Kill Her Again

by Robert Gregory Browne

Earlier in the year, the “Little Ben” kidnapping case (as the reporters had dubbed it) had dominated the media for weeks. When Troy wasn’t cruising the Internet or downstairs playing poker, his attention was fixed on the 60-inch plasma in his game room, where news of the snatch, the murder, and the subsequent trial played endlessly.

  If you were good with a remote and timed it just right, you’d get wall-to-wall coverage. The police, the pundits, the overly serious talk show hosts, all dining on the Pope family corpse.

  Sharkey, like most in law enforcement, assumed the kid was dead long before they found him. And after watching a clip of the mother begging for the big bad Mexican carjacker to bring her son back, Sharkey was convinced that she was the perp. She was as nutty as a fucking fruitcake. A woman who had seen some bad times in her life and had never quite recovered.

  But that wasn’t his concern at the time. He was smack in the middle of an investigation that had required him to give up his own life as he’d known it. A mole hunt that was so sensitive and so far off the radar that nobody but his handler knew what he was up to.

  So when Pope first appeared in that VIP poker room, Sharkey had been curious about him for about three seconds. Troy, however, had decided to adopt the poor sonofabitch and, after months of loaning him money and watching him lose it, had cut a deal with him to repay his debt by launching that ridiculous hypnosis show.

  “We need a headliner,” Troy had said. “And Ricky and His Red-Hot Horns aren’t cutting it anymore.”

  “I’m not a performer,” Pope had told him.

  Troy responded with a statement that made it clear that he wasn’t about to take no for an answer. “Then I guess you’d better learn.”

  Within a month, Ricky and the Horns were history. Sharkey had to admit that, despite Pope’s reluctance, he handled himself pretty good onstage. As ridiculous as it was-drunken morons jumping around like they were possessed by bigger, louder, drunker morons-the show managed to bring in a good-sized crowd and nearly doubled casino traffic, thus solidifying Troy’s belief that he was some kind of genius.

  But like anything Troy involved himself in outside of his criminal pursuits, his big-screen TV, and his computer, his enchantment with the show, and with Pope himself, began to fade as the novelty wore off and the crowds grew thinner.

  And that was when Troy’s paranoia set in. In the past few weeks he’d become more and more concerned about allowing Pope into the inner circle, and Sharkey knew it was only a matter of time before the order came down to have him disappeared.

  Pope didn’t help things much by being such a smart-ass.

  And because Sharkey had let him go, his own investigation could well be compromised. But he’d had no choice. Pope wasn’t a mobster; he wasn’t a crook of any kind. And Sharkey would be damned if he’d let an innocent man get snuffed on his watch.

  But after Troy got that phone call from Pope, and the extended silence of the twin defenders, Sharkey knew that Troy was about to go into burn-and-purge mode. Which meant that any chance of uncovering the mole in Sharkey’s department just went from difficult to nearly impossible.

  It took twenty minutes for his handler, a veteran cop named Billingsly, to return his call. Before his promotion to captain, Billingsly had been Sharkey’s squad commander. He had approached Sharkey about the undercover assignment after an informant had told him of a possible connection between Troy’s syndicate and the LVMPD.

  There were a few others in the loop-some high-ranking officials from the mayor’s office-but because of the sensitivity of the operation, Billingsly had kept Sharkey’s identity on a need-to-know basis. And as far as Billingsly was concerned, nobody needed to know.

  “We’ve got problems,” Sharkey said, then told him what was happening.

  Billingsly sounded unconcerned. “It may not matter. I think I’ve found our mole.”

  Sharkey almost choked on the Raisin Snail he was munching. “What?”

  “Most of those bank numbers you sent me were dummy accounts, but I finally connected with one. You wouldn’t believe how much money Troy’s been funneling into this guy’s pockets. He could buy his own private island, for chrissakes.”

  “Who’d you trace it to?”

