They drove slowly, with no headlights on, around the end of the building to the double row of parking in front of Rising Wings. The rehab took up an entire fifty-by-one-hundred-foot building, the last building at the back of the complex. Twenty yards beyond it stood a tall security fence, and beyond that, a lot full of RVs, fifth-wheel campers; pleasure boats on trailers, all covered with tarps for the winter. Security lights scattered sparingly across the lot cast glowing white balls of light that didn’t travel far in the rain.
Warmer lights glowed through the shades in a couple of Rising Wings’s windows, and several cars were parked near the building, but there was no way of knowing how many people might be inside. The building had multiple doors, one on each end and two along the side, probably on both sides. Kovac wanted the exits covered before they approached.
“I don’t want to just sit here,” Taylor said impatiently, opening the car door. “What if he comes out? I don’t trust Franken not to tip him off.”
“The unit’s two minutes out,” Kovac argued. “They’ll be here before I can get soaked to the skin. And there’s a big-ass fence on the other side of the building. Where’s he gonna go?”
Taylor hummed his disapproval and got out of the car, leaving the door ajar. Kovac grumbled and got out, hunching his shoulders and flipping the collar of his coat up in a vain effort to keep the cold rain off his neck. Damn kid. “I’ll watch this side,” he said with resignation. “You take the back.”
Taylor hadn’t taken ten steps toward the building when a figure dashed out of the shadows, running hard for the fence.
“Well, shit!” Kovac snapped.
Taylor bolted, covering ground like a racehorse, yelling, “Stop! Police!”
The runner hit the chain link about a third of the way up. Taylor caught him by one leg and the back of his coat and yanked him down. They hit the asphalt with a thud.
Kovac hustled toward them, drawing his weapon, yelling, “Give it up! We’ve got you!”
We. Like he was in the mix.
The two men rolled and scrambled on the ground. In the pale glow of a distant security light, Kovac couldn’t make out one from the other. He was still thirty feet away. Someone threw a punch. Someone threw an elbow. One grunted, one cursed. Then they were both on their feet, heads together, arms tangled, pushing and pulling as they staggered one way and then the other. Then one broke free, spun around, and kicked the other in the head like something from a Bruce Lee movie.
One man went down like a felled tree.
The other man ran down the fence line, then skidded around the corner of a building and out of sight. By the time Kovac turned the corner, their bad guy had disappeared. Shit. He could continue blind pursuit and get himself coldcocked or worse, or he could turn it over to the uniforms that were just pulling up alongside his unmarked unit.
Huffing and puffing, sucking the cold, wet air into his burning lungs, Kovac turned around. Taylor was staggering to his feet, grabbing hold of the fence to steady himself. Kovac walked past him and went first to the radio car. He sent them running in the direction their escapee had gone, then got on the radio and called for additional units, one of which was to pick up Daniel Franken and take him downtown. Asshole. He could sit in a windowless room for a few hours contemplating the wisdom of tipping off Gordon Krauss.
“I’m getting too old for this,” Kovac said as he walked up to Taylor. “If the Grim Reaper comes chasing me, he can just kill me and be done with it. I’m not spending my last waking moments running. Fuck that shit.”
Taylor turned away and puked on the ground.
“You okay, Stench?”
“Great. I hear bells ringing,” he said loudly.
“Maybe you should go sit down, kid.”
“I’m fine.”
“Stubborn stupidity is an excellent quality to have on this job,” Kovac said. “But if you collapse and die from a brain aneurysm, that’s a shitload of paperwork on me.”
“I’m fine,” Taylor said again.
Kovac shook his head. “Great. I’m going in the rehab and find somebody to talk to about this yahoo. You go redeem yourself, Captain America.”
Lights glowed in one of the windows about halfway down the length of the Rising Wings building. Kovac went to the door nearest, rang the buzzer, and knocked.
“Police! Open up!”
He repeated the process twice before a dark, bearded face appeared in the sidelight next to the door. “Can I see a badge?” the man called through the glass. His eyes shifted toward the patrol car in the parking lot.
Kovac pulled his ID and held it up.
“Hey, sorry,” the man said, pushing the door open. He was short and pudgy in corduroy pants and an untucked flannel shirt. A pair of reading glasses perched atop his bald head. “You wouldn’t believe the stuff that goes on out here at night.”
“Yeah, actually, I would,” Kovac grumbled. “Who are you?”
“Owen Rucker. I’m the assistant director. What’s going on out there?”
“Do you have a man named Gordon Krauss working for you?”
Rucker’s open, friendly face closed a little with concern. “Why do you want to know?”
“I get to ask the questions, Mr. Rucker. I have a feeling you probably know how that works.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I doubt I’m the first cop who ever came here looking for someone. Let’s try this again. Do you have a Gordon Krauss working here?”
“Yes. But—”
“Is he here tonight?”
“I saw him a while ago. His room is down the hall.”