Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
The last text Cloister had sent to Javi was still unread.
He stared at it for a second, as if that was all it took to change the status. When nothing happened, he tapped the box and hovered his thumb over the keyboard. He got as far as “hey” before he ran out of ideas and backspaced the letters.
There was nothing new to add. Not yet.
He tucked the phone into his pocket and glanced in the car’s rearview mirror to check that Bourneville didn’t need attention. She was lying on her mat, hips canted to the side and chin on her front paws. As he watched, she rubbed her muzzle against her paws. It was probably just her tongue, but…
“You’re going to the dentist,” Cloister told her. “Better safe than sorry.”
She didn’t look worried. Maybe because she always got treats when she let the vet look at her mouth, maybe because he’d never taught her “dentist” as a command. Either way, she gave a half-yawn and sprawled out on her side.
While she got comfortable, Cloister reached for the radio. He thumbed the button on the headset as he lifted it toward his mouth.
“Hey, Mel,” he said. “Can I get a twenty on Gardner?”
“Witte?” Mel’s voice came over the radio. She sounded exasperated. “Didn’t you get shot? Why are you still out in your car?”
“I got winged,” Cloister said. “I’ve seen turkeys take more buckshot and walk away.”
“Turkeys drown in the rain.”
“That’s an urban legend.”
“You’re an urban legend,” Mel sniffed at him. “Hold on.”
In the back, Bourneville grunted as if she agreed with that. Cloister twisted around to give her a look as he mouthed “traitor” at her. She rolled onto her back to show him her belly.
“OK,” Mel said as she came back on. “Gardner and Boyd are taking a break at Hardwell’s Gas n’ Go on Route 23 Spur. I’ll let them know you’re going to swing by.”
“No need,” Cloister said. “It’s on my way home. If I miss them, I’ll catch Gardner tomorrow.”
There was a pause. Mel knew that was a lie. Cloister’s trailer park was out on the other side of Plenty; it would be hard to find a more out-of-his-way route back. But gossip like someone being in IA’s pocket got around fast, and Dispatch was always the first to know.
“Copy,” she said. “Give that good dog a pet from me.”
The call dropped, and Bourneville shoved her nose between the seats, under Cloister’s elbow, to collect her scratch.
He scrubbed his thumb over the top of her head, between her eyes and back along her bony skull.
There was a lump in front of her ear that made her grunt and shake her head, ears flapping, when Cloister’s fingers found it.
“I know,” he said. “If Gardner hadn’t let that guy go, you’d not have gotten that. Why don’t we see what he has to say for himself?”
The slip line trailed behind Bourneville as she trotted over to the scrubby verge between the gas station and the desert to do her business. As she squatted, gaze fixed on the horizon, Boyd glanced from her to Cloister.
“You know what, I need to use the little girl’s room too,” Boyd said as she grabbed the trash from lunch off the hood of the car. “Be right back.”
She wouldn’t be.
As the rookie made herself scarce, Cloister helped himself to Gardner’s Orange Bang. The plastic sides of the cup were cold against his fingers as he lifted it to his mouth. The whipped orange was cool and foamy on his tongue.
“Why’d you cut Brian Fowler loose?” he asked as he let the straw slip back out of his mouth.
Gardner’s expression toggled between irritation at having his drink jacked and aggression toward the question. It settled on sour as Gardner leaned back against the side of the car and crossed his arms. His mouth twisted up at the side as he sniffed dismissively.
“You ever think I was doing you a solid?” he asked.
“No.”
Gardner reached up and pulled his Sheriff’s Department branded cap off. He slapped the cap against his thigh as he glared at Cloister.
“It wasn’t a clean collar, Deputy,” he said, his voice scathing.
“You didn’t have eyes on the perp for the majority of the pursuit, you didn’t have reason to make entry to the house—which our aggrieved homeowner was going to make a fucking thing of—and your loose-mouthed dog made unnecessary contact with a suspect.
The whole station already knew you were on thin ice, that that Fed from LA had it out for you.
So I figured, the guy obviously wasn’t well, and nobody got hurt.
Why not cut you both a break. You’re welcome. ”
He spat the words out like a TO dressing down a rookie. It might have worked…on a rookie. Cloister had been called on the mat by a drill sergeant before. Gardner didn’t have those chops.
“Bullshit,” Cloister said.
The thing about gingers was that they had a hard time hiding their temper.
Color flushed livid pink from Gardner’s throat up past his ears and into his hairline.
The color was visible through thinning hair as it worked its way back over his scalp.
