Dark Vengeance

by R. T. Wolfe

  Coffees were refilled and nearly drained again when the bell on the door chimed and the fire chief walked in with his wife.

  "Brian, Carol, come join us," Brie spoke to them.

  Duncan nodded his head in greeting. "Chief McKinney, Mrs. McKinney."

  The misses answered. "We can't. We're just in and out today. You look beautiful. Doesn't she look beautiful, honey?"

  The chief took Brie's hand and looked her in the eye. "Beautiful, yes."

  They got in line and the rest of them rose from their table.

  "I'll keep in touch, Mother. Dad." He kissed Brie on the cheek and looked out the window across the street. "I think I'm due for a haircut."

  * * *

  Duncan finished his text before he entered the barbershop. The décor was retro, complete with a full-sized red and white candy-striped pillar hanging beside the door. At least, he hoped it was retro.

  The front counter was no bigger than a coffee shop table, just much taller. It didn't exactly serve as a roomy place to check in. Two men cleaned as he stood just inside the door. Neither offered a greeting. When the older man finished with his dustpan, he picked up a folded apron, shook it and told Duncan to come on back.

  "What can I do you for today?"

  "Can you give me your opinion?"

  The man brushed the end of his nose with his thumb. "It's too long."

  So much for starting small talk. "Short then."

  Four chairs. Two employees. A backroom with the door ajar. A few shelves packed with bottles. There, he could see a table and chairs that made it double as a break room.

  Duncan wasn't going to let this man ruin his hair without some sort of payback. "I haven't seen Slippery Jimbo lately."

  The man didn't look to Duncan in question, but darted his eyes to the front counter once and back again.

  "He and his friend had been flashing a picture around of a chick cop. I've seen her nosing around here since then."

  Locks and locks of hair fell to the ground. It felt a bit like his first day at boot camp.

  "Jimbo don't come in here no more."

  The man didn't look to the side to gather that answer. No blinking. It looked like he might be telling the truth. Duncan watched as he used his scissors and wondered why he didn't just use the clippers for what he was doing.

  He tried to give it some time. Duncan's designer clothes and shoes weren't helping him fit in. "What about the friend?"

  "He only came around the one time," he said and still hadn't offered introductions. It was for the best, Duncan decided. Then, he didn't have to lie.

  Instinct told him he'd pushed far enough. The man finished shaping his neckline before brushing the clippings from his face and neck. He looked on the floor at his piles of hair, shrugged and dug in his wallet.

  He was careful not to give him too large of a tip.

  "Thanks, man. I didn't get your name."

  He offered one word. "Phil."

  Duncan nodded and left, resisting the urge to check behind the small front counter.

  * * *

  Duncan worked in his studio until late in the afternoon. Rain fell in buckets on his skylights. He enjoyed the rain. The rhythm was soothing, the smell rejuvenating.

  The wife of the congressman wanted to be painted in a fuchsia pantsuit complete with a small cap that hung lace over her eyes.

  He wished he had the sound of the strings of Nickie's cello to accent the rain, but he would make do. He thought of the twin car explosions, the leads he'd dug up from the police station. How his aunt could be tied to the detective. The fact that firefighters used the slave ring to get their kicks, but so did politicians and white collars. Politicians and white collars didn't set the Seneca Casino fire. Melbourne was dead, Brusco a dead end and yet his list was growing, not shrinking.

  Someone inside the station fixed the security feed. He just needed more time for that someone to slip up in an email or on their phone so he could find out who.

  Nickie was too close. He didn't believe a cop could look objectively at the other cops they worked with. Duncan didn't have that problem.

  He drove to the station without calling first. They needed to talk shop. And they needed to talk about his request that morning. He wasn't willing to let the topic hang.

  He checked in, climbed the stairs and noticed the place was nearly deserted. Checking his watch, he guessed it was past time for normal people to head home for the day. His detective sat at her desk plucking at her laptop.

