Page 15 of Sharp Force
“Most people who carry a gun for self-protection aren’t going to leave the house with only three live rounds,” Fabian adds. “I’m betting he fired his revolver while he was on the pier the night he disappeared.”
“Will be hard to prove,” Faye replies. “He was in the water for a week, so you can forget finding gunshot residue on the body or clothing. And the police tell me there are no security cameras on the pier, only in the parking lot where he left his car. Also, no reports of shots fired in that area the night in question.”
“I’m not surprised nobody heard anything,” Fabian says. “If you’ve ever been to that pier, there’s nothing around. Just miles of water and trees. At night it’s pitch-dark. The place is more of a lovers’ lane, it’s been my impression. The times I’ve been there, I’ve never seen anybody fishing at night, truth be told—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. News to me,” Faye butts in with a flash of jealousy that feels genuine. “When were you there?”
“Not in recent memory, but it’s a good place to take dates.” Fabian winks at me, and I can tell that Faye isn’t amused in the least. “Couples go there to sit on the pier, drink, maybe smoke some weed while looking at the water. Only a lot more than just sitting and looking is usually going on.”
“Maybe not so much during cold weather?” I suggest.
“It all depends,” he says with a mischievous smile as Faye lightlysocks him in the shoulder. “I remember sitting on that very pier drinking Maker’s Mark while it was snowing.”
“Why don’t I know about this?” Faye says half playful, half not.
“If that’s a place where people go for romantic encounters, it could be an important detail,” I tell them. “I assume the police are aware the pier is used for that.”
“I would think so,” Faye supposes, her eyes locked on Fabian.
“I’m wondering why he picked that particular location to begin with.” I walk to the door.
“He would have been better off on Daingerfield Island or some other place that has bathrooms and all the rest,” Fabian says.
“Hope you don’t mind that we moved our cars inside because of the storm.” Faye directs this at me, and of course it’s fine.
“Merry Christmas,” I tell them as I leave.
A few minutes later, I’m walking down the vehicle bay’s stretcher ramp. I can see my breath, the cold air a reminder my hair is still damp from the shower.
I flip up my coat collar, annoyed that I forgot my wool gloves. The bay is unheated and about the size of a basketball court or airplane hangar. Metal trusses are exposed in the high ceiling, the lights low. At the far end is the massive garage door, closed and quiet as I pass through shadows.
Out of the way of traffic is Fabian’s prized vintage El Camino, black with flames painted on the hood. On the back bumper is aGoth Mobilesticker with a Grim Reaper on it. Faye’s Toyota pickup is nearby, the snow tires oversized, the bed covered, a gun rack in the back windshield.
As I walk across epoxy-sealed concrete, I can almost feel Wyatttracking me. No doubt, he’s hanging out upstairs in the breakroom. I imagine him drinking coffee and having supper while monitoring security displays divided into squares like graph paper. I smile up at a camera, signaling that I’m aware of him.
I want him watching and I wave, reaching the designated smoking area. The two plastic chairs and sand-filled bucket littered with cigarette butts are in a dead zone for camera microphones. In nice weather, it’s a pleasant place to have a conversation with the bay door rolled up.
Next to it is a normal door for pedestrians. I open it to gusting frigid wind, the grumble of thunder muted by snow that’s whited out everything. Lightning shimmers, and I don’t remember the last time I witnessed what meteorologists call thundersnow.
Thick gray overcast has settled low like a cloud, and I can’t see beyond the tall black privacy fence encircling my building. The parking lot is empty except for our transport vans and Zodiac boat that are frosted white. The semi tractor-trailer against the fence is for autopsies that require remote viewing capabilities.
Somewhere in the gloom, a car engine starts. I imagine there aren’t many state employees left inside the sprawling northern district government office park. The snow is rapidly accumulating, already two or three inches deep and blowing into drifts. I’m careful walking through it, my footprints the only ones.
I trek to my reserved spot, my forest-green Subaru Outback covered in snow. The state purchased the SUV at an auction for vehicles seized by the police. As best I know, mine was involved in a drug raid, otherwise I wouldn’t have it. The take-home car is one of the few perks that go with the job, and I didn’t always enjoy such amenities.
Early in my career, I often parked on the street, leaving a medicalexaminer placard displayed on the dash so I didn’t get a ticket. Taking my personal car to scenes, I’d arrive home without the benefit of deconning. I’d take a shower and wash my clothes inside my garage, not as worried about biohazards then as now.
Pointing my keyless remote, I unlock the doors. I lift wiper blades with my bare hands, brushing off the front windshield. I do the same in back and to the mirrors.
The glass is covered again by the time I’ve settled behind the wheel. Placing my belongings and the evidence envelope on the passenger’s seat, I blow on my stiff fingers to thaw them.
The leather upholstery is cold through my clothing as I start the engine, turning on the heat and defrost. I can’t wait to be home finally, having a drink with Benton in front of the fire. I send a message telling him that as my SUV warms up.
Leaving the office. Snowing but good,I write to him, when I’m startled by the roar of a powerful engine, something big closing in on me.
CHAPTER 6
Headlights suddenly glare in my back windshield, flaring in the mirrors. Marino’s black Ford Raptor pickup truck halts beside me. He opens his window as I roll down mine, freezing air and snow blowing in.
