Yet, on the subsequent drive to Pasadena and between the sobs, Karrie had whispered her litany of sex abuse suffered at the hands of her father, Andrew Kaarlsen. In response, Lucky could only repeatedly promise that he would do all he could to keep Karrie safe and from him. That’s if she, in fact, was telling the truth. Teenagers, he knew, could lie. He’d heard some whoppers from the mouths of fifteen-year-olds. Witnessed pregnant teen girls shed cascades of believable tears just to keep their daddies from discovering they’d been sexually active since middle school.
Karrie was a runaway after all. Technically a street kid. She might say anything at all to keep Lucky from hand-delivering her to her father.
Maybe it was the way she recoiled. After all the trauma she had endured at the hands of her slave-making captors, the mere mention of her father made the teen appear as if she would have preferred to be back on the yacht than be delivered to her daddy’s arms.
So Lucky promised.
As schoolboy as it sounded coming out of his adult lips, he pledged to Karrie that despite his tenuous relationship with Andrew, he would keep her safe and far away until he had checked into the veracity of her claims. He bypassed downtown and steered the stolen Jeep north until the freeway dumped to an end in Pasadena.
The timing was fortuitous. Gonzo had clocked out of her LAPD Air Support shift at midnight. So at around one thirty, when Lucky knocked on her cozy little duplex door, she was awake and folding laundry to reruns of Gossip Girl.
“Is this her?” was all Gonzo had to ask. The six-foot Amazon of a cop opened her arms and heart and folded Karrie to her breast. “Do what you gotta do. We’ll be safe and sound right here.”
What Lucky had to do was as easy as it was complicated. It was a short drive back down the 110 to the Downtown Crown. Before he had dunked both cell phones and lost his gun in that frozen swim to shore, he had seen a text memo from Cherry Pie with the simple details of Andrew’s new hotel digs. Crown International Hotel. Penthouse 2. Instead of calling from Gonzo’s, Lucky thought a person-to-person confrontation might be his best solution. Hand deliver Andrew the good news of his daughter’s rescue. And then, while looking straight into the father’s elated pupils, drop the hammer about the sex abuse claim. It was Lucky’s experience that in such a fractured instant, he would be able to see the truth in a man’s pupils. Either a shudder or a minute change in dilation. It was gut science. If Lucky remained unsatisfied, he would simply request that Andrew take a polygraph. After all, what self-respecting, non-sexually abusing daddy desperate for the return of his precious teenage daughter would deny the chance to vindicate himself?
Lucky’s name was rung up to the suite and he was cleared to ride the private elevator car. The antique ride was slow and not the smoothest. It emptied out into an equally dated top-floor corridor. There were two sets of double doors for the east and west penthouse suites and a single stairwell exit marked in glowing red in case of fire.
The door to the suite was cracked with the swing-bar latch purposefully positioned to keep the heavy door from shutting completely. As Lucky pushed his way inside, he heard Andrew’s voice bark loudly from the bedroom.
“IN HERE,” called Andrew.
Lucky keyed on Andrew’s two words and set a course for the back bedroom. He glanced around, half-hoping for signs of Cherry Pie, yet was relieved she appeared to have wisely returned to her Silver Lake apartment. If Lucky was going to unfairly accuse Andrew of sexually abusing his daughter, it would be best to have it just be the two men.
Still damp from the swim—and fighting the returned pain with nearly every step—Lucky felt a slight chill when he first felt the breeze. A window of some kind was open and it was coming from the master bedroom. He turned the corner to find the door propped open with an antique, copper garbage pail. Beyond yawned a large bedroom brightly lit and white from floor to ceiling, including the goose down comforter covering the king-sized, four-poster bed. At the foot of the bed was Andrew, naked and seated on a towel as if he had just showered.
Only Andrew’s hair and pale skin were dry. In his hand was what looked like the handwritten pages from a spiral folder.
“Did you?” asked Andrew.
“Find her?” completed Lucky. “Yeah.”
“She well?”
“That would be a matter of perspective,” said Lucky. “But for right now, she’s okay.”
