Behind the Badge Page 26
“Popping them rags, man. Heavy shit. Camel spiders and dust for breakfast. Good for ya, girlfriend. Nice to have you around.”
Shelly smiled at him, and they locked eyes for a moment. “Thanks, Stitch,” she said. “That means a lot coming from you.”
Crockett broke the silence. “Everything cool at the club?”
“You didn’t stop by for coffee last night,” Shelly said.
“I came home early.”
“Everything was normal. I did hear Stacey tell Shelia the she was going to get her car washed today.”
“Really.”
“That reminds me,” Satin said. “Clete called. He said the license plate you asked about was registered to The Cantral Group out of Liberty.”
Crockett bumped his eyebrows. “The plot thickens,” he said.
*****
A little before Crockett went to work that afternoon, he called the cop shop and had Margie call Hart-five in. By the time he got to HQ, Charlie was waiting for him.
“Charlie my boy, I have a special assignment for you. Tonight a little after ten o’clock, I’m going to make a stop in the general area of Buckles and Bows. When you hear me call it in, orbit the area but not too close. When I clear the scene there will be a blue Mustang left behind. Shake that sonofabitch down. If you find anything out of line, photograph it, but leave any contents in the car. Have it towed to the city cop shop. There will be a light on inside. Stay out. The interrogation in progress is secret. Also, do not run the plates on the vehicle, an’ do not transmit any information about the Mustang over the air. Got it?”
“Uh, yeah,” Charlie said.
“Good. I’m depending on you. All will eventually be made clear. Thanks.”
After Charlie left, Crockett approached the evening dispatcher. “Margie, my dear, I have a request.”
She eyeballed him suspiciously. “This ain’t sexual in nature, is it?”
“Nope.”
“Thank God. All right. Whadaya want?”
“Tonight, between ten and eleven thirty or so, leave Charlie alone.”
“Why?”
“He’ll be busy.”
“Well ain’t that fine? Suppose there’s a disaster or somethin’?”
“Bennett will be on the street. Call him.”
“What if he ain’t enough?”
“Then strap on a gun and go be a hero, darlin’.”
Margie grinned. “An’ you said this wadden sexual,” she said.
*****
About nine-thirty that evening, Crockett’s cell phone went off. It was Stitch.
“Dude,” he said. “I just used the hammer and left the club, man. Ol’ Stacy said she’d be leavin’ for my place around ten. Everything was cool an’ shit.”
“Thanks, Stitch. Head on home and hang, in case she decides to show up later.”
“That’s what I figured, man. See ya.”
*****
Crockett cruised out by Buckles and Bows, took up station about a hundred yards east of the drive, and waited. A little after ten, he watched a pair of tail lights, the right one showing white light to the rear, exit the parking lot. He put the Ram in gear and began the pursuit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Crockett followed the Mustang at a discrete distance until it approached Mayflower Road, then clicked on his official array of police lights, his dash-cam, and lightly bumped the siren. The Mustang slowed and pulled onto the shoulder.
“Two to HQ, 10-38.”
“Go ahead, Two.”
Headquarters, I have a 10-38 on a late model Ford Mustang, medium blue in color, Missouri license, Able, Baker, King, Five, One, Three.”
“Copy, Two.”
“I am on Mayflower Road a quarter-mile south of Ninety-two.”
“Copy that, Two. Backup?”
“Charlie’s got me, HQ. Two out.”
Crockett turned on Dale’s recorder, palmed two of the Opana pills that Stitch had given him, clicked on the dash recorder, and walked to the driver’s side of the Mustang, flashlight in hand. He shined the light in the rear seat area as he approached the car, and stood just behind the driver’s door. He could see Stacey from the neck down. She was still in her waitress outfit and going through her purse. There was a small back-pack on the passenger seat.
“License and registration please, m’am,” he said.
Her head dropped below the edge of the window and she squinted up at him through the glare of the flashlight.
