When Colt opened his eyes, he was staring at the floor. He did this for awhile before he looked back at Sully.
“Why the f**k’s Lowe huntin’ trails?”
“You ask me?” Sully answered. “It’s ‘cause Jayden Whelan was forty-one years old, he was six foot three, had dark brown hair, light brown eyes and pictures we got show he looked a f**kuva lot like you. I reckon somewhere along the line, Jayden caught Denny’s eye and he likely followed him”
“That’s not fillin’ me in, Sully,” Colt told him, “that’s creepin’ me out and pissin’ me off.”
Sully nodded understandingly but said, “Brace, man, we have no ID on today’s victim but odds are, more of the same.”
Colt didn’t reply because there was nothing to say. Sully was probably right.
“The highways and byways between here and Oklahoma are crawlin’ with Feds, cops and highway patrol. Everyone’s got a picture, everyone’s knows the mission. Be a miracle, Denny makin’ it to town.”
“He made it to Reece and he escaped him too,” Colt pointed out.
“Yeah, he did,” Sully agreed eyeing Colt closely. “You and Feb think about protective custody?”
What Colt was thinking at that moment was that the jury was no longer out on if it was stupid or not they didn’t let the Feds take them in.
Still, for the life of him he couldn’t bring himself to take away what February wanted not only because of why she wanted it but because of what it was.
“Feb wants to live a normal life,” Colt told him and Sully took in breath, ready to say something so Colt went on quietly. “I know, Sul. But she has her reasons and I have my reasons for givin’ into those reasons.”
“He gets through the heat, Colt –”
“Then we’re prepared for him. We got a man in plainclothes in the bar all the time, patrols front and alley all day, all night, as often as possible. Feb and me are home at night, same for the house.”
“Wanna park a guy outside,” Sully said.
“You got the manpower, do it,” Colt invited.
Sully gave him a hard look then said, “Feb’s got her reasons, you got yours but I’ll say this once, even though I know you know it. We got a man out there in a rage. He’s missed out on a target and he’s been cut off cold turkey from his drug of choice, video of you and Feb. I spent about ten minutes, Colt, siftin’ through that box of photos and he’s been lurkin’ in your and her life for years and neither of you knew it. No matter what I promised Evelyn Lowe, I don’t see a happy end to this shit, not for Denny. What I want to avoid if at all possible is you or Feb gettin’ caught in the crossfire.”
“That’s my goal too, Sully.”
“Then talk to her again about protection.”
Colt pulled in breath through his nose.
Then he promised, “I’ll talk to her.”
Sully’s body relaxed into his chair but Colt didn’t make his promise solely to make Sully feel better. He did it because his partner was right. He wanted Feb not to miss a second of the life they should be leading and he didn’t want to miss it either. But the end was near; they could sacrifice a few days in order to keep themselves safe.
The phone rang on his desk; he saw the name come up on the display, leaned forward and pulled the handset out of the receiver.
“Yeah, Betsy?” he said into the phone.
Betsy worked front desk on weekends, some nights. Betsy retired early; she was Catholic and had approximately thirty children and grandchildren, all living in town. She took the job so she could still afford Christmas presents and because every single one of them thought her being retired meant she was designated nanny, chauffer, errand runner and maid. They were wearing her out. Weekend shifts and three to elevens a couple of nights a week at the front desk was her refuge.
“I figure you been through the mill, Colt, so you know how sorry I am to tell you Monica Merriweather is here to see you.”
Colt could picture Betsy at the front desk and Monica Merriweather standing right in front of her. Betsy would tell it like it was, even in front of Monica. Betsy might be a pushover for her family because she loved them but she’d learned to hold her own and was known as a woman who voiced her opinion. Further, she worked at a Police Station. Pushovers didn’t last long at a Police Station.
“Tell her I’ll be right down,” Colt told Betsy.
“Other things I’d prefer to tell her but I’ll tell her that,” Betsy replied and then put down the phone.
“Monica,” Colt told Sully.
Sully grinned and said, “Go get her, tiger.”
Colt grabbed his blazer and shrugged it on while he took the stairs. When he saw Monica, his eyes never left her.
She had a bob of dyed red hair that didn’t suit her coloring or the shape of her face. She was hitting middle age badly, was short and the last couple of years had put on a little pudge mostly due to regular flybys at Mimi’s and a summertime habit of stopping at Fulsham’s Frozen Custard Stand.
Her position as top reporter for the Gazette gave her importance in town, people wanted her attention, wanted their name or event in print. Monica had elevated that importance on her own and the last five years or so, her self-conceived power had led to her getting nosier than she should, even given her profession. Her decades of consistent but thwarted attempts to get on staff at the Indianapolis Star saw her writing turn gossipy and sometimes nasty, something which was not only unnecessary for a small town weekly but also not popular. The real power she held, the power of the printed word, meant she could get away with it and people still showed her respect. They might have done it but behind her back she was widely disliked and, by some, even hated.
She’d never married, likely because she carried the triple curse of being unattractive, unlikeable and giving up the status of being a woman to be known only as a reporter.
“Colt,” she said with a false ingratiating smile when he approached her.
He stopped well away and greeted, “Monica.” And as he knew she would, she moved into his space so he quickly asked, “What can I do for you?”
She tipped her head to the side and said, “Figure Sully talked to you?”
“Yeah.”
“Feds are here,” she went on.
“Yeah,” Colt agreed.
