The locker room door banged open again, letting in the voices and telephones. Two cops eyed Louis and Dale then moved to a different part of the locker room.
“I’m sweating like a pig,” Dale said softly, peeling off his parka. His uniform was pitted with stains and he rose, taking off his shirt.
“You going to be all right?” Louis asked.
Dale nodded, pulling a knit shirt from his locker and putting it on.
“Louis?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.” Dale changed into jeans and picked up his coat. “Well, I better get home.”
“Dale, hold on a minute.”
Louis waited until the voices at the other bank of lockers died and the door slammed shut again.
“I need a favor,” Louis said. “I need to get in the evidence room.”
“What for?” Dale asked.
“Can you just trust me on this one?”
Dale reached into his pocket and handed Louis the keys. “It’s the small silver one with the red mark.”
“Thanks,” Louis said. “Dale, there will probably be some fallout from this Cole thing. You know that, don’t you?”
Dale nodded.
“Just tell the truth. You’ll be okay.” Louis put a hand on Dale’s shoulder. “And stay away from Jesse.”
Dale nodded again.
Louis went back out to the office, making his way through the crowd to his desk. He drew up short. There were two German shepherds sitting obediently by the desk. They eyed Louis as he carefully reached between them to open a drawer and pull out a folder. Stepping back, he headed to the evidence room.
Unlocking the padlock, he slipped inside. He yanked on the light and turned to look at Edna. She was deep into her book and Milanos.
He scanned the shelves, looking for the evidence from the raid, finally spotting the box marked LACEY, JOHNNY/ANGELA. He hoisted it down to the floor and using a pair of nail clippers, cut the sealing tape.
The evidence log was on top. Putting on his glasses, he scanned it for the gun. It was listed, a 9-mm Beretta, but there was no serial number. Setting the log aside, he turned to the box’s contents. There was a sweatshirt, a brown-stained bullet hole visible through the plastic bag. He came across a small baggie holding a shotgun shell and a misshapen bullet that he guessed was the one taken from Angela’s chest. Finally, his hand touched something hard and he pulled out the Beretta.
He held the plastic tight, down against the barrel. Damn, the serial number had been filed off. Without it, there was no way to prove it was a throw-down. A lab might be able to raise the number but he knew that only Steele could make that happen now.
Louis poked his head outside the grating and scanned the room. It had thinned out some, the search called off because of darkness.
“Hey,” Louis called out to one of Steele’s aides. “Steele around?”
The man looked over. “Nope.”
“Where is he?”
The man glanced at his watch. “Probably at about 35,000 feet right now.”
“What?”
“He’s the keynote speaker at some banquet in Detroit. Starts at nine. He said not to interrupt him unless Lacey is either in custody or dead.”
Louis rubbed his forehead. His eyes drifted to the sweatshirt. He pulled it from the plastic bag, laying it across the open box, revealing the hole and brown stain just below the MACKINAC ISLAND lettering.
From the folder he had brought in, he pulled out the autopsy photo of Angela’s chest. The bullet hole was dead center in her chest but the one on the sweatshirt was lower. He moved the sleeve up, as if her arm had been raised over her head, and the hole in the sweatshirt fell into place, center of the chest.
He stared at the sweatshirt, his anger rising. How the hell had they expected to get away with this? And where had they gotten the throw-down in the first place? They wouldn’t use one of their own weapons and there was no easy black market in a location like this. The most logical answer was that the gun had come from another evidence bag that no one had reason to ever open again.
He started moving bags and boxes, searching randomly, trying to remember anything from the case files he and Jesse had gone through. His eyes scanned every name and number but nothing registered. Then he stopped, his eyes locked on a brown bag tucked far back on a top shelf.
HAMMERSMITH #75-88961. The dead motorcycle guy who had been arrested in Loon Lake eight years ago for drawing a weapon.
He pulled down the bag, slipped his finger under the dried, cracked tape and reached in. His fingers hit something sharp and he withdrew them. Cursing, he pulled out a broken beer bottle, set it aside and carefully patted down the bag. Nothing. No gun. It should have been there and it wasn’t.
He pulled the evidence log out of the bag. Hammersmith’s gun was listed, a 9-mm Beretta, serial number SYL61829.
SYL61829…
It was the number in Pryce’s notebook, the number he had written on the back of the legal pad.
Louis felt his skin grow cold. Pryce knew. He knew that Hammersmith’s Beretta had been used in the raid.
