Trust in the Fast Lane Read online

  Trust in the Fast Lane

  By A.R. Moler

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2017 A.R. Moler

  ISBN 9781634864749

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  Trust in the Fast Lane

  By A.R. Moler

  Part 1: February

  Chapter 1: US Marshal Ken Sullivan

  Chapter 2: Chicago Detective Michael Branham

  Chapter 3: US Marshal Ken Sullivan

  Chapter 4: Chicago Detective Michael Branham

  Chapter 5: US Marshal Ken Sullivan

  Chapter 6: Chicago Detective Michael Branham

  Chapter 7: US Marshal Ken Sullivan

  Part 2: March

  Chapter 8: Chicago Detective Michael Branham

  Chapter 9: US Marshal Ken Sullivan

  Chapter 10: Chicago Detective Michael Branham

  Part 3: April

  Chapter 11: US Marshal Ken Sullivan

  Chapter 12: Chicago Detective Michael Branham

  Chapter 13: US Marshal Ken Sullivan

  Chapter 13: Chicago Detective Michael Branham

  Chapter 14: US Marshal Ken Sullivan

  Part 4: May

  Chapter 15: US Marshal Ken Sullivan

  Chapter 16: Chicago Detective Michael Branham

  Chapter 17: US Federal Marshal Ken Sullivan

  Chapter 18: Chicago Detective Michael Branham

  Chapter 19: US Marshal Ken Sullivan

  Chapter 20: Chicago Detective Michael Branham

  Chapter 21: US Marshal Ken Sullivan

  Chapter 22: Chicago Detective Michael Branham

  Chapter 23: US Marshal Ken Sullivan

  Chapter 24: Chicago Detective Michael Branham

  Part 1: February

  Chapter 1: US Marshal Ken Sullivan

  I hate flying commercial. My gun has to go in a special case in the cargo hold and there’s paperwork involved. And when I get to where I’m going it always takes a crap ton of badge showing and more paperwork to get it back. I’m a US Marshall, so it’s not like I can just conveniently leave my weapon at home in a desk drawer. Believe me, if I didn’t need to be in Chicago in the next few hours, it would almost have been worth the twelve hour drive.

  “And sign here, too,” the lady behind the desk said, pointing to another line on the form. “Please check to make sure your weapon is in the same condition it was submitted.”

  “Of course.” Like I’m really going to walk away without opening the metal case and taking a look at my Glock. I scribbled out my signature, then popped the case open. I examined my weapon and made sure it was fine.

  “You’re good to go then, sir.”

  “Thank you.” I took the case and wheeled my carryon in the direction of the central concourse. Once I picked up my rental car, my next stop was meeting Detective Michael Branham of the Violent Crimes Section at his precinct.

  As I drove downtown listening to the way too chirpy voice of the GPS, I contemplated the fragmentary information I’d received. I was currently working a case of jewelry store heists combined with murder that crossed four states. Lawrence J Ditweiller was the prime suspect and I had a federal warrant for his arrest. Branham had caught sight of the fugitive while working a case of his own and had chanced to recognize Ditweiller from a BOLO, hence why I was meeting Branham.

  At the precinct, I was directed upstairs to a room full of detectives. I walked through the room until I came to a desk with the nameplate that said Branham. Behind the desk sat a guy that looked like he belonged on the cover of some sports magazine. Blond, muscular, sleeves on his dress shirt rolled up, exposing strong forearms. Just looking at him stirred a carnal lust below my belt line and I confess I stood there just looking at him for several seconds before saying his name.

  “Detective Branham?”

  He looked up.

  I held out my badge. “Ken Sullivan, US Marshall. We spoke on the phone.”

  He stood up and held out a hand. We shook.

  “Have a seat.” Branham pointed toward the chair beside his desk.

  I sat down, and he immediately handed me a folder. “Updates?”

  “In a manner of speaking. When I talked to you on the phone, I was still waiting to hear back from one of my contacts. I found out that Ditweiller has been to that pawn shop more than once. The guy who owns it is fairly legit but one of his employees, Ray Moreau, likes to run a little side business as a fence. Not a lot of volume but he has a tendency toward real high end stuff,” Branham said.

  I skimmed the notes and the list of suspected items that had gone through the fence’s fingers. Branham was organized. I liked that. Lord knows I’d run across some local PD personnel who could barely fill in chain of evidence forms. The item description that caught my eye was an emerald and diamond necklace. The details sounded like an exact match to the heist that occurred about six weeks ago. “Have you actually seen any of the jewelry?”

  “No, sorry. But…flip the page.”

  I did. There were four grainy snapshots of jewelry.

  “I got I.T. to pull those off of Moreau’s phone. I think he’s been using those to dangle in front of potential buyers without the risk of actually showing off the pieces.” Branham rested his elbows on the desk.

  “This one certainly looks like the emerald necklace that was taken.” I pointed at one of the photos. “Do you have any idea where Ditweiller is at this point? Or are we just going on the assumption that he might pay a visit to Moreau again?”

