by Mark Henwick
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I levered myself up. Bad mistake. The world went all wobbly for a second and when it settled, I was on all fours, kneeling beside Jennings. At least he was blinking and mumbling.
A medic shouldered me aside and bent over him, muttering about friendly fire.
Morales knelt next to me, but not too close.
“You okay?” he said.
I grimaced as the fog in my head cleared out. The truck…
“Windler? Nokes?” I twisted around to look, making my head spin, and ended up slumped back on my ass.
“The guys in the truck? They got out the gate. We probably hit the driver with a couple of shots, but we didn’t have time to set up a blockade. They’re gone, but they won’t get far.” Morales reached out carefully and lifted my chin up to the lights, looked at my eyes. “You weren’t breathing,” he said. “No pulse.”
“Just shock,” I said. “It wasn’t as bad as it looked.” It was. Or would have been for anyone else. “Anyway, heart and lungs working now.”
“You need to get to the hospital?”
“Thanks, but I don’t like hospitals.” I flexed my shoulders. “Nothing but bumps and bruises anyway.” My shoulders twinged and I stifled a hiss. A lot of bumps and bruises, but I can’t have doctors looking at me.
Morales knew some of the background on this and he was just fishing with his question. I guess I couldn’t blame him. He thought I must know more about it than I did.
I wasn’t a vampire. Yet. And if there was anything I could do to stop it, I wouldn’t become one. In the meantime, I couldn’t risk what might show up on X-rays and blood tests any more than I could risk violating my agreement with the army. And even mouth to mouth resuscitation might have been a really bad idea for Jennings to try, for both of us.
“This man has a concussion. We’ll need to keep him under observation.” The medic glared at me as they stretchered him away.
“I was not going to lie there and let him pump my chest and slobber all over my face,” I said defensively to Morales. “You know why…ah, hell. Apologize to him for me, will you? I’ll buy him a drink next week. And, uh, thank you too. Good timing.”
Morales grunted and stood up. “Well, if you don’t need to go to the hospital, do you need a lift home?”
I started to shake my head and thought better of it. Falling over wouldn’t look good. “No, thanks.” I got shakily to my feet. Not good, but not bad. I’ve felt worse.
He handed me a handkerchief. “You might want to get that muck off your face,” he said. “You will have a full report in my in-tray tomorrow morning, 9 a.m. And you will be available for any further questions.”
“Yes, sir.” Damn, so much for sleeping in tomorrow. But at least he wasn’t chewing me out for not keeping a low profile.
“Then get the hell off my crime scene.” He waved toward the gate.
I couldn’t resist. “Oh. That’s what all this pretty yellow ribbon is for, is it?”
Chapter 2
TUESDAY
Well, unless sitting in the office was my own personal purgatory, I was still alive.
I hurt like hell, though.
I completed the report and stretched, carefully. The bruises would fade and the sprains and strains would repair themselves. I heal exceptionally quickly, but being hit by a truck is always going to hurt for a while.
Scary stuff. Just my kind of evening’s entertainment.
Sitting still while typing the reports had stiffened up my back and I attempted some gentle twists. One of the problems with being five-ten; there was more of me to hurt. Still, on the bright side, a normal person would have been in the hospital, if she were lucky.
Morales had gotten his report. This one was for Carter. I attached it and a final invoice to an email, signed it off as Amber Farrell, Commercial and Private Investigator, and sent it. That began the sweet process that would end with money in my beleaguered bank account. Not a moment too soon. This case had lasted way longer than I had anticipated; the flat fee I’d agreed to had turned out to be a bad decision. It had been interesting, sure, and that was important to me personally, but it meant I had put aside the everyday work that kept an investigation business solvent.
I couldn’t face the thought of that everyday work at the moment. I’d earned an afternoon off. But should I go swimming and show off the bruises all down my body, or just opt for a run to loosen everything up? Or both? That way, I could justify a steak dinner and one of Lario’s legendary chocolate desserts. My mouth started to water at the thought. I’m totally OCD on physical fitness, and a girl’s gotta fuel all that energy.
