Since Cap was following me to my place, I made an executive decision to not cut the engine of my Harley and coast down the street to my house. Screw Mrs. Nussbaum. It would be hard to explain to Cap, and frankly, a little embarrassing. I gunned it up the driveway, sprinted to the porch, and unlocked the house. Then I ran back to Cap’s car to grab the box of bird seed while he carried Kulu to the door. Once we got inside, Headbutt eyed us warily from his throne on the heat vent.
“Thanks for taking care of the bird,” he said, setting the cage on my kitchen table. “I’ll contact Harry’s next of kin when I get to the office. I’m sure they’ll take her off your hands.”
He turned toward me and caught my eye. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off. Get some sleep. Stop in my office tomorrow around noon. We can chat then.”
He bent down and peered into the cage, sticking his finger through the bars. “Cute little thing, isn’t she?”
Kulu puffed up like a blowfish and grew to twice her size. It might have been my tired eyes, but she did a little shimmy that sort of resembled…a twitch. She reminded me of one of those acid-spitting dinosaurs from Jurassic Park. “Cap, I wouldn’t—”
That little shit clamped down on Cap’s finger like a vice grip. The more he flailed, the harder she bit. I slapped the side of the cage, drawing Kulu’s attention. She let Cap go, ruffled her feathers, then turned her head sideways and gave me the stink eye.
Cap ripped his bleeding finger out of the cage and stomped his foot. “Mother Fu—”
“Yes. Yes, she is.”
He pulled out his handkerchief to wrap the wound. “Did you see that? That twitching bastard took a chunk out of my finger.”
“Fucking twitchers,” I said, shaking my head. “Get you every time.”
Four, three, two, one. Mrs. Nussbaum was on my porch before Cap even cleared the driveway.
“Crazy bitch,” I mumbled, throwing the door open.
“Who dat man?” she asked, poking her head through the doorway. Her nosey eyes scoured the kitchen, then landed on Kulu and narrowed. “What dat?”
“A parrot. Mrs. Nussbaum this is Kulu. Kulu this is—”
“Crazy bitch! Crazy bitch!”
Note to self: this is one smart bird.
“Sorry. I’m pet-sitting for a friend. This isn’t a good time. I need to be somewhere. I’ll try to teach Kulu some manners.”
“Who teach you first, eh?”
I closed the door in her face.
I might have been rude, but I hadn’t been lying. Come eleven o’clock, Tiffany Swarovski would be waiting for me at The Blue Note with Veronica’s mystery book. After a quick shower, I checked Kulu’s seed and water, and shared a few dog biscuits with Headbutt. He glared at Kulu as if he expected her to swoop down and snarf his treat. Headbutt’s no dummy. It was only a matter of time before Birdzilla stepped up to vie for pack leader. I checked the latch on her cage door and let Headbutt out to pee, praying Mrs. Nussbaum had had her fill of abuse for one day and wouldn’t be lying in wait behind her window, hoping to catch Headbutt in the act of rosebush urinationus.
When she didn’t fly out the door brandishing a flyswatter and threatening to whap Headbutt, I couldn’t help feel a bit disappointed. Little Allie pecked at me. Maybe you hurt the gum grinder’s feelings. Maybe your manners suck. In fact, maybe they suck like a five-dollar whore.
Seriously, people?
That stupid brain bitch, always filling my head with namby-pamby, touchy-feely bullshit. I coasted down the driveway and kept the noise to a minimum until I hit the stop sign. Then I gunned it toward The Blue Note and told that holier than thou head hag to kiss my ass.
The vacuum droned out of sight as I walked into The Blue Note. Dallas had beaten me there, but Tiffany had yet to arrive. It was a good time to tell Dallas about Harry. When I finished the story, Dallas slid onto a bar stool and ran his hands through his hair.
“Damn, Allie,” was all he could manage.
He poured us both a shot of Maker’s.
“To Harry,” he said.
“To Harry.” I tossed back the smooth, sweet bourbon and sighed.
Dallas reached for the bottle.
“Not for me, thanks,” I said, putting my hand over my glass. Things were heating up. I needed to keep my head clear. “Listen, I’m meeting Tiffany here in a few minutes. I know she and Harry were close, but let’s keep the news about Harry between us for now.”
