by Randy Rawls
“Shut up, you wuss. Tell me about the first two.” Charlie took another stitch.
“Not much to tell. I fed them to the alligators, perfect DNA consumption machines.”
“Dead or alive?”
“Alive. If they hadn’t been, they couldn’t have eaten the bodies.”
“Dammit, Tom, don’t be obtuse.” He jabbed, bringing an extra pucker to Tom’s face. “Were the men alive when you pushed them in the swamp?”
Tom grinned through a grimace. “Dead. I gave them a merciful execution—more than they did for Mary Lou.”
Charlie stayed quiet while he concentrated on stitching Tom’s wound. Pushing the needle through, he said, “So, what are you going to do now? How long do you think it’ll take the cops to connect you to this Walker guy?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t leave anything obvious—except my blood. All I can hope is it mingled with Izzy’s and won’t be noted. But the CSI teams are good these days, so…” He gestured with his good hand. “It means I’ll have to speed up my timetable and be ready for the worst.”
Charlie tied off the last stitch. “Why are you doing this, Tom? You’ve set yourself up as prosecutor, judge, jury, and executioner. Do you really think you’re omnipotent?”
Tom rubbed his good hand across his eyes. “I can’t answer that. I only know you can’t trust the system. I learned the hard way. If I’d gone to the police with what I know, these scumbags would walk free. Either a judge would throw it out on a technicality, or a smooth-talking defense attorney would convince the jury, or… Who knows how it would happen? And even if they were convicted and sentenced to death, there’d be appeals for the next twenty-five years while they enjoy the best comforts the state can provide. You know capital punishment is like a swing—back and forth. Fry them one day, turn them loose the next. I can’t take the chance when the ACLU actually finds judges to agree that a needle in the arm is cruel and unusual punishment. My way, it’s over fast. Saves the public a ton of tax money and cleans out the gutter.”
Charlie sterilized his instruments before putting them away. “Maybe they deserve killing…I don’t know. But I know we can’t live in a society where vigilante justice is the norm. You’re not on a mission behind enemy lines, Tom, making up the rules as you go. You’re walking the streets of Broward County. Quit while you’re ahead.”
Tom stared at the table for a long moment. Quit? Is he right? Am I out of control? Maybe—but does it matter? Too late now. He looked at Charlie. “I could use a beer. How about you? There’s some in the fridge.”
“Same old Tom.” Charlie went to the refrigerator and returned with two bottles. After opening them, he set one in front of Tom. “What does Abby think of all this?”
“Abby? There’s a pain right here.” He tapped his chest over his heart. “Remember how deeply I thought I loved that bar-bitch all those years ago? Well, Abby has gotten closer to me than that—much closer. Yet, when I left her this afternoon, she acted like I was some kind of rabid animal.”
“Did she say that?”
“No, but her eyes did. When she guessed I was tracking this street scum, her eyes went cold, hard. I doubt she wants to see me again.”
Charlie drained his beer, set the bottle down, then stood. “You’re not the kid I pulled out of trouble back in Fayetteville. This time, you have to make the right choice. However, I will tell you this, and you can find the connection. If I had to choose between losing Lonnie or pursuing some goal that gnawed away inside me, I’d choose Lonnie. We only pass through this life once, and real love is like water vapor in the desert. Fleeting, disappearing. And once it’s gone, it stays gone. Lonnie said she saw something special on Abby’s face every time she looked at you. And I see it on you now. Let the gang go, Tom. Pick Abby.”
Tom stood and stuck out his hand. “Thanks, Charlie. You’re a good friend, and part of me says I should listen to you. But not this time. After I get rid of the last two of these thugs, I’ll dedicate my life to making Abby happy—if she’ll have me. But that’s after—not now. Now is the elimination of the rest of the scum who murdered your daughter.”
“Why do I bother? I should have known your mind couldn’t be changed. Since you won’t turn back, let me help you. With that wounded wing, you might need a driver or a shooter. I don’t have your accuracy, but I seldom miss at close range with a scattergun.”
