Chapter Seventy-Nine
As a child Furyk had learned to move quickly to avoid his father’s fists. The time he spent as a teen in juvenile detention taught him to use anything he could get his hands on as a defensive weapon. He didn’t break rhythm as his momentum carried him toward Merrill and the shooter while he reached for the copper pot still on the stove. Swinging wide and hard he tried to slam it into the man coming through the door. Too far away to reach his head or body, Furyk made heavy contact with the gun and shooting hand as it swung toward him. The crack of metal on metal was followed instantly by the sound of a second shot. The arc of the Beretta’s barrel had barely cleared Furyk’s face as the force of the blow pushed it up and away, the bullet instead hitting something glass and loud behind him. Hot liquid from the pot flew into the gunman’s face and his grunt of pain was echoed by Merrill’s shriek as half the contents fell on her, prone beneath the legs of the attacker. It broke her stupor, but things were happening too fast for her to react or participate.
Furyk had half-spun in the direction of his swipe at the gunman’s arm and the combined momentum of his drive toward the door and the attacker’s striding into the kitchen brought them within a foot of one another. As Furyk made the quarter turn back to face him, he caught his breath and hesitated. Cordoza’s face writhed in pain, from the burns on his cheeks and neck and the likely broken hand that still held the gun, but it paled against the fury directed at Furyk. In the split second of Furyk’s hesitation while he recognized the attacker, Cordoza brought the gun up level with Furyk’s forehead. He tried to pull on the trigger, but his fingers wouldn’t respond. The pain was extraordinary, the wrist shattered and unable to transmit the impulses to the hand. He brought his left hand up to help, but got only half way. Furyk swung the pot around, like a backhand tennis stroke, up toward Cordoza’s face. The copper edge slammed against his right cheek, and the bit of bone that was Cordoza’s reminder of his hatred of Furyk splintered beneath the skin. The force of the blow just below the eye was like a hammer striking a sheet of ice thinly covering a frozen lake. Cracks formed in the bone under the skin and wound their way out from the point of impact toward his nose on one side and trickling in the direction of his ear on the other. A doctor later would conclude that only the tautness of the skin and a heavily clenched jaw kept the right side of his face from collapsing and destroying the eyeball.
Cordoza felt only a moment of the pain. The backhand to his face slammed his head to one side and it struck the doorframe, knocking him unconscious before the nerves in his face could communicate their excruciating agony to his brain. He went limp, a rag doll suddenly dropped like a forgotten toy. He landed directly on top of Merrill, who renewed her screaming. Furyk pushed Cordoza’s body back toward the living room as Merrill scrambled to get out from under. She got to her knees but didn’t turn around to look at Furyk or the man lying on the floor behind her. Her screaming had stopped. She clapped her hands to her mouth and stared at Felicia. Deep, red arterial blood, dark from the oxygen that fed it before it was pumped through her heart, poured from the wound in her neck. No more sounds came from either woman as Felicia began to lose consciousness and slid from the stool. Her eyes looked directly into Merrill’s and they were pleading, for help and for forgiveness. Merrill wanted to give her both but had neither. Then both were on their knees, as though in mutual prayer, and as Felicia’s gaze lost focus, Merrill reached both hands toward her. She tried to say something, and in the brief moment before Felicia died, Merrill was able to mouth the words she wanted to hear herself. They came out in a hoarse whisper, inaudible to Felicia but the meaning was clear. “It’s okay. It will be okay.” Felicia’s face went slack and she fell to the side, her head cracking against the tile but causing no pain.
Merrill blinked heavily and suddenly Furyk was by Felicia’s side, trying to stanch the flow of blood but recognizing death in the young girl. The room was still, the echo of the two bullets long gone and only the raspy breath coming from Cordoza breaking the quiet. Furyk squatted by the girl and ignored his own racing heart and the urge to pick up the pistol on the floor and put the remaining bullets into the cop’s skull.
