Other than that, the night had been terrific.
Before doing anything, I called my brothers to ask for their help in securing the apartments. They promised to stop by, and I threw on the first clothes I saw and headed down to the police station.
Officer Jolly wasn't there, so I talked to Ted Hugo, the assigned homicide detective. When I offered him my insights, he was less than impressed.
Apparently, I was the third so-called psychic to contact him since Lucy had been found bludgeoned to death in her upscale apartment. Lucy had been a celebrity of sorts, and the case was generating a lot of interest, not all of it productive.
"But I'm not claiming to be a psychic," I told him. "I'm just saying that her Tarot reading was weird."
"Uh-huh. Weird Tarot reading. Got it."
When I mentioned a boyfriend, the detective perked up. "She give you a name?"
"No," I said.
"But she told you she was afraid of him?"
"Not exactly," I said.
"Uh-huh," Detective Hugo said, his interest fading.
"She made me take out the Death Card," I said.
"Uh-huh," he said. "The Death Card. We'll make a note of it." He stood. I followed suit. Ten minutes later, I was back at the coffee shop, making another mocha.
I was sipping it at the counter when Officer Jolly stopped by for his mid-morning coffee. "Heard you saw Hugo today."
"Don't remind me," I said. "He thinks I'm nuts."
"Don't take it personal," Officer Jolly said. "Hugo's not big into the psychic hoo-ha,"
"And then there's Edgar," I said. "I still can't get ahold of him."
"That's funny," he said. "I just talked to him a few minutes ago."
"So he's in town?"
"I suppose. He didn't say."
"I've left him a dozen messages. Did he mention them?"
"Nope."
Desperate for insight, I gave Officer Jolly a brief rundown on what I'd seen around Edgar's place the previous night. I ended by saying, "So someone might've broken into his house."
"You sure the person came out of Edgar's?" Officer Jolly asked.
"Not exactly," I admitted. "It's not like I saw them open the door or anything."
"It's a funny time of year, pub crawl and all."
"What are you thinking?" I asked.
"Well, maybe Edgar was home and turned out the light himself," he said. "You said it was around bedtime, right?"
"Yeah?"
"So maybe Edgar goes to bed, one of his neighbors slams a door, and some pub-crawler cuts through the yard. Maybe it's all unrelated and just looked funny at the time."
"That's a lot of maybe's," I said.
An hour later, my brothers walked in, and I led them to a table by the window.
Anthony straddled a chair backward and asked "What's the deal with the picketers?"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Are they customers or protesters?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Both?"
"Where's Mom?" Steve asked.
"Giving one of the picketers an astrology reading."
"You're shittin' me," Steve said.
"Selena wouldn't shit you," Anthony said. "You're her favorite turd."
"Actually," I told Anthony. "He's my third favorite, tops."
"Do you want to talk about turds," Steve asked, "or securing your apartment?"
"Securing my apartment," I said.
"Good," Steve said. "Now here's the question. Do you want it secure, or really secure?"
"What kind of question is that?" I asked. "I want it really secure."
"You willing to give up the alley entrance for a while?"
"I'd have to enter my apartment through the store?" I asked. "Every time?"
"Stop being such a pantywaist," Steve said. "The best way to secure the alley door is to close it off completely."
"What about Mom?" I asked.
"What about her?"
"She'd have to go through the store too," I said. "It'd be a big inconvenience for her."
"Cut the crap," Steve said. "She doesn't even use that door."
"You guys are a lot smarter than you look," I muttered.
"We'll take that as a compliment," Steve said.
"Here's what we'll do," Anthony said. "We'll hook up some high voltage to the door-knobs. If someone comes in, zap! They'll be fried like an egg."
"Oh for crying out loud," I said. "No."
"Low voltage?" Anthony conceded. "Just zap 'em a little?"
"No."
"A shotgun rigged to a pulley?" Steve asked.
"What are you guys, nuts?" I said. "What if some Girl Scout comes to sell cookies?"
"The Girl Scouts came last month," Anthony said.
"Look," I said. "Can't you secure the apartments without killing anyone?"
"We could booby-trap the landing, so they fall through a trap door or something," Steve said. "It might break a leg or two. But they'd live. How's that?"
"Terrible," I said. "Can't you just board up the doors?"
"You're no fun," Anthony said.
"I'm all funned out," I said.
"At least tell me you got your gun," Steve said.
I gave a bitter laugh. "Which one?"
"Don’t matter which one. You got one, right?"
"Sort of," I said. "But I haven't shot it in forever. It's probably all gunked up or something."
"Shit," Steve said. "You gotta get it checked out."
"Yeah, and shoot it too," Anthony said. "You gotta practice with those things."
"Yeah." I rolled my eyes. "I'll get right on that."
"Today," Steve said.
"No way," I said. "I've got other stuff to do."
"So do we," Steve said. "But you don’t see us whining about it."
"Or," Anthony said, "you could just do the usual thing."
"What's that?" I asked.
"Barricade yourself in some room while two guys shoot at you."
"Oh shut up."
He shrugged. "I'm just sayin'."
