by Blackie Noir
Vance shouts his interruption, “Widowmaker!”
Stunned, more by Vance’s volume than his words, Nadine’s mouth snaps shut. Pressing his advantage, Vance says, “Sorry, but I had to get your attention. You’re gonna be a detective, first thing you need to learn is to shut up and listen. Work with me here, two minutes that’s all I’m asking. Now, you do know that we’re gonna be partners?”
“Sheba Johnstone told me. She also said you could be difficult.”
“Two minutes, remember?
Silent, Nadine nods. Vance continues, “Sheba tell you Butch Ritter assigned you to her Widowmaker task force?”
“Yes.”
Vance grins, “Now, I understand that you’re not due in till Monday. Hell, I’m supposed to have the weekend off too.”
Nadine shrugs, “So?”
“So, our friend the Widowmaker doesn’t give a rat’s ass about your leave, or my weekend.”
“What’re you saying?”
“I’m saying there are three dead scumbags in the parking lot of a dive called JuicyTown on Pacific Coast Highway. Two of the mutts took small caliber shots to the temple.”
“Two victims? At once? That’s not his MO.”
“Right. Could be he’s getting greedy. Could be it’s not his work. I don’t know.”
Frowning, Nadine says, “You said there was a third body. What about him?”
“Two shots to the face. Bigger bore weapon. Definitely not the Widowmaker’s style.”
“Yeah, but this third guy? Maybe he’s the Widowmaker.”
“Possible. Tell you one thing.”
“What?”
“Faster you get your ass in gear, the faster we can get down there, start putting things together, get some answers. Now, you with me?”
“Ten minutes. Partner.”
Chapter Seventeen
Johnny Vance hadn’t been disappointed, at least not yet. It was early, but so far Nadine Kozok had lived up to his expectations. Vance didn’t like head games, still, he wasn’t above playing a few when he thought they were needed. Like this morning. He knew the woman was tough. Hell, he’d watched the video enough. Nadine was real, nothing to prove there. Yet, he’d worked with other true bad asses who felt a constant need to remind the world of their status. Nadine wasn’t one of them.
She’d been restrained, but pleasant, on meeting him. Until he began experimenting, pushing her buttons. Mildly put off by his bossiness, she’d managed to put him in his place without loosing her cool. But, he was an expert. That final cigarette butt, that was a nice touch. The butt that broke camel’s back. When that butt joined its brethren, littering up the front of her tidy little cottage, Nadine lost it. Fast.
Fast as she had lost control, she’d regained it the moment he shifted to the Widowmaker. She’d been able to shut off their budding personality clash immediately, in the face of serious business. The Widowmaker. Far as Vance was concerned, it didn’t get more serious than that.
Twelve minutes, he’d timed it, not ten, was what it took before Nadine stepped out on her porch ready to go. No woman he’d ever known could have done the whole shower-hair-clothes thing in less than half an hour. Vance figured she’d skipped the shower, toweled off, maybe a little deodorant, put on her sweatshirt and jeans, laced up her boots, ponytailed her hair, grabbed her purse, and out the door. She knew homicide crime scenes didn’t stay fresh for long.
Vance used the waiting time to pick up his cigarette butts and deposit them in the trash can he found at the side of the house. Nadine gave no sign that she’d noticed his tidying, but he’d give five to one, that she had. Walking down the driveway, to his take-home unmarked Ford cruiser, Nadine at his side, Johnny Vance felt good. A little smarter, a little stronger, a little younger.
Vance took Junipero to PCH where he got caught at the light before he could make his turn. A half-dozen choppers sat parked in front of a building, its windows boarded over with plywood painted black. Highly finessed red calligraphy scrolled boldly across the onyx window covering: Clover Custom Cycles. Four men were occupied lashing bedrolls to sissy-bars and handlebars, checking tire pressures, chain and belt tensions. Friday morning, getting a head start on a weekend run.
