I was familiar with the LaSalle Court ramp, one of those where you drive up the sloping floors but exit through a corkscrew. I remembered, from an investigation I’d done some years ago, that LaSalle had cameras at the entrances and exits, in the elevators, and in the vestibules outside the elevators. I also remembered that it had an opening in its side where the dumpsters were stored, and that that opening had no camera.
I parked on Eighth Avenue, behind the ramp and out of sight, should anyone be peering down from the top. A narrow alley cut down beside the ramp, and halfway down that alley stood the dumpsters. An eight-foot-tall chain-link fence protected the opening. That was easy enough to scale. I peeked into the guts of the parking ramp to see that I was past the entrance cameras. Thirty feet ahead of me was a security office. The lights were on, but it was unmanned. Beyond that was the corkscrew exit.
I walked casually across the two lanes for entering the ramp and started my trek up the corkscrew. As I neared the top, I slowed, inching my way up until I could see the darkness of the night sky where the corkscrew opened onto the eighth floor. Whitton would be waiting for me out there, but would he be alone? Everything about that meeting smelled like a trap.
I drew my gun out of its holster and eased to the mouth of the corkscrew entrance. A curtain of falling snow put a lacy white veil in front of me, but I could see Whitton’s unmarked Dodge Charger about thirty feet out, facing down the entrance ramp, waiting for my car to come around that last bend. His lights and engine were both off.
I scan the shadows and edges, looking for an accomplice, and see no one through the darkness and thick snow. If I couldn’t see them, then maybe they couldn’t see me either. I dropped to my belly and low-crawled onto the parking ramp, the snow building up in piles against my forearms. His car was thirty feet out. He must have been lowering and raising the windows to keep them cleared of snow, because I could see inside the cab. A green dashboard light glowed bright enough that I could see Whitton’s head in the driver’s seat. No passengers. I crawled on my belly through the snow, my eyes watching for the slightest movement from Whitton.
Once behind his car, I slid up into a sitting position, leaning against the back bumper. I waited and listened. No radio. No talking. I again scanned the perimeter and saw no movement. I could see Whitton’s tire tracks in the snow. The hazy lights on that top floor of the ramp gave off enough illumination to see that there were no footprints anywhere around the Charger. Whitton came alone.
I considered my next step. Frankly, I hadn’t expected to make it this far without a throw-down. I could point my Glock in his face and demand he step out. But Whitton might already have his gun drawn, and where would that leave me? If he didn’t comply, would I shoot him? I didn’t know.
Another alternative—I rush the door, yank him out, and hope the element of surprise tips things in my favor. I drove the same model of Dodge Charger, so I knew that the door would have unlocked when he put the car in park. That seemed like the better of my options.
I holstered my gun and slid to the edge of the bumper, where I took a breath to steady my nerves. Three . . . two . . . one. I jumped from my hiding spot, my feet digging to find purchase as I turned the corner, flung the door open and grabbed Whitton by the coat. He looked up at me as if I were a banshee from his worst childhood nightmare, come to steal his soul.
I pulled him out of his seat and sent him sprawling across the snow-covered concrete. It was then that I saw the gun. He must have been holding it on his lap, because it fell to the ground as I yanked him out of the car. I kicked the gun and it slid under the Charger.
“What the hell?” Whitton yelled as he rose up onto his elbows.
I kicked him in the ribs and he rolled twice over, ending on his backside. He started to scramble to his feet, getting to his hands and knees before he saw me pointing my gun at his head. “Don’t,” was all I said.
He sat back on his heels and held his arms out to the side. “What are you going to do, Max? Shoot me? What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
“Why’d you do it?” I yelled.
“What?” He looked honestly confused.
“Tell me why you did it, Whitton.”
“Why I did what? What are you talking about?”
“I will shoot you. You have to know that.”
“Shoot me? Have you lost your mind? I see you dragging my wife out of a club and now you want to shoot me?”
“I’m giving you a chance to buy your life, Reece. Don’t throw that away.”
“Buy my life? Why would . . .”
A dark shift in his expression revealed that some new level of recognition had taken hold, and I watched as a tiny spark of understanding unlocked behind his eyes. He knew; I could tell, and I saw fear dig into the lines on his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t say that, Reece! Don’t you fucking say that.” I took a step closer, the barrel of my gun just out of his reach.
He turned his face away and crossed his hands in front of the muzzle. “Stop, Max. Whatever you’re mad about . . . I don’t know what you think I did.”
“Tell me why you killed her.”
“Killed who? I didn’t kill anyone. For God’s sake, I don’t know.”
I reached into my coat pocket, pulled out the recorder, held it out in front of me, and hit play.
Hello?
Yeah, it’s me.
The boss said you’d be calling. What’s up?
We have a job. I need you to lift a car. Keep it clean. No fingerprints. No DNA. Wear gloves.
I know what I’m doing.
We have to deal with someone right away.
Send a message?
No. Extreme prejudice. Hit-and-run.
Great. Another drop of blood and we do all the work.
This is serious. It’s a cop’s wife.
A what?
You heard me. She stumbled onto something she shouldn’t have. If we don’t move fast, we’ll all be fucked. I don’t like this any more than you do.
When?
Today. 3:00.
Where?
Hennepin County Medical Center. There’s a parking garage on the corner of Eighth and Chicago. Meet me on the top floor. I’ll fill you in there. I’m not sure if they have cameras at the entrance, so cover your face when you drive in.
I stopped the playback.
Defeat pressed down on his shoulders. He can’t deny his own voice. “I just want to know why, Reece.”
Whitton’s hands slowly lower to his sides. He fixed his gaze on some meaningless scuff of snow near my feet, no longer concerned about the gun pointed at his face. “Where’d you find that?”
“Does it matter?”
“No. I guess not.” Then he shook his head and to himself, he muttered, “I should have known better.” Then to me he said, “I have money, Max. Lots of it. And—”
“I don’t want your fucking money.”
“You can have Anastasia? She’s—”
I stepped in and whipped the barrel of my gun across his face, sending him tumbling back into the snow. He curled as he rolled, mumbling curses at me, holding the side of his jaw. He maneuvered onto his hands and knees again, and when he spoke this time, the sound came through a broken jaw. “Christ, Max. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Why, Reece? Why’d you kill Jenni?”