A Reasonable Doubt by Susan Sloan (free novels .txt) 📕

donor to the political party of his choice, and in fact, there wasn’t a conservative cause he wouldn’t champion, in a district that had once been reliably conservative.  He was wined and dined in Olympia, and his support was routinely sought by conservative hopefuls across the state and beyond.

“We’re willing to take the heat, if you are,” Flynn told the prosecutor flatly.

“Between you and me,” John Henry, whose family had been in Jackson County every bit as long as Pierson’s had, said, “I hope you can nail the kid.  He’s always been bad news.  And it wouldn’t hurt if the old man got taken down a peg or two, either.  Let’s just not be in any big rush to tell the mayor, okay?”

Flynn and Coello exchanged glances.  The last piece to the puzzle, perhaps, about the White Horse file and the two suits from Seattle.

Arnie Stiversen didn’t ask how, but bright and early on Wednesday morning, warrants were issued to search the private plane of one Walter Pierson, and to search the homes of Walter Pierson’s youngest son, Wayne Pierson, and his longtime friend, Grady Holt.  The Presiding Judge of Jackson County, Grace Pelletier, signed the warrants herself.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Kent McAllister barked when Flynn and Coello declared their intent to execute the warrants.

“Our job,” Flynn told him.

“Then why didn’t you run this through me, first?” the police chief snapped.  “I thought you were to going to keep me in the loop on this.”

“And that’s exactly what we’re doing,” Flynn said.

“I mean, before you went after the warrants.”

“I’m sorry, but you weren’t available when we made the decision,” Coello said, which was true.  McAllister had been in a closed-door meeting with the mayor.  “So we took it to the prosecutor ourselves.  It was routine.  John Henry didn’t seem to have a problem with it.  Neither did Judge Pelletier.  I’m not sure I understand why you do.”

“I assume you’ve got something that looks like probable cause here?” the chief said, ignoring the implication.

“We do,” Flynn assured him.  “And it would be best if we got to serve these warrants without someone tipping off the Piersons first.”

McAllister glared at him.  “I don’t think I like the sound of that,” he snapped.

“And we didn’t like the idea of two suits from Seattle showing up last week, trying to interfere with our investigation.”

Roy Flynn had been with the Port Hancock Police Department for nineteen years, and Teri Coello, going on twelve.  Kent McAllister had had his job for nine.

“I wasn’t aware that anyone was interfering in your investigation,” the chief said sharply.

“Good,” Flynn said.  “We were a little concerned about politics getting in the way of police work.”

McAllister bridled at that.  “Go serve your warrants,” he said.  “And when you come up empty, I’ll expect apologies all around.  And I can assure you the Piersons will, too.”

“Do you think he’ll warn the mayor?” Coello asked as they were leaving the station.

“Not if he knows what’s good for him,” Flynn replied.  “We gave him cover -- he didn’t know about it until it was done.  If he’s as smart as I think he is, he’ll hide behind it.”

They met up with Stiversen and Cady in the parking lot.  And shortly after that, they were joined by Ben Dawson and Andy Cooper.

“What’s going on?” Dawson asked.

“We’re going to do a little investigating,” Coello said.  “We’re looking for anything to do with a bomb.”

“A bomb?” Cooper echoed.

“Yes, a bomb,” Coello confirmed.  “As in the bomb that demolished the Jansen cottage.”

“Arnie, you and Andy ride with Teri,” Flynn directed.  “Paul and Ben, you two come with me.  We’ll serve the home warrants first.”  He nodded to Coello.  “You take the Holt place,” he said  “And we’ll do Pierson.”

If there was going to be trouble, he knew it would come from Pierson, and he didn’t want his partner taking the heat.

“Why not do the airport first?” Stiversen asked.  “We know what we’re looking for there.”

“Just in case the chief has a change of heart,” the detective said for the officer’s ear only.  “I doubt they built the bomb in the plane, anyway, which makes getting to the homes as soon as possible more important.”

“What the hell’s going on?” Cady wanted to know as soon as he, Cooper and Flynn were in Flynn’s police car and on their way to Wayne Pierson’s home.

“The less you know, the better,” Flynn told him.  “As far as you’re concerned, you’re simply serving a search warrant that was issued in connection with the bombing at the Jansen cottage.”

Cady whistled softly.

. . .

Wayne Pierson lived alone in a tidy, three-bedroom home at the south end of his father’s hundred-acre property just west of the Port Hancock city limits.  The thirty-four-year-old was divorced, with a ten-year-old son who lived most of the time with his ex-wife.  He was employed as the assistant manager at his father’s bank.

He was not at home when the police arrived, so Detective Flynn and Officer Cady went up to the main house, an exquisite Edwardian mansion, at least five thousand square feet in size, and rang the bell.  The woman who answered the door identified herself as the housekeeper when Flynn produced his badge.

“Mr. Pierson hasn’t come downstairs yet this morning,” she said.  “You can leave a card, if you like, and he can get back to you.”

“We don’t need him to get back to us,” Flynn replied.  “We’re here to serve a search warrant on the home of his son, Wayne Pierson.  Since there is no one at home there at the moment, we have two choices.  We can get a key from someone here, or we can break down the door.”

The housekeeper blinked.  “I really don’t think Mr. Pierson would appreciate your breaking into his son’s home,” she said.

“Then it would probably be a good idea if someone provided us with a key,” Flynn suggested.

“Wait just a moment, please,” the housekeeper said, and hurried up a grand staircase.

Five minutes later, man in his seventies, wearing pajamas