“Oh. Hi!” she said. “I’m Stacy. I work at the club. You’re Crockett, aren’t you?”
“Hey, Stacy,” Crockett said, stepping back from the door, “you have a taillight problem.”
“I do?” she asked, taking the bait and opening the door to get out. Crocket gave her room and, as he closed the door behind her, dropped the two pills on the driver’s floor, then walked to the rear of the vehicle where the woman stood, studying her broken taillight.
“Damn,” she said.
“Probably somebody clipped you in the parking lot. It looks like you worked tonight.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I got off early.”
“No harm, no foul,” Crockett went on. “I do need to see your license and such, though.”
“Oh, sure,” Stacy replied. “They’re in my purse.”
Crockett followed her back to the driver’s door, opened it for her, and shined his light into the car’s interior as Stacy sat down and reached for her purse. He let the light beam pass over her legs and onto the floor. There were the pills, by her feet.
“Stacy,” he said, “step out of the car please.”
“What?”
“Get out of the car, please.”
“Why?”
“There are some pills on the floor between your feet that I am not familiar with. Vacate the vehicle, and go stand by the rear with both your hands on the trunk, please.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I will ask you to get out of the car one more time,” Crockett said. “If you do not comply, I will remove you from the vehicle. Please, get out of the car.”
“All right, all right.” Stacy said, climbing out of the mustang. “Jesus! Don’t get all bent outa shape.”
“Thank you,” Crockett said. “Now go stand by the rear of the car and put your hands on the trunk, please.”
Looking pained and a little nervous, the woman complied. Crockett photographed the floorboard with his cell phone, picked up the two pills of Opana, put them in a small plastic bag from a pant pocket, and walked back to where Stacey was standing.
“Do you have any weapons concealed on your person?” he asked. “Guns, knives, razor blades, bazookas?”
Stacy laughed and turned in a circle. “See anything? Wanna search me?”
Crockett smiled. “Take off your boots, please.”
“My boots?”
“Yes. Please.”
“What the hell? They’re just boots.”
Crockett sighed. “Stacy,” he said, “I will put your butt on the road and take ‘em off for you if you don’t do as I ask. Please remove your boots.”
“Jesus Christ,” she muttered and, leaning against the trunk of the Mustang, pulled off her boots and let them fall to the ground. She looked a little strange in her cowgirl mini-skirt and short white sweat socks.
“Thank you,” Crockett said. He picked up one boot and examined it. Nothing. The other boot sported a slim scabbard sewn into the interior of the upper. It contained a pearl-handled switchblade about six inches long. Crockett pushed the appropriate button and the blade flicked into an open and locked position, over five inches of stainless steel stiletto.
“Oh, my,” Crockett said. “Any more weapons or pills in your car?”
“No,” Stacy snapped.
“I’m not sure I believe you,” Crockett said, handing her the boots. “You can put these back on, now.”
After she put her boots on, Crockett snapped a handcuff on her left wrist, led her to the passenger s
ide of the Mustang, and cuffed her to the door handle. He took out his cell phone, pressed her right thumb to the screen, and smiled.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he said, and retreated to his truck. He remained in the Ram for nearly five minutes, twice giving her the impression he was talking on the radio, then returned to where she stood.
“Well,” Crockett said. “This just gets curiouser and curiouser. Your name is Katlyn Coonts. You’ve got paper on you for possession with intent to sell or distribute outa Texas. You jumped bail. You’ve got a couple of solicitation and possession busts in your background. The car you’re driving doesn’t belong to you. It’s registered to The Cantral Group up in Liberty. You got some ‘splainin’ to do, Lucy.”
Stacy glared at him for a moment, then sagged and began to cry.
“Hold that thought, sweetheart,” Crockett said, “while I shake down your car.”
