Burners (16 page)

“Jack!”

Chapa yelled just as I saw the movement.

  
 

M
aybe it was my deep-seeded distrust of police officers, a prejudice I’ve carried with me since I was a very young boy in Castro’s Cuba, when a man in uniform usually meant trouble.

Or maybe I read James’ mind, knew the man was not ready to stand down. Never would be. His type simply isn’t wired that way.

Could be I just got lucky.

I sensed James was about to make his move, so I reached back for the duffle bag on the evidence table. The cans shuffled around inside as I picked it up, made some noise, but not enough to get anyone’s attention.

I meant to bring the bag down on his hand, hoping to knock his weapon to the floor. But then he sprang toward Jack, and I just reacted.

I swung, grazing his arm and continuing in an upward arc until I connected with his chin. I hadn’t clocked James hard enough to knock him out, but with enough force to make him forget his plans of going after Daniels, loosen a filling or two, and spin him around—which it did. James involuntarily pirouetted one-hundred-eighty degrees, until he was facing the bench, his back turned toward Jack.

I was bringing the bag up, ready to whack him again, when his gun discharged. There was screaming and swearing, and everyone either ducked or froze.

Everyone except Malvo, who dropped like a bag of wet sand behind the bench, and Jack, who let go with a roundhouse to the side of James’ head that knocked the man to the floor.

James lay on his back, his eyes open but unfocused. Jack squatted and took the gun from his hand. James offered no resistance.

“Give me those handcuffs,” Jack ordered the bailiff.

The old guy hesitated for a moment. No doubt he’d worked with Officer James for a while, and this unusual turn of events had screwed with his bearings. Then he shrugged and handed the cuffs to Jack. She pounced on James, yanked his hands back and cuffed him.

“Go check out the judge,” she said to me without taking her eyes off James, then yelled, “did anyone call an ambulance?”

I walked past Tony Beniquez on my way to look in on Malvo. The kid was cradling his father’s head in his blood-soaked arms. Carlos’ eyes were half-open, which was a good sign. He was in a bad way, but at least he was still alive. From the looks of it, Carlos had taken one in the right shoulder.

“Tony, take off your sport coat.”

“No, I need to—”

“You need to take off your coat, bundle it up and use it to put pressure on your father’s wound.”

“Here, use mine.” It was Milledge, stepping up to the plate. He was kneeling next to his client when I left them to go to Malvo.

I found the judge sprawled out on the steps leading down from the bench. Then I saw the large dark spot across the front of his robe. I didn’t see and entry hole, but the blue cloth was shiny and wet with…

Blood?

No, wait. That’s not blood. That’s—

The judge held out a pale, wet fist. Then he opened it, revealing a tiny pebble resting on his palm. Like a clam showing off its pearl.

“I passed the stone,” he said and smiled.

At that moment Malvo had to be the happiest person in the courtroom.

“Are you hurt?”

Malvo shook his head. “Not anymore. Here, help me up.” He held out his free hand and signaled for me to take it.

Not a chance. Not in this lifetime.

I decided to track down the bailiff, figuring that this particular duty had to be part of his job description. But as I turned to look for ol’ Rusty, or whatever the codger’s name was, I heard Jack call out—

“Lewis is gone! I’m going after him!”

And she ran out of court just as uniformed cops began pouring in.

  
 

T
he cute suede wedges I was wearing turned out to be a bad choice for pursuing a perp. I managed to get outside without breaking an ankle, then kicked them off as I searched for Emmanuel Lewis. There was a crowd outside the building, not just the people who fled the courtroom, but a new group drawn by all the commotion. Lots of yelling, lots of crying.

I headed for the parking lot, figuring he was going for his car, and stopped abruptly when I realized someone was trailing me.

Chapa.

I took off again. He fell into pace beside me, and I said, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I figure there’s a story following you around twenty-four-seven, Lieutenant. In this case, it should end in the capture of Officer Emmanuel Lewis, who I’m now certain is not the same guy who played Webster.”

We ran into the maze of several dozen vehicles, searching for Lewis.

“When he finds his car, he’ll have a gun inside,” I said. “If I tell you to get down, do it.”

An engine started up, one aisle over. I swung the .32 in its direction, pointing at a Volkswagen Beetle. Definitely not Lewis’ ride.

“There!” Chapa pointed in the other direction, at Lewis running toward a classic Corvette Stingray.

It was thirty yards away. A difficult shot with a snub-nosed .32. And risky, too; bullets liked to ricochet off of concrete and metal.

But I couldn’t allow Lewis to get to his car. James had broken into my room and threatened my life. I didn’t want to spend countless, sleepless nights waiting for his partner to make good on the threat.

I grabbed Chapa’s arm and slowed both of us down, then fell into a Weaver stance, two hands on the revolver, aiming, exhaling as I squeezed the trigger.

There was a
BANG
, followed immediately by another one—the Corvette’s fat rear tire popping.

“Freeze!” I yelled.

But Lewis didn’t freeze. He veered away from the car, cutting behind an SUV.

Chapa and I pursued.

Lewis fled the parking lot, hauling ass down Main Street. He had a good head start, and seemed to be picking up speed. As expected on a beautiful summer day, there were a lot of people out. If we didn’t catch up to Lewis, fast, we would lose him in the crowd and he’d get away.

Luckily, Birch Grove did a good job maintaining their sidewalks, so running wasn’t as painful as it might have been. Chapa kept pace beside me, and I was grateful for the back-up.

But fast as we ran, Lewis was extending his lead. When he got a full block ahead of us, I lost him.

“You see him?” I said between huffs and puffs.