While Others Sleep

Before he turned into something from the Ice Age, Blade directed his weary self into the pea-green bathroom in search of a revitalizing hot shower.

Minutes later, in the fifties-style white-and-black-tiled kitchen, he put on water for coffee. Dressed in worn jeans and a black sweatshirt, he dragged on boots, preparing to feed his raucous wake-up service. But as he approached the door, he locked gazes with the four-legged squatter who’d arrived between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Blade suspected people who expected Santa to bring them a cute, cuddly puppy had dumped the beast in the country.

The brindled behemoth was neither cute nor cuddly, and when it growled, it sounded like gargling. Glaring at him out of one topaz eye, it peered through the window of the kitchen door, then launched itself into the air, leaping onto the picnic table, causing the dilapidated remains of rotting redwood to groan as it teetered.

Issuing his own throaty response, Blade back-tracked and hoisted the fifty-pound sack of dog food from the pantry. “Shit,” he muttered at its depleted weight. It was only Wednesday and it was already half empty. He’d bought the stuff over the weekend.

As he emerged from the house, the dog greeted him by throwing back his basketball-size head and making another of those drowning growls. Then he shook his head, shooting mucus from his flapping jowls like skeet at a firing range.

Blade tried to duck behind the bag. “You ugly piece of—knock it off!”

Once the assault was over, he slammed the bag on the patio and folded back the top until the crunchy pellets were exposed. “There. The Four Seasons Special of the Day. Knock yourself out.”

Circling to the back of the house, Blade opened the vinyl garbage can and picked up the other fifty-pound sack—almost as depleted—of birdseed and filled the two feeders at opposite sides of the unfenced yard. Returning to the kitchen, he gave the mutt a wide berth, but even with its head thrust inside the sack, the dog growled.

Once back in the kitchen, Blade removed the .9 mm stuck in the back of his jeans and set it on the counter. He hoped not to need the weapon out here—the animal seemed to be repaying his kindness by acting as a self-proclaimed security guard—but he wasn’t big on trust. It was misplaced trust and bad judgment that had landed him here in the first place.

His coffee ready, he turned on the TV and sipped the scalding liquid while waiting for the static and snow to clear. As he eyed the date on the calendar, Blade realized yesterday had been a childhood friend’s birthday.

“—We now join Troy Boreman at Longview High,” the no-nonsense news anchor began. “Troy, what’s the latest there? Have any of the students come forward to add new information on Stacie Holms?”

The reporter in the windbreaker shrunk deeper into his thin jacket. “Carmen, as you can imagine, students and staff remain in shock. These kids went home yesterday focused on their basketball team’s division play-off chances, and possible spring break excursions for the seniors. This morning those same seniors have been hit with the tragic reality that one of their own will not be graduating with them in May.

“From those I’ve spoken to so far,” the reporter continued, “eighteen-year-old Stacie Holms was a quiet girl who, while not part of the sports or academic scene, had a close circle of friends. We’re hoping to speak with them later.”

“Troy, are the police on the premises to ensure the students’ safety, since we don’t know why this terrible thing happened?”

“As you can see behind me, Carmen, police presence is strong—here for crowd control as much as for safety concerns. But as you know, the school already has a full-time member of the LPD based here, as does each of the middle schools—part of the department’s proactive methods of law enforcement.”

Nodding, Carmen murmured, “Good report, Troy. Keep in touch.”

Blade switched off the TV and leaned back against the counter to finish his coffee, and to think. Ordinarily, he didn’t pay much attention to the juvie stuff. Tough as this episode was, it didn’t compare to the number of lives snuffed out daily where he came from due to poverty, drugs, gang activity and plain old domestic violence. Kids here tended to die from sports accidents or from reckless or drunken driving. And yet he had been aware of Stacie Holms and her group for a while now; in fact, he’d seen them earlier last evening.

The teens were memorable, what the good old boys called “show ponies”—miles of hair and makeup as expertly applied as any runway model’s, their nubile bodies shown off to distraction by skin-tight jeans and T-shirts. The middle-class Four Musketeers were regulars at Point East, a pizza-and-pool joint off Highway 80 frequented by an older crowd. The girls’ bravado and serious approach to the game of pool made them seem older, allowing the manager to give them an occasional break. They were good for business, inducing male customers to linger, which meant the booze flowed and the cash register sang.

