The Homecoming (41 page)

Nothing had happened for quite a while, and Edgar, happy for the break since single-man surveillance was damn trying, had gone into the Wendy’s to use the facilities, buy himself a burger and fries, and come back out to the Windstar in time to watch as a huge red Kenworth truck
pulled massively into the Motel 6 parking lot, sliding neatly into a slot at the side of the motel.

A young man wearing a
MARGARITAVILLE
tee climbed down from the cab carrying a large paper sack. He closed the truck up, locked it, patted the grille the way a cowboy would pat his horse, and then he took the outside stairs and walked along the exposed upper gallery to room 229, where he used a key, or seemed to, and went inside.

The door closed, and that appeared to be that.

Edgar was at a loss what to do.

He decided to text Staff Sergeant Coker.

A few minutes went by while not much happened anywhere around him, and certainly not over at the Motel 6. Then the text came back.

Edgar thought it over.

This text zipped into the ether.

Moments later the reply came back.

Edgar stared down at the text message, sighed theatrically, and texted back.

Edgar got out of the van, slowly, since he had been in it a long time. He went back into the Wendy’s and ordered a double cheeseburger and
a Frosty, took the sack and the receipt and jaywalked across North Gwinnett, dodging traffic.

He walked into the office of the Motel 6 and set the sack down on the desk in front of a young redheaded man who was listening to something screechy on his iPhone headset.

The man pulled out one of the two earpieces. Apparently Edgar Luckinbaugh looked like a guy you should pay only half a mind to.

“Help yuh?”

“Guy here ordered this from us. I got the room number but I can’t read the name here.”

“What’s the room number?”

Edgar pretended to consult the receipt in his hand.

“Two two nine.”

“That’s Lyle. Does it say ‘Lyle’?”

Edgar kept the receipt close.

The music coming from the kid’s one open earpiece sounded like a pig being fed backwards through a bark chipper. Edgar figured the kid would be deaf in a year but in time would probably come to appreciate the silence.

“Whole name?”

“Lyle Crowder. Drives for Steiger. That’s his rig out in the lot. He calls it the Big Red One.”

Edgar looked at the receipt, shook his head.

“I think I got the wrong hotel. I’ll go back and check it again.”

“Whatever,” said the kid, plugging in “Pig Fed Backwards” again.

Edgar stepped outside and texted Coker.

There was only a short pause.

Edgar was, his old service Colt .45.

He hadn’t fired it in anger in six years. Hadn’t fired it at all in six years, if you wanted to be picky about it.

The answer took a couple of seconds.

Edgar stared down at the text message.

It was plain enough. It was shouting inside his head:
FIVE G BONUS IF U GET IN THERE NOW

Five thousand dollars to do what he had done as a cop many times. Except he wasn’t a cop anymore, he couldn’t call for backup, and he was a rusty old man who had gotten into something way over his head. On the other hand, there was Coker, and the certain consequences of disappointing him.

He was in a pickle, all right. What wasn’t clear was what he was going to do about it.

Endicott straightened up from the naked and bound figure lying on the bed and set the bloody Dremel tool down on a towel on the night table, stripped off his latex gloves, took off his painter’s filter mask and his safety goggles—he was aware that workplace injuries cost the nation billions every year—and untied the barbecue apron he was wearing.

He’d bought it at a Stein Mart. It was navy blue and had a saying on it in white letters.

The letters were no longer quite so white.

The cords of the kid’s neck were standing out like the ribs of an umbrella and his face was scarlet, coated in sweat. The gag in his mouth was soaked in blood and tears and his chest was going up and down like a bellows.

There was a lot of blood spattered around, and other unpleasant events had taken place down below but Endicott had dabbed Vicks VapoRub on his upper lip, so that wasn’t too much of a problem for him.
He studied the kid’s body, and the kid stared back up at him, his blue eyes as wide as Kansas. Endicott stared back at him and thought.

Of course Endicott hadn’t stopped there—due diligence and all that—but he was beginning to think the kid was telling him the truth.

It was standard procedure to poke around at the person being interviewed a bit longer, if only for the practice, and of course the amusement it provided—but time was an issue—there were still Warren Smoles and Thad Llewellyn to be “interviewed,” and if they disappointed him, he would have to find a way to get at Andy Chu—word was he was awake and talking—and if time was the issue as previously noted, then this Lyle Crowder kid was looking like a complete waste of—

The front door of the motel room slammed backwards and there was a tall black figure filling up the doorway, silhouetted in the golden light of the fall afternoon, a black figure holding a large blue steel pistol. Endicott noted a minor muzzle shake but the man was already advancing into the room far enough to kick the door shut behind him. And now Endicott could see him clearly.

“Why, Edgar, it’s you. What a lovely surprise.”

Edgar kept the pistol on him, glanced briefly at the naked kid on the bed, and came back to Endicott, taking in the bloody apron and the painter’s mask slung around his neck.

His sallow face flushed bright red.

“You sick fuck,” he said, in a low hoarse snarl that was entirely convincing. “Back up! Back away. Get your fucking fairy ass up against the wall.”

Edgar didn’t sound like a bellhop to Endicott. He sounded like a cop. An angry cop. A dangerously angry cop who was pointing a very serious pistol right at him. Endicott regretted not taking closer notice of a bellman who did not want to leave his room even after he’d been tipped twice. In the future he’d be more attentive to such things.

