Thorns on Roses

by Randy Rawls

  “Spare me. I need to make a living.”

  Tom walked into the night, a chuckle bubbling in his throat. It had been an evening to remember—or maybe to forget.

  SIX

  A black Ford Expedition crept into a parking space. The driver put the gearshift in park, but left the engine idling. He looked around, then pointed across the street at a 7-Eleven on the corner. “There it is. That’s our objective for tonight. Take your time and study it. Memorize the layout, the streets around it. Picture the sketches and the map I showed you and know how you’re going to get away if things go bad.”

  He waited as four heads craned to see through the windshield.

  “Like I told you. The place is deader than a graveyard at midnight. There’s only one clerk. He just came on duty and wishes he were anywhere else. That’s his old car parked over there.”

  He gave the others time to verify what he’d said. They peeked through the front window of the store, seeing only the worker the driver described. His boredom was evident as he counted bags of potato chips.

  “No screw-ups. Wear your ski masks. Make sure the first time you hit him is the last time he needs it. Put him out for the night. If you kill him, no loss, probably some illegal just off the boat. Cops won’t give a damn if he comes up dead. The secret to being a good soldier is following orders and being ready to do whatever it takes to accomplish the mission. Practice time is over. This one’s for real. Do it like we rehearsed.

  “Remember. From the time you get out of this car until you’re back in it, no names. You’re numbers. One, two, three, four. If you have to get someone’s attention, that’s what you use.

  “There’ll be video cameras recording your every move. We can’t afford the time to take them out, and there’s always the chance we’d miss one. So keep your heads covered with the ski masks and keep your mouths shut. Numbers if you need them. If the cops bring in a lip reader, they won’t get a thing.”

  The others listened like he was spouting the formula to eternal life, even though they’d heard it dozens of times before. Their admiration of him oozed from their faces.

  “Once we start, you’ll have two and a half minutes to be back in the car,” he continued. “I’m giving you an extra thirty seconds because it’s your first time. But, if you screw up in there or take too much time, be ready to exfiltrate on your own. I’ll be gone. My survival is more important than yours. You’re expendable. I can recruit new soldiers. You can’t recruit a new general. The Thorns on Roses doesn’t exist without me.”

  He looked into the eyes of his gang. Each reflected nervousness, but with an urge to please. “If you’re captured by the enemy, don’t tell them anything. We don’t play that Geneva Convention bullshit. You keep your mouths shut. Got it? If I have to bolt, we’ll meet at the designated place tomorrow night. Make sure you’re not followed.” He paused, examining them again. “Don’t let anyone see the gang symbol. We’re not ready to make our worldwide announcement yet.” He hesitated again. “You got anything to say?”

  The four shook their heads.

  “Last, if you turn on me, you die. Understand?”

  Each head bobbed in agreement.

  “One. Do you have the bat?”

  The thug he’d identified as One showed the club.

  “Good. Do it like we trained. Short swing. The temple is the best place to hit him, but if he ducks, take him high on the back of the neck. After he’s down, tape him good and shove him under the counter. That’ll put him where he can’t see if he wakes up and will hold him until the next shift comes in tomorrow morning. Of course, if he doesn’t regain consciousness, that’s even better. They’ll learn fast we’re not playing games. Questions?”

  Again, the four shook their heads.

  He checked his watch. “It’s time.” He put the SUV into gear and drove across the street, pulling parallel to the front door of the 7-Eleven. “Two and one-half minutes. Clock starts on three. Ready? One. Two. Three.”

  The four bolted from the SUV and rushed into the 7-Eleven, spreading out as they cleared the door, acting with military precision. One took out the clerk with a vicious swing of the bat as the others circled to make sure no one lurked out of sight. In two minutes, twenty-five seconds, they were out the door and into the SUV with the money from the cash register. The clerk lay on the floor behind the counter in a pool of blood, duct tape binding his hands and ankles and a wide strip over his mouth. He had not had time to sound the silent alarm.

  The SUV drove away at normal speed and merged into the light traffic along Coral Ridge Drive. Just another late night driver headed for home.

