Stolen Lives: A Detective Mystery Series SuperBoxset (67 page)

“All of it.” Cooper sheathed the knife and adjusted the strap of the bag on her shoulder. “Tell them what I did. It’ll only help the case against Quentin. And if you need more incentive, then know that it’ll save your skin too. I forced you into taking me to those locations. I beat you. I tied you up. Tell them the truth, McKaffee. Let the law protect you.”

Cooper left McKaffee alone and crying on the floor of the bathroom. He might listen to her, or he might not. It made no difference in the end. The real evidence rested on her shoulders and making sure the FBI saw her and Quentin together. Then, when the bullets started flying, it wouldn’t matter how many lawyers the bastard had. He wouldn’t be able to fend off the resources of the federal government. But she knew that once she headed down that road there was no redemption, no second chance for her to tell her side of the story. But she knew someone who might be able to help her voice be heard.

Chapter 9

With McKaffee’s vehicle no doubt being sought by the authorities, Cooper used the buses to get around. It was easy to blend in; all she had to do was keep her head down, don the ear buds that ran into her jacket and connected to no phone or music, and rest her head against the window.

From the windows of public transportation, Cooper watched the people in the cars that passed. Some looked angry, others sad, some tired, but all of them shared the same theme of being absorbed in their little worlds.

Cooper looked at the backs of the heads she saw on the bus, each of them sharing the same vanity as the rest. It was almost laughable. Her face had been plastered on every television screen and newspaper in the city, and even with all of that, she could still get lost in the shuffle of the crowd.

The brakes squealed to a stop, and Cooper stepped off the bus and looked up to the massive Channel 4 News logo plastered at the top of the twelve-story building. She pulled her ball cap lower, making sure her hair was tucked neatly into the back of the hat, and flipped the collar of her shirt up. She circled the building’s perimeter, ignoring most of the faces that came in and out of the area, focused on finding only one in particular.

“All right, Stacy, I’ll see you tomorrow!” Janet Kimmings waved to one of her coworkers, her high heels clacking against the pavement as she walked steadily toward the row of news vans parked in the back. Cooper tailed her for a few blocks, searching for a moment where there wasn’t a crowd.

Finally, the reporter stopped outside a closed flower shop to check her phone, and with her back to Cooper, it was the perfect moment. Cooper crept up behind her and slowly reached for the revolver, concealing it under the long sleeves of her shirt, and pressed it against Kimmings’s back. “Don’t scream. Don’t call attention to yourself. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk.”

Kimmings froze, the only evidence of her fear the light tremble of the back of her neck. “I don’t suppose this will be on the record?”

Cooper removed the pistol from the reporter’s back and spun her around. “I’d get out your tape recorder, Mrs. Kimmings.”

Kimmings’s face transformed from fear to shock. “Detective Cooper?” She whipped her head from side to side then pulled Cooper by the arm until they were under the flower shop’s awning. “What the hell did you do? We’ve been covering your story nonstop for the past twenty-four hours. I can’t—” She lowered her head, taking a breath. “If you go on the record, then whatever you tell me will be used at your trial. It’ll all be fair game. And I’ll want to know everything.”

“I know.” Cooper had weighed the options, but in the end only one thing mattered. “I want to make sure my version survives. No matter what. But once you tell this story, there’ll be just as many people coming after you, and with a lot worse than this.” She gestured to the pistol under her long sleeve then tucked it away.

Kimmings wiped the sweaty bangs from her forehead. She squeezed her eyes shut, her face pained as if her hand were holding in a pressure meant to explode from the top of her head. “Look, give me some time, and I’ll—”

“No. It has to be now.”

“All right.” Kimmings looked back down the street toward the news station. “Let me run and get a few things and then we’ll—” A couple approached from down the street, and Cooper turned her face toward the building until they were past. Kimmings lowered her voice even though they were out of earshot. “I’ll get a few things from the van. Camera, sound gear. It’ll take me less than twenty minutes.” She reached into her pocket and retrieved a pen and paper. “This place is close, and it’s secluded. I’ve used it before.” She ripped the paper from the notepad and balled it into Cooper’s palm. “When you get there, tell the bartender that you have a date with me. He’ll know what that means.”

