Page 91 of Outsider

Bertrand knew his weapons. Even in the semidark, he recognized it as a Smith & Wesson .380. A common gun. Cheap. Accessible. This one couldn’t be traced.

“Give it to me,” he said, and dropped it into his coat pocket.

He pulled out his own sidearm, a Glock 22 he’d carried for years. He checked the clip, made sure there was a round in the chamber, and shoved it into his other pocket. Mercer handed him a mini Maglite, a smaller version than the one he kept in his cruiser, which made it easier to carry. The large ones, after all, doubled as a billy club if you needed it.

“Keep your eyes open,” Bertrand said, and got out of the vehicle.

The two men stood outside on the road for a minute, looking for anything out of place, listening. Around them, the night was so hushed Bertrand could hear the steady thrum of his heart.

“I guess this is it,” Mercer said, his breath puffing out in front of his face.

“Let’s get this over with,” Bertrand said.

The two men started toward the mouth of the lane.

CHAPTER 30

I’d been a cop for four years the night I found out my best friend wasn’t the person I thought she was. That she was keeping secrets. That there was more to her than I’d ever imagined—and not all of it was good. Initially, I wanted to believe she’d taken some bad advice, conceded to impulse, or made a wrong decision somewhere along the way. Or maybe someone had pressured her into doing something she didn’t want to do. Hey, maybe she’d simply fallen in with the wrong crowd.

Wishful thinking all.

Everyone knew there were a few rogue cops among us. Patrol officers and detectives who pushed the boundaries of departmental policy, not quite breaking the law but skating the line. The ones who partook in activities that would be frowned upon by the brass—and get you fired if you didn’t have the aptitude for a promotion or the solve rate to back you up.

I wanted to believe anything except the truth that had been staring me in the face for months now—and threatened to crush the friendship I’d held dear since the night I wandered into that diner looking for food and walked out with the best friend I’d ever had.

We were working second shift by then and it was the night before my weekend, which happened to fall on Monday and Tuesday. It was July, and Gina and I had planned a trip to Cleveland and Lake Erie for three unencumbered days of sun and fun on the beach—and whatever else we could get into. It was an hour before quitting time and a slow night to boot. Gina had called earlier to cancel the post-shift dinner we’d planned. She was helping out some task force guys working in an area that abutted my zone. My beat was slow, I had half an hour left on my shift, so I headed that way to pass the time.

I found her at McWhorter Transmission & Parts, a known chop shop, tucked between a salvage yard and an abandoned building near Franklinton. It was a low-slung blue metal building with two big overhead doors in front, a couple of windows, and a smaller personnel door marked OFFICE.

Two Crown Vics and an unmarked vehicle were parked in the alley. The double overhead doors were closed, but I could see lights blazing in the window. Gina’s patrol vehicle was parked in a small side lot. It occurred to me that this was a bit of an odd scene. Gina had mentioned some kind of raid and yet no emergency lights flashed on any of the vehicles. I brushed off the thought, assuming the LEOs had been on scene awhile and were finishing up. I parked next to Gina’s vehicle and started toward the building.

The door stood open a foot or so. I identified myself as I entered, but there was no one there, which was another oddity. Usually, during and after a raid or bust, the target building was crawling with law enforcement. Puzzled, I took the narrow hall to a front office of sorts with a beat-up desk, a computer and printer, and a fifty-two-inch flat-screen mounted on the wall. An old Lynyrd Skynyrd tune jangled the live version of “Freebird” from a sleek sound system atop the desk.

“Colorosa!” I called out.

No response.

I’d just reached for my cell to call her when I heard voices coming from the garage section of the building at the rear. Male voices. Raised as if in argument. Ahead, another door stood ajar, light bleeding through the gap. I’d just put my hand on the knob when I heard some sort of physical confrontation.

Even as I shoved open the door, I sensed that something wasn’t right with the scene. The serving of a warrant, especially if it was a no-knock, required planning. Once entry was made, there were typically a lot of cops present, including SWAT and many times a sergeant or lieutenant. The scene I walked into had none of those things.

I called out Gina’s name as I treaded down the hall toward the garage area. I saw overhead work lights. Ahead, the steel shaft of a car lift. The front end of a wrecked Honda Accord. I was keenly aware of my .38 pressing against my hip as I went through the door. I took in a dozen details at once. To my right, two plainclothes cops stood in front of a male subject, his hands cuffed behind his back. The man’s face was bloodied, scraggly blond hair, his shirt nearly torn from his body. Ahead, a uniformed patrol officer leaned against a nice-looking Toyota, his arms crossed, toothpick in his mouth, staring at me. I glanced left to see Gina and a young man in grease-stained coveralls standing at the counter. A small, newish cash register stood open in front of them. She looked up, spotted me, and visibly jolted. Surprise. A mishmash of emotions I couldn’t quite read flashed across her face.

For the span of several heartbeats, I stood there, knowing in my heart what I’d walked into, my brain scrambling for explanations that suited the narrative I wanted to believe.

Gina started toward me. “Kate…”

“What’s going on?” I managed.

The two officers who’d been beating the man looked at me, expressions impassive. Unmoved by my presence. Annoyed that I had the gall to interrupt.

The older of the two detectives started toward me, his eyes flicking to my badge. “You’re a long way from your subdivision,” he said.

I’d seen him around the precinct a few times. A dozen names scrolled through my memory, but I couldn’t recall it. He stopped a couple of feet from me, gave me a once-over. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for Colorosa.”

“You found her.” He motioned toward Gina. “As you can see, she’s busy. So get lost.”