Wolfman is Back Page 5

  I’ll be damned! A protection detail. He decided he’d stay. He off shut the car, grabbed the coffee, and walked toward her house. He looked up and down the street. There wasn’t a soul in sight. When he got to her driveway, he looked around again, then walked up to the front door. He tried the handle —sure enough, locked. He peered into the house through the front door window. The glass was beveled and distorted his view, but it looked like a closet to the right, room with French doors to the left, and a hallway leading to the back of the house.

  He stepped off the porch and made his way around the front of the garage heading to the backyard. The path at the side of the house sloped downward. At the back, the lower level opened to a lawn with a swing set. The sliding doors looked like they’d be easy to open, if needed. He peered through the glass and saw a room filled with kids’ toys. To the right was a set of stairs leading up to a deck. He climbed the stairs. A large window faced the backyard. He could see through to the front door. In front of him was a room with a sofa and stuffed chairs. To the left was the kitchen. In between was a staircase leading upstairs. He smiled—the bedrooms.

  His mind wandered to the fantasy. He could see her climbing the stairs, ass swaying. A flash of light came from the front door, jolting him back to reality. Looking through to the front door, he saw her stepping into the house and closing the door. What the hell? She wasn’t supposed to be back until five at the earliest. Her back was to him. She locked the door, turned, and looked toward the deck. His heart raced and he felt a twinge of panic.

  He bolted across the deck, down the stairs, and tucked himself tight against the house. The door opened and footsteps crossed the deck.

  She must have seen him.

  He imagined her looking to the backyard. She walked to the far side of the deck, then back until she was standing above him. She stood there for what seemed like minutes. In fact, it was only a few seconds, then her footsteps retreated and the door closed.

  He exhaled loudly—he’d been holding his breath. He sprinted across the yard and vaulted the four-foot fence. He didn’t slow or look back but kept running and jumping fences until he was at least a half-dozen houses away. He inched up the side of a house. The gray Crown Victoria was parked in front. She was talking to the cops, her arms flying around, then she pointed into the house. They rushed in. Wolfe walked down the sidewalk to his car, resisting the urge to run.

  In his car, he chastised himself. What the hell had he been thinking, checking out the house? He’d thought she was going to work. Maybe she didn’t work on Fridays. She took the kids to school and her protection followed. Then she came home—alone in the house. He’d have to get into the house when she dropped off the kids and her protection was with her. Perfect.

  Chapter Ten

  Friday Morning

  Brad stopped at Gerry’s for a coffee then drove north. Rather than use city cops to protect Annie, Brad had hired a private security firm that protected oil executives when they traveled to places like the Middle East. They were expensive, but worth it. What’s the point of having money and not spending it?

  His investments were doing great. His financial advisor, Danny, was a classmate from university. Over several years of economics classes, they’d designed an investing strategy that had worked well for over five years. They started investing close to the bottom of the 1973-74 stock market crash. There were plenty of deals to be made. The challenge was knowing which stocks would rebound the quickest. They’d had a few duds, but overall, they were doing fantastic. Danny managed the portfolios now. Brad figured his kids and his grandkids would be able to get good educations without having to work. If the stocks kept going like they were, even his great-grandkids would be set.

  Jenni Blighe had a protection detail provided by the police service. These teams were trained by the RCMP and assisted when the prime minister or other dignitaries were in the city. He turned onto the street that led to Blighe’s house, driving slowly, checking out the homes on each side—a middle-class neighborhood with houses less than ten years old with well-manicured lawns. Overall, a nice location. Blighe’s house was situated on a corner with a pie-shaped yard—narrow front yard with a larger backyard. In front, a short driveway and attached garage.

  A gray Crown Victoria farther down the road caught his eye. Brad drove past and glanced at the occupants. He was surprised to see two men, suits and white shirts, in the car. Jeez, a blind man would know they were cops. Brad drove to a cross street, swung a U-turn and parked behind them. Before Brad opened the car door, the two cops were on their way toward him. Brad rolled down his window.

