The Coconut Swindle (Black Cape Case Files Book 2)

by Matt Abraham

  And it was still a little pink.

  Chapter 22

  “Is that what I think it is?” Monday said.

  I was standing at the foot of his bed, holding up my prize in a plastic bag. “If you think it’s Thermite’s finger, then yes. Now let’s test it.” I opened the bag, pulled out my hand scanner, and waved it over the digit. A few seconds passed before I had its answer. “Damn.”

  “What?”

  “My scanner can’t identify it. But something’s definitely there.”

  Monday raised a hand. “Toss it here. I can have one of our lab boys give it a go.”

  “Why not?” I threw the bag to Monday.

  He grabbed the bedside phone and dialed. “Hey Cress, I got something that needs to be analyzed, how fast can you swing by the hospital? Great. See you then.” He hung up and turned to me. “We should get the results by tomorrow. Give me your number, and I’ll let you know what they find.”

  I jotted down my office line and handed it over. “Here. Now, can you do me one more favor?”

  “Sure, what?”

  “Call the nurse. I need some heavy duty burn balm.”

  #

  The topical cream I slathered on my arm quelled the burning just fine, but it wasn’t the only reason I left the hospital in a pretty good mood. If there was residue on that finger, then Monday’s lab could trace it to a supplier, and if that person was truly Scourge then I would not only settle a long standing debt, but I could also close Widow’s case and maybe save my agency.

  It was all good news.

  So when I got to my apartment I went to the kitchen to celebrate with a two-pound side of beef. Once it was fried right, I brought it over to my desktop computer and booted up Sandtrout. Taking it off the advanced hunter setting, and clicking on the normal search engine stuff, I typed in the name of the woman Monday mentioned earlier: Margaret Shelly. He wasn’t so interested in her, but I was intrigued for two reasons. First, the boys stole her jewels, and second, Sandtrout missed her on its first sweep.

  Both bits had me curious.

  Moments passed. I took a bloody mouthful of beef. And a stream of articles came up. The first few were about the robbery, and the rest outlined her work history.

  I decided to start with the theft. And immediately saw why my software didn’t register it as a place the boys’ lives crossed. The Fletcher Act, able to suppress information regarding black cape trials, kept their names out of the papers, though from the descriptions of their powers it was evident who was who.

  It was almost six years ago to the day that the boys broke into Margaret Shelly’s penthouse suite. Firewall disabled the security system and Thermite burnt through the safe. It seemed cut and dry, but on the way out they triggered an alarm that locked the place down. Firewall used his power to override the defenses and the boys escaped, but not before they got caught on film.

  Hmm. If the system was disabled how’d they get their picture taken?

  It didn’t say, so I looked up the police report to see what was stolen. There were a couple of diamond tennis bracelets, some ruby broaches, and assorted emeralds, all totaling fifty thousand dollars. Not a tiny job by any means, but considering everything was returned I didn’t see a motive for murder.

  So I looked at Margaret Shelly’s work history.

  And let out a long whistle.

  She was an architect whose resume contained every high profile skyscraper built in the last fifteen years. There were also a few banks tossed in, and even a Federal law enforcement agency. But despite her lengthy list of achievements I could only find one company she was attached to: a firm called Stronghold that specialized in security systems.

  Interesting.

  I cross-referenced the name with the museum. Nothing came up.

  Then I checked it against flammable agents. Nothing came up.

  Finally I looked for a connection to gemstones. And still, nothing came up.

  Nuts. Maybe Monday was right. A six-year-old crime with the take returned wasn’t a motive for murder.

  Still, I turned to her finances. But then, across the bottom of my screen, the news ticker flashed in big, red words: Mayor Greenie Survives Assassination Attempt.

  I spun around and clicked on my TV. A blond spitfire in pink with soot on her face was jabbering into a mic. “-in this shocking turn of events, a single terrorist, dressed as catering staff, attempted to assassinate the mayor at tonight’s Save the Finch gala in the Gold Coast City Museum. But thanks to the quick response by security only one partygoer, head curator Ms. Alice Johan, was injured. For now, the terrorist has eluded police, but our News Channel Three camera caught what we believe is her picture. We must warn you, the following footage is shocking.”

  The screen popped over to a video of the incident.

  Mayor Greenie stood at a podium before a field of black tie clad socialites. He makes a joke. They laugh. Then behind him the stage explodes. A single woman in a black party dress is swallowed by the jagged hole. Everybody screams. Then they scatter. And someone knocks the camera sideways. That’s when the picture freezes, capturing the culprit. It’s a little blurry, and she’s standing a ways back, but I can clearly make out Doodle. And her twin pistols.

