Internal Affairs (3 page)

Off to the left was another doorway that opened into a garage bathed in moonlight, which filtered in from a bank of high windows. It was about half the size of a football field, and there were cars parked in each of the nine bays, all but one in various states of disassembly.

Rafe smelled the odor of a cooling engine and ran the flashlight beam over the car closest to him—a shiny Jaguar XJ that looked as if it was in fine condition, no body work needed. There was a thin layer of road dust covering it and it didn’t seem to have been repaired at any time in the recent past.

So why was it parked in here?

Was it the owner’s car?

And, if so, where was he?

Before Rafe could ponder these questions, the beam of his flashlight caught something dark and glistening on the cement directly beneath the Jaguar’s front passenger side—

A small pool of red liquid that looked very much like blood.

It was coming from the crack beneath the door.

Rafe’s body tensed. Drawing his Glock from its holster, he shone his light through the car window and saw two figures slumped inside, both male, both very dead. Eyes wide. Mouths agape. Judging by their appearance—unshaven, rumpled clothes, with matching bullet holes adorning the middle of their foreheads—they weren’t Sunday school teachers.

And this was definitely the work of a professional.

Rafe was about to call it in when he heard a sound coming from across the garage—the faint clang and scrape of metal against concrete, as if someone had accidentally kicked a stray hubcap.

He wasn’t alone in here.

Jerking his flashlight beam toward the source of the sound, he illuminated the far end of the garage.

“Sheriff’s department,” he called out. “Show yourself and take it slow, hands in the air.”

He caught a glimpse of movement and reacted instinctively, diving sideways, just as a muzzle flashed and the bark of gunfire filled his ears. One of the Jaguar’s side mirrors exploded above his head and he dove for cover behind a tall, rolling tool cabinet.

Dropping the flashlight, he reached for the radio on his shoulder and clicked it on.

“Dispatch, this is Unit Fourteen. I’m under fire. Repeat, I’m under fire.”

“Roger, Fourteen, we’re sending backup.”

More gunshots punched holes in the Jaguar and the tool cabinet, landing way too close for comfort. Rafe quickly snatched up the flashlight and closed it, tucking it into its loop on his belt.

No point in giving this guy a target.

He returned fire—once, twice—then retreated into the darkness behind him and waited.

The gunfire stopped, followed by the longest stretch of silence that Rafe had ever experienced. His heart pounded wildly as he waited for the perp to make a move. He figured the guy would either start shooting again—assuming he had the rounds—or make like a jackrabbit.

Rafe didn’t have to wait long for the perp to decide. A dark figure popped up from behind the equally dark silhouette of a car and took off, heading for a door on the left side of the garage.

Rafe shot to his feet and shouted, “Hold it!” as he took off after the guy, leaping over stray tools and car parts that lay on the garage floor.

A moment later he was at the door and about to crash through it, when he stopped himself, thinking that might not be a wise move.

What if the perp was out there waiting for him?

Instead, he stepped to the right side of the doorway and crouched down to avoid being in the line of fire. Then he reached a hand out, turned the knob, and flung the door open.

As it swung wide, he half expected another flurry of gunshots—

But nothing happened. All he heard was the distant drone of street traffic.

Getting back to his feet, he carefully peeked around the door frame and saw the perp several yards away, working his way through the maze of cars in the front of the lot.

“Police!” Rafe shouted as he took off after him. “Stop right now!”

The guy didn’t slow down. He was nearly to the sidewalk now, only feet from where Rafe had left his cruiser. As the perp barreled past the last of the cars, he brought his gun up and shot at the black-and-white, shattering the windshield and puncturing one of the tires.

Rafe swore under his breath and kept running, moving into and through the maze—

Now the guy was on the street and jumping into a gray BMW. The engine roared to life as Rafe vaulted the hood of a junked Mazda and scrambled after him.

Just as he reached the street, the BMW’s rear tires began to spin and smoke, the car laying rubber as it tore away from the curb.

Rafe tried to read the license plate, but the streetlight was too dim and the plate was obscured by darkness. He whirled around, hoping his cruiser was still good to go, and found that the shooter had hit his mark. The right front tire was shredded and leaking air. Fast. No way he’d get very far.

