A Voice from the Field (18 page)

“You could say that.”

“Case went to shit on you?”

“No.” Tia shook her head and held the man's eye. “Case was solid. DA dumped it.”

“That happens,” he said, nodding.

Tia didn't want to dwell on it. “So what's the plan then?”

“Well, being that it's a strip club, we figured you could go U/C again.”

Tia was wondering if she'd heard him right and trying to come up with a response when Phelps gave Jacobs a shove.

“Shut up, Lonnie. Damn, man.” Phelps looked to Tia. “Sorry. His shit is weak like that a lot. Thinks he's a real comedian.”

Jacobs laughed, giving Tia a look that bordered on a leer. Tia ignored him and turned to Phelps. “I figured you guys would go inside. I can take the long eye outside. Watch the comings and goings.”

“Yeah. That'll work,” Jacobs said, drawing her attention. She detected a little chill in his tone—likely he was offended that his joke hadn't gone over. “Probably the further back the better. If they burn you, we'll be next.”

“Or,” Tia said, “if you guys get torched, they'll come looking for me?”

“Don't worry about us,” Jacobs said. “Just stay put in the parking lot.”

“What's your cell, Tia?” Phelps pulled out his phone. “We can stay in touch by text.”

The three of them traded numbers quickly.

“How come the DA dumped your case on Kane?” Jacobs asked, returning to his earlier topic.

Tia shrugged as if the whole thing were no big deal. “You'd have to ask her.”

“I'd rather hear it from you,” Jacobs said, clearly unwilling to give up.

An uncomfortable silence hung until Tia broke it. “Graham said the assault was bad because I didn't ID myself as a cop. As far as the kidnapping charge, nobody saw the girl but me.”

Phelps looked down, kicking his toe in the dirt. Jacobs nodded and looked thoughtful. “You get that a lot? DAs dumping your cases if you don't have a corroborating witness?”

Tia bit her lower lip and shook her head. “Not really. In fact, never.”

Jacobs wasn't going to let it go. “You mean never until the last few months, right?”

“You got a real question, Jacobs, or you just going to keep up this gay-ass gentle bantering shit?”

Jacobs stood up straight. His brows lowered, his eyes narrowed, and he seemed ready to probe deeper until Phelps jumped in, saying, “Let's get moving. We'll go in separately. Tia, why don't you wait till it gets dark, then set up in a corner of the lot. Sound good?”

Tia stared at Jacobs but answered his partner's question. “That's fine by me.”

Phelps reached into the pocket of his jeans and tossed Tia a set of keys. “Take the Chevy truck. You don't need to be burning your own gas on this. Nice goat, by the way.”

Tia decided Phelps was all right and Jacobs could go jerk himself off for all she cared. “Thanks. It's a '64. My dad and I restored it ourselves. All original.”

Phelps nodded. “Sweet.”

Clearly unhappy with the casual conversation, Jacobs turned on his heel. He spoke as he walked away. “All right. We'll head out. Be in the lot after dark. If we get into any shit inside, don't worry. We'll call uniformed deputies for backup.”

Shaking his head, Phelps took a deep breath, then followed his partner toward their four-wheel drives. He offered Tia a fist bump as he passed. “Ignore him, Tia. He's a prick. I'll try to text every half hour or so, give you an update.”

After the deputies pulled out, Tia went to her car and grabbed her go bag from the backseat. As she ran her hand across the vinyl tuck-and-roll upholstery, a memory swept over her, suddenly vivid and clear. She and her dad pulling up in front of the house in Eau Claire.

They had driven almost two hundred miles, after reading an ad offering interior seats for a '64 GTO. When they met with the owner, Tia, who was about fifteen at the time, served as her dad's translator. They'd negotiated the man down to $175.00 for the mint-condition black vinyl seats. After carefully loading the bounty into the back of their battered pickup truck, they celebrated with root beer floats at the A&W drive-thru. She had dozens of similar memories covering their hunt for engine parts, light fixtures, and dashboard knobs. As she remembered the major score of the convertible roof assembly she gently caressed the fabric surface, feeling the ribs of metal underneath.

