Chapter 18

Tuesday, November 4, 1997 – Los Angeles, Parker Center

When Thompson came out of the interview room, he watched Enos finish off a cup of water after having deposited a bottle of acetaminophen into the pocket of his jacket. Thompson made four more marks in his notebook, along with the time – but that was an educated guess. It didn't matter to him how many Strate had just taken or how non-narcotic they were. He'd already exceeded the recommended dosage in a twenty-four-hour period about four hours ago. It was the reason he was over-medicating that worried Thompson.

Extracting from Underwood what he actually knew took until well after midnight. They were now at eighteen hours without sleep and counting. That would not have been a problem had he not believed Strate was about to fold under the pain, the latent effects of the concussion, and the emotional pressure.

Since she was on her way in, Thompson figured De Pina would likely be aware of the situation soon enough anyway. He decided on a course of action that, while it might put him in the man's crosshairs, might also keep Strate in the game and afford him some much-needed sleep – until it was time to go after Mollaret.

Tuesday, November 4, 1997 – Atlanta, Hartsfield-Jackson International

The Boeing 737 landed at 4:23 am Atlanta time. Deplaning, Daisy found Sheriff Rosco P. Coltrane waiting for her at the gate.

"Hey, Rosco."

He played with his tie and tried to smile at her, doing that thing with an alternating silly smile and worried frown. Sometimes, it made Daisy think there was more to him than met the eye. He was noticeably distracted by her companion dressed in pants and a jacket over her blouse.

"Rosco, this is Detective Angela Kim."

"Ooooo, Enos told me somebody was gonna' escort you. When I visited him in Los Angeles a long time ago, I don't remember seein' any female detectives so fetching. Kew-kew. Sheriff Ros-co P. Coltrane at your service."

Angela opened her eyes wide and gave Daisy a look which clearly said, 'Is he for real?' and Daisy just shrugged her shoulders. Most-things-Rosco defied explanation.

"Hey, Daisy girl. You got any luggage, uh, needs retrieving from that whirligig they call a carousel?"

"No, just this carry on," Daisy said, flashing him a smile, then caught him by surprise when she hugged him around the neck with her free arm. She pulled back to admire his new look. "Oh, Rosco, you old charmer. You look so handsome in plain clothes. You went all out, vest and everything."

Enos didn't have the market cornered on blushing. "Don't feel right workin' outta' uniform. Not sure how the dipstick does it."

With eyebrows raised nearly to her hairline, Angela mouthed, 'Dipstick?'

Daisy rolled her eyes. "Pet name. Um, a term of endearment," she said. "That's enough chewin' the fat, Rosco. Detective Kim has to catch a plane back to LA in half an hour." She turned to Angie and said, "Thanks, Angie."

"You're welcome." Angie winked. "Enos will get my bill."

"Awful nice meetin' you, Detective Kim." Rosco straightened his tie again.

"Same here, Sheriff."

"Tell Enos...Tell him I said, hey."

"Sure thing, Sheriff. Now I really do have to go." And she hurried away to catch the queue for her return flight.

Daisy caught hold of her carry bag and surveyed Rosco again. 'Ole Rosco does look pretty dapper in his suit,' Daisy thought and wondered who picked it out for him.

"Well, we better get a move on, now, Daisy," he said. "We gotta' pick up your motorcycle yet and get it in the back of the truck. Say, what'd she mean 'Enos would get her bill'?"

"Never mind, Rosco," she sighed. "Let's get going. I don't want anybody seein' me switch to my bike when we get close to the farm."

Tuesday, November 4, 1997 – Los Angeles, Parker Center

Rosco had reported that Daisy was home, safe, and sound. Now, Soonie was gone too, and the loneliness Enos felt, just knowing she wasn't in the city, was tenfold what he had ever known in the nearly eleven years before. The worst of it was, he hadn't been able to see her before she left for San Francisco. Her uncle's security would have whisked her away the previous afternoon, long before he and Thompson were able to make it back into the city.

While he studied the traffic sloth its way along North Los Angeles Street, Inez walked up behind him.

"Captain sent the warrant to the judge, E. We won't hear from him for a few hours. You should get some sleep?"

"I don't think I could sleep even if I tried."

Enos turned, dizziness threatening his balance, and looked down at her. She seemed so tiny that he sometimes forgot how formidable she could be. What Thompson had said to him Sunday night about being blind...He could see it in her eyes. Maybe it's what Aaron had seen.

"That wasn't a request," she said. Gripping his arm and squeezing it, she whispered, "You're already skating on thin ice because you ducked the follow-up exam yesterday. So if you don't get your ass over to Doctor Perez in the next half hour, Mallory's going to take your gun and your badge."

