I spin toward the sound of my name to see Gina running full out, thirty feet away, parallel with me. The creek has curved, putting her closer to the man we’re pursuing. She points with her uninjured arm. “There!”
I follow her point and catch a glimpse of camo through the trees. Thirty yards ahead and to my left. “Police Department!” I launch myself into a run, plunge into deep snow, nearly go down, right myself just as I come out of a drift.
Gina and I are running straight north. Ten yards apart. She’s having a difficult time because of the sling and her injured arm, but moving at a decent clip.
I hear her shout something at the running man. For the first time I spot the rifle he’s carrying, one hand on the stock, the other clutching the barrel. Relief skitters through me when he makes no move to raise it. He tosses a look over his shoulder, not slowing down.
He disappears into a thicket of trees. I’ve no longer got eyes on Gina. “Dammit,” I pant, run headlong into another drift, stumble on something buried in the snow, and go down hard. My face plows into snow. In my eyes. My mouth.
“Stop!” comes Gina’s voice, ahead and to my left. “I’m a police officer! Get on the ground!”
Spitting, I scramble to my feet, follow the sound of her voice. I round a fallen log and a bramble of blackberry. I’m nearly to the road when I spot Gina. She’s standing over a man the size of a bear. He’s lying facedown in the snow, arms and legs spread. I watch her pick up the rifle with her uninjured hand and toss it aside. She kneels, sets her knee against his back.
“Do not move,” I hear her say.
A few yards away, a blue pickup truck with big tires and a camper shell covering the bed sits parked on the shoulder.
I reach them, taking in the scene. I’m so out of breath I can barely speak into my radio. “Ten-twenty-six.” I pant the words, using the code for detaining subject—expedite.
I look at Gina. She’s mussed and covered with snow, cheeks red, breaths puffing out in front of her. Looking far too satisfied with herself, she grins when my eyes meet hers and mouths, “Got him.”
Shaking my head, I walk to where the man is lying on the ground. He’s huffing, his entire body heaving with each breath. He raises his head and looks at me as I approach. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” he says.
I get my first good look at his face, and I recognize him. I busted him on a DUI last year. He wasn’t very nice about it and I ended up having to call Skid for assistance.
“What are you shooting at?” I ask, noticing that the door of the camper shell is open.
“Saw a coyote,” he tells me.
Because of coyote overpopulation in Ohio, the animals can be hunted legally year-round, unlike game animals such as deer, which can only be hunted during a narrow window.
“Do you have permission from the landowner?” I ask.
Shaking his head, he looks away. “Didn’t know I needed it.”
“Are you armed?” I ask. “You got another gun on you?”
“Just the rifle,” he says.
“You can sit up,” I tell him. “I need to see your driver’s license.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.” He rolls over, sits up, digs out his driver’s license, and hands it to me. “This is a bunch of shit,” he mutters.
Ignoring him, I look at the ID. Bruce Winslow. Painters Mill address. Thirty-eight years old. “You have your hunting license on you?”
He looks down at the ground, shakes his head.
“Is that your truck?” I ask, motioning toward the pickup.
“Last time I checked.”
“Do not move,” I tell him.
I walk to the truck. I do not have the right to search any vehicle without the owner’s permission or a warrant. That doesn’t mean I can’t look through the open door at the rear to see what’s inside. The sight of the deer carcass laid out on a blue tarp, a big buck with a nice rack of antlers, shoved hurriedly onto the bed, makes me shake my head.
“Big coyote.” I turn to him and frown.
“Aw, man. Come on.”
“Deer season ended two weeks ago.”
“I got my dates mixed up is all. Give me a break, will you?”
“He was shoving that carcass into the truck when I caught him.” Gina comes up beside me, looks at the dead deer, and lowers her voice. “For a fat guy, he runs pretty damn good.”
I don’t succumb to the smile tugging at my mouth. Instead, I tilt my head and speak into my radio. “Mona, I need a wildlife officer.”
“Ten-four,” comes her reply.
I give her my approximate location as well as the man’s name and license number. “Expedite.”
I’m standing next to the truck when Glock emerges from the trees. Unlike the rest of us, he’s barely out of breath and moves through the snow with the ease of an athlete out for a morning jog. I see him taking in the scene, eyeing the man sitting on the ground. His eyes widen slightly at the sight of Gina. He sends a questioning look my way.
I address Winslow. “Stay put.” Then I look at Gina. “Keep an eye on him, will you?”
She gives me a mock salute.
I cross to Glock, who’s looking around the truck a short distance away. “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” I tell him.
“I get that a lot.” He punctuates the statement with a grin.
I tell him as much as I can about Gina. “She’s a cop. Columbus Division of Police. Tomasetti is involved. I can’t get into the details.”
“Okay.” His eyes narrow, but he nods. “Everything going to be okay, Chief?”
I think about the question a moment before answering. “I have no idea.”
CHAPTER 13
It wasn’t yet eight A.M. and for the first time in months Damon Bertrand sat down for breakfast with his wife and their two adult children. By all rights, the “kids” should have started their careers and been living on their own by now. His son graduated from Ohio State a year ago, but had yet to land a job with which he could support himself. His daughter would graduate in the fall and spent more time partying on High Street than studying. When he was his son’s age, Damon had been working patrol on the graveyard shift, was married, and had a kid on the way. Not for the first time he wondered where he and Doreen had gone wrong.
Usually by this time of day, he’d already swung by the diner for coffee and landed at his desk at the Division of Police building downtown. This morning, due to the inclement weather, he’d decided to wait until the plows cleared the streets.
In spite of his children’s lack of ambition, he generally enjoyed spending time with his family. This morning, he was distracted. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t relax. The situation with Colorosa had eaten at him through the night and he’d spent most of the last eight hours either tossing and turning or in the guestroom channel surfing and trying to come up with a plan.
He was two years away from retirement. He’d reached a point in his life where he had a lot to lose. The last thing he needed was some turncoat cop destroying everything he’d ever worked for. Things like the pension that would see him and Doreen through their golden years. The love and respect of his family. That nice little condo they’d just bought down in Florida. His future. Maybe even his freedom. He would not let Colorosa or anyone else screw things up for him.