Capital Justice: A Legal Thriller (Sam Johnstone Book 4) by James Chandler

Author:James Chandler [Chandler, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn River Publishing
Published: 2022-09-12T16:00:00+00:00

27

Garcia was back on the Sprague property, this time with a warrant. He was looking for a rifle—a .270 Winchester, as well as some frangible cartridges. He’d brought two uniformed officers with him this time; nonetheless, he had butterflies as he knocked on the door of the dilapidated little trailer. The trash and litter remained, as did the muscle cars and boat shells. Garcia sensed the number of chickens and goats was somewhat less than it had been the last time he’d been here. He pounded repeatedly on the door before the same pre-teen girl finally opened it.

“What do you want?” she snarled.

Lovely child. “I have a search warrant. Is Casey here?”

“Yeah, but he’s sleeping.”

“It’s two o’clock in the afternoon. Why don’t you go wake him up?”

“’Cause he’ll be pissed,” she said. “He’s always pissed when he gets woke up.”

“Fine,” Garcia said, opening the screen door. “I’ll do it myself. Where’s his room?” When she didn’t answer, he asked again. “Where does he sleep?” When she still didn’t answer, he looked at one of the deputies. “Take her downtown. Interference with an officer.”

“Gawd!” the girl said, trying to wrench her arm from the deputy’s grasp. “Let go!”

“One more chance,” Garcia said, indicating that the deputy should wait just a minute. Message sent.

“There.” The girl pointed. “Last door on the right. And I hope he chews your ass.”

Garcia entered the room cautiously, then, seeing a sleeping Sprague, grabbed his foot and twisted it roughly. “Casey Sprague! We have a search warrant!”

“What? Who?” Sprague said, sitting up in his filthy bed. Seeing Garcia, he got angry. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’ve got a search warrant here, Mr. Sprague.” Garcia handed Sprague a copy of the same. “I’ve got my officers looking already, but you could make this a lot easier if you’d help us.”

“Kiss my ass,” Sprague said.

“Fine. We’ll just look until we find it. I’m telling you, though, some of my guys, well, they’re just not good at remembering where they got stuff from, you know? Results in a lot of complaints from homeowners that their stuff got disturbed but not put back.”

Sprague was watching Garcia, calculating. “What are you looking for?”

“A .270 Winchester.”

“Won’t find one here.” Sprague laughed. “That’s a woman’s gun. And as you can see, ain’t no women around here, except my sister’s kid, and she don’t shoot.”

“Why not?”

“Too dumb. Ain’t got the sense God gave a horse.”

“Well, we’re going to look around in any event,” Garcia said.

“Knock yourself out. You ain’t gonna find nothin’.”

And in fact, Garcia and his men didn’t find any .270 Wins or ammunition. But they found other items of interest. One of the uniformed deputies appeared in the doorway and beckoned Garcia. “Detective, you want to come back and look at this?”

Garcia followed him down the hallway with Sprague in tow. On the bed was a “rig”—a loaded hypodermic needle prepared to inject liquid, likely methamphetamine, into a user’s veins. “That’s not good,” Garcia said to Sprague.

“Hey, I don’t know anything about that!” Sprague said.

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