The receptionist was looking down at her phone. She hadn’t noticed Titus.
“Excuse me, I need to speak with Caleb,” Titus said.
The woman raised her head and squinted at him. “Do you have an appointment?”
Titus tapped his badge. “This is my appointment. I need to talk with him. Now.”
The woman opened her mouth, then abruptly shut it. She picked up a desk phone, pushed a few buttons. A few seconds later Titus watched through the glass window as Caleb picked up the phone in his office. He looked up, saw Titus, spoke in the phone, and hung up.
“He said come on in,” the receptionist said.
Titus went to the hinged section of the countertop, flipped it up, and headed to the office. He went through a heavy wooden door into the glass cubicle. Caleb didn’t stand or offer his hand. Titus could feel the thrum of the machines inside the plant in the soles of his feet.
“Titus, what can I do for you?” Caleb said in a voice that said he absolutely didn’t want to do anything for him.
“Caleb, I need the truck logs for Denver Carlyle and the truck he was driving for the past few years.”
“What? Why do you need our truck logs?”
“Police business,” Titus said.
Caleb furrowed his brow. “Those logs are confidential; they are the property of CFF. I don’t know about just up and showing them to you without a court order or something like that. Besides, we are still talking to our attorney about who is going to reimburse us for that truck that Denver crashed. We may have to sue the county. In light of that, I don’t think I should even be talking to you.”
Titus was too tired to roll his eyes at the idea of Caleb suing the county, because his driver had run down a crowd of peaceful protestors.
“You know about the kids found out by the weeping willow tree on Tank’s property?” Titus asked.
“Well, yes, but I don’t—”
Titus cut him off. “One of those kids had a truck lock shoved down their throat. See, the killer took one of those locks you use to make sure nobody hijacks your shipments and made a fifteen-year-old boy swallow it. I didn’t recognize it at first, but then yesterday I saw it on the truck Denver was driving when he tried to kill Jamal Addison and his people. So I don’t have time for a fucking court order. I need Denver’s logs and I need them right now.”
“I … I, uh.”
“Caleb, did I fucking stutter? A boy’s life might be at stake. Get me the goddamn logs,” Titus said. His voice rose up over the sound of the machines in the plant. Whatever resistance Caleb had thought about offering was washed away by the gale force of Titus’s command.
Caleb grabbed the phone on his desk.
“Gloria, pull Denver Carlyle’s delivery logs for the, for—”
“The past five years,” Titus said.
“The past five years. Yes, you can just send it as a document,” Caleb said. “Last year we had all the previous logs scanned and we went to an electronic system.”
Titus stared at him.
An alert went off on the laptop on Caleb’s desk. He moved his fingers over the keyboard. Then he spun the laptop around. “Here it is.”
Titus sat down in a plastic molded chair in front of Caleb’s desk and started going over the logs. It appeared that Denver drove the same truck for the majority of his time at CFF, truck number 873. Titus pored over the logs, clicking the cursor and advancing page after page. A bitter taste built up in his mouth. The dates weren’t lining up. He didn’t need his notepad; he’d memorized the dates and the locations. He kept clicking, kept looking, kept hoping.
“Don’t see what you need?” Caleb asked.
Titus didn’t speak. He kept clicking the cursor.
“Wait, wait, these dates in the summer. These aren’t Denver’s initials,” Titus said softly.
“What’s that?” Caleb asked.
Titus moved the cursor. He went to the search bar. He typed in “August 1, 2015.”
“Whose initials are RGL?” Titus asked.
“Hmm, let me see it,” Caleb said.
Titus spun the laptop back around.
“Oh yeah, when we are really busy, which usually happens during the summer, we take on additional drivers for deliveries. We run some rental trucks in addition to our regular fleet. Denver volunteered to drive one of the rental trucks because the AC was better, so one of the temporary guys drove his usual truck. We used to really be rocking and rolling during the summer,” Caleb said.
“The initials, Caleb.”
