Bram rounded the corner into the alley behind the shops. “Guess that’s the place,” he said, pointing to an open oversized roll-up door. “But why’s it dark?”
No lights were on outside or in the workroom. “Mick told me he’d be on the dock, waiting for us. I don’t like the look of this,” I said.
Chapter 2
The blood will follow where the knife is driven.
Edward Young
The little hairs at the back of my neck prickled. I’d learned the hard way not to ignore signals like that. Cursing myself for not having my 9mm Beretta with me, I whispered to Bobbie, “You armed?”
He shook his head.
Bram put the truck into Park in the middle of the alley. “Think I’ll get my weapon from the lockbox,” he told us. He reached into the space behind the front bench seat, retrieved his pistol, and loaded a magazine. “Y’all wait here with the engine runnin’,” he whispered.
“No way,” Bobbie countered. “You need backup. I can at least make a 911 call if things aren’t right inside.”
They turned to me. “I’m coming in too,” I said. “Mick doesn’t know either of you. What if he thinks you’re intruders?”
With a sigh, Bram edged the truck next to the wall of the building, out of sight of the dock, and cut the engine. “Follow my lead.”
The men stepped down and I clambered after them, making good use of the running board and glad to be wearing casual clothes and walking shoes instead of my usual business suit and heels.
We climbed the short outside stairs and entered the workshop and storage area. At the doorway that led into the back of the shop, Bram stopped, blocking us from entering. “Should be a light on,” he said in an undertone. He nodded to signal me.
“Mick,” I called out, “it’s Angie. I’m here for the panels.”
When silence ensued, Bram motioned Bobbie and me to positions along the dock wall, to the right of the door opening. I peeked around the jamb to see Bram flip a light switch inside the shop and enter, gun at the high ready and moving in an arc. He glided out of sight.
After a brief pause, he called, “Angie, Bobbie, come through.”
We complied.
With a grim look, he tipped his craggy face to the left. “Don’t walk in the blood,” he told us.
Taking a centering breath, I proceeded farther into the room, with Bobbie behind me. In front of a large shelving unit that held tools for sale, a man lay at one end of a trail of blood. A bullet hole punched through the middle of his forehead. There would be bone and brain matter on the floor underneath, and I was momentarily glad that he was on his back. Blood spread out over his shirt front, and a slice along his forearm gave evidence of a struggle. His right hand clutched a blood-tipped knife. His left pant leg was hiked up to expose a leather sheath. So he was prepared for combat, I thought.
“It’s the owner, Mick Swanson.” My voice squeaked and I took a moment to steady myself. “Did you check for a pulse, Bram?”
Bram gave a solemn nod. “Nothin’. Let’s call 911 from the truck.”
A quick look told me that there were no observable cameras in the sales area. I turned back to the corpse to snap a photo of the body in situ and the area he was moved from, along with a close-up of his face, chest, leg, arm, and the hand that held the knife. Cold? Maybe, but being careful about potential evidence was part of my working code.
Even so, I couldn’t walk away without acknowledging the atrocity that lay before me—a human life and all its potential erased. Not knowing what else to do, I closed my eyes and murmured the words I learned as a Catholic schoolgirl.
Eternal rest grant unto Mick, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May his soul and all the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.
Behind me, Bram and Bobbie each echoed a solemn “Amen.” Then Bram took my elbow and said, “We need to leave, Angie.”
We backed out through the loading dock, where Bram flipped a light switch to illuminate Mick’s storage area and workroom. He kept his weapon at his sternum, pointing slightly down, in what the guys at the shooting range termed “relaxed high ready.” It would take a tenth of a second for a marksman like him to acquire a target and fire from that position. The warrior in him had emerged, which both alarmed and reassured me.
My pulse pounded in my ears, but I walked to the truck without faltering and placed the call.
“Nine one one. What is your emergency?”
I related what we had found inside the shop and assured the dispatcher that we’d wait for the police to arrive.
“Best if I put my weapon away before the police get here,” Bram said as he climbed into the truck.
I turned to look back into the loading dock. Dark copper and blue blotches reflected off the bubble-wrapped panels I’d commissioned from Mick. I doubted they would be coming home with me today.
Chapter 3
A man without conscience is but a poor creature.
james Fennimore Cooper
From his hiding place, Artur watched the big man enter Metal Works, gun at the ready. A professional then. When Big Man beckoned a woman and another man in, Artur was surprised to note that the white-haired woman was also a pro, taking pictures of the body but not disturbing evidence. The young guy disappeared into the back for a moment, before returning to her side.
While White Hair worked, Big Man examined ceilings and walls. For surveillance equipment? Probably. But he would have no joy.
Artur used the zoom feature on his phone to take pictures of the trio. Then he ran to the alley and got a shot of the license
