Deadly Dreams (47 page)

There was no vehicle in front of the address save for the 1980 Impala parked in the drive, its paint gleaming in the afternoon sun. And although Risa watched for over twenty minutes, she saw no one but the octogenarian slowly clipping the manicured hedge with a large pair of trimmers.

The name on the mailbox read A. HASTINGS. And after surveying the scene for a few more minutes, Risa knew the lead was a dead end.

She got out of the car, the sheet with the address on it clutched in her hand. As she approached, the lady in the widebrimmed hat straightened, shielding her eyes to watch her.

“Hello. Isn’t it a lovely day?”

Risa smiled in return, but her gaze was scanning the area. There was only a carport, no garage. And the house could most aptly be described as a bungalow. “It is,” she agreed with an enthusiasm she was far from feeling. “Unfortunately, I think I’m lost.” She read the address off the pages she held.

“Well, you certainly aren’t lost, dear.” The woman’s smile was sweet. “That’s this address.”

“Oh.” Risa didn’t have to feign her confusion. “But I’m looking for Darrell Cooper’s residence.”

“You found that, too,” the woman said cheerfully. “Well, not his home, you understand. Just his mailing address. I’m Aurelia Hastings. This is my house.”

“How do you know Cousin Darrell?” Risa figured the pretext of being a relative was as good as any.

“Well, it’s just the sweetest story.” Aurelia set the clippers carefully down on the lawn as if they’d grown heavy. “He carried my groceries out to my car one day. And the next week when I went back to the store, darned if he wasn’t there and did it for me again. We got to talking, and he told me about not having a permanent address on account of that messy divorce.” Her voice lowered conspiratorially.

“It was an ugly one.” She played along. “I never did like his wife. Told him that when he was dating her.”

Aurelia smiled. “Well, live and learn. Not everyone can have fifty years together like me and my dear Horace. He was in manufacturing, you see. The first time I met him . . .”

Shifting the conversation back to the topic she was most interested in, Risa said, “Do you have any way of knowing how I can reach him? I don’t have his phone number and I’m only going to be in town one more day.”

The older woman looked distressed. “I don’t, I’m sorry. I don’t have his number either. Darrell comes by once a week and picks up any mail. There’s rarely anything here for him. And he insists on giving me fifty dollars a month for my trouble. No trouble at all, I try to tell him. But he’s quite insistent and . . . well, I am on a fixed income. I always say I should be paying him. He’s so good about fixing little things around here. He’s just the sweetest thing.”

Walt Eggers stomped out of the station house and strode across the parking lot, his rage growing stronger with every step. Confined to a desk. The captain’s words still rang in his ears. Sure he was just passing along orders from higher up, but the prick didn’t have to act so smug about it. He was still pissed off about that IA investigation, even though Walt had assured him again and again that the charge was bullshit. The dirt bag he’d arrested would never be believed over Walt. He was a decorated police sergeant, detective second class. The whole thing was a crock of shit. No one had witnessed the scene. Walt had made sure of that.

And no matter what the captain had told him, Walt knew the reason he was given had been bullshit, too. If IA were going to get him confined to a desk for the duration of the investigation, they’d have done it when they first started looking into the charges.

Which meant this had something to do with the interview with McGuire yesterday. He unlocked his car door and yanked it open with all the fury he was feeling. When this was over, somewhere down the line McGuire was going to get his. No one pulled this shit on Walt Eggers and got away with it.

He turned the key in the ignition. And while he was at it, he’d plan a little payback for that bitch, Chandler, too. Something a little more personal that the ass kicking he’d give McGuire. Something he’d get a helluva lot more pleasure out of.

He peeled out of the lot and shot into the street. After a horseshit day like this, ordinarily he’d call Hans to go out for a brew. Maybe even Giovanni.

But Giovanni was dead and Hans . . . Walt never thought he’d see the day, but Hans was running scared. He’d come around. Eventually. But right now he needed some space. Which meant the bottle of Jim Beam he normally picked up after work would be drunk alone tonight.

He turned at the corner, headed toward his favorite liquor store. No one bitched there when he occasionally picked up a twelve pack on his way out the door, after he’d paid for the liquor. They didn’t dare. That’s the way it’d been early in his career, when people on the street and the storekeepers respected cops. Didn’t give them no lip.

Those had been the days.

Plainclothes officer John Huxley, ensconced in a navy Camry straight from police impound came to attention when Detective Eggers headed for his car. Starting his own vehicle, he put down the newspaper he’d had in front of his face and watched for his chance in traffic. He’d follow the guy from four cars back. It was doubtful Eggers would notice him, but if he did, a second officer would pick up the tail in a black Monte Carlo.

Likely the detective would go directly home, but Huxley almost wished he didn’t. There was nothing more boring than stakeout work. Running a tail at least took some talent. It damn sure broke up the monotony.

