Edge of the Heat 2 (Westwood Harbor Corruption) (4 page)

“
Are you sure that’s it? Should I go get a doctor?”

“
No, I’m fine,” she said, pushing herself into a sitting position. “I just need something to drink especially. Some food would be good too though.”

He jumped up and practically ran behind the desk. He came back out with a thermos and a bottle of water.

“Here,” he said, kneeling down and thrusting them at her.

She uncapped the water and drank greedily. Her throat hurt as it went down but it was still the best water she had ever tasted. She opened the thermos and smelled. Heavenly. “
Chicken noodle?”

He smiled, the first one she
’d seen. It changed his face from hard and stern to pleasant, inviting. “Yep. My best friend made it. He’s a fantastic cook.”

Emma wondered if that was code for lover. Probably not, but could be. She poured some soup and sipped it. Her stomach woke up and d
emanded more. She tried not to slurp.

A thought struck her. “
Wait, she said, looking at him. How did you know my name? And why is the FBI investigating this? Why not the local police?” Another question hit her in the gut. “And why was Craig wearing a bulletproof vest?”

Agent Kinkaid eyed her, smile gone, face not giving an inch.

He stood up and walked back behind the desk. “I understand that you have questions Miss Hill, but I need mine answered first. When you think you are ready,” he said with an air of finality.

Emma pushed herself back up onto the chair. Her brain was working again.

“I guess I didn’t start at the beginning before. The reason I thought that something criminal might have happened to Craig was my ex-husband said something that made me scared for him.”

This time Emma started from the night before. She told how she had been leaving the Crystal Creek wildfire after fighting it all day. She had heard someone yell in the smoldering woods and went in to investigate. She had found the hunter with t
he broken leg, built a travois to carry him out, and almost pulled him completely out of the fire when a falling tree had knocked her head-first into a rock, knocking her out. Craig had found her, put her in a helicopter and promised to pick her up at 8 o’clock in the morning. For some reason this part embarrassed her but she pushed that aside.

She watched the agent
’s face closely as she told the story. Something was going on here and she wanted to find out what. Agent Kinkaid was a closed book, but when she told him how she had first seen Craig and thought for sure he was dead her eyes teared up. She could have sworn the agent’s did too. Stranger and stranger.

He asked many questions about the forest and the clearing and the building and even exactly how C
raig was laying on the ground. Occasionally he made a notation on his pad.

When she got to the part where she put him in the helicopter she stopped talking.

“So what happened to your arm?” he said, motioning to her bandage.

“
That happened after I left the scene. My day just got worse and worse.”

“
Tell me. Even if you don’t think it’s related it could be.”

The car!
Thinking about getting pulled over made her realize the hospital’s car was still sitting on the side of the road. Maybe Jerry would go get it for her.

When she shared how she had been pulled over Agent Kinkaid
’s jaw clamped down in what looked like anger. He sat up straighter in his chair, leaning forward and peering into her soul again. Emma started to feel nervous. She wasn’t sure where this was going.

“
What was the officer’s name?”

“
Jeffries.”

A look of recognition crossed his face. He muttered something under his breath. Emma thought it was “
Bastard”.

“
What were you arrested for?”

“
I still don’t know, he never told me.”

“
Where are the papers you signed when you left?”

“
Uh, I think I left the manila envelope in the ambulance with Jerry.”

“
Call him and ask him to bring them here,” he said, leaning over the desk to hand her a cell phone.

Emma did. Jerry said he would
be by as soon as he could.

He motioned for her to go on.

When she finished telling the part about the woman who had sliced her he asked for a complete physical description of her. Emma struggled to remember every detail. When she recounted a mole she had remembered on her face the Agent nodded in recognition again.

“
You got lucky there. You were probably meant to get a much worse lesson than that cut on your arm.” When he said the word lesson he mimed quotation marks in the air.

Realization hit Emma like a
load of bricks. “Are you saying that someone put her up to it?”