Before I did anything else, I logged into the bank account and paid Tullah. She had come to work for me with the clear understanding that salaries get paid when they can, but I felt guilty when it was late.
Done. I gathered the remaining notes on my desk and stuck them in the Crate & Freight folder.
I guessed Windler would be in custody by now, with a charge for attempted vehicular manslaughter added to a long rap sheet.
My cell rang and at the same time, the outer door opened. That was unusual, since we didn’t get much walk-in business, but Tullah would hold whoever it was for a few moments. The caller ID on the cell showed Morales.
This ought to be good. Clearing up a major drug smuggling operation in one hit like that would look good in front of his bosses. So, a little thank you from the police captain, that would just be icing on today’s cake, or Lario’s chocolate dessert, whatever.
The warmth from outside had set the air conditioning off again and made me think how cool that swimming pool would feel. I needed to keep this short.
“Captain Morales, good day,” I said cheerfully.
“Farrell, we have some problems.”
“Hmm. ‘We’, Captain?” My vision of an afternoon off receded, but I wasn’t going to let it go without a fight.
“Yes, ‘we’, Farrell, and you can put away the smartass comments any time now.”
“What’s wrong?” I said. “Don’t tell me Windler and Nokes got away?”
“For the moment.”
Despite the sour note of their escape, I still felt good about the op, but I had to get moving.
“Okay. Well, I guess you didn’t call for that.”
“Yeah. Look, Farrell, we’ve locked down Crate & Freight.”
“Damn! Carter’s not going to be happy.” Not to mention me—my invoice wasn’t going to get paid while the company accounts were frozen.
“He isn’t, and let’s be clear, that’s an understatement. That’s the first reason I called you—to give you a heads up. He’s hurting and he’s blaming you.”
The heads up surprised me. Captain Morales wasn’t ever my biggest fan. When I left the police force, I guess I could have dug my heels in and made it an issue, which wouldn’t have looked good on Lieutenant Morales’ watch just as he was pitching for the next slot. In the event, I had left quietly and he was made Captain a month or so later, but that didn’t obligate him to call me with warnings on a matter like this. I guess this was my thank you for last night.
“Okay. Thanks for that.” I hesitated. My paycheck was delayed, and I didn’t want any more bad news today, but I knew there was something more here. “What else?”
“Farrell, we’re talking literally tons of cocaine. This is major league organized crime. There’s someone else hurting here.”
He didn’t need to go on. I was the cause of an astronomical loss to some crime boss. It wasn’t a good place to be.
The landline phone rang and I heard Tullah pick up. Never one thing at a time. I had to end this call.
“I hear you. Thanks again, Captain. I’ll be careful.”
He wouldn’t let it go. “Haven’t you got somewhere else you could be? I’d still need to be able to—”
That plain ticked me off. Of all people, he should have had a good idea of how well I can take care of myself. “I have all this kinda stuff han
ging over me already, remember, Lieutenant? Now, I have a business to run. Gotta go run it. Bye.”
“Dammit, Farrell, the feds will want—” I hit the cut off and sighed. So, the local drug boss wanted my hide. Take a number. See if you can find me before the vamps do.
Tullah put her head around the door.
“Amber, there’s Ms. Kingslund to see you, and a call. It’s Mr. Carter on line 1.” Tullah looked irritated, and I guessed that Carter was beyond being polite. If he had a beef with me, I’d take that, but I didn’t want him being unpleasant to Tullah.
I sighed, and all hope of the afternoon off disappeared completely.
“Ask Ms. Kingslund if she would allow me a couple more minutes for this call, please,” I asked Tullah.
“Okay, honey, I hear you,” came back through the partition in a pleasant contralto. “Go ahead.”
My office was a former storeroom at my accountant’s. Ms. Kingslund and I were separated by the thinnest of partitions. I grimaced. Not ideal. I could have done without the ‘honey’, too, but this wasn’t going to be the best introduction a client could have and I let it ride. I couldn’t put Carter off any longer.
