by Chris Rogers
Stepping to the back of the third house, the one with beer cans and a magazine in the living room, she peeked through a tear in a bedsheet covering the window. Except for the light that shone through an open bathroom door, the bedroom was dark. She heard voices. Then bedsprings creaked, as if someone had sat down.
Dixie ducked under the window, crossed to the other side, and found another peephole. A man wearing a T-shirt and jeans had stepped up to the bed. He unbuttoned his pants. His face caught enough of the light from the bathroom for Dixie to recognize Alton Sikes.
Stepping away from the house, she dialed Rashly’s number and gave him the address. Then she slipped into the shadows to watch and wait. It didn’t take long.
How Sikes got wind of what was coming down was a mystery. Maybe guys like him were born with genetic fuzz busters. He was ready when they kicked in the door. Dixie couldn’t see the fracas, but it sounded like the homicide cops were chasing Sikes up one wall and down the other. Five minutes later, when they brought him out front in handcuffs, Hermie Valdez had disappeared.
“She’ll turn up.” Rashly looked British in a navy-blue Burberry coat with a plaid muffler. “What’s important is Sikes is going down. This time he’ll stay down.” He knocked his pipe against a shoe heel to free the burned tobacco, then took a pipe cleaner from his pocket.
“Thought you stopped smoking,” Dixie said.
“Yep.” He forced the pipe cleaner through the stem. “Maybe next month I’ll stop again.”
Dixie had hung around not so much to watch the bust as to talk to Rashly about Jon Keyes and Travis Payne. The detective, watching his men go about the business of securing the scene, took a leather tobacco pouch out of a coat pocket.
“Rash, while you were investigating the Keyes hit-and-run case, how much did you learn about the custody suit Jon Keyes filed during his divorce from Rebecca?”
“Divorce? That was old business long before the girl was killed. Why are you digging into that?”
“Didn’t it strike you as strange that a single male would file for joint custody of two girls that weren’t even his?”
“When it comes to divorce, nothing two people do to each other would surprise me. Besides, he adopted them. Legally, they’re his kids.”
“Keyes is nervous about something.”
Rashly dipped his pipe into the pouch. Flakes of cherry-blend tobacco fell to the sidewalk.
“When nervous gets to be a crime, Flannigan, we’ll have criminals lined up clear to Oklahoma waiting for a bunk at the prison.” He packed tobacco into the pipe bowl with his thumb and began searching his pockets for a lighter. Finding it, he cupped his hand over the pipe, drawing deep to get the tobacco going, then started across the narrow street, leaving her in a cloud of smoke. “Go take a load off your feet, Flannigan. Sit in my car. Maybe you’ll find some light reading material in the backseat.”
The Keyes case folder. Dixie had almost forgotten why she’d agreed to help Rashly round up Sikes.
She found the same traffic tickets for Keyes that Smokin had turned up, and the assault charge Payne filed when Keyes punched him out in their argument over the child support. Otherwise, neither had a prior arrest. According to one investigator’s notes, Keyes had been a model father since the divorce. Picked up the three kids on his weekends, returned them on time. Showed no hostility toward his ex-wife. As divorced father of the year, he would get a ten.
Then Dixie found a report from Social Services. In late April, a doctor had called a social worker to the hospital emergency room after Jon Keyes brought Betsy in with acute abdominal cramps and vaginal bleeding. It turned out that she was having her first menstrual cycle. Keyes didn’t realize that’s all it was. According to the doctor, Betsy’s cramps were more severe than she expected, based on the film she’d seen in health class.
Dixie felt her skin go clammy as she recalled her own first menstrual period. She’d hoped it would keep Scully from bothering her. “Damned if you aren’t getting to be the little woman,” Scully’d said. “Budding out up top. Bleeding like a woman, even smell like a woman. Too bad you don’t have a little sister.” Every month, Dixie exaggerated her stomach cramps to Carla Jean, who promptly sent her to bed and clucked over her. Scully’s visits hadn’t stopped, but at least he didn’t come around during that one week of the month.