Tom chuckled. “Hell, you’d be more of a danger to me than the bad guys. You take care of Lonnie. I’ll call if I need another patch.”
Charlie glared at Tom, chewing on his bottom lip. “I know better than to argue with you. That arm’s going to wake up and hurt like hell. I don’t have anything I can give you. Take a couple of extra strength Tylenol if you have them. Or better yet, take three.” He headed for the front door. “I’m going home to my wife. If you need patching again, call. No, that’s not right. Call if you decide to let me in. You know I’m there for you—for anything.”
“Give Lonnie my love.”
TWENTY-FIVE
As Charlie argued and stitched Tom’s arm, Abby rolled in her bed, struggling to find a position that would allow her to sleep. Instead, every time she closed her eyes, she pictured events of the previous night—the wild, satisfying sex with Tom and the sweet moments in between—the two of them having breakfast together as if it were the most natural thing in the world—walking naked in front of him, and him with her, like they’d known one another forever. Everything in her intellect said put him out of her mind, yet her heart would not let it happen. She was trapped by this man, held captive in a world of emotions she couldn’t control.
She flopped onto her right side, the covers rolling with her. “Oh, hell. I may as well read.” She picked up the mystery from her nightstand, a bookmark sticking out about halfway through. She fixed her eyes on the page and began. But it was like reading a high school civics textbook, a combination of sentences that made little impact on her mind. She had to force each word. After two pages, she tagged the page where she’d started and lay the book down. “Ooookay, that won’t work. Maybe warm milk. Yuck. I hate warm milk. What I want is one warm man.”
She climbed out of bed and walked into the kitchen, then through the living room, and back into the bedroom. Standing beside the bed, she hesitated, wondering what the hell she was doing. Crossing her arms over her chest, she plopped into her vanity chair. Her brain ran at full speed, racing in one direction only. Was he was worth the risk? Did she really want to hook up with a murderer—no matter how justified he made it seem? “Dammit, I’m not some high school kid chasing the local bad boy. I’m a woman, an ex-officer in the Army, an accomplished attorney. I don’t need this shit.”
She went back to bed, but it didn’t work. Her mind wouldn’t let up. It continued to torment her. Again, her feet hit the floor. “Oh, why not? What do they say? Pride goeth before the fall. Time to swallow that pride and admit I’ve fallen. All he can do is tell me to get lost.”
She picked up the phone and dialed. When Tom answered, she said, “I need to talk to you.”
“Didn’t you condemn me enough yesterday?”
“That’s what we have to talk about.” She swallowed, forcing herself to go forward. “Can you change? Can you give up your vendetta?”
There was silence on the line. She knew he was fighting for an answer. If he said yes, should she believe him? And if he said no, should she hang up and try to suppress the most wonderful feelings she’d ever felt.
“I’m sorry, Abby. I must do what I must do. I hope you can understand.”
“I don’t think that’s possible. But I’m not sure it’s the most important thing now. I think I’m in love with you. And no matter how much my training and moral upbringing says you’re wrong, in the immortal words of Rhett Butler, ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.’” She paused, waiting, hoping he’d reply in kind. She heard a scratchy sound and pictured him running his hand across his five o’clock shadow, the mouthpiece of the phone cupped
close to his lips.
“Tom? Don’t leave me hanging here. Talk to me.”
“I don’t have the panache of Clark Gable, but I’ve never felt this way before.”
“Can you come over?”
There was silence on the line.
* * * *
Every fiber of Tom’s being wanted to say yes, he’d be there in under thirty minutes. And he wouldn’t leave until she bodily threw him out. But the cold world of realism said it couldn’t be. She’d take one look at his bandaged arm and question him. He hadn’t exactly proven resolute under her previous interrogation and knew he wouldn’t this time. He’d tell her about Izzy and, without preamble, he’d be butt-skidding on the front lawn. She’d stand in the doorway, arms folded under her gorgeous breasts, telling him to never come back. Not a picture he wanted to develop.
“I-I can’t. I’m expecting a visitor.”
