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  PUSHING WATER

  A Penns River Crime Novel

  Dana King

  PRAISE FOR PUSHING WATER

  “An extraordinary voice. A mix of Pelecanos, Leonard and Wambaugh.” —Colin Campbell, author of the Jim Grant novels and 30-year veteran of the West Yorkshire police

  “Pushing Water is smart, rhythmic, and relentless with a gripping narrative and a keen eye for how cops act and think.” —Sgt. Adam Plantinga, San Francisco Police Department, 19-year police veteran and author of 400 Things Cops Know and Police Craft

  “Facing a flood of armed robberies—and murder—Detective Doc Dougherty and his partners never lose their professional edge or hometown humanity in Pushing Water. With twists that shock and detective work that rings true, King is among the best cop writers going.” —Mark Bergin, Alexandria VA Police Department (retired) and author of Apprehension

  Copyright © 2020 by Dana King

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by Eric Beetner

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Pushing Water

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  Preview from The Lantern Man by Jon Bassoff

  Preview from Some Awful Cunning by Joe Ricker

  Preview from Coldwater by Tom Pitts

  For The Beloved Spouse, as are they all, whether she gets the credit or not.

  There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.

  —Sherlock Holmes

  CHAPTER 1

  Jacques Lelievre pushed a ten across the bar, tapped it with an index finger.

  “Thanks, Larry.” Don Kwiatkowski tipped his fresh beer in Jacques’s direction. Under the impression Jacques’s name was Larry Robinson. A reasonable mistake: that’s what Jacques had told him.

  “You ever hear of a guy named Elmore Leonard?” Jacques careful to keep his French Canadian accent under control.

  Don swallowed. Showed thought. “He a fighter? Sounds like a fighter’s name.”

  “Writer. I think he did some time, though. Writes a lot of books about guys who did time and knows how they think.”

  Don swallowed. Set the glass on the bar. “You know much about guys that did time?”

  “Some.”

  “Got a lot of convict friends, do you?”

  “Not a lot. Some.”

  “Where’d you get to know not a lot, but some convicts?”

  Jacques sipped his drink. “Prison.”

  Don took his time with another swallow, Cagey like.. “So you’re saying you’re a convict. That’s how you know about this Elmore guy.”

  “I’m not saying anything. Being a con isn’t the kind of thing you brag aboot.” Jacques flinched inwardly.

  Don took a few seconds to really look at Jacques for the first time that night. “Where you from, exactly?”

  “Vermont. Way the fuck up by Canada. Got tired of freezing my cock off seven months a year and moved to Florida. Got so hot there I had to change clothes three times a day. Now I drive truck and move around a lot. Get a little of everything.” Jacques really had gotten tired of freezing his cock off, though it had been somewhat north of Vermont.

  “What’d you do to get put in prison?”

  “Does it matter?”

  The pause told Jacques snap judgements weren’t Don’s strong suit. “Not really, I guess. No. It don’t matter at all.”

  “That’s good,” Jacques said. “I’d hate to think you were close-minded.”

  “Not me.” Don finished his beer. Looked at Jacques’s Crown Royal sitting half full on the bar. Jacques slugged it back and held up two fingers, pointed to his glass and Don’s. Don said, “I’m pretty liberal when it comes to shit like that. This Elmore you mentioned. What about him?”

  “He write a book about a guy who has rules for armed robbery. Makes a lot of sense.”

  “You know a lot about armed robbery?”

  “Some.”

  Don welcomed his fresh beer like a cousin he hadn’t seen in years. “Why’re you telling me?”

  Jacques pretended to think about what to say. “You’re on strike from that steel mill across the river, right?”

  “We ain’t on strike, goddammit. We’re locked out. The union’s willing to work without a contract while things get settled, but those cocksuckers want givebacks. Locked us out and brought in scabs.” Then, into his beer: “Cocksuckers.”

  “Pay’s about the same, though. Locked out or on strike?”

  “You just now drunk enough to break my balls, or is there a point here?”

  “I’m not drunk.” Jacques gave Don time to make eye contact. “Funny thing, towns without much money usually got plenty of cash. Hard to get credit for people out of work or part-time. People who write money orders don’t take checks. Payday loan places have to keep lots of cash on hand. The less money a town has, the more cash is in circulation.”

  “So?”

  Jacques needed Don to be stupid enough, but not too stupid. Not as sure now which side of the line he fell on. “All that cash? It’s not nailed down. It has to be available for people to use. That makes it available for everyone.”

  The lightbulb came on over Don’s head. Sixty watts, tops. With a dimmer. “That time you did. Wasn’t for robbery, was it?”

  Jacques sipped his drink. Smiled.

  Don said, “Why are you telling me?”

  Jacques let the anticipation build a few seconds. “It takes two men to do it right.”

  Don gave a long hard look. “What makes you think I’m the kind of guy robs people?”

  “What kind of guy is that? A guy who robs people. They look different? Have three eyes? Gun permanent attached to their hand? You know who armed robbers are? People who need money. You know anyone like that?”

