Chapter 1 #3
An ambulance arrived as Gunner was leaving the premises. He glanced over the Dallas skyline to the east, then down at his watch. Daybreak wasn’t far away, and he knew where coffee and sausage biscuits could be found at this hour of the day.
Less than an hour later, he was walking into the precinct carrying a sack of sausage biscuits and two large coffees.
Frankie Adams, the only female detective in Homicide, was in the hall as he came off the elevator. She saw the food he was carrying and grinned. “Hey, Kingston! You shouldn’t have!”
He glanced at the circus of colors in her spikey hairstyle. “Nice look. Where did they put my witness?”
“I don’t know. Ask Rowdy. The patrol officers handed your guy over to him.”
Gunner called out to the detective coming out of the break room with a coffee cup in his hand.
“Hey, Rowdy! Where did you put my guy?”
“Interrogation room A,” Rowdy said. “He stinks.”
It was the tone of his voice that stopped Gunner. He turned, frowning at the smirk on his face.
“He’s homeless. That means no change of clothes, nowhere to bathe, and no hot coffee. No freaking food to eat,” Gunner said and walked out.
Rowdy glanced down at the coffee he was holding and tried to shrug off the disapproval in Kingston’s voice, but it was unmistakable.
Frankie Adams was not surprised by Kingston’s defense of a homeless guy.
For a hardened homicide detective, Gunner Kingston had an unexpected soft side.
A shiver of wishful thinking rolled through her as she watched him walking away—admiring his broad shoulders and the way he moved.
It was more like stalking…but sexy stalking.
Hard case or not, no man should be that hot, that sexy, and unattached.
And he was a lookalike for her favorite actor of the moment. Brandon… Brandon something.
“Oh, fudge. I never can remember that man’s name,” she mumbled, grabbed her phone, pulled up Google and typed in, “actor who plays Spencer Dutton on the TV series 1923.” The name Brandon Sklenar popped up.
“That’s it. Brandon Sklenar. No wonder I can’t remember his last name.
I can’t even pronounce it.” She walked away, still mumbling.
“Yeah, he looks like that dude…only better.”
Unaware he was the object of a Frankie Adams fantasy, Gunner stepped into the interrogation room with the coffees and the sack of sausage biscuits, then stopped. Shock followed by pure anger rolled through him. The old man was still barefoot, and still in handcuffs.
“Did they look at your foot yet?” he asked.
Dan shrugged and shook his head.
Gunner frowned. “Did they bring you any food?”
“No, sir.”
Gunner put down the food and took a deep breath.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, then stormed out of interrogation and up the hall and into Homicide, shouting.
“Rowdy! Why the hell is my witness sitting in interrogation wet and cold, still handcuffed, no shoes or socks, his bad foot still untreated? Is there not a single cup of hot coffee in this place to be shared? He’s not under arrest. He’s just here to give a statement. Son of a…”
Then Gunner stopped mid-sentence, took a deep breath, and glared at the people sitting at their desks. He pivoted with more grace than a man his size should have been able to manage and was making calls as he slammed the door on his way out.
The silence he left behind was telling, and everybody was suddenly busy thinking about something else besides their sins of omission.
Gunner stormed back into interrogation, removed the handcuffs, took a packet of wet wipes out of his jacket pocket and laid them on the table for Dan, and then began unpacking the food.
“I apologize for how you’ve been treated. Detective Rowdy should have removed your cuffs.”
Yankee Dan shrugged. “He was okay. He wasn’t mean or anything. Just curious about the situation. Real talky… You know.”
Gunner was through talking about Rowdy. “Do you want sugar in your coffee, or do you take it black?”
“I wouldn’t mind a little sugar, since you’re asking,” Dan said, as he reached for the wet wipes and began wiping his hands.
Gunner emptied two packets into the large coffee and stirred it, then took two sausage biscuits out of the sack and put them down with his coffee.
“These are for me?” Dan said.
“Yes, sir, they are,” Gunner said. “I’m hungry and need the coffee. I thought we could kill two birds with one stone and talk while we eat. You okay with that?”
