Dying Breath - A Thriller (Phineas Troutt Mysteries Book 2)

by J. A. Konrath

  “Three seventy-five but that is as low as I can go. Plus I must eat breakfast out of the dog bowl until I turn fifty.”

  “How old are you now?”

  “I’m thirty-six.”

  “I would have guessed you were in your twenties,” I lied. “Will you throw in the bullets?”

  He sighed, fresh tears coming to his face.

  “I will include six bullets. But friends should not assault each other in such a financial way.”

  “Deal.”

  We shook on it. Then I removed the cash from my wallet, and he gave me a brown paper bag for the gun and bullets.

  “I also need something smaller,” I said. “Cheapest thing you got. It doesn’t have to fire.”

  “I understand. This is to plant on the person you shoot so it seems to be self-defense.”

  “You’re watching too many cop shows,” I said, even though that was exactly the reason I needed it.

  “I have just the thing.”

  He reached into his submarine door and came back with a small box. He handed it over.

  Inside was a lump of rust in the shape of a gun.

  “Where’d you get this?” I asked. “Off the Titanic?”

  “You told me it did not have to fire.”

  “How about something I don’t have to soak in WD40 until 2098?”

  “I am sure there is an excellent firearm under all of that rust.”

  “Could be. Could also be a box of nails, or a lump of pig iron. Only an idiot would buy this.”

  “You can have it for ten dollars.”

  “Sold.”

  Fakir closed up the submarine door and relocked it, and I was led out by Mrs. Fakir and Mother Fakir. We were on the stairs for a long time, because Mrs. Fakir had to rest after each step. When we finally reached the top, Fakir had finished closing up and was right behind us.

  “Are you sure I cannot interest you in a carbonated beverage my friend Harry?” he asked, opening his store once again.

  “No thanks.”

  “It is tough to make a living in a country where business competition is so fierce.”

  “You could always cut prices.”

  “But that would reduce my profit margin.”

  I didn’t reply. There was a scream from the doorway, and Mrs. Fakir appeared. She looked tired and sad, even though Mother Fakir was no longer on her back.

  “Oh dear,” Fakir said. “My wife dropped Mother down the stairs again. I must go my friend Harry.”

  “Take care,” I said.

  Fakir grabbed an eight dollar box of Band-Aids from a shelf and went off. I waited until he was gone, stole a Diet Coke from the cooler, and got on my way.

  PHIN

  I woke up twelve hours later, to the smell of eggs frying.

  I stretched, and felt all of my aches come to life. I was in Pasha’s bedroom. Naked. Cleaned up. The cheese cloth around my arms had been replaced with a professional bandaging job, and I peeled one back to see stitches on both wrists.

  She’d also hooked up an IV to the back of my hand.

  Dating a doctor did have its advantages.

  Groucho, Pasha’s cat, was sitting at the foot of my bed, staring at me in the half-interested way that cats do.

  Summoning up the will of ten lesser men, I pulled out the needle, pressed the kink thing on the tube so it stopped dripping, rocked myself out of bed, and got to the bathroom. I used the facilities, brushed my teeth, and debated jumping into the shower, but I didn’t want to wet the bandages. So instead I put on my blue terrycloth robe, the one that Pasha keeps for me hanging up on the bathroom door, and wandered into the kitchen, following the cooking smell.

  My lady was at the stove, rattling those pots and pans. She wore a matching bathrobe. It looked a lot better on her.

  I came up from behind, put my arms around her waist. “I love you.”

  Pasha put a hand behind her and rubbed the back of my neck. “Those cuts on your wrists were deep. Do I need to call the suicide prevention hotline?”

  “You do not. Thanks for fixing me up.”

  She turned around, we shared a brief kiss, and then she sat me down and served me bacon and eggs, which I all but inhaled.

  During my less than civilized attack on the food, Pasha remained blissfully silent. She probably had a million questions, starting with why I left in the middle of the night, and ending with what the hell happened to me.

