night's events with numerous interruptions and embellishments from Tony.
After hearing the remarkable story, Jeff and Kam were quiet, almost as if shell-shocked. They sat next to each other on one of the two leather couches in the family room.
Finally Kam said, "Let me get this straight. After you evaded the car following you and rode into the quarry, a helicopter miraculously located your position and started shooting at you? Don't you find that odd?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," Kaplan said. "It was almost as if they knew we were there."
All three turned and looked at Tony.
He raised both hands palm up. "What?"
"Oh, so now you don't have a thing to say? Your Italian tongue tied?" Kaplan said. "I think you have some explaining to do."
11
M oss climbed down the air stair of the Beechcraft King Air turboprop. The flight from Chicago was mostly smooth until they got closer to Little Rock and the pilots flew through some of the left over clouds from the day's thunderstorms.
He carried with him one bag and a briefcase, more than enough to get him by for a few daysâwhich was all the time he planned on spending investigating this case.
Deputy U.S. Marshal Jon Hepler was waiting for him inside the fixed base operator. Hepler was a few inches shorter than Moss, had thinning blond hair, and a snappy, albeit juvenile, sense of humor. He usually wore long sleeves to cover the tattoos on his forearms, a permanent reminder of his days as a police officer in a small Florida town. Tonight however, he wore short sleeves and his tattoos were visible.
On his left arm, just above his wrist was the popular police 1* shield. A play on wordsâone asteriskâone ass to risk. Above that were an eagle and a tattered American flag along with a depiction of his brother's dog tags. His brother, Moss remembered, was a casualty of the war in Afghanistan. On the inside of his right forearm, St. Michael, the patron saint for peace, held another 1* shield. Hepler said he put it on his right arm because that was his gun hand. As superstitious as Moss thought it was, Hepler put it there to make him faster and more accurate so that he could defeat any foe.
He had his star on his belt and his gun mounted on his hip.
Moss had known Hepler since his first day in Little Rock seven years ago. And they became good friends right away. He wasn't referred to as Jon, but rather JP.
When Moss lived in Little Rock, he and Hepler, also a Chicago Cubs fan, frequented a downtown sports bar on a regular basis, especially during baseball season.
Hepler grinned when he saw Moss, "You missed a good game tonight, Dirt Man. Cubs rallied in the ninth to take it to extra innings." Hepler had called him Dirt Man since day one. A dig on his name Pete Mossâ Peat Moss.
"Asshole," Moss said. They shook hands and bumped shoulders. "The pilots couldn't find the game on the radio. ATC gave us a few updates along the way but I never heard the final score."
"Six to five. Cubbies in the eleventh."
"Sounds like I missed a good one."
"You did. It was a regular barnburner there at the end." Hepler's expression turned serious. "Weren't gone from Little Rock very long, were you, Pete?" He teased. "What? Three weeks, tops?"
"Barely two and here I am, back in this redneck hell hole again." Moss pushed his overnight bag strap over his shoulder. "Let's get moving, you can brief me on the drive in."
"By the way, prick, thanks a lot for ruining a perfectly good night's sleep."
"What?"
"Requesting me on this job at the last minute. Hell, if you wanted to talk, you could've called."
"And have you miss out on all the fun?"
"I don't know whether to thank you or shoot your ass."
"It was the least I could do for an old friend."
"Next time, don't do me any favors."
The sedan Hepler was driving was a dark green Crown Vic. It was one from the motor pool and Moss had driven it on numerous occasions. An older model worn out from years of driving on the dilapidated
After hearing the remarkable story, Jeff and Kam were quiet, almost as if shell-shocked. They sat next to each other on one of the two leather couches in the family room.
Finally Kam said, "Let me get this straight. After you evaded the car following you and rode into the quarry, a helicopter miraculously located your position and started shooting at you? Don't you find that odd?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," Kaplan said. "It was almost as if they knew we were there."
All three turned and looked at Tony.
He raised both hands palm up. "What?"
"Oh, so now you don't have a thing to say? Your Italian tongue tied?" Kaplan said. "I think you have some explaining to do."
11
M oss climbed down the air stair of the Beechcraft King Air turboprop. The flight from Chicago was mostly smooth until they got closer to Little Rock and the pilots flew through some of the left over clouds from the day's thunderstorms.
He carried with him one bag and a briefcase, more than enough to get him by for a few daysâwhich was all the time he planned on spending investigating this case.
Deputy U.S. Marshal Jon Hepler was waiting for him inside the fixed base operator. Hepler was a few inches shorter than Moss, had thinning blond hair, and a snappy, albeit juvenile, sense of humor. He usually wore long sleeves to cover the tattoos on his forearms, a permanent reminder of his days as a police officer in a small Florida town. Tonight however, he wore short sleeves and his tattoos were visible.
On his left arm, just above his wrist was the popular police 1* shield. A play on wordsâone asteriskâone ass to risk. Above that were an eagle and a tattered American flag along with a depiction of his brother's dog tags. His brother, Moss remembered, was a casualty of the war in Afghanistan. On the inside of his right forearm, St. Michael, the patron saint for peace, held another 1* shield. Hepler said he put it on his right arm because that was his gun hand. As superstitious as Moss thought it was, Hepler put it there to make him faster and more accurate so that he could defeat any foe.
He had his star on his belt and his gun mounted on his hip.
Moss had known Hepler since his first day in Little Rock seven years ago. And they became good friends right away. He wasn't referred to as Jon, but rather JP.
When Moss lived in Little Rock, he and Hepler, also a Chicago Cubs fan, frequented a downtown sports bar on a regular basis, especially during baseball season.
Hepler grinned when he saw Moss, "You missed a good game tonight, Dirt Man. Cubs rallied in the ninth to take it to extra innings." Hepler had called him Dirt Man since day one. A dig on his name Pete Mossâ Peat Moss.
"Asshole," Moss said. They shook hands and bumped shoulders. "The pilots couldn't find the game on the radio. ATC gave us a few updates along the way but I never heard the final score."
"Six to five. Cubbies in the eleventh."
"Sounds like I missed a good one."
"You did. It was a regular barnburner there at the end." Hepler's expression turned serious. "Weren't gone from Little Rock very long, were you, Pete?" He teased. "What? Three weeks, tops?"
"Barely two and here I am, back in this redneck hell hole again." Moss pushed his overnight bag strap over his shoulder. "Let's get moving, you can brief me on the drive in."
"By the way, prick, thanks a lot for ruining a perfectly good night's sleep."
"What?"
"Requesting me on this job at the last minute. Hell, if you wanted to talk, you could've called."
"And have you miss out on all the fun?"
"I don't know whether to thank you or shoot your ass."
"It was the least I could do for an old friend."
"Next time, don't do me any favors."
The sedan Hepler was driving was a dark green Crown Vic. It was one from the motor pool and Moss had driven it on numerous occasions. An older model worn out from years of driving on the dilapidated
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