P. Alderman - A Killing Tide

Could he be the in-town buyer of the drug smuggling ring? The fishermen were just the runners, she was fairly certain. But a cop ? She knew these guys. She had trouble believing that any of them would be in on drug deals.

Then again, who better than a cop? A cop would have the inside track on investigations and undercover narc work. She remembered what her snitch had said the other morning at the warehouse. You cops, you think you're above the law.

A shiver ran down her spine. Jackson made sense—he'd been in the right places all along. He'd been assigned surveillance on Kaz's house, yet suspiciously absent when she'd had break-ins. Hell, he'd even been in on conducting the search warrant. He'd been in the vicinity and easily could've attacked Kaz afterward. And he'd been present at Gary's arrest. How many of Gary's injuries were really the result of resisting arrest?

She slapped the wall beside the vending machine, then leaned her forehead against her arm, closing her eyes. If she was right, then Gary was in real danger. He knew too much to be left alive. And a cop could make it look like suicide.

She gulped down soda. Although she didn't like her options, she had no choice—she had to take her suspicions to Sykes. If she were wrong, well, then she'd look like a fool. So what else was new? It wouldn't be the first time she'd jumped to conclusions and then had to live down the consequences.

No question that the guys on the force wouldn't trust her from here on out. Cops didn't rat on each other. But stand by and watch Gary possibly be murdered? No way.

She turned and walked down the hall to Sykes' office. His door was still closed—she could see through the window that he was on a phone call. When he finished, she tapped on the door and opened it, entering.

Eyebrows raised, Sykes motioned for her to sit. "What's on your mind, McGuire?"

"Sir, I'd like you to delay the arraignment."

He leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head, a scowl on his face. "I've already been through this with Kaz. Jorgensen doesn't need his own lawyer to stand there for five minutes and enter a plea."

"That's not what I'm talking about." Lucy leaned forward in her chair. Her best strategy was to convince Sykes that the case wasn't yet solid enough. "I've uncovered some information that indicates that Gary might've been framed."

Sykes went abruptly still. "What makes you think that?"

"Well, for one thing, Gary's not stupid enough to leave the tire iron where we could find it. And," she continued before he could argue, "the timeline doesn't work. I got the lab results back, and given the match of the concrete and mud samples with the bridge, Gary wouldn't have had time, after leaving the tavern, to meet up with Ken, kill him, then transfer him to the boat and set a time-delayed fire. Kaz was right on his heels—"

Sykes held up a hand. "Look, McGuire. I understand that you haven't worked that many homicides, so you wouldn't necessarily be aware that, in cases like these, not all the evidence lines up neatly. There's always some detail that doesn't seem to make sense. But that doesn't mean that Jorgensen is innocent. The man ran, and he resisted arrest."

"I think I can explain that," Lucy said urgently. "If I'm right about a theory I'm working on, one that I'd like your permission to pursue."

Sykes took his time pulling out a cigar and lighting it. After a couple of puffs, he motioned for her to continue.

She drew a breath and plunged in. "You said, a few minutes ago, that you didn't know that Gary had been placed on suicide watch."

Sykes stared at her through a cloud of smoke, his expression blank. "So?"

"So Clint told me before you got here that you were the one who had put Gary on suicide watch." Lucy waited for a reaction, but he said nothing. "Don't you see? If Clint is in on this, and Gary knew it, he'd be afraid to turn himself in."

"Whoa." Sykes sat forward abruptly. "McGuire, you can't just go around accusing your fellow officers of being dirty."

"But what if Clint put Gary on suicide watch because it would make a good explanation if he winds up dead?"

Sykes didn't say anything for a long moment, and she resisted the urge to shift in her chair. Finally, he nodded thoughtfully. "Interesting theory. Do you have any proof?"

"Not yet, but I'm working on it. And Kaz could have plenty later this evening."

"Oh?" He pinned her with a hard look. "You letting a civilian get mixed up in this?"

She fell back on the excuse that he would understand. "Do you think I could've stopped her? Her brother's in jail, accused of a crime he probably didn't commit—"

"We don't know that," Sykes said, his tone firm. "I'm still inclined to believe that he's guilty. But he may not have been working alone—almost certainly, he wasn't. Where is Kaz right now?"

Lucy hesitated. She'd opened the door—she could hardly refuse to answer. "The mooring basin."

He stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray and stood, indicating that their meeting was over. "I'll look into what you've said. I don't want one cop investigating another on my force. Until I have more proof, I'm not formally investigating one of my own detectives. If you pick up any other information, you need to tell me right away, is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." Lucy stood and turned to go.

"McGuire?"

At the door, she turned back. "Sir?"

"Good work."

#

At the Redemption, Kaz sat in the darkened corner of the same booth that Michael had occupied that first night, sipping a glass of beer and watching the other patrons in the bar. She'd tried Michael at the station, but there'd been no answer. Then she'd left a message on his cell phone. So far, he hadn't shown up.

Steve hadn't been happy when he'd seen her arrive, but she doubted he suspected why she was there. Svensen was standing at the bar along with Jacobsen and others. It was now two hours before the end of slack tide. If Karl was planning to make a move, he had to make it soon.

Karl drank the last of his beer and paid his bill, then headed for the back hall, his actions exhibiting a casual purposefulness. Anyone watching him, though, would assume he was simply going to the men's room.

After a minute, Kaz stood and followed him. The back hall was dimly lit, like the rest of the bar. Several doors, all closed, led off it, and at the very back, a door led outside, probably to the pier. Svensen was nowhere to be seen.

Kaz walked down the hallway to Steve's office door. She turned the knob quietly, opened the door a crack, and glanced inside. The room was empty. She stood there for a moment, perplexed. Then she heard a toilet flush in the men's room, and footsteps. She ducked into the office, closing the door behind her.

That had been close. Evidently, Karl really had come back here to relieve himself of all that beer. Then the footsteps got louder, coming down the hallway.

The knob of the office door turned. She hurriedly glanced around for a hiding place, then she dove underneath the desk, curling herself up as best she could inside the cavity and pulling the chair back into place.

The door opened, temporarily letting in the noise from the bar. The bar noise abruptly muted as Karl closed the door, locking it from the inside.

Kaz concentrated on breathing shallowly and quietly.

The light came on, and she watched boot-clad feet walk over to the file cabinet. He opened a file drawer. The plastic of folder frames clacked as he shoved them together. Then she heard something thud down on top of the cabinet. As quietly as possible, she shifted so that she could put her head down on the floor and look out from under the edge of the desk.

Karl stood with his back to her, unwrapping some kind of package. She heard a rustling sound, then he slammed the drawer shut, picked up the package, and turned around. Just before she ducked back under the desk, she saw that whatever he had was covered in black plastic. Her movement brought her butt up against the other wall of her hiding space. The wood of the desk creaked ever so faintly.