Edge of Truth by Janice Cantore: Free Excerpt!

Edge of Truth by Janice Cantore

Prologue...

Officer Lainie Jensen yawned as she patrolled her downtown Long  Beach beat. The early morning darkness had a hypnotic effect when  the police radio was quiet. Her partner had called in sick, so she would  be alone for the entire shift. It was the first time in her brief career  that had happened.  

At first, fears of inadequacy about performing her job without  having that safety net of an experienced officer next to her threatened  to overwhelm.  

What if something crazy happens?

Will I make the right decisions should I need to act fast?

Will I do my job right?

But in the squad earlier, when the teasing started, she knew she’d  be fine.  

“Hey, rook, you want us to put some training wheels on your cruiser?”

“Maybe give you the nice, quiet academy beat?”

Lainie still smiled a bit when she recalled the jibes. The ribbing in  squad meetings didn’t bug her. The older, seasoned cops only wasted  their teasing on peers. Though technically a rookie until the next  academy class graduated, she was off probation and a peer now—a  part of the team.  

Once seated in her black-and-white, nervousness spread through  her gut like melted butter on dry bread. But it was an okay feeling. It  meant she was alert and paying attention. Her duty was to search for  trouble—and head straight for it. Lainie wanted to keep a little edginess.

The novelty of being by herself wore off quickly. Being solo on  graveyard patrol meant she was a Robert car—a car dispatched only  to report calls, of which so far there had only been four. She wrote  some tickets and assisted on a few calls, but overall it had been a boring, uneventful night.

Around 6:00 a.m., with two hours left in her shift, more traffic  began to roll as early risers headed to work. Lainie felt more alert, hop ing to write some traffic violations before she went EOW, end of watch,  to the station.

She’d imagined that a career in law enforcement would be a little  more exciting than it had been tonight. Training officers warned recruits  that real police work was not like what they watched on television—95  percent adrenaline and 5 percent downtime—but rather the reverse.  Once field training began, Lainie learned right away how true that was.  Officers on cop shows hopped from one hot call to the next. Real-life  police work just didn’t move at that frenetic pace.

Still, Lainie wouldn’t be doing any other job.

After a few circuits around downtown, even ticket writing didn’t  pan out—everyone was driving according to the rules. Today was her Friday, so she considered heading in early. Then a black Lincoln Town  Car ran a red light right in front of her without even slowing.  Lainie activated her light bar, turned right, and accelerated after  the vehicle. It wasn’t speeding, and she caught up in about half a block.  Ignoring her lights, the driver continued rolling, running a stop sign.  Though adrenaline surged—a vehicle failing to yield could be a  stolen car—her instincts said the guy was probably drunk. He didn’t  seem to be evading per se; he just wasn’t stopping. She grabbed her  radio mike and asked dispatch to run the plate for wants and warrants.

“Robert 8, 28/29 on license plate 4-David-Tom-​­William-987. Northbound Chestnut Street approaching 7th.”

“10-4, Robert 8, stand by.”

They continued rolling north, and the vehicle ran another light.  Lainie beeped her siren and got no response.

“Robert 8, 28/29 returns no want or warrant, application in process.” Lainie groaned. It wasn’t stolen, but app in process meant she  couldn’t know who the car truly belonged to. Time to let everyone  know the guy wasn’t stopping and that she thought the driver was  drunk.

“10-4, be advised I’m following the vehicle north on Chestnut,  just crossing 10th. He’s failing to yield, probably deuce.” She hoped her voice was steady. Her adrenaline had ramped up,  but she didn’t want any of the older guys accusing her of being hysterical. Traffic stops could always go wrong; every training officer had  instilled that lesson.  

“Any unit in the area to assist Robert 8 with a vehicle failing to yield,  northbound Chestnut crossing 10th.”

Lainie muttered her standard prayer, “Lord, I pray for wisdom and  safety—for all involved in this stop.”

Several units answered up to assist.