Swearing under his breath again, he watched the BMW disappear down the street, then reached for his radio.

“The suspect has escaped,” he said. “He’s headed north on Davis Avenue in a gray BMW, license plate unknown. My vehicle has been compromised.”

“Roger, Fourteen. Patrol’s been alerted and backup is on its way.”

* * *

A
S HE WAITED
for his fellow deputies to arrive, Rafe went back into the garage. He found the switch for the overhead lights and took a closer look at the bodies inside the Jaguar.

Two males, approximately thirty years old, one with a tattoo of a spider on his neck. They both looked Slavic to Rafe, maybe Russian, which immediately brought to mind the Russian mob.

Were these guys connected?

Was it a contract killing?

Judging by the placement of the wounds, Rafe had no doubt it was a professional hit, but he’d failed to get a look at the shooter and had no idea if he’d been chasing another Russian or someone else entirely.

Knowing full well that he was breaking protocol, Rafe untucked and used his shirttail for protection as he reached for the passenger door handle. He’d have a heck of a time explaining any stray prints. Swinging the door open, he leaned inside and carefully checked the pockets of the victim closest to him.

Nothing. No wallet. Keys. Coins. Cigarettes. Not even a stick of gum. Rafe closed the door, then moved around to the driver’s side and did the same thing with the other victim, getting the same results. The shooter had obviously cleaned house after he’d made the hit.

Rafe was about to close the car door when he spotted something on the floor mat near the driver’s left foot.

A small, narrow slip of paper.

He reached down, snatched it up and tilted it toward the light, noting that it was a receipt for a fill-up at a Western Star service station just across town.

The time stamp read 2:45 a.m.

Rafe knew this could very well be the key to identifying the victims—and, by extension, the shooter. He also knew he should return it to the floor mat where he’d found it. But as the sound of approaching sirens filled his ears, he stuffed it into his jacket pocket and closed the car door.

A moment later, he stepped outside to greet his colleagues.

Chapter Three

“Let’s go through it one more time,” Kate said.

Rafe balked. “Seriously?”

They were standing outside the auto repair shop. The roll doors had all been raised, the garage overheads lighting the yard as a flurry of crime scene techs moved in and out of the building.

“Look, Rafe, I know it’s late, I know your shift is almost over, but if this is a mob hit, things could get sticky. I want to make sure all our bases are covered.”

Rafe hadn’t been surprised when his big sister, Kate, showed up at the scene. She was the Homicide Squad’s best investigator, specializing in organized crime, and anything that smacked of a professional hit was usually passed off to her. She took her job very seriously and had the tenaciousness of a bulldog. She also got results and was the envy of every investigator on the squad.

Growing up in Kate’s shadow had not been easy for Rafe. Ever since he’d graduated from college and had joined the department, he had been trying to live up to her reputation. He had put in extra hours, volunteered for event work, even worked the holidays no one else wanted to—all in hopes that he could make just the fraction of the impression that his sister had made. Unfortunately, nobody seemed to have taken notice of these sacrifices.

Including Kate.

“I don’t care about working a little overtime,” he told her. “I’m here for the duration.”

It wasn’t as if he could go anywhere anyway. His cruiser was being towed to the police garage as they spoke and he’d have to hitch a ride with one of the other deputies to get back to the station. He was bound to be here at least another hour.

“Good,” Kate said. “So let’s go through it again.”

Rafe sighed. “As I said, I got the call out at about 0300 hours, give or take. Dispatch’ll have the exact time.”

“And no ID on the caller, right?”

“Right,” Rafe said. “Although he said his apartment overlooks the lot.”

Kate turned to her partner, a burly guy named Eberhart who stood nearby. Rafe got the feeling the guy had always regarded him as an irritant, and the feeling was mutual.

She signaled to him. “Charlie, get a canvass going on the apartment building. We need eyes on this thing.”

Eberhart smirked. “Maybe your little bro here would like to volunteer. He’s gotta be good for something.”

