Sweet Dreams, page 3
“You’ve been here since last night,” her aunt said, bringing Kate back to the present. “I’ve been worried sick.”
“I’m fine,” Kate said, letting out a breath. The pain in her shoulder was like a hot poker stabbing her.
“You could’ve been killed.” Now her aunt was crying.
“But I wasn’t. We’re well-trained. We know what we’re doing,” Kate said, trying to calm her.
“Promise me you won’t go back to the task force. You have to transfer to another department.”
“Can we talk about this later? I’m really tired.”
Next time Kate opened her eyes, Cornbread and Buck were in the chairs next to the bed. “Where’s De’Ron?”
“DOA,” Cornbread said. “You put him out of business.”
“He almost put me out.” Kate took a breath. “How about the girl?”
“In custody,” Buck said. “Going to rehab, try to turn her life around. Avery was right. She’s twenty, lived with her folks in Birmingham. Went to a party downtown, tried crack and liked it. What a surprise, huh? Started hooking to support her habit. Said she was on her own, a renegade, didn’t have a pimp. Stayed in a motel on Gratiot.”
“It was just a matter of time,” Cornbread said. “Someone took her in, turned her out, laid down a quota. You know how it works.”
Kate, looking at both of them, said, “What else is going on? Where’s Charlie?”
“Took his wife and kids to a Tigers game.” He paused. “I don’t know as I should tell you this or not.” Cornbread hesitated. “Shooter hit again. That’s six banks in two months.”
“What’s his hurry? Is he using, strung out?”
“Doesn’t appear to be desperate. Still no idea who he is. All we know for sure, dude’s white and has his shit together.”
Now Kate noticed a vase filled with orchids on the table next to the bed. She smiled at Buck and then Cornbread. “Aww, you shouldn’t have.”
Cornbread said, “Shouldn’t a what?”
“Brought me flowers.”
Buck looked embarrassed. “I wish,” he said in his Alabama drawl. “Wasn’t us. Sorry, QD.”
“Is there a card?”
Buck walked over, checked the vase. “Don’t see one.”
“Come to think of it, there was a dude walking out of your room we were coming down the hall,” Cornbread said.
“What did he look like?”
“Dark hair going gray, six feet, give or take.” He turned to Buck. “How old would you say he was?”
“I don’t know—late forties, fifty, maybe.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Kate said. “Was he a doctor?”
“Wasn’t dressed like one,” Cornbread said.
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Buck said. “Whoever it is will likely be coming back.” He had a bulge of tobacco under his lower lip, picked up a paper cup, and spit in it. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to gross you out. How’re you feeling?”
Cornbread said, “Yeah, how you feeling after seeing that?”
“Not too bad.”
“Took a nine just over the vest, just missed your collarbone. Through-and-through.” Cornbread paused. “Girl tough as you, I bet you heal fast, though—be back with us in no time.”
“Give me a couple days, will you?”
Five
Kate and Charlie Luna were walking down the hall, passing rooms, passing patients and hospital staff, Kate pushing her IV pole on wheels. “You know they’re gonna ask me if I think I can still cut it, tell me I don’t have to go back. That I can take a break from the task force for a while, or forever.”
“Yeah, but it’s something they’ve gotta do,” Charlie said, pulling on his bandit mustache. “They’ve gotta make sure you’re okay, you can still do the job. I think that’s reasonable.”
Kate stopped at the doorway to her room. “Here we are.” She went in, pushing the IV pole, sat on the side of the bed, and slid over with her back propped up against pillows. She picked up her cup and sucked water through the straw. “What are they going to ask me?”
“You feel bad about killing De’Ron Griffin?”
“It was him or me, and almost both of us.”
“Do you need help, want to talk to someone?”
“No, thanks.” She imagined herself being questioned by a solemn pipe-smoking psychologist with a beard, a stereotype based on characters she had seen in movies.
“I think you’ll be okay. You know how to do this.”
“My aunt wants me reassigned. Said she can’t go through it again.”