  “You want to know what happened,” I said, gulping down my last bit of orange juice.

  “I think I deserve that.”

  “You do. But I’m not quite up to talking yet.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I’m a doctor, so I have a lot of patience.”

  I winced. “Bad pun.”

  “All puns are bad.”

  We stared at each other. I wanted to tell her that she was the reason I was still alive. That thinking of her kept me going when I was locked in that box. That I loved her so much I was going to keep on fighting.

  And I would tell her those things, in good time.

  But there were other things I couldn’t share.

  “It’s not over yet, whatever it is,” she stated.

  “No. It’s not.”

  “You know you don’t have to do this anymore. I make enough money.”

  “I know. But it’s what I do. It’s how I met you. If I didn’t do it, I’d feel useless.”

  It was familiar territory, and the only continuing argument that we had.

  “I don’t want to see you hurt,” she said for the hundredth time.

  “I know,” I said for the hundredth time.

  “What can you tell me?”

  I kept it simple, avoiding anything that could implicate her, make her an accessory, or give her a reason to hate me. “I’ve been hired to find a girl. I think she may be dead. I have to find the man that killed her.”

  Pasha knew enough about my work to not ask anymore. I knew enough not to tell her I was going to execute the son of a bitch the second I saw him.

  “There’s something else,” she said.

  I nodded, a lump forming in my throat.

  “Tell me, Phin.”

  “The cancer is back.”

  Her eyes teared up, and she snuggled against me and I held her as tight as I could without causing myself any more pain.

  “We can fight it,” she said.

  The fact that she said we made me feel weak and strong at the same time.

  “Yes. We can, and we will.”

  My lips met hers, and my tongue met hers, and we sweetly and softly kissed.

  Then the kiss became urgent.

  I lifted her up by her tiny waist and set her on the kitchen table, and her mouth was on my neck and my hand was between her legs and I needed to taste her so I dropped to my knees and put her thighs on my shoulders.

  She pushed against me, urgent, but I took my time. Kissing. Licking. Teasing. Bearing down hard and fast, then pulling my mouth away, making her stretch for me.

  When she came, she squeezed my head, her entire body shaking. I built her up again, slowly, until I couldn’t wait another second, and then I stood up and plunged into her and she wrapped her legs around my back and matched my thrusts and we were so loud and obscene and lost in ourselves that Groucho ran out of the kitchen, disgusted with us.

  “I was crazy with worry these last few days,” Pasha told me.

  We were on the kitchen floor, lying on our bathrobes, staring at the bottom of her table.

  “I’m sorry. I would have called if I could.”

  “Dating you… it has its challenges. But it’s worth it, I think.”

  I reached for her, and she playfully slapped my hand away. “I’ve got to go to work. And when you showed up, you were near death. You need to rest.”

  “I feel good. What was in that IV you gave me?”

  “It was a D5.”

  “What is that? Morphine?”


  Pasha laughed. “Dextrose. Sugar water. You were dehydrated.”

  “You didn’t give me anything for pain?”

  “No. Do you need something?”

  “Not right now. I kicked codeine a day or two ago. I don’t want to get on that train again.”

  You will, Earl whispered.

  I ignored him.

  “We can talk to your oncologist during your next appointment, see what he recommends. I should shower.”

  “I’ll join you.”

  Her nude form peeled itself off of me and she went to the cabinet under the sink. From it she removed two plastic garbage bags, and put one on each of my arms up to the elbows, securing them with duct tape.

  It not only kept my bandages dry, but it prevented any hanky-panky in the shower, because when soap and shampoo got in the act I simply couldn’t hold onto her.

  I finished first, toweled off, removed the bags, and then rubbed the steam off of the mirror to take a look at myself.

  I still looked zombie-ish. But my eyes were different. They didn’t look like two burned out holes anymore. They had a little spark in them.

  That was something I hadn’t seen in a good long time.

