The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(30)

“I had a problem with the chain of command.”

“I can see that,” said Lipsky. “You and me both.”

He produced Peter’s keys and wallet from his coat pocket and handed them over, stepping back so Peter could stand.

“License expired five years ago,” he said. “Like I give a shit. Renew it tomorrow. Go get something to eat, find your dog. Then go home and see your parents. And stay out of neighborhoods like this one.”

Peter climbed out of the cruiser and stood in the night air. He felt the wind open him up. His shoulders loosened, and his hands unclenched. Then he asked the question he’d wanted to ask for the last three hours. “So who’s the dead guy?”

Lipsky’s smile fell away.

“I’m more interested in the guy who killed the dead guy,” he said. “One thing, he was a helluva shot. ME won’t say anything for sure yet. But probably a large-caliber handgun, a .45. Between the eyes, from a distance of fifty yards or more. While getting sprayed by an AK-47? That’s a shooter with some practice.”

Peter had been in a few target competitions in his time. That was probably in his service record, too. He hadn’t won any, but they hadn’t laughed at him, either. And he’d certainly gotten used to shooting back under fire.

He didn’t take the bait. “But who’s the dead guy?”

Lipsky seemed amused and world-weary at the same time. Peter knew he hadn’t fooled the man one bit. “Young guy, kicked out of the Army,” he said. “Dishonorable discharge, which was hard to do when they were desperate for warm bodies. Maybe a gang member, although it’s not on his sheet. And walking around with an assault rifle, a real model citizen. So I won’t lose sleep. Guy killed him probably did the world a favor. Probably self-defense, with that AK.”

“Must be a gang thing,” said Peter. “Didn’t I read in the paper that Milwaukee has one of the highest murder rates in the country?”

Lipsky didn’t seem to have heard him. “But I gotta wonder,” he mused. “Who was he shooting at? And why? And when’s the next guy gonna show up? Because if he’s a gangbanger, this was some kind of deliberate hit, you know those guys take this shit personally.”

Peter had been thinking about that, too. Someone had tried to kill him. The kid with the AK was just the weapon. He tried to consider it progress. It meant he was getting closer to something. Maybe it would help if he knew what it was he was getting closer to.

“But you’re just an innocent bystander, right?” said Lipsky. “Not your problem.”

A dog barked somewhere, deep and loud.

“Sit,” called out a second voice, nervous. “Stay.”

The dog barked again. It was a familiar sound.

The voice called out again. “Hey, dog, sit your ugly butt down. Sit, dammit. Stay, all right? Hey, whose dog is this? Anybody know whose damn dog this is?”

“That’s my dog,” said Peter. “That’s my dog.” He pushed through the cluster of patrolmen to where Mingus stood, panting happily beside Peter’s truck, long, wet tongue lolling out past the wicked serration of his teeth. Peter was surprised he hadn’t brought back the Impala’s rear bumper.

A patrolman had his pepper spray out, arm extended. He spoke without taking his eyes off Mingus. “Mister, take control of your dog.” This wasn’t the cop who’d met Peter at the tape line, but a young guy, his uniform still crisp from the box it came in. The dog probably weighed more than he did. “Put that damn dog on a leash or I’ll put him down.”

“He won’t hurt you, but I will.” Peter’s anger rose like the tide, surprising him. “You spray my dog, I’ll break your head.” It was the aftermath of the white static, a pale fury. And Mingus was his dog.

The patrolman lifted his thumb from the trigger of the pepper spray and half turned to eyeball Peter. He had the nervous swagger of a new recruit. “Mister, that’s threatening a police officer. You want to spend the night in jail?”

But Mingus saw the opening, leaped forward, and snatched the pepper spray from the young cop’s hand, rupturing the pressurized metal canister with his teeth in the process. A dense cloud of aerosolized oleoresin capsicum pepper dosed the patrolman hard before dispersing into the crowd of policemen, who backed away, coughing and swearing.

Mingus just licked his chops, dropped the bleeding canister at Peter’s feet, and resumed panting with what looked suspiciously like a smile.

Lipsky hooted with laughter, wiping away the pepper-induced tears. “That monster is your dog? Jesus Christ, you are a fucking jarhead.” He handed over his business card. “You decide to confess, give me a call. Now get your ass and that fucking dog out of my crime scene.”

—

Peter’s truck had an archipelago of bullet holes from the driver’s door to the mahogany cargo box. But the tires still held air and the engine compartment was untouched. He opened the driver’s-side door and swept the broken glass from his truck seat with the flat of his hand.

Trailing the ripe smell of pepper spray, Mingus jumped up past him and settled into the passenger seat like he’d done it a thousand times. The smell of the dog was powerful in the enclosed cab, even with the broken window. Peter leaned across him and rolled the passenger window down, too.