Vance had no idea what the total value of the six machines at the curb was, but he’d been around long enough to know that it would easily run into six figures. He’d also been around enough to have a good idea as to what this kind of man did to come up with the funds to maintain his love affair with his sculpted steel succubus. Their enterprises were of no concern to him, except on the sporadic occasions when they ended in violent death.
As much as these guys spent on their bikes, they must save a bundle on their wardrobe. These guys were bikers, born of the streets, the high and low desert badlands, the urban jungles, the industrial wastelands. They weren’t doctors, lawyers or corporate executives playing monthly dress-up in thousand dollar leathers. This was their life.
Whatever leather they sported was as road-worn, battered and wrinkled as the burnished hide of their faces. The rest of their gear would be a hodge-podge of denim, flannel and wool in the winter; denim, black tees or tank tops in the summer. And, of course, there were the tattoos. By their tats shall ye know them. The tats and the scars. Strip em all naked, wouldn’t be no doubt, you can’t fake ink, and you can’t fake scars. Proud scooter-trash will out.
Ink and scars aplenty on the two dudes separating from their machines, and making their way to Nadine’s side of the car. Vance checks out oncoming cross traffic, he can run the light if these assholes are looking to start up. He’s got a crime scene getting cold, and he doesn’t have time to play games with a couple of six-foot, two hundred pound children. Still, might be interesting to see how Nadine handles these mutts.
Placing one hand on the Ford’s roof, drumming a quick knuckle riff, the lead guy bends down, grins, and says, “Well, I’ll be damned. Hell girl, what they got you doing, riding in an unmarked? You a narc now?”
His companion says, “Shit bro, she ain’t no narc, they got her working vice. A hooker, that’s Nadine. Perfect casting you ask me.”
Nadine laughs, “That’s good Wiley. So good, I think I’ll tell that one to Bill, see how funny he thinks it is.”
Wiley says, “Why, you go right ahead darlin,’ Bill likes a good joke, but you can do me a favor, don’t tell it to crazy Vassily. His sense of humor takes vacation every now and then.”
“Alright, but only if you give it a rest. One bad joke a morning is about all I can handle.”
“Fair enough. By the way, doctors done a nice job on your mug. You’re lookin’ good.”
“Thanks, feeling good too.”
The other man says, “That’s good news, doll. Wiley’s right, you look great, you’re gorgeous. Shit, you weren’t a cop I’d marry you.”
“Jigger, if you asked me to marry you, I’d shoot your sorry ass.”
“Hell, I wouldn’t blame you. I’m a bad man, ain’t no fuckin good at all. But, I did leave a nice gift for you with Roy. You get it?”
“Yeah, I did. Thank you so much. You did a beautiful job. It’s a treasure.”
“Love and respect, darlin.’ That’s what it’s about. Don’t fuck this one up, I don’t have the time to fix you another one. Hey, we got road to burn. Later.”
Squeezing Nadine’s shoulder, Jigger turns toward the bikes. Wiley taps her elbow, says, “You take good care of yourself, honey. Don’t scare us like that no more, hang on to your gun next time.”
“I’m hoping there won’t be a next time. But if there is, I’m carrying a back-up piece these days. Don’t leave home without it.”
“Good girl. Hey, tell Roy I’m breaking in that 113 incher he built for my scooter. I’m riding it up to Jerome today. I’ll call him when I get back.”
“I’ll tell him. You boys ride safe.”
Pulling away as the light changes, Vance makes the turn, and says, “Meet those dudes in church?”
“Choir
practice.”
“Right, should have known. I’m out of line, you tell me, but, curiosity has got the best of me. Jigger, he mentioned a gift. A bike?”
“You kidding me? In my dreams. Whatever gave you that idea.”
“You said he did a beautiful job, said it was a ‘treasure.’ He said take care of it, he didn’t have time to fix you another.”
“The gift was a Maglite.”
“Maglite? Beautiful? Fix it? How much time does it take to put batteries in a Maglite?”
“A minute. But, I think it was the etching and engraving he did on it that took Jigger a week to complete. He’s an artist, quite gifted”
“Etching? Engraving?”
“Yeah, like on the choppers he and Wiley build. My brother Roy custom builds engines for them, when they have a customer wants something special, something high performance.”
