“And what would you do if I actually took you up on that offer?”
“I’d make love to you in a rapid, clumsy fashion, disregarding your needs entirely, and then I’d send you out for some food.”
Katie had to give him points for honesty.
“How long have you been watching my house?” Jack asked.
“Since yesterday.”
“From the southwest? I noticed someone had cut down some branches in the woods.”
“You don’t miss much.”
“Where’s the bug?” Jack asked.
“On your dog’s collar.”
“And Phin didn’t catch that?”
“Your husband is… cautious. But he was more concerned about me attacking him than planting a microphone.”
“Did you plant a microphone at my office?” Harry asked.
“No. I assumed all I would hear is you surfing Internet porn.”
“I also spend a lot of time on YouTube, watching fat people trip and fall. Speaking of fatties, heard from Herb lately, Jack? I’ve got this idea, where I follow his fat ass around with a camera, waiting for him to trip and fall.”
Jack seemed to ignore Harry, which Katie could completely understand. She and Jack had a brief stare-down, with neither saying anything.
Jack finally broke the silence. “If I go after Phin without you, you’ll just follow me.”
“That’s the plan. Then I’ll catch some fish with my bare hands and hope I impress you enough to join the posse.”
Another small smile from Jack. She’d gotten the Magnificent Seven reference, where Horst Buchholz was originally rejected by the group, but then tagged along on their journey until they accepted him.
“I could make it difficult for you to follow,” Jack said. “By breaking your leg.”
Katie was younger than Jack, and stronger than Jack might assume, but there was a good possibility the older woman could make good on her threat.
“Yes. You could.”
“Cat fight,” Harry said. “Hot.”
“I need to make a few calls,” Jack said. “Have a seat. And since Harry mentioned cats, I have one. If it comes by, don’t try to pet it. Or make eye contact. It doesn’t like people.”
Katie covered up her excitement at being included by acting nonchalant. “What’s its name?”
“Mr. Friskers.”
“It’s pure evil,” Harry said, “Imagine Hitler and Stalin had a baby mixed with feline DNA and Damien: The Omen II. And, speak of the devil.”
McGlade’s gaze turned toward the kitchen. Katie glanced that way and saw an ordinary-looking cat walking over to her.
“Don’t move,” Harry said. “Don’t. Even. Breathe.”
Katie watched, somewhat amused, as Mr. Friskers padded up to her leg and rubbed against it.
“Hitler and Stalin?” Katie said.
“Trust me,” Harry said, “that cat is…”
Mr. Friskers screeched, a shrill sound not unlike a steam whistle, and launched himself four feet through the air, landing on Harry’s leg and sinking in his claws.
“THE ANTICHRIST! IT’S THE ANTICHRIST! GET IT OFF!”
McGlade tried to push the cat away with his mechanical hand, and it bit onto his rubber index finger. He tried to shake his arm, but Mr. Friskers clung to it like a pit bull. McGlade’s movements became broader, until it looked like he was waving a cat-shaped flag over his head.
“This is NOT what I meant by a cat fight being hot!”
Duffy began to howl. Jack’s expression remained neutral, though Katie might have caught a small sigh.
“Get it off me, Jack! This prosthetic cost a fortune!”
“And have him attack me?” Daniels shrugged. “No, thanks. It’s your fault for making eye contact.”
McGlade picked up the Magnum and held it to the cat’s head. “I’ll shoot it! I swear I’ll shoot it!”
“Don’t,” Jack warned. “We just bought that couch.”
Harry made a fast movement, like he was pitching a baseball, and the cat flew off his hand, sailing through the air and letting out a long howl. It flew at least three meters, landed on the far wall, and stuck there like a gecko, all four legs splayed out. A very impressive display of claw strength. Then it dropped to the floor, hissed, and ran off down the hallway.
“I think I peed myself,” Harry said.
“Do not piss on my couch.”
So this is the dysfunctional little group I’ve aligned myself with. Katie thought. She wondered if maybe she should have followed Phin after all.