  “He’s got a gold shield, I can tell you that much. We’ll get into it later. In the meantime, hold tight, and I’ll see if I can find out what’s going on in Ludlow. I’ll try to diffuse the situation before your colleagues decide to get talkative. We don’t need the feebs trying to nose in on this.”

  Sharkey smiled now. All that worry for nothing. “Un-fucking-believable,” he said. “Are you sure you’ve got the right guy?”

  “We’re this close to solid, O’Donnell. You’ve done a helluva job. It’s almost time for you to come home.”

  Yes, indeed, Sharkey thought. Yes, indeed.

  Arturo’s nose was broken.

  He was standing near the doors to Troy’s suite when Sharkey got off the elevator. The nose looked like a small, bruised eggplant and both of his eyes were black.

  “I still want to know how I wound up on that elevator floor,” he said.

  “I guess you’ll have to ask Pope.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “Don’t get your boxers in a bunch,” Sharkey told him. “What possible reason could I have for fucking you up?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m watching you, my friend.”

  “Oooh, you’re scaring the shit right outta me.” He deposited his shoes, then gestured for Arturo to open the doors, and Arturo did, ushering him inside. Sharkey could feel the guy’s gaze on him the entire time and had to admit that it didn’t feel good. He didn’t know how Troy had hooked up with Arturo, but there was no question he was an asset to the organization. If you needed someone killed, that is. Quickly and unimaginatively.

  Then there was The Ghost. Get a threat from that spooky bastard and Sharkey really would be shitting his pants. But The Ghost was nowhere in sight this afternoon, and that was just fine with Sharkey.

  “Nice of you to show up,” Troy said when Sharkey walked into the room. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Contrary to popular belief, I like to eat sometimes. I was grabbing some lunch.”

  “You don’t have time for food. You need to be concentrating on Pope. I’m holding you personally responsible for letting him get away.”

  “Me? What about the garden gnome?” Sharkey gestured to Arturo, who was lurking just inside the doorway. “He was there, too.”

  “Arturo has some concerns about you.”

  Oh, Christ, Sharkey thought. Arturo sharing his suspicions about what happened in the elevator was definitely not something to celebrate. Fortunately, Sharkey had grown accustomed to dealing with Troy’s paranoia.

  “Arturo’s embarrassed,” he said. “He let you down. Of course he’s going to try to find excuses for his fuckup.”

  “Have a seat,” Troy said.

  There was something about Troy’s tone that irritated Sharkey. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d wanted to pull out his piece and just shoot the motherfucker, get this assignment over with. But he’d always managed to restrain himself. And knowing that they were very close to closing the deal made it a helluva lot easier.

  So he sat in the most comfortable chair he could find and waited for the lecture.

  He didn’t have to wait long.

  “A man is only as good as the people around him,” Troy said. It was a sentiment he’d offered many times before, something he’d picked up from some corporate feel-good Web site no doubt, but Sharkey didn’t believe he meant a word of it. “And when I see breakdowns in efficiency like I saw today, it makes me wonder if we need a change.”

  That didn’t sound good.

  “If a trusted employee comes to me with concerns about someone’s loyalty, I think the best course of action to take is to confront the situation head-on.”

  He was really starting to sound like a corporate executive now, but the greasy hair and cut-of
f sweats countered the effect.

  “Confrontation’s always good,” Sharkey said.

  “I’m glad you think so. Because it’s come to my attention that you may not be who you pretend to be.”

  The Raisin Snail Sharkey had eaten earlier rolled over in his stomach. “Say what?”

  “I’ve been told we have a traitor in our organization. Would you know anything about that?”

  Sharkey felt panic coming on. This wasn’t part of the script and he hadn’t been expecting it. How could Troy possibly know about him?

  All he could do was play along.

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Where are you getting your information?”

  “Oh, from a very reliable source. A source that tells me that for the past couple of years, you’ve been funneling information about me and this organization straight to the Las Vegas Metro Police Department.”

  Holy shit, Sharkey thought. How was this possible?