  Don’s beer sat forgotten on the bar. “You didn’t say nothing about armed robbery before.”

  “You know another way people give you money don’t belong to you?” Left time for Don to speak up. “I didn’t think so. The difference between an armed robber and any of these doncs around us is ambition. You think there’s anyone in here don’t need money?”

  Don looked around at Fat Jimmy’s usual clientele. “Some of these guys do all right.”

  Jacques snorted. “They wouldn’t drink in this toilet if they had money to go anyplace else. We been talking here over an hour. You got truck payment, you got child support, you got rent. All you don’t got right now is a job.”

  “I got a fucking job.”

  “I’m sorry. You got a job. What you don’t got is income.” Let that one lay on the bar to see if Don picked it up. “I got an idea for income. But I need another guy.”

  Don turned on his barstool to face Jacques, closing them off from the other drinkers. “I ain’t got a problem with…taking some money. But armed robbery? That’s an extra five years in this state, I think.”

  Jacques knew he had a partner as soon as the conversation turned to specifics. “Doe
sn’t matter. No one is going to give you the money if they don’t think you got a gun, and that’s all it takes. Even you put your finger in your pocket like this—pretend gun—if they think you have a gun, the law says you do. Least that’s how it is in Vermont.”

  “Yeah. Here, too, I think.”

  Jacques sipped his Crown Royal. “It’s funny, when you think about it. They make a big deal about how much more serious is armed robbery, then they write the law so pretty much any robbery is one. You want to call it just robbery? Fine. I’ll be armed. You do what you want.”

  Don’s beer sat unattended, nearing room temperature. Jacques finished his drink. Let the warmth flow down his throat. Relaxed and in his element. Hoped Don asked the question before he exploded.

  “How do we do it?”

  “The first thing is to always be polite on the job. Say please and thank you.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Ben “Doc” Dougherty and his brother Drew stood on Drew’s back deck watching Bobby D’Alessio and five other guys with blood alcohol levels higher than the temperature play touch football. Party at Drew’s house because he won this year’s football pool, picking games against the spread. A dubious prize, what with having to clean up afterward and the risk of random yet potentially significant household damage. On the plus side, the champion didn’t have to drive home.

  The brothers drank Drew’s home brew IPA. Made side bets on who’d give up on the football game first, and how bad the injury would be. “Bobby’d play quarterback for both teams if they’d let him,” Drew said.

  “I wouldn’t put it past him to find a way anyhow.” Doc took a sip. Pointed to one of the players. “He already made a mistake not picking Sisler. The man’s an athlete.”

  “He sure looks like one, but how drunk is he?”

  “You mean compared to the rest of them?”

  Still twenty minutes before the Steelers and Patriots got it on for the AFC championship. The brothers watched half a dozen men in their thirties and forties make more noise than a prison riot as they slipped and slid around Drew’s backyard, which had endured snow, sleet, thaws, and hard freezes over the past week.

  Drew sipped beer. Said, “I hear that youth or community center or whatever it is down on Fourth Avenue is supposed to open in a few days.”

  “Tuesday.” A sincere and distinct “Fuck!” cut through the general merriment in the yard. “I think I’ll make an appearance. Show the town takes an interest.”

  “Nice to have a job where you can come and go as you please. I got a GPS in my mail truck tells them everyplace I go. I’m not even supposed to come home for lunch and my route’s not three minutes away.”

  “Let’s see. You make more money than I do, have more time off, better benefits, and a pension. Damn right I want you working a full shift and not sneaking home to watch The View or whatever it is mailmen do when they should be working.”

  Drew gave his tight little smile. “I heard they were trying to get some money for that youth thing from Dan Hecker. That ever come through?”

  Doc waited for an outburst to subside on the field. Spoke in a flat voice with none of his usual humor. “Danny Hecker’s a piece of shit. He grabbed that preacher’s religious mall for thirty cents on the dollar after the fire. Promised a riverside park, which I knew was bullshit because he’d still have to buy two more blocks to get to the river.” Took a swallow. “I figured he’d at least put in some kind of shopping, since that’s how it’s zoned. What do we get? A liquor store, yet another vape shop, used videos, and a strip joint. The old man about shit when he heard what the council did to get that titty bar in.” Their father on the zoning board.

  “I’ll bet.” They watched the game for a while. Sean Sisler dove parallel to the ground to catch a touchdown. “Here it comes.”

  “Motherfucker!” Bobby’s voice.

  “That’s five bucks, Bobby.” From Tony Lutz. Bobby promised his wife not to make obscene incestuous references in public during the party. Named Tony the enforcer.

  Bobby glared as if he had more to say. Settled for, “Oedipus!” Stared at Tony.

  “Much better. You still owe five, though.”

  “Cocksucker.” Tony looked ready to say something. Bobby beat him to it. “That one’s free. It’s just motherfucker I can’t say.”

  “Ten bucks,” Tony said.

  “Mother—son of a bitch! I thought you were my friend.”