“I’m making my calls,” Jack said, walking off.
“So…” Harry said. “Ebooks, huh? Does it pay well?”
“Not bad.”
“Wanna make a hundred dollars? You can keep most of your clothes on.”
“You and me, Harry, is never going to happen.”
“Why not? You play for the other team?”
“No. I have standards.”
“Understood. A hundred and five dollars.”
“How about I give you a hundred dollars to stop talking to me?”
“For how long?”
“Forever.”
McGlade rubbed his chin, apparently thinking it over. Then he said, “Deal.”
Katie was surprised he accepted, but true to her word she took a hundred dollar bill from her pants pocket—emergency money—and handed it over to McGlade. In return, Harry handed her a business card. It read:
MY NAME IS HARRY MCGLADE.
I’M RICH, AND I’LL PAY YOU FOR SEX.
Katie turned away so Harry didn’t see her grin.
PHIN
Baja
On his second day in Mexicali, Phin tried to buy drugs in some of the trendier areas. His first prospect was a pusher in front of an upscale nightclub. The short, thin man was wearing a light blue Hugo Boss polo, chinos, and Ray Bans. His business was strictly drive-up. Sports cars, luxury cars, limos. No spotters, so the guy paid to be there. After watching him for an hour, Phin pulled up in his rental, and was summarily ignored. He gave a little tap on the horn, and the man still refused to approach. Either overly cautious, or the Ford Fusion Phin had rented failed to impress him.
Phin laid on the horn and held up three hundred dollar bills, waving them until Hugo Boss had no choice but to approach. Phin rolled down the window.
“Can I help you?” The dealer’s English was decent, as if he’d spent a lot of time trying to lose his accent.
“Vikes,” Phin said.
Phin caught the beginning of a sneer, and saw the man begin to back away. Phin reached out and grabbed the guy’s collar, yanking him forward with one hand and pointing the FNS with the other.
“I have some pain issues,” he said. “Vicodin, codeine, oxytocin, hydrocodone, Percocet. And nothing with needles. Comprendes?”
“Ease up, brother. You’re stretching my shirt.”
Phin wondered how stoned the man was that he cared more about his designer top than the gun pointed at him.
“Do you have any pills?”
“Pills are so five years ago. It’s all about the drank these days.”
“Drank?”
“Slurps, brother. Purple. Lean. Tussin. Sizzurp.”
Phin had been out of the drug scene for a while, but he recognized the term Tussin. That was codeine based cough syrup.
“You’ve got Tussin?”
“Brother, I am the Tussin King of Baja. I can get you more purple than you can carry. Take away your pain issues, no problem.”
Phin released him. “What will three hundred get me?”
“Get you higher than a jet plane, brother. See my ride parked up the street?”
He pointed to an older model Benz in a tow zone. Phin nodded.
“I’m going to take a walk over, grab a cold one, be right back. You wait here, okay?”
“If you make a call, I’ll take it as a sign of bad faith.”
The dealer smiled, revealing his gold tooth. “Make a call? Bro
ther, I got guys on the roofs. You’re in the crosshairs. If I wanted you ventilated, I would have given the signal already.”
Phin kept his face neutral, but felt like an idiot. He’d been so careful about looking for spotters, but he hadn’t thought to check rooftops.
I’m slipping, he thought. Three years ago I wouldn’t have missed that.
He watched the dealer saunter over to his car, open his trunk without any fear at all his stash would be taken, and remove a plastic soda bottle. He came back to Phin and handed him the bottle. Funny that it was called purple, because the liquid inside was reddish-pink.
“That’s three hundred?” Phin said. He knew from experience that codeine cough syrup was about ten bucks a bottle at the pharmacy.
“This syrup is the shizznit, brother. That’s four hundred, there. I’m giving you a new customer discount.”
He handed over the three hundred, the dealer smiled and waved, and Phin drove off, feeling like he had rifle sights on his head until he’d gotten two blocks away.