"First of all," I said, "that was like six years ago. And second of all, they weren't shooting at me. They were shooting at the door."
"Here's what you gotta do," Steve said. "Leave now, and go straight to the range."
"I'm not gonna freeze my ass off just to get some shooting practice." I said.
Anthony turned to Steve. "Hey, I've got it. She could swing by our private club."
Steve's eyebrows furrowed. "What private club?"
"You know," Anthony said, "the one off Fifth Street.
Steve gave a slow nod. "Yeah. Good idea."
I stared at them. "So you guys belong to a private club now?"
Steve shrugged. "Eh, semi-private."
"Tell ya what," Anthony said. "We'll hook you up with a guy we know, see if he can meet you there."
"I don't have time for that," I said.
Steve stood. "If you want the favor, that's the price."
Sometimes, they reminded me way too much of Bishop.
"Fine," I sighed. "Set it up. I'll go. Whatever."
Anthony was giving me a dubious look. "You are gonna comb your hair first?"
"Hey, I was outside," I said. "It was windy."
Steve studied my clothes. "And you're gonna change too, right?"
I stared over at them. "What's with you guys?"
"Hey, we got a reputation to protect," Steve said. "Everyone says our sisters are hot. You can't go around looking like that."
"People think I'm hot?"
"They wouldn't now," Steve said. He looked at my feet. "Are those loafers?"
"Yeah. So?"
"With a sweat suit?"
It was time to change the subject. "Fine," I muttered. "I'll comb my hair."
My brothers looked at me. They waited.
I groaned. "And change my clothes. Jeez."
An hour later, I was combed, dressed, and on my way to this mysterious shooting club. I followed my brothers' directions and p
ulled into the weed-infested parking lot of the long-abandoned Drake Lumber Mill.
Over the years, I'd driven past the place countless times, but this was the first time I'd actually stopped. No wonder. The entire structure, with its boarded-up windows and crumbling brick façade, wasn't worth a first look, much less a second.
From my driver's seat, I looked around, wondering if my brothers were just messing with me. It wouldn't be the first time.
And then I spotted it, the black door they'd told me to look for. With a sigh, I shifted the Mustang into park, grabbed my book bag, and exited the vehicle.
At the door, I reached up to give it a knock, but before I had the chance, the door swung open, and there he was – Jim Bishop.
Of course.
Chapter 52
Standing just inside the door, he wore a dark long-sleeve shirt, faded jeans and a pair of worn military boots.
"Son-of-a-bitch," I said under my breath.
"Me? Or your brothers?"
"I'm undecided."
He flicked his head toward the building's interior. "Come on in."
I looked past him. I saw a massive industrial bay, littered with ancient machinery in various stages of decay. "Are you serious?" I said.
"Yeah. Aren't you?"
I gave him a dubious look. "They said this was a shooting range."
"It is." He reached for my bag. "Come on."
Reluctantly, I handed over the bag and followed him into the building. "So who owns this place?" I asked.
"The club."
"Yeah, right," I said. "I bet we're not even supposed to be here."
"Being here is fine," he said. "Talking about it isn't."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I mean," he said, "that you're the first non-member who's been invited, so you need to keep your mouth shut."
"Well, since you asked so nicely."
"I'm serious," he said. "The guy who runs this place? He's a real asshole."
I gave him a look. "Uh-huh."
"It's not me, if that's what you're thinking."
Just before we reached the far wall, he shoved aside a wooden pallet, revealing a steel trap door. He leaned over and lifted it up, revealing a staircase leading to some sort of basement. He pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and pointed the beam downward.
"Ladies first," he said.
"I must be insane," I said as I took the first step downward.
Soon, I reached the last step, which emptied into a narrow room that had a thick-looking metal door that led to who-knows-where.
I gave him a sideways glance. "By any chance, are you Batman?"
"It depends. Are you a fan?"
I was, actually. "No comment," I said.
To the right of the door was an old electrical panel – or so I thought, until he swung the panel aside to reveal a modern keypad underneath. He hit a few numbers, and the door slid open, revealing a high-tech shooting range in the center, and several closed doors off to each side.
I stepped inside and took a good look around, thunderstruck by the difference between this place and the decay upstairs.
"Holy crap," I said. "So my brothers weren’t kidding." I whirled around to face him. "And how exactly do my brothers know about this?"
"They're members."
My gaze narrowed. "Just how many of these so-called members are there?"
"A few."
"And just how long have you been coming here?"
"A while."
He couldn’t be serious. In the past five years, I'd never seen him around, not one single time.
"So," he said, "where's your gun?"
I pointed to the book bag.
He dug into the bag and pulled out the box containing my little Ruger. He looked up. "It's still in the damn box?"
"Hey," I said, "I've shot it a few times. Remember?"
His jaw was tight. "That was five years ago."
No, it was a lifetime ago. He opened the box and pulled out the pistol. He inspected the chamber, and handed it over.
"You got any ammo?" he asked.
I winced "Sorry. You got any extra?"
