Read Online At the Scene of the Crime by Dana Stabenow - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dana Stabenow
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dunk.”
Turning to Stark, Yackowski asked, “Where’s Triplett now?”
Shrugging, Stark said, “We released them. I think he and his wife went to bed. I know they went into their apartment. Hell, it couldn’t have been ten minutes ago.”
Without another word, the quartet moved through the apartment and into the corridor.
A security guard in a Crossroads Towers suit jacket and black slacks waited for them. He held out a small sheaf of papers. “Which one of you is Mr. Hawkins?”
Hawkins accepted the papers. They had their search warrant.
Yackowski knocked on the Tripletts’ door.
No answer.
Turning to the security guard, Hawkins asked, “How many elevators are running at this hour?”
The guard said, “Just the one. Security. We lock down the others.”
Yackowski pounded on the door again.
“Was anyone in the elevator when you got on?” Hawkins asked.
The guard shook his head.
The apartment door opened and a teary Angela Triplett opened the door.
“We need to speak to your husband,” Yackowski snapped.
She took an involuntary step backward. “He . . . he’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
The woman was crying again now. “The stress was getting to him. He went out for a pack of smokes. He knows I hate it when he smokes, so he won’t do it in here.”
Yackowski headed for the elevator.
Hawkins stepped forward. “Mrs. Triplett, how long ago did he leave?”
“Not even five minutes ago,” she managed through ragged breaths.
“Was he carrying anything?”
The woman looked puzzled, her handkerchief now twisting between her hands. “How did you know that?”
Ignoring her question, Hawkins asked his own: “What was it?”
“He said he was going to drop the garbage down the chute,” she said pointing at a small door recessed in the wall between the apartments.
Yackowski was already punching the elevator button, but Hawkins yelled, “He’s in the stairwell!”
Yack stood frozen for a second, but Stark hit the stairway door and started down. The burly detective came out of his trance and tossed a walkie-talkie to Hawkins. “Stay in touch,” he said as he went through the door behind his partner.
“Follow them,” Hawkins said to Raines. “Triplett might just be dumb enough to ditch the evidence in the building’s trash bin.”
With a curt nod, Raines disappeared after the two detectives and the suspect.
The elevator dinged and the door slid open. Hawkins stepped in.
“You want me to come with you?” the security guard asked.
“No,” Hawkins said, holding the door open. “You stay here. Are you armed?”
The guard nodded and held up a small can of pepper spray.
“You stay with Mrs. Triplett. Make sure she doesn’t warn her husband by cell or otherwise.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If Triplett comes back, you don’t hesitate, you don’t warn him, you just spray the hell out of him and call 911. You understand?”
“Yes, sir,” the guard said.
Hawkins half expected the guy to salute and snap his heels, but, thankfully, the doors whispered shut and the elevator started its descent. Hawkins had pressed the button for the parking garage, figuring that was where Triplett was headed. As he rode, Hawkins withdrew his nine mil and clicked off the safety. Triplett had left Hoff’s gun at the crime scene, but that didn’t mean Triplett didn’t have one of his own.
As the elevator eased to a stop, Hawkins dropped into a shooter’s stance. He knew he was ahead of Raines and the detectives, but he probably wasn’t ahead of Triplett—
The doors silently slid open and Hawkins arced the gun across the opening.
He saw nothing in the darkness. He stepped out and waited a few seconds as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the garage. He listened carefully in the silence for a sound, any sound, the scraping of a shoe on concrete, the click of the safety of a gun, the clunk of a car door, anything that would tell him where Triplett was.
Creeping forward, pistol at the
Turning to Stark, Yackowski asked, “Where’s Triplett now?”
Shrugging, Stark said, “We released them. I think he and his wife went to bed. I know they went into their apartment. Hell, it couldn’t have been ten minutes ago.”
Without another word, the quartet moved through the apartment and into the corridor.
A security guard in a Crossroads Towers suit jacket and black slacks waited for them. He held out a small sheaf of papers. “Which one of you is Mr. Hawkins?”
Hawkins accepted the papers. They had their search warrant.
Yackowski knocked on the Tripletts’ door.
No answer.
Turning to the security guard, Hawkins asked, “How many elevators are running at this hour?”
The guard said, “Just the one. Security. We lock down the others.”
Yackowski pounded on the door again.
“Was anyone in the elevator when you got on?” Hawkins asked.
The guard shook his head.
The apartment door opened and a teary Angela Triplett opened the door.
“We need to speak to your husband,” Yackowski snapped.
She took an involuntary step backward. “He . . . he’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
The woman was crying again now. “The stress was getting to him. He went out for a pack of smokes. He knows I hate it when he smokes, so he won’t do it in here.”
Yackowski headed for the elevator.
Hawkins stepped forward. “Mrs. Triplett, how long ago did he leave?”
“Not even five minutes ago,” she managed through ragged breaths.
“Was he carrying anything?”
The woman looked puzzled, her handkerchief now twisting between her hands. “How did you know that?”
Ignoring her question, Hawkins asked his own: “What was it?”
“He said he was going to drop the garbage down the chute,” she said pointing at a small door recessed in the wall between the apartments.
Yackowski was already punching the elevator button, but Hawkins yelled, “He’s in the stairwell!”
Yack stood frozen for a second, but Stark hit the stairway door and started down. The burly detective came out of his trance and tossed a walkie-talkie to Hawkins. “Stay in touch,” he said as he went through the door behind his partner.
“Follow them,” Hawkins said to Raines. “Triplett might just be dumb enough to ditch the evidence in the building’s trash bin.”
With a curt nod, Raines disappeared after the two detectives and the suspect.
The elevator dinged and the door slid open. Hawkins stepped in.
“You want me to come with you?” the security guard asked.
“No,” Hawkins said, holding the door open. “You stay here. Are you armed?”
The guard nodded and held up a small can of pepper spray.
“You stay with Mrs. Triplett. Make sure she doesn’t warn her husband by cell or otherwise.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If Triplett comes back, you don’t hesitate, you don’t warn him, you just spray the hell out of him and call 911. You understand?”
“Yes, sir,” the guard said.
Hawkins half expected the guy to salute and snap his heels, but, thankfully, the doors whispered shut and the elevator started its descent. Hawkins had pressed the button for the parking garage, figuring that was where Triplett was headed. As he rode, Hawkins withdrew his nine mil and clicked off the safety. Triplett had left Hoff’s gun at the crime scene, but that didn’t mean Triplett didn’t have one of his own.
As the elevator eased to a stop, Hawkins dropped into a shooter’s stance. He knew he was ahead of Raines and the detectives, but he probably wasn’t ahead of Triplett—
The doors silently slid open and Hawkins arced the gun across the opening.
He saw nothing in the darkness. He stepped out and waited a few seconds as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the garage. He listened carefully in the silence for a sound, any sound, the scraping of a shoe on concrete, the click of the safety of a gun, the clunk of a car door, anything that would tell him where Triplett was.
Creeping forward, pistol at the
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