  “According to Moreau, who’s a scumbag, but has given me some useful info over the past year, Ditweiller claimed he’d be back with another piece of jewelry on Wednesday, tomorrow. The pawn shop doesn’t open until ten.”

  “Sounds like stake out time. I’m going to swing by the hotel, grab a shower and a change of clothes and if I can con you into some dinner discussion you can fill me in on what else you know about this scenario.”

  Branham gave me a wry smile. “Everybody has to eat. Which hotel are you staying at?”

  “Some Residence Inn a couple of miles down the street from here. I generally go for the efficiency ones because cases can sometimes drag on for a while.”

  “Probably a wise maneuver.”

  “Any suggestions on restaurants? Or should I look for something that’s a chain for predictability’s sake?” I asked.

  “Vegetarian?”

  “I got up at the ass-crack of dawn to fly halfway across the country to catch a murderer. I don’t think a salad’s what I had in mind.”

  Branham lo
oked amused. “In that case, there’s a barbecue place kind of diagonally across from the hotel. It’s fairly good.”

  “Nothing says carnivore like eating meat directly off the bone. Sounds good.” I took a look at my watch. “Would seven be a good time for you?”

  “That’ll work.”

  I handed him back the file folder and stood up. “See you in about two and half hours.”

  Chapter 2: Chicago Detective Michael Branham

  After Marshall Sullivan left, I sat there at my desk, thinking. It had been a dicey unpopular move to call him from a local department point of view. Nobody wants the feds charging in, taking control and booting you out of your own case. But I had read the BOLO sheet on Ditweiller. Six murder charges and three more non-fatal shootings…This guy needed to be taken off the streets and I wasn’t sure I could do that on my own without collateral damage.

  Having met Sullivan now, I felt better about my choice. He seemed genuinely interested in my input. There was the added bonus of him seeming to be a serious professional LEO, with a sense of humor. If we ended up spending twelve or more hours in a car together on the proposed stakeout, it would go smoother if he wasn’t an uptight asshole. Granted, we’d only spent five minutes in each other’s company so far, but I’d met my fair share of law enforcement people who I wanted to punch inside of sixty seconds. We tend to be an aggressive, opinionated lot.

  From a purely physical point of view, Sullivan looked fit and solid, the sort of colleague you would want alongside you in a firefight. I’d been in a few shootouts. It was never like simulations. There was more adrenaline and more terror, too. Maybe it was because the bullets were real.

  I finished up some paperwork on another case that was winding down, and didn’t see any use in going home before meeting him for dinner. By the time I looked at the clock on my computer screen, there was barely more than half an hour to go. I’d amble on over to the restaurant and grab a beer, and dawdle until Sullivan got there. The TV in the bar would almost undoubtedly be set to something sports related. As long as it wasn’t golf, I could stand to watch it for a while.

  Tromping across the parking lot to my car, the wind howled an icy blast. One of these years, I’d spend a few weeks in the Bahamas in January, and escape the biting cold and snow of Chicago winters. The forecast for tomorrow included more of the white stuff. Thrilling.

  I got to the barbecue place and went to the bar. Basketball was on TV. I ordered a beer and took a sip. In less than ten minutes, Sullivan settled on the stool beside me.

  “Great minds think alike,” he said. He flagged the bar tender. “Double of Black Bush please.” As he waited for his drink, he swiveled to face me. “I’m guessing you came here straight from the precinct?”

  “Yeah, I spent a while on paperwork.”

  “The task that never ends.”

  “And if we’re going to be out of the office all day tomorrow, I thought I’d try to catch up enough that I won’t be too buried when we’re done.”

  The bar tender sat the glass down in front of Sullivan. “Thanks,” he said to the man, and lifted his glass in my direction. “Here’s to speedy apprehension of the bad guy.”

  I clinked my glass against his.

  * * * *

  Mostly we talked shop over dinner. There’s no clean way to eat ribs. You always end up with sauce and grease all over your fingers. I wasn’t really sure what it was about watching him stick his fingers in his mouth that was oddly fascinating. Maybe it was about his enjoyment of the taste, or his lack of finesse.

  “What time do you want me to come by the precinct in the morning?” he asked.

  “How ‘bout eight? It’s going to take us close to ninety minutes to get out there.”

  “Eight’s fine. How’d you end up cultivating a contact that far outside the city? Isn’t it outside of your jurisdiction?”

  “I started out following one guy who led to another that led to yet another. And yeah, technically he’s too far out but I’m using him as a CI so there’s some grayness involved,” I admitted.

  “That’s fine. Just curious.” Sullivan slouched back in his chair and stared at the table.

  I assumed he was thinking.

  “Wear your vest. Bring extra clips,” he said, meeting my eyes again. “I’m hoping for a quick and easy take down, but this guy is dangerous. He’s already killed six people.”

  “I’m not a newbie. I’ve been on the job for over a decade.”