Opening the driver’s door, he took a seat, checked out the console, and opened the glove box. Inside was a little five-shot Smith and Wesson Chief thirty-eight special, loaded. He went through the small backpack on the passenger seat and found a heavy-duty plastic sandwich bag full of little, brown, eight-sided pills, each with the number 30 stamped onto one side. He left the driver’s window down and the keys in the ignition, got out of the car, and walked around to where Stacy stood.
“A loaded thirty-eight caliber revolver concealed in your glove compartment,” he said, “and this bag containing a significant amount of what I assume are not aspirins.” He carried the gun and the dope to his truck, returned and cuffed Stacy’s hands behind her.
“Sorry, kiddo,” Crockett went on. “You are in deep shit and you’re coming with me.”
*****
During the fifteen-minute drive to Hartrick, Stacy stared out the windshield and didn’t say a word. When they arrived, Crockett took her, the evidence, and weapons into his office, cuffed Stacy to a chair, sat at his desk, and stared at her. It took nearly five minutes for her to break.
“Stop it, willya? You’re creepin’ me out.”
“This is a helluva mess,” Crockett said. “I don’t mind bustin’ badass dudes, but sending a pretty girl to prison always bothers me. This kinda load of a class A controlled substance could get you ten to fifteen years of hard time. Of course, that would come after Texas had its way with you. You could easily be fifty years old, maybe sixty, before you ever went to Taco Bell again. The question is, do I keep you here or do I send you back to the Lonestar State.”
“You send me back to Dallas, and they’ll kill me,” Stacy said. “I go back and I’m dead.”
“That might be better than spending twenty or thirty years in the joint.”
“I’m not kidding, Goddammit. They’ll fuckin’ kill me.”
“Who’ll fucking kill you?”
“Those goddammed Mexicans whose money I took, that’s who. I go back, I go to trial, I go to prison, and somebody’ll cut my throat, you sonofabitch. You can’t get away from those greasy bastards.”
“You stole their money?”
“No, I didn’t fuckin’ steal it! I took their money. Fifty fucking grand. I got the shit, and when I was on the way to deliver it, I got busted on a old traffic bitch. Cops got the dope and I got the shaft. Just like tonight, you shithead. Same goddammed thing, you tool.”
“You got money for the stuff I took outa your car?”
“I was on the way to deliver it when you stopped me.”
Crockett grinned. “You’re not very good at this, are you, girlfriend?” he said.
“Fuck you!” Stacy snarled.
Crockett let things go quiet and began staring at her again. It didn’t take long.
“Goddammit,” Stacy yelled, “knock it the fuck off.”
Crockett smiled. “Sorry,” he said. “I was just thinking of a way to maybe get you outa this.”
“Yeah. I bet you were. I want a lawyer.”
“Why?”
“Whadaya mean, why? ‘Cause I’m sittin’ here in hand fucking cuffs under arrest, that’s why, dumbshit.”
“Exactly when did I place you under arrest?”
“What?”
“I’m sorry if I misled you, sweetie. You’re not under arrest. We’re just having a conversation.”
“I’m not arrested?”
“No. Not until an attorney gets involved, anyway. Of course, if you insist on getting a lawyer, I’ll have to charge you. I’ll also have to bring up that awful business in Texas. I just really hate the thought of putting somebody as pretty as you are in prison.”
“Really?” Stacy sneered.
“Really,” Crockett replied.
She looked at him for a moment, then slowly uncrossed and re-crossed her legs.
“Well, what can I do for you?” Stacy asked.
“Not that,” Crockett said. “You help me, I’ll help you. I’ll get you out from under all this bullshit that’s happened tonight and let you go on down the road, free as a bird.”
“C’mon.”
“No charges, no evidence, no arrest, and no time.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not a bit. I want to take down whoever is running drugs through the club, and who ever is behind the setup here.”
“What about Texas?”
“We are not in Texas, Stacy. I don’t give a rodent’s rectum about Texas.”
“We can work a deal?”
