Crossroads, Part Five

At 11:30 that night I was kneeling inside Caldrone’s huge kitchen, my heart pounding as we waited for the attack.

            Schaffer was next to me, crouching behind a wIde granite-topped island with his back to a stainless steel dishwasher. We both wore Kevlar vests. Mine was strapped tight, and I had trouble breathing quietly, but this didn’t seem like the right time to complain.

 Two cops in full body armor hid inside the main living room behind the couch, shotguns ready.

I’d convinced Rachel to stay home, in case Stepan Milos or Jody Hopper showed up again with more information. “Fine.” She’d punched me. “Don’t expect me to give the eulogy at your funeral.” But she’d kissed me. So we were good.

Caldrone was in his bedroom, in pajamas and watching TV. “I’ve dealt with punks like this before,” he’d told Schaffer.

At least he’d sent his household away—his wife Marta, his bodyguard Michael, the miniskirted woman whose named turned out to be April, and his cooking staff, although they’d left snacks behind.

Caldrone had two sons who didn’t live here. He also had a small arsenal of handguns—all legally owned, apparently. He’d shown us licenses, but agreed to lock them up.

“You believe him?” I’d whispered to Schaffer.

He snorted.

Now we were waiting. I grabbed a mini-crab cake from the tray on the floor, and took a small sip of Perrier.

“Pace yourself.” Schaffer out a hand on my shoulder. “I had a 23-hour stakeout once. We could be here a long time.”

Yeah, thanks. I nodded. “Good thing I went to the bathroom earlier.”

He snorted. “Keep an empty bottle handy.”

We waited. Midnight. One o’clock. I restrained the urge to check my email or start playing games on my phone. Schaffer leaned back against the dishwasher, stretching his arms. I ate some more crab cakes. Caldrone’s cooking staff was good.

Schaffer nudged me. “Don’t fall asleep on me here.”

“Wha? Who?” I sat up. “Not asleep. Just . . . okay, thanks.”

“You shouldn’t be here.” He leaned his head from side to side, cracking his neck. “No matter what Caldrone says.”

“I’m just glad you’re here with me, detective.” I took another swig of Perrier.

“Just don’t do anything stupid. You know what Sharpe’s like when she’s pissed.”

I nodded. “All too well.”

“Uh, Schaffer?” A low voice came through the radio mounted on his shoulder. “I think we’ve got some action here.”

Schaffer lurched up. “Stay behind me, Jurgen.”

I grabbed one last crab cake and stood up, my legs half-asleep from sitting down too long. “Yeah. Way far back.”

In the center of the living room the blazing silver light swirled around, bigger than I’d ever seen it before. It knocked over the table next to Caldrone’s chair, and threw off sparks that sank to the plush carpet, burning black before they could start a fire.

Then the sizzling light evaporated, leaving three people inside its aura: Glick, Jewell, and Stephan Milos.

“All right.” Glick rocked on his feet as he yanked his handgun from his jacket. “Let’s go find him.”

Jewell nodded. “And then get out of here—”

“FREEZE, ASSHOLES!” The two armored cops rose up from behind the couch, their shotguns poised.

Stepan jumped back, his arms high. “I’m unarmed! They made me do it! Don’t shoot me!”

“Drop your weapons.” Schaffer held his Glock with two hands. “No one has to get hurt here."

They froze for a moment. Then Glick twisted around. “You asshole! You sold us out?” He pointed his handgun at Stepan.

Schaffer fired. Two shots. Glick dropped to the carpet, groaning.

Jewell knelt, hands over his head. “All right, all right! I give up! I surrender!”

Then Caldrone was in the room, wearing a red silk bathrobe, a small snubnosed handgun in his fist. “Is everything under control?”

“Please put down your weapon, sir.” It was one of the armored police. “I think we’ve got this handled.”

Caldrone let his arm sink and dropped his weapon. But he stared at Jewell. “Tell your friends. You don’t come into my house. Let them know.”

He turned and walked away.

I followed Schaffer into the living room. Stepan was on his knees too, and one of the cops was frisking him. “Stepan? It’s me. Tom Jurgen. Where’s your girlfriend?”

“I don’t . . . I don’t . . .” He closed his eyes. “Sorry. I have to do it—”

Another silver streak rose toward the ceiling, whirling around his body. He looked up, his arms trembling, and then the fiery column burst—more sparks across the carpet as it faded away.

Schaffer was on his radio. “We have a wounded man who needs immediate assistance! Another suspect in custody!” One of the cops was cuffing Jewell. Glick moaned on the floor, still bleeding. The other cop had a first-aid kit hanging from his hip. He started trying stop the bleeding.

My phone vibrated in my pants. Schaffer glared at me. I shrugged and answered. “Rach?”

“They were just here.” She was breathless. “Stepan and his girlfriend. But they’re gone. But he left a key.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Just . . . ‘Thanks.’”

I sighed. Maybe it was too much to expect him to stick around for the trials. “Okay. Thanks for—”

            “Are you okay, you idiot?” Her shout pounded my ear. “I’m sitting here waiting for you to—”

            “I’m fine. I’m . . . fine.” I looked at Glick on the floor. “We stopped it. The cops have them. I guess I can cash that check now.”

            “Are they going to let you come home soon?”

            The door burst open as an EMT team came through the door. Schaffer pointed. “Here. He’s been shot. By me.”

            I sagged against a cabinet. “I don’t know.”

I got home around dawn. Rachel was snoozing on the couch. I grabbed a Coke from the fridge and sat down next to her, resting a hand on her arm.

            She shot up. “What happened?”

            I told her everything. The hours waiting in the kitchen, the crab cakes, the Perrier—then the crossroads, and Schaffer shooting Glick. And Stepan vanishing.

            “Yeah, well, he showed up here. At least I had clothes on this time.” She pointed a finger. “There’s the key.”

            It sat on the table in front of the couch. I picked it up.

            Rachel slugged my shoulder. “Don’t you dare.”

            I dropped it. “I don’t even know how. I just ought to give it back to Dr. Hanisch.”

            “Yeah.” Rachel stood and stretched. “Can we go to bed now? I’ve got work in the morning. Oh wait, it is morning.” She sat down again. “This is all your fault.”

            I put my arm around her shoulder. “Did they say anything else?”

            “Something about going to Cabo.” Rachel snuggled against my neck. “We should go there sometime.”

            “Sure.” I patted her arm. “Soon.”

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