Jon Keyes had not believed Betsy’s cramps were normal, even for a girl’s first cycle. When he discovered the doctor had phoned Rebecca, Keyes drove his fist into the doctor’s face so hard it loosened a tooth. That’s when Social Services had been summoned.
Rashly opened the driver’s side door and, leaving it open, sat down heavily behind the steering wheel. He took a long draw on his pipe, coughed as he exhaled, then looked over his shoulder at the report Dixie was reading.
“Still hot on Keyes? What is it about the guy that ruffles your tail feathers?”
Dixie’s take on Keyes wasn’t something Rashly would understand.
“When something looks too good to be true,” she said, “maybe it needs a closer look.” On paper, Jon Keyes was merely a concerned father. On paper, Travis Payne stacked up more marks as a killer. But his friendly smile and twinkling eyes had seemed sincere.
Rashly blew a fresh trail of gray smoke into the winter air.
“Good guys happen, Flannigan. We don’t see many in our line of work, but they’re out there, going quietly about their law-abiding lives. Maybe Jonathan Keyes is one of them.”
“Maybe.” She stepped out and away from the car.
Rashly started the engine and drove off. The other police cars had already moved on.
As Dixie passed in front of the shanties, heading back to the van, quizzical faces peered through tattered window shades. The kids had abandoned their cartoon show to watch the real action outside their window. Dixie winked as she passed, and they ducked below the sill, giggling. She had the feeling hundreds of pairs of eyes followed her progress down the deserted street. In the distance, traffic sounds attested that the city had not stopped going about its business, but here in this gray gutter town the quiet engulfed her. She flexed her shoulders and lengthened her stride.
Nearing the corner of the boarded-up grocery, she stepped off the sidewalk. A flash of purple lunged from the shadows, shrieking in high C and wielding a rusted iron pipe. The blow caught Dixie across the temple, knocking her to the ground. She rolled a moment too late, blocking the next blow with her forearm, and felt something crack.
Hermie Valdez, huge in her purple coat, swung the pipe again, missing this time and screeching with fury. Dixie reached for the .45.
Hermie kicked it out of her hand. A three-inch heel stomped down on Dixie’s shoulder—pain shot through her chest.
Dixie caught Hermie at the knee and yanked. The woman crashed into the dry rot-riddled grocery front, but stayed on her feet. With her good hand, Dixie reached for the boot knife.
Hermie swung the pipe again, but this time Dixie rolled to her knees, bringing the knife around and arcing upward, into Hermie’s arm. Hermie screamed, eyes riveted on the blade slicing through her coat and flesh, but she held tight to the pipe as she backed away.
Dixie stumbled to her feet. Blood ran into the corner of one eye from the blow to her temple. She blinked, keeping Hermie in sight, and edged forward with the knife.
The .45 had slid into the pile of trash bags. Doubtful she could reach it before Hermie swung the pipe down on her head.
“You the white bitch come snooping round, telling Sheila you a plumber. I tole her they ain’t no leaky faucets in that house. Why’d you call the cops on my Alton?”
“Alton killed a man.” Dixie eyed a streak of blood sliding down Hermie’s coat.
Hermie clutched the pipe in both hands, waving it side to side in front of her. Nervous. She didn’t like the knife, but she didn’t look scared of it, either.
“We’s going away together, me and Alton. Today. Leave everything. Walk away and start over. Why’d you ha
ve to come here and mess us up?”
“Start over stealing and killing?”
“I never stole nothing in my life. And that man Alton killed? Was a accident. Alton, he’s weak sometimes, but he’s a good man when he’s off the candy. Needs a new start is all.”
“When has Alton ever been off the candy, Hermie?”
“Promised me. We leave together, he leave the habit behind.”
“If it was that easy, why didn’t he do it long ago? Before he killed a man?”
“I told you, that was a accident I got some money saved. Alton been hiding out, waiting till my last paycheck come today. Could’ve made it. But you—”
She lunged, swinging the pipe at Dixie’s head.
Dropping low, Dixie came in under Hermie’s arm, leading with her injured shoulder and bringing the knife butt down hard on Hermie’s wrist. The pipe fell. Dixie kicked it aside and shoved Hermie against the wall, the blade nicking the skin at the woman’s throat, forcing her head back.