“But she’s not here. With you.”
“No.”
There was a pair of French doors which led to a balcony beyond Andrew. The doors were open and the sheer curtains billowed into the room with each breath of wind. The lateness of the hour, the lights, the temperature and the naked father seated on the bed. The scene reeked of wrong.
“Like the room?” asked Andrew.
“What’s going on with you?” rebuffed Lucky. “Your daughter’s safe and okay. But you don’t seem so good?”
“Oh. I’m just awesome.”
“Wanna put some clothes on?”
“I’m hot,” said Andrew. “Why I got the window open. Swear, all you people from here are GD pussies. Should see what we put up with in cheese country.”
“Cherry go home?” Lucky asked.
“Cherry Pie,” sparked Andrew, shaking the letter at Lucky. “She’s one nosy little whore. Not here five minutes and she’s sniffing through my stuff. Private things. None of her business.”
“Where is she?” worried Lucky.
“She was really keen on this letter my Karrie wrote me. Left it in her backpack. Just in case, you know?”
“I’m aware—”
“It’s a real stake through the heart. A serious Dear-Daddy-go-fuck-yourself. And after all I’ve done for that ungrateful little cunt.”
“Where is Cherry Pie?”
“Last time I saw her she was in the bathroom,” said Andrew. “Hey, girlie! You done in there? Your ride’s here. Time for you to go home.”
Lucky followed Andrew’s eyes to the bathroom on his left. The door was mostly shut.
“My guess,” continued Andrew, “Is you care a whole lot more about that purple-haired skank than my baby girl. Who, I might add, I’ve been paying you to recover.”
Using the knuckle of his left middle finger, Lucky gingerly reached out and gave the bathroom door a gentle push. It swung inward like it was on hinges of air. The recently remodeled master bathroom was as white as the bedroom, the walls plated with large rectangular subway tiles. At the far end—past the toilet, sink, and sit-down vanity—was a step-up tub with a gold brocade shower curtain pulled fully aside.
Lucky felt a sudden flush warming the skin on his face. This while his eyesight wobbled briefly before regaining focus on the twisted little body contorted over the edge. Her pupils were fixed and her eyeballs slightly hemorrhaged. Her neck was already ash gray and bruised from manual strangulation. Her mouth was agape, tongue limp between her teeth, all under a fresh colored mop of strawberry blonde hair.
The girl was very, very dead.
“Now that you know where your girl is,” angered Andrew. “Maybe you can tell me where I can find mine.”
Lucky might have heard Andrew’s voice, but little if anything he said registered. That’s because he was still staring at the dead body. He must have seen at least a hundred or so in his career. Strangers. Compadres. Fellow Reapers. But none had ever quite hurt him like Cherry.
“I ASKED YOU A GD QUESTION!” shouted Andrew.
When Lucky finally twisted back toward the voice, Andrew was rushing at him. A full-on, naked banshee charge with a face corrupted in bloody rage. Lucky’s reaction came without a concrete thought. It was all chemical as he leaned, stiff-armed with his right and gripped a single hand around Andrew’s throat. With Andrew’s limbs flailing, Lucky forcibly walked the smaller man backward, across the bedroom and out onto the balcony. Though Andrew kicked and fought, it all felt to Lucky like one swift move. That was until the second part of the act when he released the begrudging father after his we
ight had tipped over the rail and beyond the point of no return.
There was no scream. Only the sound of sucking air as gravity took over. The last anybody ever heard from Andrew Kaarlsen was the loud slap of his body colliding with the pavement. It was sharp, distinct and echoed briefly through the corridors of downtown.
Lucky took the stairs. As he tripped down each flight and then drove north back to Gonzo’s in Pasadena, he was cataloguing the dominoes of his own making: the kidnapper he’d shot in Sunland; the stolen and destroyed outboard; the damage and dead men onboard the superyacht; the hot-wired Jeep that led to the parking structure underneath the Crown International Hotel. There would be found a dead stripper in a penthouse bathroom and a millionaire guest from Wisconsin having fallen eight floors before spreading himself on the sidewalk. Once the evidentiary pieces were put together and the bodies tagged, all roads were going to eventually lead to Lucky.
