by Ben Sanders
A computer sat humming on a desk, laser prints spread out next to it, people in various states of dismemberment. Anatomy texts, open at the relevant sections. He turned and trained the SIG on the door and walked backward to the desk, sifted through the papers.
Like a morgue file. Nothing that wasn’t severed.
Next to the monitor he found a printout from the Motor Vehicle Division. A standard registry entry, personal and vehicle stats, together with a photograph.
James Marshall Grade. He kept Marshall as a middle name.
He waited there a moment, gun up, seeing how it all fit together. Then he left the smashed office door hanging wide and went and stood at the top of the stairs. A dull hammering from somewhere. He hadn’t noticed before, but he had an idea what it might be. He started down, back to the wall, gun swinging left and right for cover. Halfway there and he could hear voices. He stopped and listened, head cocked. Two women calling for help, cries going in and out of sync. At the bottom of the stairs, he stood with his ear to the door and listened. Some kind of cutting suite adjacent. The table still wet, a trace of water along the bottom of the drain. Serrated tools on the pegboard. The door beside him shaking as they hit it.
He said, “Jesus Christ.”
He took the red phone from his pocket as he walked back up the stairs, sat in the living room and called his daughter. He was shaking as he held the phone to his ear.
“What are you up to, sweetheart?”
FORTY-FIVE
Marshall
Southbound on I-25. Shore driving, Marshall in the seat beside her, looking out the window, but not really seeing the view. He had the pink glasses on and the Colt held two-handed between his knees.
She said, “How do you think she saw you?”
Marshall took a few seconds to surface. He said, “How do I think who saw me when?”
“The Chloe girl. How did she know to come upstairs after you shot him?”
Marshall ran a hand round his jaw but didn’t turn from the window. He said, “Hard to say. She was only one floor below, she could’ve heard the noise. Or she might have seen me on the street, I don’t know. Maybe she just decided to come upstairs. Might’ve just been bad luck.”
She didn’t answer.
Marshall slid low in the seat. He took the lock pick bag from his pocket and put it in the glove compartment.
“What’s that?”
He said, “Lock picks. For breaking into people’s houses.”
She looked out her window. The low sun in the glass of the buildings. The city had a silver clarity against the hard, blue folds of the mountains. She said, “You carrying anything else I should avoid being seen with?”
He said, “I don’t know. The usual.”
“Which is what?”
“Money, and a gun, and my keys. Got a phone too, but that’s kind of an exception.”
She glanced at him. “Carrying it round in three pieces is pretty exceptional.”
Marshall said, “Stops it being tracked.”
“Yeah. Except when you turn it on again.”
He shook his head. “No onboard GPS, so they’d have to triangulate the signal. Less cell towers out here than on the coast so I don’t think it’s that precise.”
She looked at him. “You don’t think.”
“Well. That’s the theory. It’s working for me so far.”
She said, “If you’re going for normal, you could try using a wallet.”
He shook his head. “No. You have to put things in them.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Credit cards and ID and stuff.”
She said, “What’s wrong with credit cards and ID?”
Marshall said, “Nothing. Unless you happen to be in my situation. In which case everything’s wrong with them.”
“So no plastic?”
He shook his head. “No plastic.”
She looked at him. “How do you drive?”
“Easy. You just need a key and a car.” He pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose. “And to avoid being pulled over.”
She said, “What about voting?”
“I don’t vote.”
“Right.”
She kept working on that for a minute and said, “Don’t you think that’s worth an exception? Like, have some ID on you long enough to mark a piece of paper.”
“Partake in democracy and all those good things.”
“Exactly.”
Marshall said, “I’m on the periphery. Whether the country goes blue or red doesn’t affect me.” He mused a little while, watching traffic overtake, sun flares sliding off the paintwork. He said, “Plus if democracy’s worth anything, the right to not vote’s just as crucial as the right to vote.”
Looking pleased now, like here comes the punch line. He said, “So in that sense I’m helping exemplify an important principle.”
