Chapter 31
“What do you think about Detective Bach moving in on Shoops?” Travis asked as he guided his Rubicon through the slush with the unhurried precision he’d once used on military roads.
He had Isaac Mora’s address programmed into his dash GPS.
It was over in the Second Ward and would take half an hour to get to.
Samuel shot him a sideways glance. “I don’t know. He seems like an OK guy, and Karen is a grown woman. They can do what they want.”
“I suppose.” Travis had spent little time with Bach since he had become Bouvier’s near-constant shadow, and he felt protective toward Karen, like a little sister. The shy, petite agent was young, na?ve, and far from imposing. Easily taken advantage of. He didn’t like it.
“I thought you had a girlfriend,” Samuel said.
“I do,” Travis confirmed, “one my age. Don’t you think Bach is a little old for Karen?”
Samuel smirked, huffing out a laugh. “Do you think ASAC Bouvier is too old for Flash? Because I’m pretty sure there’s a bigger age gap there.”
“Hey, I’m not touching that,” Travis answered emphatically. He carefully drove around a stuck car and slowed as they passed children playing in a small park. “I’ll bet your kids are loving this.”
“Oh, yeah.” Samuel’s face lit up. “They’re as happy as pigs in a wallow. My wife’s been taking pictures practically nonstop.”
Travis hit the brakes. The pedal hammered beneath his boot as he swerved around a garbage truck barreling through the dead signal.
The buzz of a chainsaw poured through the inch gap in his window.
“Don’t people know you’re supposed to stop and look before proceeding at an intersection when the light is out? ”
“How many more days do we have of this?” Samuel asked, his glare trailing the back of the waste management vehicle.
“They said it’s supposed to be sunny and get above freezing on Sunday.
Then we have the joy of mud to look forward to.
” Travis had to admit he’d adjusted to the ice and snow better than expected.
Maybe because there weren’t mountains or crevices, and he didn’t have to camp out in a tent doing military exercises.
Samuel chuckled. “Probably back to school on Monday then. I wonder if the kids’ spring break will be canceled to make up the lost days?”
“Cancel spring break?” Travis gawked. “That’d sure infuriate parents and students alike.
People make plans, you know.” His girlfriend’s second-grade daughter, Misty, was energetic, curious, and fascinated by his beard.
A few years ago, dating a woman with a child would have been an immediate no.
Now? He was older, more settled, and beginning to picture things he once hadn’t.
Savannah was worth it, and so was Misty.
He’d been thinking about inviting them camping over spring break—if work would let him.
“Yeah, people who aren’t us,” Samuel said in a disappointed tone.
And that’s why Travis hadn’t asked yet. What if Misty got her hopes up and then he was assigned to a big case and couldn’t take them? Better to wait until the last minute.
Travis pulled up in front of the address, a vintage wood-frame bungalow in a hundred-year-old neighborhood.
They’d passed new townhomes and apartments rising where dilapidated properties had stood, while other old Craftsman and shotgun houses underwent renovations.
A for-sale sign sprouted in front of the house across the street.
Mora’s residence fell somewhere between fixer-upper and fully renovated and suited the modest income listed in his employment records.
“Well, if he’s our guy, he didn’t run out and buy a half-million-dollar house,” his partner said as he climbed out.
Travis slogged through the slushy snow at the curb around the front of his Jeep. “Let’s play it cool so we don’t spook him. Just knock on the front door and say we have some follow-up questions about the day of the fire. We won’t mention the warrant until we have him in custody.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Both agents took out their IDs, and Samuel knocked on the door. “Who’s there?” called a male voice from inside.
“FBI,” Travis answered. “We just have a few more questions about last Friday’s fire at Gulf Allied Chemicals.”
“Oh, yeah, just a minute,” came a bright reply. “Gotta put some pants on. Ya know, they haven’t let us back to work yet?”
They waited. “Do you think he’s sneaking out the back like the other fellow?” Samuel asked.
Around the side of the house, a small truck roared to life and sped out of the driveway, heading in the opposite direction from the one Travis’s Jeep faced. “Yep. Here we go again.”
They scrambled across the glazed yard. Samuel’s shoe slipped out from under him, but Travis caught his sleeve and hauled him upright without breaking stride. Once behind the wheel, he slapped the magnetic blue beacon onto the Jeep’s roof, pulled a U-turn in the sloppy street, and tried to catch up.