It didn't matter what she said. Her eyes were begging as he had begged Daisy. Tired to the exhaustion point and washed out by the throbbing in his head, he was not prepared for that kind of news. Exhaustion, like loss, sometimes provides clarity. Once your inner defenses are sloughed off, not much is left but the cold hard clarity of truth. He bent his head, closed his eyes, and swallowed back the fluid running into his throat. When he opened them again, she was still staring up at him - 'do it for me, because I love you' behind her eyes. The time for hiding how she felt about him had long passed.

"I'm so sorry, Inez. I didn't know."

"Never meant you to," she said, fighting the tears she knew would only make him feel worse. "Go home, E. Go home to Soonie."

Tuesday, November 4, 1997 – Los Angeles, the warehouse brothel

Victor Mollaret sat alone in the dirty office, spitting out the last bit of nail from his right index finger. The smell of chemicals lingered from years of treating lumber in the facility. The quiet of the warehouse made him nervous. This fly-by-night sex shop wasn't the elite escort service he'd run before, but it was nonetheless lucrative, and that would not begin anew until late afternoon – if it began at all. The giant fans were silent, and he wondered where the hell was the rest of his crew?'

He had already lost one of his cash cows to that sicko, Crum. The fresh meat he'd bought six months ago called Crum 'two by four.' That problem was over and done with. 'Poetic being offed by your own signature weapon,' he thought and laughed with a sneer.

He had lost one of his stock because of Crum. With their own losses to supplement because of the raid, they wouldn't sell him any more young girls. The heat was too high. And it made them more nervous than he was. He was being blamed when it was that idiot Crum who had killed the kid.

It wasn't his fault!

Mollaret had wanted to take his time terrorizing Kate. Thanks to Two by Four, he'd had to accelerate his plans for Kate and Strate. Despite his life being worth about two cents at the moment, he laughed again at his pairing of their names.

He'd been able to control Kate when she first came to L. in '84. For years he'd dangled the threats to her sister over her head. Kate was so gullible, so stupid. He hadn't even known where the damn kid was – still didn't. But that hadn't stopped him from looking. Just the threat of hurting the girl had been enough to keep Kate in line for the four years before she turned on him. Before she met that f***ing Georgia hillbilly. He'd underestimated the f***ing son of a bitch back then.

But Strate would never find the bitch, not in a million years. She was gone. And that idiot, Crum? He was stuffed in the trunk of a car in a shipping container headed for Taiwan. He smirked at the thought. Man, would those car dealers get a surprise when they unloaded that shipment!

The smoke was barely noticeable through his drug-induced haze. 'Some punk ass-wipe burning trash in the neighborhood,' he thought. Artificially energized for a fight he believed he could win, Mollaret lunged stuporously from his chair. He'd put a scare into the little bastards. But the smell was acrid when he stumbled to the door. It was hot. The crack he'd scored wasn't even that good. How long had he been out?

Opening the door was the last thing Victor Baptiste Mollaret did on this earth.

Tuesday, November 4, 1997 – Los Angeles, Parker Center

Doctor Perez, who had come in at 2:00 am to check out one of the department's detectives at the request of Captain Mallory, had carefully and in detail explained to Enos what would happen if he continued down the road he was headed.

Perez summed it up with a warning. "Detective. Under normal circumstances, your prognosis would be good for normal recovery. But you face long-range issues, not to mention serious brain damage if you keep up this pace. You're pushing the envelope, son. I know I'm not your primary, but I know what he would say."

Enos didn't put up much of a fight. "Yes, sir."

"I'm going to re-schedule your appointment with your primary for later today, and you had better show up."

"Yes, sir."

"You understand that if you don't comply, Captain Mallory won't get a chance to pull your badge officially because I'll pull it."

"Yes, sir. Can I go now?"

"Only if you're going home. You still aren't released to drive. And leave your service weapon and your badge with Detective De Pina for now. You'll get them and your license back when you're medically cleared."

"Yes, sir. Can I go home now?"

An hour later, Enos sat in the Crown Vic passenger seat in front of Soonie's apartment building, looking up at her window. He and Thompson hadn't exchanged more than ten words on the drive from Parker Center. Even if he hadn't been on the last drop of adrenaline, he wouldn't have blamed Thompson for sicking Inez on him.

But Thompson must have felt guilty about it anyway. Enos was about to open the door of the car to get out when Thompson said, "You didn't give me much choice."

"Yeah, I know. You did the right thing. Not tellin' me Soonie was still in LA? That's somethin' you and me are gonna talk about sooner rather than later."

"Yep...got it."

While Enos, duffel bag filled with fresh clothes courtesy of Mrs. Huang in hand, was keying in the security code, Thompson dialed Soonie's mobile number.

Thursday, November 6, 1997 – Hazzard, Hazzard Elementary

Daisy sat on the bench outside the library and waited for Annie Poe. They hadn't known each other very well. Annie had come to Hazzard at eighteen or nineteen and had lived there since.

