The Last Second

THE LAST SECOND

A Novella

ROBIN BURCELL

DEDICATION

Those of us who have friends like Max,

who will stand by us no matter what, we are blessed.

This story is dedicated to those friends.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

N
ow that I’ve completed my first ever novella, I realize it takes a small village to bring it to fruition. To (retired) supervising Special Agent George Fong, FBI, who always ensures that my FBI elements are based on reality. To (retired) Sergeant Dale Miller, LPD, my expert on explosive devices, who has helped me through several books and now this short story to ensure that anything that explodes does so with a semblance of believability. Any factual errors are mine. To Susan Crosby for being my first reader and best critic. To my agent, Jane Chelius, for always cheering me on. To everyone at Harper for all their hard work. And last, but certainly not least, to Lyssa Keusch, my editor. This story is better because of her.

CONTENTS

THE LAST SECOND

Z
achary Griffin glanced over at his passenger, then back at the road. He had his reasons for asking Sydney Fitzpatrick to assist him with this case. They worked for two separate agencies. He was a covert operative for ATLAS, an intelligence agency that handled national security threats both domestically and internationally. She was an FBI agent. Typically the FBI would not be working with ATLAS. Very few ­people even knew his agency existed. But he’d crossed paths with Sydney on more than one case, and, since she was also a forensic artist, her clearance had been raised when they’d needed her assistance.

This investigation, however, was not one that needed a sketch, forensic or otherwise. He’d asked her to come with him as a pretext to discuss a past case he’d worked. One might even say it was a confession. A secret he’d held on to, even though he should have told her before they’d started dating.

Now it was time to clear the air.

What better way to do it than when they were stuck in some small town, two thousand miles away, where she couldn’t simply drive home? Maybe then she’d listen long enough to see things from his point of view.

One could only hope, he thought, checking his rearview mirror, then glancing over at her as she finished reading the case she’d started on the plane. They were now on the road, heading south from Tucson, Arizona. Unlike the gray January skies they’d left behind that morning in D.C., here it was blue and cloudless.

“This guy looks guilty,” Sydney said, turning the page. It was a thick file, but she was nearly finished.

“He probably is.”

“So why are we going out on it then? The guy skipped bail. You really think he’s going to talk to us?”

“Assuming we can find him. If he can give us Quindlen, it’ll be more than worth our while to offer him a deal.”

According to the report, Calvin Walker, a Pocito police officer, was suspected of working with the Mexican cartels. He’d been seen talking with a known gunrunner and ex–CIA agent, Garrett Quindlen, who was under suspicion of running the entire operation. When Walker was stopped on his way home, the Pocito police found a number of guns in his trunk, along with a large amount of cash and drugs. He was arrested, and, for reasons Griffin had yet to determine, was granted bail before any other agencies had a chance to go out and interview him.

Their only hope now was getting to Walker through his sister, Trish, who they hoped might still be in touch with him.

They met Trish Walker at a coffee shop in the next town over. She had short, wind-­tousled blond hair. Her blue eyes were rimmed with dark circles, and her skin looked gaunt, as though she hadn’t slept or eaten much the past several days. The restaurant was empty save for two ­people sitting at the counter, one scanning the paper, the other the waitress, who was reading a book. The three took a seat at a table near the window, and the waitress got up to pour them coffee, took their order, then went back to her reading.

“We’re hoping to offer your brother a deal,” Griffin said to Trish. “Information on who’s actually behind the operation in exchange for a lighter sentence.”

“He’s innocent.”

“The evidence speaks otherwise.”

“He’s one of the most honest guys I know. A good cop. Always has been. He would’ve taken this all the way to court to prove his innocence.”

Not wanting to alienate her, he decided to let her pursue her brother’s innocence. “Did he tell you what’s going on? What he thought was happening?”

She shook her head. “He said he couldn’t talk on the phone, but that he didn’t do what they said. His lawyer thinks he’s lucky they even allowed bail.”

“And after you posted his bail, what did he tell you?”

“That they set him up, and he was going to find out what was really going on. He was sure that this man Garrett Quindlen was behind everything. That he’s the one who’s actually calling the shots at Pocito PD. But no one can prove it. He told me he had his suspicions, but warned me about talking to anyone at the PD. He said they’d find out, and I’d end up in a body bag.”

“When’s the last time you saw your brother?”

