He got up, walked to the bookcases, selected a road atlas, thumbed to the map of California, and checked the index.
Watsonville was below San Francisco, inland from Monterey Bay, near Santa Cruz…
Madge waved, pointed to a glowing light on the phone.
“Hit line one,” she said.
Broker tapped the extension. “What?”
“We got company,” said Garrison.
“I’m on the way,” said Broker, having full-blown predatory thoughts and intending to act on them. He hung up, turned to Madge. “Where’s the key to the evidence closet?” He pointed to his head. “I got a jacket but no duty hat.”
Madge opened a drawer, threw him a key marked with red tape. Broker went down the hall, ducked in Jeff’s office, found a used paper coffee cup and plastic spoon in the trash, took them, went back down the hall. He opened the closet, picked among the hangers and shelves, found a winter cap with ear flaps. Then, quickly, he stooped to the footlocker where Jeff kept evidence seized and tagged. He thumbed through plastic bags, found the one he wanted-a piddling amount of cocaine. Eased one end open around the staple, inserted the spoon, scooped a pinch and put it in the cup; folded the cup and stuck it in his pocket.
When he returned the key to Madge, she observed him in his new headgear and pronounced, “You look like Elmer Fudd.”
70
“The girl is with him,” said Garrison. He was looking through Broker’s spotting scope, which he’d set up on a ledge in the casement windows by the bathroom. Aiming through tangled birches. “Looks like they got stuck on the road, coming in.
They’re carrying stuff into the cabin. The chick don’t seem too happy.”
Broker banged cupboard doors, opened drawers, found a box of Ziplocs. Dumped the grocery bag in his hand. Five amber plastic four-ounce bottles rattled on the table. He grinned. “Just cleaned the local Health Food Coop out of inositol.”
“What is that stuff?”
“Inositol. B vitamin supplement. Back in the Stone Age, when I was on the job, they used it to cut coke.” Another lupine grin. “Right, you never worked narcotics.”
“I worked narcotics,” defended Garrison.
“Yeah-Jax beer and moonshine.” He spun bottle tops, shook white powder into the Ziploc. Weighed it in his hand.
“About twenty ounces,” he said to Garrison. “If this was coke, what’s it worth these days?”
“On the street?”
“No, man, in jail time.”
Garrison rubbed his forehead. “Ah, I think seventeen ounces can get you five years mandatory.”
“I plant this on him and threaten to take him in. But we really want to talk to his dad.” Broker winked. “Maybe Ida Rain found James.”
“No.”
“Yes. Now I don’t intend to leave a mark on this punk; but I definitely am going to fuck him up. You with me?”
Broker felt his voice speed up, his whole body lighten. Eager for contact.
Garrison’s face, more suited to the lumpy sorrow of his country songs, split into a sly smile. He pulled on his jacket.
“We’ll kidnap his ass.”
“Not exactly, we’ll let the girl go, give her a message for Konic.”
“The girl could be for banging or she could be heat. Or both. I’m not armed.”
Broker stuffed the Ziploc in his parka pocket, went to the closet by the door, pulled out his Remington twelve-gauge, and tossed it to Garrison. He reached to the upper shelf for the shells. Threw them over. Garrison pushed in shells, racked the slide. Broker checked his.45. Put on the Cook County sheriff’s department winter cap.
Feeling good. Like a racehorse who’d slipped a plough harness. They got right to it. No stealth, straight ahead. Cut through the woods-CRASH CRASH-stomping holes in the armored snow. The sound of incoming doom.
The waxed Audi was skewed in a dipping turn on the slick road a hundred yards from the cabin. The right tire was buried to the wheel well in snow that looked like crushed glass.
“I don’t know where you fuckin’ learned to drive.” Unpleasant female voice, heavy with accusation. The trees parted.
Broker and Garrison could see them, started down.
“Cool it, my cell phone’s in the cabin, we’ll call a tow truck,” said David Konic. He wore dark slacks, a full-length black leather coat and sunglasses. He was lifting a bag of groceries from the trunk of the car.
“Great, first the lights go out, now this,” said Denise, exas-perated. They could see her now, blond hair, white head-band, trim in a navy blue nylon wind suit and ankle boots.
Hands on hips, in back of David. She spotted them the moment they saw her. “Ah, David…”
“Oh, hi,” said David, removing his glasses and putting the winning boyish smile on his face.
“Hi yourself,” said Broker. Coming down a slight rise, Garrison moved off, balancing the Remington casually on his shoulder.
Denise, not David, reacted instinctively to the shotgun.
“So what the fuck is this, hunting?” she asked, eyeing Broker’s official parka askance as she moved a step back, hands loose at her side, and Broker thought Garrison might have called it. She was the dangerous one. He veered toward her. Reflex and experience took over.
“So, you’re a cop, huh?” said David, amiable, still smiling.
“Think you could get us a little assistance. We’re stuck.”
“Shut up, David, get down,” ordered Denise. Cut-mouth tense. Right hand starting to swing back. Making her move.
“Think fast,” yelled Garrison, bringing the Remington around.
Broker rushed her, building momentum on one running step and planting the toe of his left boot in a short vicious kick into her right shin. She grunted in pain, went off balance as the black automatic pistol came up from the waistband in the center of her back. Broker stepped in, grabbed the pistol and twisted it from her hand as he body-checked her.
She made a hollow thunk against the side of the car. Limbs spraddled, she rag-dolled to the frozen ground.
“Nobody fuckin’ move,” yelled Garrison, covering David with the shotgun.
David froze, hugging his bag of groceries. He didn’t look afraid, merely inconvenienced.
Broker stuffed Denise’s Walther P5 in his pocket. Then he advanced on David, grabbed him by the shoulder, roughly spun him around and threw him against the car. The grocery bag fell and burst. Oranges tumbled, Van Gogh bright, on the mean ice. Broker removed the Ziploc from his pocket and let it fall among the orange parade.
He growled at David. “You broke into my house, you little shit. What were you doing in my…” Then Broker stopped in feigned surprise. “Hello? You dropped something.”
David glanced down. Shook his head. “Is that lame. That’s pure bush. God.”
Garrison hauled Denise by her jacket collar over next to David and let her fall. She moaned, rolled over and struggled to sit up.
“Denise, look at this, Andy of Mayberry is trying to set me up,” said David.
“Motherfuckers,” hissed Denise, enunciating every syllable.
Broker placed his boot heel on her shoulder and propelled her back against the car. “Watch your fucking language,” he admonished and almost laughed, getting his worlds mixed up.
Garrison picked up the Ziploc of powder. “Ah, David, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, go directly to jail. You heard of federal sentencing guidelines?”
“C’mon, David,” said Broker, “we got work to do.” He pulled him to the front of the car. “Hands on the hood.”
David leaned forward and spread his legs, assuming he was going to be frisked. “No, no,” said Broker. “You’re going to push.” He turned to Denise, whom Garrison was helping to her feet. “Denise, honey, you through trying to kill people?
You think you can drive?”
Regarding him with viperish brown eyes, she stated, “I got the right to defend myself, and him, like I get paid to 406 / CHUCK LOGAN
do. And I have a license to carry. And you’re not a straight cop, that’s what I think.”