Trust in the Fast Lane

Chapter 3: US Marshal Ken Sullivan-2

Stakeouts are tedious and boring, and in this case, cold. Running the car too much drew attention. The two of us took turns going for a walk, hitting a convenience store/ gas station combo up the street to stretch our legs and use the bathroom. Four and half hours into it, I spotted a man who might be Ditweiller enter the pawn shop. Given the cold and the beginnings of snow flurries, the man was bundled up and I couldn’t be entirely certain if it was him.

“The height is about right and the build, it could be him,” I said to Branham, as I speculated my next move.

He was on the same page. “Would he recognize you?”

“No, we’ve never met, even at a distance.”

“Moreau knows me though. So why don’t you go have a stroll inside and see if you can confirm whether it’s him or not.”

“On it. If you hear gunfire…”

“Let’s hope not.”

I got out and walked over to the pawn shop, going inside. There were four people. One guy behind the counter, I assumed was Moreau. A young couple, man and woman, were looking at jewelry in the case and talking about a bracelet. The man who had just entered was eyeballing a pair of guitars hanging on the wall. He’d taken his watch cap off and I could tell at this range it wasn’t Ditweiller. I dawdled, looking at watches, so as not to tip off Moreau that I wasn’t really a customer. My phone buzzed with a text. I pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

Another guy heading in

The text was from Branham. I looked up and saw another man come through the door. Bingo. I returned my gaze to the watches. “How much for this one?” I asked.

“Two ten,” said Moreau.

“I assume it runs.”

“It probably needs a battery.”

“I’ll think about it.” I ambled out of the store and jogged back across the street. Sliding into the car, I unzipped my coat and popped the snap on my holster. “It’s him. There’s other people in the store. So I vote we grab him on the way out.”

Branham nodded and we both got out. The snow was starting to fall heavier. We took up positions on opposite sides of the door and waited. After about fifteen minutes, the couple came out. Branham and I exchanged glances.

“Something’s off,” Branham said.

“Agreed.”

We went inside. Only Moreau was there.

Branham grabbed the front of Moreau’s shirt. “Where’d your buddy go?”

“Ou-out the back. He was being…squirrely!” Moreau said.

Branham charged around the counter with me on his heels and we threaded our way through the back room and out the rear door. A car was pulling away at the far end of the alley.

“We need to follow him!” Branham darted back through the pawn shop, but I ran up the alley to try and catch a glimpse of which direction the car was headed. It was a brown, four-door Chevy and it turned left as I reached the end of the alley.

I got a partial plate of FNB3. I hastily circled around the corner toward where Branham and I had parked. He had already started the car and was headed toward me. I jumped in. “He went left at the intersection.”

Branham gunned the car and took off in that direction.

“I think that’s him up ahead.” I pointed at the car a quarter mile down the road becoming ever less visible in the increasing snow. “Jesus f**k, what is up with the weather?”

Branham was silent, focusing on the road and lengthening distance between us and Ditweiller’s car. We sped along in totally crap-ass visibility for more than five minutes, trying to close the gap without success.

Suddenly I saw brake lights and realized Ditweiller had slammed on the brakes in the middle of the road. I heard a sharp inhale from Branham as he stood on the brakes. Our car skidded, hit the edge of the road, and flipped.