“Oh, come on. I was being strangled to death. I was a bit distracted. And it’s not like half the hospital didn’t see him too. What about him?” I pointed at Hunter. “He saw him.”
Hunter raised an eyebrow. “I was a little busy saving your life, if you remember.”
I exhaled and closed my eyes, counting to calm myself down. There was just no way I was going to win here. Everything I said would be twisted to make me look stupid, weak or ungrateful. Instead, I licked my lips and looked off into space.
Voltaire glowered at me. “The only way we’re going to find the guy who came to the hospital today is by first finding Lathos or the woman you were following.” He put his hands on his hips and stared down at the floor. Everyone stood perfectly still, as if listening for cues—or possibly receiving telepathic commands. Suddenly, he looked up. “Here’s how it’s going to be.” He pointed behind me. Lilly and Nestor had appeared in the doorway. “You two: this happened on your beat, you hit the local snitches. Shake ’em till they shit their pants. Got me?”
Lilly started, whether from pleasure or fear, I couldn’t tell.
Nestor nodded, grabbed her by the arm, and led her out. “Got it.”
Voltaire turned to the others. “I want answers, people, and I went them fucking now. That’s it. Out! Hunter, you stay here. You too, little girl,” he said, pointing at me.
I gritted my teeth. One more “little girl” comment, and I was kicking someone in the ankle. After all, as long as you’re going to be accused, you might as well be guilty.
The others dispersed. Voltaire looked at me. “Now. What to do with you?”
Hunter stepped forward. “May I make a suggestion, Vince?”
“No,” I said, sensing trouble.
Hunter’s eyes lit up. “Someone’s already tried to kill her once.”
“I don’t think I was the primary target. He was going into Jake’s room, I’m betting to finish the job he’d started earlier. And I interrupted him. I just got in the way.”
“You do have that gift for making people want to strangle you, Angel.”
“Hunter, you are a complete ass, you know that? And don’t call me Angel. I hate it.”
“Now, now, I’m only thinking of your safety. You want to know what I think, Vince?”
“No, he doesn’t!” I shot back, instantly alarmed at the smooth turn of his delivery.
Voltaire tilted his head to one side. “What?”
Hunter reeled him in. “I think maybe you ought to put her in protective custody.”
I practically leapt forward. “Jail? Uh-uh. No way! Hunter, I’ll get you for this!”
“Good idea. Might be best.” Voltaire nodded to one of his officers. “Lock her up.”
“Oh, come on! No!”
“Maybe we shouldn’t pick on her, Vince. She’s probably still upset about losing her gun. Don’t worry, Angel, the detectives found it.”
“Stop calling me that!” I said.
Grinning, he went on. “Of course, we didn’t know it was hers at first, since it isn’t registered and she doesn’t have a permit. I’m surprised Jake didn’t clear it with you, Vince, knowing how much you hate that kind of thing. Must be she never told him she had it.”
Voltaire eyes widened. “Were you carrying in my city?”
Oh great! Everyone and their dog knew that Voltaire was fanatic about concealed-carry laws. “Thanks a lot,” I snarled at Hunter.
“No sweat,” he said, his eyes glistening.
My mind raced, and I got an idea. “There’s no need to worry. I’m leaving tonight.”
“Says who?”
“With your permission, of course!” I added quickly. “My mother is coming to get me. I called her from the hospital.” Yeah, I’m lying. But, hey, I’m fighting for my freedom here. “She’ll be here soon, and I’ll disappear into a Connecticut suburb. I’ll be safe, out of the way.”
Voltaire considered, then shook his head, “No. Might be safer downtown.”
Hunter stepped forward. “I tell you what, Vince. I’ll take her with me.”
I flinched, eyes shooting wide, unable to believe what I’d just heard. “What?”
Hunter kept his attention on Voltaire, smiling smugly. “I’ve got a safe room at my office. I can keep Angel, here, nice and secure—for Jake’s sake. And it’ll save the city money.”
“Good point. Budget’s tight,” Voltaire said. “Yeah. Good. You take her.”
“Absolutely not! I refuse!”
Voltaire shrugged. “Then you go to jail. No skin off my back.”