She said, “Right.”
Marshall said, “Anyway. I’d say if things ever reach the point where it’s essential I’m involved, it’s got to be pretty dire.”
* * *
Turning west off I-25 onto Central Ave., they cruised through low-rise: diners, fast food, motels, and at the very end of the street the sun hovering on final approach.
Marshall said, “Are you doing this because you think you owe me a favor, or is it actually what you want to do?”
She took her time with that. She said, “Normally I’d say I’m just paying back a favor, but getting held at gunpoint makes you take things to heart a bit more.”
Marshall said, “So it’s both.”
“I guess.”
Marshall nodded. He liked that just fine.
She said, “Why Stella?”
He looked at her. “Why Stella when?”
“That night in the bar. I dunno, I thought if you have your pancakes one at a time you’d go for Stone, or Great Divide or something.”
Marshall shook his head. “Too local. People might guess I’m from around here.” He adjusted the air-con vent so he could only see the thin edge of the fins. He said, “Stella’s more common, so I could be from anyplace.”
“So it’s always Stella?”
He nodded. “It’s always Stella.”
Spoken curt enough it seemed to put an end to beverages. She said, “Did you have some sort of plan?”
“Kind of.”
“Kind of.”
Marshall said, “Well. I was just going to go in and order a drink and see what happened. React to whatever needs reacting to.”
“I thought all that time sitting quietly you were coming up with something.”
“I was just deciding whether simple is best.”
“And is it?”
Marshall said, “I’m still undecided, but we’ll give it a try anyway. See what eventuates.”
A brief cool darkness as the road swooped beneath the railway overpass, and then they were broaching the high-rise stretch.
Eyes forward he said, “You’re actually kind of pretty.”
A bit out of nowhere and maybe not the best timing, but he thought he’d see where it got him.
Nowhere, as it turned out: she pretended she didn’t hear, not the slightest reaction.
Marshall responded in kind. He said, “Do a drive-by first. Maybe we’ll see them at the bar, having a cold one.”
“You know where it is?”
“Next block.”
He could see it coming up on the right. The cracked pink stucco and a parking structure on the next lot. He lowered his visor against the glare. A doorman outside smoking a cigarette. Marshall remembered him from the DEA shots. It was hard to see past him. Two or three people at the bar, but no one he recognized. He held the gun between the seat and the door to keep it hidden, and leaned forward to see past the edge of the roof and scan the parking structure. Plenty of cars nosed up against the edge, no people visible.
Marshall said, “I’ll get out in a couple of blocks.”
“And what am I su
pposed to do?”
“Park somewhere you can see me, and then follow if I get kidnapped.”
“Kidnapping’s not in the plan though, is it?”
Marshall turned in his seat and checked the other side of the street. He said, “No, it’s not. But you’ve got to be flexible.”
Approaching the light at Fourth Street the traffic slowed, and the instant the car stopped the rear door opened and a man slid in, and behind his seat Marshall heard a gun being cocked.
Shore said, “Shit,” the car rolling again as she looked in the rearview, their belts locking with a jolt as she hit the brake. Marshall, still holding the .45 low by the door, used his other hand to jiggle the tension out of his restraint and then reached up and turned the mirror so he could see their passenger. A man in his late thirties, short hair and a lean, sharp face, little ball of sinew in his jaw as he looked out the window.
Marshall said, “That a Middle East tan, or just a local one?”
The guy said, “I’d say it’s mainly UV bed by now.” He met Marshall’s eyes in the mirror. “Take a right and go round the block, and we’ll head back along to Third.”
Marshall said, “Are you Leon?”
“Yes I am. Are you Marshall and Detective Shore, or have I got the wrong car?”
Marshall said, “No. You’re spot on.”
“Nice glasses.”
“Thanks.”
“What are you holding down there by the door?”
Given a lie would be seen for what it was fairly promptly, Marshall said, “Colt .45 semi-auto.”
