Dust To Dust

Dust to Dust by Tami Hoag

is a potential political bomb for the Nbincapolis Police Department. Andv Fallon was gay, and he was investigating a Possible cop connection in the brutal murder of another gay officer, But Andy's death looks like suicide - or an unfortunate and

embarrassing accident: death by auto-erotic, misadventure - and the pressure is on from the top brass to close the case as soon as possible.

But Andy Fallon's ex-lover doesn't believe Andv

died by his own hand - accidentally or otherwise. He believes Andy's death is tied to his work, and he presses lead detective Sam Kovac to find another answer - one that won't be popular with anyone.

With the help of Amanda Savard, Fallon's supervisor, Kovac begins to investigate the cases that Andy was working on and the deeper he digs, the more suspicious he becomes. It begins to look as if Andy Fallon might have hit on something that got him killed. And Andy might not be the final

victim. . .

As Kovac and his partner, Tinks Liska peel back the layers of this complex case, thcv will find their careers and their livcs on the line, because someone wants the truth left (lead and buried. Ashes to ashes, (lust to dust.

t 16.99

ALSO BY BY TAMI HOAG

CRY WOLF

STILL WATERS LUCKY'SLADY

SARAH'S SIN

DARK
PARADISE

M A G I C

NIGHT SINS

GUILTY AS SIN

A THIN DARK LINE

ASHES TO ASHES ..

D U S T

D U S T

ORION

MOO
DUNEDIN

PUBLIC LIBRARIES

Copyright C 2000 Diva Hoag, Inc.

All rights reserved

The right of Taim Hoag to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright. Designs and Patents Act 1988-

First published in
Great Britain in 2000 by Orion

An imprint of Orion Books Ltd

Orion House,

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Printed in
Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives pIc

TO THE VERY GOOD FRIENDS WHO

HELPED ME THROUGH A VERY BAD TIME:

BOB, BETSY, JESSIE

AND, AS ALWAYS, THE DIVAS.

A C K N 0 W L E D G M E N T S

T H E A U T H 0 R W I S H E S to thank the following people for their help and support in the making of this book:

Special Agent Larry Brubaker, FBI (retired),- Sergeant Mark Lcrizen, Homicide unit, Minneapolis Police Department; Sergeant Mike Carlson, Homicide unit, Minneapolis Police Department,Commander Thomas Keding, Internal Affairs, St. Paul Police Department; Robert Crals; Eileen Dreyer; Nita Taublib; Beth de Guzman; and Andrea Cirillo.

P R 0 L 0 G U E

I T I S S T U N N I N G how quickly it happens. How little time it takes to go from trouble to tragedy. Seconds. Mere seconds without air and the brain begins to shut down. No time to struggle. No time to panic even.

Like a boa constrictor choking the life from its prey, the noose tightens and tightens. It makes no difference what thoughts explode in the brain. Move! Grah the rope! Get air!The commands don't make it down the neural pathways to the muscles of the arms. Coordination

is gone.

The sturdy rope makes a tearing sound as the weight of his body stretches it.The beam creaks.

His body turns slightly this way and that.The arms pull upward in hideous, slow-motion spasms. A macabre marionette's dance arms moving up and down; hands twitching, twisting, bending; fingers curling. The knees try to draw upward, then straighten again. Posturing: a sign of brain damage.

The eerie contortions go on and on. The seconds stretch as the death dance continues.A minute.Two. Four.The rope and beam creak in the otherwise silent room. The eyes are open but vacant. Mouth

moves in a final, futile gasp for air. The most acute, exquisite split second of life: the final heartbeat before death.

And then it is over. At last.

The flash explodes in a brilliant burst of white light and the scene is frozen in time.

T A M

C H A P T E

T H E Y 0 U Q N T A H A N G the son of a bitch came up with this shit," Sam Kovac groused, digging a piece of nicotine gum out of a crumpled foil pack.

"The gum or the wrapper?"

"Both. I can't open the damn package and Id rather chew on a cat turd."

"And that would taste different from a cigarette how?" Nikki Liska asked.

They moved through a small throng of people in the wide white hall. Cops heading out onto the steps of the
Minneapolis city hall for a cigarette, Cops conung back in from having a cigarette, and the odd citizen looking for something for their tax dollar.

Kovac scowled down at her from the corner of one eye. Liska made five-five by sheer dint of will. He always figured God made her short because if she had the size of Janet Reno she'd take over the world. She had that kind of energy-and attitude out the wazoo.

"What do you know about it?" he challenged.

"My ex smoked. Lick an ashtray sometime. That's why we got divorced, you know. I wouldn't stick my tongue in his mouth." "Jesus, Tinks, like I wanted to know that."

He'd given her the nickname-Tinker
Bell on Steroids. Nordic' blond hair cut in a shaggy Peter Pan style, eyes as blue as a lake on a sunny day. Feminine but unmistakably athletic. She'd kicked more ass in her years on the force than half the guys he knew. She'd come onto homicide Christ, what was it now?-five or six years ago? He lost track. He'd been there himself almost longer than he could remember. All of his forty-four years,. it seemed. The better part of a twenty-three-year career, for certain. Seven to go. He'd get his thirty and take the pension. Catch up on his sleep for the next ten years. He sometimes wondered why he hadn't taken his twenty and moved on. But he didn't have anything to move on to, so he stayed.

Liska slipped between a pair of nervous-looking uniforms blocking the way in front of the door to Room 126-Internal Affairs.

"Hey, that was the least of it," she said. "I was more upset about where he wanted to put his dick."

Kovac made a sound of pain and disgust, his face twisting.

Liska grinned, mischievous and triumphant. "Her name was Brandi."

