Book Three: Part 6 - Facing Evil - Chapter 9
Wednesday – December 28th – 8:39 a.m.
The Squad Room
“Let’s get out there and stay safe and keep our streets safe.”
She no sooner said those words when her phone rang. It was Ed.
“What’s up?”
“There’s a delivery guy here waiting for you to sign a release form for a check.”
“On my way.”
Money may not grow on trees, but paper is made from wood, and so are checks.
Close enough.
The Ramada Inn – 9:45 a.m.
Daniel Watson packed his overnight bag, went to the Inn’s lobby and helped himself to the free breakfast bar.
He was getting a late start to his day, but for the moment he would enjoy the moment. Before his eyes were several carafes of coffee, two pitchers of orange juice (not freshly squeezed), a plate filled with (store bought) doughnuts, and corn flakes with small cartons of milk sitting on ice (already half melted).
He settled for coffee, juice and two sugar doughnuts. Ten minutes later, he was walking toward his car when he decided to call the office to insure Alan Harper knew he followed through with Lieutenant Baker. Once he was satisfied, he slid behind the driver’s wheel, buckled himself in, placed the key in the ignition and started his car. He then backed out of his parking space and headed for the exit that would get him onto Highway 60.
Not more than a quarter-mile up the road, a semi-tractor trailer jumped lanes and before Daniel could react in time (which would have been impossible); his life burst into flames. He died instantly.
Just goes to show two things. Stick to the original schedule, and not everyone can enjoy the holidays.
The Lazy Rest Inn
Two Rooms – 10:19 a.m.
Reid fished his way through the phone book for all the Marsh’s listed. He found twenty-six. He eliminated all but seven because of the first name, or the initial: F.
He called each one. One disconnected. Two no answers. The next three were not home.
Number seven hit pay dirt when he heard the answering machine kick in.
“We are unavailable right now. If you wish to speak with Jean, you can call her at the city courthouse. If you want to talk to me, I can be reached at 507-998-6347. Otherwise, leave a message. We will get back with you.”
Reid knew this was the Frank he was after, and wrote down the 507 number, and copied down the address listed in the phone book. Now was a good as time as any to take a drive to Frank’s house just to check things out.
10:35 a.m.
Freddy peered out his window, watching the black man get into his car and drive away. He didn’t like the idea of having someone in a room next to him, but it looked like he would have his wish again.
Freddy always played his cards close to the vest. Opening one of his duffel bags (he always carried two with him), he pulled out his surveillance bugs, and without anyone noticing, he slipped into Reid’s room, left the audio mics in two places. If the man didn’t return, he would simply go back, remove the mics and no one would be the wiser.
Staying a step ahead of people is what has kept him out of prison, but more importantly, alive, and able to maintain the work he does. But prison was always a small box in his head. He had no plans of seeing the inside of another one, ever.
11:58 a.m.
He did the speed limit on Monroe Avenue; the street where Frank and Jean Marsh live. Reid wasn’t taking any unreasonable chances.
“Nice digs, Frankie, real nice. Bet you got some expensive things on the other side of those walls.
“Walls. Bet you forgot about the walls, and me, Frankie. But not too worry, my man, I’m good at reminding people. I’m good at a lot of things.”
Without being obvious, he drove the speed-limit, catching glimpses of the house and the neighborhood. Nothing indicated Frank had young kids living at home.
“I think he said he had four kids. Three boys and a girl. Maybe they are all grown up or married. Maybe at work or in college. Hell, it was a few years back when Frankie talked to me about his family. Shit, it’s the fuckin’ holidays. No telling where anyone is.”
As he made his way back for another pass at the house, life began to bristle as he saw a purple Beemer (had to be a woman) pull into the driveway, and out popped and older woman from the driver side, and from the passenger side, a youngish-looking girl, maybe twenty, but no older, opened a sliding door, and out popped a small boy no more than three or four. He grabbed the young girl’s hand.
Reid didn’t see anything else as he drove by, but what he saw was enough.