“
Yes, I am. Look Miss Hill, you need to know what you are dealing with here so you can protect yourself. Can I trust you to keep quiet about something and not even tell your friend Jerry?”

Emm
a nodded, struck silent with fear.

“
Good, because this is important. If you can’t keep quiet, more lives may be in jeopardy because of it. I am investigating corruption in the Westwood Harbor police department. Your ex-husband, Norman Foster, and his friend, Peter Jeffries, are both very high on my list of dirty cops. Jeffries prefers to use other criminals to do his dirty work. This is not the first time I have come across a story like this. The last person lost part of her ear and has a very big scar on her face. She missed losing an eyeball by about a half an inch.

Emma
’s hand crept to her right ear, then just under her eye. Horror filled her.

“
Now finish your story and then I will find you a place to stay tonight.”

Norman entered the station
high on life. He couldn’t wait to hear the day’s events. He’d had a few calls on his cell phone while he was
busy
but he chose to ignore them. He preferred to get his news the old fashioned way so he could see the emotions on people’s faces firsthand. Fear was his favorite emotion to see. Incredulity, his second. Both made him feel powerful, and very much in control.

He took the elevator straight up to his office. No o
ne that he passed greeted him or looked at him. Most of the lower ranking officers were scared of him but a few were on his payroll. Many of the sergeants and above hated him and how he did business, but some tolerated him because they recognized him as one of their kind. Funny thing about being a cop - not many could retire after 20 years of service the same person they were when they were hired. The least affected had become bitter, hard. 20 years of dealing with people who spit on you and tried to stab you and bite you would do that to anyone. The most affected had become criminals themselves and just didn’t know it. And then there were cops like Norman. Cops who got into police work because of the power and authority it wielded. Cops who started out shrewd and conniving. Cops who knew very well where the line is between cop and criminal, but think that criminal-in-a-cop-suit is more fun.

Norman
’s thoughts were cool and calm, like his demeanor. After his romp with Chloe and Lydia he had showered, shaved again, and put on freshly pressed slacks and a polo shirt. He spent little time on his dark hair, he didn’t need to; it tamed itself. He felt relaxed and ready to put on a show of shock at the news of a dead firefighter and an arrested ex-wife. Of course she wasn’t arrested for the big crime yet. He had only started to fuck with her. When he was done with her she’d be begging to take him back, because he could protect her. And he would protect her. He’d get her out of jail with a little help from more planted evidence and Senator Oberlin, but only after he’d completely broken her mentally.

He practically rubbed his hands together at the thought, but stopped himself. He had a reputation to protect.

On his desk was a note from Jeffries.
I need to see you now! Find me.
Norman frowned. That sounded like bad news. He went down to the Receiving Desk to look for Jeffries and nose around a little.

Sergeant Daly was at the desk. “
Where’s Jeffries?” Norman growled.

“
Doing paperwork somewhere. Check out back,” came the reply.

“
Anything going on today?”

“
Nah, nothing major.”

Norman
’s eyebrows raised imperceptibly. Nothing major?

“
What’s going on with the Crystal Creek fire?” he prodded.

“
Nothing, I think it’s almost out.”

Norman grunted. Nothing? This sergeant would know
if any of his officers had been sent up for a missing person or a dead person. Where they still conducting the search on their own? Most of the day was gone.

He left the room, looking for Jeffries. He found him in his car parked behind the station.

Jeffries saw him coming and shook his head. Norman’s pace quickened.
Just what in the fuck did that mean?

“
I managed to fingerprint her but then I sent Cassandra in to fuck with her and she got sliced up on her arm. The Sergeant made me release her to the medics.”

“
Who the fuck told you to sic Cassandra on her?” Norman’s face was red. He felt like the top of his head was going to pop right off.

“
I just thought it would be good for her. Scare her a little more,” Jeffries practically whined.