  One cop stopped at the front of the Firebird, the other walked to his window. “Can I see some ID?”

  Brad passed his badge wallet out the window.

  The cop opened the wallet, glanced at the badge and passed it back. “Can I help you, Detective?”

  “Thought I’d drive by and check the protection on Blighe.”

  “We’ve got that covered, sir. What’s your interest?”

  “I’m on the team hunting for Jeter Wolfe. Anything suspicious around here?”

  “Nothing until this morning.”

  “What happened?”

  “Blighe drove her kids to school. We followed her to the school and back. No incident. She unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Almost immediately she came back out and yelled that there was someone on her deck. We ran in but didn’t see anyone on the deck or in the backyards to either side. We think she saw her reflection in the back window. The sun was in the right position.”

  “Did you check the house?”

  “Of course,” the cop snapped.

  “Why didn’t you check the house before she went in?”

  “Look, Detective, this is what we do, protection. I won’t tell you how to do your job, you don’t tell me how to do mine.”

  Brad held his hands in front of him. “I didn’t mean any offense, just asking. I have another question.”

  “What?”

  “Why are you guys in an obvious cop car and suits?”

  “Our boss thinks it’s best to show Wolfe we’re here. Then it’s less likely he’ll attack. If that’s everything, we need to get back to our job. Maybe you want to do yours and arrest Wolfe.” He turned heel and walked back to his car.

  Brad shook his head. Assholes. Two cops parked out front. That’s it. No one watching the backside of the house. Shit. If Wolfe were here, he’d have figured out the backside was vulnerable. He’d need to talk to Devlin about this.

  Friday Afternoon

  They sat around the table. Brad sipped a Coke. Devlin, chair leaning against the wall, napped. Griffin was marking locations on a map that he thought were likely places Wolfe would try to hide out. Some he’d already crossed out from his searches earlier in the day.

  The door opened. Briscoe walked in and took a seat. He looked around the room. “I’m guessing by the looks around the table you’ve hit a wall.”

  “Yup,” Brad said. “Trying to find Wolfe during the day is useless. The bars are empty, the drug dealers are sleeping, the hookers are sleeping, and the bikers are at work. Well, those who have a job. Do you have something for us?”

  Briscoe shook his head. “I talked to the guys watching Annie yesterday and again today. They haven’t seen anything suspicious. Except for a couple of guys who are interested in her.”

  Brad sat up. “What? Who? Did you run their names? Where do they live?”

  “Relax,” Briscoe said. “You act like her dad. Everything’s cool. And yes, I did check them out. Clean as a whistle. Regular boy scouts. You might want to figure out how you’re going to handle it if she goes on a date. Her protection detail fits in among the students and instructors. On a date, not so much.”

  “Any guy lays a hand on her and he’s dead,” Brad said.

  “I think guys who worry about their daughters on dates were the guys on the prowl in their teens,” Briscoe said. “The young lady’s father had reason to be
worried.”

  Brad looked up. “Screw you.”

  The others laughed.

  “Do you guys have anything?” Briscoe asked.

  Brad told them about the obvious protection of Blighe.

  “That’s one way to do it,” Devlin said. “Not the way I’d do it. It does nothing to help us catch him. All that’ll do is make Wolfe focus on a random target, like he already has. Or the cops will get executed in their car and never see it coming.”

  “Should we get some undercover guys there, just in case?”

  Devlin shook his head. “We don’t have the resources and we’re not at the point where the chief will write a blank check for overtime.”

  “So, we wait until Wolfe strikes again?” Brad said.

  “We’re gonna have to be lucky to catch Wolfe,” Griffin said. “He’s not going to make it easy. He’s likely been sitting in a cell for years perfecting a plan and fantasizing about the women.”

  “Shit,” Briscoe said. “There must be something else we can do?”

  “We’ve got every street cop looking for him,” Devlin said. “We’ve got every undercover cop and detective checking bars, motels, and shelters.”

  “We’re doing all the right things, the by-the-book things,” Brad said. “My gut tells me it won’t be enough. Wolfe’s been quiet for too long.”

