Page 88 of Den of Iniquity

Smokey Point, Washington, isn’t exactly a traveler’s paradise, so why was she getting off there? Did she need gas, too? Was she stopping to get something to eat? Or had this been her destinationall along? But then, rather than stopping at one of the businesses near the freeway exit, she continued eastbound on 172nd. I was aware that there’s a small general aviation airport located a couple of miles north of that east/west thoroughfare. If Constance had a private plane lined up and waiting to take off, she might be able to make a clean getaway, especially since I had zero official standing in this jurisdiction and had no right to detain her.

When she drove past the road that leads to the airport without slowing down, I breathed a sigh of relief. But then, a quarter of a mile or so farther on, the moving dot turned right and came to a stop. Then, after a minute or so, it began moving again, southward this time, but at a much lower speed.

By then, I, too, had taken the Smokey Point exit and was proceeding east on 172nd, once again going well above the posted limit. Right about then I would have welcomed the flashing red lights of a traffic cop. I have a concealed carry permit, so I was armed, but when it comes to facing down a likely serial killer, having accidental backup from a passing patrol officer would be preferable to no backup at all.

I slowed as I approached the turnoff directly to the south of where the red dot had now come to rest. By then, businesses had thinned out. Since my stopping there might have attracted unwanted attention, I motored on past. As I did so, I noticed that the building in question was a YouStoreIt facility surrounded by a stout fence and with a closed gate barring the single lane entrance.

The idea of Constance having a storage unit—especially one located out of town—made total sense. Since the search team had found nothing of evidentiary value at her residence, it was probably all stored here, including, no doubt, the missing van itself.

I called Scott. “Where are you?”

“Lynnwood and heading north.”

“Set your GPS for the YouStoreIt on 172nd in Smokey Point,” I told him. “That’s where she is. Let Sandy know she’ll most likely need another search warrant to cover the storage unit. I’m guessing Constance is about to ditch the Prius and head out in the minivan. If she does that, the AirTag will be useless.”

“I’ll let her know,” Scott said. “We’ll be there soon. In the meantime, don’t do anything stupid.”

“Roger that,” I replied.

Half a mile farther down the road, I made an illegal U-turn and headed back west. Scotty’s advice was well taken, but... I may have been excluded from the search warrant team in Seattle, but Smokey Point is a hell of a long way outside Seattle’s city limits, and I’d be damned if I was going to miss out on this one, too.

During my second pass of the storage facility, I paid close attention to the fence. Obviously the owner had serious concerns about possible thievery. The eight-foot-tall chain link was topped by a layer of rolled razor wire. The gate itself looked sturdy enough, but that was the facility’s sole weak point, and that’s what I targeted.

The entrance itself was one lane wide. There were signs posted on the gate, but I was too far away to read them. Since Constance had been able to let herself onto the grounds, I suspected that the entrance was equipped with some kind of keypad arrangement that allowed customers to come and go even when no employees were present.

Months earlier, I had been involved in a missing persons case in Alaska that had suddenly morphed into a homicide. With the perpetrator about to fly the coop in a private aircraft, my driver at the time, a memorable character named Twinkle Winkleman, had come to my rescue by smashing through an airport security gate inher aging International Travelall. Twink stopped the fleeing Cessna in a nose-to-nose standoff out on the tarmac.

Studying the gate, I came face-to-face with my own Twinkle Winkleman moment. If I parked my Mercedes directly parallel to the gate itself, Constance would be trapped. Her only way out of the facility would be blocked. She might be able to open the gate itself, but to get away, she’d have to go through or around my aging but beloved S 550.

Having decided on a strategy, I immediately put it into action. On my next pass, this time with headlights off, I turned into the storage facility’s entrance. It took some backing and forthing to maneuver the Mercedes into place parallel with the gate. Once it was in position, I grabbed Sandy’s phone and mine, too, and bailed. If Constance decided to try smashing her way through the barrier, I didn’t want to be anywhere inside that vehicle.

Out of force of habit, I always carry a bulletproof vest in my trunk. I thought about grabbing it on my way past, but I was afraid the sound of the trunk opening and closing might attract unwanted attention. Besides, as far as I knew, Constance Herzog murdered people with drugs and knives. There had never been any hint of her using firearms.

It had stopped raining, but outside the vehicle it was bitingly cold. That morning when I left home, I hadn’t anticipated being out in the weather for any length of time. Knowing I’d be riding in a heated vehicle and going in and out of heated buildings, I’d seen no need to bring along cold-weather gear. I was dressed like detectives should be—in a suit and tie—which was good for camouflage on a dark winter’s night, but didn’t do a damned thing to keep out the icy chill.

The area around the entrance gate was well lit, so I quicklymoved out of the glow of that and huddled behind the welcome barrier of a stout wooden telephone pole half a block away. I had tucked in behind it and was breathing in the odor of creosote when my phone went off. The shrill sound cutting through the stillness startled me. Afraid Constance might have heard the noise, I answered in a hoarse whisper.

“What?”

“According to the GPS, we’re fifteen minutes out. How are things?”

“All’s quiet on the western front,” I assured him. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

I thought it best not to mention that my beloved Mercedes had suddenly been transformed into a sacrificial lamb. Call it a sin of omission. I wasn’t exactly lying to my son, because things really were quiet at that very moment, but I had no idea how long they would stay that way. Once the call ended, I switched the ringers on both phones to silent and waited for something to happen, and nothing did—for the next interminable five minutes.

But then a light flashed on inside the facility. At the time I had been standing in the dark long enough for my eyes to readjust. I was able to make out that YouStoreIt consisted of one large multistory structure as well as four rows of single-story buildings, all of them separated by narrow strips of pavement.

The glowing headlights appeared to be located between the third and fourth set of low-lying buildings. I caught a slight bit of movement of the lights before they stopped again. With no traffic noise, I heard a car door open and close as clear as a bell. Seconds later another set of headlights joined the first. This time there was a tiny bit of movement on my AirTag monitor. The vehicle edged forward a few feet before turning abruptly to the left and then,only a few yards later, coming to a full stop. At that point the second set of headlights vanished.

That meant Constance was doing exactly what I had expected, ditching the Prius in the storage unit and taking the minivan on the road. In terms of my Mercedes, that wasn’t good news since the van was a much larger vehicle and could do far more damage.

Gluing myself to the back of my sturdy phone pole, I waited, holding my breath, to see what would happen next. Moments later a pair of headlights emerged from between the buildings and came snaking toward the gate where the vehicle again came to a stop. The gate was built to swing open into the property. I’m not sure if Constance even realized the Mercedes was there until after the gate opened and the van was back in motion. At that point, she slammed on the brakes and laid on the horn. When nothing happened, she gave the horn another blast.

If I’d been in her situation on the wrong side of that makeshift barrier, I would have eased the van up to the rear of the parked vehicle and started pushing there. With the weight of the engine in the front, the center of gravity on most vehicles is slightly more than halfway between the front and back bumpers, causing the rear end to weigh a bit less than the front. Once I’d eased the parked car aside far enough for me to squeeze past, I’d be able to head for the hills.

That’s what I was expecting, but it isn’t what I got. Instead, Constance Herzog rolled down the minivan’s driver’s-side window and fired six shots one after another directly into the passenger side of my once beautiful Mercedes, shattering both the front and back windows in the process. So much for her not having a gun. And so much for my not doing anything stupid since my vest was still in the trunk. Even so, my immediate response was by the book.I held up my phone, punched in Scott’s number, and announced those words every cop dreads hearing: “Shots fired.”

“What?” he demanded.

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