Groaning, my shoulder muscles so tight I thought they might snap, I considered my options. It was so unfair! Okay, Madison. Chill. You’re not a ten-year-old. Get a grip. I took two deep breaths and forced my shoulders to relax. “Fine. I’ll go with Hunter.”
Voltaire grunted and walked to a nearby table to retrieve his notepad.
I glared at Hunter. “This doesn’t mean you win.”
He leaned over me, so close I felt the heat from his body. “Yes, Angel, actually, it does,” he whispered. Then he backed up and winked at me.
Voltaire returned. “Give me grief and go to jail, that simple.” Nodding at Hunter, he left.
I exhaled a resigned sigh into his wake and looked up at Hunter.
His eyes glittered with triumph and he smiled slightly, a wolf with his paw on the rabbit’s throat. Cocking his head to the left, he said, “That way. Parking lot. Move. Now.”
“Parking lot. Moving. Now,” I echoed.
He growled—he actually, no-kidding, growled. I mean, who does that in real life?
Moments later we stood beside Hunter’s honey-bronze, gold-trimmed Lexus, vanity plate:THEHNTR. As if the entire world were his prey. Yeah, right.
He walked around to the passenger door and opened it. How gallant. But as I took my seat, he leaned in and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. That’s when I noticed a metal bar under the glove compartment, perfect for securing reluctant guests. Uh-oh.
“Listen up, Angel,” Hunter said, brandishing the cuffs. “I’m going to watch over you for Jake, but you give me trouble, and I’ll drag you to Voltaire on a leash. You don’t want that.” His gaze shifted to the front of my hospital shift, and in a low, smooth tone, he said, “Or do you?”
I clutched the thin fabric at the hospital tunic’s neckline, suddenly very aware of my lack of a bra. Rage bloomed behind my eyes: classic alpha-male crap. But that didn’t stop a surge of vulnerability and sexual awareness from washing over me. “Go to hell.”
He caressed the cuffs with his thumb and brought them toward me, smiling.
Just then a male voice sounded. “Mr. Hunter! Sir! Just a moment, sir!”
I looked up to see a young uniformed policeman dashing toward us. I exhaled in relief.
The cop held out a cell phone. “Sir, the chief wants to speak with you.” Likely Hunter had to turn his own off in the ICU. Shoving the handcuffs into their holster at his back, he straightened, pointed at me as he shut my door, and said, “Stay.”
I glared, outraged, at his back. Stay? Again with the stay! Who does he think he is? That tears it. Whatever it takes, I’m not being pushed around by this guy one second longer!
Right. Brave words. But what are you going to do? Run? You can’t outrun him. Okay, then. Outthink him. That shouldn’t be too hard. Should it? I looked around for inspiration. I needed to distract him, or at least to buy time. But how?
My eyes raked the console. It was as high tech as they came, a veritable cockpit. Rather than a regular keyhole, there was metal flap fit inside the opening on the steering column. I knew it to be an anti-theft system: the car key had a transistor embedded in it that, when brought into proximity to a chip inside the column, enabled the ignition. No match, no start. The flap was to protect the chip inside from electrical interference when the key was out. Works great.
So long as no naughty little girl deliberately bypassed the shielding.
I smiled. All I
had to do was prop open the metal cover and introduce a jamming source. Of course, the system was impervious to transmissions from normal ambient emissions, like cell phones, for example. But if I could introduce a source of broadband emissions such as, say, an old-fashioned radio transmitter would put out, it would work. Of course, it would have to have much lower voltage. After all, getting fried would rather defeat the purpose of the whole escape-the-bad-guy plan. Then it hit me. The emissions from some old transmitters come from spark coils. So, all I really need is a spark generator, one strong enough to jam the chip in the column but weak enough to be safe. Do I have such a thing? My eyes fell to the well-stocked coin holder built into the center console of Hunter’s car. You betcha I do!
I pulled out the plastic bottle Nestor had given me and shoved the pills into my pocket. Then I dropped a handful of coins into the bottle and popped the top on. Rummaging through the glove compartment, I came on a small black bag containing breath strips, peppermint gum, mini toothbrush and toothpaste, and a handful of individually wrapped toothpicks. Perfect!
