THE detectives about to be killed showed no indication they were aware of the Escalade tailing them. Preston Road was filled with belligerent drivers, especially on a Friday night. With vehicles darting from lane to lane with abandon, being made by the cops amid the chaos was the least of the driver's worries.
While enough speed was never an issue for the SUV's wheelman, navigating the road was another matter. He leisurely followed the unmarked pool car from a reasonable distance, hardly watching the traffic around him. Instead, his attention was focused on a wrapped piece of bubble gum his hands fiddled with while his massive forearms did their best to keep the vehicle on the road.
"Here, let me do it."
The front seat passenger lifted an open hand to the driver who grunted negatively in response.
"Watch it, Krane!"
Krane looked up just in time to swerve into another lane, narrowly avoiding the vehicle ahead. A young man sitting in the rear leaned forward, motioning across the seat.
"Krane, give it to Fuller."
The driver reluctantly obeyed the order, handing the package to the man sitting across from him who opened it and gave the gum back. Fuller then opened the window just enough to drop the wrapper outside.
"Hey, I wanted to lick the wrapper!"
"Why?"
"There's always sugar on the—"
"Krane, watch the road! We're working, remember?"
Donnie Morgan rolled his eyes, amused at the quirks of his employee. He then turned to the passenger sitting in the rear with him.
"Are you ready, Skip?"
"Almost," Skip replied. He turned on the interior light, unzipped the backpack in his lap and began shuffling through its contents. He pulled a worn metallic box out of the pack, no bigger than a deck of cards. He popped the cover off of one side, his eyes squinting to inspect the contents. Satisfied, he snapped the cover back into place.
"Where did you get that?" Donnie asked.
"This place I know," replied Skip. "Problem?"
"That doesn't exactly look state of the art."
"It's not, but I paid a fraction of what the fancy, high-tech stuff would cost." Skip pulled a touch-screen phone out of the pouch at his side and turned it on. The light from its screen produced a wry smile from the expert who relished flaunting his skills. He snapped a memory card into the device and began tapping the screen purposefully.
"How difficult will it be to trace?"
"Difficult, but not impossible. You said that wasn't important."
"It's not," Donnie replied, accustomed to Skip issuing a disclaimer. He put his hand on his driver's shoulder. "Pull back a little. We know where they're going."
Krane followed the detectives through a turn at the traffic light, flipping the blinker as he blew a bubble, barely easing the weight of his foot off the accelerator. He snapped the bubble with a loud pop, smiling with childlike satisfaction. Skip and Fuller watched him warily, but Donnie's slight grin discouraged them from speaking.
Half a mile down the lane, the strip malls and chain restaurants faded, giving way to residential developments as far as the eye could see. The detectives made a right turn underneath a massive stone archway guarding one of the developments. Discreetly lighted letters inserted in cuts in the archway spelled "PROVIDENCE."
The dwellings inside confirmed the development's name was fitting. Instead of tract homes routinely constructed for a sprawling suburbia in a matter of weeks, these were the ornate mansions that graced the real estate section of the Sunday paper. The intimidating estates glared in contempt at cars from the other side of town who dared trespassing into the neighborhood.
An opportunistic tycoon gave birth to Providence after unloading his oil and gas properties at precisely the right moment in the early eighties. Despite his declaration of retirement, he soon found himself investing in whatever captured his interest. The first house he built was his own, a two million-dollar palace. Over a hundred mansions and three decades later, the dwelling that had started it all was by far the cheapest home in the development.
The homeowners were as varied as the homes themselves. Doctors, lawyers, investment bankers, web millionaires, a disgraced politician, a burned-out Hollywood vixen and a retired football star all maintained addresses there. The detectives were summoned by an individual whose fame outweighed that of any of his neighbors.
His home was nestled far inside the development, sitting in the turn of a winding street that circled its rear perimeter. The Mediterranean style mansion was guarded by Italian Cyprus trees on either side of the front doors and at the front corners of the house. The landscaping featured well lights situated every five feet which illuminated the front of the house, tantalizing the imagination as to what was inside.