  “What do you think he’s gonna do?” Briscoe asked.

  “I don’t know. But it’s gonna be nasty.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Friday Night

  Near midnight, Wolfe parked the Pontiac next to a stand of trees by the MacDonald Bridge. It was an excellent place to meet. No streetlights and the bridge was seldom used. The overcast sky, threatening rain, obscured the moon and stars.

  He’d found the Pontiac in the underground parking of an upscale apartment complex downtown. He unlocked the door in seconds with a coat hanger and hotwired it moments later. There were dozens of underground parking lots in the area. A ready supply of cars whenever he needed a change of ride. He left the beater in a corner parking spot.

  Three days since the hooker. Five days on the run. Wolfe was out of cash and out of options. He knew it was risky contacting Slim Pickens. Two years ago, they were members of the Gypsy Jokers’ Motorcycle Club. There’d been a war with the Satan’s Soldiers for control of the drug and prostitution trade. Pickens was the treasurer, Wolfe the Sergeant at Arms. Pickens, a man he had fought with side by side in the biggest biker war in Canada. The man who had turned against them all and not only stayed out of jail, but became the president of the Calgary chapter of the Hells Angels. Pickens was a traitor and Wolfe would love to kill him, but Wolfe was desperate. Wolfe was begging.

  A dark Lincoln Town Car stopped in front of him. The driver and passenger got out and stood by the front fenders. Wolfe grinned. These two gorillas had been hanging around Pickens for years. Made them feel important, he guessed. Wolfe waved and walked toward them. As he reached the Lincoln, the passenger pounced and slammed Wolfe over the hood of the Lincoln. The driver drove a kidney punch into his side. Waves of pain raced to his brain.

  “What the f—” he managed before a second punch lit up the other kidney. Strong arms secured him while hands quickly and proficiently searched, finding his hunting knife and tossing it away. They spun him around, the men holding his arms tight.

  The back door of the sedan opened and a man in a dark suit approached.

  Wolfe gasped. “Slim.”

  “You stupid ass.” The toe of a hundred-dollar shoe nailed Wolfe in the nuts.

  He doubled over and dropped to the gravel. He gasped for breath. “Slim … what … why?”

  “It’s Jeremy now. Jeremy Pickens. I’m a businessman. I don’t associate with the likes of you. You got my clubhouse raided cuz the cops thought you’d come here. I thought, no, Wolfman isn’t that stupid. Then you call me on the phone.”

  Pickens nodded. A bodyguard’s boot smashed into Wolfe’s ribs.

  “I will say it once only. Stay away from me and my business. Don’t call. Don’t come near me or the clubhouse. Don’t talk about me. You’re dead to me, you rotten piece of shit. The cops are swarming this city looking for you. If I see you again, or find out where you are, I’ll send the boys after you. They’ll cut your balls off and rip out your tongue. Then they’ll kill you.”

  Pickens leaned down and patted Wolfe on the cheek. “Is that clear?”

  Wolfe’s eyes blazed, but he nodded.

  “Good. Now, I am not without some mercy.” Pickens nodded to his driver, who pulled a thick envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Wolfe. “A one-time payment for you to disappear. Go back east. Go to the States. If you stay, next time I see you, you’re dead.”

  Wolfe lay on the ground for several minutes trying to catch his breath, his arms clutched over his bruised ribs. Pain still rocketed up his back from his kidneys and his nuts were on fire. As the pain lessened, his anger raged. He’d see Pickens again and it would end differently. He’d get Pickens alone. It would be a slow, painful death. He’d keep Pickens alive for days. Maybe longer. Wolfe imagined the days of torture. Oh, yeah. It would be sweet.

  He rolled onto his knees, gasping for breath. When the pain subsided, he crawled in the gravel searching for his hunting knife. Then he stood and staggered toward his car.

  He felt the heat rise up his neck. His arteries pulsed in his temples. He was pissed at his situation. Legitimate businessman, my ass. Pickens could wear all the fancy clothes he wanted. He could look like a hotshot with a fancy car, drivers and bodyguards, but he was still a punk.