I ripped open several toothpicks and slipped them into the keyhole, propping open the flap. Then, holding the bottle up against the hole, I shook it vigorously. Voila! A custom-made, low-voltage spark-generator.
But would the effect be enough? The signal was weak, but I know for a fact that jingling coins will set off LED displays. So, there was a chance it would work.
I shook the crap out of that little bottle!
Anxiously, I stared out the windshield. The policeman stood watching Hunter, clearly wishing to be elsewhere. Hunter nodded as he spoke into the phone. His eyes fell on me. I smiled and waved. Hunter frowned as if disgusted and turned his back. Fine by me.
Seconds later—just before my hand fell off—Hunter handed the phone to the cop and walked toward the car. I kept the bottle going as long as I dared, knocking the toothpicks out and stuffing the bottle into my pocket just as Hunter’s line of sight crossed the dash.
He got behind the wheel, took out his cell phone, and tossed it on the console between us, then fitted his key in the ignition. I held my breath. He turned it. Nothing happened. He turned it again. Nothing. He pulled the key out, glared at it, rammed it back in the hole, and twisted it viciously. Nothing. I put my hand to my mouth to hide my smile. God, I love science!
“Son of a bitch!” Hunter smacked the steering wheel.
I leaned forward, sliding his cell phone off the console onto my seat. “What’s wrong?”
Hunter glared. “Sit back! You’re in my way.”
I shrugged and leaned back, shoving his phone into the space between the console and my seat. I heard it drop softly to the floor.
Hunter hit the wheel again. “High-tech piece of shit.” He heaved an angry sigh and put his hand over the console. That hand froze as a puzzled look crossed his rugged features. “Where the hell’s my cell phone?”
“What cell phone?”
“My fucking cell phone. I put it right here.”
“I didn’t see a phone. Not even a fornicating one.” I smiled, totally innocent. Heh, heh.
“The hell you didn’t.” Hunter grabbed my good shoulder and pushed me forward. His hand delved between the cushions of my seat.
“Any excuse to cop a feel, eh, Hunter?”
“You wish.” He stuck his hand between the console and my seat where I’d dropped the phone. I held my breath. He pulled his hand out with a jerk: empty. Whew! Hunter scrunched up his eyebrows. “I put it right here.”
“Having a senior moment?”
If looks could kill, I’d’ve been dead, buried, and decomposed. Hunter looked out the windshield, but the cop with the cell was gone. “Shit. Wait here.”
I snapped off a left-handed salute. “Right here,” I said.
Hunter huffed in disgust, then angled out of the car and headed for the hospital. I waited until he was out of sight, grinned triumphantly, and then hightailed it, as Jake would say, to the nearest bus stop.
CHAPTER FOUR
By the time I reached my neighborhood—a student ghetto near the University of Chicago—the sun had seared the horizon red. The sky above merged orange, pink, and purple as the buildings turned featureless in the fading light. Though the blistering heat had dissipated, sweat beaded on my upper lip. I wiped it off with the back of my hand and walked even faster.
Mostly renovated brownstones with fenced backyards and large porches, the area had once housed Chicago’s Jazz Age elite, its formerly elegant buildings now carved into tiny three-room apartments. Most were rented by students. In a few weeks, the neighborhood would be filled to capacity: school flags hanging as curtains; soiled, sagging couches on every other porch; and chaotic jungles of potted plants on the windowsills. For now, all was blissfully quiet.
I knew better than to go to my apartment; that’d be the first place Hunter would look. Instead, I set out in search of my neighbor, Zach Banks. I knew he’d let me crash with him, no questions asked, if I could actually find him. My best bet would be to locate his trailer—an old moving van—and if all else failed, I could simply look for Fido.
At the end of the block, I spotted the van, backed up tight to a tall wooden fence surrounding a large backyard. The place belonged to Mrs. Cape, a nice older lady who was happy to have a polite, God-fearing, young bull-rider about, especially one in tight blue jeans.
Yes, I said bull-rider.