Dan took a deep breath, and then nodded.
Gunner caught a glimpse of tears and looked away. Yankee Dan was about his dad’s age. But for circumstance and the grace of God it could have been—Then he reached for his coffee without finishing the thought.
As soon as Dan had some food in his belly, Gunner called in Lieutenant Samuels and asked him to witness the statement. After Samuels arrived, they began.
It was the same story Dan had given Gunner at the warehouse, but now they had it on record, and as they were finishing up, there was a knock at the door.
The EMT Gunner called was here to treat Dan’s foot, and another officer came in with a pair of prison-issue slippers and socks.
Lieutenant Samuels liked Kingston. The man was brutally honest and never backed down from a situation.
Kingston drove his car like a bat coming out of hell on fire and waded into whatever was going down without hesitation.
It was Samuels’s personal opinion that if Kingston didn’t get himself killed, he could go as high up in law enforcement as he wanted to go, and the EMT’s arrival was Samuels’s signal to leave.
He eyed the horrific wound on the old man’s foot and then put a hand on Gunner’s shoulder.
“See that he gets a ride to wherever he wants to go, okay?”
Gunner nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll take him, myself.”
Samuels nodded and left the room.
A short while later, Gunner and Yankee Dan were walking out of the precinct when they met Cliff, who was just returning from the scene.
“Where are you going?” Cliff asked.
“Just giving Dan a ride home. Did the Feds show?”
“Yes. I left when they took over the scene, but I don’t think they’re gonna get much,” Cliff said.
Gunner shrugged. “That’s because it was the dump site. No telling where the scene of the crime took place, and it’s the Feds’ case anyway.”
Cliff eyed the old man, nodded at him, then walked away.
As soon as Gunner got Dan out of the building and into his car, he headed toward a shelter.
“Where are you taking me?” Dan asked.
“Where do you want to go?” Gunner asked.
Dan shrugged. “Home. I want to go home. But it doesn’t exist anymore. Just take me back to where there are places for people like me to hole up at.”
“I know some people. They run a decent homeless shelter. You need somewhere to be so that your foot can heal. Are you up for it?”
Dan nodded, and for a few minutes said nothing as Gunner sped through the streets. When they came to a stoplight, he glanced at the cop.
“Why do you care what happens to me?” Dan asked.
Gunner didn’t hesitate. “The way I see it, you were minding your own business when you became a witness to a crime. We’re the ones who dragged you further into it. And now I’m taking you out of it.”
The relief on the old man’s face was evident. “Much appreciated, officer.”
Gunner almost smiled. “No problem, dude. I’d share a sausage biscuit with you anytime.”
Dan laughed, and the moment passed.
By the time they reached the shelter, Gunner had already been on the phone with Wilson Trainer, the director, and as they neared the shelter, saw Wilson waiting for them outside the door.
Gunner pulled up to the curb and pointed.
“That’s Wilson Trainer. He’ll get you settled in.
” Then he gave Dan his card and a hundred dollars.
“Get a shave and a haircut, dude. They’ll give you clean clothes and a place to sleep.
And if you’re willing, they’ll help you find work.
You never know when the opportunity for something better will come knocking. Be ready to meet it head on.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Dan said.
“No thanks needed,” Gunner said, then waited until the men were inside before returning to the precinct to write up the report.
Cliff was gone when he returned but showed up an hour later, and just in time to answer the phone ringing at his desk.
“Detective Beale, Homicide.”
Gunner hit Save, then glanced up as Cliff pointed at him, and then the door, indicating they were getting a new call.
Gunner nodded, grabbed the jacket hanging over the back of his chair, and waited for Cliff to finish the call.
“What’s up?” Gunner asked.
“Somebody’s dead,” Cliff said.
Gunner grinned. “No shit, Sherlock,” and threw a wad of paper at him.
Cliff caught it in midair and laughed as he dropped it in his wastebasket. “Let’s go, and I’m driving. You drive like you’re running from the devil,” Cliff said as they headed for the parking lot.