“A woman?”
“No. A…someone who can help me track the others. Tomorrow evening. Okay? I’ll be there early to make your dinner. It’s been said I make a mean omelet.”
“How about after your visitor? I can leave the door unlocked, and I wake easy.”
“It’s an offer I find hard to resist, but I must. Be patient with me, my darling. Tomorrow. What time do you get home?”
She sighed. “Tom, if you’re toying with me, I swear I’ll cut your balls off and stuff ’em up your ass. Do you understand me? Do not trifle with me, Tom Jeffries.”
“Abby, I’m not. It’s…I just can’t come over tonight. I want to. God, you have no idea how much I want to hold you, cuddle with you, make love to you. But, as I learned during my military career, the mission comes first. After mission accomplishment, we can live as normal human beings for as long as you’ll have me.”
The sigh that sounded in his ear made his heart hurt. “Six-thirty. And that damned omelet better be fluffy. Goodnight, my love.”
“Till tomorrow.”
Tom hooked the wall phone into its cradle and stared at it. This was better—or worse—than he could have ever dreamed. This beautiful woman he craved so much it made his gut ache, still wanted him. She accepted what he was and still desired him. Tomorrow night. He would have to come up with a story about his arm, something that could pass a lawyer’s grilling. The truth would only make her hound him more about backing off the hunt. But he could make up something. He had to. He couldn’t lose her.
But what to do about Laury? The cops would be on his trail soon. Time left Tom no flexibility. Laury had to go down. And since Tom had a wounded wing, the Mossberg was his best bet.
He walked to the sink and poured a glass of water from the tap. “How can we play this, Sis? I’ll need an excuse to get away from Abby for a couple of hours.” He shook three Tylenol out and popped them into his mouth, chasing with water. As he set the glass on the counter, he bumped his wounded arm, and a hot shaft of pain ripped through him. He froze, willing it to subside. “Time. I need more time. But since I don’t have it, I’ll have to call on Charlie.”
He dropped into his chair at the table. “Yeah, that’s it. Charlie can be my backup and my alibi. If I keep him out of the actual killing, he won’t be implicated.”
TWENTY-SIX
At ten-fifteen on Monday morning, the unmarked police car made its way down the street. “Park here,” Detective Jim Richards said, pointing toward an empty space. “The tattoo joint is on the right, about a half block up.”
Phil Summers slipped the sedan into the parking spot, killed the engine, and undid his seat belt.
“Phil, you wait here,” Richards said. “I’ll call if I need you.” He turned toward the backseat. “Are you ready, Ms. Bobbington?”
“Yes, although I’m still not sure why I’m needed. Want to go through it one more time?”
“The guy’s name is Miguel Astole. When I was here Saturday night, he refused to cooperate and threatened me with his lawyer. Remember,” he grinned, “we spent most of yesterday putting together a warrant and this morning waiting for, then begging the judge to sign it. After he took a hunk out of our butts for bothering him, he signed.” He hesitated, then went serious. “Now we’re here with the paper, and I need you to back me up. If that doesn’t work, we’ll trot in Phil and charge Astole with interfering with an investigation. I must have this guy’s records.”
“I’m willing, but I’m not sure my presence will add much.”
“Trust me, Miss. The title, Assistant DA, scares people like Astole far more than my badge. They’re used to dealing with cops. We’re in their joints all the time—citing them for violations, looking for information, or what have you. Hell, probably some of his best customers are cops. You, he’ll view as a seldom seen super-cop with the power to put him away. Your presence will shake him up.”
“You guys gonna jaw all day,” Phil said. “It’s hot, and I’m the one stuck in the car.”
“Gripe, complain, and whine,” Richards said. “See what I put up with, Ms. Bobbington? Not like the old days when you worked with partners who were dedicated to the job.” He flashed a grin. “Just sit tight, Phil. Or you could walk around the block a few times. A bit of exercise might help your paunch. We’ll be back soon, or I’ll get you on the cell.”
“So go already.”