“Yeah, it’s tough when the family’s involved.” There was a shyness about Charlie she had never seen before, but then she had never spent any time with him outside of work. Her feelings weren’t romantic. Kate just liked him. He was a friend.
“You don’t have to decide right now,” Charlie said.
“You think I could handle cellblock duty or sitting in a courtroom all day after hunting fugitives?” Kate could feel herself stressing over it. “Are you kidding? I’d go out of my mind.”
“Getting shot has a way of changing you.” Charlie sat at the end of the bed by her feet. His sport coat opened and she could see the Glock on his hip.
“How do you know?”
“I came back from Afghanistan with two gunshot wounds.”
“Well, you’re still at it.”
“Yeah, but I’m crazy. I’ve seen what it can do to a normal person. Good friend of mine, tough guy, became a cop and was shot twice by a perp fleeing the scene of a robbery. The vest saved his life, but being that close to death fucked him up. He couldn’t get it out of his head and ended up quitting. Got a job working security at a mall.”
“He’s probably making more money.”
Charlie smiled and pulled on his mustache.
Kate said, “You think this’s gonna change how I do things?”
“I don’t know. You’ll find out when you go back, if you do. You don’t, no one’s gonna think any less of you.”
Sure they are, Kate thought. “This is bullshit. It’s my decision.”
“’Course it is.” Charlie stood up and came closer to her. “Take it easy, will you? You’re supposed to be relaxing, getting better. Anything you need, anything I can bring you?”
“Where’s my primary?”
“With investigations, standard procedure anytime you’re involved in a shooting. You know that.”
“I’ve never been involved in a shooting.” Kate leaned back against the pillows, tried to get comfortable. “Just bring me my backup, will you? It’s in the G-ride, compartment between the seats. But wait till I go home. I don’t want to scare the nurses.”
“Anything else?”
“My blazer, it’s on the back seat. Oh, and my work computer.” Kate took a breath. She was still weak. “Charlie, thanks for stopping by.”
“Just so you know, QD, I want you back with us soon as you feel up to it.”
Four days later Kate was discharged. The pain in her shoulder had lessened considerably, and she could walk down the hall and back without getting tired.
An orderly helped her out of a wheelchair into the car. Aunt Elaine leaned over, smiled, and squeezed Kate’s hand. “Look at you. My God, you look so much better. You have color.”
“I feel good. Happy to be out of there.”
Elaine looked over. “Ever find out who sent you the orchids?”
Kate shook her head.
“Well, it’s sure a mystery, isn’t it?” Elaine smiled. “Think you’ve got a secret admirer?”
Kate said, “It’s probably Adam, this guy I’ve gone out with a few times.” Although she hadn’t heard from him since their last date was interrupted and ended on a bad note. There was no other man in her life.
“Why didn’t he leave a card?” Elaine gave her a look. “Doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe he couldn’t think of anything to say.”
They rode in silence for a few minutes.
“You know I’m happy to stay with you, help out, till you’re back on your feet.”
“I’ll be okay.” The thought of Aunt Elaine, the drama queen, hanging around her small apartment, checking on Kate constantly, sounded awful.
“Have you decided what you’re going to do?” Her aunt frowned now. “I mean, you can’t go back to the task force. I hope you understand that.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Kate could feel herself getting angry. “Please don’t interfere. It’s up to me. It’s my decision, okay?”
Her aunt’s face tightened. Elaine wouldn’t look at Kate, and that was a relief.
•••
After a hot bath Kate stood in front of the mirror. She loosened and removed the bandage covering the left side of her collar bone. The entrance wound was raw and bruised with stitches through the center. Now she turned her back to the mirror, looked over her shoulder, and studied the exit wound that was larger and had more bruising and more stitches.
Kate turned, staring at her face in the mirror and started crying, letting go for the first time since killing a man and being shot, holding in all that emotion for days and now letting it out.
