Hot Storage (27 page)

   John Kincaid stepped out of the glare to take the gun. “You all right, Marlena?”

   “Yeah,” I said, my voice sounding rusty. “Where did you come from?”

   He slipped an arm around my shoulders. “Patrick called,” he said. “Made it as fast as I could. Had to call the dispatcher for the gate code. Good thing you gave us one.”

   “Patrick,” I said, raising my hands and rubbing my face. “He may be hurt. Over there somewhere,” I pointed and followed my own direction. “I think he’s in this aisle.”

   Another officer called out. “Two men down here,” he said. “I called for the ambulance.”

   John took control. “Watkins, go open the gate for them. Who’s down, Chuck?”

   “Code 871,” I said. “That will open the gate and lock it open.”

   Officer Watkins waved and jogged toward the gate.

   John led me to the squad car and opened the back door. “Sit down, Marlena. You sure you’re all right? Do you want medical assistance?”

   “I want to know if Patrick is okay. I think Burke shot him.”

   “Where is Burke?”

   “Somewhere around here. I shot him.”

   “You shot Burke?”

   “Yeah. Pretty sure I hit him. At least once.”

   “You up to looking? We’ve got three men down.”

   I stood up again. He took my arm and turned me toward the fence. In the garish lighting strobing the aisle I saw another officer on one knee beside a prone body. He stood up when we reached him and shook his head.

   “He’s gone.”

   I sucked in my breath, tears stinging my eyes.

   John kept an arm around me, let me take my time.

   I looked into Burke’s eyes, still open. The front of his sweatshirt was black and shiny, the flashing red lights reflecting in little glints.

   “Where’s Patrick,” I asked.

   “Over here,” John said and used a hand on my waist to guide me to the corner of the building.

   The hot tears rolled down my cheeks.

   Patrick Murphy sat on the ground, leaning back against the stucco wall. One side of his face was dark but his eyes were open, the red light flashing in them.

   He lifted a hand and held it out, palm up.

   I put my hand in it. He tugged on it and I knelt beside him.

   A siren wailed in, more flashing red lights. One of the officers was calling orders.

   “Hey,” I said. “How you doing?”

   Patrick blinked a few times. “I’ve been better. How about you?”

   “I’m good. Better than you, I think. You hurt?”

   He smiled. “My head and my pride. My body is fine.”

   “I’ll say,” I smiled back and winked.

   “Now you want to start something,” he said. “First I want to, and you don’t. Now you want to and I can’t. We’ve got to get on the same page.”

   “What makes you think I don’t want to start something?”

   He lifted his chin and looked at me. “I’m gonna find out,” he said. “Give me a hand up?”

   I stood and pulled on his hand, the one I was holding, and watched him get to his feet. He tilted to the right, away from me and I caught his arm to help him get his balance.

   An EMT came up to us.

   “Check her first,” Patrick said.

   I let go of his hand and held up mine. “I’m okay,” I said. “He’s hurt. His head.”

  “Can you sit down for a minute?” the EMT asked. “Let me get a look at your head.”

   “I just got up,” Patrick said.

   “This way then,” the EMT said, and took Patrick’s elbow. He led him towards the flashing lights of the ambulance, the inside cabin lit up bright white.

   Patrick flailed one hand back towards me. “Come on.”

   “I’ll be right there. I have to talk to John first.”

   Together they walked to the ambulance. I watched them go before turning to find John. Patrick was steady on his feet.

   I found John again. He was beside Burke’s body.

   I walked over to John’s side. “How is he?”

   John shook his head. “He’s gone, Marlie. Sorry.”

  I looked down into Burke’s face. The lights flashed highlights into the bright blonde hair. Still handsome, the blue eyes stared into the night sky unblinking, those sculpted lips slightly open. He looked like he might jump up and ask for a beer. I knelt beside him and closed his eyes.

   “
Vaya con Dios
,” I whispered.

   I stood up and walked away, back towards the bright lights of the ambulance.

   The back door of the squad car was still open. Paul Murphy sat there, hunched over with both hands in his lap. I passed him and went to the ambulance. Patrick sat on the gurney inside while an EMT bent over his head. He caught me looking in and leaned away from the guy swabbing his head.

   “Give me a minute,” I heard him say. “I’ll be right back.” He stood up and came to the back of the ambulance. Using the handles on the door he gingerly lowered himself to the ground.

   “You better get back in there,” I said. “You look pretty rough.”

   Patrick shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at me.

   “You look pretty good,” he said. “Considering.”

   “Are you okay?”

   “Headache. Sore ribs. Probably be a lot worse tomorrow. How about you? Did he hurt you?”

   “Never laid a glove on me,” I grinned at him. “I’m fine, Pat. Few scrapes and scratches. That’s it.”

   He looked into my eyes, held my gaze. “I owe you, Marlena. You saved my life.”

   “I think we helped each other. Let’s call it even.”

   “I can do that,” he nodded. “On one condition.”

   “You paying for dinner?”

   “No. We still have some unfinished business.”

   “Like what? You gonna fire me?”

