When Doubt Creeps In: A Harry Bronson Suspense Thriller Page 4

  “Uh, yeah.” Bronson answered too fast, too soon.

  Carol nodded. “I came to tell you that I’m thinking of inviting Ellen for dinner. She hasn’t met Honey yet, and that’s the reason we’re extending the invitation.”

  “But the real reason is?”

  “I’m concerned about her.”

  Bronson could see that in his wife’s eyes.

  Carol continued, “She’s so worried about Mike. I think the distraction would be good for her.”

  “Excellent idea.”

  Carol turned to leave but stopped without turning around. “I’m also thinking you should go to Mike.”

  Hot diggity-dog. He wouldn’t have to talk her into letting him go. He turned on his casual tone. “You do?”

  She faced him and wrapped her hands around his. “We were going to head up to Canada tomorrow.”

  He nodded. “I remember.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, Canada can wait. I think we should turn this camper around and head back home to Dallas.”

  He planned to go to Dallas, but not with Carol tagging along. “Oh.”

  “I’m also thinking,” Carol continued, “that Ellen will want to come with us.”

  Oh, good grief. Two tag-alongs. “That might create a problem.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m thinking that Ellen and I should drive the motor home, and you fly to Dallas. By the time we get there, Mike will be safe and sound at home anxiously awaiting our arrival.”

  That had been Bronson’s plan all along, but he had been hesitant to approach Carol. The last thing he wanted to do was worry her. He leaned over and kissed her. “As you wish.”

  Carol smiled even though both knew it was his wish. She kissed his lips and walked out.

  As soon as Carol was out of the room, Bronson opened the closet and pushed the clothes to the side, revealing a special fire-proof safe he had installed when they first bought the camper. He entered the right combination, opened the safe, and looked at his favorite Glock. Too bad he couldn’t take it with him. The airlines would not allow that. No big deal, he’d use the one he kept at his house.

  Next to the Glock was a small box. From the box, he took out a driver’s license with his picture but with the name of Alex Bentley. The passport was also made out to Alex Bentley.

  Bronson half-smiled. When he and Mike had finished working that undercover case, Mike had turned in his fake identities. So had Bronson, but Bronson found a way to get them back. When Mike found what Bronson had done, Mike was furious. Bronson had shrugged and told him that it might come in handy one of these days. Looked like now was one of those days.

  11

  The flight home had been an almost all-day affair, and Bronson wished he could speed up time. He knew he couldn’t, so instead, he’d spend the time formulating a plan. Somehow he had to get home. Uber would solve that problem. He checked with the stewardess to make sure it would be okay to use the cell. She assured him it was, and he made the call.

  Once home, he’d take the Mazda and head to the Dallas Police Department. If anybody could lead him to Mike, it would be someone in the department. Who knows? With luck, he’d even spot Mike there.

  The airplane tires hit the runway, and Bronson’s eagerness to get started overwhelmed him. The plane came to a halt, and people started to disembark. Mike, I’m coming, buddy. Be safe. Bronson retrieved his carry-on from the plane’s overhead storage compartment. Here we go.

  * * *

  The Dallas Police precinct looked exactly as Bronson remembered. The same pictures hung on the wall and papers covered every inch of the desks’ surfaces. The same smell of leftover pizza permeated the air, and as before, an air freshener had been used in an attempt to hide the other more offensive odors.

  “Bronson?”

  Shiiit.

  Bronson recognized that voice. He turned to face Chief Kelley, his once upon a time adversary. Kelley was a by-the-books kind of guy. He could not tolerate Bronson’s more liberal ethics, and they had often clashed. Bronson looked him straight in the eye. “Mike tells me you’re the new Chief of Police.”

  Kelley straightened up, like a proud peacock. “What can I say? I made it, and you didn’t.”

  What an idiot. “That’s okay with me.” Bronson raised his hand as though dismissing its importance. “I never wanted it.”

  “That’s the difference between you and me. I have always cared about doing the job correctly.” He spoke a bit louder than usual and scanned the area to make sure everyone heard him.

