Pushing water, p.23
Pushing Water, page 23
Doc sounded almost apologetic. “Stush, I don’t think the budget’s there to sit on Simon’s house like that. I’ll do it off the books if you want.”
“Fuck the budget and fuck Chet Hensarling if he doesn’t like it. This shithead killed four people and might as well’ve killed the other. He’s eating a charge. I’ll take the money out of my retirement if I have to.”
CHAPTER 50
Jacques Lelievre turned onto Leishman Avenue from Drey Street at six-oh-two p.m. No car in front of Mary Pugliese’s house. No light except for the front porch. Turned left on Ewing, left again on Vine Alley. Saw nothing but the light over the back stoop and a faint glow from the kitchen.
A second pass to see if anyone was watching. Jacques knew no one had followed him. Couldn’t be one hundred percent sure no one knew about Mary. Had no interest in walking into the kind of situation Don Kwiatkowski had. The documents were ready, as was a clean car. All Jacques needed was the money from Sylvain, which delivery tracking showed should be in the house by now. Hate to have his last thought be about how he shouldn’t have rushed anything.
Nothing looked suspicious on the second circuit. Pulled to the curb and let the car idle on the corner of Moore and Leishman while he made up his mind. One more pass up Leishman to be sure, then park the car in Vine Alley and go in the back. The extra key usually under a fake rock near the stairs. If it wasn’t there, the back door into the kitchen had four small glass panes. Getting in was not the problem.
Jacques pulled onto Leishman. Crept down the street hoping to give the impression of someone looking for a house number. Left on Ewing. Left again. Pulled to the curb between two houses, one of which sat on Vine Alley directly behind Mary Pugliese’s.
Ample parking on Leishman Avenue, so when Teresa Shimp saw the dark Chevy in her side mirror the second time, she copied the plate number as it went by. Called it in more for something to do than out of suspicion. She’d been sitting on Mary Pugliese’s house for going on ten hours with two pee breaks. McFetridge hadn’t had even that. Said he found a spot where he could relieve himself and that the front could be uncovered for a few minutes at a time if she had to go.
Teresa snuggled down even more in her seat, which had become surprisingly cozy from body heat and judicious use of the heater. A Suburban that parked behind her at four fifteen disguised much of the exhaust when she ran the engine. All of her that appeared above the driver’s door was a navy blue ski cap.
The radio crackled. “PR-21, that license plate was reported stolen in Connellsville a few days ago. It should belong to a 2011 Chevy Cruze, light blue.”
“Roger. This is a darker, larger car. Request backup at 2027 Leishman Avenue. We may need to make entry. No sirens, no lights. Assemble on the corner of Moore and Leishman. Call me when they’re ready.”
“Roger PR-21. Good luck, Teresa.”
Had her cell in hand when headlights made the turn onto Leishman from Moore. Turned down the phone’s screen as the dark Chevy rolled past a third time at no more than ten miles per hour. Waited until she saw the brake lights and left turn signal at the corner of Ewing before she called McFetridge.
Ben Dougherty didn’t go straight home. Too wound up from the day with Chris Hudak to let himself brood alone. Not in the mood to deal with a lot of people, either. Stopped at the Edgecliff because it wouldn’t be busy at four thirty and Denny Sluciak knew when to leave Doc alone. A baconburger on Syrian bread—lettuce, tomato, slice of sweet onion—and fries with gravy. Two Cokes with the meal, not ready for beer yet lest it go down too smooth and want company.
Went home and watched the last half of Pardon the Interruption because ESPN was the channel that popped up when he turned on the television. Used to like the show until Kornheiser and Wilbon became too full of themselves, acting like they actually knew what they were talking about. Let his distaste distract him until SportsCenter came on at the top of the hour and he went into the bathroom. Shower running and stripped down to his shorts when Stush called.