Lainie turned her siren on, hoping that a bunch of units didn’t  show up just to watch her wrestle with a drunk driver.  The siren had no effect. The Lincoln continued north without  even pausing at intersections. Thankfully traffic was light, and they  were in a residential area. Maybe he was heading home.  The car came to an abrupt stop. He didn’t pull over; he simply  stopped in the middle of the street. As if all of a sudden he saw the  cop car behind him.

Lainie jerked to a stop as well, shutting down her siren but leaving  the emergency lights on while she notified dispatch. “Robert 8, the vehicle stopped on Chestnut just north of 10th Street.”

Another unit pulled in behind her, and she heard them tell dis patch that they were on-scene, 10-97. It was Jason Griggs and Sara  Green, both from her class. That was good; an officer with more time  in patrol might jump in and take over.  

This is my chance to handle something from start to finish on my own, Lainie thought as she stepped out, staying behind the door, never taking her eyes off the Lincoln Town Car.  

Sara came up on her left and Jason took the cover-officer position  on the passenger side.

“What’d he do?” Sara asked.  

“It’s just traffic. He blew a couple of lights and a stop sign. Like I  said, probably a deuce.”

Sara nodded knowingly. This time of the morning, drunk drivers  were not uncommon.  

Lainie stepped from behind her door and started for the driver’s  side of the Lincoln, moving cautiously. Eyes on the back of the driver’s  head, her adrenaline still running high, she worked hard to fight off  tunnel vision.  

Pausing at the trunk, she placed a hand on the lid to make certain  it was closed. The vehicle’s motor still rumbled, and that bothered her.  The back windows were darkly tinted, and she couldn’t tell immediately if anyone else was in the car.  

Flashlight in her left hand, right hand on the butt of her gun,  Lainie approached the driver’s door, stopped just at the doorpost, and  shone her light at the driver.

The window was down. Behind the wheel was a white man, maybe  forty, squinting in the beam of her flashlight. He wore a button-down shirt with a black necktie partially untied, as if he’d begun to take it off and then stopped. He craned his neck and peered back at Lainie with bleary gray eyes.  

Definitely drunk. A nasty, jagged scar ran across his left cheek. He held up a hand to shade his eyes from her light.

“Is there a  problem?” A pungent odor of alcohol wafted up toward Lainie when the man spoke.  

“Can you turn off the car please?”

“What did I do?”

“Please turn the car off.”

He mumbled something that sounded like a curse, but he complied.

“You ran a couple of red lights. Do you have your license, registration, and proof of insurance?”

“It’s not my car.”

“You’re driving. Do you have a license?”

“I’m almost home.”

“Sir, I need to see your license.” Adrenaline dissipated in a cloud  of annoyance. Drunks were rarely easy to deal with.

Lainie leaned forward, shining the beam of her flashlight around  the car’s interior. Someone was lying down in the back seat, but Lainie  left that to Jason. She needed to concentrate on the driver, grateful she had backup with her.  

She asked one more time for his license.

“Officer, you’re making a huge mistake. I’m almost home.” He had  both hands on the steering wheel, and he now stared straight ahead.

“Sir, can you step out of the car please?”

“I said, I’m almost home.”

She shoved the flashlight in her sap pocket to free up her hand,  then pulled on the door handle and opened the door. “I need you to  step out of the vehicle.” Lainie had clear probable cause to administer  a standard field sobriety test.

Anger flashed across his features. This time she heard the curse  loud and clear, but he climbed out of the car.  

The odor of alcohol grew much stronger now, the stench rolling  across her nostrils in a noxious wave. He stumbled and she caught his  arm. Sara stepped up and grabbed his other arm.

“What is this?” He stiffened. “You guys are wrong, wrong I tell you.” His words were slurred. He attempted to pull away, but they  both held on tight.

“I smell alcohol on your breath, sir. How much have you had to  drink tonight?”

“You will regret this. It’s wrong, I tell you, wrong.” Like most  drunks, he repeated himself. He tried to jerk away again, but his balance and coordination were almost nonexistent.

As she and Sara guided the drunk back toward her patrol car, Jason  stepped up to help.  

“We got him,” Lainie said. “Can you check out the person in the  back seat?”