Chapter Eighty
Henry’s Tacos shouldn’t have been open at this hour but Brant’s cruiser pulling up to the curb signaled the workers in the shack that they needed to interrupt their prep work. Whatever stewing meat, diced condiments, and warm tortillas were ready in preparation for the lunch rush still hours away should be spooned together with fresh cheese shavings for the Sheriff. Brant wordlessly took the cardboard box with half a dozen soft tacos from the hands pushing them through the opening in the side of the stand and set himself up on the picnic table nearest the street. The police scanner in the cruiser crackled between the almost unbroken stream of instructions and questions between dispatch and the dozens of cars and foot cops on patrol. It had the same rhythm as a taxi fleet dispatcher – names of locations, numbers identifying units, arrival times, corrections to misheard or simply missed communications. Except the topics weren’t old ladies waiting to be picked up at the grocery store or a guy angrily calling to ask where his ride to the airport was. They were domestic disturbances, robberies, rapes, and murders. On this morning, it was mostly low key, mundane problems, identified by code rather than crime. But Brant was listening for one in particular. He wanted to hear about a disturbance at a residence in Brentwood. Preferably a shooting, at least one if not two, dead. Officers on the scene.
No hurry. The tacos were warm, the sun was getting there, and at least half his problems should be solved soon. Enjoying the taste of the tangy salsa, the Sheriff’s thoughts lingered on some of the images he’d skimmed earlier that morning in his office. Wick’s records were like a smorgasbord. Some of his male clients were gluttons, messy eaters too. They had sick tastes, hurting the girls. They paid a lot extra for that. Brant had simple needs. None of that wacko stuff. And it didn’t cost him anything at all. One of the perks of the arrangement. His mind settled on the fourth girl he’d seen. She looked fresh, clean, and not too used up. Maybe after things settled down, in a week or so, he’d be able to sneak in a little R&R one afternoon with her.
A call on the radio caught his attention and the mouthful of greasy flour and meat he’d just started to swallow caught in his throat as he jerked forward with a flash of anger. He hacked and coughed until it came loose, spitting the wad onto the sidewalk. He pushed aside the remaining half-full box and it slid off the table as he did the closest to a sprint he could muster to get to the car. His thoughts were murderous as the radio repeated the call, the code, and the address.
Chapter Eighty-One
A 911 call was the right move but Furyk wasn’t ready. Felicia was dead and no EMT was going to bring her back. Cordoza was unconscious at the very least, but not forever. Furyk needed to think, and the pooling blood on the tiled floor was less a distraction than Merrill’s wide eyes and his concern that the scene would push her over the edge. He needed her to keep cool long enough for him to figure this out.
“Merrill.” Her eyes were still on the dead girl. “Merrill,” he barked harder this time and stood. She looked up and focused on him. “I need a glass of water. From the sink.” He pointed where he wanted her to go, which would put the body, as well as Cordoza, briefly out of sight, blocked by the island in the center of the kitchen. She pushed off the floor to help herself up and hesitatingly took a step toward Felicia, the natural path to the sink. Furyk moved to her and took her shoulder firmly, turning her in the other direction to go around the far side of the island. She was pliant and trembling. While she went through the motions of taking down a glass and letting the water run cold, Furyk tried to do the calculation. Cordoza had been aiming for Merrill when she collapsed after hearing about her husband’s complicity in pimping his young clients, at least it seemed he was shooting for Merrill. Was hitting Felicia just a lucky shot? Furyk’s next move would depend on what the reason for Cordoza being there was. No way
he could have known Furyk would be there too. But maybe he knew about Felicia. If Merrill had called someone, told her the girl was here, they could have sent Cordoza. She opened the door the instant Furyk had rung the bell, as though she had been waiting for someone
“Merrill.” She turned, glass empty and the faucet running at full. “Did you tell anyone Felicia was here?” She nodded, then turned back to the faucet. Like a child. “Merrill, who did you call?” One question at a time.
“I, oh, I…” She frowned at the stream of water, as though searching for an answer. The second dead body in her kitchen was no easier than the first. She felt sanity slipping away. “I called Perry. He said he would come over. He would know what to do.”