“No, I don’t want anyone else involved in this.”

“I can’t do it any other way, Detective!” Frustration reddened Kimmings’s cheeks, and she gripped Cooper by the shoulders. “Just trust me, all right?”

“Make it fast.”

And with that Kimmings hurried back to the station, doing her best to stay casual and not sprint through the crowds and draw attention. Cooper unwrinkled the balled-up paper and examined the address written on it. The name of the bar was Paper Cups, and when Cooper arrived, she understood why Kimmings had chosen it.

Aside from the heavy smell of smoke that greeted Cooper when she opened the door, the place was empty except for a middle-aged barkeep wiping down glasses. He didn’t acknowledge her presence, even after she sat down. She drummed her fingers on the counter, and only after he was done with the set of glasses did he come over.

“What are you having?”

Cooper eyed the bottle of whiskey on the shelf behind the bartender then glanced around at the empty establishment. “Jack on the rocks. Make it a double.”

Wordlessly the barkeep reached for the bottle and glass. Ice cubes clanked against one another, and the whiskey splashed over the frozen rocks, some of it spilling over the brim. He set the drink down in front of Cooper and tossed the towel on his wrist over his shoulder. “You want to start a tab?”

Cooper reached into her pocket and pulled out the last twenty bucks she had left from McKaffee’s wallet. “Whatever this will get me.” She lifted the glass to her lips and drained the first round quickly, the whiskey burning all the way down but offering its sweet escape from the reality she was stuck in.

The barkeep was quick to refill the glass, and Cooper savored the second round, bathing her tongue in the liquid before letting it wash down her gullet. Her fingers grew cold and wet from the condensation, and she cooled her forehead with her hand.

“Must have been some night.”

Cooper looked over to the barkeep, who had shifted to a new case of glasses to wipe down. He kept his eyes on his work, and at first Cooper thought she’d only imagined him speaking. “What?”

“It’s eleven o’clock in the morning.” The barkeep finished the glass then picked up another, methodically emptying the crate. “So it must have been a hell of a night.”

“Hell of a week.” Cooper lifted the glass to her lips again, tilting the drink back until the ice smacked her upper lip. She shook the empty cup, the ice jingling, but the bartender just pointed to the bottle that was already near

The bartender squinted at her as she set the bottle back down. “Say, don’t I know you?”

Cooper lifted the glass, feeling the liquid courage and heightened sense of apathy the liquor provided. “Probably.”

The door opened and flooded the dimly lit bar with sunlight as two men stepped inside, both covered in dust and clothed in construction attire. “Damn, I need a drink! Hey, Ronnie! Two beers!” Both men took their seats at the end of the bar, and Cooper lowered her ball cap and turned away, but it was too late. “Hey, baby, you drinking alone?”

“Yeah,” Cooper said, keeping her voice cold and her head down. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”

The man’s friend whistled, slapping his buddy on the shoulder. “Looks like she ain’t buying, Hank.”

Hank shrugged his friend’s hand off. “Well, that’s because she doesn’t know what I’m sellin’ yet.” He slid off the barstool, beer in hand, and found a seat right next to Cooper. He extended a dirty palm and tried leaning his head closer to get a better look at her face. “I’m Hank.”

“And I’m not interested.” Cooper backed off the barstool with drink still in hand, but the man grabbed her arm.

“Hey, baby, what’s the hurry?”

The moment Hank’s fingers curled around her arm, she turned, prepared to smash the glass of whiskey across his face, but the harsh bark of the bartender stopped both of them from going any further.

“That’s enough, Hank!” The bartender stormed across the bar and pulled him back to his seat, handling him roughly. “The woman doesn’t want to be bothered, and it’s too early for me to be dealing with this shit, so knock it off!”

Bewildered, Hank sat down, squinting at Cooper in the dim lighting. “Hey, don’t I know you?”

The door opened once more, and Janet Kimmings burst inside with her gear and a cameraman in tow. The bartender looked to Cooper and then to Kimmings, making the connection nearly immediately. “I didn’t realize you had a date today.”