“
Did you happen to tell Cassandra
not
to slice her up?” Norman demanded.

Jeffries looked down. Norman knew he had his answer. Jeffries was a fucking idiot who couldn
’t be trusted not to fuck shit up. “Fuck you dumbass. Now I gotta fix it!”

Norman stomped back into the station. H
e thought about it. True, she wasn’t here anymore, but she had been processed and she had been terrorized. This really wasn’t too big of a deal, he could work with it. Now to figure out what was going on with the missing firefighter. He walked back to the receiving desk to talk to Sergeant Daly.

“
Hey this morning I heard the firefighters calling up a helicopter to search for a missing fireman. Did they find him?”

“
Oh yeah, they found him, but he must have been hurt. He was flown to the hospital.”

Norman
’s jaw twitched. The hospital? “Is there an investigation?”

“
Nah, they never called us.”

Norman grunted again and turned on his heel, heading to his office. Masterson was flown to the hospital, but no one called the cops for an investigation? Was he alive? An
d if he was alive had no one figured out he was shot yet? Was he alive but so burnt no one could see the bullet wounds?

Norman
’s hand shook as he pressed the elevator button. Luckily he was alone. He stared at his hand, willing it to steady. Panic and fear were not emotions Norman allowed himself to feel. He had learned to slam a lid on any feeling that betrayed his sense of control a long time ago.

He learned that at the hand of his mother. Norman never knew his father, if indeed he even had one. Norman
’s mother had been just mean enough and just crazy enough to make a deal with the devil, or maybe even have sex with the devil. Norman could never imagine a normal man wanting to impregnate his mother. She had been tall, and strong like a man. Her hair had been cropped short so she didn’t have to brush it, she said. She had hated life, and every person on the earth, including Norman. She started beating him with a horse whip when he was little. He never had a memory of not being hit at least once each day by that thing.

By the time he was 13 though, he was big enough to take it away from her and she stopped. Her mental abuse had not stopped though. By this time she had been an alcoholic for over 15 years and her liver was starting to give out. Her stomach dis
tended and her skin had started to darken in places. The more miserable she became, the more she tried to kill herself with a bottle, or goad Norman into doing it for her. Sometimes she would raise her hand like she was going to hit him and then laugh when he flinched. “Little baby boy,” she would mock. “Are you going to wee-wee in your pants baby? Is the baby-diddums scared of the big bad lady?” Norman learned very well to not give an inch of emotion. He also learned to hate.

Norman entered his office and
tore himself away from his thoughts. He called the hospital and asked what room Craig Masterson was in. “I don’t have that information sir,” the female voice on the other end said.

“
Is he a patient?”

“
A Craig Masterson was admitted this morning, sir, but there is no record of what room or floor he was admitted to and no record of him being released.

“
Is he dead?” Norman demanded.

“
Dead? Why, I don’t know sir, but there is no record of him, uh, dying.”

Norman slammed the phone down. This was not helpful. He
needed to talk to someone in the hospital. He had a couple of contacts there - a security guard in the E.R. who was on the payroll but didn’t have much access to the computers. A doctor in the geriatric ward caught with cocaine, but Norman had let him go as long as he remembered the ‘favor’. A cook in the cafeteria who Norman had sent to jail for marijuana possession, but Norman had not reported the meth lab in his basement, so the cook owed him a favor too.

Norman looked in his rolodex for the doctor
’s number. A few minutes later he had tracked down Doctor Paloma and was on hold waiting for him to find something out. Inwardly Norman fumed. Outwardly he sat relaxed in his office chair.

A click on the line told him Dr. Paloma was back. “
Yeah, Craig Masterson was admitted this morning and went straight to surgery. He’s in the ICU now, room 1214, but his room is being guarded.

“
Guarded? By who?” Norman bit the inside of his lip, hard, willing his face to remain impassive. He thought he probably knew the answer to that question.

“
Two FBI agents.”