He timed the next light, made sure he got through the yellow because Eggers had. But they missed the next one, and he stopped, waited. The loud jacked-up older model Cutlass in the lane next to him seemed crammed with people, most of them jiving to the rap music blaring from the speakers.

Exchanging a look with the unshaven guy in the passenger seat, he returned his eyes to the road. The city had noise ordinances, but he had a job to do. Let some traffic cop bust them for the tinted windows and the noise.

Ought to be a ticket they could write for bad taste in music.

From the corner of his eye Huxley saw movement from the car. He glanced its way again. He had only a fraction of an instant to recognize the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun pointing at him.

In the next instant he was dead.

Eggers came out of the liquor store with a bottle and a twelve-pack, feeling a modicum better. The feeling lasted about as long as it took him to notice the man hanging around his car, trying to seem inconspicuous by looking at a city map. Failing big time.

Paranoia mingled with logic. It was still light outside, for chrissakes. No one was going to make a move on him in the daylight. He drew a bit closer, and recognition hit him. Although he couldn’t quite place the guy, he’d seen him before.

“Walter Eggers?”

“Who wants to know?”

“I have a message for you from Jim Gorenson.”

Bullshit he did. “Oh, yeah?”

The guy looked around and lowered his voice. “He asked me to deliver something to you.”

Walt hesitated. Maybe he’d been too quick to jump to conclusions. This Cop Killer thing was making him jittery. Could be this was some sort of entrapment trick from that wiseass McGuire. Because he suddenly remembered where he’d seen this dumbass redhead before. He was a PA at the seventh district. He’d checked in with him before talking to the task force dickhead.

“I don’t know any Jim Gorenson.” He had to get the booze in the car so his hand would be free to draw his weapon if he needed to. Nonchalantly he set down both purchases while he used the remote to unlock his vehicle. McGuire was pathetic if he was behind this. Although a part of him wondered how the task force had gotten Gorenson’s name.

“Maybe you know him better as Hans. Listen.” The guy sounded like he was getting impatient. “I’m parked in the alley out back because Gorenson said you might have a tail on you. He doesn’t want to call because your phone might be tapped. I don’t know what’s going on and frankly I don’t care. You want what he sent with me for you, fine. If not, I’ll take it back to him.”

Hans. There was no one outside the John Squad who knew about their names. No way that could have been figured out, was there? Walt wasn’t taking any chances. He set the booze in the backseat, making damn sure he never had his back to the man. The whole thing was probably bogus but there was only one way to find out.

“Okay, let’s see what you got.”

“Not here.” The little weasel actually looked nervous. “He said you might have someone watching you. I’m going to walk into the liquor store and out the back door. You follow me in a few minutes.”

The hair on the back of Walt’s neck prickled. Yeah, he’d follow him all right. He’d follow him and ram his ninemillimeter up the guy’s ass. “Whatever.”

He jammed a finger at the guy’s map and said in a loud voice, “You’re way the hell on the wrong side of town. If you want to get to Center City, you need to follow this road and then hang a right here.” He traced the path on the map and got in his car. The guy folded the map and headed into the liquor store.

Then Walt reached inside his jacket and removed his weapon. Tucked it into his waistband at the small of his back. Whatever the jackass out back was trying to pull, he was about to get a very big surprise.

Walt dawdled inside the store for a few minutes, drawing an anxious look from the clerk before he headed for the back door. Sure enough, there was the dickwad with the map, fidgeting anxiously next to a burgundy Chrysler.

“Oh good,” he said, with relief evident in his voice. “Here. I’ve got what Hans sent in my trunk.”

Walt smiled grimly. He waited for the man to turn to open it then closed the distance between them, shoving the guy’s head down hard against the trunk lid, yanking his weapon out to press it against his temple. “What the hell you pulling here, limp dick? Huh? Who the hell do you think you’re dealing with?” He almost hoped McGuire had sent the little weasel. Yeah, he wouldn’t mind humiliating that asswipe.

“Jesus, Jesus, what are you doing?” The guy was practically sniveling. And there was a satisfying amount of blood running down his face. “Did you break my nose? I think you broke my fucking nose!”

“And that’s not the last thing I’m going to break. Now let’s open that trunk nice and easy, and you can tell me all about this bullshit story you dreamed up.”

“Fuck. Fuck.” The guy’s voice was muffled. “This is the last time I’m doing Jim a favor.”

Walt kept the weapon ready while the trunk lid opened. Saw a large brown envelope and a box of black notebooks in a cardboard box. “What the hell is all this?”

The guy was shaking like a leaf. Probably going to piss himself at any minute. “The envelope is from him. It should have some kind of explanation in it. He said the books were old records. He wants you to get rid of them.”

A flare of bitterness spurted. Yeah, let good ol’ Johnny get caught with the records. Which should have been destroyed fifteen years ago when they’d gone to computer spreadsheets. He was good enough to take care of all the dirty work, but not good enough to be seen with anymore.