He was going to need a good lawyer.
But before that, he needed to finish caring for Karrie. As a witness to uncountable crimes, the various police agencies might take a month at her before returning her to her mother. Lucky wasn’t going to let that happen. He would see to it that as soon as he could manage, she would be on a flight to Milwaukee. That very day if she was amenable. Once in the care of her only living parent—and one with more than sufficient means—she would be protected and defended. If the SoCal authorities wanted her statements, they could visit her in Chenaqua.
It was nearly dawn.
From Pasadena, Lucky pointed the Crown Victoria west toward Reseda and his lousy little apartment. Karrie—warm, dry, and curled up asleep in some oversized clothes Gonzo had gifted her—was seated next to him. The teen looked even smaller—and younger—and that much more precious. Lucky didn’t have a glimmer how to tell her about her father. He just figured, considering what she had been through, the less information he volunteered to her, the better for her fifteen-year-old psyche.
Halfway to the West Valley, Lucky pulled off the freeway in Burbank. At the nearest convenience store, he purchased a pay-as-you-go cell phone and afterward, continued on surface streets. The streets were slicked with another dousing of rain, glowing red, green, and yellow from the ever-changing streetlights.
Using the new cell phone, he called and began collecting his voicemails. All the calls from the days prior were finally getting returned. Nearly all of them moot, considering the outcome of events.
And the outcome to come.
After the trail of havoc he had left behind—heroic or otherwise—he would be lucky to find a cop job in Alaska, let alone repossess his beloved LA Sheriff’s badge. Hell, he thought. He’d probably end up in jail.
The last message on the voicemail was strangely enough, from a Milwaukee PD detective named Crutcher. Lucky was going to wait to return it when he realized that with the time difference, such an early morning call wouldn’t be a nuisance.
And since when do you really care?
Anything to take his mind off the pain. Lucky was curious as well, so he dialed the detective’s number.
“This is Crutcher,” answered the detective by rote. All cop, thought Lucky. This was, at worst, going to be efficient.
“My name’s Lucky Dey. Callin’ you back.”
“Oh hey,” said Crutcher. “Thanks. I’ve been having a little trouble reaching a fellow from around here. Andrew Kaarlsen? Somebody told me you were working for him?”
“What about it?” asked Lucky, not so curious anymore.
“We’ve been wanting to speak with him regarding the recent discovery of his wife’s body.”
Lucky wanted to ask, “Body?” Instead, he flicked his eyes over to Karrie. He was instantly grateful that she remained sleeping. Or at least appeared to be.
“Come again?” asked Lucky.
“You’re a police officer, are you not?” asked Crutcher.
“I am.”
“Then I can be frank with the details. Mrs. Kaarlsen hadn’t been seen in weeks. Just a few days ago, at the request of her sister, MPD did a welfare check at her condominium. She was deceased, I’m afraid. I don’t have the full coroner’s report yet, but by all outward appearances it’s a homicide.”
Lucky’s eyes squeezed shut. And he wasn’t even thinking of Karrie yet. It was more like his mind was in a sudden, whirlwind rewind of the past few days. Everything about Andrew Kaarlsen was adding up in a speedy and obvious equation.
“LOOK OUT!” squealed Karrie.
The teenaged girl—who Lucky thought was dead asleep—had awakened just in time to see the taillights swerve in front of the Crown Vic, only to then flare with blazing brake lights.
Lucky stomped on the brake, practically pushing his right foot through the floorboard. The Crown Vic’s wheels locked and the tires begged for traction. The car, though, slid as if on a sheet of glass. The SUV was at a dead stop in front of them.
The airbag!
Lucky’s mind went straight to that emptied inflation device, sprung and useless in the passenger’s dash. He couldn’t remember if the child had remembered to buckle her seatbelt.
On impact, Lucky’s airbag deployed with a loud pop which when married with the crunching of sheet metal, was as loud as anything he could remember. The disposable cell phone sailed from his hand and shattered against the safety glass, which buckled and spider-webbed.