Furyk didn’t have to ask the next question – whether she told the lawyer what the girl had said. The only thing Furyk needed to know was whether Margolin was about to walk in the door. That would have been the attorney’s natural instinct – to tell his client to keep the girl there, believing she was no danger since Merrill had been able to call without being under a threat, and then use the girl to exonerate Merrill. If he didn’t show up, then he’d made his own call and wouldn’t be coming by the Wick house until contacted by the police to be told his client had been killed.
Merrill finally filled the glass and began to walk toward Furyk. He went to her instead and took it. “Merrill, how long ago did you call Perry?”
She seemed more sure of the answer to that. “Oh, I remember looking at the clock, because the jewelry show on Home Shopping Network was about to start. It was a couple minutes before 10:00.”
Furyk looked at his watch. It was 10:48 a.m. The lawyer wasn’t coming. He’d sent Cordoza instead.
Chapter Eighty-Two
When Prole’s cell rang, she was glad for the distraction. The lieutenant was chewing her ass for letting Furyk into the building, and he suspected she’d given him access to department files but couldn’t prove it. Some boot-licking greenhorn had ratted Furyk out after seeing him leaving the department earlier that morning. The snide little shit was loitering outside the lieutenant’s office now, pretending to ask a half-deaf ancient desk jockey who was three months from retirement for advice or something. The little bastard didn’t know yet that whatever crumbs of thanks he got from the boss was nothing compared to the stomping he was going to get from Prole. What goes around comes around and her memory was long and clear.
“It was nothin’, loo. He’s just poking around. Doesn’t hurt anything…” She knew that last part was a mistake and it led to her boss’ version of a stern lecture. Not very intimidating, since he had a speck of egg clinging to the side of his mouth but she didn’t want to say anything or his embarrassment would exceed the actual anger about Furyk being there. He didn’t care one way or the other, one of the neutral bosses who didn’t have strong feelings about Furyk, but still he needed to maintain order.
He seemed pretty much done, and left her with a “and he’s a civilian, so if he gets access to departmental case files then whoever made those files available will be brought up on disciplinary action” and she got the message. She pulled out her vibrating phone and held it by her side as she glanced down. It was Furyk – great timing.
“Yes, sir. I understand. By the book.”
Her boss, who had been sitting throughout the reprimand, probably because at heart he was a nice guy and standing up to his full 6’ 4” height would have made Prole feel and look like a child being scolded for spilling something on the rug, waved her off. As she left, he said under his breath but clear as a bell, “And if he comes across anything useful, you bring it to me.” Prole didn’t acknowledge hearing it as she quickly stepped to the door, but she got the message. High profile murder, wife probably did it, but she’d already been convinced by Furyk that maybe that wasn’t the real story.
Outside the office, she glared at the snot-nosed prick who’d fingered Furyk and the smirk on his face froze. If he’d had any real balls he’d come over and ride her for screwing up, but instead scurried out of the squad room to the back staircase.
Prole flipped the phone open. “Ya got the killer, genius?”
There was a pause and she almost said “you there?” when Furyk spoke. It was a tone she knew meant he wasn’t going to be joking around.
“Yeah, bullet through her throat and she’s bled out. She confessed to Merrill Wick – and to me – before she took the bullet.” Now it was Prole’s turn to pause. “Ask me who shot her.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. Who?”
Furyk wasn’t sure what her response would be, but he trusted her instinct. “My pal Cordoza. And he’s out cold. On Wick’s kitchen floor.”
Prole blew out her breath sharply. “Busy kitchen. I suppose Wick’s killer is spread on the same tile?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll be right over.”
“I may not be here. We may not be here.”
A murder scene with a cop down. He was dumping a mess in her lap. “No way, buddy. Stay put. I’ve got a few questions, and I know a couple other guys who will, too.”
“Yeah, like how come Cordoza shows up at exactly the moment Wick’s killer comes to confess to the prime suspect. And why he tries to take Mrs. Wick out first.”
