Chapter 4 #2
“Connected to violent drunks like Benny the Hulk?” Matt sets aside his broom and begins the task of cutting lemons and limes for tonight’s rush. Surely there’s still glass on the floor, but he seems content to keep me company.
“Drunks, hooligans with spray paint.”
“The odd meth dealer.”
“Exactly. Upstanding citizens.”
Matt smirks, showing off those dimples.
“What about you? How are things?”
“Same old shit. Cameras are smashed, staff keep calling in sick … my car’s bleeding my wallet dry, in and out of the shop every other week.”
“Maybe it’s time to bench her permanently.” The last time I saw that old mint-green Honda, the back bumper was only still affixed thanks to a generous helping of duct tape.
“Hell no! She’s my little beater. Been with me through thick and thin.”
I chuckle. “Good thing you’ve got that truck.
” It’s hard to miss Matt’s white Toyota Tundra around town, with its lifted suspension and oversized tires.
“Getting time in at the lake?” He’s shown me pictures of his off-grid cabin built on an acre island on Lake Temagami, a little over an hour southwest of here and one of my favorite places to go in the summer.
“Not as much as I’d like.”
The sound of shoes shuffling across wood pulls my attention to my left. My face bursts with a wide, genuine smile as the white-haired man approaches, pint in hand. “Sergeant Malkovich.”
“Good afternoon, Staff Sergeant McAllister.” Stan’s cheeks are rosy. I’d wager he’s been here a few hours. “Bravo on handling Big Benny. I was worried I’d have to step in.”
Stan must be in his early seventies. That would not have ended well.
“I haven’t seen you at the station in a while.
Everyone misses Barb’s cookies.” Stan retired before my father died and I came over to run the detachment, but we could always count on him to show up with a platter of his wife’s baking and an itch for police gossip.
“I’ve been meaning to, but her arthritis has been acting up. Not that I don’t have my own aches and pains these days.” He shrugs, holding up his pint. “Taking my medicine.”
He wouldn’t be the first person I know to search for release from life’s challenges at the bottom of a bottle. “And the little ones? How many are there now?”
“Five grandchildren.”
I whistle.
“And they’re not little anymore. They grow up fast. But you know that. How’s Isla?”
I check my watch. “Likely sitting in a penalty box.”
“Just like her feisty mother.” He chuckles, but it falls off with a frown. “Say, I heard the Landry boy was finally comin’ home.”
And so it begins. “Got in early today, actually. How’d you hear about it?”
“Wilcox.”
Another retired officer with too much time on his hands and a lot of friends still on the force.
Stan scratches his chin. “So, what do you make of him? He gonna be a problem?”
“Doubt it, but we’ll see. Thought I’d give him a minute before I showed up there. I’ve gotta get back to station—”
“I’ll bet Annie’s pleased as punch,” Stan goes on, not taking the hint.
“Who we talkin’ about?” Matt butts in.
“The Landrys,” Stan offers. “Holt’s youngest son.”
“Holt Landry has a son?” Matt frowns. “I’ve only ever seen him with Jon.”
“Matt’s not from around here,” I remind the old officer.
Stan’s eyes light up. He’s always enjoyed telling tales from the past, even the morbid ones.
“He had two sons.” He holds up his index and middle finger to emphasize his claim.
“Logan’s been in prison, and Jason was shot dead, along with one of the Murphys.
You’ve probably heard that name. They might as well have a reserved cell, the number of times we brought them in.
Most of ’em don’t have murder in them, but Ian Murphy got in with bad folk.
” Stan’s bushy white eyebrows arch in meaning.
Matt cocks his head at me. “How have I not heard this story?”
“I have no idea.” Matt works the bar almost every day. That the Landrys’ dirty laundry hasn’t been aired before him yet is surprising, to say the least. Then again, it was a long time ago.
“Jason was the oldest,” Stan goes on. “By how much, Emery?”
“Can’t recall.” Five years, but I’m not about to play fill-in-the-blank.
“I reckon four or five years, seeing as Annie lost a baby after him, and then they had Sarah and Logan.”
Leave it to Stan to remember the minute details. Dad always did say he was one of his sharpest officers, simply because he could count on him to note the color of someone’s mittens. I’m glad age and a dependence on booze haven’t robbed him of that yet.
“That boy, Jason, he was always a bit of a wild card.” Stan shakes his head in dismay.