  SEVEN

  When Tom awoke the next morning, his brain was hard at work, planning the day. He fixed breakfast, took his time eating, then packed an overnight bag. Before ten, he was out the door.

  The previous evening, after leaving Hank’s Sports Bar and Grill, he had stopped by a motel and reserved a room for the next two nights. A quarter mile from that motel, he eased into a parking lot, got out, and locked his Sebring convertible. He walked past his accommodations to a Rent-A-Beater agency and picked up a four-year old Toyota Camry, the perfect car for what he had in mind. Then he drove to the motel.

  Once in the room, he laid out the wardrobe he brought with him. It was fine for people to remember his being at Publix, as long as the description was of someone other than the real Tom Jeffries. His first move was to change his conservatively cut blond hair. He rubbed in a rinse that turned it a mousy brown. The color wouldn’t hold long, but that was all for the better. A quick wash, or even a couple of damp wipes, and it would be gone. He took his time dressing in a gray gabardine suit, the jacket a size too big and the pants baggy and wrinkled. A red and blue vertically striped shirt with a gravy-stained yellow tie, brown socks, and black vinyl wingtip shoes completed the ensemble. His last item was a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. The transition lenses were pale yellow, just enough to disguise the color of his eyes. In outside light, they would darken to sunglasses. He checked himself in the mirror and smiled. Any description given by an eyewitness would not lead the police to his front door.

  * * * *

  As Tom dressed in his motel room, Jim Richards spoke to his partner, Detective Phil Summers. “Charles Rogers, the father of the kid we found, is due in at eleven. He asked that we not visit his house because of his wife. She’s under a doctor’s care, and he thinks having us around might drive her over the edge. I don’t like it, but I don’t have much choice. I’d prefer to talk to her now, but we can’t afford some ACLU jerk claiming we caused her more pain and suffering.”

  “Do you have a plan for Rogers?” Summers asked.

  “Only to dig out any suspects he might have. I’d like to get a step-by-step of his daughter’s activities for the week leading up to her disappearance. The usual—where she went, who she saw, phone calls…anything that might give us a place to start. And, of course, how long she had that rose tattoo.”

  “Think it’s the Thorns on Roses gang?”

  “Gut says yes. I mean, what else could the rose represent? But it’s the first time I’ve seen it, so I don’t know. I put out the description to the neighboring jurisdictions to see if anyone recognizes it. With a bit of luck, someone will.”

  “What about tattoo parlors? Are we checking them?”

  “Starting today,” Richards said. “The uniforms are instructed to show the picture of the vic and the rose to every tattoo artist on their beats. Maybe we’ll get a quick break and find that link.”

  “Yeah, and maybe the tooth fairy will make up for lost time tonight. She’s missed a whole bridge worth.”

  Richards doodled on a legal pad, but his mind was far away. He had a daughter, younger than the Smithson girl, but she’d be there soon. She was in middle school now. He wanted the killers off the street before they could strike again. While he knew others would replace them, he could at least have the satisfaction of seeing this group go down. And maybe, if he dropped e
nough of them, his daughter might survive to womanhood. As long as he wore the badge, his number one priority would be the scum that preyed on young girls.

  “Jim,” Summers said, jerking Richards back to the present. “What’s with you and Jeffries? When I stuck my head in yesterday, if I had hair, it would have stood straight up. It was that charged in here. I don’t get it. We work with PIs all the time. They may not be my favorites, but they’re better than the guttersnipes we hunt.”

  “Can’t really say. There’s just something about him that screams trouble. Did you find out anything else?”

  “No, not yet. I queried a couple of guys I know in Dallas. Maybe they’ll fill some holes.”

  “Make it official. Ask for his personnel file, including any other paper they have on him.”

  Summers studied Richards. “Don’t let it get personal, boss.”

  * * * *

  Abby drove down Jeffries’ street, attempting to be invisible, while squinting toward his driveway. No car. Was it in the garage? Or…

  She didn’t want to think it. She slapped the steering wheel. How the hell had she managed to gash her tire? It must have happened on the way home from Hank’s, then gone flat during the night. Whatever, it sabotaged her plan to be parked on his street by seven. Now it was nine, and she had no clue if Jeffries was home.