Norman sat for a second. So that
’s why no one had called them. The FBI had taken over the case even before the police had known there was one. What a fuckup. But why was he alive? And how had they heard so quickly?

“
One more question doctor, and then you can get back to your evening. What is his condition?”

“
Well, um, I’m not trying to make a joke here, but he is listed as guarded. And that’s all I know. There are no records in the computer yet, and the nurse said that the doctor hasn’t let anyone see the chart.”

“
How bad is guarded?”

“
That means he is being watched closely as his condition could go either way.”

“
Got it doc. I’ll be talking to you.”

Norman replaced the receiver quietly. In his mind, he picked the heavy
phone up and threw it across the office. In his mind, when officer Franks looked up at the noise from his desk in the big room beyond, Norman grabbed the phone and smashed Franks’ face in with it until shards of bone littered the floor.

Norman bit his che
ek harder and willed himself to calm down. So Masterson was alive, and could be talking. But even he didn’t know who shot him, so all wasn’t lost yet. Hell, maybe the FBI would still be fooled by the planted gun at the scene and the letters in Masterson’s car, if they found them.

Norman just needed to do a little damage control, that was all. He needed some time to think about this.

He grabbed his keys and headed out to do some thinking.

***

Norman ended up at the Black Dog Saloon. He was wound up tight, and he’d never be able to think of what to do unless he could work off some of this stress first.

He pulled open one of the big red doors and pushed past the bouncer standing inside. The bouncer made a move to stop him, but held back when he saw who Norman
was.
Smart move asshole, probably the smartest thing you’ve done all week.
Norman thought.

Norman went up to the bar and ordered a tequila shot. He looked around lazily. There were always good prospects at any bar, but he didn
’t just want a good prospect. He wanted a great one. He never knew exactly what he was looking for, but he knew he would know it when he saw it.

The bar was dark but not crowded. There were maybe 12 people at the bar, and 30 people at tables, with a few on the dance floor.

There.

St
anding by a booth, talking to the women sitting down. He was tall, taller than Norman, but older. Probably 15 years older, dressed in a typical bar outfit, jeans and black leather biker vest over a black t-shirt. He looked tough and mean and strong, but was beginning to get a bit of a beer belly. Norman noticed he had one slim scar hooking down his left cheek.
Matching scars, coming up.

Norman headed to the bathroom, and purposely tripped over the man
’s feet as he went. The man snarled, “Watch it buddy!” Norman looked him dead in the eyes and waited a beat. The man fell silent, unsure. Norman continued on. As he pushed the bathroom door open he heard the group of women break out into tinkling laughter. Norman smiled, a flat, evil, deadly smile.

In the bathro
om, he checked his pockets and holsters. Everything was in order.

He sidled back out towards the man, breath under control, emotions in check.

The man was leaning over the table now, in deep conversation with one of the women.

Norman glided up to him with
out making a sound, eyes on the man, peripheral vision noticing the women who could see him fall silent. One looked scared, eyes wide. The other looked excited, with a small smile playing on her lips. He might try to talk to her later.

He shoved the man in
the shoulder, hard. “What did you say about me?”

The man stood up. His vest had several patches and emblems on it. The only one Norman bothered to read was one that looked like a name: Saint.

‘Saint’ eyed Norman up and down, looking for a weakness. Norman saw irritation and anger in his face, but no fear.
Good, this guy will be fun.

Saint looked indecisive, like he didn
’t want to fight, but he knew he had to or he could kiss talking to these ladies goodbye. He planted a snarl on his face. “I said I hoped you could find your own ass when you got in there.”

A ghost of Norman
’s deadly smile reappeared. “That’s what I thought you said.” His right hand shot out in a testing jab towards Saint’s soft-looking gut. Saint was ready for it. He didn’t even grunt. He just took it. Saint’s gut might have a bit of a beer belly growing on top of it, but the hard sheet of muscle was totally intact.