An Illinois-born country boy, Zach rode bulls for a living. And, yes, that made him a “Chicago bull-rider”—he’s heard that one a time or two. And Fido? Fido—his temporary moniker—was a yearling descended from a long line of champion bucking bulls. Two weeks earlier, after Zach passed out drunk following a competition in Albuquerque, he woke to find himself the happy, if hungover, owner of a four-hundred-pound prize bull calf worth, potentially, a few hundred grand if he lived up to his breeding. Even if he couldn’t remember how he won Fido, when the former owner showed up the next day with a bunch of friends, all shouldering Louisville Sluggers, he knew it was time to get out of town.
Needless to say, a Chicago neighborhood, even with abnormally large backyards and neighbors willing to hide half-wild cattle for kicks, was no place to keep such an animal. But Zach had little choice. Since then, we neighbors had helped Zach keep watch for landlords, dog catchers, and cops, occasionally hastening Fido out of the neighborhood in the nick of time. It turns out that hiding livestock from the law will bring out the inner Jesse James in the most urbane suburbanite—in Chicago anyway. Neighborhood legend would live off this story for generations to come. And sure, our plan wouldn’t work forever, but it only had to hold for a few more days while Zach finalized the deal with a buyer he’d found.
Sidling up behind the van, I lifted the lever on the gate and let myself into the backyard. I squinted into the deepening darkness, trying to spot the calf. It shouldn’t have been so hard. A Brahma, Fido was already heavily muscled; his hindquarters were solid black and his front half a rich reddish-tan with black spots leading up the thick dappled hump of his powerful shoulders. With a black blaze on his rectangular face, deep black eyes, and small horns budding from his flat forehead, he reminded me a bit of Jake.
Once my eyes adjusted, I saw him. Head down and gently bobbing, he fed from a large bucket. I grimaced. The truth is, I have to fight off a bubbling urge in my colon that says run whenever I get near him. Sure, I want to help Zach, and yes, Fido’s pretty in his own way—he has incredibly long, feathery lashes and round dark eyes that would melt a bunny’s heart—but in a few years he could weigh over two thousand pounds and buck six feet in the air with the torque of a car turning at a hundred miles an hour. So, yeah, he scares the hell out of me.
“Zach?” I whispered.
“Over here, Darlin’,” came the response from around the corner.
Keeping my back to the wall and my eye on the bull, I inched toward the voice. Zach sat on concrete steps at the back door, a silhouette in the dimming light. He reached over
and flicked the switch on a small electric campfire lamp. I smiled. It was hard not to.
In his early twenties, Zach had a classic cowboy physique: trim with carved musculature. His arms, shoulders, and thighs were especially fine-toned, a by-product of routinely holding onto almost two tons of bull-flesh trying to whiplash him into the ground. His face was narrow with tanned, well-defined features, sunbaked lines radiating from the corners of his eyes, and the stubble of a blond beard lining his jaw. He wore a white t-shirt, jeans, and boots, along with the classic black cowboy hat pulled down over what I knew to be cornflower-blue eyes, a masterpiece right out of the movies. As usual, my first thought was: Yum!
Good thing he had a girlfriend. By which I meant, Damn it, he has a girlfriend!
Zach grinned and pushed his hat up with an index finger. “Hey, pretty lady,” he said. “I like the new look: no bra.”
I startled, then glanced down at my lightweight medical shift. As usual, the merest hint of breeze had my nipples at full attention. “Is that the first thing you can think of to say?”
“Momma always said to start a conversation with a compliment,” he drawled.
I rubbed the side of my nose with a finger. I guess in “guy world” that made sense.
His grin turned into a frown. “Why are you wearing a hospital thingy?”
Flopping down beside him, my glee at defeating Hunter having worn off, I was nearly lightheaded with fatigue. My shoulder ached deep in the bone and burned on the surface.
Zach put his arm around my waist. “What’s going on, Darlin’?”
I leaned against him, comforted by the heat of his body, and told him what had happened. He listened, holding my hand. I broke down at the part where Jake crashed, and the paramedics barely managed to resuscitate him. Sniffling, I apologized for being such a baby, but he just pulled me close and kissed the top of my head.
“Ah, now. Sometimes taking life eight seconds at a time is all a body can do. Don’t you waste one of ’em worrying about what people are thinking, or you’re going to end up face down on the ground every time.” He lifted my chin with a finger and smiled warmly. “And trust me, there’s more than dirt on the arena floor.”
The Last Best Lie Page 6