The Never Game

The message of the woman at the JMCTF desk was getting as familiar as her voice.

Shaw hung up. He’d do what he did before: go to the Task Force in person and insist on seeing Wiley or Standish, if either of the men was in the office. Or Supervisor Cummings, if not. Better in person anyway, he decided. Getting the police to accept his new hypothesis of the case would take some persuasion.

He printed out a stack of documents, the fruits of his research, and slipped them into his computer bag. He stepped outside, locked the door and turned to the right, where he’d parked the Malibu. He got as far as the electrical and water hookups and froze.

The gray Nissan Altima had blocked in his rental. Its driver’s seat was empty, the door open.

Back to the camper, get your weapon.

Dropping his computer bag, he pivoted and strode to the door, keys out.

Three locks. Fastest way to get them undone: slowly.

Never rush, however urgent...

He never got to the last lock. Twenty feet in front of him, a figure holding a Glock pistol stepped from the shadows between his Winnebago and the neighboring Mercedes Renegade. It was the driver of the Nissan — yes, a woman, African American, her hair in the ragged ponytail he’d seen in silhouette. She wore an olive-drab combat jacket — of the sort favored by gangbangers — and cargo pants. Her eyes were fierce. She raised the weapon his way.

Shaw assessed: nothing to do against a gun that’s eight paces distant and in the hand of somebody who clearly knows what to do with a weapon.

Odds of fighting: two percent.

Odds of negotiating your way out: no clue, but better.

Still, sometimes you have to make what seem like inane decisions. The wrestler in him lowered his center of gravity and debated how close he could get before he passed out after a gunshot to the torso. After all, lethal shots are notoriously difficult to make with pistols. Then he recalled: if this was the kidnapper, she’d killed Kyle Butler with a headshot from much farther away than this.

The grim-faced woman squinted and moved in, snapping with irritation, “Get down! Now!”

It wasn’t get down or I’m going to shoot you. It was get down, you’re in my goddamn way.

Shaw got down.

She jogged past him, her eyes on a line of trees that separated the trailer camp from a quiet road, the gun aimed in that direction. At the end of the drive, she stopped and peered through a dense growth of shrubs.

Shaw rose and quietly started for the Winnebago’s door again, pulling the keys from his pocket.

Eyes still on the trees, both hands on the gun, ready to shoot, the woman said in a blunt voice, “I told you. Stay down.”

Shaw knelt once more.

She pushed farther into the brush. A whisper: “Damn.” She turned around, holstering her weapon.

“Safe now,” she said. “You can get up.”

She walked to him, fishing in her pocket. Shaw wasn’t surprised when she displayed a gold badge. What he didn’t expect, though, was what came next: “Mr. Shaw, I’m Detective LaDonna Standish. I’d like to have a talk.”

30

Shaw collected his computer bag from the clump of grass where he’d dropped it.

As he and Standish approached the Winnebago door, an unmarked police car squealed to a stop in front of the camper. Shaw recognized it. It was the same vehicle that had lit him up after the dramatic U-turn on his way to Henry Thompson’s condo. Officer P. Alvarez.

Shaw looked from the detective to the cop. “You were both following me?”

Standish said, “Double team tailing. The only way it works. Ought to be triple, but who can afford tying up three cars these days?” She continued: “Budget, budget, budget. Had to follow you myself last night. Peter here was free this morning.”

Alvarez said, “I didn’t want to have to pull you over but it’d been more suspicious if I didn’t. Was an impressive turn, Mr. Shaw. Stupid, like I said, but impressive.”

“I hope I don’t need to do it again.” He cast a dark glance toward Standish, who snickered. Shaw nodded to the bushes. “So, who’d you spot?”

“Don’t know,” she said with some irritation in her voice. “Had a report of somebody near your camper, possible trespasser. Smelled funky to me, all things considered.”

Her radio clattered. Another officer, apparently also cruising the area, had not spotted the suspect. Then came one more transmission, from a different patrolman. She told them to continue to search. She told Alvarez to do the same. When he drove off, she nodded toward the Winnebago. After Shaw unlocked the last lock, she preceded him inside.

The word warrant glanced off his thoughts. He let it go. He closed and locked the door behind them.

“You’ve got a California conceal carry,” she said. “Where’s your weapon? Or weapons?” She walked to his coffeepot and poked through the half dozen bags of ground beans in a basket bolted to the counter.

“The spice cabinet,” he said. “My carry weapon.”

“Spice cabinet. Hmm. And it’s a...?”

“Glock 42.”

“Just leave it there.”

“And under the bed, a Colt Python .357.”