The twenty-eight-year-old was attractive, but she was also quiet and shy. Kept to herself mostly. Daisy couldn't remember if she'd ever heard of Annie being in the company of any of Hazzard's various bachelors. A teacher's assistant and librarian, she wasn't Bo's usual type, but he appeared to have taken a real fancy to her. Although he would deny it.

Annie also volunteered at the Hazzard walk-in clinic twice a week and just happened to be there when Bo, the reckless idiot he could sometimes be, had come in with a sprained ankle.

Daisy opened the envelope from Enos that Angie had handed her on the plane again and waited.

Thursday, November 6, 1997 – Hazzard, downtown

On Day One of his 'assignment,' Rosco nearly choked on his kolache when he saw the truck that delivers the morning papers drive past the bakery window. Scrambling to shove the rest of the roll into his mouth and say goodbye to Sarah Jane at the same time, he grabbed his jacket from the hat tree and sped out the door.

Miss Emma Tisdale, still Postmistress on the high side of eighty-nine, caught him purloining the gossip rags the minute after Hershel Gibbins had put them on the shelf outside Rhuebottom's and gave him a horrendously stern talking-to about freedom of the press. Bashing him repeatedly with her motorcycle helmet, she made him drop the bundle of papers and chased him away from the front of the store.

When Rosco went back, after he knew the coast was clear, he found nothing on the shelves where they were usually displayed and that neither the general store nor the Busy Bee had received its usual delivery. In place of the missing papers, someone had left an envelope full of change suspiciously amounting to the retail price of their standard order. Rosco left Rhuebottom's scratching his head and muttering to himself. 'Daisy Duke's gonna' kill me, but first, she's gonna' chop me up like raw liver. There's a flaw in the slaw, and I'm gonna' find it."

Twenty minutes later, he and Flash III responded to a report of fire behind the Post Office. When he ran into the alley, Rosco found Emma Tisdale standing on a milk crate, a 5-gallon bucket at her feet, poking at something inside a 30-gallon oil drum, smoke billowing out of it.

"Mizz Tisdale, have you turned into some kind of pyro-maniac or somthin'. You can't be burnin' nothin' back here. Now, you just let me help you put this out," he said and to reached for the bucket of water.

With Emma's short little arms fighting him off, Rosco held her carefully out of the way with one hand and peered down into the drum only to find all the papers he had been trying to commandeer turning to ash in the bottom. Before he could pull his head up, she dumped the bucket of water on him. Rosco would go to his grave wondering how the little pixie had been able to heave that bucket so fast.

Dripping wet, he stood up, wiping the water, and the consternation, off his face. He looked a little like Curly Joe.

"Mizz Tisdale! Shame, shame! I'm an officer of the law."

"Well, that's debatable. But for your information, Sheriff, I bought these papers, and I can do whatever I dang-well please with um,'" she said and threatened him with the empty bucket. "Why'd you want them papers anyway, Rosco?"

"Welllll...Hey, I don't have to explain nothin' ta' you. I'm the Sheriff and boss of this here county see, and you–"

She drew herself up to her maximum height of 4' 11" and planted her hands on her hips. "An' I'm a duly appointed official representative of the U.S. Gov'ment. So you better spill them beans b'fore I make um rattle around in your empty head." She raised the bucket again, hardened her gaze, and gnarled her lips together menacingly.

Prior experience with Hazzard's Postmistress had made Rosco as cautious as a snake doctor around a starving bullfrog. He recoiled and braced for another assault.

"Could it be," she asked, her eyes still narrowed to little tiny slits, "there's somethin' in these papers you don't want anybody in Hazzard to see? Somethin' about a particular former deputy?"

She held up a copy of one of the most popular, not to mention the most gossip-mongering, scandal sheets with the headline THE DETECTIVE AND THE HOOKER in large red letters that blotted out the faces of a man with brown hair and a woman whose hair was auburn.

"Emma Tisdale! Why I'm surprised at you! You...You itty bitty little fire-startin' devil." Then he put on his serious face and went limp. "You know ain't none of it true, don't ya'? Not none of it, not no how."

"Course I know that, you birdbrained nincompoop. But I can't be runnin' around all the time b'fore I open the Post Office tryin' to squelch barefaced lies. So next time, you mind you pay for them papers, you hear me Rosco Purvis Coltrane. Just 'cause you're sheriff doesn't mean I can't take a switch to your scrawny bottom, just like I done to his once or twice when he was growin' up."

"Yes, Ma'am," Rosco said and grinned. Still a little cautious of a possible counterattack, he leaned down, kissed her on the top of her head, and whispered, "God bless ya', Emma. You're a real peach. And that's a fact."