Prole didn’t have to think about it long to see what he was after. “You’re nuts. You think Cordoza was involved? He’s an asshole, maybe crazy, but he’s not a paid hitter.”
Furyk let it hang in the air, the soft hum across the cell line a question mark. “I’ll call you later. After you’ve checked out the scene, spoken to Cordoza. Watch your back. Cordoza’s not smart enough to do this alone.” He hung up and Prole was listening to nothing. She pocketed the cell phone and pulled the radio from her belt. Keying the mic, she started to call in the shooting and cop down, even though she was standing in the squad room – faster to go through dispatch. But she hesitated. The black-rimmed school clock on the wall said 10:51 a.m. She’d wait five minutes. Maybe go to the bathroom first, brush her hair. Furyk could get a head start.
A goddamn mess. She headed to the bathroom, thinking if she didn’t have to pee, then maybe she’d just throw up.
Chapter Eighty-Three
Standing in the kitchen, Furyk could see through the door and keep an eye on Merrill if he leaned to the left as she sat on the couch. He’d pulled Cordoza’s still limp body further into the kitchen so it would be out of Merrill’s line of sight while he talked to Prole. He should have waited and called from the road but better to get it on record that he called from the house. There would be enough suspicion with the dead girl, unconscious cop, and soon to be missing murder suspect. Cordoza would wake and make up some bullshit story about Furyk that would at the very least make him an official target. Staying and trying to explain was just stupid. If Cordoza had been sent to take out Merrill and the girl, having a bunch of cops around wasn’t going to protect Furyk or her – Margolin didn’t have the pull so a much bigger fish was making this happen. Furyk preferred his chances on his own, until he could figure out who the hell it was. The why was starting to clear up – Wick was running girls, and either he had A-list clientele who needed to be protected or partners with a lot of juice. Furyk would need proof and protection if he was going to clear Merrill – and wipe the target off his back.
Prole would get here with the first squad cars. He had maybe five minutes, a few more if she were on the ball and gave him a head start. He took the few steps to Felicia’s body. The eyes were half open, pupils fixed. She’d stopped bleeding, the heart no longer pumping the blood through her veins and out her neck. Furyk was careful not to step in the sticky pools. Cordoza was still breathing heavily, uninterrupted by consciousness. Ten more minutes, maybe. Skirting him on the way to the kitchen door, he gave a kick to the Beretta to push it even further toward the other side of the room.
In the living room, he walked up to Merrill, who stared into the empty fireplace with a blank look.
“Merrill.” He kept his voice gentle but firm
. “Go upstairs and pack some things. Use a small bag. Pajamas, underwear, two pairs of pants, a couple of shirts. Sweats if you have them.” She turned slowly to him and held his look. “Toothbrush, a little make-up if you’ve got a kit, and a brush. That’s it.”
Merrill smiled resignedly. “Is that all I’ll need in jail?” She seemed more focused, out of her drug-induced fog. “No one’s going to believe what that girl said, now that she’s dead. I know Perry doesn’t believe me.”
“No, Merrill, we’re going away for a few days. Get going – now. I need you to move quickly.” This didn’t seem to disturb her and Merrill kept the smile as she patted her legs gently with her palms and stood, like she was getting ready to take the dog for a walk. Without a look at the kitchen door, she headed upstairs.
Furyk went to the window and checked the street. No cars, no cops. His plan wasn’t well formed, but he’d figure it out as he went. Right now, getting some room to think was enough. Cordoza may or may not have run the plates on the Honda, but it wouldn’t take forever for Margolin or whoever he was working with to figure out Furyk was involved in the morning’s activities. Not that it would make much of a difference – now that he knew Ching was no random act of near-murder, Furyk wouldn’t be hanging out at his house or the sandwich shop anyway. Shit – the shop. He’d have to make sure the shifts for the next few days were covered. He’d been advertising a lunch special starting this week and the foot traffic would be heavy. Buy a hoagie and get the second one half-price. The lower-paid office workers would take full advantage. So, too, would the cheap execs.
A Twisted Path Page 17