The Criminal Investigative Division offices had been newly refurbished. The walls were the color of dried blood. Kovac wondered if that had been intentional or just trendy. Probably the latter. Nothing else in the place had been designed with cops in mind. The narrow, gray, two-person cubicles could just as well have housed a bunch of accountants.

He preferred the temporary digs they'd had during the remodeling: a dirty, beat-up room full of dirty, beat-up desks, and beat-up cops getting migraines under harsh white fluorescent lights. Homicide crammed into one room, robbery down the way, half the sex crimes guys wedged into a broom closet. That was atmosphere.

"What's the status on the Nixon assault?"

The voice stopped Kovac in his tracks as effectively as a hook to the collar. He bit a little harder on the Nicorette. Liska kept moving. New offices, new lieutenant, new pain in the ass. The homicide

lieutenant's office had a figurative revolving door. It was a stop on the way for upwardly mobile management types. At least this new one Leonard-had them back working partners instead of like the last guy, who'd tortured them with some bullshit high-concept team crap with rotating sleep-deprivation schedules.

Of course, that didn't mean he wasn't an asshole.

"We'll see," Kovac said. "Elwood just brought in a guy he thinks is good for the Truman murder."

Leonard flushed pink. He had that kind of complexion, and short, white-gray hair like duck fuzz all over his head. "What the hell are you doing working the Truman murder? That's what? A week ago? You're up to your ass in assaults since then."

Liska came back then, wearing her cop face. "We think this guy's a two-fer, Lou. He was maybe in on Nixon and Truman. I guess the Nation wants to start calling the Bloods the Dead Presidents."

Kovac laughed at that-a cross between a bark and a snort. "Like these dickheads would know a president if he pissed on them."

. Liska looked up at him. "Elwood's got him in the guest room. Let's Yo before he uses the L word."

9 Leonard stepped back, frowning. He had no lips, and ears that stuck out perpendicular to his head like a chimpanzee's. Kovac had nicknamed him the Brass Monkey. He was looking as if solving a murder would ruin his day.

"Don't worry," Kovac said. "There's more assaults where that one came from."

He turned away before Leonard could react, and headed for the interview room with Liska.

"So this guy was in on Nixon too?" "Beats me. Leonard liked it."

"Brass asshole," Kovac grumbled. "Someone should take him out and show him the fucking sign on the door. It still says'Homicide" doesn't it?"

"Last I looked."

"All he wants is to clear assaults." "Assaults are the homicides of tomorrow."

"Yeah, thatd make a great tattoo. I know just where he can put it." "But you'd need a rminer's hat to read it. I'll get you one for Christmas. Give you something to hope for."

Liska opened the door and Kovac preceded her into the room, which was about the size of a spacious coat closet. The architect would have described it as "intimate." In keeping with the latest theories on how to interview scumbags, the table was small and round. No dominant side. Everybody equal. Pals. Confidants.

No one was sitting at it.

Elwood Knutson stood in the near corner, looking like a Disney

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cartoon bear in a black felt bowler. Jamal
Jackson had the opposite corner, near the totally useless and empty built-in bookcase, and beneath the wall-mounted video camera, which was required by
Minnesota
law to prove they weren't beating confessions out of suspects.

Jackson's attitude hung on him as badly as his clothes. jeans that would have fit Elwood were slipping off his skinny ass. A huge down coat in Nation black and red colors puffed up around his upper body. He had a lower lip as thick as a garden hose, and he stuck it out at Kovac.

"Man, this is bogus. I din'off fto-body."

Kovac lifted his brows." No? Gee, there must be some mistake." He turned to Elwood and spread his hands. "I thought you said he was the guy, Elwood. He says he's not the guy."

"I must have beim mi*staken:'Elwood said. "My profuse apologies, Mr. Jackson."

"We'll have a radio car take you back home:' Kovac said. "Maybe have them announce over the bullhorn to your 'hood that we didn't mean to bring you in. That it was all a big mistake."

Jackson, stared at him, the lip moving up and down.

"We can have them announce specifically that we know you weren't really involved in the murder of Deon Truman. just so there's no mistake what we had you in for.We don't want a lot of bad rumors going), around about you on account of us."

"Fuck you, man!"
Jackson shouted, his voice jumping an octave. "You trying to get me killed?"

Kovac laughed. "Hey. You said you didn't do it. Fine. I'll send you home."

"An' the brothers think I talk to you. Next thing, my ass is horizontal. Fuck that!"

Jackson paced a little, pulling at the short braids that stuck up in all directions on his head. His hands were cuffed together in front of him. He gave Kovac the eye.

"You put me in jail, motherfucker."

"Can't do it. And here you asked so nice. Sorry." "I am under arrest, "Jamal insisted.

"Not if you didn't do anything." "I done plenty."

"So now you're confessing?" Liska said.

6
T A M

Jackson looked at her, incredulous. "Who the hell is she? Your girlfriend?"

"Don't insult the lady," Kovac said. "You're telling us you capped Deon Truman."

"The fuck I am." "Then who did?"

"Fuck you, man. I ain't telling you Jack." "Elwood, see that the man gets home in style."

"But I'm under arrest!"
Jackson wailed. "Put me in J'ail!

"Fuck you," Kovac said. "Jail's overcrowded. It's not a goddamn hotel.Whatd you pick him up on, Elwood?"

"I believe it was loitering." "Petty misdemeanor."

"The fuck!"
Jackson shouted, outraged. He pointed at Elwood with both index fingers. "You saw me selling cr-k! Right there on the corner of Chicago and Twenty-sixth."

"He have crack on him when you arrested him?" Kovac asked. "No, sir. He did have a pipe."