“I caught him myself once, liftin’ chips from the Beckers when he was, oh, maybe ten?
You should have seen Holt’s face when I dropped him off.
No doubt he whipped him good. Guess it didn’t sink in, though, and then he went and corrupted his little brother. ”
“Logan was not involved with that crowd,” I counter evenly. He hated Ian.
“In any case, sure picked a bad night to get mixed up with it.”
“That, he did.” How he ever could have been so stupid …
“So, what happened, exactly?” Matt has abandoned his paring knife and lemon, giving up all semblance of work.
The last thing I want to do is fuel the rumor mill. “They were pulled over for a traffic violation. Swerving, I think it was. But they had guns and drugs in their truck and things went sideways fast.”
“Stuff that came off a plane flying over from Manitoulin,” Stan jumps in. “They traced the guns to the US. Likely brought over on a boat from Drummond Island in Michigan.”
“Cross border.” Matt whistles. “That’s big time.”
The retired officer sets his pint on the counter and drops onto the stool, getting comfortable.
“Ian shot and killed Officers Whitley and Combs, but not before Combs fired a round, taking him down. The Landry boys were set to run, but Whitley had called for backup before lighting up and the platoon sergeant arrived then. More bullets flew and Jason Landry took one here.” Stan taps on his own chest, over his heart.
“Died straight away. Logan was left holding the bag. Or the gun, I should say.”
Matt’s interest is riveted. “And this cop killer’s back in Cold River now?”
“As of this—”
“Logan didn’t kill any cops,” I interrupt.
He didn’t even aim at them. Jay shoved a gun into his hand, pushed him out of the truck, and screamed at him to run.
Logan panicked when bullets started flying and fired two rounds aimlessly into the dark before tossing the weapon and putting his hands in the air.
Stan shrugs. “It didn’t matter much. Two cops died, they had a truck full of contraband, and someone had to pay the piper.”
That night still plays in my mind sometimes, as does the day after.
Holt and Annie sat in our kitchen, Holt demanding information from my father that he couldn’t give, Annie sobbing on my mother’s shoulder, switching between insisting that the police had it all wrong and asking where she went wrong.
I was in shock and angry. At first, I didn’t believe anything being said. Logan meant so much to me. But then all I could think about was what if it’d been my father who pulled them over that night? Would he have been lying in a morgue?
Logan paid, all right. The crimes had all the ingredients for a steep sentence.
Luckily for him, the Crown agreed to manslaughter, but there was no ignoring all the other felonies committed that night, or the residue on his hand to prove he’d fired a gun in a situation that left two officers dead.
No matter what, he was doing hard time. The judge gave him twenty years.
I nearly threw up when I heard that number, when my father explained what it meant.
The likelihood of early parole was fleeting—parole boards don’t like granting it when cops die.
Maybe Logan would have gotten it, though, if not for an altercation with a prisoner about six years into his sentence that left the other guy beaten half to death.
Logan pled self-defense and the shank they removed from his rib cage lent its weight, but not enough to escape another eight years added.
Something has always told me there’s more to that story. Or maybe it’s just me resisting the truth that the boy I knew is gone forever.
“Damn.” Matt dumps the citrus drink fixings into a container. “I always thought the Landrys were good people.”
“They are good people,” I retort, sharper than intended. That was the first place Cold River folks went for years. Both boys turning out like that? Must have been how they were raised.
Matt lifts his hands in surrender.
I temper my tone. “I can’t explain why Jay would get himself mixed up with Ian, and I sure as hell can’t make sense of how Logan was stupid enough to do what he did.
” Maybe I’ll get an answer straight from the source one day.
He’s had plenty of time to ponder where he went wrong.
“Listen, it’s been great catching up. I’ve got paperwork to do before I call it a day. ”
“Good to see you again, Emery. I’m sure Barb’ll be up to making a batch of her oatmeal raisin cookies again soon.
” Stan sets his empty glass on the counter with a thud.
“My advice? Best you take a gander, sooner rather than later. Make sure he knows he’s bein’ watched by more than just his parole officer. ”
I bite my tongue against the urge to remind Stan that I run the detachment and I don’t need instruction. “Have a good night, boys. Try not to overserve again, huh, Matty?”
He grins. “Come on back for that drink on the house.”
“Yeah, we’ll see.” The only place I’m going tonight is home to hide.