Blade had been increasingly aware of them as the group’s apparent leader, Ashley, started spending more time flirting with a piece of bad news on his list. Luckily, bartender-manager, Truitt Hurley chased the kids out by 11:00 p.m.—earlier if he caught them trying to steal or sneak the harder stuff. Last night they stayed on the restaurant side and left immediately after dinner. Blade figured they’d heard about the bad weather due in from Dallas and decided to play it smart and dash for home. Now he wondered.

By the time he rinsed the mug and reclaimed the sack of dog food from the homesteading mongrel, Blade knew what he needed to do. It was time to see what people at HQ were saying. Daylight, however, was no friend.

Lieutenant Scott McBrill, the District C night patrol watch commander, and his boss, would be long gone by now. Day Command was handled by District A on the north side of town. Blade didn’t have much use for their lieutenant, aka Mr. Hollywood, but he doubted Ted Glass knew he existed. On the other hand, at 2:00 p.m. command transferred to District B in the heart of the city. That shift continued until 10:00 p.m. and was under Lieutenant Gene Poteet, who did know him and who saw Blade as a way to climb over McBrill promotion-wise. Blade would detour entire neighborhoods to stay out of Poteet’s reach.

Everything in the LPD was portioned into threes. The three districts were also divided into three patrol beats: 10, 20, 30 for A, 40, 50, 60 for B, and 70, 80 and 90 for C. The theory was that neighborhoods should get to know the officers watching over them and vice versa. It was an inspiring and ambitious attempt to reestablish the nostalgia of the foot cop of days gone by. Blade supposed it was working in the outer neighborhoods fairly well, where some officers actually lived around the people they protected. But undercutting that were the major highways running through the south and east sides, bringing traffic that inevitably chiseled away at the community’s stability.

Minutes later, he backed a dusty, two-tone brown pickup out from behind the detached garage. The rusting eighties-model Ford was his camouflage, so common in the rural south that it passed virtually unnoticed on the streets. Exactly what Blade wanted when he had to leave his hideout without the cover of darkness.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into the rear of District C station. Taking no chances, he passed empty spots near the doors and parked behind a couple of transport vans, opting for exercise and caution over convenience.

Like his truck, his clothes offered a chameleon’s protection. Gone was the look-at-me leather jacket, the macho gold necklace and scuffed Tony Lamas. For this trip he wore his oldest jeans with the ragged hems, a plaid flannel shirt that had never seen an iron and that was left open over a ripped undershirt. Add the cheap athletic shoes, and he could pass for any poor yokel trying to figure out where the city had towed his wreck, or hoping a stolen trailer had, indeed, been found. With the excess gel showered away, his overgrown black hair fell low over his brow, another way to alter the shape of his face and avoid eye contact. Blade tried not to expose his eyes, aware their near aqua color were his most distinguishable feature; however, there were times when wearing shades drew more attention, and visiting a police station was one of them.

“Hey.”

His gaze first locked on black leather loafers. Glancing up, he saw a pair of tan Dockers, a navy sports jacket with a matching tie over a blue shirt. He met the wary scrutiny of Detective Alan Lefevre. Fair-skinned and blond-haired, the cop always appeared slightly sickly under fluorescent lights. While no friend, Blade had helped him solve a few cases—a significant one only last month.

“Slow morning?” he replied. “You’re usually out hustling by now.”

“One of my cases is going to trial today,” Lefevre replied.

“That explains the conservative attire.” Usually a flashy dresser, today Lefevre could pass for a discount department store manager.

“The defendant is Sonny Lykstra, the asshole who raped and murdered his ex-girlfriend’s daughter. I’m not taking any chances on this case. You got something for me?”

“When was I designated your personal bloodhound?”

“You said you had a lead on Longo.”

Ferrell Longo was another rotten apple in a depressingly bottomless barrel. “His name has come up a few times. If the roach crosses my path, I’ll step on him for you. I’m here to talk to Snow.”