As Lucky pushed the dead airbag away, he first looked at the still intact windshield, fully expecting to see Karrie bloody and gasping for life on the Crown Vic’s distorted hood.
“Ow ow ow!” was all she said, stunned yet safely still strapped in by her restraints.
Thank God, thought Lucky. It was as close to an actual prayer as he had said in eons. And he meant it.
Then he smelled gasoline.
“Jesus, I think I know him!” shifted Karrie, her eyes suddenly fixed through the cracks of the windshield.
Lucky’s eyes swiveled first, followed by his chin. Looming in the mist and headlights was a familiar figure. Tall and graceful. But with eyes that looked wired with electricity.
“GIVE HER TO ME!” boomed the voice.
Herm threw open the backseat doors of his Ford SUV. From there, he withdrew what Lucky instantly pegged as a chainsaw. Cherry red with an extended blade. Already stained with what Lucky guessed was the young photographer’s.
“REMEMBER. I FOUND HER FIRST!” shouted the pimp.
Herm pulled the starter cord. In one swift yank, the chainsaw sparked and screamed to life. It was a terrifying, ear-splitting pitch that practically drowned out young Karrie’s screams.
“C’MON!” yelled Herm, barely audible over the din. He trigger-revved the machine from its pistol grip, more as a threat than an actual weapon. He waved the blade back and forth.
“Stay right where you are!” Lucky shouted at Karrie.
“Think I’m getting out?” pitched the teen, locking her door for good measure.
Radiator steam was spewing from under the Jeep’s mangled hood. As Herm continued to wave the roaring chainsaw, it looked as if he were cutting through a mist.
“GET OUT OF THE CAR!” shouted Herm.
Then to punctuate his point, he let the blade dip and skip off the top of the mangled fender. Sparks issued.
“Fuck me,” said Lucky, before reaching across and unbuckling Karrie’s seatbelt. “Get in the backseat. Now!”
While Karrie scrambled, Lucky unhooked himself and prayed again. This time for his hips to work. Because everything below his waist was feeling locked up again.
“ONE. LAST. TIME!!!” bellowed Herm. “OR I WILL CUT YOU THE FUCK UP!”
With both hands, Herm steadied the chainsaw, winding up the engine to a full threat before setting the blade to Karrie’s door.
The sparks again. They trailed behind the saw and as the teeth bounced and chewed at the Crown Vic’s primer gray skin. There was a beauty to the picture. Like fireworks close up, sailing in a shimmering arc back toward Herm’s SUV.
Lucky knew what would happen next. And he didn’t need to see it. The moment he began his climb into the Crown Vic’s backseat is when a single, microscopic spark touched off the gasoline that had been pooling beneath the Jeep’s engine. The conflagration was instantaneous. It overwhelmed Herm in a fireball. If he screamed, nobody heard it over the continued wail of the chainsaw.
Though the front doors were buckled shut from the impact, the back doors were free to swing open. Karrie was first to spill out to the pavement, followed closely by Lucky, who lifted her to her stockinged feet.
The pair continued their retreat. Hand in hand. Easing clear of the street and onto a nearby curb. In a matter of seconds, the flames were eating up both cars and spewing clouds of black smoke into the just waking sky.
“What just happened?” cried Karrie.
Lucky had nothing for her. At least when it came to words. All he could give her was his hand, his fingers tightly interlaced with hers. Any plans or promises were suddenly in the wind. All that there was, it seemed, was the permanence of the pain that lived in his body and the tenderness of the girl’s hand in his.
Lucky knew nothing more of the future. But for that.
Acknowledgments
A cornucopia of thanks to the early readers who sunk themselves up to their eyeballs in order to make certain Lucky and I stepped from these pages with our best foot forward: Tim Casserly, Wendy Dytman, Doctors Noreen and Ivan Green, Dianne Greenlay, Dodd Harris, Joe Huber, Asim Matin, Robert Rangel, and Frank Tremblay. And last, but certainly not least, The War Department.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
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The Lucky Dey Thriller Series: Books 1-3 (The Lucky Dey Series Boxset) Page 62