  He tried to keep his cool. “If there’s a traitor in this organization, it sure as hell isn’t me.”

  “There’s no point in denying it,” Troy said. “I have living proof.” He gestured. “Isn’t that right, Detective Billingsly?”

  “I’m afraid so,” a voice said. Then to Sharkey’s utter surprise, Captain Brad Billingsly stepped out of the doorway to Troy’s game room.

  Sharkey was too shocked for words, but Billingsly had no trouble filling in the gap.

  “You see, O’Donnell, when I ferreted out our mole and I saw all the money in his bank account, I thought to myself, Why him and not me? I want my own private island, too.” He paused. “So I gave Mr. Troy here a call this morning and offered him an opportunity to clean house.”

  “And that’s exactly what I’m doing,” Troy said. “The Ghost’s already taken care of our man in the LVMPD. Now he’s off to Ludlow to handle the loose ends.”

  “As for you,” Billingsly told Sharkey. “It seems your assignment really has come to an end.”

  And that was when Arturo came up behind the chair, brought his blade down, and slit Ed “Sharkey” O’Donnell’s throat.

  “Vaya con Dios,” he said quietly.

  2 9

  They took Evan to the emergency room at Ludlow County General.

  Though conscious after the collapse, he was dehydrated and only semi-coherent, and they all agreed it would be best to put him under observation. Ronnie, who worked at the hospital as a staff nurse, called in to get the boy bumped to the head of the line.

  They drove in silence, suffering from a collective shell shock, unable or unwilling to talk about what they’d witnessed.

  Anna relished the quiet.

  When they arrived at the hospital, she decided to stay in the Suburban as Pope scooped Evan into his arms, then carried him in through the automatic doors, Worthington and Ronnie moving alongside them.

  She had a feeling this probably wasn’t the first time they’d lived this particular scenario.

  As they disappeared into the emergency room, Evan made eye contact and gave Anna a small, weak wave, breaking her heart into a thousand different pieces.

  She was reminded of a moment shortly before college, when her cat, Zed, was diagnosed with a kidney ailment. She’d taken him to the veterinary clinic to be put to sleep, and the last she saw of him was when he turned to look at her with those big sad eyes as the nurse carried him away.

  There was no reason to compare the two, but Anna couldn’t help herself. She had a sudden, vague sense that she might not be seeing Evan again, and she wasn’t sure why. His condition was not life-threatening. Bringing him here was only a precaution.

  Yet the feeling persisted. Resonated.

  You’re tired, she told herself. That’s all. Tired and weak.

  Pope had suggested she see the doctor as well, but she’d refused.

  “I’ll be fine,” she’d said, although “fine” was a relative term, wasn’t it?

  The real reason she’d wanted to wait in the car was because she needed to be alone. To think. To wrap her head around what had happened.

  There was no doubt now that Pope had been right. Jillian Carpenter was very much a part of her past, and the details of that past no longer came to her in fleeting images. The last moments of Jillian’s life were now a vivid part of Anna’s consciousness.

  She remembered everything.

  The terror. The loss of power. The pain.

  And amidst it all was the sound of her mother’s voice. Calling to her. Singing that sad, familiar song.

  To finally come out of her trance and find Evan beside her, holding her hand, had been a shock, to say the least. But she had felt the connection. Knew that her mother had somehow used this boy as a vessel to contact her. To help her. And without that help, without her mother’s call, Anna was certain she would have died right there along with Jillian Carpenter. Just as she would have died on that football field if Evan hadn’t warned Pope.

  All of which meant only one thing to Anna. And that one thing-despite all the blood and the horror she’d seen of late, despite being so drained of energy that she could barely move-filled her with an almost indescribable feeling of joy. Of hope.

  Her mother was watching over her.

  Worthington was the first to return.

  “Ronnie’s beside herself,” he sighed, as he climbed behind the wheel. “Thinks this is all her fault.”

  “ Her fault? Why?”