Looking out the other window like he was taking a cab ride, Leon said, “Just leave it there and put both hands on the dash.”
Marshall complied. He said, “Did you get your money back?”
Eyes in the mirror again. “What money?”
“Troy said he stole some.”
“Oh. Yeah.” A sound like the flat of a gun tapping on his leg. “Troy likes to think he’s more trouble than he is. But you probably found that out for yourself.”
Marshall didn’t answer. Leon turned and looked out the rear window. He said, “And how are you, Detective Shore?”
Shore didn’t answer.
Leon said, “I think I’ll take that as a good sign. Not far to go, anyway. Just take a left on Third.”
* * *
They went into the garage of a condo building three blocks off Central. Shore took the ramp down to the second basement level. Fluorescent-lit concrete, the squat columns all raw-faced, two black SUVs and three more sedans.
Leon, in the center seat now, said, “Park over there by the elevator.”
Shore followed painted arrows, tires squealing faintly in the turns. She came slowly to a stop, set the brake, shut off the engine.
Leon spent a long moment looking round, check they were alone, and then slid behind her and opened his door wide. He said, “Belt and door, Detective.”
Shore unclicked her belt and popped her door. Leon leaned forward and reached around the pillar. He grabbed her by the front of the blouse, stitches tearing as he pulled her out of the seat, dragged her backward around the car to the elevator. He hit the button, looked at Marshall across her shoulder.
“You too. Six feet clearance, or the detective loses a kidney.”
Marshall slipped off the sunglasses and folded them carefully, placed them on the dash. Taking his time. He was hoping the Colt would fall on the ground when he got out and there’d be a fuss getting it back in the car, but somehow it stayed propped against the seat.
Leon said, “Shut your door.”
Marshall knocked it closed with his heel, just enough to catch.
The elevator dinged and opened. Leon backed in, his arm around Shore’s throat. He pushed her into a corner and took a key from his pocket and inserted it in a lock below the button panel. Then he pulled Shore close again and held the gun at her spine.
He turned and jerked his head to beckon Marshall. “In you come.”
Marshall followed, stark echo of his footsteps, and stopped just inside the threshold.
Leon said, “Hit the P button.”
Marshall hit P.
The doors closing solemnly. He felt them brush his shirt. The light a fraction dimmer. Silence.
They rode up to the penthouse, the dial above the door counting floors, Marshall watching the reflection in the mirrored rear wall.
That brief lightness in his gut as they stopped. The doors opened.
Leon smiled. “Out you go.”
Marshall turned and stepped out into the apartment. Through a short, narrow entry and into a kitchen floored in gleaming timber, late sun a bright oval in the gloss. At a polished granite counter, two guys in shirtsleeves perched on barstools, between them Troy Rojas lying hogtied and bleeding, one eye half-closed and purple, mouth a pulped mess.
The timber floor continued into the living room. It looked like a catalogue: a leather sofa and two armchairs forming three sides of a rectangle, and a TV and sound system that must have cost five figures. Two guys on the sofa, and a man in a gray suit and black cowboy hat in an armchair, a half-empty Corona waiting on a coaster. He stood up as Marshall came in, brought his drink with him.
“Man, that was fast, thought it might take you a couple hours or something. Ah, god, Troy’s made a puddle.”
One of the guys on the stools said, “It’s okay on wood, Mr. Grace. Long as you got the polyurethane, yeah? Just mop it up. Just gotta not leave it too long.”
The guy in the hat didn’t answer. He put the bottle on the bench and looked at Marshall, standing there in his kitchen, Leon behind him with Shore still hugged close and the gun in her back. He clapped his hands and said, “Right, introductions: I’m Jackie Grace, we’ve got Tyrone, Carlos, Hector, and Miguel.” He pointed them out in turn, smiled as he said, “And I guess you already know Leon.”
Jackie Grace. It rang a bell, and Marshall hunted for the name. It was in that DEA stuff. Jackie Grace: Calor club owner.
