C
HAPTER
T
HREE
Phoenix Police Chief Peter Sherwood had way too much on his administrative plate to suffer any more of this catfight. If Lucas Banks said that this Brighton guy was a straight shooter, then he was a straight shooter. He’d seen enough of Lucas’s courtroom antics to know when he was in his defense-lawyer mode, and this wasn’t it. Sometimes it wasn’t about winning and losing. Sometimes it was about justice. And as far as Sherwood could see, Lucas had a point.
Under different circumstances, he’d have cut Brighton loose by now. Unfortunately, this case belonged to the FBI, and the lady cop they’d assigned to running it was playing her role as Queen Bitch to the hilt. What was it about that agency that made them so damn difficult to deal with? God knew that DEA and Secret Service boys had huge egos, but at least they pretended to show respect for the eagles on Sherwood’s collar. The FBI, on the other hand, seemed to think that everyone they encountered was either an idiot or a criminal.
This Rivers lady was a case unto herself. Barely a first grader when Sherwood was busting his first felon, she was an arrogant bitch, with what looked to be a God complex. At maybe forty years old, this well-moussed
Charlie’s Angels
wanna-be thought she had the world pegged, and Sherwood wanted desperately to eat her and her attitude alive. In deference to Lucas and his client, however, he found himself playing peacemaker.
“We’ve been over this twice already, Irene,” Lucas said evenly. It was a struggle, but he forced himself to remain in his faux-leather guest chair, legs crossed, while he strangled paper clips from the dish on Sherwood’s desk. “Brighton is not a threat to you or anybody else. He’s got a business here. And a family. What do you want from him?”
Rivers slumped in the other guest chair. “You’re right,” she said. “We
have
been over this twice—three times now, in fact. And he’s a friend of yours. I heard you every time. Problem is, Counselor, that you keep forgetting the part where he drew a gun on me.”
“Bullshit!” That was it. Without even thinking, Lucas launched forward in his chair and bounced a dead paper clip off the polished desktop, causing Sherwood to dodge the ricochet. He knew that shouting was a mistake, but the genie was out of the bottle now. “He didn’t draw a gun on you! He drew a gun on a bunch of strangers with automatic weapons! You said yourself that he never even brought it to bear, for Christ’s sake! What the hell would
you
do if you saw a swarm of terrorists flooding your office?”
Rivers shook her head. “I’m not a terrorist. I’m a federal officer.” Her elbows were planted on the upholstered arms of the guest chair. As she spoke, she steepled her fingers and studied them. “Plus, I didn’t like what I saw behind his eyes. I know he didn’t shoot, but he sure as hell thought about it.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Now you’re a mind reader!”
The time had come for Sherwood to intervene, before Lucas
really
pissed her off. “Come on, Irene. I’ve known Lucas since we were kids. If he says the guy’s okay, you can believe him. Don’t get me wrong, he’ll cut off your balls in a courtroom . . .” He stopped himself. There definitely was some eye contact now. “Well, you know what I mean. He’s a lawyer. But this isn’t a courtroom. You haven’t formally filed charges yet, right?”
Her eyes narrowed. Clearly, she didn’t appreciate the tag-team approach. “Why is this guy so important to you?” In sales, they would have called the question a buying signal.
Sherwood’s eyebrows scaled his forehead, as if to say, “Damn good question.” He left that one for his lawyer friend.
Lucas shrugged. “He did me a favor. He really worked with us to get our car fixed up before vacation, so I owe him one.”
She tossed her hands in the air. “Oh, well, there you go,” she mocked. “He takes a ding out of your car, and I should look the other way on a felony? What the hell kind of deal is that?”
“What felony?” Lucas insisted again. “Jesus Christ, Irene, how can I say it more simply? He didn’t know you were a cop. He saw the guns, and he responded. Why is this so unreasonable to you?” Sensing a crack in Irene’s resolve, he lowered his voice and sat back down in his chair. “Look. You came for a drug bust, and you got a drug bust. Let’s call it a successful day for justice and let my client off the hook.”
