Page 89 of Den of Iniquity

“You heard me,” I muttered. “Shots fired. Send backup.”

It wasn’t exactly your standard father/son conversation, and Scott’s response wasn’t, either. “What’s your location?”

“Outside the front entrance of YouStoreIt on the north side of 172nd Street in Smokey Point.”

“Contacting the Snohomish County Sheriff’s Office,” he said and rang off.

I was worried Constance might have heard that exchange, although it seemed likely that the roar of those gunshots would have temporarily disrupted her hearing. All I could hope was that the telephone pole was still providing enough cover to keep her from knowing where I was.

For the better part of a minute, nothing happened. When the door of the minivan opened and she emerged, I could tell from the light inside the vehicle that she was still holding the handgun. That’s when I realized that she had used that short interval to reload. She stood there for several seconds, swiveling her head from side to side as if trying to locate the owner of the parked car.

I had no idea how long it would take for reinforcements to arrive on the scene, so trusting my safety to that massive piece of Douglas fir, I attempted to engage her in conversation.

“It’s over, Constance,” I told her. “Put down your weapon and get on your knees.”

She didn’t do either. “That’s not a cop car,” she responded. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m a private investigator,” I said, “hired by the grandmother of one of your homicide victims, but I’m really working for all ofthem, Constance. And I’m going to take great pleasure in putting you away for the rest of your life.”

“Like hell you are,” she replied. Then, in what must have been a blind panic, she climbed into the minivan, shoved the gas pedal to the floor, and slammed into the passenger side of my poor Mercedes, striking it directly amidships. Although the vehicle hardly budged, the alarm went off letting anyone within hearing distance know that someone had just whacked the hell out of it. But did Constance quit then? She most certainly did not! Instead, she backed up a few yards, hit the gas, and slammed into it again.

In the meantime, I heard the welcome sound of approaching sirens wailing in the distance, but I stayed put behind my pole. Constance Herzog was still armed and dangerous, and it was a good thing she still had no idea where I was hiding.

Moments later a bevy of cop cars rolled up on the scene. Armed officers, some of them carrying Kevlar shields, began spilling out, but none of them were able to put a stop to the pathetic bleating of my stricken Mercedes. To do that, you need a key, and the key was still in my pocket.

I stayed right where I was, thanking my lucky stars Constance Herzog hadn’t shot me. If she had and Scotty had found my vest still in the trunk, there would have been hell to pay. I might not have died from the gunshot wounds, but someone else would have taken me out, and it would have been a footrace to see who got to me first—Scott Beaumont or Melissa Soames.

My money is on the latter.

Chapter 41

Bellingham, Washington

Monday to Tuesday, March 9–10, 2020

What happens after the adrenaline rush wears off is like stepping out of a hot shower into a cold one. With an immediate threat handled, time slows to a crawl.

I watched from afar as Snohomish County deputies ordered Constance to drop the gun and get on her knees. Then, without further protest from her, they put her in cuffs and walked her back to a waiting patrol car. Suddenly the missing arrest warrant from Liberty Lake no longer mattered. That night she was going to jail on charges of property damage and unlawfully discharging a firearm. By the time she got cut loose on those, she’d be facing something far more serious.

It wasn’t until they had her in the back seat of the patrol car that I finally emerged from my hiding place into the glow of flashing redand blue lights surrounding the storage facility’s entrance. As soon as Scotty spotted me, he sprinted over to me and grabbed me into a relieved hug.

“Thank God you’re all right,” he breathed. “When I saw all the bullet holes in your car, I thought you were a goner. What the hell happened?”

“I was afraid she was going to get away,” I answered. “I figured blocking the gate with my car would slow her down long enough for you to get here, and it worked, but I sure as hell didn’t expect her to come out with all guns blazing and plug it full of holes.”

We walked together as far as the Mercedes where I was able to shut down the alarm. We were standing there examining the damage when Sandy Sechrest walked up to us with Ben Weston tagging along.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“I am, thanks to my best friend over there, that telephone pole,” I told her, pointing in that direction. “But if you hadn’t gotten here when you did, and if she’d managed to figure out where I was, it wouldn’t have ended well.”

“When I sent you after her,” Sandy said reprovingly, “I thought you’d keep tabs on her. I didn’t expect you to go up against her single-handed.”

“Believe me,” I said, “I didn’t, either.”

“Well, take a look at this,” she added, holding up what looked to be a briefcase. Handing it over to Ben, she clicked open the latch and raised the lid. What I saw staring back at me from inside were stacks of bound one-hundred-dollar bills.

“The money,” I breathed.

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