Long Lost - James Scott Bell Page 0,84
you are,” Mott said. “Mind stepping out for a moment?”
Hard to stay cool now. “Can I ask why?”
“I’d just like to have you step out.”
The other deputy, a younger version of Mott, with sunglasses on, stood on the passenger side of the Ark. To Mott Steve said, “Sheriff, you know as well as I do there has to be some reasonable suspicion before you can stop a car or detain a driver. So far you haven’t indicated anything of the sort.”
“Taillight,” Mott said quickly.
“What?”
“Busted taillight. That’s why I stopped you.”
Steve had heard that one before. Busted taillight was a catchall if a cop really wanted to stop you and ask some questions.
“I’ll be sure to have somebody check out the taillight, Sheriff,” Steve said. “If you want to write it up—”
“Out of the car.” Sheriff Mott pulled his gun, held it at his side.
“Whoa, what is this?”
Mott put the gun to Steve’s head. “Out now or they’re gonna have to wash up the interior a bit.”
Steve got out.
Mott said, “Now you put your hands on top of your head.”
“What?”
“Do it.”
Steve complied.
“Now walk to the other side of the car and get down on the ground for me.”
“Wait a sec—”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Why don’t you just tell me what you want and we can clear this—”
“I told you what I want,” Mott said. “I want you on the ground. I want you there now. You know I mean it.”
Steve walked around the front of the Ark, dropped to his knees, then face. He spread-eagled himself on the hot shoulder of the road.
“Resisting an officer in his duties,” Mott said. “That’s cause for detention. Frank, search the car.”
“This is bogus,” Steve said.
“You have any weapons in the car?” Mott said.
“No.”
“Contraband?”
“No.”
“Keep your face down and arms out,” Mott said.
Steve breathed dirt.
Somebody had put out a false report on him. That had to be it. Somebody with a grudge. Neal Cullen maybe? Rennie?
Johnny?
“Uh-oh.” The voice of the deputy.
“What’ve you got, Frank?” Mott said.
“Take a look.”
What could it possibly be? An old Arby’s bag? Loose change? Steve had nothing in the Ark but mess.
“My oh my,” Mott said.
My oh my what? Steve couldn’t help himself. He lifted his head and looked back.
Then something slammed into his back. Like a knee. All breath left him.
His arms were pulled back. Two clicks. He’d just been handcuffed.
Wheezing for air, he was pulled up to his knees. The two lawmen got hands under his arms and yanked him to his feet.
Mott held something up to Steve’s face. He tried to focus. It was a baggie, rolled up, the size of a maple bar. Full of white powder.
Steve opened his mouth. No sound but a sucking for breath. Mott pushed him toward the sheriff’s car. Steve stumbled toward it, wondering if he’d black out.
And if he did, if he’d ever wake up.
Mott opened the rear door of the sheriff’s car and pushed Steve in. He banged his head on the edge of the roof, then fell across the seat, still gasping.
Mott slammed the door.
59
The smell of vomit came from his cellmate, a fat guy passed out in the corner, breakfast all over the front of his shirt.
Steve thought it fitting. His life wasn’t worth what was on the guy’s shirt, and stank just as bad.
Rogue sheriff and partner plant coke in Steve’s car. That would be it for the law career. License yanked. You’re through now. Sorry, no parting gifts, but thanks for playing.
He’d requested his phone call an hour ago. They’d taken his cell and everything else. No one had come back for him. Violation of rights! Sure! And the only witness was snoring in the corner, not out of his stupor yet.
As soon as they let him, he’d get Sienna on the phone and start the ball rolling on hiring a lawyer. He’d have to hock everything to do it, but he needed somebody aggressive, somebody like Cutler, who’d defended John Gotti and Phil Spector. A down-and-dirty New Yorker, a bare-knuckle brawler. Get him up to this one-horse burg and chew some rear, because without someone like that, he was dead.
What was Mott after?
It had something to do with Oderkirk’s death. Or maybe just the fact that Steve was associating with the LaSalles and Mott didn’t like the cut of his jib.
Steve sat on the aluminum bench attached to the wall and knew not even a Bruce Cutler would do him any good. They’d seen to that. Two law-enforcement officers, one former coke-addict lawyer.
His word against