The next morning Kate sat at the kitchen table sipping tea, eating a piece of toast, glancing at the sports section. Cabrera had hit two home runs in the game last night. The Tigers beat the Yankees and were in first place in the American League Central, five games ahead of the Royals. That made her feel a little better.
She got up, opened the sliding door, walked out on the balcony, and rested her coffee cup on top of the railing. It was a nice sunny day. She looked down and saw a gray Honda parked across the street, looked away, and stepped back in the kitchen.
Kate ran into her bedroom, grabbed the binoculars hanging on a hook in the closet. From the kitchen, she crawled out to the balcony, sat behind the half-wall railing and waited. When the Honda pulled out a few minutes later, she raised the binoculars and zoomed in on the license plate: DZH 2871.
Kate heard a knock on the apartment door. She moved into the living room and heard a key in the lock. The door opened and Elaine entered, beaming, carrying a casserole dish. “I made one of your favorites. Chicken and lima bean hot dish.” Kate followed her into the kitchen, regretting that she’d given her aunt a key to the apartment.
Elaine set the casserole dish on the counter and took off the tin foil cover. “Doesn’t it look yummy?”
Kate forced a smile. It was tough to get excited about chicken and lima beans submerged in cream of mushroom soup.
“I’ll heat it up for you,” Elaine said.
“No, I’d rather save it for dinner.”
“I’ve been thinking.” Elaine paused. “Wouldn’t it be nice if I moved in for a few days and took care of you?”
It was the last thing Kate wanted. “Thanks for the offer, but I need some time alone. I really need to rest.”
Charlie Luna stopped by a little later carrying Kate’s computer in one hand and her blazer on a hanger in the other.
“Come in, have a beer, will you? Tell me what’s going on.”
They walked into the kitchen. Charlie set the laptop on the table and hooked the hanger on the back of a chair, the blazer hanging almost to the floor.
Kate said, “You forget something?”
Charlie pulled her Glock 27 out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her. “Feel better?”
Kate ejected the magazine.
“It’s all there,” Charlie said.
Kate popped the magazine back in. “Just checking.”
Charlie leaned against the counter, glancing at the casserole, and made a face. “What’s that?”
“Chicken and lima bean hot dish. Want to take some home to your family?”
Charlie winced and shook his head. “No offense—it looks awful.”
“I’ll tell my aunt.”
Charlie’s face turned red.
“Take it easy. I’m kidding.” Kate sipped her tea. “How are Buck and Cornbread?”
“Buck’s been singing Hank Williams, Jr. songs the past few days. ‘A Country Boy Can Survive,’ among others. Getting ready for the concert.”
“I didn’t know Buck could sing.”
“He can’t. And Cornbread’s in a disagreement with his girlfriend. Something new, huh? See what you’re missing?”
“Any good busts? Come on, give me something, will you? I’m bored out of my mind.”
“You miss it, huh? Miss the action,” Charlie smiled. “That’s a good sign.” Now he looked out the sliding door to the balcony and back at Kate. “Okay, I got one for you. Remember Willy Batz?”
“How could I forget him?”
“A CI tells us Willy’s living at Lloyd’s Mobile Home Park in Trenton, even has the address.” Charlie leaned against the island counter. “Nine the next morning we pull in, surround the trailer. I’m at the front door with Cornbread, I knock and see someone moving inside. So we bust in, look around, find Willy in the shower, dumping an ounce of heroin down the drain. We bring him out naked, sit him down dripping wet. He’s got a giant swastika on his chest, and Nazi symbols inked all over his body. He’d just blasted off, needle still in his arm, eyes rolling back, face red. I don’t think he knew what was happening. I looked across the living room and saw all these toys piled up against the wall. While the kids are away at camp Daddy’s mainlining a Schedule 1 narcotic.”
“That’s a nice, heartwarming story. I’ll tell that one to my aunt and uncle on Thanksgiving.” Kate paused. “Need help with anything, let me know.”
Six
When Charlie left, Kate sat at the desk in her home office, booted up her computer, and accessed the Justice Department Information System. Entered the plate number, state, and make of the car.
