Page 16 of Dodge

“The man who shot your deputy is Paul Offenbach,” she said to Sheriff Louie Braddock.

She and the sheriff were sitting in the front seat of the cruiser. His large hands were atop the steering wheel, thumbs hooked beneath and eight fingers rising and falling as if he were playing ragtime.

It had taken a few minutes to verify Marlowe’s identity. Braddock had contacted the IDCI headquarters in Springfield to get confirmation. The agent in charge confirmed that there was a Constant Anne Marlowe on the force. But he didn’t know anything about her going to Wisconsin. She was presently on a leave of absence.

He texted a picture, which matched, but Braddock, not quite satisfied, had run her prints. Finally claimed identity aligned with corporeal form.

“Said he was a US marshal. Name of Greene.”

“Offenbach does that. Assumes identities. How far did his credentials hold up?”

“Good enough. There’s an Edward Greene in the US Marshals Office in Chicago. My deputy got suspicious and was on their website when he got shot.”

“How is he?”

“Hit in the face. There’s an answer.”

“He’ll live?”

“They say. Though I would cast some doubt on his returning to his chosen profession. Which he loved.”

“How’d that happen?” A nod toward the damaged cruiser, atop the bits of shiny glass.

Braddock explained that he’d interviewed the deputy as best he could. The officer had said—well, written down—that just as he saw the gun, he went not for his own pistol but the gearshift and hit the gas.

“Man fired a few more shots, missed, and then, with all the people around, took off.” He swiveled his long, stern face her way. “Now, time to hearyourstory, Agent Marlowe.”

“Offenbach’s a career criminal out of Chicago. Independent, but he works with crews there and along the lakeshore up to Minnesota. I’ve been after him for a couple of weeks. He and two men stole a truck with a million worth of opioids and fent. Vandalia County.”

“Right over the border. We work with their Sheriff’s Department. High-speed pursuits this way, high-speed pursuits that way.”

“Did you know a Cynthia Hooper? Deputy there.”

“No.” His cowboy face was still. “And I caught that verb.”

“The robbery hadn’t been reported yet. She sees a van off the road and goes to check it out. Probably just thought it was an accident. The three perps’re still there. Offenbach tortured her and killed her.” With some effort Constant Marlowe controlled the rage.

“My Lord. Why?”

“Because he’s a sadist. He enjoys it. Cyn and I worked together, drug task-forced, her outfit and mine. She was a friend.”

Marlowe heard Cynthia’s lilting voice, some of the last words she’d spoken.

So there’s something I want to bring up ...

“Well, I am sorry.”

“Last night I get a call from one of my CIs. Offenbach’s here in Harbinger. I drive up.”

The sheriff was thoughtful now. “Leave of absence, hm? Didn’t feel your comrades in the Land of Lincoln were doing enough to track him down.”

Hardly a need to confirm.

“This morning I start walking around town, flashing his picture, to see if anybody’s seen him.”

The sheriff gave a coy smile. “But maybe it was more than looking for leads. You were playing bait, hoping he’d come after you.”

Again, no need to corroborate.

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