Shaking his head, he strode to a metal cabinet and opened it up. I saw stacks of boxes emblazoned with familiar brand names. He pulled out a box and returned to my side. "Want me to load it?" he said.
I reached for the box. "Nah, I've got it."
He gave me a skeptical look.
I held out my hand, palm up. "I'll need the gun too."
With a sigh, he handed it over. "Well, this should be good."
Five minutes later, it was all over.
We removed our ear protection and studied the target. A dozen shots were clustered near dead-center of the human-shaped form. He gave a soft whistle. "You learned to shoot." He smiled. "Or, more likely, you were aiming for his privates."
I whirled around and shot again, sending a single bullet into the paper form. If it had been wearing pants, the zipper and anything underneath it, would've been long gone.
Bishop gave the target a long look. After a moment, he said, "Well, I guess that answers that question." He turned my way. "But it doesn't tell me where you learned to shoot."
"Some guy taught me way back," I said.
"I taught you," he said. "And you stunk."
I turned the gun over in my hands, surprised by how different it felt from the last time I'd used it. Funny what countless trips to the range could do. Next to me, Bishop was quiet.
I looked up.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
"Because my brothers made me."
"Except no one makes you do anything. Do they?"
"Oh stop it," I said. "I didn't know that you were the person they called."
"Avoiding me?"
"Like that's possible."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning every time I turn around, there you are."
"And every time I turn around, you're in some sort of trouble."
"Not every time," I said.
"I've got a question for you."
"What?"
His voice grew quiet. "Why'd you leave?"
"You know why."
"Alright. Let me rephrase it. Why'd you leave before we could talk?"
"Do we have to do this now?"
Suddenly, a phone shrilled. I jumped. We both looked at the phone, hanging next to the shooting gallery. It continued to ring.
I hadn't noticed the thing until it rang. "You have a phone here?" I said.
He shrugged.
It was still ringing. "Aren't you gonna get it?" I asked.
Bishop strode to the phone. He picked up the receiver and returned it to the cradle. When it rang again, he picked it up and hung up a second time. He waited a moment, and then took it off the hook.
"We will do this now," he said. "You're here. I'm here. There's nobody around to bother us. Now answer my question."
"Bishop–"
He stepped away from the wall and moved toward me, standing so close his energy crackled against mine. I stood my ground. He pressed forward. "Why didn't you wait? Even one fucking day. Was that so much to ask?"
"Well that's rich," I said. "Are you forgetting what you did?"
He dodged the question. His eyes met mine. "I never forgot you," he said, his voice trailing off. "I thought I could." He shrugged. "But it didn’t work out that way."
I stared at him, caught off guard. I opened my mouth. No words came out. I closed my mouth and looked away.
"Aren't you going to say something?" he asked.
I rubbed the back of my head. It was throbbing again. Other parts were feeling a little throbby too. I told those parts to be quiet. I slowly shook my head no, certain that whatever I said would be all wrong.
Chapter 53
"And then what happened?" Riley asked. I was in the Mustang, talking on the cell as I drove to my apartment. I hadn't mentioned the shooting range, but I did tell Riley about running into Bishop. Again.
"Noth
ing happened," I said. "I practically ran back to my car."
"I don't get you," Riley said. "Here, the love of your life comes calling, and what do you do? You run off."
"I had to." I couldn't bring myself to say why. One more minute, and I'd have fallen back into his arms regardless of how wrong he was for me. "Besides," I told her, "if Jim Bishop is the love of my life, I'm in big trouble."
"You're in big trouble already," Riley said. "What's a little more?"
"And then there's his family," I said. "They're all criminals."
"And then there's your family," she said.
"Hey, they're not criminals," I said. "They're just a little bendy with the law, that's all."
"Bendy?" she said. "Is that even a word?"
"I don't know," I said. "My point is, Bishop's a train wreck waiting to happen. My life's already a train wreck. If my train wreck meets his train wreck, know what we'll have?"
"Cute little train wrecks?"
I pulled up to the store. "Oh crap," I said. "Speaking of train-wrecks."
"What is it?"
"The freakin' dumpster company," I said. "You know how they're always putting the dumpster in the wrong spot?"
"Like when they blocked the front door?"
"Yeah," I said. "Well, this time, they squashed the dumpster right next to my apartment."
"Your apartment's on the second floor," she said. "You mean the dumpster's blocking the alley stairs?"
"No, but they wedged it right under the stairway landing." I looked more closely. "It must've taken a crowbar to squeeze the damn thing in there. Know what this means?"
"What?"
"To get into my apartment," I said, "I'll have to literally walk over a pile of garbage."
"Aren't your brothers blocking off that entrance?"
I refused to be comforted. "The lid’s open," I continued. "I've probably got garbage smell wafting up to my apartment right now."
"It's the middle of winter," Riley said. "I don't think frozen garbage can waft."
"Oh, it'll waft alright."
"You're just mad about Bishop," she said. "And you're taking it out on the dumpster."
"Sure, take the dumpster's side," I said. "When I come home reeking of garbage, you won't be so smug."
"I'll still be smug," she said. "And you won't reek of garbage. Mochas maybe. But not garbage."
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