Samuel put his cell on speakerphone and called the office.
“Bouvier.”
“Mora skedaddled,” Samuel reported. “We’re in pursuit of a white GMC Canyon extended cab heading west on Sherman. Texas plates, but the numbers are frosted over.”
“He just turned right,” Travis called out. “On …” he had to slow at the corner to make out the icy street sign. He almost never drove in the Second Ward. “Burr.”
“We’ve got a 2020 GMC Canyon registered to Mora, plate number NJC 1834,” said Bouvier.
“I’ll put out an APB,” came Bach’s voice.
“Try to block off major streets and funnel him into a corner,” instructed Bouvier. “Keep on him, Ice and Hernandez. We don’t want him getting on the freeway.”
“Roger that,” Samuel acknowledged.
“I’m going to keep you on the line,” said the boss. Then he heard her say, obviously into her cell phone, “Flash, where are you? In the middle of something?”
That’s right, Travis thought. Fire Station Eight isn’t far from here.
“Just fueling up between emergencies,” he heard over the air. “Whatcha need, babe?”
“Our suspect is fleeing officers in your area. Can you get clearance to use Engine Eight for a roadblock?”
“Sure! Already asking dispatch. Where do you want me?” Flash sounded far too enthusiastic.
“I don’t know yet,” Bouvier said. “Just head toward the east side of I-69. We don’t want him getting on the freeway.”
“Yes, sir, Assistant Special Agent in Charge! On our way.”
“Where’s he headed now?”
Travis heard Agent Paulson say, “If they were in a company car, we could be tracking them.”
“He just hooked a right on Brady,” Samuel answered. “A tree’s down ahead—orange sawhorse and cones blocking the street.”
The Rubicon’s beefy all-terrain tires clawed through the churned slush, steadily shaving feet from Mora’s lead.
When the white compact pickup whipped to the left at the next intersection, its rear quarter clipped a mound of dirty snow, bursting it into clods of ice.
Gray slush sheeted across the Jeep’s windshield.
The world disappeared beyond the frantic sweep of the wipers.
For two terrifying seconds, Travis was driving blind.
He eased off the accelerator, lest he hit something—or someone.
As the wipers cleared the glass, the white GMC swam back into view a block ahead.
Samuel reported into his phone. “He’s just turned left, heading toward Canal Street.”
A car, half-buried in snow, pulled out of a driveway no more than ten yards ahead of them.
The ABS light blinked as the Jeep shuddered under hard braking.
Travis’s heart skipped a beat. The wheels kept sliding as he swerved around the clueless driver.
He eased off the brake just enough to steer, slipping past the car with inches to spare.
The warning light faded. His pulse returned to normal.
Travis wanted to yell at the driver, “Watch where you’re going,” but didn’t bother. Such instructions were futile, and he couldn’t spare his energy on needless anger.
“Left on Canal Street,” Samuel said.
“That runs into Navigation Boulevard,” Bouvier said. “From there he could use Chartres or Runnels to access I-69.”
“Not if I block him off at Navigation,” came Flash’s voice over the open lines.
Travis held a steady grip on the wheel, focusing on Mora’s pickup without losing awareness of everything around it.
The little truck’s rear wheels spun through a slushy intersection, letting the Jeep close another car length.
But he couldn’t drive too fast and risk an accident.
The whir of police sirens grew closer. Mora started to hook the next right, then swerved back onto Canal as the black-and-white blocked his way.
Travis stayed with him, and the patrol car fell in behind the Jeep.
Ahead, an electric company vehicle took up most of the thoroughfare, its bucket boom raised, workers in yellow reflective vests tromping around it.
The workers scattered as Mora blasted through the work zone.
His brake lights flashed as he took the next right into a residential area.
One of Travis’s tires broke loose on a glazed patch.
The steering twitched in his hands as the Jeep climbed out of the traffic-worn ruts and onto the less-traveled side street.
“I think he’s taking the scenic route to Navigation Boulevard,” Travis said after a tense few seconds regaining control of his vehicle.
“I know just where he’s going,” Flash said. “There’s a crazy roundabout up there, lots of accident calls. Houston drivers don’t know what to think of that thing. Don’t worry. Engine Eight can seal off his side of the traffic circle.”
“You hear that, traffic division?” Bach said. “Funnel the white GMC down Navigation into that roundabout.”