He nodded and returned to the Lincoln’s passenger side.  Lainie and Sara guided the driver to the hood of the black-and white. Lainie had already made the determination that she had  enough objective symptoms of driving under the influence to arrest  him without the balance test.  

“Do you have any weapons on you?” She began to pat him down. “I’ve got nothing to say.”

Lainie felt a wallet in his left back pocket and then the butt of a  gun in his right front pocket.

“Gun!” She grabbed his right wrist and twisted it behind his back  while Sara did the same with his left arm.

“Ow! Stop it,” he cried as he resisted.

Recharged with adrenaline now, Lainie held on tight and quickly reached for her handcuffs. Once he was secure, she retrieved the gun.  It was a small semiautomatic handgun, probably a .22. She handed  the gun to Sara and then retrieved the wallet.  

“Lainie.”

“What?” She turned to Jason.  

He looked pale in the glare of the flashing red-and-yellow light bar.  “You have to see this.”

“Okay. Let me get him in the car first.” She flipped open the wallet. The drunk’s name was Dallas Vine.

“Mr. Vine, you’re under arrest for driving under the influence.  And for carrying a concealed weapon.”

He said nothing.  

Lainie finished her pat down and found nothing else on the man. With the gun and the wallet on the hood of the car, Sara helped Lainie slide Vine into the back of the unit and strap him in. He was  tight-lipped, maybe sobering up a bit. Once she closed the door, she  turned to Jason. “Show me.”

They walked to the Lincoln’s rear passenger door, and Jason opened it.  

A woman was sprawled across the back seat, half dressed.  “She’s dead.”

Lainie stared at Jason. “You checked her pulse?”

He nodded. “She’s cold, Lainie. Been dead awhile. Bullet hole in her  head. You got more than a drunk driver.”

Had she arrested her first killer?

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Chapter One ...

Fifteen Years Later

Tuesday, just before noon, on a beautiful spring day, Detective Lainie Jensen and her partner Mike Pepper left the courthouse and faced a  gauntlet of reporters and news cameras. After a twelve-month investigation, they’d just closed the book on a serial rapist, so the attention  was expected. The case had gone to the jury first thing this morning,  and they only deliberated three hours.  

“Detectives, do you have a statement for us?”

“Was the verdict satisfying?”  

“Did the quick verdict surprise you?”

“What about Hammer’s claim that the DNA sample was planted?  That he is, in fact, innocent?”

Lainie had to stop for that one. She searched the group for the  voice. Callen West, a local reporter for a Long Beach weekly. West  was a vocal activist for what he called “bail reform,” but in Lainie’s  opinion, he espoused not arresting anyone for anything, meaning no  one should ever go to jail.

“What about it? The evidence proved that Cory Hammer was  a serial rapist. We caught him in the act, and his DNA tied him to  thirteen other attacks. The jury was spot-on with its verdict. I would  have expected nothing less.”

“You profiled him! It’s not a stretch to think that you planted  evidence.”

Lainie started to head toward West, but Mike grabbed her arm and  kept her walking toward the car. Lainie let him. If she got in West’s  face, she’d get herself in trouble. And she’d already been in enough  trouble at work—she couldn’t afford any more.  

They continued through the crowd, ignoring the rest of the  reporters’ questions. West’s gaze shot daggers at her. He would never  be called a friend to law enforcement.

Once in the car, she blew out an aggravated breath. “That guy.”  Mike chuckled as he started the engine. “He sure knows how to  rev you up.”

“He sat in the courtroom; he saw the evidence and heard the testimony.” She shook her head. “Still, he thinks the guy is innocent. Or worse, that we fudged the evidence.”

“It gets him clicks.”

“Humph.” Lainie was just happy to be done with court. It was, of  course, essential, but with their caseload, it felt like lost time. She was  eager to be busy with police work. Lainie had wanted to do this job  since she was seven, when her best friend, Jaycee, had been kidnapped  in front of her house.  

The police had found and rescued her seven hours later. The picture on the newspaper’s front page of Jaycee cradled by a large police  officer, her arms wrapped around his neck, was indelibly inked in  Lainie’s mind and heart. The incident fomented a desire to be a cop  herself, to be a dragon slayer and a rescuer.  