  “He is your friend,” Drew yelled. “He’s just doing what you told him to do.”

  Bobby hollered back up at Drew. “I thought you were my friend, too, and here you turn on me.”

  “If I wasn’t your friend I would’ve ratted you out for the three motherfuckers you let slip when Val and Tony weren’t around.” Drew turned toward his brother. “Oops. Did I say that out loud?”

  “Hey, Tony.” Doc showed fingers in Tony’s direction. “Three more.”

  Tony waved acknowledgement.

  “There they go, the tag team Doughertys,” Bobby said. “No matter where yinz two are, the space between you is a taint.”

  “Come on, Bobby,” someone said from the yard. “We gonna play or what?”

  Drew filled Doc’s half-empty cup from a pitcher on the railing. The beer ice cold in the sub-freezing evening. “Why does everyone kiss Hecker’s ass like they do? He milks money out of this town like it was a cow with that dumpy casino and never sends any back.”

  “You seen me kiss his ass lately?”

  “You know what I mean. Official people. The mayor. City council. Zoning board on that titty bar thing. Hell, even Dad won’t buck him. Pisses and moans, makes speeches once in a while in meetings, but the most he’ll do is abstain when it comes to a vote.”

  Doc rubbed his right thumb against the index finger. “What little does come back from the casino pays for campaigns and swimming pools for the mayor and the council. The zoning board serves at their pleasure. There’s only so many times Dad can shit in that punch bowl, and only so big a splash he’s allowed to make.”

  “Why doesn’t he quit?”

  “He likes it. Not the bullshit—he hates that—but the work. Since he retired there’s only so much time he can spend in the garden or cutting the grass or working in the shop. Remember when they wanted to build a road up the top of Garver’s Ferry Hill and cut down all them trees for that cell tower? Remember that map Dad had, showed most of the new coverage would be across the river? He lives for that shit.”

  “That was before Hecker.”

  Doc finished his cup. Refilled himself and topped off Drew. “Lots of things different then. Don’t know if they were worse or better, or how much to blame on Hecker, but he sure as hell hasn’t helped.”

  Drew looked at his watch. “Steeler game’s ready to start.” Turned toward the yard. “Hey! There’s real football coming on if you can take a break from measuring each other’s dicks.”

  “Measure this!” floated up from the yard, followed by laughter, then by a football Drew jumped to deflect before it shattered the sliding door. The players trudged into the basement to dry off.

  Drew took the recliner, his right as champion and homeowner. Tony finished last this year. His job to ensure Drew always had a drink and food at hand. Everyone just about settled in when the doorbell rang. “Tony.” Drew snapped his fingers. “Door.” More laughter.

  New England’s kickoff in the air when Tony’s voice came from the front of the house. “Drew! This guy says he wants the owner of this zoo to get his ass out here right now!”

  Drew threw a dirty look that direction, maintained the presence of mind to hit the pause button before getting up. The rest of the party followed like ripples behind a boat.

  The man at the door was late fifties, balding, red-faced, and looked as if he’d had a few himself. Seeing the six-foot-five Drew Dougherty followed by a dozen people threw him for a second. He chose to brazen it out. “This your house?”

  “Y
eah. Drew Dougherty. Who are you?”

  “I moved into the house next door a couple of weeks ago.”

  “That’s your name?” Semi-suppressed laughter from the partiers.

  “I didn’t come over here to introduce myself. I came over to tell you to keep the goddamn noise down. My wife and I are trying to watch a movie and we can’t hear ourselves think, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Sorry if things got a little rowdy. We’re all inside watching the game now. That’ll take care of the noise.”

  “It had better. Hell of a first impression this neighborhood makes on newcomers. The street’s clogged with cars and grown men running around in the snow like baboons or chimpanzees or something. It stops now.”

  Doc, several beers into the day, tried to think if chimps and baboons lived where it snowed. Also wondered why it wasn’t the new arrival’s job to make a good impression. Took a second to beat himself up over his lack of etiquette awareness, a topic he’d bring up at length after this asshole left. Any doubts about the guy’s assholiness erased by the memory of Drew’s wife Paula taking over a whole lasagna and a tray of pizzelles a few days after Mr. and Mrs. Asshole moved in.

  Drew’s voice drew Doc’s attention back to the here and now. It took a lot to get his brother’s Irish up, but it was a magnificent sight when something did. “It stops now? Or what?”

  “Or I call the police.”

  Doc, Sisler, and four others pulled badge holders from their pockets, flipped them open. “Yes, sir,” Doc said. “Is there a problem?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Elmore Leonard’s Third Rule of Armed Robbery was “Never call your partner by name—unless you use a made-up name.” Actually Frank Ryan’s Third Rule for Success and Happiness, as Elmore Leonard never robbed a bank in his life and would have been too smart to talk about it if he had. Whoever’s rule it was, Don Kwiatkowski broke it less than three minutes into the robbery of the payday loan joint on Sixth Avenue. It shouldn’t have been hard for Don to remember to call Jacques “Sundance.” He’d picked the names.