Trust in the Fast Lane

Chapter 1: US Marshal Ken Sullivan

Chapter 1: US Marshal Ken Sullivan

I hate flying commercial. My gun has to go in a special case in the cargo hold and there’s paperwork involved. And when I get to where I’m going it always takes a crap ton of badge showing and more paperwork to get it back. I’m a US Marshall, so it’s not like I can just conveniently leave my weapon at home in a desk drawer. Believe me, if I didn’t need to be in Chicago in the next few hours, it would almost have been worth the twelve hour drive.

“And sign here, too,” the lady behind the desk said, pointing to another line on the form. “Please check to make sure your weapon is in the same condition it was submitted.”

“Of course.” Like I’m really going to walk away without opening the metal case and taking a look at my Glock. I scribbled out my signature, then popped the case open. I examined my weapon and made sure it was fine.

“You’re good to go then, sir.”

“Thank you.” I took the case and wheeled my carryon in the direction of the central concourse. Once I picked up my rental car, my next stop was meeting Detective Michael Branham of the Violent Crimes Section at his precinct.

As I drove downtown listening to the way too chirpy voice of the GPS, I contemplated the fragmentary information I’d received. I was currently working a case of jewelry store heists combined with murder that crossed four states. Lawrence J Ditweiller was the prime suspect and I had a federal warrant for his arrest. Branham had caught sight of the fugitive while working a case of his own and had chanced to recognize Ditweiller from a BOLO, hence why I was meeting Branham.

At the precinct, I was directed upstairs to a room full of detectives. I walked through the room until I came to a desk with the nameplate that said Branham. Behind the desk sat a guy that looked like he belonged on the cover of some sports magazine. Blond, muscular, sleeves on his dress shirt rolled up, exposing strong forearms. Just looking at him stirred a carnal lust below my belt line and I confess I stood there just looking at him for several seconds before saying his name.

“Detective Branham?”

He looked up.

I held out my badge. “Ken Sullivan, US Marshall. We spoke on the phone.”

He stood up and held out a hand. We shook.

“Have a seat.” Branham pointed toward the chair beside his desk.

I sat down, and he immediately handed me a folder. “Updates?”

“In a manner of speaking. When I talked to you on the phone, I was still waiting to hear back from one of my contacts. I found out that Ditweiller has been to that pawn shop more than once. The guy who owns it is fairly legit but one of his employees, Ray Moreau, likes to run a little side business as a fence. Not a lot of volume but he has a tendency toward real high end stuff,” Branham said.

I skimmed the notes and the list of suspected items that had gone through the fence’s fingers. Branham was organized. I liked that. Lord knows I’d run across some local PD personnel who could barely fill in chain of evidence forms. The item description that caught my eye was an emerald and diamond necklace. The details sounded like an exact match to the heist that occurred about six weeks ago. “Have you actually seen any of the jewelry?”

“No, sorry. But…flip the page.”

I did. There were four grainy snapshots of jewelry.

“I got I.T. to pull those off of Moreau’s phone. I think he’s been using those to dangle in front of potential buyers without the risk of actually showing off the pieces.” Branham rested his elbows on the desk.

“This one certainly looks like the emerald necklace that was taken.” I pointed at one of the photos. “Do you have any idea where Ditweiller is at this point? Or are we just going on the assumption that he might pay a visit to Moreau again?”

“According to Moreau, who’s a scumbag, but has given me some useful info over the past year, Ditweiller claimed he’d be back with another piece of jewelry on Wednesday, tomorrow. The pawn shop doesn’t open until ten.”

“Sounds like stake out time. I’m going to swing by the hotel, grab a shower and a change of clothes and if I can con you into some dinner discussion you can fill me in on what else you know about this scenario.”

Branham gave me a wry smile. “Everybody has to eat. Which hotel are you staying at?”

“Some Residence Inn a couple of miles down the street from here. I generally go for the efficiency ones because cases can sometimes drag on for a while.”

“Probably a wise maneuver.”

“Any suggestions on restaurants? Or should I look for something that’s a chain for predictability’s sake?” I asked.

“Vegetarian?”

“I got up at the ass-crack of dawn to fly halfway across the country to catch a murderer. I don’t think a salad’s what I had in mind.”

Branham looked amused. “In that case, there’s a barbecue place kind of diagonally across from the hotel. It’s fairly good.”

“Nothing says carnivore like eating meat directly off the bone. Sounds good.” I took a look at my watch. “Would seven be a good time for you?”

“That’ll work.”

I handed him back the file folder and stood up. “See you in about two and half hours.”