“Thanks for the save, by the way.”

Mike shrugged. “That’s what partners are for.”

After the trouble she’d had with internal affairs, Lainie was lucky  to have Mike. An inch taller than her, five foot ten to her five nine, he was well-built and fit, having dabbled in boxing and MMA before  he became a cop. He kept his head shaved and wore a bushy black  mustache. Mike was devoted to his wife and their special-needs son.  He was thirty-six, the same age as Lainie, though she’d been a cop a  year longer, so technically she was the senior partner. But they played  to each other’s strengths, and there never was a power struggle.

Mike drove and headed for their predetermined lunch spot. Lainie  pulled out her tablet to review the details of their next case, now that  the rape case was over and done. As violent crimes detectives, they  handled assaults, rapes, serious domestic violence, and just about anything short of murder. At times the work weighed on Lainie—they  couldn’t save everyone, and some of the victims’ stories were heart wrenching. But she rejoiced in victories like the one they’d had in  court today.

The radio crackled on and off with routine police traffic, and she  half listened to the happenings in the city. Her best friend on the  force, Sara Green, worked day patrol, and Lainie picked out her call  sign, 2David23, from time to time.  

Beep beep.

The emergency tone caught her attention, and she looked up from  the iPad.

“All units and 2David23, incomplete 911 call, possible domestic violence at 345 Elm Street. Respond Code 3.”

Lainie glanced over at Mike. They were about to turn into the  restaurant lot, but they were only two blocks from the address. On  the radio, Sara’s voice answered that she was en route, and her siren  blared in the background.

“Hey, you up to helping on that? Sara’s without her rookie and  we’re close.”

He gave a half shrug. “Sure, we’ll get the case anyway if it’s a domestic.” Mike swung the car in a U-turn and activated the plain car’s lights  and siren.

Lainie turned up the radio a bit as the dispatcher continued. “Before the call disconnected, the calling party stated that her boyfriend had hit her and was now threatening her with a knife . . .”

Mike turned the corner on Elm and slowed—at the other end of  the street a black-and-white rapidly approached.

Since the emergency tone would keep beeping until someone  called Code 4, Lainie advised that they were on-​­scene so everyone  would be aware that the beat car had backup.

Sara had exited her vehicle. By the way she moved, Lainie had  to believe she heard or saw something dangerous. Mike saw it too  because he sped up and slammed on the brakes when they were one  house away from the address.

They both got out and hurried toward the dispatch address. “Drop the knife!”

Sara clearly faced a threat.  

Lainie sprinted up five stairs and saw a courtyard to the right.  Sara’s back came into view. She repeated the command to drop the  knife.  

Sara clearly faced a threat.  

Lainie sprinted up five stairs and saw a courtyard to the right.  Sara’s back came into view. She repeated the command to drop the  knife.  

Lainie saw a man holding a woman by the hair. She was on her  knees, face bloody, and in his free hand, the man held a knife, a big one.  “I’m not going to prison.”  

When he spoke, Lainie recognized him. He was what they called  a frequent flyer. Someone every beat cop in the city had interacted  with at some point. She’d arrested him for burglary when she was  in uniform and had noted his name in several reports now that she  worked violent crimes. Hank Bucshon.  

He jerked the woman’s hair and raised the knife.

“Taser, Taser, Taser,” Sara said as she deployed the less-than-lethal  tool.

The prongs hit the target, and the knife fell to the ground as  Bucshon stiffened and fell backward, toppling like a tree. The Taser  delivered electrical currents meant to overwhelm the central nervous system. When it worked like it should, it totally incapacitated a suspect long enough to get him cuffed and secured.

All three of them surged forward. Sara secured the knife and the  man, while Lainie helped detangle the woman’s hair from Bucshon’s  clenched fingers. She and Mike moved her to the side as gently and  quickly as they could.  

The woman sobbed, in shock. Lainie requested paramedics and  knelt next to her, comforting her until they arrived.

Later back at the station, after the woman had been admitted to the  hospital, Sara called Lainie from booking.

“This guy wants to talk.”