Irene inhaled deeply through her nose and held it for a few seconds before she let it go. When she looked up at Sherwood, and then at Lucas, they knew the good guys had won.
“This is a mistake,” she said, seemingly to herself. “I just know in my bones that this is a mistake.”
Sherwood let the words hang for a moment, not sure if it was his turn to speak. “No, it’s not,” he reassured her. “It’s a solid decision.” He stopped there, not wanting to push any harder.
She sighed one more time, then rose to her feet. “You win, boys,” she said, extending her hand. “It’s a mistake, but I’ll do it. Won’t be the first.”
Lucas rose with her and grasped her hand. “Agent Rivers, I appreciate this. Trust me, you’re doing the right thing.”
She smiled, the first show of warmth in twenty minutes. “I hope so, Counselor,” she said. “For all our sakes.”
Jake shifted his position as best he could with his right wrist shackled to the leg of his wooden chair. He’d have paid twenty bucks to be able to sling his arm over the seat back; fifty to stand and stretch.
Many years had passed since he last visited a police station, thanks to a DUI problem when he was eighteen, but from what he could tell, Phoenix police headquarters had been designed and decorated by the same team who’d put together its much larger counterpart in Cook County, Illinois. The place was a jumble of desks and chairs that seemed more scattered than arranged, making it impossible for anyone to walk a straight line from one side of the squad room to the other. Every horizontal surface was littered with papers and files—including the floor. As uniformed officers and plainclothes detectives came and went, those same files and papers were kicked, walked on, or otherwise ignored. A stickler for neatness in his own shop, Jake wondered how people in this dimly lit, nicotine-stained hellhole ever got anything done.
The clock on the wall behind him buzzed noisily each time the minute hand moved, and as he struggled to find a spot for his butt that would ease the stress on his back, his eyes were drawn to the clock for the one hundred thirty-fourth time since he’d been deposited there. It was going on three hours since they’d taken his fingerprints and allowed him to make his phone call. He was cutting this way too close.
He wondered how long Carolyn would wait for him before she headed off on her own with Travis. Part of him hoped she was already gone, but he knew better. They’d been through a lot together. She wouldn’t leave him behind until the very last minute, any more than he’d have left her.
Still, it was getting late. One-fifteen. In the absolute worst case they’d rehearsed, she should have taken care of everything by now, even working by herself. That left her waiting with Travis in the staging area, biding time till her patience gave out.
One way or another, Jake figured this would all be a done deal within the next sixty minutes. Surely, the cops had zapped his prints off to be identified by the FBI. When the results came in, he was done. Christ, he’d be lucky if they didn’t just shoot him there on the spot. That was the negative side. In the plus column, Lucas Banks seemed genuinely pissed that the feds had arrested him in the first place, and truly committed to getting him off. If Jake had ever doubted the value of excellent customer service, he was a devoted believer today. The lawyer’s promise to get him out was a genuine source of hope.
So the clock ticked on. If only to pass the time, Jake replayed his conversation with Carolyn in his head, trying to remember if he’d given anything useful to the cops. He assumed that the conversation was taped; but even if it wasn’t, it may as well have been. The cops stood close enough to share his shoes. Carolyn fully understood what was at risk here, and he was confident she knew precisely what to do. Each time he replayed the words, he relaxed a little more, confident they’d given nothing away.
The sound of an opening door drew his attention toward the chief’s office, where he’d seen them all disappear so long ago. From the grim expression on Rivers’s face, Jake couldn’t tell whether his ordeal was over or just beginning. When Lucas emerged, though, and fired off a wink and a smile, Jake knew he was a free man.
He felt himself flush in a burst of excitement and anxiety that left him a bit dizzy. Not wanting to look
too
happy, he suppressed the triumphant grin that fought to assert itself and donned a concerned frown instead.
“Don’t look so glum, Jake,” Lucas said. “You’re free to go.”
