Gone(44)

For the missing family investigation, Fransen was in the field, working the specialized division that operated Incident Command. But as the sergeant sheriff, he was also a line-level supervisor, and policed the activities of the jail, and his deputies.

“For one thing, he wants my paperwork,” Peter said. He was referring to discharging his firearm the previous morning. Any time a cop fired a gun, it raised questions. Interviews and plenty of forms followed. “Apparently Hayes’ wife called and lodged a complaint, too.”

“That woman? Her? Complain?”

“Yeah, who’d have thunk it.” He knew it had been the wrong thing, though. It had exacerbated aggression between him and the Rafferty brothers. You couldn’t go around squeezing rounds into the air because you were frustrated, any more than you could beat up an inmate, disgusting as Brad Rafferty was. Peter was working hard to manage his emotions. Because there was more to the Rafferty story than everyday domestic squabbles, and now he thought he had an idea what all their fighting was about. Even if it had meant getting into a bit more trouble, talking to Brad Rafferty without his attorney present.

“You’re doing alright, Deputy,” Althea said, surprising him. He looked over at her. She kept her eyes on the road, her hands at ten and two. She was wary of him pushing procedural limits, but she had his back. “I wouldn’t suggest making a habit of it, though.”

He looked back out the window. “I’m reformed as of this moment.”

“So, where we going? Spillane? Carmelita’s again?”

“Roger that.” He unzipped the leather folder balanced on his knees and pulled out the papers.

“What’ve we got?”

“You mean you didn’t peek?” He held up a sheet. “EPA Form 8700-22 and 22A.”

“That’s from the Kemp house?”

“Partly. The rest I pulled off of the EPA website.”

“So, what, now we’re federal agents?”

“We just want Spillane to take us through one of these forms. Fill them out for what his trucks used to carry. Ask if he’s still in the business, in anyway. Then maybe Rondeau will take it federal.”

“Rondeau? Stokes said he’s MIA. Oesch is worried. Have you talked to him?”

“No, but it’s still early. He’ll show himself. You know how he’s quirky.”

“Quirky? He’s a liability.”

Peter watched the houses as they drove out of town. Maybe she was right. Rondeau had been strange on the phone. Like he was concealing something.

Althea switched back to the topic at hand. “You think Spillane is going to cooperate?”

“Not really. But that’s not entirely what we’re interested in.”

“What’re we interested in?”

“To find out if Spillane is connected.”

“Connected?”

He looked at Althea again and for the first time felt the stirrings of fear. He suppressed it.

“To find out if he’s made,” Peter said.

“Oh.” She piloted the cruiser over the hills. Here the roads broke out into rolling countryside, old barns, horse paddocks. Everything taking on that ashen, late-autumn look. “You mean mafia,” she said.

“Yeah. I mean mafia.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX / Cooler Heads Prevail

Althea steered the cruiser off the road and onto the dirt parking lot of Carmelita’s Restaurant. Bits of rock crackled beneath the tires. She parked and got out. Peter stayed in the vehicle. He set aside the paperwork and pulled out his weapon, a Smith & Wesson M&P9 Duty Pistol. The gun was one of the changes Oesch had made when he’d taken the helm, switching from the Beretta 9mm to the M&P9 as department standard. “Just like they use in L.A.,” he’d said.

Althea popped the trunk. Peter glimpsed her in the side mirror, pulling on a black winter coat with a fur-lined hood.

He ejected the magazine from the gun, checked the rounds and the chamber, and slapped the mag back home. He peered out at the restaurant. No sign of construction this afternoon.

But the front door opened, and the little woman they called “Carm” came out.

Peter exited the vehicle, holstering his weapon, framing a smile for her. He then ducked back into the cruiser and grabbed the papers.

“You again,” she said.

“Good morning, ma’am,” Althea said. “Cold one today, huh?”

“Nick’s not here.”

“Well, ma’am,” Althea said, “that’s unfortunate. We really need to speak with him. But maybe you can help us?”

“I don’t know what I can do for you. You already arrested one of my workers. What do you want now?”

Peter handed Althea the EPA forms. At the same time, he heard a noise from behind the building. Maybe there were workers there, after all. He walked away. “Be right back.”

“Where you going?” Carm groused.

“Just standard security, ma’am,” Althea said. “Can I have you take a look at these?”

Peter rounded the outside of the large restaurant, passing the plywood, insulation rolls, shingles and tools. He stopped when he saw the truck. Yesterday, the contractor’s pick-up had been out in front. Now it was most of the way around to the back. Peter drew his gun. Maybe it was an overreaction, but he was done taking chances. He heard murmuring coming from out of sight, then a burst of laughter. He passed the truck and a group of men came into view.