  “Good. Ever shot anyone before?”

  “Unfortunately, yes, I admitted.”

  “Dead?”

  “One…taking him out was a service to humanity and it was in the middle of a full on gang shoot out. There was another one…He survived, which is good, I think. You?”

  “Five. Marshals seldom get sent after the harmless ones.”

  For a moment I thought his expression made him look haunted. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “It happens now and then.”

  Chapter 3: US Marshal Ken Sullivan

  I let Branham drive the car we checked out of the motor pool. After all, he had a much better idea on where we were going and wasn’t dependent on GPS to get us there. The first hour of driving was urban, turning into suburbia then finally looking pretty rural. I wasn’t sure I liked the heaviness of the low hanging clouds.

  “I didn’t check the weather. Are we going to get rained on?” I asked.

  “The temp’s hovering a couple of degrees below freezing. It’s more likely to be snow than rain.”

  “Fabulous. I forgot that Chicago ought to be considered part of the great white north.”

  “I thought you were from DC.”

  “I am. When it snows more than two flakes, the whole city freaks.”

  Branham chuckled. “Not so much up here then.”

  “When we get there, should we pay your contact a visit?”

  “I’d rather leave him guessing. He’s on the twitchy side and he might tip off Ditweiller.”

  “Okay, your call. You’re the one who’s familiar with him.

  * * * *

  Stakeouts are tedious and boring, and in this case, cold. Running the car too much drew attention. The two of us took turns going for a walk, hitting a convenience store/ gas station combo up the street to stretch our legs and use the bathroom. Four and half hours into it, I spotted a man who might be Ditweiller enter the pawn shop. Given the cold and the beginnings of snow flurries, the man was bundled up and I couldn’t be entirely certain if it was him.

  “The height is about right and the build, it could be him,” I said to Branham, as I speculated my next move.

  He was on the same page. “Would he recognize you?”

  “No, we’ve never met, even at a distance.”

  “Moreau knows me though. So why don’t you go have a stroll inside and see if you can confirm whether it’s him or not.”

  “On it. If you hear gunfire…”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  I got out and walked over to the pawn shop, going inside. There were four people. One guy behind the counter, I assumed was Moreau. A young couple, man and woman, were looking at jewelry in the case and talking about a bracelet. The man who had just entered was eyeballing a pair of guitars hanging on the wall. He’d taken his watch cap off and I could tell at this range it wasn’t Ditweiller. I dawdled, looking at watches, so as not to tip off Moreau that I wasn’t really a customer. My phone buzzed with a text. I pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

  Another guy heading in

  The text was from Branham. I looked up and saw another man come through the door. Bingo. I returned my gaze to the watches. “How much for this one?” I asked.

  “Two ten,” said Moreau.

  “I assume it runs.”

  “It probably needs a battery.”

  “I’ll think about it.” I ambled out of the store and jogged back across the street. Sliding into the car, I unzipped my coat and popped the snap on my holster. “It’s him
. There’s other people in the store. So I vote we grab him on the way out.”

  Branham nodded and we both got out. The snow was starting to fall heavier. We took up positions on opposite sides of the door and waited. After about fifteen minutes, the couple came out. Branham and I exchanged glances.

  “Something’s off,” Branham said.

  “Agreed.”

  We went inside. Only Moreau was there.

  Branham grabbed the front of Moreau’s shirt. “Where’d your buddy go?”

  “Ou-out the back. He was being…squirrely!” Moreau said.

  Branham charged around the counter with me on his heels and we threaded our way through the back room and out the rear door. A car was pulling away at the far end of the alley.

  “We need to follow him!” Branham darted back through the pawn shop, but I ran up the alley to try and catch a glimpse of which direction the car was headed. It was a brown, four-door Chevy and it turned left as I reached the end of the alley.

  I got a partial plate of FNB3. I hastily circled around the corner toward where Branham and I had parked. He had already started the car and was headed toward me. I jumped in. “He went left at the intersection.”

  Branham gunned the car and took off in that direction.

  “I think that’s him up ahead.” I pointed at the car a quarter mile down the road becoming ever less visible in the increasing snow. “Jesus fuck, what is up with the weather?”

  Branham was silent, focusing on the road and lengthening distance between us and Ditweiller’s car. We sped along in totally crap-ass visibility for more than five minutes, trying to close the gap without success.

  Suddenly I saw brake lights and realized Ditweiller had slammed on the brakes in the middle of the road. I heard a sharp inhale from Branham as he stood on the brakes. Our car skidded, hit the edge of the road, and flipped.

  Chapter 4: Chicago Detective Michael Branham

  I heard the slow ticking sound of cooling metal. My head was a fog of pain and it took me a while to realize I was upside down, dangling from the seatbelt. My left shoulder and upper arm hurt like hell. I blinked and fumbled for the seat belt release, and crashed into a heap in the inside of the roof. Fuck. Bad plan. It took me another minute or two to catch my breath and get my scrambled brain cells going again.