Angel With a Bullet

by M. C. Grant

  “The police didn’t know it was stolen until after they took possession,” I press. “Why didn’t you report it?”

  Kingston pushes away from the table and walks to the window. He stands with his back to me, not bothering to hide his impatience.

  “I can’t keep track of everything,” he says. “I own a lot of paintings.”

  “When did you notice it missing?”

  “I didn’t. A friend called.”

  “Chief McInty?” A guess.

  “I don’t recall.”

  “Do you know the police chief?”

  “I know everyone who is important to know.”

  “Where was the painting stolen from?”

  A blue vein pulses in his neck. “The warehouse probably.”

  “Probably?”

  Kingston spins, his face flushed. “Look,” he huffs. “I invite you into my home, break bread and share wine, and all you can do is fire unintelligent questions like a … a … dung beetle.”

  “I explained on the phone why I wanted to meet.”

  “Yes, to ask about Adamsky. As his agent, one of my duties is to meet with the press no matter how lowly. But all you’ve done is blab on about Chino, some second-rate artist—”

  “Whose final painting you rushed out to buy and unveil to me,” I interrupt. “They’re connected.”

  He snorts. “How? Chino was a thief; Adamsky is an artist. Where’s your connection?”

  “Diego didn’t need to steal.”

  “Oh. Friend of yours, was he? Lover, perhaps?”

  I stumble, caught off guard by the change of direction. “He—”

  “Let me tell you something before I have you thrown out,” Kingston snaps. “Chino was a good-for-nothing, backwater Indian with a history of trouble, but I gave him a job that paid his rent and afforded him time to work on his art after his fifteen minutes were up. He rewarded my generosity by stealing from me. The man was worth nothing, but thanks to his dramatic exit, at least his death should be profitable. I like to profit.”

  “You’re all heart,” I say.

  “Get out now, Miss Flynn, while you still can.”

  “I still have questions.”

  “You should have thought of that earlier.” Kingston’s voice has returned to an icy calm. It worries me more than his rage.

  Twenty-eight

  Back in the Bug, I slam my good hand against the steering wheel and curse. I did that all wrong. Kingston is obviously a chauvinist who likes his women meek and accommodating. I should have used my feminine wiles to flirt with the jerk instead of coming across like … well, like myself. Some bats of the eyelashes and a padded push-up bra and I might even have lasted long enough to try the steak I ordered.

  Then again, I wasn’t naive enough to believe he hadn’t planned the whole damn thing—especially the unveiling of the painting.

  That was a nice touch.

  To calm myself, I take a deep breath, hold it until my bruises ache, and release it slowly through my nose. It doesn’t work, so I put the car in gear, stuff the Police’s reunion tour CD into the deck, and try to burn a little rubber on the annoyingly pristine white road.

  The Bug squeaks more than roars, and instead of rubber we may have left a dribble of oil, but what the hell. It’s the thought that counts.

  Two hours later, I’m crossing the bridge back to the city and singing “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic” for the fourth time at the top of my lungs. I’m feeling relaxed and hungry. I only managed to eat a couple of prawns at Kingston’s, and I hadn’t been smart enough to grab a handful before I left. The thought of take-out from Pegasus brings a grin to my face.

  I press down on the accelerator, but no sooner does the Bug begin to respond when flashing red and blue lights fill my rearview mirror.

  With a resigned groan, I finish crossing the bridge and pull off to the side of the road. The cruiser pulls in behind with two blank-faced officers, eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses.

  Using the rearview mirror, I watch as the driver radios in my license plate. I take the opportunity to slip Lily, my pearl-handled switchblade, out of my boot. Just in case I end up being searched, I toss it under the seat. Cops tend to have a bad reaction to concealed weapons.

  After a minute, the driver nods to his partner and steps out. To my surprise, he’s drawn his handgun. Just as that gun is registering, I am doubly shocked to see his partner pull the shotgun from its cradle between the front seats and crouch behind his open door. He aims the shotgun directly at the back of my don’t-give-a-damn haircut, which instantly makes me give a damn.

  “Is there a problem, officer?” I call nervously, being careful not to move.

  “Keep your hands on the steering wheel,” the driver shouts back.

  “No problem.”

  I stay perfectly still until I feel the hard muzzle of a Glock automatic pressing into my left ear. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I steal a glance toward the passenger door to see the other officer approaching, his shotgun still aimed at my head. From this distance, and without a roof or rear window to deflect any of the shot, he can rip me in half.

  “Search the trunk, Cort,” the driver says.

  His partner moves to the rear of the Bug.

  “That’s not—” I try, but am silenced as the gun’s muzzle digs deeper into my ear.

  “What you got?” the driver calls.

  “Uh, nothing, Harley,” Cort replies. “Looks like the engine’s back here.”

  “That’s what—”

  Harley hisses menacingly. “Best you shut it.”

  Good advice.

  Cort moves to the front and opens the hood.

  “It’s here,” Cort calls out as he removes a brown paper bag from the Bug’s interior.

  “Care to explain?” Harley asks.

  “What’s to explain?” I ask. “You found somebody’s old lunch bag?”

