Hot Lights, Cold Steel
Page 1
“What kind of sick fuck would do that?” T-Tommy asked. “Hack up these girls, patch them up, and then kill them?”
“The world’s full of candidates,” Stone said.
“Maybe some surgeon decided to dump his bad cases,” one of the techs said.
Stone offered a grim laugh. “Probably an HMO.”
T-Tommy returned his attention to the bodies. Cause of death? No way he could tell. He’d leave that to the MEs.
He stood and circled the corpses. He noticed the edge of a tattoo peeking around the side of one of the bodies. It was low, near the base of the spine. He tugged on a pair of latex gloves, dropped to one knee, and rolled the body on one side. The stiffness told him that death had been at least twenty-four hours or so earlier and not more than forty-eight. Fit the level of decay and the lack of visible maggots. Sometime Wednesday most likely. He could now see that the tattoo, a yellow rose wrapped in thorns, extended across the victim’s lower back. “Shit.”
“That’s her,” Stone said. “In report this morning we got a BOLO on a missing girl. Blonde, nineteen, rose tattoo on her back. I’ve got it in my car. I’ll see who filed it.”
T-Tommy stood. “Dub Walker.”
“What?”
“Dub Walker filed it. He’s looking for her.” T-Tommy sighed and looked up. The sun approached its noonday zenith in the cloudless sky, and the temperature had begun its daily rise. “Nothing like a double homicide to screw up a perfect spring day.”
Table of Contents
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
PREVIOUS ACCOLADES FOR D.P. LYLE’S
STRESS FRACTURE
“Stress Fracture is a cunning, imaginative thriller that will keep you up reading as I did, riveted from first page to last.”
—Michael Palmer, MD, New York Times best-selling author of The Last Surgeon
“. . . D.P. Lyle writes the perfect prescription for a psychological thriller.”
—L. Dean Murphy, BookReporter.com
“D.P. Lyle’s Stress Fracture is an intense, nail-biting adventure. The author’s knowledgeable voice adds a fear factor that can’t easily be found. A wonderful, thrilling read, an excellent work of fiction—and more!”
—New York Times best-selling author Heather Graham
“The writing is hard-edged and visually evocative, and readers of dark serial-killer thrillers will definitely want to read this one.”
—David Pitt, Booklist Magazine
“Lyle writes what he knows—and what he knows is terrific. Dub Walker is a keeper.”
—Lee Child, international best-selling author of the Reacher thrillers
“Cutting-edge forensics and a whip-cracking pace make Stress Fracture a one-sitting read. If you love CSI, this is the book for you.”
—Tess Gerritsen, New York Times best-selling author of The Keepsake
“D.P. Lyle’s Stress Fracture is just what I love in a book: lightning paced, brutally executed, dynamic characters, and a story that grips you by the throat. If Michael Crichton had written an episode of Law and Order, here might be the result. Simply brilliant!”
—James Rollins, New York Times best-selling author of The Doomsday Key
Published 2011 by Medallion Press, Inc.
The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO
is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 2011 by D.P. Lyle
Cover design by James Tampa
Edited by Helen A Rosburg and Lorie Popp
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro
Printed in the United States of America
Title font set in Cacavia01
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lyle, D. P.
Hot lights, cold steel / D.P. Lyle.
p. cm. -- (Dub Walker series ; bk. 2)
ISBN-13: 978-1-60542-181-0 (alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 1-60542-181-2 (alk. paper)
1. Serial murder investigation--Fiction. I. Title.
PS3612.Y43H67 2011
813’.6--dc22
2010049652
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My wonderful agent, Kimberley Cameron of Kimberley Cameron & Associates.
My editors, Helen Rosburg and Lorie Popp, for their excellent insights and tireless work on this manuscript.
My parents, Victor and Elaine Lyle, and of course Nan, for their unwavering support.
All the great people at Medallion Press.
CHAPTER 1
WEDNESDAY 7:3
2 P.M.
IT HAD BEEN A NEARLY PERFECT DAY.
Got a lot done. Finished the final edits on my next book. This one about how evidence in criminal cases linked up, formed a chain, or maybe a noose for the bad guys. I titled it Linkage: How Evidence Makes the Case. With a keystroke I had fired it back to my editor. Few things felt better than final edits.
Time to relax.
Now, I lounged in a redwood Adirondack chair and worked the fret board of my Martin D-18. I bent out a few riffs and a couple of new turnarounds to “Red House,” the original John Lee Hooker version, not the Hendrix electrified one. I added a backbeat with my bare heel against the wooden deck.
