A Filthy Business [Kindle in Motion]

by William Lashner

  “No,” I said, “it’s true,” I said, and suddenly, in the very saying, I knew that it was. “I realized that everything I was doing for these rich assholes was for their little ribbons and bows. I don’t want to be chasing those stinking ribbons anymore. I’m going to chase something else. I’m not even sure it matters what, just that it be something that is my own and will let whatever is true and hard in my gut have free rein. Justice fits the bill, so there it is. And, to be truthful, I knew you would like it.”

  “You changed for me?”

  “Why not?”

  “Jesus, you’re an idiot.”

  “I don’t blame you for not believing me. I wouldn’t believe me either.” The bar had grown dense with the red-faced and the thick-bellied. It was getting difficult now to keep track of who was who. “It’s too crowded. Let’s go.”

  “Where to?”

  “Back to my motel room.”

  “Really? That’s the best you’ve got? God, you are a rotten peach, Phil. A fake case, a promise of information later, this whole pursuit-of-justice crap, and then a backhanded invitation to the sack. Maybe I will arrest you now.”

  “It’s not what you think, though neither of us would mind.”

  “You have the right to remain silent; exercise it. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law; count on it.”

  “There’s someone in my room you’ll want to meet.”

  “Oh God, it only gets worse.”

  “The girl with the missing kidney.”

  “Wait, what? She’s here? In DC?”

  “I brought her here just for you.”

  “And she wants to talk?”

  I stood, took out my wallet, dropped more than enough to cover the bill. “Let’s get out of here.”

  With my hand lightly on her arm, we edged our way through the well-heeled crowd, women with that DC ambition stamped on their foreheads, men in suits or studiously dressed down to look start-up executive rather than hipster. Money and power. They all looked at me and saw nothing. That would change. I glanced left and right as we moved to the exit, on guard for some dangerous lunge.

  “Where’s your hotel?” said Linda over the babble of the crowd.

  “Last time I was at a hotel,” I said. “Now it’s a cheap motel on New York Avenue.”

  “Going down in the world.”

  “My car’s in the lot across the street.”

  She dipped her head as we pushed through the glass doors. When we stepped outside and started climbing the stairs to the street level, it was still light out, but there was the brisk sense of night coming, with all its quickening. As soon as we hit the sidewalk, I did a neck twist to take in the scene, and that’s when I saw her.

  Coming toward me. A white blouse, a tight black skirt, shiny high heels, green eyes bright, a tight smile on her gorgeous pale face. Looking just like she had looked the first time I saw her.

  I was so surprised to see Cassandra outside the bar that first I marveled at the coincidence, and then felt a wave of embarrassment at being caught by one lover with another. It was only when, with that tight smile still on her face, she lifted her arm and pointed the gun at my face that I realized I was going to die. And then she fired. Twice.

  Bam bam.

  38. Ghosts

  How does it feel to be swilling Scotch with a dead man?

  Every story is a ghost story when you get right down to it, and this is no exception. As Cassandra lifted her gun and aimed it in my direction, the stink of death filled my nostrils. I was as sure of my demise as a man on the gallows.

  And what did I feel?

  A coppery brew of acrid emotions twined around the twin poles of fear and anger—and have no doubt that I can surely taste my emotions even if I can’t taste yours. But the strongest emotion I felt as the barrel of Cassandra’s gun stared at me with its dark, deadly eye was disappointment. Something new had been birthed in me in just the last few hours, and I was disappointed I wouldn’t be able to ride it like a surfer on a wild wave. It was as if just as I was entering a new and most interesting dream, the cold light of wakefulness slapped me in the face.

  You are what you always were, that light told me, you are what you will always be, and nothing more now is possible. Such is the tragedy within every ghost story. What could be more disappointing?

  And then something happened, something as quick and instinctual as a flinch. As Cassandra’s finger tensed on the trigger, I reached for Linda Pickering and pulled at her just as the gun went off, twice, the retorts themselves a dagger of pain in my ear.

