As the doctor walked away, the cop darted his eyes to me. “What’s this book she was talking about?”
Crap. Crap. Crap. “Sorry, guys. I wish I could say. After Harry’s death, Captain Dorsey took me off the case. I only showed up because Tiffany asked for me. Now, if you don’t mind…” I ducked behind the curtain for a private moment with Tiffany, hoping the officers would consider their investigation temporarily concluded until Tiffany made it out of surgery.
Little Allie stuck me like a pin. IF she makes it out of surgery.
Within seconds, the officers wandered away, leaving me to sit with Tiffany in peace. I’m not great with words. What I had to say wouldn’t take long.
I held her hand. It was cold as a corpse.
I leaned down to her ear and whispered, “Thank you, sista. I owe you. Just make sure you’re around to collect.”
The curtain swung back, and the orderly wheeled a gurney beside Tiffany’s bed.
I squeezed her hand one last time and murmured, “Later, chica.”
Nurse Ratched glared at me from the nurse’s station as I hustled to catch the elevator. I threw her a condescending wink, but didn’t stop to chat. I was on a mission. If I didn’t solve this case soon, that book of Veronica’s, written in freaking Klingon, would be the death of everyone involved.
Something nagged me as I headed home, up 71 North. Despite Harry’s warning about our shrinking circle of trust, should I have told Cap about the book? It was the one piece of evidence I’d kept to myself. Turning it over could bring us closer to the killer. But if the names of prominent city officials appeared in those pages, they’d stop at nothing to keep the contents of that book from reaching the light of day.
I decided, once again, to sit on it. For now. I wanted one more shot at deciphering the code. Failing that, I’d have no choice but to throw caution to the wind and turn the book over to someone who could. But who’s to say it wouldn’t disappear?
I coasted into my driveway around one thirty in the morning and slipped into my house, certain that I’d made the right decision. While Headbutt took a quick pee break (on or off Mrs. Nussbaum’s rose bushes for all I cared), I covered Kulu for the night and fixed a Jack Daniel’s slushie.
After slipping into Harry’s Ballistic Therapy T-shirt, I let Headbutt back in. We curled up on my freshly slipcovered couch to read Veronica’s little black book, with its pristine cover and tiny lettering. An icy, warming sip from my slushie trickled down my throat. Relax, I told myself. Focus. Let your eyes absorb what you’re reading.
I followed my own advice. Twenty pages in, I still had shit. The damn thing was a six by four, eighty-page cryptogram.
“How hard can this be, Harry?” I whispered. “Help me out, here.”
I closed my eyes and swirled a mouthful of Jack between my cheeks, picturing a calm, serene ocean gleaming in the moonlight. Determined to break the code, I tried again. The net result: Jack shit.
“Damn it,” I screamed, flinging the book across the room and into the kitchen. All I needed was one stinking break. Veronica Henry was dead. Harry was dead. And for all I knew, Tiffany could be dead by now. Everyone connected to this piece of shit book was dead, except me. And there I sat, with my thumb up my ass. The only other evidence, Veronica’s phone and financial records, were MIA, possibly destroyed. Recreating them would take time — time I didn’t have. It was up to me to solve the case, but I had no fucking clue how. And no one left to help me.
I curled into a ball and pulled my knees to my chest.
Harry’s voice whirred in my ear. “Jesus wept, Nighthawk. Look at the freaking book.”
I sprang to my feet, almost afraid I’d find Harry beside me. But it was only Headbutt, staring at me like I’d lost my mind.
“Sleep,” I mumbled, rubbing my eyes. “A good night’s sleep then I’ll go back to the book tomorrow, one last time.”
I padded into the kitchen to pick up the book and found its soft leather cover wedged inside the kickplate grille of the refrigerator. After several tugs, I freed the book, only to find the end sheet, glued to the inside cover, had ripped and was partially peeled back.
I smoothed the end sheet down against the cover, and a faint outline rose beneath my fingertips. Something thin and very small was tucked between the cover and the end sheet. After several attempts to tease it out with my fingers, I grabbed one of my gunsmith screwdrivers, slid it along the outline, and freed a folded piece of paper that could break this case wide open.