“He was heading out to the old McMahon place. It’s an abandoned house on the edge of town, where he thought he might find some sort of evidence. That’s the last time I heard from him.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Three days ago.”

She looked down at her coffee cup for a second or two, tracing her finger along the rim. When she looked back up again, her eyes shimmered with tears. “You have to help me. They killed him. I’m sure of it. He would
never
have jumped bail. Never.”

Unfortunately, Griffin thought, they were only here to gather information. But he couldn’t leave her like this. “What sort of help are you looking for?”

“I want to clear his name. If I can prove he was killed, I think the towns­people will take a stand and do the right thing.
Someone
in that police department’s dirty, but it’s not my brother. Right now no one in town will talk to me. They’re all afraid.”

“And how do you plan to prove he was murdered?”

“By finding his body. He was killed at the McMahon place. I’m sure of it. That’s where he was going, and it also happens to be where the police department found that large cache of explosives they say belonged to him. It’s not his. I know it.”

“What makes you think it happened there?”

“Because I’ve finally found the one witness who
isn’t
afraid to step forward. The only problem is that I seem to be the only person who believes him.”

Now this was possibly something he could use. “And who is this mystery witness?”

“His name is Max.”

“Where can I find him?”

She took a deep breath, clearly uncomfortable with what she was about to tell him. “The thing is . . . he doesn’t speak English.”

“I speak fluent Spanish.”

“Actually,” Trish said, “he doesn’t speak Spanish, either.”

“What language does he speak?”

She gave a hesitant smile. “This is the part you
might
have trouble with.”

“Try.”

“My witness is a dog.”

“A dog?” He wasn’t even sure how to react to that. Even Sydney looked stunned. “A
dog
?” he said again.

Trish handed him two photos. The first was of a once-­white Victorian mansion on a low hilltop, which, judging from the peeling paint and missing sideboards, had seen better days. The second photo focused on a low wall made of large rocks that surrounded the bottom of the hill around the old Victorian’s perimeter, then extended out about thirty feet.

And there, lying in front of the broken section of the wall, was a brown and black German shepherd, its head on the ground between its front paws.

He showed the photos to Sydney, and she asked, “Whose dog is it?”

“My brother’s dog. Max. He’s been there every day since Calvin went missing. Come tomorrow morning, the police department plans on detonating that cache of explosives they found in the basement of the McMahon house, and they don’t seem too concerned if the dog’s there or not.”

“Why not remove the dog?”

“There’s a high fence around the entire property,” Trish said. “The gates are locked. And now that that dynamite’s been discovered, the police won’t let anyone near it. I’ve tried calling Max out, but he won’t come. That’s what makes me think my brother is buried there beneath those stones. Right where the wall’s broken.”

Griffin focused on the broken section, particularly the rocks in front of it. “Some of those weeds growing around the rocks look more than a week old. The bush growing next to it looks pretty intact.”

Sydney leaned over to get a closer look at the photo. “I read a news article once about this dog that found its way to the cemetery and stayed by its master’s grave for
months
after the man died. I’m with Trish. The dog must sense he’s buried there, or why stay?”

“Truthfully?” Griffin said. “They blow up that cache, I think the dog is far enough away where it won’t be hurt. We can check the rock pile afterward.”

Sydney picked up the photo and held it in front of him. “Look at his face, Griffin. It’s like he
knows
. We need to help Trish find the body and get it out. But if the police blow up that place, you can’t guarantee debris from the house won’t hit the dog. He could get hurt.”

“And,” Trish said, “those ­people need to know what happened to my brother. They need a hero, even a dead hero. Only then will things change around here.”

Griffin eyed the photo. McNiel, his boss, would never allow him to run a rescue mission for a German shepherd. And he seriously doubted McNiel would make an exception to recover a suspected gun smuggler’s body. The moment Griffin gave notification of his intent to help, he’d be shut down.

Black ops agents did
not
run rescue missions for pets.

But like Sydney, Griffin was a sucker for the underdog, especially when it was a real dog. He slid the photo into his notebook. “Maybe we can get in there posing as the press. I think it’s time the
Washington Recorder
interviewed the police chief on what is clearly a human interest story.”

“
Washington Recorder?
” Trish asked him.

“A newspaper we use for our nonofficial cover.”

“I’ll warn you,” Trish said. “He doesn’t like the press. Last thing he wants is news coverage.”