I’m Dub Walker, and I own a small cottage on the western slope of Monte Sano Mountain, one of the final remnants of the Appalachian chain. From the deck, I had a 180-degree view over Huntsville. The sun had settled beneath the horizon, and the city’s lights were rapidly winking on. A warm breeze came up from the valley.
Earlier, around noon, an electrical storm had blown through. A real thunder-boomer. The kind that rattled windows and fractured the sky with pulse after pulse of lightning, some seemingly reluctant to let go. The kind that all too often spun off a tornado or two. But this one quickly moved eastward, leaving behind clean air, crystal blue skies, and now a perfect Southern spring night. The kind you wanted to go on forever.
Wasn’t going to happen, though.
I leaned the Martin against the chair, went inside, poured a hefty glass of Blanton’s bourbon, and flipped on the stereo. Buddy Guy churned out “Feels Like Rain.” Back outside, I eased into the chair and closed my eyes. Buddy hit his stride, and I fell into the music.
I’m not sure whether I dozed or merely drifted with the music, but I sat up when I heard footsteps coming around the house. A woman stepped onto the deck and walked toward me.
A woman I hadn’t seen in ten years. Still beautiful. Still unforgettable.
I stood. “Miranda?”
“Dub, you haven’t changed a bit,” she said.
“And you’re as gorgeous as ever. What brings you here?”
“Sorry to barge in. I was going to ring the doorbell but then heard the music and guessed you were back this way.”
I hugged her. When I broke the embrace, I noticed her eyes were red and her face drawn. “What’s wrong?”
“I was going to call.” Miranda sighed. “Truth is, I wasn’t sure I would come here. I put it off. I sat out front for half an hour, trying to decide.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked again.
“Everything.” She looked around as if uncertain what to do.
“Sit down.” We moved to the redwood dining table, and I pulled a chair out for her. She sat. “Some wine?”
“What are you drinking?”
“Bourbon.”
“Maybe that’d be better.”
I retrieved a glass and the Blanton’s from the kitchen and poured her a couple of fingers.
She took the drink with both hands, cradling it as if she feared she might drop it. I noticed her fingers trembled. She took a healthy gulp.
I sat across from her. “Tell me what’s wrong. Something happen to Richard?”
Miranda shook her head. Tears collected in her eyes. “He died three years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s Noel.” She sniffed.
I handed her a napkin, and she wiped her eyes.
“She’s missing.”
CHAPTER 2
WEDNESDAY 7:42 P.M.
“WHY YOU GOTTA BE SUCH A DICK?” ALEJANDRO DIAZ PEELED HIS damp T-shirt from his chest and flapped it. Didn’t offer much relief. The flash thunderstorm that had rolled through earlier in the day had left behind sticky air and heavy soil. Made the digging hard. They had been at it for forty-five minutes.
“What?” Eddie Elliott took a pull from the pint of Jack. “Just because I’d rather be drinking a cold beer and watching the ladies dance?”
Alejandro tossed aside another shovel of dirt and then climbed from the hole. “Your turn.”
Eddie stuffed the pint in his hip pocket, stripped off his T-shirt, and jumped in. He picked up the shovel and attacked the soil. “To hell with this. I’m tired of being the garbageman.”
“You want your money? Dig the fucking hole.” Alejandro lit a Marlboro with his Zippo, the flare reflecting off the surrounding trees. He took a long drag, then another, and exhaled the smoke toward the half-moon that peeked through the canopy.
“Fuck this,” Eddie said. “Let’s get done with it.”
Alejandro looked down at the younger man. The moonlight silvered his shaggy, blond hair and sweat-slicked shoulders. “Dig the hole, or you don’t get paid. Understand?”
Eddie jabbed the shovel into the dirt. It clanked against rock. “See. That’s it.”
“Shit,” Alejandro said. “Get out.”
Eddie did. Alejandro jumped in. He repeatedly poked the shovel into the soil, each time banging into chunks of limestone. This whole area was peppered with it. Should they start somewhere else? Waste nearly an hour’s work?
“I need some beer and pussy,” Eddie said.
“From that little puta at High Rollers?”
High Rollers was a strip joint off University Drive. Owned by Alejandro’s boss, Rocco Scarcella. The guy paying for the hole.
“Carmelita’s no whore.” Eddie puffed out his chest. “She’s my angel.”