They had bought the car at an auction when Tia was thirteen years old. Her dad told her it was a classic American muscle car. All she saw was a rusted-out shell of metal that belched black smoke whenever you started it up. On her sixteenth birthday, her father had handed her the keys to a fully restored classic '64 GTO. She was the envy of Newberg High School.

Tia grabbed the bag and slammed the door shut, harder than she needed to. Memories and lies all folded into one. She thought back to the time spent with her family in Mexico.
Everything is different now. Jesus, what am I doing here?

Tia threw her bag across the front seat of the pickup and hoisted herself inside. The Roadhouse was only about a fifteen-minute drive away and it wouldn't be dark for an hour. She would have too much time to sit and stew.

What a waste of time,
she thought.
Sit my ass in a parking lot for what? For who? How does this help anyone?

Tia thought about the bar, not far up the road. She could see the neon sign: Fireside Lounge. She'd been in many times, drawn to the place's dark, typically empty interior. She could slide in there, knock back a couple. That, plus a bottle to go, would make the boredom of a long stakeout much more tolerable.

Why not? Jacobs sure the hell wasn't going to know. Just the thought of a drink lifted her spirits and lightened her mood. She pulled out a mental barstool and ordered a tequila sunrise and a shot of Jose Cuervo. By the time she hit the highway, her imaginary drink glowed like an orange ball floating just beyond her reach.
It'll be real soon enough
, she thought. She pressed the accelerator to the floor, making sure not to look back at her goddamned car.

 

TWENTY-ONE

“There's at least a couple of 'em inside, boss,” Buster Cobb reported. “Another one, a female, in a lay-off truck in the parking lot.”

Kane wasn't surprised. In the privacy of his office, he used the closed-circuit surveillance cameras to zero in on a white dude sitting alone at a corner table. The black-and-white images on the screen were grainy, but Kane could still make out the man's long, clean hair and neatly trimmed beard. Throw in the healthy tan, the fact that the guy didn't smoke, and he'd been nursing the same beer all night, it all signaled “cop.” Kane had sent over a dancer, who'd pushed the envelope of what was legally allowed, and the man hadn't so much as touched her tit.

Dumb ass might as well wear a badge pinned to his forehead.
Kane had sent Cobb to scour the rest of the club and the perimeter of the parking lot. Hearing that the one outside was female, he already knew who he was dealing with.

“Let me guess. The one in the parking lot. Brown bitch. Kinda hot looking?”

“Bingo.”

“Suarez.”

“You want I should let 'em know we made 'em, tell 'em to shove off?”

“Nah. I like knowing where they're at. In fact, make sure we don't tip our hand. As long as they feel their cover ain't blown, they'll stick around.”

“You got it, boss. You need anything else. A drink? Maybe I send one of the girls back?”

“Nah, but spread the word. Make sure security knows a no-touch policy is in effect. Bartenders shouldn't offer any special activities. You go through the girls' dressing room, check their shit for dope. Tonight we're nothing short of model fucking citizens.”

“Right, boss.”

Cobb sauntered out, leaving Kane alone in his office. So Suarez was following through.

He looked out the window of his second-floor office, getting a bird's-eye view of the Roadhouse Score. The place was packed and the bartenders were hustling to keep up. The cops on-scene would put a damper on the final score, but he'd give them nothing to react to. Just a legal strip club providing wholesome adult entertainment. Even without the extra income from the under-the-table stuff it was going to be a good night at the till. And his other plans would take care of what he needed for the deal with Bell.

Kane wondered if he should give Tanner a heads-up. He tapped his fingers on the desk, thinking about making a phone call, then let it go. Always risky to get on the phone and start talking specifics. Besides. Tanner sure as hell knew the score, could take care of his damn self. But Kane might need an insurance policy.

Cobb returned after checking the dancers' gear. Kane didn't ask what he'd found and Buster offered no specifics, just said, “Everything's clean now, boss.”

“I got a mission for you, Buster. It's a road trip and it's damn important.” Kane scribbled an address on a pad of paper, ripped off the sheet, and handed it to Buster. “You're going to have to haul down there and back. Don't dawdle. You hear me?”