  She passed his house, went a couple of intersections, then turned back. Nothing to do but park and wait. If he had left already, she could finish her latest Ace Edwards mystery. If he hadn’t, she’d be on him like spaghetti sauce on a white blouse when he came out.

  Abby pulled to the curb three houses up, lowered the windows, and killed the engine. Time to be as patient as she’d been on escape and evasion exercises in the Army. She smiled, remembering the cadre accusing her of cheating because they never caught her. Then a memory flash of exploding and burning trucks appeared, and she shuddered. Nothing Jeffries threw at her could match the convoys through Baghdad. Nothing anyone did would equal what she’d already been through.

  * * * *

  Jeffries took a last look in the motel mirror and laughed. “Hell, Mom wouldn’t recognize me in this get-up.” He checked his watch. “Need to kill a few more minutes. Can’t arrive too early.”

  He flipped on the TV to a local channel and caught a typically cute, typically young, typically blond, female talking-head reading the news.

  “The police are asking anyone who knows anything about the teenage girl found in the trunk of an abandoned car two days ago to contact them.” She went on to give a description of the deceased and a police contact number.

  “Interesting,” Jeffries said. “They’re playing it close to the chest. Not releasing the ID yet. Wonder why.” He watched a while longer, learning nothing of value. “Time to go. Johnny, here I come.”

  Thirty minutes later, he cruised the employee parking area of Publix, hoping without much hope that Johnny had a vanity license plate with his name on it. Nope. No such luck. He drove around front and parked. “Mr. Crayson, you better hope I find you innocent.”

  He eased himself out of the car, pulling a cane after him. Putting on an act, he limped his way into the market, the cane tapping the concrete. “Ex-excuse me, miss.” He spoke slowly with a slight stutter, to the young woman working the customer service counter. “Does Mr….uh, J-johnny Crayson work here?”

  “Crayson? We have a Johnny Grayson in cold foods. Is that who you mean?”

  Tom made a show of studying the clipboard he carried. “Y-yes, it could be a G for…Grayson. Sorry. His writing is not like they taught when I was a kid.” He shifted his weight on the cane. “Is he working today?”

  “Just a minute. I’ll check.” She walked to a back counter, keyed the computer, waited, then returned to Tom. “No, he’s not here now.”

  Tom frowned and squinted at his clipboard. “I-I hate to ask, but can you give me his address? I just can’t read what he wrote here.”

  “I don’t think I should.”

  “Is there anyone here who can hel-help me?” Tom said. “It’s important I find him.”

  She frowned, then chewed on her lower lip. “Just a minute. I’ll get Ms. Schmitz, my supervisor.”

  “Thank you…” Tom made a show of squinting at her nametag. “Tiffany. That’s very nice of you.”

  While he waited, he played the part of the impatient, bored customer, pacing, while leaning on his cane, reading the Florida Lottery information, and, mostly, people-watching. No one appeared to show any interest in him.

  “What is it, Tiffany?” an attractive middle-aged woman said, walking to the counter from the direction of the rear of the store.

  “Ms. Schmitz. This gentleman wants Johnny Grayson’s home address. I didn’t know whether to give—”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Tom said. “It’s my f-f-fault.” He fished in his right jacket pocket, then shifted his cane, and searched his left, fumbling with expertise. He came up with a business card and handed it to the supervisor. “My name is Homer Livendorf. I’m an adjuster for Georgia P-P-Peach Insurance Group based in Orlando. My company sent me to deliver a check to Mr. Grayson.”

  “Really?” Ms. Schmitz said in a suspicious tone. “Why don’t you go to his home?”

  Tom cranked his stammering up a notch. “C-c-can’t r-r-read his handwriting.” He smiled, then shrugged. “C-c-can you help me?”

  Ms. Schmitz studied him, the corners of her mouth turned down. Tom held her gaze, a helpless look on his face. After a moment, she said, “Come with me. I’ll see what I have.”