  And even as I was searching the numbness that spread in a flash across my body for the killing wounds, the act of pulling at Linda Pickering had turned me enough so that I could see something in her face, some deep surprise, and then looking over her shoulder, I could see behind us a bald man with a gun in his hand, staggering as two buds of red blossomed on his chest.

  And then he fell, Detective Booth, he fell in a heap, one leg shaking while he lay on the cement, while I, shockingly, was still up and alive. I swiveled my head to look at Cassandra.

  “We have to go,” said Cassandra as she came toward me.

  “You told Booth we were meeting,” I said to Linda Pickering.

  “Just that I was, yes, but not where. He’s my partner. How could I trust you after what you did?”

  “We have to go, Phil,” said Cassandra. “Now.”

  At that moment Linda suddenly remembered who she was, drawing her revolver, dropping into a stance. “Put down the gun.”

  I placed myself between Linda’s police revolver and Cassandra. “I told you he was working for them,” I said to Linda.

  “Tell your friend to put the gun down.”

  “We have to go,” said Cassandra.

  “No one’s going anywhere,” said Linda.

  “He came to kill me,” I said. “He works for them and you led him right to me.”

  “Neither of you move,” she said, but she looked up at me with something more than anger in her face.

  “Wait, he’s still breathing,” I said.

  Linda Pickering spun around to look at her fallen partner, and Cassandra and I took off, sprinting through traffic as we crossed the wide street while a crowd encircled Detective Booth and his partner, who was leaning over him to see if there was anything she could do to save his life.

  There wasn’t.

  The Porsche roared out of the lot, charging through the exit farthest from the bar. I turned right toward Union Station, spun around the circle, and kept heading north along the tracks, weaving through slower cars. When we passed two black-and-whites coming the other way—lights flashing, sirens on, the whole emergency docket—I careered right and then left again. The tires squealed neatly.

  “Do you have a cigarette?” said Cassandra with a brilliant calm as the car skittered and roared.

  “In the glove compartment.”

  She opened the hatch, peered inside. “That gun’s not doing you any good in there,” she said as she pushed the Glock I had bought in Natchitoches to the side. She removed the pack of cigarettes, closed the hatch, and pressed in the car’s lighter.

  “I’ve got to tell you, Cassandra, when I saw you coming at me, I thought I was done for.”

  She slid out a cigarette, pulled the lighter, placed the cigarette’s tip on the glowing spiral. As she took a long, deep inhale, her hands were steady as pillars. “How did it feel to die?”

  “Disappointing.”

  She laughed clouds of smoke.

  “Thank you for not killing me,” I said.

  “Don’t get all emotional about it, darling. I probably would have if I wasn’t going to be next anyway.”

  “Not you, Cassandra.”

  “You act like you don’t understand what you’ve done. Like all is cookies and cake in the wake of your betrayal. When they finish with you, sweet, that doesn’t mean it’s finished. There will be a purge. They’ve done it before.”

&
nbsp; “But you’ve been their most loyal servant.”

  She took another inhale, looked out the window. “Ever since Rand, they’ve worried that I had been infected by his qualms. Which is a laugh, really. I brush my teeth with his qualms and spit them into the sink. But he had a certain charm, and the sex was good, so I missed him. When you smashed Mr. Maambong’s desk and they were ready to get rid of you then and there, I held them off. I didn’t want to lose you like I lost him.”

  “You went to bat for me?”

  “I have a soft spot for the certified. That’s why I went with you to Jamaica; I was trying to bring you back to your senses.”

  “I thought it was just a vacation.”

  “Nothing is just anything with them. When you went missing, it was clear I had failed. They don’t appreciate failure.”

  “Tough crowd.”

  “Well, darling, you did smash his desk, try to take his job, and then steal away with kidney girl. They sent a team into Louisiana to scout out your last location. An old man living in a trailer by the creek said you had been there, had just left, and were now heading out to Sacramento.”