Buster looked at the address. His face took on a look of childlike excitement at being given what was clearly an important assignment. “Don't dawdle. Got it, boss.”

“All right, Buster. Listen close. This is what I need you to do.”

 

TWENTY-TWO

Rain pummeled the roof and hood of the pickup truck hard enough to drown out the country music, but the voice had been persistent.

She needs you. Go to her.

From the far corner of the muddy parking lot she could smell the booze inside the Roadhouse Score. Tia had somehow mustered the will to resist a stop at the bar, but now she realized a liquor store was less than two miles up the road and would be open for another hour. She could be there and back in less than five minutes.
Just a couple of those little airline bottles,
she told herself.
Three of them ought to do it. Then again, what the hell. Get a fifth and call it a party. Who's going to know?

A clap of thunder cleared her head and she wondered how much longer the deputies would want to stay on the surveillance. She picked up her phone. Almost 1:00
A
.
M
. She had been slumped down in the seat of the pickup truck for over four hours. She punched out a quick text to Connor. “still quiet here. how r u?”

Tia set the phone back on the center console, assuming she'd get no response. She'd sent half a dozen text messages to Connor; all had gone unanswered. She pictured him on the back dock of the Piggly Wiggly, unloading two semi-trailers full of slabs of meat, cases of beer, canned goods, dairy, and whatever else ended up on the shelves of a grocery store. Heavy lifting for sure and taxing on his legs. But Connor wouldn't think of asking for special treatment.
And here I am,
she thought,
bitching about sitting on my ass in a parking lot, collecting overtime.

The monotony didn't help. Tia had been assigned to the outer perimeter, which was about the same as being a security guard. From her vantage point at the farthest edge of the lot she could keep an eye on the front entrance to the Roadhouse Score and monitor any cars that were coming or going from the rear. So far she hadn't seen any of the players. Then again, there were only two she was really concerned about, and from what she had gathered from Jacobs and Phelps, only one of them was present. Gunther Kane had been in the club since the deputies had arrived, but Jessup Tanner was nowhere to be seen.

Tia thought back to the morning.
A little over twelve hours ago,
she thought to herself,
you were heaving your guts into a toilet, figuring your career was about to end. Now you're ready to get back in the mix? Yep. Sure am.

Tia fought against the urge to drop the truck into drive, instead allowing herself the fantasy of picturing all the different bottles of tequila, vodka, and whiskey stored neatly in the imaginary liquor cabinet in her mind. Bottle after bottle in long beautiful rows.

Despite her boredom and her demons, Tia figured her low-level assignment beat the alternative of being inside the club. The parking lot had been packed when she first set up. Probably the place had been standing room only, and the last place she wanted to be was shoulder to shoulder with a bunch of Wisconsin rednecks in a strip bar. Over the past hour the lot had gradually cleared out, and now it was occupied by the last ten or fifteen pickups and beat-up Eldorados.

Tia's phone chimed and she grabbed it, hoping for a message from Connor. She was disappointed to see it was a group text from one of the deputies inside the Roadhouse.

“Putting operation down. S-One on-scene. No unusual activity. S-Two a no-show. Place emptying out.”

Had they been made? She couldn't see how, but it seemed like a good idea to at least talk it over, try to figure out where Tanner had gone. She texted back: “where 2 4 debrief?”

The response was quick.

“No need 4 debrief. Try again 2mrrw night. Go ahead & secure.”

Fine with me,
she thought. If she left the goat at the sheriff's station and drove straight home in the truck, she'd get to the farmhouse about the same time as Connor. She banged out a text she knew he would be happy to get.

“no activity all night. told u so. headed home. see u there.”

A moment later her phone rang; she looked at the number and was again disappointed. Still not Connor.

“What's up, Phelps?” she said, answering. She spotted him leaving the Roadhouse Score and heading for his vehicle, phone at his ear.

She was glad it was Phelps on the line. It had been pretty obvious that Jacobs wasn't keen on her being part of the surveillance team. Phelps struck Tia as a decent sort of guy, not to mention a solid cop. When he spoke, she heard frustration in his voice, the car door slamming in the background as he got in. “That was some bullshit.”