  Meaning I didn’t? Some things never change. Bronson offered him his hand. “I believe congratulations are due.”

  The chief looked down at the extended hand and up to Bronson’s face. A few seconds elapsed before he accepted Bronson’s hand. “Let’s go talk in my office.”

  As they walked past rows of desks, heads went up. Some people Bronson recognized while others were fresh. Bronson nodded a hello at a few of those he had worked with. Mike was nowhere in sight. He increased his pace and caught up with the chief.

  Chief Kelley closed the door to his office after Bronson stepped in. “Sit.” He pointed to a chair.

  Bronson sat down and squirmed. He was at the principal’s office instead of a former’s co-worker’s working space.

  “Why are you here?” The chief’s tone was as cool as a snake’s skin.

  “I came to see Mike.”

  The chief yanked his glasses off and chewed on the eyepiece. “Hoover?

  Bronson grinned. “The one and only.”

  The chief set the glasses down and swept his hand in a dismissive gesture. “As you can see, you missed him.”

  Bronson bit his tongue to keep from saying the obvious. “Do you know where I can find him?”

  A small smile formed at the edges of the chief’s lips. “He and Detectives de la Rosa, Buchanan, and Epp left yesterday for Hobbs.”

  New Mexico? What was he doing there? Bronson sat up straighter. “I didn’t realize he had already left. How’s he doing?”

  The chief shrugged. “How do you think? His partner is dead, and I’m sure Mike’s blaming himself.”

  Finch dead? How? When? “That’s why I’m worried about Mike. I wanted to talk to him.”

  Chief Kelley leaned back on his chair and stared at Bronson through calculating deep-green eyes. “Are you saying that you haven’t talked to Mike? I thought you two were tight.”

  “We are. That’s why I’m here.” Bronson frowned. “He says he’s fine. I need to see that with my own eyes.”

  “He looks fine, he acts fine, but underneath? You know how that goes. When your partner is brutally murdered, you do everything possible to turn each rock and dig under it, no matter what danger you bring to yourself.”

  The news hit Bronson like a shot below his heart. Finch murdered? Bronson formed fists but kept them hidden from the chief’s view. He put on his poker face and when he spoke, he made sure his voice was devoid of emotion. “I’d like to pay Adela my respects.”

  “You’re too late. She and her son left early yesterday morning. They want to bury Herbert in his beloved state of Michigan.”

  That made sense. Finch had always raved about what a great state Michigan was. “Is the funeral over?”

  “Nope.” The chief leaned back on his chair and looked up at the ceiling. “The body is still at the morgue.”

  “Here in Dallas?”

  Chief Kelley flashed him a look that said How stupid can you get? “Tell me, Bronson, where else would a body be?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to see it.”

  Chief Kelley shot up to his feet, slamming his palm on his desk. “I do mind. You’re a nobody. You left the force, and you’re not even a reporter. Why would I want to do that?”

  Bronson bit his lip as his hands formed fists. “You’re perfectly right.” He bolted to his feet. “I’ll get out of your hair.” Not that there was much of it.

  “You do that.”

  12
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  Bronson closed the door behind him and paused long enough to scan the room. Several familiar faces ignored him or stared at him with either curiosity or animosity. One by one, Bronson dismissed them. He needed to talk to someone about Mike, someone who would tell him the truth and keep his mouth shut about the conversation. But who? Maybe—

  Well, I’ll be. Bronson’s face broke into a wide grin when he spotted Paul McKenzie heading toward him. While Bronson was still working for the department, Paul had been a new intern at the lab. Bronson and Mike had taken him under their wings and Paul blossomed. He was now head of the Forensics Department. Bronson moved toward Paul.

  Paul had gained a few pounds since Bronson had last seen him. He no longer had the young-and-eager look Bronson was familiar with. Instead, the more mature adult look gave him an intensity that surprised Bronson.

  Paul flashed his old friend a pinched smile. The deep crease lines in his forehead and around the eyes told Bronson something had gone wrong. Did this have to do with Mike? Both he and Paul worshiped the man.

