Page 23 of Dodge

But administrator he had become. And now was a time for administrating.

“You’re on leave of absence. You can’t be investigating.”

She didn’t ask, And why not? Her silence, however, did.

Avery’s voice softened. “I know how you’re feeling, after ... what happened. But we’ve got interstate protocols. They work. Up there, in Wisconsin, you’re out of jurisdiction. And a county deputy’s been shot? Are we in any way ...?”

Right up front, Marlowe had asked herself if she could have anticipated that Offenbach would enlist a young law enforcer to be his shield. She’d answered no, and that was the end of it. It angered her now that he was concerned about ass-covering.

“No, we’re not,” she said sharply. Marlowe had earned more than a few complaints in her years at the DCI, and most of those were for a simple reason: she had zero patience for politics, incompetence, misguided ambition ... well, the list of infractions was long.

Avery would now be deciding: Why bother to wag fingers, especially with Constant Marlowe? He’d said and asked what he needed to. Time to move on.

“Anything pan out? Offenbach?”

“All the leads’ve dried up.”

“You think he’s there?”

Once you lie, better to stay the course.

“Doubt it. Too hot for him here. You shoot a uniform, you know how it is.”

“You’re coming back to Chicago?”

“Hopewell first, to see how the trial’s going.”

One of the suspects in the Old Bennett Road heist was on trial in Illinois for felony murder in Cynthia Hooper’s death. There was no doubt about Offenbach’s guilt; they had a video of him at the scene. But as for the man presently on trial, neither his innocence nor guilt was clear-cut.

“Where’re you staying? Is it safe?”

“I’m in cover. It’s good.”

As melodic as ever, his voice managed to turn gruff. “If you’re on leave of absence, act like you’re on leave of absence. Watch TV, jog, go do whatever one does in wherever you are. Don’t go traipsing off after him.”

“Night, Richard.”

She disconnected and looked at the bag that contained the deli sandwiches she’d bought. They went into the fridgette. She’d eat them tomorrow or she’d throw them out. Probably it’d be the trash. She had two more Oreos.

Removing the rifle from the case, she pulled the bolt out and sighted down the bore—from the stock end, of course. Clear. No reason for it not to be but you always made sure. The weapon smelled of oil and Hoppe’s No. 9 cleaner and, wafting sweetly from the rich wooden stock, Pledge furniture polish.

She had an affection for long guns. In the army she’d been a sniper and had taken those skills with her when she joined the Illinois Department of Criminal Investigation’s tactical team. The gun was a Winchester Model 70. On the market since the 1930s, it was a workhorse for hunters. It was called the “rifleman’s rifle” and could be used for any game; it came chambered incalibers from flat and fast .223 up to the punishing .338. Hers took one of the bigger rounds, the .308.

This particular 70 had been the gun her father taught her to hunt with, and she’d inherited it—along with a slew of debt and a sizeable store of methamphetamine—when he met an unfortunate but inevitable end. He was fifty, she twenty-five.

Marlowe had little time for sentiment, and if, for instance, she had to bail out of a bad situation and leave the gun behind, so be it. What she liked about this weapon was not its history but that it was as familiar in her hands as a lover’s neck and shoulders.

It was also accurate as sin.

And one other attribute: it had been bought by her father years ago with no documentation. It was untraceable.

Because the bullets were large, the magazine, which was not detachable, could hold only three. But Constant Marlowe had never needed excessive ammunition. If she had to kill with a long gun, one round had always done the trick.

The bolt went back in, and, finger on the trigger, she pushed it forward and then down so there’d be no tension on the firing pin spring. She returned the weapon to the case.

Marlowe stripped, showered. She dressed in boxers and a tee, then spent lengthy time drying her abundant hair.

Placing her SIG, safetied, on the bedside table, she slid under the covers but remained sitting upright. She placed a call.

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