  “I knew that old Cajun was a sieve.”

  “They were searching for you on the road west when they learned about your meeting with the lady cop. They sent me up on a private plane to take care of you. Ostensibly I was to back up Booth, but I figure I was supposed to be next. Maybe right there, on the street. How neat would that have been? And with a gun in my hand, it would have been a righteous shooting; it would have made Booth a hero cop.”

  “Where’s Tom Preston in all this?”

  “On his way. He’s been tasked with finding the girl. Where is she, by the way?”

  “Here.”

  “You brought her here?”

  “She had to meet with her new lawyer.”

  She laughed out a few wry puffs of smoke. “They’ll love that.”

  “Nothing settles things down like a lawsuit.”

  “But you don’t want to settle things down.”

  “No.”

  “You’re going to burn it all to the ground.”

  “I’m going to try.”

  “Why?”

  “To see the flames.”

  She took a final inhale, powered down the window, and flicked out the butt. “There was a plague of arsons in our neighborhood when I was growing up. This was a dying suburb outside Atlanta whose time had come and gone. At first just abandoned houses were being torched. But then, later, houses where people were merely on vacation. Everyone was frightened, including my folks. People moved away, the police were stumped. I was twelve when the wave started, fourteen when we moved. Funny, the fires stopped at the same time. The dead cats, too. We ended up in a small town in Texas.”

  “Nice place?”

  “Lovely, unless you had to live there. I’ve been getting bored lying in the sun like a tick, doing their bidding. I’m ready again for something bright to singe my retinas. If you want to burn down the Hyena Squad, I’ll bring the blowtorch.”

  “Welcome aboard,” I said. “What do we do now?”

  “For now we run,” she said. “We run and keep running.”

  “I don’t want to run.”

  “We run, until we stop and turn around. That’s when the fun starts.”

  When we reached the motel, I parked the car tight behind the bushes so it couldn’t be seen from the road. After killing the engine, I reached across Cassandra for the glove compartment and pulled out the Glock. Cassandra gave me a cat’s smile.

  “What?” I said.

  “I never saw you with a gun before. It’s a good look for you.”

  “I prefer less forceful means of persuasion.”

  “But the color of gunmetal matches your eyes.”

  With the Glock gripped in my pocket, I led Cassandra up the stairs to the second level and then along the outside passage to the room. I looked around to see who might be watching, who might be coming. I had given enough information to Linda Pickering so she could, in time, figure out where we were. It wouldn’t be long before the sirens started rising in the distance as police cars burned their way toward us.

  I banged twice. “It’s me,” I said, and then stepped out of the way, my grip tight on the gun, as the door opened.

  It was Cindy who stood at the door; Alberto was inside. The lights were bright, the bed was made, the room smelled of Alberto’s aftershave. I motioned Cassandra in ahead of me, gave a quick look around, and then followed, closing the door behind me.

  “This is Cassandra,” I said. “An old friend. We can trust her.”

  “Charmed,” said Alberto.

  “Cassandra, this is Alberto, our lawyer, and you know Cindy.”

  “Hello, Cindy,” said Cassandra.

  “Nurse Fletcher?”

  “You’re looking well. Any problems with your recovery?”

  “No, everything’s peachy except for what’s missing. Are you really a nurse?”

  “Yes, actually. At least I was.”

  “He’s not a doctor, you know.”

  “I know,” she said, “but he could play one on TV.”

  “Yes, exactly, with that cute jacket he had.”

  “I hate cutting the reunion short,” I said, “but we don’t have much time. How did it go with the doctor?”

  “We have what we need,” said Alberto. “It is all very interesting, including the fact of your involvement in the . . . extraction.”

  “Put Dick Triplett in the caption as a defendant, it doesn’t matter, he’s as judgment proof as they come. Cassandra has detailed information on all the other defendants, names, addresses. Can you stay with Alberto and give him what he needs?”