“OK. So, Jigger must’ve seen the tape of the battle between you and Medina, saw that you survived but your Maglite didn’t, decided to make you a custom version to replace it.”
Nadine grins, “Boy, you really are a detective.”
“I’m glad you’re impressed.”
“In absolute awe. Remind me, and I’ll show you the Maglite sometime.”
“You know, you want to keep that work of art in mint condition, you ought to get you one of these.”
Reaching into his jacket, Vance slips out a long handled, leather-bound, sap. Placing it between them, he slides it across the seat toward Nadine.
Sliding her hand through its loop, she hefts the black-jack. Gently slapping her palm with the leaded end, she grins, and says, “It’s a thought.”
After a few blocks Vance settles into the rhythm of the early morning commuter traffic. Figuring they’ll arrive at the crime scene in about fifteen minutes, he begins constructing hypothetical scenarios from what Logan had told him over the phone. His abstraction is disrupted by Nadine’s words, “I just have to tell you, back at my house? I thought what you did was sweet.”
“Sweet?”
“Yeah, with the cigarettes.”
“Cigarettes? What I do with cigarettes, is smoke them.”
“Your butts, the ones you dropped in front of my place. You picked them up. Pretty classy, for someone who was described to me as ‘difficult.’”
“Hey, that label, coming from Sheba Johnston, it’s not what you’d call an unbiased opinion. Sheba’s had it in for me for years.”
“She have a reason?”
“Years ago, when she made detective I refused to partner with her.”
“Really? Why?”
“She thinks it was because I’m a racist, sexist, asshole.”
“And?”
“She’s probably right about the asshole part.”
Nadine laughs, “What about the other two?”
“This homicide detective that caught the call on this thing we’re going to, Logan? Black dude. My partner, seven years. My best friend, hell, probably my only friend, for a lot longer. I’m not perfect, but I’m not a bigot.”
“So, you’re just a male chauvinist.”
“If I was a chauvinist we wouldn’t be partners.”
“Maybe you didn’t have a choice.”
“I’ve got my thirty in, means I’ve always got a choice.”
Frowning, Nadine says, “So, why me and not Sheba? You’ve mellowed with age?”
“Shit, I hope not. Sheba was a climber, still is. Lots of ambition in that woman. Ambition, and the brains and guts to go with it. It was easy to spot. I spotted it, so did a lot of other people. Me, I wasn’t threatened by it. Some of the others were. Partnering her with me, it was strictly a political move designed to sink her ship.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Sheba was a rising star. I was a fucking pariah, even more so than I am now. I made a lot of cases, which is what kept me on the job, but I always danced to my own music. Everybody assumed that eventually I’d self-destruct. Some people figured that when I went down, so would my partner. Be nice for their agendas if my partner was Sheba.”
“You’re telling me that you saved her career by refusing to be an albatross around her neck.”
Vance laughs, “What I’m telling you.”
“Noble.”
“That’s me alright.”
“Did you ever explain that to Sheba?”
“One of the things makes me an asshole, I don’t explain myself.”
“You’re explaining yourself to me.”
“You’re different.”
“Oh?”
“You’re like me.”
“At least I don’t dress like you.”
“See? Flippant. Type of remark I’d make. You may not like to admit it, but you’re a stranger in a strange land too.”
“And, this strange land would be?”
“The job. LBPD. A para-military organization, where being politically astute trumps merit as far as survival, and advancement, is concerned. The worst case scenario for a rugged individualist such as yourself to be immersed in.”
“Let me take a wild leap here. You, with thirty years behind you spent developing a Machiavellian sense of cunning, are planning to save me from blundering and stumbling, ever downward, into a career ending as a meter-maid in Bakersfield. You’re going to teach me how to swim with the sharks.”
“I’m gonna teach you how to harpoon the motherfuckers.”
Rolling her eyes, clasping her hands in front of her, Nadine says, “My mentor.”
“There you go.”
“What about detective lessons big boy? When do I get those?”