On cue, Tiffany Swarovski burst through the door, wearing a spotted, faux-fur trench coat with matching head scarf, hot pink sunglasses, and five-inch black patent leather heels.
I stifled a laugh. “Nice outfit, Cruella.”
“I’m going incogro…incongo… I’m whatchacallit. Flying under the radar.” She reached into her purse, pulled out a worn black book, and slid it across the bar. “There. Happy?”
“Ecstatic.” I picked it up and shoved it into the breast pocket in my duster, still staring at her ensemble. “Not that I’m an expert, but aren’t you a little overdressed for this hour of the day?”
“How the hell should I know?” she wailed. “Only times I’m up this early, I’m in jail, wearing what I wore the night before. Who picked this time to meet, anyway?” She turned toward Dallas, batted her eyes and threw him a kiss. “Later, baby. You and me.”
He grinned as she sauntered out the door, looking like a perfectly accessorized six-foot Dalmatian. The door closed with a thud, leaving Dallas with nothing but a dream.
“Wouldn’t that be something?” he said wistfully, wiping down the bar. “I’m not sure I’d survive, but I wouldn’t mind giving it a shot.”
Talk about a disturbing visual. That was my cue to leave. I had work to do.
“See you at five,” I said, slipping off my stool and heading for the door.
“No. Take some time. You and Harry were close. You don’t need to be here.”
“It’s fine,” I said, waving him off. “Friday’s are busy. That’s a good thing. It’ll keep me occupied.”
The door closed behind me before he had a chance to argue. I hopped on my Harley, tore up the streets and headed for home. Veronica Henry’s mystery book awaited.
I was so happy to finally get a look at that little black book, that I cut Mrs. Nussbaum some slack and coasted up my driveway. The good karma instantly paid off. Her face wasn’t peering out the window, and I had a shot at reaching the door before she discovered I was home.
Little Allie went to Defcon 2 when my feet hit the porch. Things were much too quiet. No barking, growling, or screeching (from Headbutt, Kulu or Mrs. Nussbaum). After a quick turn of the key, I stepped inside and scanned the room. Headbutt, lounging on his vent, opened one bloodshot eye to acknowledge my presence. Kulu, puffed like a toad, sulked on her perch with her eyes closed, probably strategizing an aerial attack for when I let her out of her cage.
Like that would ever happen.
After a quick cup of ramen, I settled onto the couch to read Veronica’s best kept secrets. The small, leather-bound book measured six by four and was a good inch thick, filled with page after page of data, including notations in the margins. Veronica had scribbled like a farsighted chipmunk, making most of the entries illegible. But a closer look revealed the real problem. The book was written in cipher.
It made sense that a high-priced hooker like Veronica would document her transactions. If one of her elite clients ever decided she was a liability, she had an ace in the hole. And what better way to protect that ace than to encrypt it in code? Smart chick, this Veronica Henry. So where was the key?
I could have studied that book ’til The Rapture and never broken the code. But I wasn’t ready to ask for help. Harry was right about playing this close to the vest. Every power mogul noted in that book was a potential suspect. Two questions came to mind: How many of those big shots knew about the book’s existence? And of those, how many were willing to kill to keep it from going public?
Kulu’s seed cup crashed to the
floor of the cage, breaking my concentration. She beat her wings defiantly, knocking her swing off its hooks.
“Flappy bastard,” I mumbled, approaching her with an abundance of caution.
Empty seed husks littered the floor of the cage. Crap. She was hungry.
“Back up, Birdzilla.”
She puffed, turned her head and stared, daring me to make my move.
“Chillax, Kulu.” I opened the cage door and advanced slowly, fingers low, palm facing away from her.
She lunged half-heartedly but let me remove the cup.
After filling it with fresh seed, I returned it to its holder, then slowly withdrew my hand. She even let me put her swing back up. No bites. No blood. Progress.
“Thank you, Kulu,” I whispered.
“You’re welcome.”
She spoke! … Something nice! I put the seed back in Kulu’s box and reached for the book Your African Grey Parrot.
