Derailed (25 page)

“Corky? Ah, she don't mean nothin'.” Then I remembered the McDonald's bags. “She . . . she was probably just sniffing around for food. Haven't fed her yet this morning.”

He stood there silently. Did I need to spell it out? “She'll eat anything, ya know . . . old french fries . . . anything.” Slowly his head started to nod, and then he widened his stance and slowly raised his gun, held steady with both hands until it pointed right at me.

I thought I was a goner until Corky started to growl.

The guy looked down at her and lowered his gun, tucking it back in his pants. “You better feed your dog—and keep her away from me.”

He turned and left, leaving my door open to slide back and forth with the sway of the train.

I waited for a few moments and then closed my door and fed Corky. My hands shook so much half of the food spilled on the floor, but Corky didn't mind.

While I sat and watched her eat, I dialed Gilson.

“Hey Captain, a change in the situation here. The guy's armed, and I'd judge him to be highly dangerous.”

Corky and I had made our way to the last coach car as the train slowed. We were halfway down the stairs as the Naperville sign slid past the window. Hopefully, my mule was preparing to detrain. I'd convinced Gilson to let me position myself where I could quickly move in behind the mule and block the door to prevent his jumping back on the train should something spook him. We didn't need him escaping on down the line or worse, taking a bunch of passengers hostage.

With a squeal of the brakes and a slight lurch, the train stopped, and I looked out at the station. On the far side of the building,
extending above its roof, the masts of a mobile TV truck extended into the air. The dish on top read, WGN Channel 9. Had someone tipped off the media? Stupid, stupid! Or maybe they had just intercepted police radio chatter and come on their own. In either case, if my mule saw that mast . . .

The police seemed to have cleared the train station of passengers. Two men who looked like electricians were adjusting a ladder leaning against a light pole at one end of the station, and another man was sweeping the sidewalk at the other end. I hoped they all were backup.

“No, no. I got it.” It was his voice, just around the corner at the bottom of the stairs. The train door opened and cooler air rolled in as luggage rolled across the vestibule. “Watch your step,” said the attendant.

I followed but hung back in the relative darkness of the vestibule as our guy stepped toward the station, his large suitcase rolling behind him while he carried the other by hand. Two other passengers who had detrained were coming this way when one of the “electricians” intercepted them and directed them around the other side of the building. I thought he overdid it a little, pointing to the top of the light pole and waving them away from any falling hazard. But the platform got cleared.

So far, no one had moved on the mule as he headed for the breeze-way along this side of the station. The whistle blew, and the attendant shut the door, toggling the heavy handles tight as the train pulled away.

“Oh, sir, you weren't getting off . . . I didn't see you.”

“No ma'am. I'm fine, just a little turned around, I think. Can you tell me where car six thirty-one is?”

“Oh yes. It's toward the front of the train. Back up the stairs and turn right. Then I think it's five cars . . . no—”

“Don't worry ma'am. I'll ask someone if I don't recognize it. How much longer before we get into Chicago?”

“Oh, won't be long. Last I heard, we should be arriving at about three thirty.”

“Thanks.” I climbed the stairs and began making my way forward, Corky dutifully leading me up the aisle. Once I was back in my compartment with the door closed, I dialed Gilson's cell.

It rang five times and then went to voice mail. “It's Bentley. What happened?” The perp was off the train, and we were safely underway, but had they arrested the guy?

Fifteen nervous minutes later Gilson called back to say that they got their man.

“Yeah, but I didn't like seeing that media truck there. Who tipped 'em off?”

“What difference does it make? Everything went smoothly, no shots fired, no civilians around when they busted the guy. Gotta hand it to you, Bentley. You did good!”

“Thanks, Captain. So I've been thinkin', this is gonna generate a mountain of paperwork. But since everything's buttoned up, do you think I can put the report off until tomorrow? I'd like to get home early to see my wife.”

“I don't know, Bentley. It's gonna be more than paperwork. DEA'll wanna interview you.”

“Tell 'em tomorrow. Don't forget my mom is in the hospital.”

Finally, he relented and promised to cover for me. “But don't you be late tomorrow morning. If I promise them you'll be available first thing, you better be there.”

I got home just after Estelle returned from visiting Mom. DaShawn had gone with Tavis to shoot hoops at Pottawattomie Park. “He phoned for permission,” said Estelle, “but I'll be glad when you put up that hoop on the garage. Who knows who he's hangin' with over there in that park.”

“I thought you didn't want a ball thumping at all hours behind our house.”

“Well, I don't, but it beats not knowing where my grandson is.”

I smiled and gave her a big hug. I think it was the first time she'd called DaShawn her grandson. It warmed my heart. Kissing her cheek, I let her go and plopped down on the sofa. “So, how's Mom?”

“About the same, I guess. I didn't try to explain why you weren't with me.”

“
Hmm
. S'pose I oughta go see her myself this evening, but I hate missing my Bible study.”

“You could probably wait till tomorrow morning.”

“Nah. Gilson wants me to be in early.”

“Early? Where's this promise of comp time when you have an overnight run?”

“It's because we got the perp, and there are reports and paperwork and interviews I've gotta follow up on.”