Lainie shrugged, not really concerned. After all, they’d witnessed  Bucshon while he was threatening his girlfriend with a knife. They  didn’t need a confession. “I’ll be around to talk to him after he’s booked.”

“No, you don’t understand. He wants to talk now. We found some  receipts on him. He works for Dallas Vine.”

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Lainie sat up straight. Sara had her full attention. Dallas Vine—a  name Lainie would never forget. The first big arrest of her career. And  the first crushing disappointment. “What?”  

“He sounds legit. Bucshon’s saying he’s got inside knowledge, and  he wants to spill. He doesn’t want to go to jail again; it’s a third strike  for him.”

“I’ll be right down.” Lainie ended the call, and Mike shot her a  quizzical expression.

“Come on, I’ll explain on the way downstairs.”

Lainie finished telling Mike in the elevator.  

“He’s totally pulling our legs,” he protested as they exited in the  basement. “No one rolls over on Vine.” Mike shook his head. “You of  all people should know that.”

“We can talk to Bucshon and figure it out. It’s worth a few minutes  of our time.”

She could tell he wasn’t sold.  

“What can it hurt?” She went to push open the door to booking,  and he stopped her.

“Lainie, you were sued by Vine for harassment. Your obsession  with him almost ended your career.”

“Ahh.” Lainie closed her eyes, brought her palms to her forehead.  “Mike, that was years ago. I’ve stayed away. Other than reading the  occasional news article about him, I haven’t been watching him or  searching for evidence against him.”  

She opened her eyes, lowered her hands, and held his gaze. “Bucshon  dropped right. In. My. Lap. All I want to do is see if he’s on the level.”

Mike said nothing for a few seconds. “Five minutes.” He pushed  open the door.

Sara met them in the holding area with Bucshon cuffed to the  bench. Hank was a rat-fa​­ced guy with a slight build. The burglary he’d  committed when Lainie arrested him was a window entry. Wiry and  flexible, Bucshon had no trouble getting in and out of small windows.  She’d caught him in the alley coming out of one when he tried to run.  

Now, he sat on the bench, subdued. Taking a Taser shot tended to  do that to people. He’d been checked out by medical personnel and  was okay to process.

“You still want to talk?” Lainie asked him.

“I don’t wanna go to jail.”

“I can’t help you there. We saw you about to scalp your girlfriend. I  can’t make that go away.”  

“You can keep me out of county jail, can’t you?”

Lainie considered this. No one liked going to county jail. Especially  those men with small builds and no gang attachments. Hank was only  tough when it came to hitting women.

“I’ll listen to what you want to say, then it’s up to the DA.”

He nodded. “I work inside with Vine. I can give you Vine, I promise. Catch your big fish, let the little one swim away.”

“Get up.”

They walked him to an interview room. As they sat, Lainie’s phone rang and she silenced it. As a matter of  form, she advised Bucshon of his Miranda rights and then unhand cuffed him so he could sign the waiver saying he understood his rights  and wanted to talk. Once he signed, she recuffed him, hands in front. “What do you do for Dallas Vine?”

“A little bit of this, a little bit of that.”

“Specifics?” Lainie tapped on the desktop with her pen. Mike shot  her a look that said, “waste of time.”

Bucshon brought a handcuffed hand up to stroke his chin. “I  know he ordered that hit two weeks ago on Martin Straight.” He held  Lainie’s gaze with washed-out gray eyes.  

She fought to keep her face blank. Straight was not her case, but  she knew about it. He was a legitimate businessman, unlike Vine.  Straight was well-liked and a vocal critic of Vine’s business practices.  He had been murdered in his driveway when he pulled in after work.  The team working the case had zero clues.  

“How do you know?”

“Guys who did it were from out of town, Chicago. They’re back  there now. Skiff and Charles are their names. Now, that’s all I’m giving  until I get some assurances.”

Before Lainie could answer, someone pounded on the door. “We’re busy right now,” Lainie called out.

Then Mike’s phone rang. He checked it. “Lainie, it’s the chief.” She stared in disbelief. The knock on the door sounded again.  “What is going on?”