Not bitterly cold in Penns River. Nothing like the time Gord McFetridge and Scott Albert went to the First Nation Reserve at Norway House to arrest a Cree who’d raped a woman in Saskatoon and gone home to hide amid the bosom of his family. Thirty below at noon—minus-twenty-two Fahrenheit, doing the conversion in his head to pass the time—evil bastard of a wind whipping across Little Playgreen Lake at forty kilometers an hour. Wind chill so bad he’d have sworn an affidavit the vitreous in his eyes was freezing, that and his lips the only exposed parts of him.
Thirty degrees Fahrenheit and a breeze coming off the river four hundred meters away with lots of houses between to break it up was a mere inconvenience. McFetridge could stand here all night—and would if he had to—to arrest this fucking Queeb and go home to make love to his wife and watch his kids play hockey, not simultaneously. Got the call from Shimp and shrank a little more behind the tool shed he used for concealment.
A black or dark blue Chevy—or Buick—came toward him on Vine Alley. Glided to a stop between the house directly behind Mary Pugliese’s and the one next to it. Lights went out and the exhaust stopped. McFetridge made himself even smaller behind the shed. A direct path to Mary’s door would take whoever was in the car within a few feet.
The driver’s head already turned so McFetridge caught no light on the suspect’s face when the door opened. A man of the same approximate height and body type as Jacques Lelievre walked a not quite straight line to Mary’s back stoop. Fussed around with something on the ground. Stood and unlocked the door. Went in.
McFetridge called Shimp. “Send someone to cover the back so I can come around and talk with you.”
Teresa Shimp was grateful it had only been an hour since her last bathroom break. No telling what mayhem might have ensued when Ben Dougherty opened her passenger door and slid in unannounced.
He saw the look on her face and gave an apologetic shrug. “Sorry. I should have told you I was coming up. What do we have?”
“Looks like Lelievre just let himself in. I sent Speer and Rinella around back to relieve McFetridge. He’ll be up as soon as they’re in position.”
“Where’s Snyder?” Doc said.
“She’s sitting on Chuck Simon’s house. Is there a problem?”
“No. Al and Dewey can handle this. I guess I’ve gotten used to seeing Nancy in the shit. What’s the plan?”
“That’s what I want to talk to you and McFetridge about. We have options.”
McFetridge slid in on the passenger side back seat. Rubbed his hands together. “I didn’t notice how cold I was till I came in here.”
Teresa choked back a guilty comment. “You want some coffee? I filled a Thermos last time I went to the bathroom.”
“If you wouldn’t mind.” Doc handed McFetridge the jug. “Thanks. How do you want to do this?”
“We don’t have a compelling reason to go in right away.” Teresa left opportunity for dissent. “We could wait and grab him when he leaves. Any arguments?”
McFetridge sipped coffee. “It’s dark. Clouds and no moon. Your patrol officers have good positions but I can’t guarantee they’ll see him leaving, especially if he turns out the porch light.”
“They’re not right up against the back door?” Shimp said.
“I told them to lay back a little so he can’t catch a random look at them and go barricade. If they’re off a little he might not see them. They can get him in the open if it comes to that.”
Doc: “They have his car blocked off, right?”
McFetridge nodded. “Yeah, except it’s a patrol unit. Where they have it would be hard to notice from the house, but if he gets in the yard and catches wind he’ll walk away.”
“There’s another problem,” Doc said. “The woman owns the house will be home sooner or later. Then we have a potential hostage situation. Dale’s closes at nine-thirty. She could be home anytime from nine-forty-five on.”
“I agree with both of you,” Teresa said. “I’d prefer to go in, but we don’t have a warrant. We can’t just start kicking in doors that aren’t his even if we did know for a fact he’s in there.”
McFetridge leaned over the seat. “I have a warrant. It’s Canadian, but I also have the paperwork from your FBI that authorizes its execution.”
Doc wanted to know if McFetridge was absolutely sure Lelievre was inside.
McFetridge took a brief glance at the house. “He’s in there.”
Doc zipped his jacket. “Then let’s go.”
Teresa felt her position slipping away. “Hold on a minute. How are we going to do it?”