Hermie’s mouth hardened. Her eyes burned down into Dixie’s.
Dixie could feel Hermie’s body tighten to strike out again. She was bigger than Dixie and a mean scrapper. Dixie didn’t want to use the knife, but she had to do something quick. She slid the point lightly along Hermie’s neck to her cheek, leaving a trail of ruby beads. The furious eyes narrowed.
“You’re not afraid of losing your life, are you, Hermie? But what about your looks? One jab…”
The mouth trembled ever so slightly. Dixie slid the point up Hermie’s cheek, not cutting but nicking the skin as it crossed the cheekbone.
A thin, barely audible whimper escaped the woman’s lips.
“You could take me, Hermie. But I don’t think you can move fast enough to avoid losing an eye.”
Hermie held the stare another moment. Then she sagged against the wall.
“Take that blade outta my face. I won’t fight no more.
“At least, not until my back is turned.” Holding the knife steady, Dixie fished a small roll of duct tape from a vest pocket under the overall. Finding the folded end with her teeth, she pulled it out a few inches.
“Put your hands out. Hold them together in front of you.”
Taping was awkward left-handed, but Dixie got enough duct tape on Hermie’s wrists that she felt safe in lowering the knife. She found the cellular phone and dialed.
“You owe me one,” she told Rashly.
Chapter Thirty-eight
“Ow!” Dixie flinched as Dann tried to help her out of her coat.
“What happened? You look awful—hey, that’s blood. You cut your head.”
“Just a scratch” She had stopped at a service station to wash the blood off her face, but she couldn’t get it all out of her hair, and her jacket would have to go to the cleaners.
“That’s no scratch. You need stitches.”
“It’ll be okay, Dann. Really. I just—I need a hot shower and half a dozen aspirin.”
He got two aspirin and a glass of water while she shrugged out of her vest. She tried to hang the vest up, but her arm wouldn’t move that high. She dropped the vest on the floor.
“What’s wrong with your arm?”
She swallowed the aspirin and drank half the water.
“It’ll be fine. Maybe I’ll put an ice pack on it after I shower.”
In the bathroom, she turned on the water and started to peel off her clothing, but again, her left arm wouldn’t cooperate. The wide-leg overall presented the least problem. One long zip and she kicked out of them. She managed to pull the sweatshirt off one-handed by reaching behind her, bending over at the waist, and skinning the shirt down over her head. Getting the arms off was another problem, the boots even harder. By the time she had stripped to her underclothes, she was drenched in sweat. A sliver of pain shot through her arm and shoulder.
She sat down on the toilet seat, nauseated, dizzy. She leaned over, head down, and stayed that way for a while. After her head cleared, she saw a key chain lying on the tiles beside her foot, the key chain she’d picked up at Payne Hardware. Shoplifted, apparently. Scooping it up, she flicked the tiny flashlight on and off, then laid it on the sink and stepped into the shower. Warm water sluicing over her head took some of the pounding away.
Stepping out, she felt the need to sit down again, but stayed on her feet. Toweled off. Toweled her hair. Then wiped the fog off the mirror and got a surprise at the sight of her injuries. Her shoulder was bruised from collarbone to armpit. One area the size of her palm had turned a deep, ugly yellow. Her forearm was purple and swollen, and the cut on her head gaped.
Dann tapped on the door.
“Hey. Everything okay in there?”
“Yeah, thanks. I’m okay.”
“I made some ginseng tea. To take some of the soreness out. Want it in there or in the kitchen?”
“I’ll come out.”
Her terry-cloth robe slipped on easily, without much pain, but she hated to think about dressing for dinner at Amy’s.
Dann’s ginseng tea smelled funny and tasted bitter.
“Drink it anyway. Tough broad like you doesn’t get squeamish over a cup of tea.” He had packed a deep tray with ice cubes, covered with a folded towel. Dixie sat down in the breakfast nook and laid her arm on the ice. Dann placed another ice pack on top. “You need this x-rayed. Might be broken.”
“It’s not broken.”
“Oh. Now Superbroad has X-ray vision.”