“Thanks for the assist, Harry,” I whispered, staring at a neatly printed web address: www.rainydaybacon.com.
22
Not Exactly Batting a Thousand
To hell with a good night’s sleep. I fired up my laptop and typed in the web address. My fingers moved at the speed of light, tripping over the keys several times before entering the right digits in the right sequence. Not that it made much difference. The site was password protected.
I tried a couple of combinations that seemed obvious: Veronica H01, Stretch01, and her parents’ and siblings’ names. Of course, they didn’t work. Veronica was a smart cookie. Unlocking her password wouldn’t be easy. She would have made sure of that. But one way or another, I’d get into that site. Irritation aside, the book might be the quickest route to the information I needed. So, I put on a pot of coffee and settled in for an all-nighter.
How long could it take to crack the code?
The handwritten scrawl resembled hieroglyphics. After a couple of passes at the text, I realized the book contained both characters and symbols. Periodically, symbols separated one or two characters, like dashes between months, days and years. Sometimes, symbols appeared after a string of three or four characters, followed by two more characters. Dollar amounts? It was a reasonable hypothesis. But nothing more.
Next came the tedious part: substitution by trial and error. I searched for one letter words. I’s and A’s. Then three letter words. The T’s, H’s, and E’s leapt off the page. I guzzled more coffee and started over. Lather, rinse, repeat, again and again — each pass followed by more coffee.
By the time the S’s revealed themselves, the pot was dry and the sun was up. I hadn’t decoded much, but enough to see that the book contained names, dates, notes and dollar amounts. My eyes were crossing. I needed a break. Little Allie bombarded my brain with visions of Tiffany, lying in the hospital, suffering, or worse. She should be out of surgery by now, I thought. The book could wait another hour or two. After letting Headbutt out to do his business, I fed him and Kulu, shoved the book inside my duster for safekeeping, then jumped on my Harley and headed back to Christ Hospital.
After a quick stop by patient information for Tiffany’s room number, I rode the elevator to the third floor, then wound through the maze of hallways in search of room 327.
Her door was partially closed. I listened from the hallway, making sure I wouldn’t be interrupting something that neither one of us would have wanted me to see. The coast was clear. As I slipped into her room, the quiet beep-beep of monitors that tracked her heart beat and respirations pinged in my ears. The cushion on the visitor’s recliner farted when I sat down.
Tiffany opened one eye and frowned. “Where the hell you been?”
“They took you to surgery, so I went home.”
She snorted and turned away.
“Geez. I came back.”
“Too little, too late.” She shifted in her bed and grimaced. “I be mad at you later. They know you got the book.”
Given everything that had transpired, I’d already reached that conclusion. But I wasn’t above yanking her chain. “You squealed?”
“Not right away. After the second stab wound, I figured they was serious. Gave you up like a bad habit.”
“Well, no harm, no foul.” I stared out the window, rather than meet her gaze. “I put you in the middle of all this. Sorry.”
“Damn straight, you did. You owe me, too. Got a spare lung?”
My heart skipped a beat, and the room
began to spin. I figured I’d already owe Nonnie a kidney someday, since she wouldn’t accept dog biscuits in lieu of cash. Now Tiffany needed a lung? I was losing body parts faster than green grass shoots through a goose.
Tiffany laughed, then winced and grabbed her chest. “Shit, that hurt. But it was worth it. I don’t need no lung. Shoulda seen your face.”
“Bite me.”
“Kinky shit cost you a pinky finger.”
I snickered and changed the subject. “There was a web address hidden in Veronica’s book, www.rainydaybacon.com. Know anything about it?”
Tiffany pressed the button on her pain pump and shook her head. “Can’t say I do.”
“You wouldn’t know any of Veronica’s passwords?”
“Sure. All us hoes use the same passwords.” She halfheartedly reached through the bed rail and tried to smack me. “No, I don’t know her fucking passwords!”
“You were closer to her than anyone else on the street. What was the name of her first pet?”
“How would I know that? We wasn’t born joined at the hip, dumbass!”
