CHAPTER 124
I GOT HOME at around nine p.m., still jazzed from too much adrenaline and not enough sleep.
I locked the front door behind me, walked around the house and checked the windows, went to the newly improved security system monitor station and ran through the front- and back-door security tapes, reviewing them on fast forward. I didn’t see anyone in my driveway or approaching my deck from the beach, and the log showed that the alarm hadn’t gone off.
I swept the phones and the interior, and as far as I could tell, my house wasn’t bugged.
There was a case of beer in the fridge and not much else. I popped the top of a Molson and swigged half of it down. I paused, then drained the rest of it.
Knowing Tommy was in police custody should have been relief enough, but I checked all the window locks, the sliders, the front door again.
Then I stripped off my clothes and left them where they fell.
The multihead shower was in the master bath, and I headed for it. The water was hot and rejuvenating. I was thinking that I was finally ready to move back into my bedroom, sleep in my new bed, new linens.
If I couldn’t sleep in my bedroom, fuck it, I would sell the house.
So I tried it out.
I went into my bedroom, checked the perimeter once more, and dropped my gaze to the bed. I looked at it for a long minute and still saw just a bed, not a bad image of Colleen lying there dead.
In my mind, at least, Colleen was at rest.
I turned down the covers and turned on the TV.
I flipped around the dial, found twenty-four-hour cable news, and when I saw a talking head standing in front of a lot of flashing red-and-blue lights, I put down the remote.
The reporter’s name and the station call letters were on the screen, “Matt Galaburri, CNN.” There was a headline in small type under that: “DEA busts organized-crime drug haul worth $30 million in Renton, Washington. Four men arrested.”
I jacked up the sound.
It had happened as I hoped it would, but I wanted to hear the details to be sure that Private was in the clear.
The reporter was excited, kept turning his head as he talked, so that half his words were lost. He was looking at a white panel van surrounded by law enforcement, both unmarked cars and those with the initials DEA on their sides.
The location was a parking lot outside a warehouse that, judging from the camera angle, looked to be on a highway. The warehouse was one of those unremarkable square buildings you drove past on your way to somewhere and never thought a thing about.
The reporter said, “What you see behind me is mop-up of one of the largest drug busts in recent history. A spokesman for the Drug Enforcement Agency has told CNN that narcotics valued in the tens of millions have been confiscated and four men were arrested, men who are known to have strong ties to organized crime.”
He then filled in the backstory, how the van had stopped to transfer the cargo at a warehouse just south of Seattle that had been under surveillance for the past year.
There was a cutaway to a video shot earlier by a dash cam mounted inside a DEA vehicle. The scene was illuminated by headlights.
Four men were shown briefly unloading a white transport van with a vegetable decal on the side. A split second later, cars screamed into the lot.
There were loud shouts, and cops rushed the four men on foot. Two of the men ran, two put up their hands. Law enforcement agents brought all of the men down, cuffed them on the asphalt.
The video cut away again, this time to a man in a suit standing behind a podium marked with an official insignia. The lettering in the lower portion of the screen identified the man as Brian Nelson, director of the DEA.
Nelson said to the cameras, “The officers involved in this operation saved a lot of lives today—”
My phone rang and I dragged my eyes from the screen, saw Fescoe’s name on the caller ID. I thought, What the hell is this now? as I picked up the call.