  In the bedroom dresser I found a pair of jeans that were mine, and I went to the closet to find a shirt.

  Pasha came out of the bathroom, one towel around her body and the other wrapped around her head. She frowned at me.

  “You’re leaving.”

  “I have to.”

  It sounded lame. Pasha looked away. I couldn’t blame her. An apology, a hug, a kiss, a promise I’d be back; it would have elicited no response. So I just left, letting Pasha’s disapproval bounce off me like Nerf toys.

  Thanks for fixing me up and for the breakfast and the sex, now I gotta go kill a guy.

  Stupid macho bullshit. All the hurt and pain in the world caused by men and their violence and aggression.

  But the game was already invented by the time I started to play. I didn’t make up the rules.

  I was just better at it than most.

  Tucker Shears was about to find that out for himself.

  JACK

  I drove while Herb called Cluck to have him look up nurseries in Bankfield.

  “None,” Cluck said on speakerphone.

  “None?” Herb repeated.

  “Nada. Zip. Zero. Zilch. Not any.”

  Herb and I exchanged a did-we-get-conned look.

  “How about nearby?” Herb asked.

  “According to the phone book, the nearest nursery is ten miles away. Nothing on Higgins Road.”

  “Try Google,” I said.

  About thirty seconds passed, then Cluck said, “There’s no Google listed in the phone book.”

  “Use a computer,” Herb said.

  “I don’t trust computers. I heard you can get viruses. I don’t want to pass anything along to the Missus.”

  I couldn’t tell if the old guy was pulling my leg or not.

  “Try florists,” I suggested.

  I could imagine his fingers walking through the yellow pages. “There are two. Plus a place called Plantasy Zone.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I dunno. Wait, they got an ad. Says they rent plants. What the hell does that mean? Renting plants? Is it like: hey honey, want to rent a movie tonight? No, let’s rent a rose bush instead.”

  “Is it on Higgins?” Herb asked.

  “Yeah.” Cluck read off the address.

  It took us forty-three minutes to get there.

  There was something to be said about travel. People will whine about how we waste one-third of our lives sleeping (well, the lucky ones do), but I’ve always had a problem with getting from point A to point B. Going place-to-place was sort of like putting life on hold until you got there.

  My mother was fond of saying it was the journey, not the destination, that was important. I understood her point, but disagreed. The destination was a store that rented plants, and the answers we got could help us catch a killer. The journey was forty-three minutes in the car with Herb, listening to him savor a pack of BBQ corn chips. The crackle of the bag. The crunch of the chewing. The little satisfied sounds he made in his throat after each swallow. And then a terrible ritual known as The Licking Of The Fingers.

  Mom could keep her journeys. I was holding out for teleport pods. Or maybe just a set of earplugs.

  When we arrived, the strip mall was indicative of every other mall in suburbia. This one had seven shops, the anchor being a grocery store chain that touted itself as fresh and organic. The other six were a Chinese restaurant, a laundromat, a currency exchange, a used book shop, a dollar store, and Plantasy Zone.

  We parked and went in.

  “We rent plants,” said Penny, a short, chipper brunette who held a pair of pruning shears in her gloved hands. She had been trimming one of the hundred-plus plants spread throughout the store, forest-thick; some hanging, some on tiers, all mid-size to large, all ridiculously healthy-looking.

  “That’s a thing?” I asked.

  “Sure. To businesses, restaurants, office buildings, companies. We also provide a service to feed and water them. The right plant can turn an otherwise dreary office into a creative and productive working environment. Take Ben here.” She indicated the tree to her immediate left. “He’s much nicer to look at than a bare office wall, he manufactures oxygen, induces a subconscious level of calm, and brings a sense of life and the outdoors to interiors.”

  “Ben?” asked Herb.

  “He’s a Ficus benjaminus,” said Penny proudly, as if talking about her only child.

  Interesting. The only living thing we had at the precinct was the mold growing in the bathroom. I bet a few plants would really brighten up the office.