There was a chance she’d know some obscure information, so my irritating questions continued. Did she know where Veronica went to grade school? The name of her childhood best friend? Her mother’s maiden name? What street she grew up on? Yadda-yadda-yadda.
“She have a lucky number?” I asked.
After a pause, Tiffany blurted, “Thirteen. Said nobody else liked it ’cause it was unlucky. And her mama was born on the thirteenth.”
“Her favorite drink?”
“Whatever the guy was buying.”
“She have a favorite lotto pick?”
“I only saw her buy one lotto ticket in my life.” Tiffany’s eyes grew wide. “She played her mama’s birthday—”
“Which was?”
“What the… How the hell should I know? Something thirteen, nineteen something, something. I gotta do everything for you? Go on now, leave me be. You’re harshin’ my buzz.”
I stood and walked to the door, then stopped and turned around. “I’ll find whoever did this to you. I promise.”
“Good luck with that, baby,” Tiffany said, closing her eyes. “You ain’t exactly batting a thousand.”
Everyone’s a critic. I had some huge shoes to fill with Harry gone. Who killed Veronica? Who killed Harry? Who attacked Tiffany? I hoped that when I found my bogie, the answers to my questions wouldn’t be far behind.
Screw Nonnie Nussbaum. I tore up Pitty Pat Lane and ramped the curb at the end of my driveway, then skidded to a stop and burst through the door, into my house.
Headbutt launched six inches into the air from his spot on the vent and crashed back to the floor.
Kulu fluttered furiously, screeching, “What the fuck?”
I was on a mission.
I opened my laptop, flopped onto the couch and pulled up www.rainydaybacon.com, determined to find the password. Veronica’s name, her initials, her age, her date of birth combined with countless numerical sequences. Nope. Tiffany’s name, her nickname, Stretch. Veronica’s mother’s name, her father’s, brother’s, both sisters’ and her cousins’ names with those same numerical sequences and more. Wrong again.
This was hopeless. Like finding a needle in a haystack. Think. Think. What information did I know about Veronica, and where had I learned it? Veronica was twenty-three years old. That was in the case file at the ME’s office. Her BFF was Tiffany, aka Stretch. According to Tiffany, Veronica’s mother’s date of birth was her favorite lottery pick. The 13th of (name that month), during 19 (pick a year).
The conversations Harry and I had with Veronica’s family members looped through my brain, but nothing meaningful stood out, except something her mother had said. She’d given birth to Veronica when she was eighteen. Twenty-three plus eighteen made Veronica’s mother forty-one years old. So, she was born in, using my fingers, borrowing the one, and grimacing to wake up long forgotten brain cells…1977. Ah ha! Her birthday was something 13, 1977.
Was I on the right track? I’d know soon enough.
I typed in Veronica01131977, then Veronica02131977, and finished the sequence. Still no dice. Then I entered Stretch with the same numerical sequence. When I typed in Stretch06131977 the site opened wide.
A list of dated and time stamped videos popped up. I opened the first video and almost peed myself. Veronica had filmed her sessions with her clients! The videos weren’t poorly lit, grainy footage of their private parts either. Their faces were clear as a bell. And some of them, surprisingly familiar.
Damn. Was there anyone she hadn’t been doing?
I cross-checked the video dates against the partially decoded dates in the book, then matched faces with half-deciphered names and amounts, which helped me fill in the missing letters. The pieces came together. The videos were posted in date order, first to last, matching the entries in the book. Veronica had her ducks in a nice, neat little row.
I opened the video from the date of her murder and nearly fell out of my chair when the killer’s face came into view. Son of a bitch! I knew that bastard. A quick cross-check against Veronica’s book found that he was into her for twenty grand! Why didn’t that surprise me?
The motion-activated camera in her bedroom filmed our guy taking her from behind, placing one hand beneath her chin and stabbing her in the back, military style. Just like the ME report stated. She’d never seen it coming. The entire episode, from start to finish, caught on film. Holy guacamole!
I pulled out my phone and dialed Cap’s number. Miriam answered. I was so excited, I didn’t even bother to abuse her. She put me through and he picked up on the first ring.
“Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it,” he barked. “You’re off the case, remember?”