Kimmings sped past the two construction workers and headed toward the back. “Yeah, it was last minute.” She jerked her head and motioned for Cooper to follow. “I thought I told you to—”

“Well it’s too late now.” Cooper drained the glass and slid it onto the bar as she stepped into Kimmings’s wake. “And what I have to tell you won’t take long.”

Without questions or even speaking, both Kimmings and the cameraman set up their gear in the small back room, barely large enough to fit all three of them inside. Kimmings ran the mic through Cooper’s shirt and pulled the ball cap from her head and examined her face. “You look like shit.”

“Just make sure it’s recording.” Cooper adjusted herself on the chair and faced the camera, the operator counting her down from three, two, one…

***

The red light on the camera blinked off, and Kimmings exhaled, giving a nod. “All right. I think we’re good. Tommy, we have everything?”

“Yeah. Footage and sound were solid.”

Cooper unclipped the mic, the rush of the whiskey gone and replaced with a light pounding in her head. She reached for the ball cap and tucked the tangled mess that was her hair back underneath. “Listen, something’s going to happen tonight.” She looked at Kimmings, who’d frozen at her words. “And after it goes down, things are going to happen fast for me.” She pointed to the camera. “No matter what happens, you make sure that goes out.”

Kimmings nodded. “I promise.”

The door to the small room opened violently, and the barkeep burst inside. “You need to get out of here now.” Cooper peered over the barkeep’s shoulder and saw that both construction workers had disappeared.

But before Cooper even had a chance to think, Kimmings grabbed her by the arm. “Go out the back door and look for our van.” She shoved the keys into her palm. “It’s got a full tank of gas and should get you to wherever you need to go.”

The bar’s front door opened and light crept inside, revealing the silhouettes of two officers, followed closely by the construction workers. Kimmings shoved Cooper out the back door. “Go!”

Both officers made eye contact with Cooper and reached for their pistols. “Hey! Stop!”

But before either of them got close, Cooper sprinted out the back, shielding her eyes from the bright burst of afternoon sunlight, her muscles lax and uncoordinated from the whiskey and sudden demand for action.

Cooper stretched her hand for the van’s door and yanked it open, climbing inside and thrusting the key into the ignition in the same motion. Tires screeched and smoked as she peeled out into the street and watched the officers burst out of the back of the bar, weapons in hand.

Bullets thumped into the back of the van just before Cooper veered out of the back alley, the gear in the back of the van sliding across the floor on her sharp turn right. Another crossroad appeared on the left, and she shifted directions again, zigzagging through the downtown streets. Every turn triggered a harsh brake, then quick acceleration, the engine revving and the tires screeching.

The wail of sirens suddenly filled the air, and Cooper pivoted her head in every direction, looking for the source. A squad car crossed one of the streets ahead of her but then slammed on its brakes. Cooper did the same, the smell of burnt rubber filtering through the vents as she reversed down another side street then spun one hundred eighty degrees and slammed the shifter back into drive.

The tight grip on the steering wheel drained the color from Cooper’s knuckles and blue and red lights flashed in the mirrors. She turned a hard right, heading east. Another squad car joined the pursuit, and the van jolted forward from the light nudge of the police car behind her.

“Pull over. Now.” The officer’s voice blared over the speaker, and when Cooper failed to comply, he rammed the van’s rear bumper again, this hit harder than the first. The wheel spun from Cooper’s grip for a split second, and she was jerked hard to the right, but she quickly steadied.

Traffic thickened the farther east she drove, along with the growing escort of police cars. She laid on the horn, cars scrambling to get out of her way, pedestrians screaming and pointing at her as she barreled down the streets. One more turn south, and then a quick right set her direction back to the east, where Cooper saw her one chance at escape.

Another ram into the rear bumper smacked Cooper’s head into the steering wheel. The rush of pain blinded her for a moment, and when her vision returned, a truck veered into her path. Cooper jerked the wheel hard right and sideswiped a sedan in her attempt to avoid the crash. The grind of metal rattled the van, and she jerked the wheel again, separating the two.

Shaking, Cooper steadied the van, her vision focused on the whitecaps of the river where the road ended. With the path cleared and the police slowing behind her, she floored the accelerator, reaching for the seat belt and clicking it into place.