“Harry?” She screeched, swiveling on her perch, turning her head from side to side and scanning the room. “Harry?”
Ah, geez. “I’m Allie. Harry is…gone.”
“Gone?”
“Gone.”
Kulu moved to the seed cup and chowed while I leafed through the book on parrot care, learning more than I ever wanted to know about their diet, care, and habits. There was even a section on how to know if your parrot is stressed: Fluffing, check. Screeching, check. Aggression, check. Biting, check-check.
“You’re not the only one, Kulu,” I whispered, snapping the book closed and stretching out across the couch. It had been a long, horrible and heartbreaking day. Sometimes, all you can do is close your eyes and wish it all away.
At 4:45 p.m. I put Headbutt in charge and gave him strict instructions not to fuck with the bird. Before slipping out the door, I shoved Veronica’s book in my jacket, then made eye contact with Kulu and said goodbye.
She tilted her head and murmured, “Harry?”
“Harry is gone.”
“Gone, gone. Harry gone. Bye-bye Harry.”
The words didn’t want to come. “Yes. Bye-bye Harry.” I paused and pointed to myself. “Allie. I am Allie. Say bye-bye Allie.”
“Bye-bye Harry Allie.”
Close enough.
I should have realized that by the time I walked into The Blue Note, all the regulars would have heard the news about Harry. The whole reason I worked that night (other than the money) was to get my mind off him. But in between waiting tables, pouring drinks, and mopping floors, unwanted condolences smacked me in the face, barbed-wire reminders of a loss I wanted…no…needed to put aside if I were ever going to solve this case.
Opie strolled in around eleven, as the crowd began to thin. Tiffany arrived a few minutes later. She strutted to a corner booth and hooked up with some guy who was likely her ‘date’ for the evening. I took a much-needed break and joined Opie at the bar, only to have him blindside me with another condolence. But this one came with a double shot of Jack from someone who had been a close friend of Harry’s. Not to mention, Opie had saved my ass once or twice. I gave him a pass. I poured my double in a cocktail glass, added crushed ice, and made a Jack Daniel’s slushie.
“To Harry,” Opie said, tossing his back.
“To Harry.” A sip of smooth goodness trickled down my throat.
My eardrums almost ruptured at the sound of Jade Chen’s voice. “Good evening, Cincinnati. I join officers from the 51st Precinct today in mourning the loss of Detective Harry Delk. Delk, slain in his home overnight, during the early morning hours, was a thirty-year veteran of the Cincinnati Police Force, as well as a close colleague of mine. Captain Philip Dorsey had this to say about Delk…”
I turned away from Opie and stared into Jade Chen’s face, splashed across the big screen. The slushie I’d been holding imploded in my hand. Glass, whiskey, blood and ice slipped through my fingers onto the floor.
Opie grabbed my hand. “Shit, Nighthawk.”
Dallas scrambled for a clean white towel while Opie teased the remaining shards of glass out of my skin.
Tiffany leapt from her booth and roared up beside me. “You bitch! Harry was my friend. Why didn’t you tell me he was murdered? Or didn’t you think I needed to know, now that you’ve got what you wanted?” She stomped back to her booth in tears, grabbed her purse, and lit out, leaving her john behind.
Opie stared into his beer. “She’s really taking this hard.”
“You heard her. They were friends,” I said.
But there could have been another reason for her hasty departure. She probably figured she was next. And for all I knew, she could be. Had I dragged Tiffany into harm’s way?
“You’re lucky,” Dallas said, inspecting my hand. “Nothing a few steri-strips and gauze can’t fix.”
He bandaged my hand and pronounced me cured. As if it were that easy.
I moved behind the bar and poured myself a replacement double. “God, I hate that bitch.”
“Tiffany?” Dallas snorted. “She’s okay. Just a—”
“No! Jade Chen, damn it. That two-faced media whore. She didn’t know Harry. She’s using his murder to boost her ratings. Fucking talking head. One of these days, I’m going to reach down her throat, rip out her tongue and—”
Dallas slapped his hand on the bar and nodded at Opie. “Why don’t you drive Allie home? I think she’s done for the night.”
“I’m fine,” I said, swallowing my anger.
