Twisted Innocence (Moonlighters Series Book 3) (25 page)

Thank you, God.

“Creed’s going into surgery this afternoon,” Max said, clicking off his cell phone. “Bullet shattered two bones in his forearm. He was lucky. The other one only grazed the side of his head.”

“Did it penetrate his skull?”

“No. Just the skin. A fraction of an inch and he’d be dead. Same as you. If you’d gotten into that car . . .”

“These people are ruthless,” Michael said. “They don’t care who they leave dead. So are there guards posted outside Creed’s hospital room again?”

“Yeah. They’ve been there since he was admitted.”

“Good. Miller isn’t going to give up.”

Michael wished he could focus on the evidence without the racing thoughts that he’d barely escaped the explosion. Cathy would have been in that car with him. She would be dead right along with him.

It helped a little that Creed’s sniper was in custody. The guard who’d taken Creed his meal the other night—Sergeant Norris—was being questioned right now. He had apparently cut off the cameras in the jail before he did the shooting, but he hadn’t realized that cameras from the bank behind the building would expose him.

“Has Norris confessed yet?” Michael asked.

“No,” Max said. “He thinks they’re questioning all the guards about which inmate could have done it. But Forbes says he smells like gunpowder, and we have the security video. I’m going to head over and watch the interrogation. I can’t wait to lock that phlegm wad up in the same prison he guarded.”

Miller’s reach was so broad that it almost made Michael despair. Norris was just one of many men who did the drug broker’s bidding. Norris had been the guard with the least compassion and the most sadistic bent. Michael figured Miller had bribed him with money or drugs. He wondered how long Norris had been dirty.

Feeling vulnerable, Michael looked around to see if anyone was on top of the surrounding buildings, taking aim again. His torso was protected, but his head was exposed. He needed to get out of here.

He stooped by his charred car, still hot and smoking. A CSI agent Michael had worked with before was taking pictures. “Brad, we weren’t in the building that long,” he told
him. “Just long enough to get a marriage license. The bomb had to be planted fast.”

“Looks like it was magnetic,” Brad said. “It’s still attached . . . here.”

Michael slipped on a glove and touched the magnetic piece. He pulled it off, turned it over. The lab might be able to find a serial number or other evidence, but at the moment, there was nothing he could discern from the piece.

The bomb had been attached to the side of his SUV, facing away from the county clerk’s office. “Still,” Michael said. “They had to rig it to the starter somehow, right? How could they have done that so fast?”

“Not sure,” Brad said. “We’ll have to take the car into the lab and figure out what they did. They might have opened the hood somehow. Doors were blown off, so we can’t tell yet if the glass was broken to give them access or if the door was jimmied.”

“An adept car thief would have been able to get the door open without doing any of that.”

“True,” Max said. “So if they got in, they could have easily rigged it. Wouldn’t take that long for a pro.”

“How big is this operation?” the CSI asked.

“Big,” Michael said. “Bigger and broader than you could imagine. Miller’s my big fish, but he’s not
the
big fish. It goes all the way to Colombia.”

“Hey, Hogan!” Both Michael and Max turned as one of the other major crime detectives ducked under the yellow crime scene tape. “I got something!”

He was carrying an open laptop. Michael went toward him, Max following. “What is it?”

“Camera footage from this building over here,” he said,
pointing to the building next to the parking lot. “Got a visual of the guy.”

The sun made it hard to see the footage, but Michael shaded the screen with his hand. He saw a man coming across the parking lot with a backpack, ambling as if he had no particular place to go, then standing at the car door for a minute.

“He’s using a pneumatic bladder to open the door,” Max said.

The same thing cops used when people locked their keys inside their cars. Michael watched as the man opened the door, looking toward the courthouse building. Then he ducked inside and down to the floorboard. So far Michael hadn’t been able to see his face—just his back and side.

The man backed out of the car, strung the wire out the driver’s door and under the car, and bent to magnetically snap the rest of the device underneath the chassis. Michael wondered if he would have seen the cord when he approached the car. Maybe, maybe not.