  “Show her.”

  Cort reaches into the bag and pulls out a small black chalk sketch in a hermetically sealed glass frame. I have recently seen one exactly like it on the mantel of an unused fireplace in Sir Roger Kingston’s whitewashed castle.

  “Well, well.” Harley pushes the gun deeper into my aching ear. “I suppose you have a receipt for that?”

  Fuck.

  “Honestly, I don’t know how it got there.”

  Harley laughs. “You wouldn’t believe how often we hear that line.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “That one too.”

  Twenty-nine

  As we pull up outside Northern Station, I notice the painter is busy again with his bucket of gray, repairing another midnight graffiti attack. The symbol of choice seems to be Nazi swastikas, but whether that is a comment on the occupants or the taggers, I can’t speculate.

  I wait in the back of the cruiser, my hands cuffed in front since I’m too girly for the big men in uniform to be overly concerned for their safety, and wonder what Kingston is playing at.

  Harley and Cort have been no help at all. I told them I was hungry and would treat them to drive-thru burgers, but either they’d already eaten or just didn’t care to share a meal with me.

  The rear door is finally opened. I’m pulled out by my elbows and escorted inside the station to stand before the bored countenance of Sergeant Woods. Harley and Cort stand on either side of me like bird dogs waiting to have their ears scratched.

  “He owes me ten dollars,” I inform my escorts.

  “Put her in a cell,” Woods barks, barely glancing up from his computer.

  “Don’t I get a phone call?” I protest as my arresting officers drag me toward the elevator.

  “Didn’t you have one already?” Harley asks.

  “How could I�
�”

  “Yeah, I’m sure she did,” pipes up Cort.

  “Listen—”

  “Cheeky bitch called a 900 number,” Harley adds.

  “Yeah,” Cort sniggers, “it was a lesbo sex line too.”

  I decide to shut up. Eventually, they’ll have to give me access to a lawyer, I hope. Although ever since former President George Bush Jr. broke out the Patriot Act, you can’t rely on a lot of things you think you know from TV anymore, no matter your race, religion, or sex.

  The main holding cells are in the basement. Most are empty, but a few are filled with the regulars. One cell holds the drunks, the stink of urine wafting in a haze around their soiled bunks. Another cell holds two men waiting for transport to either jail or court, the surly looks on their faces making it difficult to tell which. At the end of the row, three cells are reserved for the sex workers. One for boys, one for women, and one for those the cops aren’t too sure about.

  Harley and Cort drag me to the end of the row.

  “Which cell you want?” Harley asks. “Whores, fags, or freaks?”

  “Any place is better than out here with you.”

  “Open three.”

  Cort unlocks the cell where a group of three transvestites stare at me with bored expressions through a blue haze of cigarette smoke.

  Harley removes the cuffs and shoves me through the door. When the cell is locked behind me, Harley leans close to the bars.

  “You should ask these fellas if they like art,” he says with a laugh. “Give you something to chat about while you rot.”

  I raise the middle finger of my good hand and turn away before he can see the false bravado fade from my eyes.

  _____

  “They do that to your hand, sweetie?” asks a muscular black man who introduces himself as Dorothy.

  “Trouble earlier,” I explain.

  Unlike the other two, Dorothy doesn’t appear to identify as a woman. The sprinkle of coarse dander on his chiseled chest says he isn’t on hormone pills, his close-cropped scalp is cut to a smooth carpet, and the Kama Sutra–inspired tattoos on his impressive biceps are enough to make a longshoreman blush.

  The only giveaway of his feminine side is the purple dress with matching shoes and a pair of shaved, silky smooth legs to show them off.

  “Wouldn’t have surprised me,” Dorothy says. “They smashed my hand in a desk drawer once. Broke four nails. They was natural too. Had to switch to fake after that.”

  He shows me his long nails, painted to match his dress, but with white French tips. Both thumbs have the added touch of tiny Swarovski crystals in the shape of a flower.

  “You a regular, then?” I ask with a smile.

  Dorothy grins back. “Used to be more often before the chief took a fancy. Now they mostly leave me alone unless Chiefy wants a little play time.”

  “Chief McInty?” I ask.

  All three women nod.

  “You see that desk he has?” Dorothy asks.

  “On the raised platform.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, he likes me to climb on top and—”

  I hold up my hand. “I don’t need the details.”

  Dorothy laughs. “Life is in the details, honey.”

  “Then maybe we can arrange to get some photos one day,” I say. “Give you a little leverage.”

  “And you a hell of a story,” Dorothy says smugly.

  I’m surprised. “You know who I am?”

  “Hell, Ms. Dixie Flynn of the San Francisco NOW.” Dorothy flashes a beautiful set of white teeth. “I’m your biggest fan.”

  _____

  When Frank arrives, I’m hunkered on a steel-frame bunk, listening intently to my three companions share their life stories and the daily struggle they still face. I thought growing up as a woman was tough, but it’s nothing compared to growing up knowing you’re a woman and yet trapped in a man’s body.

  “You play nice?” Frank asks gruffly as he steps up to the bars.