“You got him? Why didn't you tell me? I'd've thought you'd be beatin' a drum the moment you walked in the door.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn't that big a deal.” No way was I gonna tell her about the guy facing me down with a gun.

“But big enough that you've gotta go in to work early tomorrow.”

“Comes with the territory, babe. Comes with the territory. Hey, what's for supper?” I stood up. “I'll help you cook.”

“You're on, mister. I was just gonna make some rice and fry up a couple catfish fillets. But one of your awesome salads would go really well with that.”

A few minutes later, when the catfish was sizzling in the pan and I was preparing the lettuce on my cutting board, I asked, “What's the latest with Rodney?”

“Oh, I dunno. He lit outta here this morning before I even went to work. Didn't say a thing about where he was goin' or when he'd be back.”

“Well, if he misses dinner, he's gonna be the loser. That fish smells great.”

Before I started mixing a dressing for my salad, I called Denny Baxter and told him I wouldn't be able to make it to study because I needed to visit my mom. I asked him to have the guys pray for her. “You got it,” he said.

Rodney showed up just in time for dinner and said he'd been hunting for a job all day. I nodded, pleased. “Sooner or later that'll pay off,” I said as we sat down to eat. I wanted to give him some
more encouragement, but during the meal all DaShawn was interested in was hearing me tell how I'd caught “the bad guy.”

At first, I hemmed and hawed, unsure what I could reveal. I finally decided I could tell about the woman in the observation car and then how Corky identified the sleeping drug mule. In neither instance did I have to describe my cover as a blind man, and I definitely left out the scene where the drug dealer confronted me in my compartment.

I was glad to have an excuse to leave the table so I could get to the hospital. When I got to Mom's room, a nurse was helping her eat. It was kind of late for supper, I thought, but even from the door I could see she was using her right hand to spoon food up to her mouth. The paralysis on the left side of her face, however, meant that it frequently slipped out and down her chin. The nurse was patiently catching it and cleaning off her face.

When Mom noticed I'd entered the room, she became animated, waving her hand and talking in her garbled way. I finally figured out that she didn't want to eat in front of me. There was still quite a bit of food on her tray, so I told her I was going down to the cafeteria for some coffee and would be back later. The nurse nodded her approval.

When I got back, Mom had finished eating and was cleaned up, watching TV. She waved me close, and I gave her a kiss, then pulled up the recliner and sat by her, holding her hand as we both watched TV.

By nine o'clock, Mom had fallen asleep, and I switched to channel 9 to catch the early news, remembering the media truck I'd seen in Naperville had been from WGN. The broadcast kept teasing viewers with short clips about a “special eyewitness report” on a major drug bust in the western suburbs, but I had to wait through everything except the weather and sports before they got to their little three-minute feature.

Finally, the anchor introduced the report.

“Combined efforts of the Drug Enforcement Administration, the Illinois State Police, and the DuPage County Sheriff resulted today in the arrest of Antonio Quintero, nineteen, of Oakland, California,
for possession of nearly forty-five pounds of what appears to be high-grade marijuana with an estimated street value of as much as two hundred twenty-five thousand dollars.”

The video switched from the “talking head” of the anchor to a short clip showing a handcuffed Quintero being led away from the Naperville Amtrak station by two burly officers who tucked him into a DuPage County Sheriff's car.

“The arrest was made in Naperville shortly after two thirty this afternoon when Quintero stepped off the eastbound Amtrak California Zephyr train with his cache of drugs.”

In the video, Quintero kept his head ducked and his face away from the camera.

“According to authorities,” continued the reporter, “the DEA had been investigating Quintero since he purchased a ticket in California two days ago but only confirmed that his luggage was filled with an illegal substance when a DEA K-9 unit identified it after Quintero detrained.”

A new video clip showed a beautiful German shepherd standing at attention by a DEA agent.

“ ‘At no time,' said a DEA official, ‘were train passengers or the public in any danger during the arrest.' ”

That was it. The “special eyewitness report” was over.

I flipped off the TV and stood up to kiss Mom's forehead before I left.

As I walked down the hospital hall toward the elevator, I shook my head. Gilson had done a good job keeping me undercover. But I didn't like the attention paid to the DEA's K-9 agent. What if Quintero saw the clip? Would it be enough to get him thinking about the
other
dog that had been sniffing around him? What if he put two and two together and had enough juice to put the hit out on me?

Wasn't very likely. And such risks are always part of police work. So why did it bug me so much? Maybe I was just disgruntled at being denied my share of the credit. I'd worked hard to ID that guy and had to look down the barrel of his Ruger SR9 to do it. Didn't like all the credit going to someone else, even if it was for my own safety.

Captain Gilson was ecstatic the next morning
when I knocked on his office door. He ushered me in, Corky following right at my heel. Gilson sat down behind his desk, leaving me standing there in my smartly pressed uniform like I was a kid in the principal's office.

“It worked, Bentley! It worked! And did you watch the news last night? There wasn't even a hint of your involvement. Your cover's secure.” He pushed some papers around on his desk for no apparent reason. “The DEA's gonna be here within the hour. They want to interview you, but I don't think it'll be any big deal. I asked them yesterday to keep you outta court if possible, and I think they'll be able to do it.