They both went to the door. Frustrated, Lainie threw it open.  “We’re in the middle of an . . .”  

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Standing on the other side of the door was a tall, dark-haired man  in a suit, not a uniform. His appearance fairly screamed “Fed.” Lainie  looked up at him and words fled. He could have walked off a movie  set he was so perfect. Sharp blue eyes cut into her. He held up an ID  that confirmed he was, in fact, a Fed.

Special Agent Benjamin J. Isaacs, Federal Bureau of Investigation. “You need to cease and desist. I’m taking Mr. Bucshon into my  custody.”

“What? He’s our arrest.” Sara was in the hallway, and she jumped  in before Lainie found her voice.

“Not anymore.”  

Everyone turned as the voice of Chief Mackall entered the fray.  He stepped off the elevator and strode in their direction. “Officer.”  He nodded to Sara and then to Lainie. “Detective. You all did great  work.” He motioned for Lainie and Mike to step out of the interview  room, and he closed the door.  

“But Agent Isaacs is from the Bureau. Seems you all have unwittingly stepped into the middle of an FBI investigation.”

“What investigation?” Lainie found her voice as anger over whelmed the shock.

“I’m not at liberty to relay details,” Isaacs said. “Suffice it to say,  Bucshon is part of it. I want him in my custody.”

“He asked to talk; he signed a Miranda waiver.”

“Has he said anything important?” the chief asked.

Lainie wished she could say yes, but she couldn’t. Her gaze bounced  from the chief to Isaacs and back again. “We just got started.” “We’ll be able to do more with what he has to say than you will,”  Isaacs said.  

“You don’t know what he wanted to talk about. Besides, we saw  him almost kill his girlfriend and you want us to let him go?”  

Heat rose in Lainie’s face. Now over the initial shock of seeing Isaacs,  there was no way he would take away her chance to nail Dallas Vine.  “Chief, Bucshon works for Dallas Vine and he wants to talk. Are  we going to let the Feds just take him?”

Chief Mackall gave her a sympathetic gaze. “I’m afraid we have to.”

“I’m not going to release him,” Isaacs said, “if that is any consolation. He will answer to your charges, just not immediately.”

“That’s no consolation at all.” Lainie folded her arms, livid now,  hating being condescended to. “This is our arrest. No one asked the  Feds in on this. How did you even know he was in custody?”

“That information is on a need-to-know basis. I’m sorry, Detective,  you don’t need to know.” Isaacs’s keen cerulean gaze was almost hyp notic. Then he softened his tone. “Detective, all you want is Vine behind  bars, right? Does it really matter who pounds the nails in his coffin?”

Lainie wasn’t sure how to answer. “We had a clear shot” was all she  managed, and even to her it sounded weak and pathetic. Later, after Bucshon was gone, the chief pulled her aside.

“Lainie,  everyone in the department knows your history with Vine.” “Chief, I—”

He held up a hand. “I know this was a random happening. But  your history with Vine is problematic. Good work helps people for get black marks. And your work since your last contact with him has  been exemplary. Please don’t do anything to refresh people’s memo ries, clear?”

She bit her bottom lip to keep from saying something stupid.  What he said was true and wise. “Clear.”

Later, when she and Mike were back in her office, Lainie brooded. “Get over it, Lainie. Why are you taking this so hard?”  “I wanted another crack at Vine. Bucshon seemed like an omen or something. Dropped right into my lap after all this time. Why is  the FBI involved anyway? Vine is a Long Beach criminal; he should  be arrested by Long Beach cops.”

“He was only saying what you wanted to hear. You don’t even  know if what Bucshon had to say would have been actionable.” “If it wasn’t, why did Isaacs swoop in and take him away?” Mike had no answer and Lainie kept brooding. She busied herself  with writing the names Skiff and Charles on a notepad. Were they  first or last names? She logged on to her computer and decided to do  some searching. When she came up with nothing on those names, her  thoughts turned toward Agent Isaacs.

She wished she had a photo of him to put on her dartboard. Her  first official contact with the FBI and she hated the agent she’d met.

Copyright © 2026 by Janice Cantore