Kate frowned. “Just get it started, all right?”

Eberhart gave her a salute. “Your wish is my command, O Great Leader.” Then he turned and called to a couple of deputies who were huddled near their cruisers. “Look alive, knuckleheads, you’ve just been recruited.”

The guy was a jackass.

When he was gone, Kate returned her attention to Rafe. “Okay, so you responded to the call and arrived at approximately what time?”

“About 3:10. The place was dark, so I notified dispatch and decided to take a look around.”

“Did you request backup?”

“We didn’t even know for sure that shots had actually been fired at that point, so I didn’t think backup was necessary.”

Karen gave him a stony look. “And as a consequence, you almost got your rear end shot off and the suspect got away.”

Rafe felt his cheeks go red. As a big sister, Kate had never been much of a nurturer, and it was just like her to point out any mistakes he may have made.

He frowned at her and said, “Are you going to bust my chops or let me talk?”

“Go on.”

“When I got close to the building, I saw the door was ajar—”

“And you
still
didn’t call for backup?”

Rafe sighed. “What exactly are you investigating here? Me or the murders? I told dispatch what I was doing every step of the way. I’m not exactly a rookie, you know.”

Her frequent interruptions and insistence that he repeat his story made
him
feel like a suspect, as if she were expecting to expose him in some kind of lie. But he knew from previous conversations with her that this was merely a technique she employed to try to jog a witness’s memory and draw out more details.

“Just tell me what happened when you got inside,” she said.

“I saw the Jaguar, the bodies, then the shooting started.”

“And where was the suspect?”

“Across the garage.” Rafe pointed to the building behind them. “He came out that door and was gone before I could stop him.”

“Did you at least get a look at him?”

“My answer hasn’t changed since the last time you asked me. It was too dark. And he was wearing a hoodie.”

“And no license number from the car he was driving?”

Rafe just gave her a look.

“Okay,” she said, reading his unspoken message. She flipped her notebook shut and clipped her pen to it before putting it in her coat pocket. “Enough business for now. How are you doing? It isn’t fun getting shot at.”

“The only thing that’s hurting is my pride,” Rafe said. “I wish I could’ve caught the guy.”

“Sounds like you did what you could, little brother. I wouldn’t sweat it, if I were you.”

“Thanks. What do you want me to do now?”

Kate waved a hand at him. “You’re done here. Find your ride, go back to the station and write up your report.”

“That’s it?”

Her eyebrows went up. “You have a better idea?”

He shrugged. “I thought I might be able to assist somehow. Maybe help Eberhart with that canvass. Or help you inspect the crime scene.” He paused. “I’m thinking the owner of the auto repair shop must be connected to these guys somehow. Otherwise, what were they doing here?”

Kate smiled. “You just can’t wait to get rid of that uniform, can you?”

He hadn’t realized it was so obvious. The last thing he wanted was to come across like an anxious puppy. At twenty-five, he was still young, but he’d always thought he was pretty mature for his age. Ready to take the next step in his career.

Maybe he’d been deluding himself.

“As I said, I just want to help.”

Kate’s smile disappeared and she suddenly looked very serious. “You can help by being patient and doing your job, Rafael. Your time will come, but it may not be as soon as you want it to be, and that’s something you’ll just have to live with.”

Spoken like a true big sister, he thought. With just the right amount of condescension. Rafe had the urge to tell her where to stuff it, but remained professional.

“So are we good?” Kate asked.

“We’re good,” Rafe said.

She turned away and was about to start toward the garage when she stopped. “Just one last question.”

“Which is?”

“You didn’t touch the car, right? Didn’t try to do a little investigating of your own?”

Rafe felt his heart kick up and thought about the gas receipt that was still in his pocket. He’d meant to give it to her, but now he wasn’t so sure that was a good idea. Surely they’d be able to identify the bodies through fingerprint analysis, and his breach of protocol would never have to come to light.

If worse came to worst, he could give it to her later, claim he’d found it on the garage floor and in the excitement that followed had forgotten about it. But handing it over now would be a mistake. Especially after she had just treated him like a redheaded stepchild.