  As Bronson increased his pace, his mind spun out of control, like a runaway engine that refused to turn itself off or slow down.

  Bronson and Paul stood face-to-face. Mike?

  Bronson must have uttered the word aloud, as Paul nodded.

  “You still love coffee?” Paul spoke loud enough for those around him to hear.

  “Can’t live without it.”

  “I know the perfect coffee shop. I’ve got to tell you about my wife and kids.”

  Bronson nodded and followed him out.

  * * *

  Bronson ordered a cup of Jamaican Me Crazy. When it arrived, he could smell its rich, fragrant aroma. He could survive by just smelling the fumes. Or maybe not. He needed to taste it. He poured three heaping spoonfuls of sugar and enough milk to drown a cow. He set his cup down next to the manila envelope Paul had brought with him. Bronson sat across from him and noticed that Paul looked as though he was on the verge of throwing up. His sickly green complexion and the constant wetting of his lips told Bronson he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear. “Family okay?”

  Paul nodded. “Or maybe not.” He sipped his coffee. “Do we consider Mike family?”

  “Of course.” And that thought caused Bronson to push his coffee away, its enticing aroma no longer appealing to him. He waited for Paul to speak, but he continued to outline the rim of his coffee cup with his index finger.

  Paul raised his head and looked at Bronson. “How much do you know?”

  “Not much. I just learned Herbert was murdered. Mike and three others are in Hobbs followin’ the trail.”

  Paul drummed the table with his spoon. “It’s worse than that and more complicated.”

  “Tell me about it.” Bronson found it hard to swallow, much less speak.

  “I was on my way to see the chief when I bumped into you. I got four colored 8 X 12 shots of the crime scene.” He opened the envelope, took out the pictures, and slid them over to Bronson.

  Bronson took his time studying each picture. The first one had been taken from a distance. The corpse lay on the ground face down in front of what Bronson assumed had been his car. The passenger door remained open and the headlights were still on, clouding the death scene in an eerie aura.

  The second picture was a similar shot but taken up close. It showed the victim still face down on the ground, probably the way he had been found. For the third picture, someone, more than likely the medic, had rolled Finch over so that now he faced up. The desert had started to take its toll on the body, drying it out and turning it leathery.

  The final picture was a close-up of the chest wound that ended his life. Bronson squinted as he went from picture to picture. “Looks like the perpetrator stood twenty to thirty feet away. I suspect that they knew each other. Why else would Finch step away from the safety of the open door?”

  Paul cast him a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s the problem I’m facing.”

  Bronson reached for his coffee and downed a sip. The smooth, warm liquid did nothing to ease his nerves. “Meanin’?”

  The newly acquired creases around Paul’s mouth deepened. “I feel it was someone Herbert trusted.” He looked down and remained quiet.

  “Continue.”

  Paul retrieved the last of the papers from the envelope. He held on to them as though afraid to show them to Bronson.

  “Are those the autopsy reports?” Bronson flicked his attention between the envelope and Paul who nodded but still didn’t hand him the report. “What’d they say?”

  “Before I answer that, let me start at the beginning.” Paul rubbed his forehead and took a deep breath. “A couple of days ago, I received a package addressed to my home address. Inside was the gun with a simple note that read Is this the gun that killed Finch? I immediately contacted Mark—”

  “Who?”

  “Mark. Mark Forest, a good friend of mine. He works for an agency that has its own ballistic expert. I handed him the gun and he fired it into a bottle of water. While I waited, he compared both bullets striation pattern with the gun I had received. It was a perfect match. I now have the gun that killed Finch.”

  Bronson leaned forward but remained quiet.

  Paul cleared his throat. “I tried tracing the note, trying to find its source so that it’d lead me to the person who sent it. But I met with nothing but a dead end. I haven’t been able to find the source and it looks like I never will.”

  “Tell me about the bullet.” Blood as thick as cement pounded inside Bronson’s head.