Marshall said, “How’s the bar business doing?”
Jackie Grace laughed and rolled with it, all suave, took a hit off his beer. He walked a little loop behind the counter, hands spread and elbows tucked, a little behold-the-glory gesture. He said, “It’s doing okay. Yeah. I think we can say it’s doing pretty good.” He put a knuckle to his nostril and sniffed.
Leon said, “We’ll need some more cuffs for these two.”
Jackie had some beer. The four others did a little pocket-pat routine. Jackie said, “There’s a bag of those plastic ones in the office.”
The guy called Hector went to get it. Jackie stepped over the back of the couch and stretched out. He tipped his hat low on his eyes and said, “Shit, this is going to be one hell of a party.”
Leon put Shore on the ground facedown and knelt beside her, pat-searched one-handed, the gun hanging by his knee, aimed at the floor. It was a Ruger SR22, boxy polycarbonate, like a compact version of a Glock. Hector entered the room and dug a mess of cable ties from a fat Ziploc baggie. He shook the bunch until he was holding just one, hangers-on falling to the floor. He threw it over beside Shore. Leon locked her wrists, an expert job, three seconds tops.
Marshall was by himself, no one in grab distance, the guys on the stools watching him hand-to-gun.
Leon patted Shore’s backside. “Thanks for being so cooperative, Detective.”
He aimed at Marshall. “On the ground.”
Marshall didn’t move. Hands bound he wouldn’t have much of a show. Somewhere back there had been the chance for control, and it was before Leon got in the car. Now he had a gun on him, and two others on the brink of a draw. His exit options were shrinking.
He said, “What happened to Alyce Ray?”
Leon said, “I’ll tell you as you’re dying. Which might be soon if you don’t get on the ground.”
“Kidnapping a police officer’s not a great idea.”
“Only if you’re planning to let them go. On the ground, now.”
Everyone watching him. Jackie’s bottle catching the light as he had a drink. Marshall’s pulse hammering as his options shrank.
Do something, now.
Leon’s gun right there, almost in grab range. Take it and kill the others. He’s close enough. Do it.
“I’ll give you a bullet through the knee.”
Marshall waited. Make him come closer.
Leon shouting now: “I’ll count you in. Three, two—”
Marshall took a knee.
He let his breath out, the moment gone, tension collapsing.
Leon pushed him prone, crouched and ran a hand up and down Marshall’s leg, Jackie Grace saying, “You see I pimped out the bathroom, Leon? I’ve got those new taps, kinda like the kitchen. Bit sorta, I don’t know, culinary. But still pretty slick, you should have a look. All polished metal. Should show you through the building, too. It’s a bit ghost town at the moment ’cause everything’s been ripped back for the do-up, but we’re going to decorate like in here, make it real smooth inner-city living, you know? Real sought-after shit.”
Leon said, “Yeah. Maybe later.”
Marshall put his head up on his chin, and there was Rojas looking back at him blank-eyed. A drool-line feeding the bloody puddle and Marshall saw his lips move in something that looked like:
Help.
His ruminations in the diner that morning about luck, the good grace of the world wearing thin, and maybe this was the end.
Leon finished his pat-down and picked up a cable-tie from the floor, bound Marshall’s wrists at the small of his back. Marshall’s cash and keys and pieces of phone in a neat little pile.
Leon said, “You got any longer ones?”
“What for?” Hector’s voice.
“Put one round his neck. Make a little yank leash if he gets out of order.”
Jackie Grace called, “Yeah we got some longer ones. Next drawer down, Hector. Orange ones you want. Jesus, how much cash has that guy got?”
Leon didn’t answer.
Quiet while Hector fetched the cable tie. A drawer opening, plastic sounds as he rummaged. Then Marshall felt Leon thread the strap beneath his throat, heard him feed the end into the little buckle and ratchet it firmly against his carotid. The skin above it swelling fractionally, blood trapped in his head.