Eddie was such an ignorant little prick. Every time he made a couple of bucks, it disappeared on drinks and Carmelita’s lap dances. “She’s not yours. That girl belongs to anybody with a little dinero.”
Eddie rotated his neck as if it were stiff. “She’s got Eddie fever.” He rubbed the crotch of his jeans. “I’ve got the cure.”
Alejandro laughed. “You ever been with her, Edito?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Pobrecito. You’d be better off to keep your money and fall in love with your hand.”
Eddie glared at him, hesitated as if going to say something, but instead pulled the pint from his pocket and took a drink. He grimaced as the liquid went down. “You’ll see.”
Alejandro dropped his cigarette and crushed it with his boot. “Get the flashlight.” He picked the butt up and slipped it into his pocket.
Eddie disappeared through the trees, heading toward Alejandro’s pickup. He returned in a couple of minutes, shaking the light, clicking the switch on and off. Nothing. He banged it against an open palm. Still nothing. “Damn it.” He flung the flashlight into the forest where the brush consumed it. “Fucking thing’s broke.”
Alejandro wrestled his temper under control. He had only brought Eddie into this as a favor to Ellie, Eddie’s older sister and one of Alejandro’s ex-lovers. He put up with Eddie’s bullshit out of some vague sense of guilt for walking away from Ellie, hurting her, even though that was at least a year ago. The mothering and smothering she had heaped on Alejandro were now directed at Eddie. She had dragged her brother from the mean streets of Atlanta, away from the gangs, away from the drugs and guns, and away from an arrest warrant for armed robbery. Eddie the tough guy, wearing no mask, no disguise, not even a cap, had stuck a gun in the face of a terrified liquor store owner for a handful of cash and a six-pack of beer, all clearly recorded by security cameras.
“Go find it,” Alejandro said.
“It’s a flashlight for Christ’s sake.”
Alejandro stepped out of the hole and moved in Eddie’s direction. At six feet to Eddie’s five six, he looked down at him. “You want to fuck with me? With Rocco?”
“I don’t want to do dirty work for that greaser pig anymore. Let him come out here and dig his own fucking holes.”
Alejandro tightened his jaw. “Where else you going to get five hundred for a couple hours’ work?”
“I did better pushing meth in Atlanta.”
“That why you hit a liquor store for sixty-five bucks? Or was it the Budweiser you were after?”
&nbs
p; Eddie offered no reply. He turned and headed for the area where he had pitched the flashlight.
Alejandro knelt near the edge of the excavation. The freshly turned soil smelled rich and fertile. He flicked his lighter to life and held it over the pit. Not deep enough. Needed another foot. Maybe two. Did he want to argue with Eddie? Do it himself? He looked around. They were miles from Huntsville, middle of nowhere, in a wooded patch sandwiched between a rural two-lane blacktop and a small, forgotten cemetery. Who would snoop around out here?
He heard a soft rhythmic whisper behind him and twisted on his haunches. The ghostly white form of a barn owl maneuvered through the trees above him. He watched until it faded from sight.
Eddie came from the darkness empty-handed. “It’s not out there.”
After tonight, Alejandro was going to dump this prick. He knew guys who would jump at this kind of money. Guys without an attitude. Ellie would simply have to find her dickless brother different work. Maybe he could be a real garbageman.
“Let’s finish this.” Alejandro led the way out of the trees, across a narrow strip of wild grass, and into the cemetery. His pickup was parked beneath a gnarled oak tree on the gravel road that arced through the gravestones.
He lowered the tailgate and peeled back the tarp, revealing the two wrapped bodies. At least in the darkness he could no longer see the lifeless faces that earlier had stared at him through the clear plastic. After pulling on a pair of gloves, he heaved one of the bodies to his shoulder, feeling the onset of stiffness in the corpse.
Alejandro recrossed the open area, moved through the trees, dumped the body into the pit, and moved aside. Eddie did the same with the other corpse. But Eddie, he noticed, was bare-handed.
“Where’re your gloves?”
“Lost them,” Eddie said.
Fucking idiot. Alejandro considered making Eddie haul the body from the pit and wipe it down. Screw it. Get this done; get the hell away. “You fill it up.”
“Why me?”
“Because I did most of the digging. Because I said so. You want to see your little puta, get to work.”
Eddie took another slug of whiskey, set the bottle on the ground, picked up the shovel. He muttered to himself as he began filling the grave.
Alejandro fired up another cigarette.
Suddenly Eddie dropped the shovel and jumped into the hole, straddling the corpses.