Steeling myself, I picked up the landline.
“Carter, it’s Farrell—” I was going to apologize for him having to hold while I was on my cell, before we discussed how he talked to Tullah, but I never got that far.
“You’re finished, Farrell,” he shouted down the phone. “I should never have trusted you. When Greg told me you were reliable and confidential, I believed him. What was he thinking? When I’m done with you, you’ll never get work again in this town.”
“Whoa, Carter. Can we back up a couple of steps here?”
“Don’t give me any of that bullshit. I’m not going to waste my time talking to you any longer than I have to. You betrayed my confidence by going to the cops. You exceeded your assignment. You—”
“I made the police aware of serious criminal activity,” I cut across his rant. “You look at my contract, Carter. I’ve done what I said I would do, and you owe me my fees.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what you think, you’ve screwed my whole company with your incompetent meddling.”
I have a little demon in my throat that just ups and says things sometimes. “Incompetent?” said the demon sweetly. “I’m not the one who’s been running a busted drug smuggling operation.”
That was probably not the best thing to say, but we were beyond any reasonable conversation anyway, so I wasn’t too upset with the demon.
“I’m going to sue you, you bitch,” he screamed before I put the phone down.
“I’m not taking calls from him until further notice, Tullah, and neither should you,” I managed to say calmly.
My guts were churning with anger. There was no way his lawyers could get anything to stick against me, but I really couldn’t afford to waste time in court, or money on lawyers.
Taking deep breaths and deliberately not thinking about the five most painful ways to kill a man with my bare hands, I told myself it was likely Carter was just letting off steam and it would never come to a lawsuit. Or he’d take it to his lawyers and they’d talk some sense into him. Maybe, eventually, I would get my money. Maybe.
I couldn’t spend time thinking about that now. I’d ignored my steady work for a bit of excitement, much good it had done. I needed a nice, run of the mill, predictable case that paid well. If Ms. Kingslund was still there, I really needed her business.
She was.
Tullah ushered her in, and my stomach did a flip. Oh. That Ms. Kingslund.
What with my anger at Carter, my surprise at seeing who it was, and getting out of my chair like I was suffering from rheumatism, I must have looked a sight to her. She ignored all that, walked over and stuck her hand out. “Jennifer Kingslund. Please call me Jen.” She ran her eyes over the office as we shook, taking it all in. That didn’t take very long, and they were back to looking at me.
“Then I’m Amber,” I replied. Her eyes were the cool blue of a shirt too often washed. Nice, but wary. Not that I blamed her; she’d come to my office looking for a private investigator. The name would have told her I was female, but maybe she’d been expecting a Kathleen Turner, playing V. I. Warshawski, turned out in a chic dress and jacket. What she’d got was darker, taller and leaner, short auburn hair pulled back in a pony tail, dressed in my office clothes, also known as slim jeans and plain white T.
Oh, and with extensive bruising all down one side. Yeah, I’d have looked wary too.
“After your last call,” she said, with a flicker of a smile, “maybe you would appreciate a cup of coffee over in Papa Dee’s?”
“Sure, let’s go across.”
I picked up a blank client file, nodded to Tullah and we walked out into Denver’s fall sunshine. Both of us slipped on sunglasses against the bright light. It was hot, maybe one of the last few days of Indian summer, with the heat coming off the asphalt in waves.
That Jennifer Kingslund. What the hell was she doing out here, talking to me?
Chapter 3
“I’m sorry about the call,” I said as we walked. “It was just wrong to take it while you were waiting and could hear. I’m usually much more discreet with a client’s business, but I didn’t think he’d appreciate waiting.”
“Campbell gets overexcited, and I guess this isn’t a good time for him,” she replied. Of course, she would have heard about the company on the news. She would have connected the dots while she listened to my side of the telephone conversation. And of course, she would know him. She waved an elegant hand. “Let’s leave it, for the moment.”