  Thirty minutes later, Tom limped out of Publix with everything he needed—Johnny’s home address, phone numbers, and most helpful, his work schedule. This week he was on the swing shift—four to twelve. Added to that was the coup de grâce, a picture of Johnny. Perfect for what he had in mind. When Johnny got off work tonight, he’d have a surprise waiting for him.

  * * * *

  Abby’s eyes jumped open, a familiar sound penetrating her consciousness. She blinked several times, shaking her head, trying to remember where she was and why. Jeffries, she thought. I’m watching his place. How’d I fall asleep? God, I’m soaked in sweat. And I gotta go.

  The temperature outside stood at ninety-five degrees and was much higher in the car, which sat in bright sunlight. Her blouse clung to her, and perspiration ran from her hairline into her eyes. Her butt seemed immersed in a pool of hot water on the leather seat.

  She reached to start the car so she could turn on the air conditioning when the noise sounded again—her cell phone playing the cute ditty she’d downloaded from the Internet. She fumbled in her purse, found it, and flipped the case open. “Hello.”

  “You may as well come inside. It can’t be comfortable sitting in your car in the hot sun.”

  Turning the ignition key, she said, “Who is this? And how do—” She took a deep breath. “Is this Tom Jeffries?” She cranked the air conditioner fan to high.

  “Who else cares about your welfare? You’ll get heatstroke. If you want to know what I’m doing, you’re welcome to come into the house where we can talk in comfort. It’s about seventy-four degrees in here. I’m making lunch. Have you eaten yet?”

  “No,” Abby said in a small voice, ashamed she’d allowed him to catch her, yet yearning for the coolness he described. She squirmed. “Can I use your bathroom?”

  Tom’s guffaw filled her ear. “Sure. I’ll even put on a fresh roll of paper. Surveillance isn’t like on TV, is it? What kind of omelet do you like? No, scratch that. We’re going Mexican—jalapenos and cheddar cheese with salsa on the side. I’ll throw some extra bacon in the microwave. One slice of toast or two?”

  “Two,” Abby said through her chagrin and closed the phone, realizing she was hungry. She raised the car windows and pulled out of her parking space, headed for Tom’s driveway.

  A moment later, he opened the door, a smug look on his face. “I guess you meant it last night when you said I’d see you again. But I hoped yo
u’d look better. You’re a mess. Who does your hair? Mama Celeste?”

  “Oh, shut up and tell me where the bathroom is. I’m embarrassed enough without wetting myself.” She danced from one foot to the other, keeping her knees pressed together.

  “Down the hall on the left.” Tom smirked. “Don’t take too long. Omelets will be ready a few minutes.” As she hurried away, he added, “From the looks of your backside, you may be too late. Don’t forget to wash your hands.” His laughter followed her into the bathroom.

  * * * *

  Tom stood at the stove, watching the omelet cook when Abby walked into the kitchen. He nodded toward a glass of ice water sitting on the counter. “Thought you’d want that.”

  She frowned, but picked it up and drank deeply, refusing to meet his gaze. Then she walked to the refrigerator, refilled the glass, and sipped.

  Tom watched her, a smile crinkling his cheeks. “Surveillance rule number one. On a hot day, make sure you have lots of water and a couple of empty bottles. Of course, I don’t know if the empties would work for you. Jars might be better.”

  Abby cut him a look. “You’re gross.” She finished the water and set the glass on the counter.

  “Maybe. But you’ll learn I’m right if you keep following me around. Or you won’t survive.” He took the pan from the burner. “Soup’s on. Set the table. Silverware’s in that drawer.” He divided the large omelet, then slid the two halves onto separate plates and arranged bacon slices around the eggs. Toast was four deep on a paper towel that he shifted to the table. “If you want coffee, cups are in that cabinet. Now sit and eat while it’s hot.”

  She followed his instructions. With the first bite swallowed, she said, “Where were you this morning?”

  “Not while I’m eating. You’re facing a culinary delight. I’m a master omelet maker. We can talk later.”