  “It’s been refreshing,” I say, crossing to meet him. “I don’t think I’ll take the simple fact of sitting down to pee for granted anymore.”

  My cellmates smile at that.

  “You don’t look great,” Frank says. “Show me your hand.”

  I hold up my hand. The bandages are completely soaked through with blood.

  “I’ve made you an appointment at the hospital,” Frank continues. “No arguments.”

  “Ooh, la, la,” Dorothy mocks from the bunk. “Who’s your gorgeous sugar daddy, honey?”

  I grin.

  Frank doesn’t.

  A uniformed officer arrives and unlocks the cage.

  Frank takes my arm.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he says.

  I oblige.

  _____

  The walk to freedom is a short one. Chief Caleb McInty stops us at the top of the stairs with hands on hips and a meaty face flushed with anger.

  “What are you doing with that prisoner, sergeant?” McInty bellows.

  “She made bail, sir,” Frank replies in a calm and courteous voice. “I’m making sure she doesn’t cause more trouble on the way out.”

  “You have no authority at this station, sergeant.”

  I notice that McInty likes to emphasize Frank’s rank, while dismissing the detective side of things.

  “I’m not on the clock, sir.”

  A sharp-faced Asian gentleman in a $2,000 silk suit walks up behind McInty and flashes Frank and me a brilliant Tom Cruise smile.

  “Detective Sergeant Fury is looking out for your department’s best interests, Chief,” the man says.

  McInty turns and his face instantly loses some of its angry hue.

  “What do you mean, Mr. Yee?” he asks.

  I glance at Frank, confused.

  “That’s your lawyer, kid,” Frank whispers. “Quinlan Yee. He’s won more lawsuits against corporations and police departments than anyone in the state. His opponents call him the Sunset Kid: When he shows up, your days in the sun are over.”

  Yee smiles graciously and hands McInty a neatly typed affidavit.

  As McInty reads it, the blood drains from his face.

  “As you can see,” Yee says calmly, “your department refuses to divulge the identity of its source in this matter, which means your officers had no right to pull over my client, nor to search her vehicle.”

  McInty flushes. “What about the stolen painting?”

  Yee smiles again. “My client claims the painting was planted by one of your officers. And due to the brutality of her arrest, which will require her to be immediately rushed to a waiting surgeon, not to mention the denial of her right to contact a lawyer, it would be in your best interest to make sure all charges are dropped post-haste. If you choose to persist, the lawsuit my client is prepared to file, along with the corresponding media coverage, will result in a public outcry for the resignation of whomever was responsible for allowing such an abuse of authority to take place.”

  “Are you threatening me, Mr. Yee?” The tops of McInty’s ears blaze red.

  “Of course not,” Yee replies, the smile still on his face. “My client is.”

  I look at Frank, dumbfounded.

  He whispers, “Woods called after you were brought in to say he’s keeping your ten spot. He intimated I should bring Yee along for company.”

  Son of a bitch. I misjudged the desk sergeant.

  The lawyer and the chief face each other in silence until McInty finally puffs out his cheeks and walks away.

  Yee looks over and winks. “What are you waiting for? Go to the hospital and then get some rest.”

  “That’s it?” I ask, still having a difficult time believing my change of luck. “They’ll drop the charg
es?”

  Yee nods.

  “You’re good,” I say.

  Yee grins wider and hands me a card. “Tell your friends,” he says. “I love pissing off McInty.”

  “In that case,” I say slyly, “you should talk to my new friend Dorothy in the holding cells. She has an interesting story to tell.”

  Thirty

  Frank pulls into a McDonald’s drive-thru, buys a Big Mac value meal, and watches in wonder as I greedily wolf it down. The hospital surgeon used a local anesthetic, so I was kicked to the curb immediately after he re-stitched and re-bandaged my hand.

  The funky digital scans didn’t show any nerve damage and the surgeon praised Ruth’s tight, neat stitching—which I obviously didn’t appreciate since I ripped half of them out. I told him I would be sure to pass along the compliment since Ruth’s usual clients were very close-mouthed and a bit stiff about showing their appreciation.

  The surgeon was cute, which made me think of Declan, but when he didn’t laugh at my joke and wrote a prescription for Tylenol 3s rather than Percocet, he dropped to one-night-only status. If Declan doesn’t call soon, he is quickly heading in the same direction.

  When Frank parks, it’s on a quiet street in front of a picturesque turn-of-the-century house, painted lemon yellow with white and lilac accents. A stone pathway leads from the front gate to wind between flowerbeds before reaching a roomy front porch.

  “Is this your house?” I ask.

  Frank nods and walks around to my side of the car to help me climb out. We follow the path onto the porch.

  “I never pictured your place like this.”

  It’s strange; in all the time I’ve known him, Frank never once invited me here.

  “Where did you think I lived? An army cot in the file room at the station?”

  “Yeah, that sounds more your style.”

  Frank’s mouth twitches. “It probably is.”

  Inside, the house is clean and perfect. Frank shows me into a cozy living room filled with antiques and paisley-patterned furniture. Sunlight streams in through a bay window to bounce off the polished brass of an old gas fireplace. Sitting on the mantel is a lone photograph in an ornate frame.