Hell Hole by Chris Grabenstein Page B

may need to bring this shitty little town some goddamn noise!”
    â€œSergeant Dixon, please!” says Ceepak. “There is no need for you and your men to pursue vigilante justice.”
    â€œThat’s your opinion.”
    â€œI realize you are upset. But we can not and will not condone citizens taking the law into their own hands.”
    â€œSomebody has to.”

    â€œJustice will be served. The truth will be uncovered.”
    â€œOh, really? Swell. Put it on a greeting card. Sell it to Hallmark.”
    â€œGive me twenty-four hours.”
    â€œTo do what?”
    â€œTo see if I can determine who did this.”
    â€œAnd if you can’t?”
    â€œWe’ll have that beer and talk about next steps.”
    Over at the grill, I hear the whomp of flames. Everybody’s been riveted on Ceepak and Dixon. Lieutenant Worthless hasn’t been minding the meat. It’s flaring like waxy fireplace logs.
    â€œYou have my word,” says Ceepak.
    â€œYour word?”
    â€œYes, sir. And I will not lie nor tolerate those who do.”
    â€œYou West Point?”
    â€œNo. I simply choose to live my life according to their code of honor.”
    Dixon gives Ceepak a look. “Really? Well, my men and I have a code too: We look out for our own and will not tolerate any individual who seeks to do any one of us harm.”
    â€œAll I’m asking is one day.”
    Dixon is thinking about it, I can tell. His breathing is almost regular. Finally, he turns around and calls out to the biggest ox on the patio. “Butt Lips?”
    â€œSir?”
    â€œDo we have twenty-four hours’ worth of liquid refreshment inside the wire?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œHandy Andy?”
    â€œSir?” It’s the kid with the kielbasa nose.
    â€œHow are we doing on acquiring cable TV?”
    â€œWe’re wired up and good to go, sir.”
    Dixon nods. Returns his attention to Ceepak.
    â€œVery well. You have twenty-four hours, Officer Ceepak. This time tomorrow. Sunday. Seventeen-hundred hours. But that’s it. There will be no deadline extensions.”
    â€œThank you. Now, may we inspect the trunk?”

    I hear car tires crunching across gravel.
    â€œYou’ll need to ask the ladies,” says Dixon, indicating the car that just pulled into the parking pad. “Smith’s sisters. Apparently, the vehicle in question belongs to one of them.”

13
    A dark red Dodge that rolled off the assembly line sometime back when Reagan was president parks next to my Jeep. I can see two silhouettes in the front seat but nobody gets out.
    â€œThe troopers contacted Smith’s family,” says Dixon. “Alerted his sisters as to what happened. Told us the ladies would be coming up today to claim the vehicle and make arrangements for the body.”
    Ceepak nods.
    We’re all standing along the fence. Seven men staring at the two black women in the car. We must look like the receiving line at an Irish wake.
    Finally, I hear the clunk-thud-screech of heavy car doors opening. Two at once. Both of Smith’s sisters step out of the beat-up old Dodge.
    â€œWe come for the car,” says the one standing behind the door on the driver side. “Tonya needs it for work Monday.”
    Tonya seems to be the shy sister. About my age and very pretty, she stands behind the door on the passenger side. She’s thin and, right now, looks like she wishes she were even skinnier so she could become invisible. She won’t lift her head to meet any of the fourteen eyes staring at her.

    â€œWhich one of you has the keys?” The driver-side sister, on the other hand, is no shrinking violet. I figure she’s older, maybe thirty. She talks with a sassy swagger and looks tough enough to take out half of Dixon’s unit, especially if she packs all 290 of her pounds into the first punch. “Maybe you gentlemen didn’t hear me. I said, ‘Who has the