“I know who killed Veronica Henry! I can’t explain on the phone. Just come to my house, now. And for God’s sake, don’t tell a soul where you’re going.”
23
Game on, Baby!
I sprang from the couch, high-fived the air, and hit the coffee pot for a congratulatory refill. It was still empty from my all-night marathon session, so I made a new batch. Headbutt woofed, hauling his considerable butt off the floor vent and did his pee-pee dance. After a stern but futile warning to avoid Nonnie’s rose bushes, I let him out, closed the door, and watched the tubby troublemaker through the kitchen window. He and I understood each other. But I didn’t trust that chonker as far as I could throw him.
My thoughts drifted to Harry. About how proud he’d be that I cracked the case on my own. Oh, he’d bust my chops about how it took a village and a roadmap to help me. But that was just our way. He’d know I’d never rest until I saw it through. He’d buy me a Jack Daniel’s, then I’d slide him a boilermaker on the house, and we’d be cool. If only I could see him…
A knock at the front door pulled me out of the deep, dark hole I was about to step into. Kulu screeched a sassy, “Get the hell outta here,” as I crossed the living room and opened the door to let Cap in.
Only it wasn’t Cap.
“Good morning, Ms. Nighthawk. Sorry for the interruption. I’d like a minute of your time.” DA Farragut hovered inside the glass screen door, just past the threshold. His eyes, intense and overly bright, swept past me, into the house.
“Now?” I asked, planting my feet. “It’s not a good time. I’ll swing by your office later.”
I held the interior door, blocking his entrance, but he pushed past me.
“This will only take a minute.”
Kulu flapped and fluttered in her cage, then broke into a chorus of “Bad Boys.”
Farragut chuckled. “Smart bird.”
“Smarter than you know,” I said, backing away from the door and casually putting the couch between us. “How can I help you?”
“You’re withholding evidence in the Henry case. Hand it over. Now.”
He stepped forward, but I held my ground, feigning a smile. “What evidence?”
“
Don’t play games. Veronica Henry’s book.”
“What book?”
“The book she told you about when you raised her.”
“Oh, that book. Don’t you want the video, too?”
Suddenly the cat had his tongue, and I couldn’t help but rub his nose in it. “Oh, there’s a ton of videos. But I’m guessing the one you’d want is the video of you murdering Veronica.”
His eyes blazed. “There’s no vid—”
“Actually, there is,” I said, “but I’ll be hanging onto it. And the book, too.”
He pulled a Glock 19 and nudged the couch sideways with his leg. “If you think I’m going down for killing that whore, think again.”
“Is that the gun you used to kill Harry?”
“Who says I did?”
He nudged the couch again.
“Oh, please,” I said, moving in tandem. “He had you dead to rights when you killed him. How’d you break in without him hearing you? Or did you knock on his door, too?”
“Here I am, with my gun aimed right between your eyes, and you’re wondering how I killed Harry.”
Farragut had a point. My weapons were holstered and hanging from a chair in my bedroom. Headbutt, my zombie-hunting rescue dog, was outside, whizzing on everybody’s bushes but mine. I seemed to be at a disadvantage
Click.
Nothing like the metallic click of a safety to sharpen your focus.
Farragut raised his arm. I hurled a couch pillow at him, and he flinched. The 9mm slug from his Glock drilled a hole in my ceiling.
“I just had that repainted, damn it!”
Game on, baby!
I launched myself across the couch at Farragut and grabbed his gun hand.
A second shot rang out.
The bullet slammed into the bars of the wrought iron bird cage and toppled it to the floor. Its door popped open. A frantic Kulu spiraled out into the room.
Farragut and I crashed to the floor together, neither willing to let go of the gun. Over and over we rolled, kicking and thrashing, each of us trying to gain the upper hand. He cranked my wrist and wrenched the gun away from me, but I kneed him in his nards. A low groan filled my ears as he doubled over. I rolled onto my side and snap-kicked the gun from his hand. When his eyes followed the Glock, I reared back and slammed that same foot into his jaw. He rolled over twice and landed face down. I scrambled to my feet, gasping for air, never taking my eyes from him. He was out like a light. But for how long?
Life Among the Tombstones Page 14