  But then, they’d probably get stolen.

  “Are you the owner?” I asked.

  “Nope. I’m the store manager. How can I help you?”

  I flashed my badge. “Lieutenant Daniels, Homicide. This is Detective Benedict. Do you recognize this truck?” I showed her a picture of the rental we found in Mount Cisco.

  “I can’t be sure, but it could be Garrett’s old truck, before he got the new one.”

  “Garrett works for you?”

  “Technically, no. He’s not on our payroll. Garrett is a freelancer who works for Mr. Cline.”

  “Mr. Cline?”

  “Edward Cline. The owner. He has fourteen shops in four states. He’s based out of Minnesota.”

  “Do you remember when you last saw the truck?”

  “I dunno. Winter, maybe? December or January?”

  “What does Garrett do, exactly?”

  “He brings us plants from nurseries.”

  I looked at the wall behind the counter, the only wall that wasn’t obscured by foliage. On it were the names of various plants and their monthly and yearly rental rates. To take Ben home for a year, I’d have to cough up five hundred and thirty dollars.

  Penny followed my gaze. “Of course for that fee, we also water him once a week, and keep up with pruning and dusting.”

  “Is that the owner in that picture?” I asked, indicating the framed photograph below the price list of a tanned, smiling man shaking hands with someone who looked like a politician.

  “Yes, that’s Mr. Cline. In fact, there are six of our plants in the governor of Minnesota’s office, along with seventy more throughout state and local government offices in Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinois, and Iowa.”

  Your tax dollars at work. Keeping government employees in vegetation.

  My mind shifted gears. “When Garrett comes with a shipment, how does that work?”

  “He pulls around back, and unloads them off the truck, and brings them in through the service door. If they’re big, he uses the forklift.”

  “They arrive like this?” I asked, pointed at Ben. “Already planted and pruned?”

  “Goodness, no. When he brings them, they still need trimming. We clean them up, put them in proper pl
anters. Do you want to see a shipment that just arrived?”

  We did.

  Penny took us into the back of the shop, which was filled with more plants. No surprise there. But there was a very pleasant surprise when we saw the state they were in. Plastic wrapped around the branches, held with duct tape. And wrapped around the root ball…

  “Burlap,” Herb said.

  Everything fit. The burlap fibers found in the duct tape on all the victims. The dirt and dead leaves in the rental truck. And enough testimony to link it all back to this guy named Garrett.

  “Garrett dropped this off?”

  She nodded. “This morning.”

  “Do you have contact information for Garrett?” I asked. “Last name, phone number, address?”

  “I’ve got a phone number. That’s all.”

  She got it for us.

  “When is his next delivery?”

  “He only comes twice a month. I never know the dates. He calls first.”

  “How about contact info for Mr. Cline?” I asked.

  “Of course. But he’s on vacation for the next week or so. Is Garrett in trouble?”

  Herb made some calls while I asked Penny some follow-up questions. She described Garrett as quiet, a hard worker, kept professional and didn’t socialize when he made a drop off. I got the names of the other employees working there, and was asking Penny where Garrett got the plants when Herb returned. I excused myself and went to talk with him. Herb was tough to read, but he didn’t look overjoyed.

  “Called Cline, got his secretary. He’s on vacation. She claimed not to know Garrett. But we got a hit on Garrett’s cell phone. It’s in the name Garrett McConnroy. Address in Briarpatch, Minnesota.”

  Out of state. That made things complicated.

  “Record?”

  “Two assault convictions. Plead out. Community service, no time served.”

  “Know what he’s driving now?”

  “Unknown.”

  “Does Hellmann think we have enough for a warrant?”

  “If the lab matches the burlap and duct tape, yeah. Michaels in Property Crimes took down the chop shop. Confirms the swarf. But she had to make a blanket deal. The entire car theft ring walked.”

  A shame, but murder was more important than stolen cars.