“Maybe I am,” Gunner said and kept walking.
* * *
Burgess Dixon was having breakfast at his estate outside of Dallas, enjoying waffles and the morning news, when he caught his name being mentioned. He turned up the volume just in time to hear the commentator speaking…
“Federal authorities have identified the body found in the warehouse as Freddie Welsh, the missing witness from the FBI safe house.”
Dixon frowned. What the hell? I told Garza and Letourneau to bury the body, not leave it lying around out in the open. He picked up the phone and called Beau Whistler. Whistler was his chauffeur, bodyguard, and the man who disappeared Dixon’s enemies when the need arose.
Whistler was outside in the six-car garage, getting the limo ready for Dixon’s morning ride to the office in downtown Dallas, when his cell rang. “Morning, Boss. What’s up?” he asked.
“Tell Garza and Letourneau to get their asses over here ASAP. They screwed up, and I want to know why. I’ll be in the library.”
“Yes, sir. Calling them now,” Whistler said, wondering what screw-up they’d done now. But when he pulled up Garza’s number and called, Letourneau answered the phone.
“Do you know what time it is?” Letourneau mumbled.
Whistler frowned. The jerk was either hungover or still drunk. “Is Garza there with you?”
“As, with me in bed? Hell, no. He’s in his own room,” Letourneau muttered.
“Then why do you have Garza’s phone?” Whistler asked.
Letourneau sat up, stared at the phone, and then frowned. “Shit. He must have mine. We partied hard after the dump.”
“Clearly,” Whistler snapped. “Go wake up your cohort, and both of you get your asses over to the estate, ASAP. The boss wants to talk to you.”
Letourneau groaned. “Yeah, yeah. It’ll take at least forty-five minutes to get across town.”
“I suggest you hustle. He sounded mad,” Whistler said and hung up.
Letourneau swung his legs over the side of the bed to sit up, then called his own phone number.
Garza answered. “What the hell? It’s not even 8:00 a.m.”
“You have my phone. I have yours. Whistler just called. Dixon wants to talk to us ASAP. He said Dixon was mad. Get dressed,” Letourneau said.
“Shit,” Garza said and rolled out of bed.
Neither of them knew that the body they’d dumped last night had already been found. They’d been partying when the boss called and were already high when they got the nod to get rid of a body.
The only problem for them had been the storm. Digging a grave with lightning cracking all around them seemed foolhardy, and dead was dead, so they’d opted to dump him in a long-abandoned warehouse, assuming decomposition and rats would take care of the rest.
* * *
Dixon was still in the dining room when he got a phone call. He recognized the number as a burner phone from one of his informants inside the Dallas PD and frowned. This was never good news.
“What?”
“There was a witness to the dump. A homeless man—an old dude who goes by Yankee Dan. He claims it was too dark to see or hear anything, but he was there on the upper floor of an abandoned warehouse where the dump was made. The cop who caught the witness took his statement and then dropped him off at Wilson Trainer’s homeless shelter. ”
“Just a minute,” Dixon said and got up, cursing beneath his breath as he went straight to the library and shut the doors for privacy. “Damn it! A witness and a cop? Could this get any worse?” Dixon shouted. “Who’s the cop?”
“A homicide detective named Gunner Kingston.”
There was a long moment of silence, and then Dixon asked, “Is he any relation to Asher Kingston, the special investigator for the State Attorney General?”
“Brother.”
Dixon took a deep breath. “Shit. Do you think the witness told the cop something that didn’t go in the report?”
“I told you what I know.”
The line went dead in Dixon’s ear. The news just added to his aggravation. He’d dealt with the federal witness. Now all this was happening because Letourneau and Garza didn’t do what he said. All they had to do was bury the body, and they couldn’t even do that right.
Despite the fact that it wasn’t even 9:00 a.m., Dixon went straight to the wet bar. He poured himself a double shot of bourbon and downed it like medicine, then sat down to wait.