He took it slow, careful, watching for tails, and returned to the Hotel Calafia. Once in his room he opened the bottle—the label was some brand of Mexican soda—and took a sniff.
It didn’t smell like cough syrup. It smelled like strawberry candy. Phin guessed this wasn’t jacked from some pharmacy. This was homemade. Someone was putting their poppy fields to good use. Good, profitable use, because heroin was forty bucks a gram and killed the clientele. If they were selling bottles of this shit to rich users at four bills a pop, they wouldn’t even need to bother with cutting or trafficking to make a profit.
Phin raised it to his lips, swallowed a teaspoon, and waited.
Within ten minutes, the familiar warmth set in. Phin’s shoulders unbunched. His eyelids drooped. He felt that floating/sinking sensation that was unique to the wonderful family of opiates. Phin stood up, slightly dizzy, infused with a strong sense of well-being and a mellow buzz that made the whole world fuzzy and beautiful.
This was some seriously good stuff. It made Vicodin seem like Pez.
It also made sense why no one else in town dealt with pills. Whomever Hugo Boss worked for owned the market. And they were obviously well-connected enough to keep the market cornered. If he could afford to deal so openly, and had riflemen spotting for him, it meant payoffs and protection and a supply chain that probably went all the way back to the farmers.
Phin knew a little bit about Mexican cartels. They had more in common with the mafia than garden variety street gangs. Organized, powerful, very dangerous, run like a hybrid of militia and white collar business.
If Lucy and Luther were in Mexicali, they’d be on purple. And if they were on purple, they would have dealt with Hugo Boss, or someone in his network.
Phin unscrewed the cap, walked into the bathroom, and poured the rest of the syrup down the toilet. He used the coffee machine in the room to brew three cups, and when he’d finished drinking them all his codeine high had worn off sufficiently. Then it was back in the car, and back to the dealer.
Time to go find Luther Kite.
JACK
Near Chicago
I can do what I can from behind my desk at the precinct. But I can’t go with you, Jack.”
I was so surprised by Herb’s answer that it took me a moment to find my voice. Lieutenant Herb Benedict was the closest thing I had to a best friend. We’d been partners on the force for over a decade. We’d closed dozens of cases. We’d saved each other’s lives. Though we didn’t stay in touch as often since I retired, we still talked on a pretty regular basis.
I switched the phone to my other hand. “Mind if I ask why?”
I could hear his breathing, but he didn’t respond.
“Herb? You know I wouldn’t ask this if I didn’t need your help.”
“Aren’t we a little old to still chase after serial killers, Jack?”
“We aren’t chasing Luther Kite. We’re chasing Phin.”
“And Phin is chasing Luther Kite. And then what will happen? People are going to wind up dead. Or worse.”
“That won’t happen again. I’m not looking for trouble, Herb.”
“But trouble finds you anyway.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. He was right, of course. Everyone I was close to eventually wound up with some degree of PTSD. Sometimes I felt like I secreted some sort of pheromone that attracted psychos.
But that didn’t mask the hurt. I’d been counting on Herb—he was one of the only people I’d ever known that I could always count on—and he rejected me so fast it felt like whiplash.
“No problem,” I told him.
“Now I feel shitty.”
“Don’t. I get it. I’m sorry for asking.”
“Now I feel shittier.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I know you’d help if you could. It’s okay.”
Another uncomfortable pause.
“I’m quitting, Jack.”
“Quitting what?”
“The Job. I’ve got eight days until retirement.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. Eight days meant he’d given notice a while ago.
Given notice and hadn’t told me. His best friend.
“Congrats,” I finally said.
“Bernice made me promise. No more risks. She’s seen too many movies where the cop announces his retirement and then dies twenty minutes later. After Michigan, and Wisconsin… You know I love you like you’re family, Jack. If it were my choice, I’d come along.”
That made Herb’s refusal sting a little less.
“Is there going to be a party?” I asked.
“A party?”