  Her door was open. He rapped on the glass with his knuckles anyway.

  When she looked up, her mouth dropped.

  His hair. He'd forgotten.

  "Good evening, Nickie. May I?" He gestured to one of the two guest chairs that sat across from her desk.

  "Is everything okay?" she asked.

  "Mostly. We need to talk shop."

  "Shop?"

  "Yes. Your informant wannabe was carrying."

  She pushed away from her desk and sighed. "Yeah, I noticed that, too. Ex-con. That's a felony."

  "You didn't bust him."

  "It was a hunch."

  "The corner of a plastic baggie stuck out of his back pocket. Whatever was in there wasn't enough to make his pockets buldge. I didn't notice signs of a wad of money."

  "He's been harmless—maybe—for several months now."

  "I stopped by his barbershop."

  "Obviously. You mean the one he was in front of when we tag teamed him?"

  "Tag teamed? I like the sound of that. Yes. The barber has something behind his counter he didn't want me to know about. I'm going to see if I can find out what it is."

  She lifted her brows.

  "Don't ask. The barber also saw the man James referred to who was asking around about you. I didn't get a chance to question him about it, but I'll be returning soon."

  "There's more." She said it as a statement. Not a question.

  Nickie didn't want to talk about this, but she also knew she owed it to him. "We should talk about the more." Walking around, she shut the door but left the plastic mini-blinds up.

  She didn't want to seem formal, so she sat in the guest chair next to him.

  He didn't start. That wasn't fair. He was the one who started it that morning.

  What a copout, she admitted.

  "You have a career that takes you away for weeks and sometimes months at a time."

  She held out her hand.

  He accepted and laced their fingers together. Studying them, he said, "What does that have to do with closet space?"

  She wanted to run. She was good at running. His eyes looked onyx in the horrible light of her office. They penetrated her with a thousand emotions. She wanted his frigging closet space. She wanted him, but she knew better.

  He didn't move. His body was completely and uncomfortably still. "This is the longest stretch I've had in Northridge since I was in high school."

  She waved her hand in front of her face like she was swatting away a bug... or conversation. "I'm not trying to corner you, Duncan." Lifting from her chair, she stepped over his legs and walked around her desk. "Let's not rock the boat. We have a nice boat." Her eyes burned. She wouldn't cry, of course, but she worried they gave her away.

  * * *

  It was apparent Duncan hadn't liked Nickie's answer. If you could call it an answer. It felt more like an escape. The swim hadn't done a damn thing except allow her to do nothing but think as she followed the lines on the bottom of the pool.

  A little cello before bed would do the trick. And she would sleep on the couch so she didn't have to smell his scent on her pillows. He hadn't asked where she was going or why she wanted to be alone. He didn't argue with her about rocking the boat.

  She wasn't one of those types that pushed a man away expecting them to chase after her. Games.

  She hit the palm of her hand on her steering wheel. Once, twice, then a third time for good measure. She hadn't planned on him pushing a relationship. Her talent was an a
cute ability to predict all possible outcomes of scenarios. To look out of the box. That was why she did well in her job.

  And they didn't have a relationship. She hit her hand once more.

  Carefully, she pulled into her parking spot. Her townhouse looked dark. The shades were all drawn. That was how she left it each morning. It never bothered her before. Damn. Shit. Damn.

  When she turned off the lights of the unmarked, she saw movement around the side of the building. Unlocking her gun, she grabbed her briefcase and headed for the door. The streetlights did their job. She had excellent peripheral vision, but she didn't have eyes in the back of her head.

  Fumbling with her keys, she kicked open the door and shut it behind her quickly, turning the deadbolt. Stupid. Paranoid. That's what men did to women.

  She pressed her forehead against her steel door as she turned on the lights. Taking a deep breath, she tossed her briefcase on her recliner and headed for her bedroom.

  Chapter 26

  Duncan thought he should be angry, but he didn't feel angry. And he didn't feel hurt from Nickie's rejection. It actually made sense to him. He drove his SUV. It was the least conspicuous vehicle he owned as he didn't generally do recon.

