He sliced through the tape with his horn-handled pocketknife and spent only a few seconds longer on the lock.
When he opened the door, the coppery scent assailed his keen senses like a blow to the gut.
Carson walked through the empty reception area and stood in the doorway of the main office. He surveyed the scene before him, aided by the narrow but bright beam of his mini Maglite. From the spatter of blood, brain, and bone on the wall, window, and floor, he could see the killer had used hollow-point ammunition. The top of the desk was bare; the police had confiscated everything.
He then turned his attention to the open closet door in the far corner of the room, which revealed a large steel safe, also open. And empty.
Carson methodically scanned the area, starting with the ceiling and working his way down to the floor. The light glinted off an object in the corner. He studied the space between him and the safe. Convinced that his passage wouldn’t disturb anything, Carson crossed the room and kneeled in front of the safe.
He played the beam over the floor next to the wall and spotted the item that had caught his attention. Part of the object had fallen into the crack between two of the pine floor-boards, and part had slipped under the radiator. Carson used the tip of his pocketknife to slide the article onto his gloved hand. It was a sterling silver earring in the form of a delicate three-inch chain that ended in a flat, pointed ellipse, similar to a feather or leaf.
Carson smiled, thinking how the nature symbolism would appeal to Tara, who insisted upon educating their daughter on her Cherokee heritage.
A thin hook at the top threaded through the ear. Holding the item in his hand, he realized how easy it would be for the wearer not to notice its loss; it weighed less than half an ounce.
Click.
Damn. Someone was coming in through the street-level door. He had maybe ten seconds before the newcomer arrived.
He chanced a glance out the window and saw a Crown Vic, the stereotypical unmarked police car. Things were getting complicated. Not impossible, but definitely complicated.
Carson stepped to the shadows in the opposite corner, on the same wall as the door. He heard the footsteps ascend the stairs and stop outside the reception area. The hallway door opened a few seconds later, just long enough for someone to pull out a weapon in response to the door’s broken seal.
Carson braced himself for the sudden glare of the overhead light. Instead, a flashlight beam sliced through the darkness.
“Police! Step outside with your hands up.” The words came out thick and imprecise.
Carson stood in the darkness, waiting for the officer’s next move.
“This is your last warning.” There was no mistaking the slur. “Step out or I will shoot.”
Several seconds elapsed, and Carson held his breath. Finally, heavy treads approached. Carson tensed, ready to spring. The officer shone his flashlight into the interior space.
In his mind’s eye, Carson saw himself reach forward and grab the service pistol, snapping the man’s finger before de-gloving the digit and wrenching away the weapon. He quickly dismissed this option and pursued patience. No sense in stirring up a hornet’s nest by leaving one of Memphis’ finest bound and injured at a crime scene.
The man made a sloppy sweep of the room that failed to reach the corner where Carson waited.
Carson had a clear view of the slim man in a dark blazer and rumpled khakis. The sweet stench of Jack Daniel’s turned his stomach, instantly bringing to mind his Uncle Joe — a man who embodied every negative stereotype of his people.
Forcing himself to the present, Carson watched the lawman weave his way toward the bookshelves on the wall opposite the safe. The man holstered his weapon and flashlight, kneeled down, and grabbed two large ledgers from the bottom shelf. While the officer’s back was turned, Carson crossed the room in silence. When the man stood and turned to leave, his eyes locked with Carson’s. He recoiled in surprise, and the heavy ledgers crashed to the floor. Carson secured the lawman’s hands behind his back in an iron grip, forcing his face into the wall.
“Relax,” said Carson. “I don’t want to hurt you. And I’m guessing you don’t want to advertise your presence here.”
“What do you want?”
“I just want to find the person responsible for this mess,” said Carson. “A more interesting question seems to be, what are you doing here?”
“None of your business, that’s what.” The alcohol made him sound like a petulant child.
Carson shrugged and increased the pressure on the man’s wrists. “Suit yourself. I can leave you tied up here and place an anonymous call to the precinct. Or...”
“Or what?”
“Or we can try to work this out. So we both get what we want. That sound reasonable?”
The man hesitated, but then he nodded. “Okay. Let’s talk.”
“Good choice.” Carson removed the firearm from the man’s hip holster. He searched for additional weapons and pocketed the compact gun he found in an ankle holster. Finally, Carson took the flashlight before releasing the lawman to turn around. He offered an apologetic look as he trained the service pistol on its owner. “I’m sure you’d do the same.”
The officer narrowed his gaze at Carson as he rubbed his arms. Carson wasn’t sure if he was trying to intimidate — or to focus.
“You working this case?” asked Carson, slowly sweeping the light over the cop. The man’s hesitation gave him his answer. Carson took in the distinctive alligator pattern on the man’s shoes. Well-styled. Probably Italian. He caught a flash of gold as he moved the beam upward. “Mind showing me your watch?” The man pushed back his cuff. Diamond baguettes winked at Carson from a Rolex President. “Nice. Tell me, Officer...”
“It’s Detective. Detective Aaron Lawry.”
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, detective,” he said, emphasizing the title. “You come from money? Or is the city of Memphis exceptionally generous with its hazardous duty pay?” When Lawry remained silent, he continued, “Or does this have something to do your being here after your buddies have gone home?” The man glanced down at the ledgers, and Carson nodded. “I figured it was something like that. Something big enough that you’d risk the complications of a broken crime scene seal. I don’t care what your business was with Buddy Martin,” Carson said at last. “But I’m a man on a deadline, and I always meet my deadlines.”
He told Lawry the tale of an unnamed damsel in distress, in the clutches of an ex-military mercenary who had brought Buddy’s life to an untimely end.
“I’m afraid I can’t disclose my client’s name,” said Carson. “But I can assure you that he is a major player in this town. And very generous.”
“How generous?”
“Generous enough that, once this is done, I can give you fifty large, in cash, for less than a day’s work.”
“Sounds reasonable to me,” Lawry said after a moment’s consideration. “Can I have my guns back?”
“Not yet,” Carson replied, tucking the pistols beside his Glock. He made a sweeping gesture toward the office. “What do you know about the investigation?”
Lawry gave Carson a look of resentment, quickly replaced by resignation. He sighed. “Buddy was tortured. Every bone in his right hand broken.” No prints other than Buddy’s and his receptionist’s, which suggested the attacker had worn gloves. Lawry glanced over at the safe and back at Carson.
“Yes?”
“We assume he was tortured for the combination,” Lawry said. “Once your guy made sure it worked, he finished Buddy off with a couple shots to the head.”