she’d ransacked his car.
The driver door wasn’t even all the way shut.
Mitch bent and peered into the back seat. He pulled his burn phone out. Turned on the light function. Scanned the area. His cuffs weren’t attached to the holding bar anymore. They were on the floor. She hadn’t slipped them, either. One of them was broken.
Broken.
It wasn’t possible, but that didn’t change what he was looking at. The cuff joint had been ripped apart, the metal twisted. The broken ends were jagged, warped spikes. Looked pretty dangerous. There wasn’t a speck of blood that he could see, but it could have been sucked up by carpeting or upholstery. Mitch ducked in, put a knee on the seat, and shone the flashlight into the front area.
The floor was strewn with paperwork. He didn’t know where it had originated, but the glove box was a prime contender. It was hanging open. Empty. The trash had been dumped upside down, but there hadn’t been much in it. The visors were both lowered. Anything secured in their pockets was missing. None of that would have yielded anything, however. The documentation was clean. In his line of work, there was always a possibility of theft. The car was as anonymous as the Denver Police Department could make it.
Mitch had his badge hooked to the back of his belt, but that was it. He’d left his wallet, a selection of ID cards - mostly fake, a couple of bogus passports, and his real phone in a safe located beneath the passenger seat. Sometimes it held his gun. Not tonight. He had his .38 secured in a shoulder holster. Although it was stupid, Mitch reached a hand under his arm and patted the gun for reassurance. Good thing he hadn’t left it in the safe tonight.
That safe was supposedly inviolate. Ultra-secure. Guaranteed. There were only two keys. One was sealed in an envelope at the station house. Signed and dated and locked in the property room. The other one was attached to his retractable key holder with his other keys.
But none of that mattered in the least because the front of the safe had been pried open. Mitch’s flashlight illuminated bits of wrenched steel that had once been bolts that held the safe closed. He didn’t spot any blood here, either, but it might have soaked into fabric, too. What could be scratch marks were visually apparent along the edge of the safe door. Possibly from a tire iron. Mitch looked over his shoulder, out the back window. The trunk was closed. Looked secured. It might not have been accessed. He turned back to the wreckage. He didn’t know what she might have used to rip a safe open. Or how it was even possible. Unless she had cohorts.
And it was really stupid of him not to have considered that before now.
Mitch eased out of the car. Stood there a moment. Damn . This was going to suck. He hadn’t lost any drug deal, but this was almost worse. He’d lost his money. Cards. All his identification. His personal smart phone. To a pick-pocket. Mitch pulled the burn cell phone from his back pocket. Punched in the station’s numbers. Got the duty officer on the first ring.
“Broomfield Station.”
“I need forensics out at Red Rocks,” Mitch informed him.
“Hartnett? That you?”
“Wake somebody. I need the team out here...like tonight.”
“Yeah. We heard.”
The guy started laughing. Mitch grimaced.
“What did you hear?”
“You’re an asshole – which we already knew – you lost the drug deal, but hey. You have a really cute, light-fingered thief on the way.”
“Scratch that. It’s changed.”
“You’re not an asshole anymore?”
“Don’t make me call someone else,” Mitch answered.
“You got three FBI agents on site now. Forensics team on the way. Should be out there in less than twenty. Trash area. Right?”
“I need another team. In the parking lot. My vehicle. West end.”
The guy’s voice immediately changed. Sobered. “Oh. Hell. What happened? We got a DB now?”
“Nope.”
“Then what?”
“If I told you,
The driver door wasn’t even all the way shut.
Mitch bent and peered into the back seat. He pulled his burn phone out. Turned on the light function. Scanned the area. His cuffs weren’t attached to the holding bar anymore. They were on the floor. She hadn’t slipped them, either. One of them was broken.
Broken.
It wasn’t possible, but that didn’t change what he was looking at. The cuff joint had been ripped apart, the metal twisted. The broken ends were jagged, warped spikes. Looked pretty dangerous. There wasn’t a speck of blood that he could see, but it could have been sucked up by carpeting or upholstery. Mitch ducked in, put a knee on the seat, and shone the flashlight into the front area.
The floor was strewn with paperwork. He didn’t know where it had originated, but the glove box was a prime contender. It was hanging open. Empty. The trash had been dumped upside down, but there hadn’t been much in it. The visors were both lowered. Anything secured in their pockets was missing. None of that would have yielded anything, however. The documentation was clean. In his line of work, there was always a possibility of theft. The car was as anonymous as the Denver Police Department could make it.
Mitch had his badge hooked to the back of his belt, but that was it. He’d left his wallet, a selection of ID cards - mostly fake, a couple of bogus passports, and his real phone in a safe located beneath the passenger seat. Sometimes it held his gun. Not tonight. He had his .38 secured in a shoulder holster. Although it was stupid, Mitch reached a hand under his arm and patted the gun for reassurance. Good thing he hadn’t left it in the safe tonight.
That safe was supposedly inviolate. Ultra-secure. Guaranteed. There were only two keys. One was sealed in an envelope at the station house. Signed and dated and locked in the property room. The other one was attached to his retractable key holder with his other keys.
But none of that mattered in the least because the front of the safe had been pried open. Mitch’s flashlight illuminated bits of wrenched steel that had once been bolts that held the safe closed. He didn’t spot any blood here, either, but it might have soaked into fabric, too. What could be scratch marks were visually apparent along the edge of the safe door. Possibly from a tire iron. Mitch looked over his shoulder, out the back window. The trunk was closed. Looked secured. It might not have been accessed. He turned back to the wreckage. He didn’t know what she might have used to rip a safe open. Or how it was even possible. Unless she had cohorts.
And it was really stupid of him not to have considered that before now.
Mitch eased out of the car. Stood there a moment. Damn . This was going to suck. He hadn’t lost any drug deal, but this was almost worse. He’d lost his money. Cards. All his identification. His personal smart phone. To a pick-pocket. Mitch pulled the burn cell phone from his back pocket. Punched in the station’s numbers. Got the duty officer on the first ring.
“Broomfield Station.”
“I need forensics out at Red Rocks,” Mitch informed him.
“Hartnett? That you?”
“Wake somebody. I need the team out here...like tonight.”
“Yeah. We heard.”
The guy started laughing. Mitch grimaced.
“What did you hear?”
“You’re an asshole – which we already knew – you lost the drug deal, but hey. You have a really cute, light-fingered thief on the way.”
“Scratch that. It’s changed.”
“You’re not an asshole anymore?”
“Don’t make me call someone else,” Mitch answered.
“You got three FBI agents on site now. Forensics team on the way. Should be out there in less than twenty. Trash area. Right?”
“I need another team. In the parking lot. My vehicle. West end.”
The guy’s voice immediately changed. Sobered. “Oh. Hell. What happened? We got a DB now?”
“Nope.”
“Then what?”
“If I told you,
Similar Books
McDonald_MM_GEN_Dec2013
Donna McDonald
Death in High Heels
Christianna Brand
On Deadly Ground
Michael Norman
Teague
Juliana Stone
What the Waves Bring
Barbara Delinsky
Bewitching
Jill Barnett
Taboo (A Tale of the Talhari Book 1)
Heather Elizabeth King
Sneaky Pie for President
Rita Mae Brown
The Glimpse
Claire Merle