T. Parker - Cold Pursuit

"Getting the nurse out of jail is what you'd like."

"Sure as hell would."

Hector leaned closer. "How about this, McMichael- you like taking down an assistant chief for dope and murder?"

"Sure," said McMichael. His throat felt thick and his heart was pounding hard. "Why not?"

"I wonder where he does his banking," said Hector.

They followed Bland, safely padded by at least two cars, McMichael vaguely remembering that the assistant chief lived in Kensington. Thirteen minutes later Bland turned onto a residential street of clean little houses. It looked like a street from the thirties, cute porches and rose beds and everybody's lawn happy and neat. McMichael pulled over and cut the lights. The Ford slid into a garage as the door scrolled up to a stop. The welcome-home light was already on. A tiny gray-haired woman in a robe came from the side door and hugged him when he got out of the car.

Twenty minutes later they woke up Captain Rawlings in his home out in Alpine. He answered the door with an unhappy expression on his face and a.357 magnum revolver in his hand.

They sat in his den with the door closed and told him the story. Rawlings sat in the dim lamplight, an aging man in a worn robe.

By the time McMichael was finished telling him what they'd seen, Rawlings seemed to have grown smaller. "When's the next run to Tijuana?" he asked quietly.

"Day after tomorrow," said McMichael. "Wednesday."

"We can arrest the brothers at the border, and serve Bland a search warrant one minute later. I'll go to Judge Abella tomorrow. He can keep a secret for forty-eight hours. Maybe."

"That gives Bland two days to lose the money," said Hector.

Rawlings thought for a moment. "I'll get PSU to surveil him until then. Shouldn't be hard, since he spends ten hours a day at work. He's not going anywhere tonight, right?"

"He's shacked up at home with the luggage and the wife," said Hector.

"Mitzi," said Rawlings. "Christ. This is going to be something. Professional Standards Unit shadowing their own boss."

"Maybe we should use Team Three homicide," said McMichael. "He's not our boss."

Rawlings studied him. His eyes were moist black pits in his pale face. "I like that idea. As much as I like anything about this mess. Do it. Don't get caught."

McMichael got coffee and the morning San Diego Times, took a stool in the back bar of Spider's.

San Diego Detective Linked to Braga Murder Suspect

Defense Lawyer to File Wrongful Arrest

By Rob Skelton

A police detective in the Pete Braga murder case has been romantically linked to the woman arrested in connection with the brutal bludgeon murder.

Detective Thomas McMichael, 38, a sixteen-year veteran of the force, was seen publicly with Sally Rainwater, 28, of Imperial Beach in the days before her arrest.

Neither McMichael nor Rainwater would comment on the relationship.

However, photographs showing the two together at restaurants in Imperial Beach were made available to the San Diego Times .

"This is a mockery of law and a betrayal of trust," said defense lawyer Gene Goldman. "My client is a victim of illegal and unprofessional police procedure. She is innocent of the crimes charged. Both she and the alleged evidence against her have been manipulated by the San Diego PD and Detective McMichael in particular."

Goldman went on to say that he was "professionally and personally appalled" by the department's actions.

Earlier today Rainwater was charged with possession of stolen property belonging to Pete Braga, gross negligence for leaving him alone the night of his death, and possession of controlled substances.

Braga, former San Diego mayor, tuna fleet captain and a colorful area businessman, was clubbed to death in his Point Loma home January 8.

Rainwater is a nurse's aid employed by Braga at the time of the killing. She has not been charged with the murder.

She was questioned the night of the killing but remained free until Friday, when a search of her beachfront home netted what a Police Department spokesman described as "substantial evidence."

Detective McMichael visited Rainwater at the women's jail on Monday, according to Sheriff's Department sources. "They had a brief discussion," said one deputy, who asked to remain nameless.

McMichael read the story, his gut tightening with each paragraph, his eyes hardly blinking at all. He imagined his fist going through Bland's forehead.

The picture beside it showed him and Sally leaving Ye Olde Plank hand in hand, McMichael's face turned toward her with a sucky, solicitous smile.

Rawlings, Bland and Chief Kerr were waiting in Kerr's seventh-floor office. McMichael sat.

"You're off the case," said Kerr.

"I understand."

"Where'd they get the picture?" asked Bland.

McMichael took a deep breath and stared at him. "I have no idea, sir. The only one who had pictures like that was you."

"That Times shot wasn't on the PSU roll," Bland said. "It came from somewhere else."

McMichael marveled at Bland's breadth of deception, his bovine calm and perfect execution.

"The damage is done," said Kerr. "Don, I want you to field the press and media on this. They're not going to settle for Public Information."

Rawlings nodded, looking down with the same lightless expression he'd had a few hours earlier in his den at home. "Tom, take the Courtney Gonzalez case. Stay away from Braga and the nurse. A couple thousand miles away would do."

"Yes, sir."

"I still think a leave of absence would be the best thing for this department," said Bland.

"Then take one," said McMichael.

"Can it and beat it," said Kerr. "Take the day off and get out of here. Tom, your ice is thin."

"I want to know who took those pictures," said Bland. "One of the nurse's friends? Maybe your buddy Hector?"

McMichael looked out the window, but saw only Bland's misdirections spinning wider and wider and wider.

"We'll get to the bottom of it, Jerry," said Rawlings. "Don't worry about that."

"It's my job to worry," said Bland. "This man gets the day off and I have to scramble around here cleaning up his messes."

Enjoy the last few days you'll live out of prison , McMichael wanted to say, but he held his tongue. He slammed the door behind him and took the elevator down toward the bright sunshine.

He was about to get into his car when his cell phone rang.

"That was stupid, but she's hell for pretty," said Patricia.

"Gee, thanks."

"I'll bet you could use a little distraction."

"A long trip to a faraway planet would be nice."

"I'll pick you up in half an hour."

"Do that."

"Bring a jacket. And you gotta tell me where you live, McMike."

She was driving a red Mercedes convertible, a red scarf around her black hair, big sunglasses and a black leather car coat. Under the coat was a polka-dot outfit that reminded him of Marilyn Monroe.

"No Ford?"

"I could never tell Grandpa I bought this. Get in."

They drove to the Shelter Island yacht basin, parked in a spot at the San Diego Yacht Club.

"Provisions in the tiny trunk," she said.

McMichael carried the bag of wine, cheese and bread. Patricia led the way to a fifty-foot tournament-rigged Tiara with twin Cat diesels, new blue canvas and fresh hull paint. Corrinna Braga .

"One of Grandpa's toys," said Patricia. "I think I'll end up with it, since I'm the only one who knows how to use it."

Ten minutes later they were taxiing through the harbor, the Cats puttering them along at three knots while the breeze slapped cool against McMichael's face. There were stratus clouds high in the north and the sky was a hard, close blue. When Patricia hit the Pacific she gunned the diesels and aimed west. Standing beside her McMichael felt the power rise up under him, felt the bow lift and the stern auger down, watched a gull glide past for inspection then snap away fast in the wind.