“He’s out in the field.”

Probably interviewing the Holms family, Blade guessed. Since the hallway remained empty, he lingered. “What’s the consensus about the kid found shot last night?”

“They’re looking for a boyfriend, though they haven’t discounted an attempted carjacking. Depends what all comes up on the computer from the fingerprints lifted off the vehicle.”

The rain would have hurt there, but forensics should have something from the interior already. Either Lefevre didn’t know what or didn’t care, not being the case detective.

“Stacie Holms had a record.”

Although annoyed by the cop’s smug expression, Blade encouraged him with a lift of his eyebrows.

“Let me think what they said in this morning’s meeting…two misdemeanors and a felony. Shoplifting and vandalizing private property.”

As bad as the shoplifting was, it didn’t interest Blade. The vandalizing was another matter. He would bet anything it was the most recent charge; the question was, had it been a prank that got out of hand, or an escalation of violent tendencies? “How long ago?” he asked.

“I forget. Before Labor Day last year. My head is swimming with dates thanks to those goddamn lawyers. Snow did say the felony involved messing up some guy’s boat.” He snickered and his face grew flushed. “Little bitches must have downed a case of beer beforehand to do that kind of damage, if you catch my drift.”

Blade figured he might eat something after leaving here, so he chose not to ask for details. Still, stupid stunts were a far cry from murder.

A patrolman who used to work the night shift passed and shot him a condescending look. Blade decided it was time to move to a less-visible location. “Thanks for the update. If I can’t see Snow, I’ve gotta find a lonesome computer.”

As he began to pass, Lefevre asked, “Are you sure you don’t have anything for me?”

“Let me use your machine for five minutes and I might remember something.”

Lefevre swore. “You’d charge your own mother for toilet paper.” But he gestured for Blade to enter his office.

By the time he closed the door, Blade was sitting behind the detective’s desk and typing in Lefevre’s password.

“Feel free to help yourself,” the detective muttered.

“Just thought I’d save us both time.”

“I’m gonna change my password and then you’ll show more respect.”

“I doubt it.”

Lefevre pushed at a cuticle with his thumbnail. “Don’t be too sure. Even you may find yourself needing backup one day.”

“Not likely. Just tell the EMTs to bring an extra body bag.”

The cop’s taunting eyes lost their competitive gleam. “Doesn’t anything hit a nerve, Blade?”

“Not anymore. Relax, Lefevre. That also means I don’t have any plans to challenge you for lieutenant.”

“Like you’d stand a chance.”

Lefevre seemed buoyed by the reassurance, but already bored with the conversation, Blade was glad when the newest homicide file came up on the screen. “Stacie Rayann Holms. Born—an Aquarius. Figures.”

“You believe in that crap?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Then why did you—” The detective swore again. “You complain about wasting time. I don’t know why I bother with you.”

“Because having an extra pair of eyes and ears on the street pays off. Or have you convinced yourself that you found that murdering swine Pollard on your own?”

“Okay, okay. Why don’t you find me the Brown brothers instead of sticking your nose in this,” Lefevre said, nodding to the computer. “I suspect Snow will bring in her murderer before you hit the streets tonight.”

Blade barely heard him; he was absorbing new data on the deceased. “This could be interesting…there’s a father but no mother.”

“So? Maybe she’s dead.”

Possibly. Knowing for sure would shed some light on the situation. For instance, her car wasn’t something a father would buy a daughter when he was constantly being called down to the police station to pick her up. Had he been generous because she’d achieved good grades and had straightened up her act—at least at school—or was it to cover his own neglect? Or some abuse? The kid had managed to amass five speeding tickets since receiving the car, three of them remained unpaid. Blade didn’t like the vibes that came along with this information.

He also learned a .380 casing had been removed from the car. The initial consensus was that Stacie had exhibited little resistance to her attacker, but the autopsy report would confirm or refute that. At the moment, though, it did suggest she had known her killer, which would encourage Snow to grill her family, as well as her closest circle of friends. Or, could be that she’d picked up someone else after she dropped off the other girls.