“Don’t we have some of that aspirin cream in the first-aid kit? Rub some of that on it.”
“Aspirin cream won’t heal a broken bone.” He brushed her hair away from the cut on her head.
“Ow!”
Mud, dozing under the table, sat up abruptly, then laid his heavy muzzle on her foot.
“I’ll have to trim away some of your hair,” Dann said.
“So trim it already. It’s hair. It’ll grow back.” She’d have to think of some way to hide the bandage from Amy. Maybe a scarf. Did she have any scarves. “Ow!”
“I didn’t touch it yet! I bumped your sho—you got something wrong with this shoulder, too?”
“A bruise.”
“Bruise?” Ignoring her protests, he peeled back her robe to look at the shoulder. “Hellfire, woman! You need a doctor.”
“It’ll be okay. Rub some of that aspirin cream on it.”
“Later. First an ice pack.”
“Then take this one. My blood’s turning to slush.”
“Blood?” He dabbed alcohol on the cut and opened a box of bandages. “Superbroad ought to be fueled by high-test, at least.”
“Hey! Why are you on my case?”
“Somebody needs to be. You take off without telling anyone, out there getting yourself banged up, nobody knows where you are. Your sister calls here—what am I supposed to tell her?”
“You improvised fine. Got yourself invited to dinner—OW!”
“Dammit, Dixie, this cut needs stitches.”
“There’s a sewing basket in the closet.”
He sighed, long and heavy. “Maybe I can get a butterfly bandage to work.”
Silence filled the minutes while he trimmed her hair around the cut, his touch gentler than she knew she deserved. She hated being fussed over, and had never been a cheerful patient. And she still wasn’t used to having anybody besides family worry about her. Maybe she could at least lessen the worry about his own immediate future.
Reaching into her robe pocket, she took out the key chain with the mini-flashlight.
“You know that tunnel you woke up in last May first?” Catching his hand, she dropped the key chain into it. “I brought you a delayed Christmas present.” His skin was warm and smooth against her palm.
“Present? What is it?”
Dixie wished suddenly that it was more than a two-dollar key chain. “It’s just… sort of symbolic.”
His gaze held hers, and a slow warmth filled her. She hadn’t allowed herself to consciously acknowledge how devili
shly attractive he was—the strong brow, the slightly irregular features, the compelling mouth.
He wiggled his eyebrows. “When do I get to open the present?”
“Oh.” Her fingers still covered the key chain in his hand. She released it.
As he looked at the key chain, a puzzled expression came over his face for a moment. He grinned, finally, and flicked the switch.
“Miniature flashlight.” Then a muscle jumped in his jaw, and a slow energy seemed to fill him, lifting his shoulders, quickening his breath. “A light in the tunnel.”
“I gave Belle Richards enough clout today to swing your case hard in the right direction.”
She watched him taking it in, trying to be cool but unable to deny the relief. He sat down abruptly.
“I didn’t do it, then,” he said softly, staring down at the key chain, flicking the light on and off. “Somebody else… in my car.” He looked up. “Who?”
Dixie hesitated. “There’s no absolute proof against anybody.” That was the truth, although Belle would make the evidence sound as absolute as possible in court. She told him briefly about Travis Payne, since that was the scenario he’d hear from Belle. “The important thing is presenting the jury with an alternative possibility so strong they’ll have no choice but to acquit.”
She laid her good hand over his and squeezed gently.
“No guarantee. But I’d hate to be in the ADA’s shoes come Monday.” Seeing Dann’s reaction, she realized how much she had wanted him to be innocent, and how worried she was that he might not be.
As the realization continued to sink in, his facial muscles relaxed, the jaw softening. The crease between his eyebrows all but disappeared. He looked down at their hands on the table. When Dixie started to withdraw hers, he captured it, rubbed his thumb lightly over her knuckles.
“Dixie, my own attorney didn’t work as hard for me as you did.”
“It was your attorney who sent me to find you. If not for her—”
“I know. But Richards was paid to believe in me. You just… did.”
Dixie wished she could say that was true. Her passion for truth had driven her long before she met Parker Dann.