He tossed his cap onto the hot hood of the car and took a step forward into Cloister’s space.
Gardner was lanky, but he wasn’t short. At…
five nine, five ten…he was probably tall enough that he could crowd most people.
Cloister was six four in his boots.
As realization hit that wasn’t going to work, Gardner shook his head and stepped back. He jabbed a finger at Cloister’s face.
“Is that what passes for clever banter with dog cops?” he asked, lip curled. “One word. No. Bullshit. Sit. Stay. Fucking Caesar Milan could do your job.”
“My dog could do yours,” he said. “In fact, she did. Which is why Brian Fowler is back in custody.”
Gardner licked his lips and scratched his eyebrow, a quick fidgeted tell.
“Yeah?” he said with a nervy shrug. “I heard the Feds took him.”
“They did,” Cloister said. “Frome’ll get him handed over to us. He’s already got his back up about the Feds interfering in his business. He’s not going to let this slide. And if you think Kincaid is going to cover for you…”
Something flickered over Gardner’s face. It looked like fear. Cloister wanted to doubt it, but it looked genuine.
“Did he threaten you?” Cloister asked.
“Fowler?”
“Kincaid.”
Gardner screwed his face up and blustered, “I’m not scared of that pale streak of piss,” he said.
“I’d nothing to hold Fowler on because of your fuck-up, Witte.
Kincaid’ll buy that, just like everyone else.
I don’t know how the fuck you got your badge back, but that investigation can be reopened like that. ”
He snapped his fingers.
Cloister stared at him for a moment. “You don’t have a clue what’s going on, do you?” he asked. “But then, why would you cut Fowler loose?”
Gardner snorted out a humorless laugh and wiped his hand over his nose. If he were a dog, Cloister would have backed off. His body language screamed of an on-edge animal trying to get space.
“You know what, Witte?” Gardner said. He stepped back into Cloister’s space, boots butted up against Cloister’s, and drew himself up as long as he could.
His breath smelled of fried gas-stop chicken.
He slapped the Orange Bang out of Cloister’s hand.
It hit the ground and splattered sticky orange-white foam over both of their feet.
“I don’t have to answer to you. Just because you fuck that Fed, you think you’re some sort of hotshot who can do what he wants?
Maybe ask around and find out who’ll take my calls, no matter where or when.
You don’t know who the fuck you’re dealing with. ”
Cloister held his hand up, palm out. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bourneville stop mid-run.
She flopped down on the concrete, but her eyes stayed focused on Gardner.
When Gardner looked that way, he went a greasy color as the red drained out of his face.
Most people saw the fluff and the ears and the big, easy dog smile when they looked at Bon.
After they saw the mess she could make of someone, though, it took them a while to see anything but teeth.
That was fine. Gardner didn’t need to like Cloister’s dog.
“I know exactly who I’m dealing with,” Cloister said.
“An IA informant who let a man go, and as a result, there’s a federal agent in hospital, a man still missing, and you got my dog hurt.
So maybe think about that, because I don’t want to cut you any slack.
If I find out what I need to know about Fowler without your help?
I’ll happily leave you to swing in the wind. ”
Gardner swallowed. He stepped back and grabbed his hat off the top of the car.
“Go fuck yourself.”
He pulled the cap on as he stalked away, giving Bourneville a wide berth as her head turned to watch him go.
Cloister stepped out of the puddle of soda and shook the liquid off his feet. His mind fell over itself as he tried to prop back up the theory of what was going on.
If Kincaid hadn’t pulled the strings to get Fowler cut loose…
If this wasn’t about Kincaid…
Cloister rubbed the back of his neck and looked over at Bourneville. He stuck his thumb and forefinger in his mouth to whistle her back over. She hopped up and loped over to lean against his leg.
“Maybe we need to go back to the last place we had a clean scent?” he said to her. “Check our work, eh?”
She sniffed at the soda splattered on his legs and sneezed.
He’d take that as a yes.
Tancredi had told Cloister what car to look out for.
It was a good thing, too, because Elise Tancredi didn’t look much like her daughter.
The short, plump redhead handed Cloister her handbag as she got out of her car. The unexpected weight of it made him fumble it briefly.
“What do you have in here?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Elise slipped her sneakers off, tossed them into the passenger seat of her car, and stepped into the pair of glossy beige heels she’d brought with her. From Cloister’s heel, Bourneville watched the process with interest.
“I’m a realtor, Deputy Witte,” she said as she reached for the bag. “Keys, a book, a hammer.”