“Come on, Blade, give me a break,” Lefevre said, checking his watch. “I’m due in court at one-thirty and I have to stop at the hospital for one of my own investigations, not to mention grab something to eat.”

Deciding he had the few facts available at the moment, Blade exited the file and the program and thought about what lay ahead. The other three of the Four Musketeers’ DNA had to be all over the car, making evidence analysis tedious for Forensics. And for Snow also, since it was logical to assume if Stacie had a record, they did, too. What a media field day this would turn into—kids who reject and rebel against society.

Preoccupied, he followed Lefevre out of the building. They were at the second set of glass exit doors when the detective suddenly swore, punched them open, and raced across the parking lot. As he slammed his hand on the Cody Security SUV, Blade ducked his head and quickly veered right until he was hidden behind a van.

Had he been spotted?

His concern proved unnecessary. Glancing around the van, he saw that Ms. Cody Security had her hands full with Lefevre.

“What’re you doing here?” the detective demanded.

8

Nuts, Campbell thought. She’d known this trip would be risky, that’s why she had arranged to wait out here. But to be caught so fast…

One of the few friends she had left in the LPD had been transferred to District C. Campbell hoped she could convince her to share what was known regarding Stacie Holms. She thought it would help her work with the Saunders family. Politics. Networking. She hated everything that stood for, but it was the technique du jour and it was her only other brainstorm since Bryce Tyndell remained WU like Maida—whereabouts unknown in Cody speak—having yet to show up at the office or to respond to her page.

She’d changed for this meeting thinking she would meet her friend at the mall, and wore the typical shopper attire—jeans, T-shirt and jogging shoes. Then she learned Taneeka’s car was being serviced and she would have to pick her up at the station. Campbell had hoped to meet her in the back parking area where there were few windows and fewer vehicles, but it was impossible to hide her Cody Security vehicle—especially from someone like the cop charging across the parking lot.

“I said hold it!”

Intimidating as Lefevre’s voice could be, it was the hard slap on the truck’s hood that had Campbell hitting the brakes. With sickly certainty, she knew her streak of bad luck had yet to change.

Detective Alan Lefevre stepped over to the driver’s window. All she knew of the big-boned and loudmouthed detective was that he’d been Greg’s distant relation through marriage. The scene he’d caused at Greg’s funeral made him a permanent part of that bad dream. Of all the people to run into…

“I said, why are you here?” he demanded.

“That’s none of your business.”

“You? On these premises? Guess again.”

She had a choice—create a bigger scene or cut her losses and opt for a hasty retreat. As loud as he was, if she drug this out, they were bound to attract an audience. Yet she didn’t quit easily.

“I don’t want any trouble. Five minutes is all I need.”

“To do what? Everyone knows you have an ax to grind.”

“If I did, I’d be at District B.”

“We’ve had transfers and realignments, something I suspect you know.”

She refused to respond to that. Getting a friend in trouble wasn’t an option, and accepting that she’d made a mistake in coming here, she let off the brake and jammed her foot onto the accelerator.

The launch into street traffic was almost as unnerving as running into Lefevre, and she barely missed a FedEx truck while, in her rearview mirror, she saw smoke rising as a minivan struggled not to rear-end her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, gripping the steering wheel. “I’m sorry!”

Damn Lefevre. How was she supposed to know he’d been transferred? What were the odds that he would be leaving the building as she was arriving?

9

As soon as the coast was clear, Blade joined Lefevre in the parking lot and asked, “What was that all about?”

“You tell me.”

He wasn’t admitting to anything until he had to. “What are you talking about?”

“I can’t decide whether you were hoping she’d shoot me or if you were hiding from her.”

Blade knew better than to respond to either part of that observation. “You know, the less I’m recognized around here the safer it is for everyone.”

“It looked like you were hiding from her.”

“Never met her before. What’s your beef with the woman anyway?” He knew Lefevre usually salivated over the long-legged type, and Ms. Cody Security had the figure to be a Las Vegas showgirl.

Beneath his neatly trimmed mustache, Lefevre’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “Campbell Cody is poison. Got one of our guys killed—her partner. My wife’s stepbrother. It happened a short while before you arrived, though people talk about it even today.”