The man stood, looked toward the building again, then turned and went back the way he’d come . . . toward the camera. His face was clear now.

“You guys know him?” Michael asked.

“Not me,” Max said, glancing at his coworker. “You got an ID?”

“No, but Creed Kershaw might be able to tell us.”

“Send me some stills of the guy,” Max told him. “We’ll head over there now and talk to him before he goes into surgery.”

“What about the interrogation of Norris?” Michael asked.

“They’re taping it.”

“They won’t let him go, will they?”

“No. We have too much on him. They’re just going to let
him lie through his teeth and then hit him with the evidence. He’s going to jail today. The judge will probably deny bond. I’d rather talk to Creed right now and track down this bomber. Come with me.”

Michael stood and dusted off his hands.

“Let me know as soon as you get a name,” the other detective said. “I’ll get a warrant and we’ll hunt him down.”

Creed was just being prepped for surgery when Michael and Max got to the hospital. He’d been given the pre-anesthesia medications, and he looked like he was close to falling asleep. His speech was slurred, and he could barely hold his head up.

They cleared the room of his family and Holly and the baby so they could show him the photo. Creed tried to help, but he couldn’t focus.

“Creed, it’s real important, man. Can you tell us who this dude is?”

Creed lifted his head to look at the still picture on Max’s phone. “That’s who killed me?” he slurred.

Michael shook his head. “You’re not dead, okay? No, he’s not the guy. He’s the one who tried to kill
me
.”

“Really? What’d you do?”

“Nothing. We think he’s working for Miller.”

“Sure he is. Cousin or something. Did bombs in one of the Stans.”

Michael gave Max a frustrated look. “One of the whats?”

“Afghanistan, I think . . . army.”

Okay, that narrowed it down. “His name. Do you know his name?”

“Yeah. It’s, uh . . .” Creed closed his eyes, and his head fell back.

“Creed? Creed, stay with us for a minute. Tell us his name.”

Creed’s eyes opened again, and he looked at the picture on the laptop again. “That a Mac?”

“Yes. Creed, the guy. Tell us who this is.”

Creed narrowed his heavy eyes on the screen again. “Yeah, that’s Deep Dog. Name’s Barks . . . Barker. Somethin’ like that.”

“You say he’s Miller’s cousin?”

“Yeah. He was there, driving for Miller . . . when they killed Loco.”

The door opened and two nurses came in. “Okay, that’s all, guys. We’ve got to go to the OR, get this arm fixed up. You doing okay, Mr. Kershaw?”

“Yeah . . . good.” He closed his eyes, and this time Michael let him drift out.

“Barker or Barks,” he told Max. “Nickname Deep Dog. Cousin. Army veteran. We can run with that, right?”

“That’ll get us started,” Max said. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER 51

L
eonard Miller sat on the deck of his four-thousand-square-foot beach home overlooking the Gulf. His jaw popped as he worked through his next move.

Jack, the attorney who had become his closest confidant these days, sat next to him, his body slouched, elbows on knees as he stared at Miller. “Lenny, this whole thing has turned the heat up on us. It’s just a matter of time.”

Miller’s jaw popped again, his molars grinding together. He dropped his feet from the railing. “Tell me how this happened. How is it that Creed Kershaw survived . . .
three times
?”

“Norris was nowhere near as good a sniper as he said he was. Now he’s being questioned. My guess is they know he poisoned Kershaw and that he was on the roof. If they don’t already know Barker set the bomb, they will soon. He’ll be next to go down.”

“They won’t talk. We’ll funnel cash to their families.”

“You really think they care that much about their families?”

“Then we offer your representation. Make sure—”

“You’re kidding yourself, Lenny.”