“Somethin’ goin’ on that the people should know about?” she asked.
“Why the f**k’s Lowe huntin’ trails?”
“You ask me?” Sully answered. “It’s ‘cause Jayden Whelan was forty-one years old, he was six foot three, had dark brown hair, light brown eyes and pictures we got show he looked a f**kuva lot like you. I reckon somewhere along the line, Jayden caught Denny’s eye and he likely followed him”
“That’s not fillin’ me in, Sully,” Colt told him, “that’s creepin’ me out and pissin’ me off.”
Sully nodded understandingly but said, “Brace, man, we have no ID on today’s victim but odds are, more of the same.”
Colt didn’t reply because there was nothing to say. Sully was probably right.
“The highways and byways between here and Oklahoma are crawlin’ with Feds, cops and highway patrol. Everyone’s got a picture, everyone’s knows the mission. Be a miracle, Denny makin’ it to town.”
“He made it to Reece and he escaped him too,” Colt pointed out.
“Yeah, he did,” Sully agreed eyeing Colt closely. “You and Feb think about protective custody?”
What Colt was thinking at that moment was that the jury was no longer out on if it was stupid or not they didn’t let the Feds take them in.
Still, for the life of him he couldn’t bring himself to take away what February wanted not only because of why she wanted it but because of what it was.
“Feb wants to live a normal life,” Colt told him and Sully took in breath, ready to say something so Colt went on quietly. “I know, Sul. But she has her reasons and I have my reasons for givin’ into those reasons.”
“He gets through the heat, Colt –”
“Then we’re prepared for him. We got a man in plainclothes in the bar all the time, patrols front and alley all day, all night, as often as possible. Feb and me are home at night, same for the house.”
“Wanna park a guy outside,” Sully said.
“You got the manpower, do it,” Colt invited.
Sully gave him a hard look then said, “Feb’s got her reasons, you got yours but I’ll say this once, even though I know you know it. We got a man out there in a rage. He’s missed out on a target and he’s been cut off cold turkey from his drug of choice, video of you and Feb. I spent about ten minutes, Colt, siftin’ through that box of photos and he’s been lurkin’ in your and her life for years and neither of you knew it. No matter what I promised Evelyn Lowe, I don’t see a happy end to this shit, not for Denny. What I want to avoid if at all possible is you or Feb gettin’ caught in the crossfire.”
“That’s my goal too, Sully.”
“Then talk to her again about protection.”
Colt pulled in breath through his nose.
Then he promised, “I’ll talk to her.”
Sully’s body relaxed into his chair but Colt didn’t make his promise solely to make Sully feel better. He did it because his partner was right. He wanted Feb not to miss a second of the life they should be leading and he didn’t want to miss it either. But the end was near; they could sacrifice a few days in order to keep themselves safe.
The phone rang on his desk; he saw the name come up on the display, leaned forward and pulled the handset out of the receiver.
“Yeah, Betsy?” he said into the phone.
Betsy worked front desk on weekends, some nights. Betsy retired early; she was Catholic and had approximately thirty children and grandchildren, all living in town. She took the job so she could still afford Christmas presents and because every single one of them thought her being retired meant she was designated nanny, chauffer, errand runner and maid. They were wearing her out. Weekend shifts and three to elevens a couple of nights a week at the front desk was her refuge.
“I figure you been through the mill, Colt, so you know how sorry I am to tell you Monica Merriweather is here to see you.”
Colt could picture Betsy at the front desk and Monica Merriweather standing right in front of her. Betsy would tell it like it was, even in front of Monica. Betsy might be a pushover for her family because she loved them but she’d learned to hold her own and was known as a woman who voiced her opinion. Further, she worked at a Police Station. Pushovers didn’t last long at a Police Station.
“Tell her I’ll be right down,” Colt told Betsy.
“Other things I’d prefer to tell her but I’ll tell her that,” Betsy replied and then put down the phone.
“Monica,” Colt told Sully.
Sully grinned and said, “Go get her, tiger.”
Colt grabbed his blazer and shrugged it on while he took the stairs. When he saw Monica, his eyes never left her.
She had a bob of dyed red hair that didn’t suit her coloring or the shape of her face. She was hitting middle age badly, was short and the last couple of years had put on a little pudge mostly due to regular flybys at Mimi’s and a summertime habit of stopping at Fulsham’s Frozen Custard Stand.
Her position as top reporter for the Gazette gave her importance in town, people wanted her attention, wanted their name or event in print. Monica had elevated that importance on her own and the last five years or so, her self-conceived power had led to her getting nosier than she should, even given her profession. Her decades of consistent but thwarted attempts to get on staff at the Indianapolis Star saw her writing turn gossipy and sometimes nasty, something which was not only unnecessary for a small town weekly but also not popular. The real power she held, the power of the printed word, meant she could get away with it and people still showed her respect. They might have done it but behind her back she was widely disliked and, by some, even hated.
She’d never married, likely because she carried the triple curse of being unattractive, unlikeable and giving up the status of being a woman to be known only as a reporter.
“Colt,” she said with a false ingratiating smile when he approached her.
He stopped well away and greeted, “Monica.” And as he knew she would, she moved into his space so he quickly asked, “What can I do for you?”
She tipped her head to the side and said, “Figure Sully talked to you?”
“Yeah.”
“Feds are here,” she went on.
“Yeah,” Colt agreed.
“Somethin’ goin’ on that the people should know about?” she asked.