  “What about you?” said Cassandra.

  “I have to get Cindy out of here.”

  “Yes, I’ll stay, of course. Actually, I can use a drink, Alberto.”

  “I know just the place,” he said.

  “Cindy, do you have somewhere safe you can go,” I said, “somewhere you can hide out without anyone finding you?”

  “I don’t know. A relative?”

  “A friend would be better, someone with a distant connection that would be difficult to trace.”

  “There’s a high school friend in Denver.”

  “Pack up.”

  “I’m packed.”

  “Good. We need to leave here right away.” I stepped toward Cassandra, took hold of her arm, said softly, “When Cindy’s settled, we’ll reconnect and light our torches.”

  She went to the desk and jotted down a number. “Don’t wait too long,” she said before kissing me.

  Albert watched this with an amused smile. “You know, Dick, this could be a valuable lawsuit. While the doctor was working, I did research on your Mrs. Wister. She inherited quite the fortune.”

  “Let’s decimate it,” I said.

  He stood, stepped toward me. “Thank you again for bringing Cindy’s case to me. And the Gould case.” He reached out his big old hand, which I took hold of. Leathery and warm, like a broken-in baseball mitt. “You should know, my friend, that in a way you saved my life.”

  “Don’t thank me, Alberto. It was just business. Make us all rich.”

  Cindy was now standing by the bed, her pack hanging off one shoulder.

  “We’ll go first,” I said. “You follow. Be safe, both of you. I’ll be in touch.”

  And then we were out the door, Cindy gripping her bag, me gripping the gun still in my jacket pocket, skipping along the passage, down the stairs, across the lot to the car.

  I kept on expecting to hear the sirens, the sound of gunfire, I kept on expecting something to crash our escape, but all I heard was the normal drone of traffic on New York Avenue. The car shuddered to life.

  I pulled us out of the lot heading into the city before making the first left, not caring where it took us, just so it took us off that road. I wended the car this way and that through a warren of parkways and residential streets, just wanting
to get away from whatever was going to happen in that motel. And something was going to happen in that motel, though not the something I had expected. And then, comfortably lost in the wilds of Washington, DC, I punched Denver, Colorado, into the GPS.

  We were just beyond the Maryland border, traveling through the night on the old highway in the shadow of the interstate, headed toward the lovely metropolis of Morgantown, West Virginia, when a pair of headlights, like the eyes of fate, shot up behind us.

  39. Cabin Fever

  So here we are, back at the beginning. In my Porsche, on the run, the red Pontiac charging from behind. It slam-banged right into our rear bumper, intending to ram us off the road. I guess they should have used a Dodge.

  I gained just enough control to veer into the oncoming lane of traffic. The wide, fat headlights of a truck barreled headlong toward us. I stamped the brakes, let the Pontiac zoom ahead, downshifted, and just avoided the truck as I slipped behind our pursuer. I could have pulled the emergency brake and tried a U-turn skid that had just as much chance of hurtling us into the thick grove of trees off the shoulder as keeping us on the road, but even if I succeeded, they’d still be chasing. When the Pontiac shot past us as if from a slingshot, in the glare of the truck’s headlights I got a clean look at the driver. Bobo, the steroid meathead who had been lathering up Cassandra at the Miami house. A hard charger indeed. You don’t run from henchmen like that, you attack.

  I slapped on my high beams and chased after the Pontiac. I gave it a tap on the bumper to speed it up. I slid to the left and accelerated to the right, slamming the car just behind its rear tire like a race-car driver taking out the machine of a rival team. I skidded onto the graveled shoulder, darted around the whirling hunk of metal, and jerked back onto the smooth asphalt. In my rearview mirror the Pontiac’s lights revolved at a strange angle, as if the car had been picked up by some dark giant and set spinning like a top. A moment later, amidst a hurtling din that engulfed us along with the pitch of Cindy’s shouts, the headlights jerked into stillness, aiming now deep into the woods, one stacked atop the other.