Miller got up, kicked his chair, then went through the French doors into his study. The furnishings had been here when he bought the place—things he never would have thought to buy. A decorator had done the place up to help it sell, and Miller had kept everything, down to the fake apples in a bowl on the counter. He’d had Jack offer cash under an Arabsounding name. He’d walked right in with his clothes and his toothbrush.

No way had he believed as a kid he would ever live in a place like this. His mother would have loved it; she’d always dreamed of living on the beach. He wasn’t willing to give it all up yet.

In the bedroom, his girlfriend Jasmine sat in the middle of the bed, a syringe on her lap and a tourniquet around her arm. “Wish you’d get into the heroin trade,” she said in a raspy voice. “I wouldn’t have to go get it myself.”

“Stop whining. I’ve got the whole Panama City police force breathing down my neck, and you want me to diversify?”

He stood in the doorway as she found a vein and delivered the heroin to her bloodstream. The tension on her face melted, and she leaned back, eyes closed. That should keep her quiet for a while.

He turned to leave, but she called out. “Lenny?”

He looked back in. “What?”

“When I was at the dope house . . . there were these people . . .” Her voice drifted off, as if she’d lost her thought midsentence.

“What people? Jasmine?”

She rallied. “Huh?”

“You said there were people . . . what people? Was somebody following you?”

“No . . . not that. I woulda noticed. It was these tweekers, high outa their minds . . . bragging about mugging that taxi chick. Holly somebody . . .”

“Holly Cramer?” When she didn’t answer, he crossed the room and bent over her, shook her. “Holly Cramer?”

She looked up at him with glazed eyes. “Yeah, her. They had her purse, credit cards, her IDs . . .”

He frowned and let her go. She wilted back against the pillows, her face flushing.

“Are they still there? At the house?”

“Were when I left.”

“Floyd’s house? On Evers Street?”

“Tha’s the one,” she slurred.

He wanted to slap her, but what good would it do? “What do you even go there for? You shouldn’t be seen in places like that now that we’re together.”

“I’d be waiting all week,” she whispered, tossing the syringe on the bed table. “Youdontrustanybodytacomehere . . . Wantedit . . . now.”

Disgusted and wondering why he bothered with her, Miller went into the living room, sat down, and tried to think. Jack still sat on the deck, looking out at the ocean. “Jack, come here!” he called.

Jack turned and came back in. “What?”

“I’m getting an idea. Jasmine said she met these two tweekers when she was at the dope house.”

“She’s still going there? Somebody could follow her here. There are people who know she’s with you now. You used to be smarter with all this stuff. You’ve been under the radar all
this time, but they’re looking for you, man. You gotta be more careful.”

He slammed his foot against his coffee table. “Don’t you think I know that? If the hits you set up had
worked
, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Hits
I
set up? I was taking orders from you! I used your own cousin, who you said was a genius with bombs! Who could predict Hogan would use a remote to start his car? That the only person we could get who had access to the roof of the jail would miss and hit Kershaw’s arm?”

Miller got up and went to the fireplace he had never used. He rubbed his lip, turned back. “What if we picked up those tweekers? Offered them a hunk of cash to break into Holly Cramer’s house?”

“For what?”

Standing at the French doors, Miller scanned the beach from left to right, then back again. “To get her kid. Then we could get Creed where we want him.”

“Where is that?”

“Dead.”

“Lenny, what is it with you and kidnapping? You did that with her sister’s kids, and everybody involved is either dead or in prison.”

“Not everybody.”

Jack shook his head with disgust. “Okay, so
you
got away. But your luck isn’t going to hold forever.” He sat down on the coffee table, knee to knee with Miller. “Listen to me, my friend. My advice is for you to get out of the country, or at least out of the state.”

“I have business here. I’m supposed to pack up and leave all that?”

“Go somewhere else and use the same contacts. If you don’t, once your contacts in Colombia realize the heat on you is building, they’re going to quit doing business with you. They’ve probably gotten wind of it already. Get out of here while you can. Michael Hogan is not going to rest until he tracks you down, especially since he almost died today. He has a score to settle.”