It was registered to William R. Thompson, 23724 Davey Ave, Hazel Park, MI 48030, DOB: October 17, 1967 SSN: 382-58-4669.
Next, Kate entered his name in the NCIC database and uploaded mug shots of Thompson from 2007 and his criminal history. He had dark hair and a Fu Manchu in the front view. Sideburns and big ears in the profile view.
Name: William R. Thompson
Race: White
Gender: Male
Hair color: Partial Gray
Eye Color: Blue
Height: 5’ 11”
Weight: 165
DOB: 10/17/67
Status: Released
Discharge Date: 9/12/16
Scars / Marks / Tattoos:
Scar: Surgical scar lower abdomen—hernia
Tattoo: Back—Only God can judge me
Tattoo: Left Forearm—4 Aces; Lucky
Tattoo: Right Forearm—Life or Death
Tattoo: Chest—Praying hands with rosary
Kate picked up her cell phone and recorded some notes. “Bill Thompson had been convicted on a Weapons charge—Felony Firearm in 1995—did three years in the Southern Michigan Correctional Facility, paroled in November 1998. He was convicted of bank robbery in 2007 and did nine years in the Federal Correctional Institute in Victorville, California, paroled in September 2016.”
Thompson had either been clean since then or he hadn’t been caught. She didn’t know him. But she was going to find out what he wanted. Then she thought—wait a minute—could Bill Thompson be the serial bank robber? His physicals resembled those of the suspect in the newspaper. Thompson was about the same age, and he had gray hair. She opened the newspaper and compared Thompson’s mug shots to the surveillance images of the suspect. They weren’t a perfect match, but they were in the ballpark.
Kate went in the bedroom, took off her shorts and tank top, and put on Levi’s and her light vest and a buttoned a blue work shirt over it. She slid the Glock 27, her backup, in the Longchamp shoulder bag along with a spare magazine, OC Spray, and handcuffs. She grabbed her car keys and went out the door.
Kate felt an adrenaline rush as she got in the Audi, fastened the seatbelt, and looked at herself in the rearview mirror. Are you out of your mind? What’re you doing? She wasn’t supposed to drive a car till she was cleared by her doctor. And she wasn’t supposed to carry on her duties as a deputy US marshal until she was cleared by the Marshals Service Medical Department and reinstated by the chief. But most important: you never go after a fugitive by yourself. You wait for back up. You form a perimeter around the suspect’s residence and go in with the team.
It was six twenty as Kate drove along Davey Avenue in Hazel Park, looking for 23724. It was a treeless neighborhood with small cookie-cutter houses on both sides of the street. According to Cornbread, this blue-collar town was also known as Hazeltucky, based on the high percentage of methed-out, southern hicks populating its environs. His words, not hers.
She rolled by the Thompson residence, a paint-chipped bungalow with houses crowding it on both sides. Bill Thompson wasn’t a gardener or a handyman, that was obvious looking at the exterior. The front door was closed, shades pulled tight over the windows. The cracked, empty concrete driveway extended to a single-car garage.
Kate drove south a few houses, turned around, heading north now, parked on the street behind a red Chevy pickup, and waited. A couple preteen boys in basketball shorts rode by on Stingray bikes with banana seats. A few minutes later, a pregnant girl about Kate’s age pushed a stroller past her, Kate wondering if she would ever have children. The way her relationships had gone it seemed unlikely.
Across the street Kate could see someone in the front window of a redbrick bungalow, looking out, and then there was a guy with a long, braided goatee on the porch staring at her.
Kate fixed her attention on Thompson’s house. She wanted to check the garage, see if there was a gray Honda Accord inside.
The guy with the goatee walked across the street and stood at her side window. Kate turned, looking at a wild-eyed tweaker, early twenties. “Who are you?” he said through the glass. “What you doin’ out here, spyin’ on us?” The kid was obviously high and paranoid. Now two more tweakers came out of the house and moved toward the street.
