Gone(46)

Footsteps approached from behind. Peter risked another quick look over his shoulder. Trooper Ski came round the corner.

Althea finished her spiel. “Or, she said, you can choose not to cooperate, and we’ll take you into the department, get your statement that way.”

“You mean arrest us,” Terry said.

Althea locked on him. “You want to give us a reason, yeah. We can do it that way.”

“Arrested is not charged,” Joe Fleming said in a low voice to Terry.

“They charged my brother,” Terry growled back.

Trooper Ski neared. “Morning.” He spoke directly to the deputies as he stepped between them. “How’s everything here, guys?”

Peter lowered his gun, holding Terry’s eye. “It’s a beautiful morning,” he answered. He holstered his weapon.

“How about it, gentlemen?” Althea asked. “Hop in our vehicles for a minute, warm up a bit? Put a few words down on paper, and then you can get back to work?”

The three of them behind Terry Rafferty muttered to one another, but they began filing out, walking past the cops. Ski stepped over to Joe Fleming, put an arm around his shoulders. “What do you say, sir?”

The two men were physical equals. Joe shrugged off Ski’s arm and walked ahead. Althea turned to follow and Peter caught her by the forearm.

Peter could see it in her eyes — apology and justification, sharing the space.

“I called Ski,” she said.

“I figured. Good move. Carm really go inside to call Nick?”

“Oh yeah — she’s pissed. Says they’re going to sue the department. Loss of business, and so on.”

Peter looked up at the huge half-built restaurant. “This place is on track to open by, what, the year 2050?”

Althea looked relieved that he was joking around. “Whatever gets Spillane here. Let’s give Fleming and Rafferty to Ski. We’ll take Nick’s nephew, Tony, and the little guy.”

“And we’re just going to talk to them.”

She started around towards the dirt parking lot. “Yes, talk. It’s what people do.”

He called after her. “Hey.”

She stopped at the corner of the building and turned.

“This is pretty big,” Peter said. “Spillane cheats or avoids his EPA forms, maybe worse, and this Kemp guy who’s making his film about trash, waste, whatever, maybe he gets too close. Then his family goes missing.”

“I know,” she said. And she disappeared around the corner.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN / Showdown

Peter followed them around the unfinished restaurant, thinking. They would need search warrants for Spillane’s restaurant, his multiple homes, his office, his trucks. But if these independent contractors didn’t spill it right now, go on record, there wasn’t really anything to charge them with, and so no grounds for search and seizure. Rondeau finding some paperwork on trucking manifests in Kemp’s basement was not enough.

Something definitely seemed amiss, though. Spillane was clearly laundering dirty money with his giant restaurant. His workers acted shifty. John Hayes wanted out of something in a big way.

Peter could hear the doors of the cruiser and Trooper Ski’s SUV being opened. If the contractors got in the vehicles and confessed, the deputies could hand prosecutors the written statements and Judge King would sign the warrants and Spillane’s properties would be searched. Anything related to the missing family would come out. Perhaps they would find Kemp’s computer equipment?

But where the hell was Rondeau? Althea was right about him being a loose cannon . . .

Peter heard screaming.

He froze for a second, then ran around to the front of the restaurant, pulling his weapon. He stopped at the corner.

Terry Rafferty had Althea in a choke hold, dragging her across the parking lot, her boots digging ruts in the dirt.

“Hey!” He didn’t move, aiming his gun. Trooper Ski had taken aim, too, positioned in front of his SUV.

The three contractors scattered in all directions, one disappearing behind the restaurant. Trooper Ski shouted after them, ordering them to stop, but Peter ignored them. He looked down his gunsight at Terry’s head.

Althea gagged and flailed. Terry was trying to choke her out as he walked backwards. Peter didn’t have a clear shot, not even close — Althea was right in the line of fire. He needed to get closer. He walked towards her and Terry.

“Let her go!”

“You keep back or I’m gonna break her neck,” Terry snapped. His face was red with rage. Peter felt his own anger roiling, mixed with fear. He stopped, but kept his gun on Rafferty. Stay still. I’m going to put one between his eyes.

That was dangerous, to say the least. Althea was a good shot, he was an adequate marksman, at best. Even from ten yards, he might squeeze off a round and only hit his girlfriend.

My wife, he thought wildly, that’s my future wife.

“Let her go,” he repeated. “Let her go, Terry, or I’m going to shoot.”

“Fuck you.”

Terry kept moving backwards. Where was he going? How did he think he could get out of this?

Peter heard an engine roar to life from the rear of the restaurant. He didn’t risk a glance. “Ski!” he yelled. “Back of the house!”