Sydney smiled as she poured some cream in her coffee. “I’m pretty sure if he had a choice, he’d take the press over us any day.”

P
ocito, population twenty-­three hundred, an old mining town, was not the flat, cactus-­covered desert Griffin would have imagined. Set in the rolling hills at the foot of the Mule Mountains in southern Arizona, Pocito looked as though time had simply passed it over, stopping in the late 1800s. One almost expected to see the head lawman stepping out of the brick-­fronted building with a six-­shooter on his hip and a gold star on his chest. He did not, and the past disappeared into the present as Griffin and Sydney pulled open the door of the police department, stepping into a fluorescent-­lit lobby where a woman sat behind the counter, typing away at a computer.

Judging from the equipment on her desk, Griffin figured she was receptionist, dispatcher,
and
phone operator. She smiled expectantly at the two of them.

“May I help you?”

Griffin adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses on his nose, then nodded in greeting. “Zachary Griffin,
Washington Recorder
, and Sydney Fitz, my photographer. We were hoping to have an interview with the chief.”

“If you let me know what this is in regards to, I’ll see if he’s in.”

Griffin glanced up at the plaque on the door behind her, the one that read “Chief of Police” on it. “Apparently,” Griffin said, loud enough to be heard through the door, “there’s a dog whose owner abandoned it. Out on some property that’s about to be leveled.”

“The McMahon place,” she said. “I’m afraid Chief Parks is not taking any interviews on that until tomorrow.” She gave Griffin a patronizing smile. “At least not until
after
the detonation.”

“Too bad,” he said. “Big special interest story. This place will be a zoo once it gets out. Of course, if I can get an exclusive, I’d be inclined to keep it under wraps until tomorrow.”

The door behind the woman suddenly opened and out stepped a tall man, early fifties, wearing a khaki uniform, with a gold badge on his chest and stars on his collar. “It’s okay, Irene. I’ve got time for a quick interview.”

“Yes, sir.”

Griffin followed Sydney back to the chief’s office, where he directed them to the two chairs in front of his desk. “Sorry about that little bit of misunderstanding,” Chief Parks said. “Got me a whopper of a case here, and I told Irene to—­well, I’ve been on the phone all morning with the ATF and the DEA over it. Haven’t even had a chance to break for coffee.” He took a seat himself, then looked directly at Griffin. “Afraid I missed the name of your paper?”

“
Washington Recorder.
”

“Washington. You don’t say? State or D.C.?”

“D.C.”

“Dang. Over a dog?”

“The world’s always looking for a feel-­good story.”

“Hard to feel good about a dirty cop working with the Mexican cartels. Guess I shoulda suspected something was up when Officer Walker was suddenly interested in cultivating his so-­called informant.”

“Any idea who this informant was?” Griffin asked him, wondering if it might be Quindlen or someone who could lead them to Quindlen.

“No clue. But we did try to find out. Followed Walker on multiple occasions out to the property where we found all that evidence. Then again, if you really want proof, maybe you’d like to see the photos of the dynamite Officer Walker had stored in the basement? And the guns?”

“You have photos?”

“Damned straight we do. Of course, the DEA’s got the guns, but we kept a record.” He pressed a button on his phone, then leaned over the speaker. “Irene, can you bring in the evidence book on Calvin Walker’s case . . . Thanks.” He hung up.

A moment later, Irene walked in, carrying a large black binder. “Anything else?”

“If you got any coffee made, I’d love a cup. For our guests, too.”

“None for me,” Sydney said.

“Already had my cup today,” Griffin replied.

“Just one, Irene.”

She smiled, then left. The chief opened the book, turned it so that it was facing the right way for Griffin, then slid it toward him across the desk. “You know much about guns, son?”

“Enough to know I never want to be on the wrong end of one,” Griffin said, looking up at the chief through the rim of his glasses.

“Expect you reporters don’t get around them much. These here? Extremely deadly.” He tapped a photo of a metal long box containing an assortment of weapons. Off the top, Griffin recognized a ­couple of AR–15s and some semiautomatic AK-­pattern rifles. Below that were at least two dozen more long guns, most of which, due to bad lighting, Griffin couldn’t see clearly enough to identify. The chief tapped the page. “You hear of that bungled operation the Feds were running? Made all the news recently, letting all them guns cross the border into Mexico? Straw buyers and gun walkers?”