“Well, Snyder’s out. Is Sisler here?” Doc’s security blanket.
“Not yet. He lives up near Saxonburg. I haven’t heard he’s coming for sure.”
“Who else do we have?”
“Us and Speer and Rinella around back,” Shimp said.
“I’d like to have another weapon for the entry.” McFetridge arched an eyebrow and opened his hands. Doc said, “I’d love to, but the absolute last thing we need is for a foreign national police to shoot someone, or be shot. Cause an international fucking incident the way things are now. No offense, Gord.”
“None taken.”
Teresa held her phone to an ear. “How far out are you?…We’re on the even-numbered side of Leishman between Moore and Ewing. Park around the corner and walk up…Okay. See you then.”
She turned to Doc and McFetridge. “Sisler will be here in ten minutes. He says he’s in plain clothes so don’t shoot him.”
Shimp, Sisler, and Doc on the front porch. McFetridge at the foot of the stairs on the paved walkway that led to the street. Doc raised his hand to knock. Shimp stopped him.
“No offense, but you get to have all the fun. This is my case, mine and Sisler’s. I’ll take the door.”
Doc almost reminded her they were only here because of the lead he’d got from his brother. Decided this was no time to argue. And she had a point. Took a step back and gestured with his hands. Be my guest.
Shimp pounded three times with the side of her fist cop style. “Penns River police! Open the door and raise your hands!”
No answer. Ten seconds went by. Shimp tried again. Same result. “Do we have a ram?”
Doc opened his hands. Looked at them as if maybe he’d get lucky. Sisler patted his pockets and showed his palms. “Sorry,” Doc said. Positioned himself to kick it in.
“Wait. My case, my door. Right?”
Doc gave her a once-over. Five-seven or so. Hundred and ten pounds, tops. Flat-soled, sensible plainclothes policewoman shoes. Doc moved away this time with considerably less flourish.
Shimp stepped into the door. Perfect form, heel strike a few inches above the knob. The door shook, but held. Leaned over and wrapped both hands around her knee. “Son of a bitch!”
“You okay?” Doc had done that himself, caught the door with his foot and shin a micron off the angle he’d wanted and felt the vibration go damn near to his hip. Like hitting a baseball off the end of the bat in cold weather.
Shimp nodded. Lined up the door again. Doc cleared his throat. Pointed to her feet, then his, shod in tactical boots. “Size twelve.”
Shimp looked at his feet. Nodded and stepped aside. It occurred to Doc as he raised his leg he had better kick this fucker in on the first try. Shattered the frame and sent the door rebounding so hard off the wall it tried to slam shut again. Shimp went first and broke right. Sisler broke left. Doc took the center. He loved those shoes.
No telling how long it would have taken Jacques to find the parcel if the cops hadn’t knocked. Walked right past it in the dining room the first time, eyes not yet accustomed to the indoor darkness. Turned to look for options when he heard the pounding and noticed Sylvain’s package on the table. Mary hadn’t opened it, left it right where he’d see it.
He didn’t know the house well enough yet to have instincts about it. Cops would be front and back. No panic rooms or secret panels like they’d have in a movie to give him a fighting chance. His one saving grace was the front door had no line of sight to where he was now and the cops would have to assume he had a gun and take care clearing each room. Jacques did have a gun, no intention of using it. Prison was bad enough but he could do the armed robbery and walkaway bits. Maybe even walk away again if he got the chance. Killing an American cop was a death sentence. If they even gave him the opportunity. He’d heard a local cop died in the line of duty last summer and had to assume the ones fucking around at the front door would take no chances.
His opinion of the local constabulary not enhanced by their efforts to gain entry. Gave Jacques plenty of time to look for alternate ways out. The dining room had a window on the side of the house. Jacques gave a tug. Locked. Reached for the usual place and felt the typical window lock. Turned it and pulled up again. The window slid open. He kicked away the plastic storm window and slipped out into the small side yard.