“A retirement party. Knowing Bernice, she probably invited the whole—” I cut myself off as realization hit. “Your wife doesn’t want me there.”
“It’s nothing about you personally, Jack. Bernice loves you.”
“But?”
I heard Herb sigh. “She thinks you’re bad luck. You know?”
“I don’t know, Herb. Tell me.”
“People are always getting hurt or dying around you, Jack. Bernice thinks you’re jinxed. She doesn’t want you around.”
First came the sucker punch. Then came the knockout.
“Ever?” I asked, my voice soft and nearly cracking.
“Of course not. Just give her some time.”
“Herb, I gotta level with you. This hurts.”
“It hurts me, too. I’ve been dreading telling you all this, believe me. But it’ll all blow over. I just need to prove to Bernice that I can go for two months without anyone trying to kill me.”
“I hear you.”
An awful, painful silence ensued.
“Is jackass going with you?” Herb eventually asked.
For a brief moment in time, Harry McGlade and Herb had gotten along. That didn’t last, and they were back to hating each other.
“Yes.”
“Anyone else?”
“A writer. Katie Glente.”
“Can she handle herself?”
“I don’t know yet. It seems like she can.”
More silence. I didn’t have to read Herb’s mind to know he was worried about me.
“Is there anyone else you can call, Jack?”
What he really meant was: is there anyone else who owes me enough to risk their life for me?
I thought it over, and came up with four people. I knew where to find two of them, but one, a cop I’d worked with named Tom Mankowski, was currently in physical therapy and pretty much immobile. The third, McGlade could contact. The fourth I hadn’t seen in years, but maybe he was still around. I knew someone at the DMV and could possibly get an address, but Herb was right there on the phone.
“Can you do a quick CPD search for me?” I asked Herb. “Last name Abernathy.”
“Abernathy. That sounds familiar. Wait, you mean that short muscle head, used to strong arm for Marty the Maniac? What was his name?”
“Tequila,” I said. Back when Herb an
d I were still transitioning into plainclothes, we’d had a run in with the diminutive mob enforcer, who had once worked for a notorious mob bookie named Marty Martowski.
“That guy’s a sociopath.”
“He’s also one of the toughest people to ever live.” Even tougher, perhaps, than my missing husband.
I heard fingers on a keyboard, and Herb gave me an address and phone number. “Kept clean. Only thing on his record the past ten years is a speeding ticket. Maybe he’s mellowed out.”
I hoped not. I didn’t need mellow. “Thanks, Herb.”
Herb’s voice dropped an octave. “Keep me in the loop, okay? Call, text. If I need to send in the cavalry, I need to know where to send it.”
I told him I’d call him tomorrow, and then tried Tequila’s number. I got an answering machine with only a beep to signal it was working. I left a brief message saying I needed his help, and then I called Val Ryker, a friend and co-worker from my early CPD days.
Straight to voicemail. Didn’t anyone pick up the phone anymore? I asked her to get in touch, then returned to the living room and found Mr. Friskers in Katie’s lap, purring as she stroked him.
McGlade had backed away to the other side of the couch. “It’s eerie, Jack. She must know some kind of sorcery. She’s also able to resist my sexual advances.”
“That proves it,” I said, “she’s a witch.”
“Not that I need it,” Harry said to Katie, “but do you have any spells that would make a guy a few inches bigger? Like, five or six inches?”
Katie didn’t respond. As she pet the cat, her eyes seemed to take on a far-away look.
“Harry, we need to contact some old friends. Do you have any way to get in touch with Chandler and Fleming?”
The women I’d just mentioned didn’t officially exist, and those weren’t they’re real names. They previously worked for a secret government organization, and were experts at staying off the grid. But they owed me, and they’d be powerful allies… if we were able to locate them.
“Sure. I’ll just give them a ring,” Harry said.
“They gave you their phone numbers?”
“Don’t be dense, Jack. They’re covert op spies. They don’t give out their numbers. What about Herb? Did he confirm?”
Last Call - A Thriller (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries Book 10) Page 5