“Oh right. Well, we like to get guys that already have a CDL. This is Royce Lazare, you know, the school bus driver? Already got a CDL. Dependable as hell,” Caleb said.
Titus’s mouth went dry.
Titus studied the sharp angular writing on the screen. The three letters had wicked edges like the serrated edge of the razor blade they used to use to prick your finger when he was a kid.
Royce Lazare.
Lazare. Move the letters around and they spelled a different word.
Azrael.
The Angel Of Death.
* * *
“Putting out a BOLO for Royce Lazare. He is armed and dangerous and I have reason to believe he has Lavon Macdonald with him. Repeat, Royce Lazare is to be arrested on sight. Take extreme caution when approaching him,” Titus said into his radio.
“You think it’s him?” Carla’s voice came through the speaker.
“No, I know it’s him,” Titus said. “Cam, call the school garage and see if he’s supposed to work and find out if he called out. I’m heading to his house. I’m only five minutes away. Someone see if his bus is still on the road if he did go to work today.”
“I’m on the other side of the county. I’ll be there in fifteen,” Carla said.
“I’m on Piney, I’ll be there too, about twenty minutes,” Steve said.
“No, don’t everybody come down. If he’s not there, we don’t need him slipping out of the county,” Titus said. He was ripping down Route 18. He turned onto Zephyr Road, then slammed the pedal to the floor. He’d pulled up Royce’s address from the DMV database on the SUV’s computer. Royce lived at the end of Tall Chief Lane. Titus crushed the brake under his right foot and kept the gas down with his right and took a hard left onto Tall Chief Lane. Smoke from his back tires engulfed the SUV as he drifted to make the turn.
Royce lived at 2274 Tall Chief Lane. Titus scanned the mailboxes as he drove.
“Twenty-two-sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy,” he said to himself.
He slammed on the brakes.
There was a red truck idling at the head of the lane near the mailbox for 2274 Tall Chief Lane. Titus jumped out of the SUV.
“What are you doing? You gotta get outta here,” Titus yelled.
Tom Sadler got out of his truck.
“I heard you on the scanner. I was up the road. I came to help,” Tom said.
“You don’t work for me anymore,” Titus said.
Tom slammed the door of his truck shut. “You can’t go down there alone. If it’s him, you gonna need help. You can deputize me as a citizen. I got my own sidearm. I’m ready to go.”
“I don’t have time for this. Carla is on the way. Now move,” Titus said.
“I’m here now! I can help. Titus, please, I need to do this. Please let me do this,” Tom begged.
Titus looked down the long driveway that led to Royce’s house. It bisected a field of dead brown grass as it wound down to a white two-story farmhouse.
“You got your vest?” Titus said.
Tom pulled up his shirt showing the black Kevlar vest.
“If he’s here, he might have Lavon Macdonald with him. We are trying to take him alive, but don’t hesitate to take him down if he doesn’t look like he’s going quietly,” Titus said.
“Roger that,” Tom said.
“Time to end the season of pain,” Titus said under his breath.
“What?”
“Nothing. Let’s go,” Titus said.
TWENTY-NINE
Titus and Tom parked next to each other at the end of Royce’s driveway. Titus was on the left and Tom was on the right. Next to Tom’s truck was an older Econoline van. Titus wasn’t sure what Royce drove, but he thought a plain white old-school van was right in line with his MO. Hide in plain sight. Be so nondescript you’re unremarkable. Blend in like just another brick in the wall.
Titus drew his gun. Tom followed suit.
The farmhouse was in good condition. There was a fresh coat of paint on the screened-in porch. A decorative weather vane stood off to the left in the field next to the house. The aluminum siding was immaculate like Royce had just pressure-washed it.
Was he getting rid of evidence or just sprucing up his house? Titus wondered.
He opened the screen door and stepped up onto the porch. There was some patio furniture on the porch and a clay chimney in the corner. Titus went to the front door of the house and banged on it. It was a six-light door with white grids in between the glass. When no one answered, he peered through the window. The house looked empty.
Titus banged again.
Nothing.
“What do we do now?” Tom said.