“Now that you mention it, I do remember hearing something.” But back then he’d been preoccupied with his own misery, and with learning a new job. What intrigued him was the intensity of Lefevre’s anger. Maybe Campbell Cody deserved it, but for someone who didn’t work too hard at hiding that he cheated on his wife, Alan Lefevre seemed somewhat overzealous. “So, she was a cop?”

“Please. More like a bitch with a gun. Greg found out the hard way.”

“Her partner?”

“Yeah, Greg Gerrard.”

“What happened?”

“She didn’t watch his back when she should have. She turned chicken, that’s what she did. Talks a tough game, but I wouldn’t trust her to cover my ass against a toddler with a water pistol.”

Blade thought about last night. She’d seemed pretty dedicated to him. “Why do you suppose she was here? If she knows she’s not welcome, she took a big risk.”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out. Only—” he checked his watch and made a face “—not now.”

“Yeah, I have to get moving, too.”

“You owe me.”

Lefevre pointed a finger at him as though punctuating the statement made it written in stone. Blade merely raised his hand, letting him wonder if the gesture signaled an agreement or farewell. It didn’t matter; the detective was in his issued sedan and gunning the engine. Seconds later, with tires spinning on the still-damp asphalt, he pulled into traffic and sped away.

Grateful for the reprieve from the inquisition, Blade started for his truck, only to see a white SUV with a light bar on top pull around the corner of the building. Impressed with Campbell Cody’s nerve, Blade ducked behind the van nearest his truck and watched her pause while a young African-American woman in uniform ran out of the building and got into her truck.

10

As the petite officer hurried around the front of the truck and climbed in on the passenger’s side of the SUV, Campbell watched for onlookers. Visibility on this side of the building was minimal, but she thought she’d glimpsed movement by a van parked a few vehicles away. Right then a sheet of cardboard came tumbling across the asphalt and she decided it must have been debris tossed by the wind that spooked her. Even so, the instant she heard the passenger door slam she hit the accelerator.

“I thought I’d missed you.” Taneeka Rawley shivered and stretched her hands toward the vents blowing warm air. She wore no jacket over her uniform, exposing her elegant neck and delicate ears to the bitter bite of the wind. “I saw Romeo confronting you and hoped you wouldn’t be so rattled that you wouldn’t circle the block and try again. That’s why I didn’t take time to dash back to my office and grab my jacket.”

Campbell flipped the fan to high, then darted across traffic to head in the opposite direction of where Lefevre had gone. “Sorry about that.” She remained shaken from the experience, and resentful that Lefevre thought he had a right to confront her. “I should have known that oversexed yahoo wasn’t out doing what they pay him to do.”

“At least his taste in his victims is improving,” Taneeka said with a wicked grin. “I swear, I don’t know how his wife stands him.”

“Who knows that she does?” Campbell had met Beverly Lefevre once at a baby shower for another of Greg’s relations. She wanted to believe the attractive and intelligent woman, who worked in a commercial bank’s trust department, was too smart to be easily conned for too long. “Maybe she’s the city’s next time bomb. People like Lefevre always think they’re immune from repercussions, especially when it comes to paying for their behavior.”

“Campbell…I would have come to you sooner if you’d given the word. I do know where your office is.”

Despite the gentle tone, Taneeka’s words retained a rebuke for Campbell’s self-isolation. She was one of the few who had the right. They’d met in college and had gone through the academy together.

“You don’t need to be seen there any more than I needed to be spotted by someone from our old division,” Campbell replied. “It’s enough to have to drive this thing.”

“Remember our first year on the force and the guy who asked if you were trying to be the Longview version of Dirty Harry?”

“Paulk. His glasses were so thick, I doubt he knew if he was watching Clint Eastwood or Miami Vice.”

“But man, did he know the recipes for explosives. Scary. So where is that sexy car of yours?”

Campbell had a moment of nostalgia over the classic Shelby Mustang that she would wash and wax every week. “In California, or so I was told. I sold it to pay my legal fees. You never want to find out how much money it costs to stop people from trying to suck the last ounce of blood out of you.”

“All the more reason for you to have called.”