Jennifer Anna-Marie Kingslund was the CEO and owner of one of Colorado’s leading businesses, the Kingslund Group. She owned hotels, restaurants, sports facilities and nightclubs. I remembered hearing she had diversified into PR recently.
Given her history of marriages that had come apart in public and the intriguing rumors of boardroom struggles, there weren’t many people in Denver who didn’t know something about her. According to the papers, she was a role model for businesswomen, or attractive and extroverted, depending on the angle of the story. She famously championed local causes. I didn’t think I qualified as a local cause and had to scratch my head trying to come up with a reason she might want to hire a solo private investigator.
That, however, isn’t a question you ask, as a solo private investigator.
Jennifer Kingslund could afford the best of the downtown agencies. If she had a reason to come to me, hopefully she would tell me. Even if she didn’t, I wouldn’t let that stop me from taking a case. I needed the money. Paying Tullah against the expectation of a prompt payment from Crate & Freight had left about sixty dollars in the account.
In the flesh, she seemed a bit taller than her pictures on the news, though still a couple of inches off my five-ten. Maybe that was the effect of the pretty Italian heels that she clipped along on. She was slim. She wore a simple red dress hanging to just below the knee. Her Scandinavian blonde hair had been done that morning by the looks of it, big and swirly. It was a color that made me think of old gold. A single, thin chain hung around her neck and she carried a little clutch bag. What with the dress and the hairdo, the bag and the chain, she was probably carrying around more value than my entire wardrobe. Sigh.
If she noticed me looking, she didn’t let it show and she didn’t return the favor. I guess there wasn’t a lot to see beyond the casual clothes and ugly bruises. My belt and cowboy boots were top quality, but no one ever noticed them.
“Do you suppose,” she said, tilting her chin up at the peculiar turrets above Papa Dee’s, “that adding those ridiculous little roofs has resulted in so much as a single extra client?”
I laughed. “Maybe not, but at least everyone knows where Papa Dee’s is.” Then we were inside, where it was cool and dark, even with the sunglasses pushed back up.
We picked up a couple of coffees and sat in a corner. There were onl
y a handful of customers, mainly people from the surrounding small businesses. It was late for lunch. The wooden tables were wiped down and the staff was beginning to set them for dinner. I glanced around. The music was turned down low, but the customers were spread out through the restaurant. It was comfortable and it was reasonably discreet, if that was what she had wanted.
“So, ahhh, Jen, how can I help?”
She didn’t dive right in. “You were in the army for a while, weren’t you?”
“Yes, that’s where I learned accounting.” Not a word of a lie, but not the whole truth at all. I hated being evasive, but there were things I couldn’t talk about. If she picked up on it, she didn’t show it.
“Some time in the police as well.” That was a statement rather than a question, and she could have read that off the company website, so I just gave a little hum of confirmation. My time in the police included more things I couldn’t talk about. If she was one of those clients who needed a comprehensive review of my past, I was going to have to turn this one down, but it seemed she’d just been settling herself down.
“You’ve been recommended to me.” She saw the question forming on my lips and held her hand up to stop me. “I promised them I wouldn’t tell you who it was and I take my word very seriously.” Her eyes got cooler and held mine. “I expect the same level of discretion from you. I need your word that anything I say from now on is held in absolute confidence. If a situation arises like the one with Campbell’s call in your office, you will find a way around it without revealing anything about me or my case to anyone else, or we can’t do business.”
I don’t have a problem with people who state their requirements clearly, so that didn’t raise any hackles. It startled me a bit that she had gone from Ms. Nice to the ice queen businesswoman in the space of a couple of sentences. It gave me some appreciation for her reputation as a tough person in the commercial world. From what I could recall, she’d inherited a small restaurant business in a mess of family shares and bad deals. She’d turned it around, paid the rest of the family off, two ex-husbands included, and made it the successful company that she owned today. I was beginning to see how.