Detective Richards climbed out and opened the back door. Lucy Bobbington climbed out, briefcase in hand, straightening her slacks.
“My first opportunity to see how the other half lives,” she said through a nervous smile. “Do you cops really Taser everyone?”
“No, but it doesn’t stop us from wanting to. One last word. Watch what you say or do. Make sure it will meet a judge’s inspection. Astole uses video cameras that capture everything. I suspect it may have an audio track today. He’s that kind of businessman—can’t trust anyone. Probably because he’s dirty. And if his lawyer shows up, it wouldn’t surprise me if he wore a wire. This is the real world out here. We’re the only ones with restrictions. For the slugs we chase, anything goes.”
“You have a pretty low opinion of these people, don’t you? Can you justify it?”
“Twenty years of dealing with them is the only justification I need. The faces change but the attitudes don’t. They’re all the same. Do you know how many punks like Astole I’ve met over the years? Do you have any idea how many of them I’ve arrested only to have them back in business before the week was over—released on some imaginary technicality, some judge’s opinion that I overstepped my authority?” He paused. “No? Well, it’s far more than I ever wish to remember. Are you ready?”
Lucy stood quiet for a moment, the truth of his words dawning on her face. “Let’s do it.”
A moment later, Richards held the door to Miguel’s Personalized Tattoos for Lucy as she strutted in wearing her most official expression. The little bell above the door tinkled, breaking the silence that greeted their entrance.
Miguel had his head down over a sketchpad, but it popped up with the sound. “May I— Oh, it’s you.” He looked at his watch. “My lawyer’ll be here in five minutes. You can wait or come back then. I ain’t saying a word ’til he gets here.” He returned to his drawing.
“No need to be hostile,” Richards said. “I’d like to introduce Ms. Lucille Bobbington, an Assistant DA. She has some papers for you. You can read them while we wait for your mouthpiece.”
Miguel’s head stayed down.
“Listen, you little—” Richards caught himself as he glanced toward the camera lens. With a nod of his head, he directed Lucy’s attention to it, then returned to Miguel. “Perhaps you’re right. Probably be better for the two lawyers to work it out. Okay if we sit down?”
Miguel continued to ignore them.
“Well, Ms. Bobbington, I didn’t hear him say no, so let me dust a chair for you.” He pulled out his handkerchief and made a show of wiping the cushion of a straight-backed chair, then examined it with a critical eye. “There. Maybe you won’t catch anything. Can’t be too careful in join
ts like this.”
She sat, a flicker of a smile on her lips. He took the chair alongside her.
“As I understand it,” she said, loud enough for Miguel to hear, “Mr. Astole refused to give you certain names you need in a homicide investigation, names of possible killers, thereby criminally impeding your investigation. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” he answered in a similarly loud voice. “In his sketchbook, he has a picture of the tattoo worn by the Thorns on Roses gang. He assured me it was an original created by him on special order. Therefore, my assumption was he performed the needlework. When I informed him we needed to talk to the gang members in conjunction with a murder, he refused to identify them. So I left and contacted you. You know the rest.”
“Sounds like a clear case of obstruction of justice to me,” she said. “I’m sure a jury would find him guilty.”
“Jail time?” Richards asked.
“Let me think.” She lay her head back as if staring at the ceiling. “That young girl was raped, murdered, and stuffed into an abandoned car. He’s keeping you from arresting the folks who did it. Yeah, I’d say he’s facing jail time—plus a big fine.” She looked around the parlor. “Since I doubt he has enough cash to pay his way out, he’ll have to borrow from one of the local lenders. What’s the going interest rate these days, hundred percent a week, or something like that? Busted knees if you don’t pay on time. I’d hate to be in his shoes.”
Richards suppressed a grin. She was good. “Yep. That’s how I see it, too. Too bad. All he had to do was cooperate and give me the names.”
“Sombitch is lying,” Miguel mumbled. “Come in here pretendin’ to be a customer. He tricked me.”
“Oh,” Lucy said. “If he tricked you, that might put a different light on things.” She turned to Richards. “Did you trick him?”