Flashing his left turn signal, pulling into the yellow-lined center divider, Vance waits to turn into a long, narrow drive leading to a large cinder-block building. Topping the structure’s roof is a huge, garish, neon sign - - - JUICYTOWN. Winking at Nadine, he says, “Lesson one coming up. Class is in session.”
Chapter Eighteen
Utmost reason for Logan to make the call to Johnny Vance, he’d promised. Promised, that should he ever catch a homicide that resembled, however remotely, a Widowmaker kill, he’d call Vance immediately. The second reason, the one that made him happy to call his old partner, was that this thing had all the earmarks of being a real fucking mess. He’d appreciate Vance’s input. Hell, he needed it.
Three bodies. That was definite. But, blood and signs of a chase ending in a struggle, suggested the possibility of an attempted abduction. Logan considered the latter to be more in the realm of likelihood, rather than mere possibility. That was because of the teeth.
There were three of them, lying in a small pool of blood. Logan was no dentist, but it looked to him like the teeth were front uppers. When the CSI unit got here they’d bag em and tag em, probably confirm his guess. He hadn’t called for the CSI team yet, out of deference for Vance. He knew Vance would appreciate being able to view as pristine a crime scene as possible.
When Logan had made the scene there were three black and whites in the JuicyTown parking lot. The first responder, on finding three bodies, apparently gunshot victims, had immediately called for backup. A slew of black and whites had arrived, among them the watch sergeant who immediately took command. After conducting a superficial search of the vehicles in JuicyTown’s parking lot, the club’s interior and even its roof, the sergeant was convinced the shooter, or shooters, had fled the scene, also that there weren’t any other victims.
After placing a call to his watch commander, who in turn would notify homicide, he’d dispatched all but the original officer, and two others, back to their respective patrols. He himself, along with his remaining men, would maintain the integrity of the scene until the homicide dicks and the CSI’s arrived.
Logan and his partner, Tim Fest, had caught the squeal. As soon as Logan had seen the small caliber holes in two of the victims temples, he decided to put a hold on the call to CSI. He called Vance instead. Vance’s interest was immediate and intense. Pushing for time, Vance had asked
Logan to give him another half hour before bringing in the crime scene investigators. Logan had complied.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Logan stepped away from his car when he saw Vance’s Ford pull into the lot. Waving the Ford into the spot next to his, he spotted a woman in the passenger seat. Vance’s new partner? He’d heard rumors, but in the LBPD rumors were as plentiful as blowflies in a barn, and like the blowflies, they were usually knee deep in bullshit.
Vance and the woman exit their car, as they approach him Logan can see the woman is tall, well muscled, and exhibits enough confidence, with her every step, to be just a hair away from attitude. Vance is well . . . Vance. Tall, angular, rumpled, and still sporting the noir retro look that would make a laughingstock of most men. Vance made it work though, maybe because he wasn’t the type of man people took lightly.
Shaking Logan’s hand, Vance says, “Thanks for the solid, Art. I owe you one. Meet my new partner, Nadine Kozok. Nadine, meet my old partner, Art Logan.”
Nadine’s handshake is firm, dry. Her smile, just a heartbeat short of stunning. Any earlier traces of attitude, gone. She says, “Hello, Art.”
“Hey, hello yourself. You must be possessed of the world’s most amazing recuperative powers. Last picture I saw of you, front page Press Telegram, you looked like you’d been run over by a truck. Or at least a Hummer. Now, I keep checking over my shoulder, for the movie camera’s. You’re like a film star. Congratulations young lady, you look wonderful.”
Nadine laughs, “Thanks. I had good doctors.”
“Obviously.”
Vance breaks in, “OK, enough of this high school flirty bullshit. Art, you bring me down here so I could work the scene, or so you could hit on my partner?”
Logan winks at Nadine, “You do what you gotta do Vance, we won’t deter you.”
Vance says, “Deter shit. Let’s get to work. You call CSI?”
“Ten minutes before you got here. Don’t sweat it though. It’s been a busy night, they got all three units tied up. You probably got close to an hour, before they start stepping on your toes.”