  “She thinks she should have kept better watch over Evan. She got up to use the bathroom, and when she came back he was gone. Says if she hadn’t left…”

  “I might be dead,” Anna said. “And she had no more control over what happened than Evan did.”

  Worthington nodded. “That’s what I told her, but she’s a sensitive woman. Seeing this kid go through so much is tough for her. Stirs up a lot of bad memories.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Truth is, she still blames herself for what happened to Ben.”

  Anna was surprised. “Why?”

  “She’s a nurse,” Worthington said. “She thinks she should have seen the signs of Susan’s illness. God knows Susan and Ben were at the house enough in those last few weeks.”

  “I won’t pretend to know all the details, but Ronnie’s no more to blame for that than you are. Or Pope.”

  “Hopefully she’ll see that one day.”

  He paused, lost in a memory, and Anna knew that he was deeply in love with his wife. He was a good man. And despite the toughness of his exterior, he was as sensitive as Ronnie was.

  After a moment, he said, “I think I owe you an apology.”

  “For what?”

  “While you were under, I said some pretty crappy things. Practically accused you of being a scam artist.”

  “Relax,” Anna said. “I was too far gone to hear you. And if I were on your end, I’d probably think the same thing.”

  Worthington seemed to struggle with a thought, then said, “I’ve never admitted this to anyone, but I’m not as much of a hard-core realist as I pretend to be. That story I told you about the cats? I was as scared as the rest of those guys. Maybe more.”

  “I think I already knew that.”

  His eyebrows raised. “Oh? How?”

  “Based on what you told me back at the Fairweather house. That when you work a crime scene long enough, the victims start to talk to you. A hard-core realist wouldn’t even think to say something like that.”

  He smiled. “Looks like I’m busted.”

  She shrugged. “I’m a trained investigator.”

  “I used to think I was, too, until I saw what happened between you and Evan. There’s no training on earth that can prepare you for something like that. I could chalk it up to a couple of nutcases feeding off each other, but I know that isn’t true.”

  Now Anna smiled. “Welcome to the dark side.”

  Worthington held a hand up in protest. “I’m not quite there yet. Just dipping my toes in. But do me a favor and don’t tell
Pope. I hate it when he gloats.”

  “Your secret is safe,” Anna said.

  “Good. Because what I’m about to tell him is gonna knock him sideways.”

  Her smile disappeared. “What do you mean?”

  His gaze shifted and he nodded toward the hospital. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  She turned and saw Pope exiting through the automatic doors, looking a bit glazed, undoubtedly another victim of the blame game.

  He came up to the open passenger window. “Ronnie’s sticking around for a while. I’m thinking maybe I should, too.”

  “Can’t do that, Cuz. We’ve got someplace to be.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Something I found out before all the craziness started. Climb in and I’ll tell you on the way.”

  “What about Evan?”

  “Ronnie’ll do what needs to be done. Now, come on, get in.”

  Pope reluctantly opened the door and climbed in, pulling the seat belt across his chest. He turned, looking at Anna.

  “You feeling okay?”

  “I’ve been better,” she said, which was probably the under-statement of the last few centuries.

  “I don’t know what happened today, but you scared the shit out of me.”

  “Out of all of us,” Worthington said.

  Anna grinned. “Glad to be of service.”

  They were on the I-15, headed toward the state line, when Pope said to Worthington, “You wanna tell me what you’re up to?”

  Even with the air conditioner on, the late-afternoon heat was oppressive, and Anna was slumped in back, struggling to stay awake. A month in a feather bed would be bliss, she thought. With a nice ocean breeze and an unlimited supply of ice-cold tea.

  Worthington glanced at Pope. “You look a little nervous, Cuz.”

  “That’s because you’re headed in exactly the opposite direction that I want to be traveling right now.”

  “Don’t worry, this doesn’t have a thing to do with those two goons we’ve got locked up. I couldn’t care less about them at the moment.”

  “Then where are we going?”

  “To see Susan.”