The sedan pulled up to the curb and stopped, the driver politely electing not to use the covered entryway. The two men left the vehicle and walked up the circle drive to the entrance. One of the officers pressed the button next to the door, prompting the peal of a bell appropriate for such a majestic home.
SHE was in her silk robe, her dark auburn hair pinned up loosely, lying in bed. Her progress on the novel was slow tonight, and not only because of the white noise emanating from the plasma television hanging above the fireplace. She was distracted by the expected arrival of visitors, and knew why they were coming.
When the doorbell echoed throughout the house, he emerged from the bathroom in a sweatshirt, jeans and sandals. Unable to find an activity to keep himself occupied, he simply took the hottest, longest shower he could tolerate in an effort to relax his nerves. Despite the wafts of steam curling out of the bathroom, the tension on his face confirmed that the exercise had not served its purpose.
He glanced once more in her direction, hoping for encouragement. Her pained expression gave him the answer, but not the one he wanted.
"Are you sure about this?" she asked.
"I'm sure I can't live this way anymore. Not knowing what I know."
The woman didn't respond, returning her eyes to the book in her lap. The man sighed, fearful of not trusting her instincts, as they were rarely wrong. She had not suggested any better course of action than the one he was about to take, however. With no other choice possible, he left the bedroom to greet the guests he had summoned.
He pulled the front door open. The visitors saw a man in his early fifties. He ran his fingers through his brown hair, the minute amount of gray unnoticeable except from a conversational distance. He was clearly fit and wore the years well, but was nowhere near as young as he looked on television.
"Hello."
"Reverend Garrison. Good evening."
"Please, come in."
As the detectives walked inside and the door closed behind them, the Escalade quietly rolled to a stop half a block away. The driver extinguished the lights and shut off the engine.
BY now, Krane had chewed all the sugar out of the wad in his mouth and his attention was on the music emanating from the speakers. The snapping of his bubbles didn't flow with the orchestra's performance, but only Krane didn't find this odd. The six-five, 300-pound behemoth rarely missed his beloved symphony series, the season tickets a part of his salary.
Surely he didn't do this at the concert hall, his companions privately mused. Why did he always do it when listening in the car?
Beside him in the front seat, Fuller was nearly a match in size and build, which was where the similarities ended. One look into his eyes revealed a cold, disturbing darkness, a sharp contrast to his childlike colleague. Watching Krane irritate him was a constant source of amusement for the other employees of the Morgan family.
Donnie leaned forward and grasped Krane by the shoulder.
"Turn that down, will you?"
Krane moved the volume to the left slightly. Fuller turned back toward Donnie.
"Look, why can't we just do the preacher and be done with this?"
"Don't forget his girlfriend," added Krane.
Donnie shook his head. "We still need him right now."
"How does a televangelist keep a mistress without people finding out?" Krane asked. "What about his wife?"
"Just like anyone else in the spotlight," Donnie replied. "Very discreetly. Garrison no longer has a wife, though."
"What happened to her?"
"You'll hear that story soon enough," Donnie replied, before turning back to Skip. "Are you ready?"
Skip nodded, handing the phone to Donnie. He stepped out of the SUV with his equipment, closing the door as slowly and as gently as possible. He jogged the short distance to the detectives' sedan and crawled underneath the front of the vehicle. Donnie produced some binoculars and handed them to Fuller.
"Watch the house."
Fuller took the binoculars and put them to his eyes. He adjusted the focus slightly and surveyed the entryway, lit up in fluorescent green by the night vision lenses.
"Can you see the door?"
"Yeah, partly," Fuller said. "If it opens, I can tell."
Donnie sat back and waited. Skip had assured him that it would only take a few moments to complete the task. Still, there was no guarantee of how long the detectives would be inside. The possibility of the men emerging from the house had Donnie's heart beating a bit faster than normal.