“We can, but if you take off, if you fuck it up in any way, if you don’t do what I ask you to do, if you try to con me, if you try to run out on me, I will skip-trace your ass, myself. Not only that, I’ll have Texas on your ass, I’ll have Missouri on your ass, I’ll have the F B and I on your ass, I will have the fucking DEA on your ass and, and this is the scary part, I will be on your ass. I never give up, I never stop, and I never lose. You fuck me on this, and I absolutely guarantee you that before it’s over, you will beg me to turn you over to Texas. We can have an equitable arrangement for the good of both of us, or you will be on the run every minute of every day, and never even hear me coming until it’s too late. Well?”
“You’re about a scary sonofabitch, you know that?”
“You ain’t so dumb,” he said.
“Okay,” Stacy said. “Now what?”
Crockett crossed the room and took her handcuffs off. “You are free to go.”
“I can leave?”
“Sure.”
“Just walk out?”
“I’ll be in touch.”
“What about my car?”
“It’s outside.”
“Here?”
“Yep.
Stacy smiled. “Man, you are somethin’ else.”
“Don’t ever forget it, kid.”
“Do I get my knife back?”
“Sure,” Crockett replied, handing her the switchblade.
“What about my gun?”
“What gun,” Crockett asked, passing over the little thirty-eight.
“Wow.”
“What’s your cell number and address?” Crockett asked, and wrote the information down on a scrap of paper as she recited it.
“And I can just go?” Stacy asked.
“Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”
“Oh shit!” she said.
“What?”
“I don’t have the dope. If I go back tomorrow with no dope or no money, he’ll tell Spud to beat the shit outa me. Spud’ll do it. I know he will.”
“Who’ll have Spud beat the hell out of you?”
“Jack.”
“Jack Cantral?”
“Yeah. And if Shorty’s there, it’ll be even worse. He’s creepy. Oh, Damn! Can I have the dope?”
“Jack, Spud and Shorty Cantral?” Crockett asked.
“That’s them.”
“Oh, hell.”
“They don’t have much use for you. ‘Specially Shorty.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“They came by the club one night after hours. Them an�
�� me an’ Shelia an’ Mister Petersen had a party. They were talkin’ and your name came up, about you dropping by the club three or four times a week and comin’ in with your girlfriend on Saturday nights. Spud is kinda afraid of you a little bit. Says you hit hard.”
Crockett smiled. “I imagine he thinks I do.”
“Shorty hates you. He started yellin’ about you and shit. Got all bent outa shape.”
“How ‘bout Jack?”
“Jack doesn’t say much, except for tellin’ Shorty to shut the fuck up. Jack’s smarter than the other two.”
“That’s not saying much.”
“He didn’t party either.”
“No?”
“Nope. Mister Petersen and Shelia went back in his office for a while. I did Spud and Shorty. Spud’s kinda mean. Shorty gets really rough. Jack had to settle him down a couple of times so he wouldn’t bruise me too much for makeup to cover. Jack just likes to watch and choke his chicken.”
Crockett changed the subject. “Where do you get the drugs?” he asked.
“Little shit from the club. Larger orders at the carwash.”
“Jack Cantral’s carwash in Liberty?”
“Yeah. I put in an order and the next day I get my car washed. The stuff is in the car when it’s done.”
“How does Shelia Graham fit into all this?”
“She’s worked with Mister Peterson for years. They knew each other in Texas. She fucks him now and then. Nothin’ serious. He brought her to Kaycee. She keeps books on the dope an’ shit and keeps the girls in line.”
“She a user?”
“Part time. Not heavy.”
“She a dealer?”
“Just small sales through the club.”
“What’s your connection with her?”
“She hid my ass in Texas and brought me here.”
“You just friends?”
“Naw. I fuck her once in a while. Nothin’ serious.”
“You like her?”
Stacy nodded. “I like her, but she gets kinda possessive sometimes. Kinda needy.”
“Okay. I’ll call you in a couple of days. Get outa here.”