  Wolfe opened the envelope. Thousands of dollars—maybe five thousand—enough to get him away from this stupid city. Not yet. Not before he had her. Every detail had been planned over two years. He would not be denied. Still not the right time. But the urge was there.

  First, he needed a place to crash for the night. The cops would be checking all hotels, motels, and shelters, so they were out. The Stampede grounds were close. He’d find a place to park for the night. In the morning he’d figure out his next move.

  It was still dark early Saturday morning when he heard the vehicle. He was stiff from the cramped sleep in the car. He sat up and glanced around, trying to remember where he was. An old truck rumbled past and stopped at the last barn. The truck door opened then closed. The lights inside and outside the barn came on. A chick wearing a plaid shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots walked out of the barn and back to the truck. What mattered were the blonde pigtails. She lowered the tailgate, lifted a bag onto her shoulder and walked into the barn. She made several trips. As she picked up another bag, he slipped out of the car.

  Chapter Twelve

  Saturday Morning

  Sergeant Briscoe was counting down the minutes until he was off shift at 0700 hours. The last hour was the hardest. Then the call came in: “Body by the river.”

  He arrived at the same time as the first cruiser and led them down the steep bank to the river where they found a person, upper body tangled in some bushes and legs floating in the river. At first, he thought it was a guy—plaid shirt, jeans bunched up around an ankle, and cowboy boots. A cowboy who got too drunk with the boys and came down here to pee. Then he saw the tangled blonde hair, a pink bracelet, and a small school pinky ring. Female.

  Briscoe called to the cops, “Help me pull her out of the river and onto the jogging path.”

  They gently set her down. Her shirt was open and her bra had been cut off. She wasn’t wearing panties. Her jeans clung to one ankle.

  Briscoe knelt beside the girl and felt for a pulse. “She’s alive!” He lifted his radio. “Dispatch, 401. We’ve got an unconscious female. Tell EMS to put the gas to it!”

  “Roger, 401. EMS should be there in thirty seconds.”

  Briscoe pulled off his duty coat and laid it over her.

  He pointed to one of his cops. “Give me your jacket.” He turned to another cop. Go up the bank and wait for EMS, tell them to bring lots
of blankets, then hustle them down here. The rest of you, keep everyone, especially the press, away.”

  Maggie Gray was the first paramedic down to the river and saw Briscoe. Over the years they’d become friends and had been first responders on some of the most gruesome crimes in the city. She was a hardened veteran now.

  “Hello, Briscoe,” she said. “What do we have?”

  “Hey, Mags. A jogger called about an unconscious person by the river. We found her tangled in the bushes, legs in the river, and we pulled her out. I got a pulse and she’s breathing.”

  Maggie nodded. “Fola, drop the blankets here and run back to the ambulance. Get the spineboard and straps. Leave the stretcher up there but bring some cops back with you to help carry her up the bank to the ambulance.”

  “New guy?” Briscoe asked.

  “Yup. I have my own rookie now. Rick Fola. Good kid.”

  Briscoe glanced over at her. “He looks older than you.”

  “Probably.” Maggie laid a blanket on the ground. Briscoe helped Maggie roll the girl onto the blanket, then Maggie wrapped blankets tight. “She might have been raped.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I figured.” Briscoe keyed his portable radio. “Dispatch, we’ve got an unconscious possible rape victim. Notify sex crimes and you should give homicide a heads up, this may become their case. She don’t look too good.”

  “Roger, 401,” came the response.

  “What kind of animal would do this?” Maggie asked, more to herself than Briscoe.

  “We’re embroiled in an ongoing manhunt for an escaped prisoner,” Briscoe said. “It’s likely he’s responsible for this.”

  “Wolfe?”

  Briscoe’s eyebrows raised. “Sounds like you have been chit-chatting with your roommate.”

  “Brad mentioned it the other morning. He and Devlin are leading the search for Wolfe. He didn’t say much, but he was worried something like this might happen.”