Page 149 of The Fourth Option
Too competent.
“Yeah, Campbell.”
She lowered her hand. “Sir, are we still looking for that blue VW van from the Garden murders? Any update on that?”
Bates cursed inwardly.
The van. That damn van had probably been swept like sewer shit five miles out into the Gulf. Good riddance. Fucking Campbell.
He kept his face neutral and defused the question.
“Keep an eye out for a vehicle matching that description, but more importantly stay alert for gangbangers—Bloods, 39ers, whatever’s crawling out of the Ninth, and anybody fitting a cartel profile. Get all that to Detective Gormley.”
Campbell nodded, but her eyes lingered on the map a second too long.
Bates moved on.
“I do have some darker news: Sergeant Dupuis did not check in today. His truck is not at his house and he is not answering any calls. With increased cartel activity in the Ninth and the recent murders of Officers Hendrick and Rayne, I want him found and I want him found today.”
He looked around the room as heads nodded in agreement.
“Stay alert tonight,” he said. “No heroics. No headlines. We’re not here to make the news. We’re here to keep it quiet.”
That was a good line.
He dismissed them with a nod.
The officers filed out, murmuring among themselves. Campbell lingered momentarily and then followed her fellow officers into the hall. Bates watched her go, making a mental note to keep an eye on her.
Bates and Gormley were the last to leave. Bates led the way down the hall, past the bullpen and the evidence lockers, into a side room that had once been an armory. The walls were lined with steel cabinets and racks of riot gear. The lights were dim.
Gormley closed the door behind them while Bates confirmed they were alone.
“Give it to me,” Bates said.
“I went back in the light this morning. No sign of Dupuis or the truck, but I found blood and followed it about seventy-five yards downriver. More blood on the rocks. Footprints, bare feet. And tire tracks.”
“Slow down, Hound.”
“Someone, probably Dupuis, was killed by a man in bare feet down by the water’s edge and then dragged back to where I left him and the truck. Those bare feet then led out to the train tracks. And there were tire tracks in the mud, unmistakably from Dupuis’s truck.”
“Tire tracks?”
“They led right into the water. Fucking truck is gone and I think we have to assume Dupuis is gone with it.”
“Damn it. Why did you leave him unattended? Neverfuckingmind. It’s done.”
“I saw the van go under. Nobody could have survived that. Goddamn it, who the fuck is this guy?”
“I ran the plate. Van was registered to someone named Chris Walker out of Oregon. No criminal record but I’m still digging.”
“Corn, it’s time to use the media. Get this guy’s driver’s license and plaster it all over the news. Give it to Greer. He can report that this Walker bastard is wanted for questioning in connection with the Garden murders or some shit.”
Bates paused, put his hands on his hips, and drew in a deep breath.
“Not quite yet.”
“What do you mean ‘not quite yet’? He’s killed three of us, seven Salvadorans, and our two most profitable dealers. You or I might be next.”
