed, headed for Ben Anderson's office. Jim Ranken walked along, helping to steady him, his pepper-sprayed face red, his eyes looking horrible and still runny. Frick's hands were still cuffed behind his back and he swore unremittingly about the whereabouts of the bolt cutters.

Supposedly there was a spare set of keys to the cuffs in the glove box of Frick's car, but they weren't there. An officer finally arrived with bolt cutters large enough to cut the tempered steel.

It had been almost thirty minutes; Ranken seemed to be breathing again.

"Make sure every available man's out looking for Haley Walther's car," Frick said.

"They are. I think maybe…"

Ranken seemed to be struggling for words and it irritated Frick.

"Spit it out."

"Maybe we should call the state attorney general."

"What the hell is the AG gonna do on a holiday weekend? Nothing. We've got two detectives working and about a dozen deputies."

"The AG could give us advice," Ranken said. "They could bring in the state police."

"I'm not gonna have the state police screwing up this investigation before I get the foundation laid."

"But we always-"

"I know what we always do," Frick said. "And I know why we're gonna wait until Monday to do it. In the meantime I can round up a bunch of cops from the mainland and some off-duty state police to help out."

"I–I don't think the sheriff ever conceived of a situation w-where you would be in charge of full-time regular deputies," Ranken stammered.

"Let's review." Frick's words came out like bullets. "A special deputy has whatever powers the sheriff confers. In my case I have full powers. This is logical because I'm an ex-homicide detective. Further, all Sanker matters are assigned to me. This involves a Sanker scientist disappearing from the Sanker facility. Two-oh-one would be next in charge after the undersheriff. He called dispatch and said I was in charge until he returns. So what don't you understand?"

"But you were involved in a shooting," Ranken said. "Crew's dead, for God's sake. And how are you getting off-duty cops in here that fast?"

Frick stopped cold, realizing he was going to have serious trouble with Ranken. "What the hell are you saying?"

"I'm saying you… we are parties to this shooting. You're a material witness. We can't just continue to pursue this case alone. Another jurisdiction should be keeping the evidence, not us. That's procedure. Bringing in outsiders to work for us is not."

Frick got directly in Ranken's face. "Robert Chase killed a San Juan deputy! You want me to stop pursuit of a murder suspect?"

"I'm just saying-"

"You heard Sergeant Finley on the phone. It's my investigation and that's an order. Go outside and help get it done."

"You're not going to take those papers from Anderson's desk without a warrant, are you?"

"I'm gonna take any damn thing we need." Frick realized he was losing it. He stepped back. He needed to be careful. "I'm going to follow the law, Detective. Now get the hell outside and help."

Ranken did as he was told, but he had Frick worried. Frick was pretty sure Ranken had questions about who had really shot Crew. He might have even seen part of the scuffle.

Frick began looking for the papers from the model blue whale. It took about ten seconds to realize that they were gone.

He closed his eyes and tried to breathe. Sparks, like fireworks, streaked across the inside of his eyelids. He felt a sort of anger like he hadn't felt since the day he'd beaten the commissioner with a baseball bat. As the commissioner writhed on the floor, in his bloody gray suit, Frick had turned him into a bag of broken bones.

Frick heard himself cursing, then bit his tongue to stop himself. He realized he was becoming incoherent in his rage. His eyes were wide open, but only now was he seeing.

He'd moved down the hall from Anderson's office. For a moment he had to remind himself that he was a person very much in control. He was deliberate. He was strong. He was intelligent. He had been a detective. He was the most formidable industry security man in the country. He could put it all back together.

Christ, his face hurt.

Just then Ranken walked back in and came up the stairs.

"I want to register an objection here," the detective started. "I don't think you should be leading the hunt for Chase and Walther, and I don't think we should be searching the doctor's office or wall safe without a warrant. The whole thing looks bad. We don't even know that Ben Anderson's-"

Ranken stopped as Frick's eyes sank into him. "What exactly are your concerns?"

"I just told you. And this Chase or Sam fellow or whatever? He apologized to me on the way back out after spraying me. I mean, I'd like to kick his ass personally, but he wasn't acting like a cold-blooded murderer. Maybe we're talking about manslaughter here."

Ranken fidgeted under Frick's cold stare. "I don't know. Maybe we're pushing this thing too hard. We don't want more people getting killed needlessly."

"Robert Chase made an ass of you. He went right around you and stole the papers that were in the whale."

Ranken didn't respond.

Still holding Ranken with his gaze, Frick swept up the giant tweezers from the surface of Ben's desk. His hand was gloved. "I need to show you something else. It's down in the workshop in the basement."

Fifteen minutes later, Frick walked back to the conference room near his office in the Sanker Main Building. The expansive conference room, which overlooked Friday Harbor from the northern rim, had the best water-view seats in the house.

Frick dialed the phone.

"This is Doris," came the familiar voice from Vegas.

"Garth Frick. Give me Strope."

"Just a minute."

It took her about thirty seconds.

"Give me a number where Strope can call you," she said.

A few moments later, the phone rang.

"You must have a problem."

Typical Strope-already starting to gloat.

"I do," said Frick. "I want them now. Khan, Rafe, and the others, like we talked-ten crude, ten smooth."

"Yeah, yeah. I got eight crude, nine smooth for you. They're on your island as of yesterday. I'll call Khan and-"

"That wasn't our deal," Frick interrupted.

"Take it or leave it. I can't control when guys get sick or leave town. You're only down three. I'll make the price thirty grand less."