Endicott did as he was told, backed away, raising his hands as he did so. Edgar was keeping his distance like a smart street cop, but the noises coming from Lyle Preston Crowder were pretty distracting and he kept cutting his eyes back and forth from Endicott to what was left of Lyle.

Endicott kept his hands up, but he was watching Edgar’s index finger where it rested inside the trigger guard of the pistol. The skin over the knuckle was pink, not white, which it would be if Edgar was putting pressure on the trigger blade. If what Edgar was holding was what it looked like from this angle, a standard 1911 Government Model Colt .45, almost an antique now, the hammer might not be at full cock. Too risky to carry it that way. Most people rack the slide to put a round in the chamber, and then ease the hammer down and flick the safety switch upwards.

Endicott had no doubt that Edgar had thumbed the safety off and cocked the hammer, but firing might be strong trigger pull. On an old Colt like this one, even a well-maintained piece, the trigger pull could be as much as two pounds.

But Edgar’s Colt looked worn and dirty. So the trigger pull might be more than two pounds. Perhaps he didn’t use it much.

And perhaps he kept the magazine inserted and loaded all the time, even when the gun was in a drawer, which tended to damage the magazine spring that pushed the round upwards so the slide could scoop the next round out of the magazine.

This didn’t help Endicott much if there already was a round in the chamber, although it might mean that if Edgar’s first round missed him—which wasn’t likely—the second round might not come up far enough to be engaged by the slide.

Which meant the gun would jam.

These were serious questions, and he went through them all in a few seconds. The main issue here was how committed Edgar was to shooting Mr. Endicott. From where Mr. Endicott stood, Edgar looked like a man with a serious commitment indeed. Endicott had to admit that he was in a tricky situation that could go either way.

Edgar was poking around inside his jacket with his off hand, still keeping that muzzle steady on Endicott’s middle mass. He came up with a set of black steel handcuffs. He threw them at Endicott.

Endicott fielded them neatly.

He hefted the cuffs.

They were old and heavy. The chain connecting them was about five inches long. They looked like antiques, more like shackles than regular police handcuffs.

And they weighed a ton.

The fact that the handcuffs were leaden was an important detail and deserves to be repeated in light of what happened a few seconds later.

Danziger was at the wheel and Coker was riding shotgun. They were in Danziger’s Ford F-150 pickup and fighting traffic on their way down from Danziger’s ranch, racing down Arrow Creek and across to Rural Route 40, which would take them to the top end of North Gwinnett. They were maybe ten minutes away from the Motel 6 and covering the distance as fast as possible without attracting any police attention. Neither man was saying much.

Both of them were armed, Danziger with a Colt Anaconda and Coker with his service Beretta.

Coker was not in uniform.

Edgar’s text had come in as he was driving in to the deputy sheriff substation on North Ring Road. His shift was eight to eight this evening, a twelve-hour ride as shift supervisor.

Coker had pulled over to take the text and then called in to the station to tell Jimmy Candles, the other duty officer, that something had come up and he was going to be late. Jimmy Candles didn’t mind. It was a slow night anyway. He told Coker he’d take the full shift and Coker could cover him off tomorrow. Coker thanked him—he was owed a lot of sick time anyway since he never ever got sick.

He clicked off and called Danziger.

Danziger met him at the crossroads where Ring Road connected with Arrow Creek. Danziger wasn’t too worried, but he had brought his favorite sidearm, which said something.

The fact that this Endicott mutt had tagged Lyle Crowder was a matter of concern to both men. Not because they cared for Lyle Crowder all that much, but because there was a chance—slight but real—that Crowder could give this Endicott guy a thread that might take him on to Danziger, who had sent five thousand to the kid along with detailed instructions, and followed it up after the job was done with another five thousand.

Danziger had sent the packages from a FedEx drop box, but airports had security cameras, and if Crowder gave Endicott a time frame and a starting point, a determined investigator would, sooner or later, find a bit of security video that would open up a whole world of trouble for both of them.

Coker had the Radio Shack cell phone in his hand, the anonymous one he only used to communicate with Edgar. He also had his police scanner on, tuned to the Niceville PD frequency. There was some cross talk about changing the patrol units that were guarding a crime scene at Patton’s Hard.

Coker picked up on that.

“Patton’s Hard. You know who they’re looking at for that? Rainey Teague.”

“No shit. Why him?”

“Jimmy Candles said Tig Sutter’s looking at him and some other brat for that floater they pulled out of the Tulip yesterday morning.”

“Who was the floater?”

“Nobody’s saying. But the kid’s stuff was at the scene.”

“What’s he, twelve or something?”

“Not the point. Youngest killer I ever put in cuffs was ten. Up in Gracie. Name was Joey La Monica. Slit his mother’s throat for her welfare check. Same with his baby sister because she saw him do it. Week later the neighbors smelled something bad. First Responders found the kid on the couch, playing Nintendo. His mother and sister were in the tub upstairs. He told me later he wasn’t strong enough to get his mother’s body up the stairs in one piece so he had to cut her up. Wanted to finish his Nintendo game before I took him away. Stony little fuck. Shanked in Angola.”

“Now that’s a real heartwarming story, Coker. Thanks for sharing.”

Coker had his cell out again.

“You’re welcome. Some of them, they’re just born that way. Where the hell is Edgar?”

“Don’t you go pulling on Edgar’s sleeve right now, Coker. He’s just done a solo kick-in. He’s got his hands full. He was a good street cop. He knows how to do things like that. We’ll hear—”