Gone(48)

Peter tensed and pulled his gun again as a vehicle approached. It turned into the parking lot — a late model Town Car. Peter left Althea and strode toward it, pointing the M&P9 at the windshield. “Get your hands where I can see them!” He bellowed. “Get them up!”

The old man complied. He had white hair, a face like a catcher’s mitt, glinting eyes. Peter came up alongside the driver door, aimed the gun through the glass, popped the handle.

“Get out of the car, Spillane,” he said. “You’re under arrest.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT / Protection

Peter and Althea paraded Nick Spillane into the county jail, the staff gaping as they led him toward Booking, where Deputy Kenzie took over.

Althea needed the infirmary — she was banged up but she’d refused an ambulance ride, insisting she stay with Peter.

He sent her on her way to the doc as Detective Stokes hurried over.

“What are we charging him with?” Stokes asked, jerking his eyes around.

“I don’t know. Take your pick. Spillane’s workers tried to kill Deputy Bruin and/or take her hostage. We can start there.”

“This is crazy,” Stokes said. “Just absolutely nuts. Trooper Ski shot someone?” His voice was breathy.

Peter nodded. “Joe Fleming is dead.” And the sergeant and the lieutenant were stark raving mad over it.

Peter headed down the hall to the office where the men were gathered, already glaring at him as he stepped in. Stokes followed, and closed the door.

“Please,” Sergeant Fransen said, “explain this one.”

Peter got right to it. “Detective Rondeau asked me to follow a lead on manifest documents for waste transportation.”

Fransen sneered. “So you made the unilateral decision to show up with your gun out. Then all hell breaks loose.”

“With respect, sir. We had things very calm. Deputy Bruin had the men volunteer to sit and talk with us and provide statements. Soon as we had something, we were coming right to you, right to the DA. The aggression came from them, not us.”

“I find that hard to take at face value, King. When you’ve been running around shooting your gun in the air, questioning inmates without their attorney present.”

“Jerry . . .” Oesch began.

“Shut up, Mike.” Sergeant Jerry Fransen aimed a finger at the sheriff. “I’ve been here nineteen years. I’ve never seen such soft control of the department. This is egregious. Your detectives and deputies are running around like unsupervised children.”

Peter didn’t like how the remarks wounded Oesch. Peter approached the desk and stared down at the sergeant.

“This was my call. No way were those contractors going to say a word with the District Attorney and a parade of cops showing up. They’d lawyer up and shut up. We didn’t have anything to take them in on. Go ahead and call Internal Affairs, do whatever you got to do. In the meantime, we’ve got Spillane, and we need to hear from him.”

Fransen boiled. “You’re not a detective, King. That’s why we formed a detective squad.” He jammed a look at Stokes. “Where the fuck is Rondeau, and why isn’t he answering his phone?”

Stokes was already trying to reach him, holding the phone to his ear. “Voicemail,” he said. His eyes were shining with excitement.

Fransen redirected his ire at King. “You want to question him? Spillane already asked for wit sec.”

“When? I just brought him in.”

“His wife called while you were en route. Says neither of them are going to say another word without the feds here.”

Spillane wanted protection — more, he wanted immunity. He was going to sing about something, something big, but he was only going to give it to the feds.

Stokes stepped out of the room, talking into his phone, leaving Rondeau a message. Peter could hear him in the hallway. They were all silent for a moment — Peter, Fransen, Oesch, Lieutenant Rumsey — eavesdropping.

“Rondeau, Jesus Christ. I’ve been trying you for hours. Listen, King and Bruin went out to Spillane’s restaurant. They . . . oh man . . . Joe Fleming is dead. Everyone is out looking for Terry Rafferty. Then Spillane showed up and they took Nick into custody. He didn’t even ask for a lawyer — he says, get this: he wants federal wit sec . . .” Stokes’ voice faded as he walked away down the hall.

Peter caught Fransen’s eye again. Fransen seemed to have lost some of his venom. He waved his hands in the air.

“Look, Mike, I’m sorry,” Fransen said to the sheriff. “But this is out of our hands now, and out of our jurisdiction. It’s my job to deliver the bad news, okay? We question him now, and they’ll have all our jobs; they’ll crumple this department like a piece of paper. Carmelita Spillane says Nick is going to give it all up. This whole thing goes federal.”

“Spillane is in with the mafia,” Peter said. “He’s organized crime.”

“Maybe so, maybe so. But, you’re off this, King. You’ve displayed nothing but bad—”

Oesch broke in for the first time. “That’s not your call, Jerry. This is my deputy. More to the point, we’ve got a missing family. If Spillane is part of the Kemp disappearance — if the two intersect — we need to know right now. FBI or no, we’re going to talk to him. Right now.”