   He took his hands out of his pockets, lifted them to my shoulders and tugged me closer.

   I went with the pull, stepping in close to him, almost touching, our eyes still connecting us. He slowly dropped his head, his eyes closed and he kissed me. Softly, gently. I slid my arms around his waist and returned the kiss.

   He turned it up, his mouth working across mine and I leaned into him, giving it back, holding him tighter.

    He finally lifted his head a little, a smile curving his lips. “I’ve wanted to do that since the first time I saw you blush.”

   He brought up one hand, brushed it down my cheek, still holding me with his eyes.

   “Does that mean I’m not fired?”

   He chuckled. “I’m gonna set you on fire,” he grinned. “First chance I get.”

   I grinned at him. “You think you’re gonna get that chance?”

   “I do.”

   “I hate to interrupt,” John said, coming up behind Patrick. “These guys need to get to work.” He aimed a thumb at the EMTs who stood with their arms folded smiling at us. “You going with them, Patrick?”

   I stepped back and dropped my arms. “Yes, he is. He needs to be checked. He took a blow to the skull. He may be out of his head.”

   Patrick laughed. “I don’t think so, Marlie. I think my head is finally on straight.” He winked, backed up and climbed into the ambulance. He sat on the gurney as the EMT turned back and shut the doors.

   I stood with John and watched the ambulance back up, turn and leave. The red lights were turned off, no siren. A good sign. I watched it until it made the turn for the front gate.

   The police car with Paul in the back seat followed it.

   “Day late and a dollar short,” John said, beside me.

   “Me?”

   He shook his head and smiled. “No ma’am. Me. Come on, I’ll take you to the station and get your statement.” He took my elbow and turned me towards his truck. “Then I’ll give you a ride to the Emergency Center.”

   Over the next week John used our statements and evidence from the scene as well as forensics to put together what happened that night.

   Paul and Burke were moving drugs through the storage facility. Paul had keys to everything and a 24 hour code for the gates. A truck brought them from the Mexican border this far and unloaded into Paul’s unit. Other times a panga boat dropped the shipment and they moved it here. Another truck, one of Move It trucks Paul rented, then picked them up and took them from here to San Francisco or Fresno, in the central valley.

   Somewhere along the line Burke changed sides. His undercover work was for the other team, alerting them to raids, advising them when the coast was clear. He was the leading suspect in the murder of the two Latino men shot in the back of the head and dumped near the freeway off ramp.

   There was a task force, that part was true. A sharing of information by a combined group of law enforcement agencies – DEA, CBI, Sheriff, CHP and local.

   It seemed Paul Murphy had caught someone’s attention a while back, something he bragged about while drunk. They suspected Burke had covered for him. Somewhere along the line they hooked up. The actual task force – which did not include Burke – was watching both of them. Internal Affairs got on the bus and sent their own man in undercover.

   It was them that chased Burke into my Mustang. A raid on a panga boat unloading a shipment was supposed to net him but he got away barely, leaving his shirt behind. Those men chasing him were both DEA agents.

   It took a while to gather it all, for it to come together. The real undercover cop Internal Affairs put in place was a gorgeous local bad boy named Patrick Murphy.

   Yep, turned out the bad boy was a good guy. Doesn’t it just figure?

   Paul Murphy was happy to talk once he got a bag of ice and found out Papa wasn’t going to pay for his attorney. He named Burke as the hit man who killed the two Mexican drivers. They had left the drugs in the unit when they ran out of space. Burke told him Steve Harris had been killed by accident. Carlos Esquibel, one of the drivers Burke killed, had family and they wanted revenge. Steve paid that price. Had it been a week day, it would have been me.

   Paul traded everything he knew for a lighter sentence and still went away for ten years.

   Mrs. Murphy took to her bed and stayed there. Until all the buildings were repaired. Then the thought of all that empty space wooed her back. Patrick supervised the rebuilding and made sure three new walls divided that large space into four units. Two of those were rented to paying customers. She went back to long naps.

   Papa Murphy sold the facility to a chain who brought in one of their own managers to run the place. I got thirty days’ notice and a nice severance package from the new owners.

   The forensics report took weeks. John Kincaid tried to protect me from the findings but someone leaked them and I found out.

   The shots I took at Burke had all been hits. There were four bullets in him, all from the gun I laid on the ground for John. That first one hit him. The other three finished him.

   I killed him.

   An inquest was held once all the reports and evidence was collected. Paul was brought in from prison to testify, a part of his agreement. I testified, too. John Kincaid gave his statement.

   I was exonerated and no charges were filed.

   The insurance company refused to pay for the Mustang, claiming the earthquake was an Act of God.

   I was okay with that, not wanting the memory of Burke throwing himself into the front seat and threatening my life with a comb.

   There were times I missed him. Missed his easy laugh, those dancing eyes and the sunshine on his bright blonde hair as he swept the lot.

   I thought of him every time an old movie came up on cable. I rarely watched them now. I switched to cop shows and action flicks.

And westerns.

  Patrick loves westerns.