A little more light out here. Police in back for sure. In front, maybe everyone came in. Jacques took a second to orient himself then ran like hell for Leishman Avenue, a shoebox with seventy thousand American under his left arm like a football. He was almost to the street when something hit him from the side and knocked him flying. Held onto the shoebox, though.
Gord McFetridge didn’t mind waiting outside. Not that he didn’t want to go in, but he understood why he couldn’t, this not his first international stampede. Hesitated, not believing his good luck, when he saw Jacques Lelievre run from around the side of the house big as life. Didn’t see a gun and Jacques didn’t seem to be paying too much attention, so Gord lowered a shoulder and used the form he’d been taught in rugby. Drove through Lelievre’s torso and wrapped arms around legs. Form so good the contact was harder than expected, knocked Lelievre sliding across the slippery ground. Gord regained his own balance and pinned his new prisoner to the wet grass. Started yelling for the locals.
CHAPTER 51
Doc walked through the door from the parking lot to the cop shop at seven forty-five the next morning. First person he saw inside was Stush. “Your close personal friend Chuck Simon’s here.”
“When’d he come in?”
“Snyder brought him around ten thirty. We put him up for the night as a material witness.”
“When’s the lineup?”
“Hudak’s lawyer can’t get here till ten. You still have a couple hours to get ready.”
Doc usually grabbed a cop or a guard from the jail to fill in his lineups. Today he had to contend with the fact that Chuck Simon had spent time in the jail himself and seen quite a few officers and court employees. Took Doc his entire two hours and then some to find a suitable array of city workers, school bus drivers, and day laborers with the proper body type, hair color, and age range to provide a valid comparison.
Hudak’s lawyer a young woman Doc had seen around the courthouse. A little heavy, a little mousy, but presented herself well and pulled off the rare lawyer feat of not letting the police push her or her client around without being an arrogant asshole about it. Wendy Truver asked if she could take a look at the fillers before the main event. So the cops wouldn’t have to worry she’d tell a judge they put her client in with two black guys, two Asians, and a midget.
Doc scratched his head. He’d heard stories of lawyers who might try to pull something. Never seen it himself, of course, but it rarely paid to take chances. “You wouldn’t be thinking of running me around gathering panels all day, would you, Ms. Truver?”
“Come on, Dougherty. I don’t want to spend all day on this any more than you do. I’m looking to cover us both here.”
Doc considered his options. Thought of calling Sally Gwinn and letting the lawyers wrangle it out. That could take all day, he’d probably have to gather up another panel, and Simon was already a less than cooperative witness. “How about some ground rules first?”
“Such as?”
“Your client is five-foot-eleven, medium body type. Has an—I don’t know, average?—complexion. Light brown hair cut relatively short, no facial hair or scars, no visible tattoos. If I bring you in five guys between five-nine and six-one that meet the other characteristics you won’t give me a hard time because you don’t like one’s nose or eyebrows. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough.”
Doc told Ray McKillop at the jail to keep Hudak in his cell and bring in the fillers. Stood with Wendy Truver in the video room to watch through the two-way glass as the five filed in.
“You do nice work,” she said.
“I live for your approval. We ready?”
She was. Doc explained the procedure. Sent McKillop with the fillers to the jail area under the courtrooms so they could all come back together. Dispatched Neuschwander to bring Simon from the maximum-security cell where he’d slept so he and Hudak would have no contact. Shooting the breeze with Wendy Truver when the phone rang in the observation booth. Ray McKillop had a problem.
“What’s wrong?”
“The suspect has a sleeve missing from his shirt. It was like that when he came in.”
“I know. So what?”
“I’m not trying to tell you your business, but isn’t your witness the guy that’s supposed to’ve shot him?”
Doc’s patience not endless this close to a resolution. “Yeah. And?”
“Well, the suspect has a freshly dressed wound on his left arm. Won’t that kind of hose the lineup?”
Doc felt the near miss as it passed. “Holy shit. Thanks, Ray. Can we get him a shirt?”
“Yeah, probably. That’s not all, though.”
“What now?”