  “The bullet … that killed Herbert came from a Glock.”

  “A common police gun, but not exclusively a police gun.” Bronson’s lame statement sounded defensive even to his own ears.

  “True,” Paul said, “except that this bullet came from a gun registered to one of our own.”

  Bronson felt his chest tighten. “Whose gun was it?”

  Paul’s skin paled further. “Mike Hoover’s.”

  Shiiit.

  13

  Long after Paul had left, Bronson remained sitting in the café, his coffee pushed aside and forgotten. Bronson retrieved his notebook and stared at the blank page as his right hand jiggled the press button of the ballpoint pen over and over again. He took a deep breath and began writing.

  Fact: Herbert had apparently been killed by someone he knew and trusted.

  Bronson re-read what he had written. Okay, so it wasn’t a real fact. More like a theory, but a strong theory. He picked up the pen and continued writing.

  Fact: The weapon in question was a Glock.

  Fact: The Glock in question was registered to Mike.

  Fact: Mike had talked to Ellen about leaving the force early as he planned to come across some unexpected money.

  Bronson paused once again. In a court of law, the judge would say it was hearsay. But Bronson knew Ellen and if she said Mike said that, then he did.

  Fact: Mike had vanished from the face of Earth, or at least he wasn’t returning his or Ellen’s calls.

  Fact/Theory: Criminals tend to run. Was Mike on the run?

  Bronson flipped the page of his notebook to a blank page. He wrote: Theory: Mike killed Herbert. Soon as he finished the words, he dropped the pen as if it had burned him.

  Bronson re-read the three words that tormented him.

  Mike … killed… Herbert.

  Mike … killed.

  Bronson massaged his forehead, fighting the burning pain of a migraine. What was he thinking? Mike was not a killer.

  A word was missing between each of those terrifying words.

  Friendship.

  During good weather, friendship floated smoothly. It was easy to accept and give. As soon as the weather turned, that friendship no longer sailed a smooth path. Instead, it encountered bumps and holes that could never be filled. What kind of friend was Bronson?

  He refused to believe what he had heard. Mike, a killer. No, not Mike. There ha
d to be another reason for his actions. When Bronson had first heard the news, an overwhelming jolt of adrenaline and terror gripped him. Had Mike been attacked and that someone had used his gun to kill Finch? Had the police searched the desert for a second body?

  Immediately Paul had calmed Bronson’s nerves. The desert had been thoroughly searched. No second body had been found. “Put your fears aside,” Paul had said. “Mike is alive.”

  Bronson searched Paul’s face for the smallest indication he was lying. He found none. “How do you know that?”

  “The chief told me he had talked to Mike late last night.”

  Bronson had breathed easier but now the doubts crept in. He wrote down: Mike, what’s going on?

  Mike had always been the straight-arrow detective. The one who would never deviate from the rules. What had driven him to cross that line? What had made him run away? Mike, what did you do?

  Bronson faltered. Deep down he knew Mike was innocent. He believed in Mike despite the specks of doubt lurking around. If he remained a doubtful friend, then he might as well be called Enemy.

  And those two words—enemy and Mike—could never be used together.

  But it was Mike’s gun that killed Herbert.

  If Bronson could only share one ounce of sympathy for whatever reason drove Mike to do this, Bronson wouldn’t feel so alone. So empty. If he could scream without anyone hearing him, he would. He took deep breaths, grasping for control. For a fraction of a second, he hated Mike. How could he turn to darkness so easily? How?

  The sun’s rays filtered in through the window, illuminating the small café and filling it with warmth. The bright sun slapped Bronson in the face, forcing him to see circumstances in a different light. Shame smothered him. He buried his face in his hands.

  Mike was his ex-partner, his best friend. His brother. If the shoe were on the other foot, would Mike desert him?

  Someone could have stolen Mike’s gun then used it to kill Herbert. At this point, Mike wouldn’t have been aware that his gun was missing. But now, after so much time had passed, surely Mike would have missed it. If so, why hasn’t he reported the weapon as lost or stolen?