Skip crawled underneath the vehicle and slid toward the front of the car, searching for the right spot to attach the device. Feeling the leak of fluids from the sedan on his head, he grunted in disgust, wondering why department vehicles weren't more regularly serviced.
The short time that elapsed until Skip emerged from underneath the sedan seemed like hours to Donnie. It didn't help his nerves that Krane smacked his gum, nodding his head as the strings hummed to a crescendo. Feeling the glare from the other two passengers, the driver closed his mouth and the sound effects from his chaw subsided. The demolition expert finally scampered back toward them. Donnie breathed deeply in relief.
"Done," Skip said as he jumped inside the car.
"Any problems?"
"Not with the device," Skip replied, taking the phone back from Donnie. "We're ready."
"REVEREND, do you realize the serious nature of your statement?"
"Yes, I do."
The officers rose from their seats on the couch and moved toward the door. The host opened the door for his guests and they bid him good evening. The men loaded into the sedan and turned around, moving towards the Escalade down the block.
"Heads down."
The sedan passed by harmlessly and four heads slowly rose from inside the vehicle.
"Okay," said Donnie. "Keep some distance, Krane. We want some buffer between us when it goes."
The SUV came to life and turned in pursuit of its prey. Once out of the development and on the main road, two cars stood between the unmarked sedan and its shadow.
"Alright," Skip said, fingers poised to strike the touch screen. "Pick your spot."
The detectives turned south on Preston as the light changed.
"Make it," snapped Donnie. "Don't lose them."
Krane pressed the accelerator to the floor and turned on the red light to keep pace, oblivious to the blaring of horns from oncoming traffic.
"I want them isolated and away from other cars."
"Good luck," said Fuller.
"It's going to be tough," agreed Krane. "They may not get any space until they pull into the garage."
"Just watch," said Donnie. "We'll get a chance."
Traffic began to ease and Skip's gaze shifted from the road to the phone every second, sensing the moment was drawing near. Donnie nodded as he saw the room around the detectives' vehicle grow.
"Get ready."
From the right hand side of the road, a pickup darted into the road directly in front of the detectives. The driver alertly swerved away from them and moved down the road. The truck wove aimlessly, hitting the median and turning back against oncoming traffic, the Escalade leading the procession. Krane swung the steering wheel violently, trying to avoid the rampaging pickup. The passengers tossed around the cab and Skip lost his grip on the phone.
The SUV and the pickup barely missed each other. The pickup skidded down the road, wildly parting a procession of cars before jumping the median once again and weaving from lane to lane, now in the right direction.
"Skip!"
Skip searched under his feet for the unit. He found it and pulled it into view.
"Well," he sighed, "it's armed now."
"I can't believe this," Donnie groaned. "We have to do it now."
"They're pulling up to an intersection," Krane said.
"Is there anyone close to them?" Donnie asked.
"No."
"Do it, Skip."
"But—"
"Now!"
Krane turned off of the road as Skip obeyed Donnie's order, pressing the hot button. Moments later, an explosion turned the unmarked sedan into a ball of fire. Traffic quickly jammed in the intersection, but only the intended victims suffered harm. The shell of the department's vehicle would be all that remained from the blast.
Donnie motioned for the binoculars and Fuller handed them to him. Through them, it was clear that the detectives had not survived. As people scattered about the blaze, Donnie nodded in satisfaction, confirming their success.
"Let's go home."
"Do you think they will know who did it?" Krane asked.
"Who cares?" Donnie replied. "Somebody will blame it on us, anyway. No one knows about the phone call those detectives received."
"Except us," reminded Fuller.
"Right," Donnie sighed, drained by the excitement of the last few minutes.
Skip handed the phone to Fuller after removing the memory card. Fuller managed a slight grin before snapping the phone in half like a graham cracker. As the Escalade picked up speed, he rolled the window down and tossed the remains of the unit out of the car.