Jake released just a bit of the smile, then looked toward Irene, who ignored him altogether as she produced a tiny key and removed the handcuffs, first from the chair and then from Jake’s wrist. As she folded the cuffs at their chain and dropped them into the pocket of her blazer, she extended a reproachful forefinger at her ex-prisoner. “Don’t you
ever
point a gun at me again, do you understand?”
Jake brought his eyebrows together and pretended to be scared. “Yes, ma’am.”
Street clothes shrink you by half, lady.
“And thanks for understanding.”
She measured Jake for a moment longer, then ended the encounter with a brief nod, before turning on her heel and heading for the coffee room.
He turned to the lawyer and shook his hand warmly. “Lucas, I can’t tell you how grateful I am.” As he spoke, he felt a twinge of remorse for what his newfound friend was about to go through. “You really saved my life, buddy.”
Lucas smiled broadly and clapped Jake on the shoulder. “No, Jake,” he corrected, “Agent Rivers over there is the one who didn’t shoot you. All I saved was your reputation.” They shared a chuckle. “I wish I could offer you a ride home, but I’ve got some paperwork over at the courthouse.”
Jake waived the offer. “God, no,” he said. “I’ll just walk uptown and get a cab.”
Chief Sherwood entered the conversation and placed a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Sorry for all the confusion, Mr. Brighton,” he said, extending his hand. “Peter Sherwood, chief of police. This guy fought like hell for you. I’m tempted to wreck my car just to do business at your shop.”
They all laughed. “We try to do our best,” Jake said, sloughing off the compliment. The clock buzzed again, and here he was, small-talking with the goddamn police chief! “Listen,” he said, as if unexpectedly struck with an idea, “I’ve really got to run. As much fun as I’ve had here today, I’ve got to get going.”
“Why don’t I get an officer to drive you home,” Sherwood offered. “Or back to your shop.”
Jake smiled but shook his head. “No, that’s okay. I’ll catch a cab.”
“The hell you will,” Sherwood huffed. “The least I can do is give you a ride, for Christ’s sake.” He called to one of the uniformed officers. “Jason! I need you to give Mr. Brighton here a ride.”
Jake’s stomach knotted tight. “No, really,” he insisted, hoping his voice wouldn’t crack. “You have bad guys to catch. I don’t want to be a bother.”
Sherwood made a show of walking away, not listening anymore. Jake was stuck. The nearest place to catch a cab would be out in front of the Sears store uptown, and that was nearly a mile away. No one would willingly walk that distance if they didn’t have to. Unless, of course, they had something to hide. He needed to be very careful here.
Young Jason—Officer Slavka, by his name tag—approached cheerfully, twirling his key ring on his finger. “Would you like to follow me, sir?”
Not on a bet,
Jake didn’t say. As he trailed the young officer out the squad room door and down the front steps, he waved one last time to Lucas Banks.
With speed zones and traffic lights, the shop was a half hour away. No way could Jake risk that kind of exposure—in a police cruiser, no less! By contrast, the staging area lay just on the other side of the business district, maybe a ten-minute drive from the police station on a bad traffic day.
Excuse me, Officer, but would you mind dropping me off at a place where I can stage a more convenient getaway?
The absurdity of it all made him smile, even as his eyes stayed focused on the cruiser’s two-way radio. When the balloon went up, he figured that’s how the announcement would be made. How the hell was he going to bluff his way out of this one?
For years, he and Carolyn had planned for this moment as a distant, improbable “if.”
If
something happened, and they had to run, this is what they’d do. They’d developed endless checklists of ifs, each of which carried its own solution. By careful planning, they’d taken some of the edge off their fear.
Now, he realized, by obliterating that edge, they’d inadvertently opened the door to complacency. It had been months since he’d serviced the escape van; nearly a year since he’d been to the safe house. For all he knew, both had burned up or been stolen. In the context of a plan governed by ifs, he’d been able to justify these lapses, rationalizing that he could always catch up.