Shakedown

Chapter Fifty

“I’ll drive,” Kate said.

“Why?”

“Because, in case you haven’t noticed, you’re shaking.”

I was. A few light tremors. Not constant, more like a quick shudder. “That’s from your kiss.”

She laughed, patted my cheek, and picked up her purse. “I’m?attered, but I’m still driving.”

“I can drive.”

“I’m certain you can, but my presence will look more innocent if I’m driving. It makes the whole girlfriend thing more believable. And we should bring Ruby. That will show him we believe his story about the dog’s toys.”

“You’ve got this figured out.”

“It’s what I do.”

“I thought your job was to find jurors that are gullible enough to vote for your client.”

“Of course it is. But gullible isn’t as easy as it looks. There are a lot of ways to tell a story. My job is to frame it in the way most likely to convince the jury. You can knock on Latrell’s door by yourself doing your macho FBI thing and hope he spills his guts without trying to kill you.”

“Or?”

“Or, the three of us-you, me, and the dog-can make a social call that doesn’t scream ‘assume the position, dirt bag.’ “

“Nobody says ‘dirt bag’ anymore.”

“But you do say ‘assume the position.’ “

“Not on a first date.”

“Cute, but not cute enough,” Kate said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You’re not going to let me talk you out of this, are you?”

“No. You can leave me here but I’ll follow you. I may even call Troy Clark, tell him where you are going and that you need backup.”

We were standing less than a foot apart. Her shoulders were square and her face was tilted up at mine, her lips pressed together in a tight, determined line. I put my hands on her wrists, gently lowering her arms to her sides, pulled her closer, and returned her kiss.

“Okay,” I said. “You can drive, but I’ve got to get something from my car.”

A moment later, I slid into the front passenger seat of Kate’s BMW 730i. There was a laptop bag and a stack of journals in the backseat. Ruby was in the back with her front paws perched on the center console between Kate and me. She leaned over the dog, kissed me again, and ran her hand around my waist, stopping when she found the gun I had tucked into the back of my waistband. She pulled away.

“Good,” she said.

“Good?”

“In case you’re right and I’m wrong.”

The last traces of daylight had faded and the sky overhead in Quindaro was a dull black. Ground light had reduced the stars to patchy distant glimmers, the moon too low to make a difference.

Latrell’s house was in the middle of the block. The front door was bathed in a soft yellow glow from lamps fixed to the wall on either side. There was a double window to the left of the door, muted interior light leaking through a curtain.

The gang I’d seen playing basketball down the street from Marcellus’s house the other day were watching from a driveway across the street. They stood, forming a tight pack, the ringleader at the point, as we glided to a stop.

“Wait here,” I told Kate.

I stepped out of the car and waited until the ringleader was looking straight at me. We did the same silent dance we did before. He gave me the same slight nod, agreeing that neither of us was interested in the other’s business. I nodded in return as he motioned to the others and they ambled toward the corner.

Kate lowered the passenger window.

“What did you say to them?”

“Nothing, but it was the way I said it. Let’s go.”

She scooped Ruby into her arms and stepped ahead of me. I caught up to her at Latrell’s front door.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Leading with our strengths, which are Ruby and me.”

Kate elbowed me in the ribs, pushing me outside the field of vision of the peephole in the center of the door. I stepped back, my right hand on the butt of my gun, as she rang the bell.

I’d been on this side of a suspect’s door many times, always with a partner or a SWAT team, never with the shakes. My rule was always to plan for every contingency, control everything I could, and trust my people and my training for everything else. That rule was out the window. I had no plan, no backup, and I had let a jury consultant and a dog take the lead. To make matters worse, I didn’t know whether I’d be shaken or stirred when Latrell opened the door. I took a breath and said a prayer.

Kate waited, not taking her eyes off the door. A shadow passed across the peephole from inside the house. She shifted Ruby under her left arm, holding her like she was a miniature battering ram, and rang the bell a second time.

Another five seconds passed before the door opened slowly, Latrell standing half in the doorway, his left side hidden. His right shoulder was level. If it dipped, odds were he was pulling a gun. He’d have to step all the way into view before he could shoot us unless he fired through the heavy oak door. That would slow the bullet, distort its trajectory, and tip the odds in our favor for a fraction of a second.

My threat assessment lasted no longer than a micro expression, a product of years of experience and too many doors that opened slowly. I took longer with his face. His cheeks were smooth, his brow relaxed, his mouth slack. Latrell didn’t appear surprised, happy, or sad to see us. He shot a quick look at me, then broke a small smile when Ruby barked at him as she squirmed under Kate’s arm.

“You must be Latrell,” Kate said, putting Ruby on the ground.

“That’s right,” he said.

His voice was soft and calm. He didn’t move. I let my right hand drift from my gun to my side.

“Jack has told me so much about you. We came to pick up the dog’s toys.”

Ruby ran into the house and jumped up on Latrell, pressing her paws against his leg, her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth, her tail wagging. Latrell hung back, still keeping his left side hidden.

“Isn’t that sweet?” Kate said, following the dog into the open doorway and crouching down to rub the back of her neck. “You must have taken very good care of her. She’s so glad to see you.”

Kate and Ruby distracted me enough that I didn’t see Latrell’s left shoulder dip. I caught a glimpse of his right hand swinging over his head, clutching a gun that he slammed into the side of Kate’s head. She collapsed without making a sound.

Latrell pivoted, his back to the door, kicking it closed in the same instant I threw my shoulder into it. He hit it low and I hit it high, the dense wood absorbing both blows without moving.

I pulled my gun and crashed into the door a second time, diving over Kate. Latrell was standing in the entry hall just past the sweep of the open door. I heard a gunshot and felt a bullet graze my hip as I rolled on the?oor, coming up to one knee, gun in hand. Latrell was holding a.45 caliber Marine pistol to his temple that matched the murder weapon.

“Put it down!” I screamed.

He pulled the trigger but didn’t die. The gun was jammed. He pulled the trigger again and the gun still refused to fire. He swung the barrel toward me, his eyes filled with tears, his face twisted with pain as if the gun had fired.

“Put it down, Latrell! Don’t make me shoot you!”

He leveled the gun at my head. We both knew it wouldn’t fire, but he wouldn’t put it down. He had tried to kill himself and me and failed at both. He wouldn’t be the first person to commit suicide by threatening a cop, but I wasn’t going to let him use me to do it. Then his shoulders caved in and his knees buckled as a high-powered bullet exploded in his chest, tore a hole in his back, and lodged in the wall behind him.