Michael Mcgarrity - Slow Kill

“Don’t give me that technical bullshit. You were there when I struck the deal with Delgado.”

“Nothing pertaining to dropping any future charges was agreed to, as I recall.”

“I can recommend to the DA that we decline to prosecute.”

“I’m sure Delgado and Griffin would appreciate that,” Ramona said, trying to bite back on the heavy sarcasm without success. “Is there anything else you wish to say to me?”

“Griffin made bail thirty minutes ago.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.”

Foyt grunted in reply and disconnected.

The phone in Ramona’s hand brought to mind Ellie Lowrey. Earlier, she had left Lowrey a brief voice mail message summarizing the events of the day, particularly the news that Claudia Spalding might have tried to mastermind her husband’s murder with another lover long before Kim Dean took up the gauntlet and actually did it. Surely, that should have sparked Ellie’s interest enough to return her call.

She shrugged Lowrey off for the moment, put the phone down, and turned her attention back to matters at hand, only to be interrupted by Matt Chacon, who swooped into the office waving a piece of paper.

“This came in from Lacy’s credit card company,” he said as he settled into the straight-back office chair. “In the last four years, he’s taken five international trips, one to Haiti, two to Amsterdam, and two to Bangkok, all sex tourist destinations.”

Ramona looked at the faxed report. “Okay, so he likes whores. What else have you learned about him?”

“He’s a bachelor with no current girlfriend,” Matt replied. “Like Griffin, he lives alone and runs his business out of his house. Hires mostly locals and a few Mexicans, pays them decent wages, and has a good credit rating. He has several close friends, but according to Lacy’s foreman, Griffin isn’t one of them. Their relationship is strictly business.”

“No wants or warrants?”

Chacon shook his head. “He’s got a clean sheet, a good reputation with other contractors who use him, and requires all his employees to undergo periodic drug screening. I think Griffin made a bogus accusation.”

“What kind of vehicles does Lacy own?” Ramona asked.

“Just one, according to motor vehicles: a late model, midsize, four-wheel-drive pickup truck.”

Ramona pushed back her chair and stood. “Let’s go.”

“Where to?” Matt asked.

“Griffin lied. The toolbox that held the grass fits a full-size truck bed. He just made bail on the harboring charge. We’ve got to find him before he runs.”

To keep himself informed of activities in the field, Kerney often listened to radio traffic while working. He was in his office about to call Alice Spalding and Penelope Parker when a be-on-the-lookout advisory for Mitch Griffin went out, followed by a secure channel broadcast from Ramona Pino alerting dispatch that she and Detective Chacon were on their way to Griffin’s house.

Kerney was certain that Pino and Chacon didn’t know what he’d put into play with Griffin. Did they have fresh information they’d gathered from some other source? Or were they just looking to find him for another round of questioning?

He had half a notion to call Pino for an update, or order her back to headquarters. He passed on both ideas. He thought about tagging along to get a firsthand look at the action, and decided against it, although it certainly wouldn’t be out of character. Instead, he dialed a cell phone number and told the man who answered that Pino and Chacon might be coming his way.

He sat back, wondering what he might have to deal with when Pino and Chacon returned. Because he didn’t run his department by flying a desk in an office, Kerney had built a reputation as a hands-on chief. When time allowed, he liked to get out into the field and watch his officers in action. It reduced the bureaucratic filter between himself and his people.

Occasionally he’d work a patrol or detective shift, pull duty on the Plaza during a major community event, oversee a crime scene investigation, or assist at a DWI checkpoint on a holiday weekend.

He thought back to the event that had established his reputation. During his second week on the job, he’d been driving back to headquarters after a meeting with city hall honchos when a lowered, raked, two-tone ’57 Chevy traveling at a high rate of speed cut him off in heavy traffic on Cerrillos Road. Driving an unmarked unit and wearing civvies because his uniforms weren’t ready, he’d given chase. He forced the driver into a parking lot and put the young Hispanic male facedown on the pavement.

When he approached to do a pat down for weapons, the kid told him he was a city undercover narcotics officer on assignment with the Tri-Country Drug Enforcement Task Force. He carried no credentials, and was dressed like a gangbanger in baggy jeans, an oversized baseball shirt, and expensive athletic shoes.

Kerney questioned the kid, who rattled off the name of his supervisor and said he was on his way to a drug buy at a city park. Unconvinced, Kerney asked dispatch to send a patrol supervisor to his location ASAP, and left the young man spread-eagled with his hands clasped at the back of his head in full view of traffic on Cerrillos Road.

A patrol supervisor rolled up within minutes. The sergeant took one look at the kid on the pavement, killed his emergency lights, and approached Kerney, trying hard not to smile.

“Chief,” the sergeant said, “I see you’ve met Officer Aragon. What was he doing?”

“Speeding, reckless driving, and public endangerment,” Kerney said.

“Okay,” the sergeant said slowly in a voice loud enough for Aragon to hear. “Then I think I’d better pretend to arrest him, otherwise we might blow his cover. He’s an undercover narcotics officer, you know.”

Kerney tried to keep a straight face. “So he said.” He watched the sergeant cuff Aragon, pull him upright, and put him in the backseat of his unit. After a brief exchange of words, the sergeant closed the door and returned.

“Thanks for your help,” Kerney said, trying not to look sheepish.

“Sure thing, Chief,” the sergeant said cautiously. “You do know that only uniformed officers in marked units are authorized under state law to enforce the motor vehicle code and write traffic citations.”

“I do know that,” Kerney said flatly. “What did Officer Aragon have to say for himself?”

“Except for being worried that he started out on the wrong foot with the new chief, Officer Aragon said he doesn’t mind that you busted him. He thinks it will give him credibility with the gang-bangers he’s infiltrated.”

“Tell him I was glad to be of help,” Kerney said, “and to slow it down.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll give him the word.” The sergeant eyed Kerney cautiously. “Technically, I should record this incident in my log and dailies.”

“Write it up, Sergeant,” Kerney replied. “There’s no reason for both of us to be rule breakers.”

The sergeant smiled with relief.

“Don’t embellish the story too much, Sergeant.”

The sergeant’s smile changed to a grin. “There’s no need for that, Chief.”

As Kerney expected, news of the incident had spread like wildfire throughout the department, creating a lot of amused head shaking among the troops about their new chief.

Kerney returned his thoughts to Sergeant Pino. It was quite likely she’d come looking for him with blood in her eye if she happened to encounter DEA Special Agent Evan Winslow.

He called Penelope Parker, hedged a bit on the details, and told her he had some indication that George Spalding might not have died in Vietnam.

“Oh, Alice will be so happy to hear that,” Parker replied, a pleased lilt to her voice. “Will you be coming out here to do more investigating?”