“No. You aren’t. You lost a good friend. Besides, you’re no good to me here, bleeding. And those cuts need to clot before you operate that bike. Let Tim take you home.” Dallas paid me from the till and shooed me out.
I collected my weapons, threw on my duster and walked my Harley around the back of the bar for safekeeping. Then I slumped into the passenger seat of Tim’s Hyundai.
“Thank you.” Even as I said it, the words rang angry in my ears.
We passed the ride in awkward silence.
I nearly jumped out of his car when he pulled into my driveway.
Opie opened his door and started to climb out. “Let me walk you in.”
“This isn’t a freaking date! Goodnight. And…thank you, again. Even if it doesn’t sound sincere.” I stomped to the porch, dismissing Opie as if he were nothing more than an Uber driver.
Frantic barks and growls greeted me from the other side of the door.
Chillax, it’s just me, boy, I thought, as I slipped the key into the knob and gave it a turn.
A FedEx box tucked against the house caught my eye. I hadn’t ordered anything. Must be Nonnie’s, I figured, scooping it up with my good hand and stepping inside.
Headbutt raced across the kitchen wild-eyed, his face covered with blood.
“Ah, shit,” I moaned. “Tell me you didn’t eat the bird.”
A soft, strange sound drifted in from the living room. Swish thump. Swish thump. Swish thump. The sound repeated, louder. And closer.
Little Allie whispered, We’re not alone.
Perfect.
My shooting hand had more holes than a block of Swiss cheese. Blood clotted or not, I dropped the FedEx box, ripped off the bandage, and drew Hawk.
Headbutt charged through the archway into the living room with me on his six.
20
Big Ol’ Asshat
I stopped short and gawked at what was left of my living room. Furniture, toppled and broken, entrails strung across the blood-soaked hardwood. Various internal organs scattered high and low. Wads of zushi, clinging to the walls and ceiling, slowly rained to the floor in random chum bombs and exploded on impact.
One of the bombs splatted onto the roof of Kulu’s cage, raising a tortured chorus of, “Help me! Help me!”
I looked at Headbutt and almost spewed. “Put that down!”
A decomped human femur hung from his jaws like an oversized chew toy. The bottom half of the leg lay five feet away. What I assumed to be the matching leg splayed across the staircase. A torso, complete wit
h head, straddled the couch and chattered its teeth at me.
A freaking corpsicle.
Its eyes followed me as I ventured closer, wondering how best to put it down. A bullet to the head seemed anticlimactic, but a blade to the brain meant hands on. No thanks. The living room was already a goner. Adding a headshot to this bloodbath would be like spitting into the ocean.
I brought Hawk to bear and fired, pulverizing the biter’s teeth into tiny, fluoride-treated shrapnel.
Opie stood in the doorway, hyperventilating.
I holstered my 9mm, giving him a moment to recover.
He finally blurted, “Is that… Are you okay?”
I scowled at the mess. “Freaking awesome. Didn’t I tell you to go home?”
“You’re not the boss of me.”
I let that slide. It’s no fun chasing low-hanging fruit. Remembering the FedEx package, I puddle-jumped the carnage back to the kitchen and ripped the tape off the box. A zombie attack and a mystery delivery on the same day. What were the odds?
Opie eyed my living room and shook his head. “What exactly happened here?”
I lifted a newspaper wrapped parcel from the box and unwrapped it, then hurled its contents to the floor. A dead flounder with a black rose shoved down its throat.
“This?” I motioned from the fish to the zushi-covered battlefield and back again. “This was a message. Someone’s telling me to back off.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Not a chance in hell,” I growled. “The fun’s just getting started.”
I reported the “death” per law. The coroner and a uniform arrived, both looking massively pissed to have been called out at that late hour to verify the cause of death for “a collection of corpsicle chum.”
It took some arguing, but Opie finally agreed to drive me back to the bar for my bike on his way home. I assured him that my hand was fine and promised to call if I needed him. But as I pointed out, between Headbutt and me, we had most any situation covered. My zombie hunting bulldog had made one hell of a mess, but he’d disabled that rotter and kept me from walking into a more dangerous situation.
Life Among the Tombstones Page 12