  Parking down the street from the barbershop, he set the alarm. She was right. They did have a nice boat, as she put it. He walked along the sidewalk in his thigh-length leather business coat. It had the best pockets for what he needed. Looking over his right shoulder, he slipped on his leather gloves.

  They had everything in common and nothing in common. It made him smile.

  Until he thought of the damned closet space.

  Coming up to the barbershop, he checked left and leaned against the door, sticking a cigarette between his lips. Hoping to look like someone with nothing better to do than stop for a smoke, he sprinkled brown powder in the keyhole. They better not have an alarm he missed during his haircut, because he truly hated the smell of cigarette smoke and wanted this to be worth it.

  Striking a match, he lifted it first to the cigarette, than to the keyhole. A small, muffled explosion shook the door open a fraction of an inch. Cautiously, he opened it. No alarms, no small flashing lights in any corners or coming from the supposed break room. He slipped in and went directly to the miniscule front end counter. Behind it on the middle shelf, he found a Glock behind a stack of papers.

  Why had old Phil wanted the gun when Duncan was there? Was it the questions about Slippery Jimbo? Or the ones about the Asian man?

  That was when it hit him. What had he been thinking? He hadn't been thinking.

  Quickly, he wrote down the serial number on the gun. Used his fingerprinting tape kit on every surface of it he could and left. He stuck a small rock in front of the door to keep it from blowing ajar and headed for his SUV.

  * * *

  Duncan sat at the twenty-four-hour coffee shop down the street from the barbershop. With his sketch pad and a mug of steaming coffee in front of him, he cursed himself for not thinking of this before. He used the side of the inferior pencil to create a few shades, a bit of depth and voila. He downed the last of his java, folded the small sketch and tossed some bills on the table.

  As he left the smell of coffee and sugar, he convinced himself he wasn't losing his mind. They had found James crossing the street to the barbershop. There were exactly three bars within walking distance. He would check them out and hope for the best.

  The first was a T and A bar. He hadn't realized before that the name Tommy and Angie's was code. The bouncer nodded in approval as he walked down the thin hallway and wondered if it met fire code. A long bar to the right, stools scattered in the center, billiards and darts along the left. A couple that desperately needed a room had made their own dance floor and gyrated to something Duncan thought sounded like country rap. Regardless, no Jimbo in sight.

  Looking down a similar hallway to the back, he wondered if this place had the same thing going on as in the casinos. Jimbo could be in one of those rooms.

  He downed his brandy, deciding his gut told him Jimbo wouldn't have spent the night in a room like that. He had a place nearby.

  The next spot was Northridge's most highly rated bar and grill, Mikey's. Years of yellowing newspaper articles littered the walls congratulating Mikey on Best Bar of the Year, Best tenderloins in upstate New York, as well as a few co-ed softball tournament wins.

  It was nearing closing time as he checked the beer gardens. The place was still crammed with loud customers and a small band in the corner. It made him think of Nickie. Shit.

  He nursed a tall neck as he let his eyes travel over the crowd. Without any luck, he moved to the restaurant side. Nothing.

  * * *

  The swim didn't muffle Duncan's sights and sounds as it generally did. He thought of the time Nickie used his pool in the nude. His mind switched to the time he found her sitting at her desk with her head between her legs. Then, to the time she drew her gun in her red jumpsuit as she yelled orders to the Vegas police and commands to the guards and johns.

  His vision switched to when she gently pulled the young, nearly naked Lacey Newcomer from a soiled room, carrying her weight when Lacey's legs wouldn't hold her. Next, he saw as she brushed Abigail like that of a young girl stealing moments alone with an amazing animal. And he saw her stroll through an art museum with her head held high and all the grace and poise of the seasoned elite.

  Lifting his head, he sucked in a deep breath. He let his chest rise and fall in rapid succession. First thing in the morning, he would catch up on phone calls, put in some solid hours on the paintings for the congressman and then look into downtown Northridge office space.

  * * *

  Brie stood at her kitchen counter spooning cookie dough onto her baking sheets. She was fortunate to have a woodworking artist for a husband. He'd made several long kitchen counters and at that moment nearly every inch was covered in cookies.

  Red lay at her feet. He was full-grown now, but he didn't know it. His training was going well. Smart boy. He understood all of the basic commands and followed them, too, unless something distracted him. They were working on it.

  Nathan was at the shop finishing a changing table and dresser for Andy's baby. It felt good to be back to normal—as normal as could be expected. He didn't hover or hesitate to go to work, although he didn't put in the hours she thought he needed or wanted.

  The garage door made her jump. She guessed when you're nearly blown up, you get jumpy.

  As she pulled one sheet of cookies out of the oven and replaced it with another, she heard him come in. Heard the familiar rustle as he hung up his coat and took off his work boots. She would never tire of the small butterflies in her stomach when Nathan came in a room.

  He'd never winced at her scars, never let on that he was checking on her and gave her the blessed space she needed.

  When he stepped foot in the kitchen, he froze. His eyes traveled from one end of their counters to the other. "The Fourth isn't for days." He walked to her, setting his briefcase on the kitchen table as he passed. "Why are you making these now?" Kissing the side of her head, he took a warm cookie from the waxed paper.

  "See? You're not generally home this early during the week. I always bake cookies for the Fourth a few days early. They freeze nicely, and you should still be at work." She reached over her shoulder and placed her hand on his cheek, happy she could do so without discomfort now. "Did you stop by Lucy Melbourne's?"

  "How do you know these things?" He reached down and placed his warm lips on her neck, sending chills through her body. "She still won't answer the door. I know she's in there."

  She turned now and looked at him through her lashes. "And how do you know she's in there?"

  "Caught. Only I didn't look in from the back, just through the porch windows. I haven't seen her wheelchair since before MollyAnne's death."

  "She's probably just tired of you looking in her windows. She stood by our side, Nathan. Through all the court hearings. It was the h
ardest time for her. Now this."

  He shrugged as he tucked her hair behind her ear. "Who is it, then? I'm trying, but I can't do this much longer. Duncan is keeping tabs on Brusco. He's back in Liberty, three hours away. The new firefighter is keeping a low profile but is said to have always been that way. Duncan has hunches about an inside job."

  She felt her spine tighten, then straighten. "How long has he been checking into this? And don't tell me he hasn't been checking into it. I know my boys."

  "They are ours, aren't they?" She felt his long arms wind around her waist and land flat across her back. "Have you ever thought of how Hannah has survived as the only girl?"

  She shivered. Again. "She's no girly girl, that's a fact. You're changing the subject."

  Sliding his hands behind her knees, he lifted her and started walking. "That's all he's given me so far." Holding her weight, he reached over and turned off the oven. So much for that batch.

  * * *

  Duncan found him in the same bar he'd checked the night before. Dressed in baggy jeans and a light brown trench coat, James seemed to be making... arrangements with one of the redheaded female patrons. A miniskirt covered her large backside. It was so short, Duncan hoped she didn't drop anything. James was too busy planning his date to notice him.

  The woman must not be an employee of the bar, because they were heading for the door instead of one of the backrooms. Duncan stepped in front of them as they neared.

  Simultaneously, James lifted his palms in surrender and darted his glance from one side to the other.

  "A cop? Baby doll, I'm outta here." And the redhead was gone.

  "I'm not a cop," Duncan said to her back.

  "Shit, man. I already paid for that." James slid his hand down the front of his face like he was wiping off sweat. "Where's Savage?"

  That was a good question. They'd gone days before without touching base but this felt different. "She's out front," he lied. "I have a sketch I'd like you to look at."

  James leaned in. "In here, man? I can't let the dudes know I'm an informant."