  “As of yet her identity is unknown, but she’s considered armed and extremely dangerous. If you have any information regarding this young woman’s whereabouts, the Gold Coast City Police Department request you contact them immediately. At the museum, this is Peppermint Jones, back to-”

  I clicked off the set.

  But couldn’t believe it. Tera had my kid try to murder the mayor? God damn that bitch. The next time we’d meet I’d thump the accent out of her.

  The telephone on my coffee table rang and I grabbed it. “Hello?”

  “Dane,” a quiet voice said, “I need help.”

  My antennae jumped up. “Doodle? Are you ok?”

  “I’m fine. Can you come and get me?”

  “Yeah, of course, tell me where you are.”

  “The corner of Flint and Little Rock.”

  “Don’t move. I’ll be there in twenty.”

  I bolted down to my car and in less than fifteen minutes I arrived to find Doodle cowering inside a shoe store’s darkened doorway, still wearing her crappy tux.

  Leaning over I popped the lock. “Get in.”

  She slipped inside. “Thanks, this isn’t-”

  I jammed the gas and we jumped forward like the trunk was full of stolen bank notes. “Put on your seatbelt and tell me what the hell’s going on.”

  She clicked the shoulder harness into place. “I’d rather not.”

  I took a sharp right. “I didn’t ask what you’d rather do.”

  “Dane…”

  “Hey, this isn’t a taxi, but I still charge a fare, and this ride costs that explanation.”

  She crossed her arms. “That’s not a fare.”

  “A cop recently told me that life’s not a fare. Now spit.”

  Doodle looked out the window again. “It’s nothing, I was just at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Really?” The light in front of me turned red, and I came to a stop. Reaching over I grabbed Doodle’s shirt and pulled it up. The spot on her stomach where the twin pistols were tattooed just last night was now blank. As was the stick of dynamite. “Then how do you explain this?”

  She yanked her shirt down. “It’s nothing. Damn it.”

  The light turned green and I pulled forward. “I must be the first dad in history angry that his daughter doesn’t have a tattoo.”

  “Calm down. It’s no big deal.”

  “No big deal? It’s no big deal that you… Wait. Guns have moving parts. And dynamite’s an explosive. How’d you manifest them?”

  “For the guns I tattoo the schematics one layer at a time. The chemicals are harder, but so long as I understand their molecular makeup I can swing it.”

  “You know how to draw schematics? And who taught you chemistry?”

>   “I just read a bunch of books.”

  “Wow.” Doodle could design machines. And she understood atoms. That took skills. Smarts. “So you could be an engineer or something?”

  “I’d rather be an artist, but yeah. Sure.”

  I stopped at the next intersection and looked at my daughter. She was beautiful. And brilliant. I’ve never been so proud of anything. If I could just get her off the criminal’s path, she would have a good life. A normal life. All I had to do was keep her out of trouble.

  Then a police siren lit up behind me.

  Chapter 23

  “Pull over!”

  I looked in my rearview. A black and white GCCPD cruiser was so tight on my tail we could’ve been sharing an axle.

  Doodle spun around. “It’s the cops.”

  “You sure? Might be a volunteer firefighter.” I crushed the gas and we ran the red. But the next block had a line of cars three deep all waiting for the light to change. Still, I kept the pedal on the floor.

  “What’re you doing?” Doodle said. “We’re trapped.”

  “Settle down.” I pulled the wheel to the left. We drove over the curb and onto the sidewalk. Where a lot of people were strolling. I laid on the horn. Two women leapt into a doorway. A deliveryman sprang onto the hood of the nearest car. Glancing in the rearview I saw the cop was following close.

  “Watch out,” Doodle yelled.

  I retuned my attention to the sidewalk in front of us. A woman was there. Pushing a stroller.

  “I see her,” I said, and jerked the wheel to the right.

  We missed the pram by inches and drove off the curb into the intersection.

  “Truck truck truck,” Doodle said.

  To the right was a mighty Mac. The behemoth’s horn boomed as its brakes screamed.

  “On it.” I veered left. My back bumper kissed the truck’s nose as it spun out, blocking the intersection.

  Doodle looked back. “We got away. Great driving.”

  I gave her a sideways glance. “You always loved to drive.”

  “Well it’s funner when-”

  Another cop car pulled behind me.

  I said, “Hold on.”

  “No,” she said, “keep it steady.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.” Doodle rolled up her sleeve. On her forearm, above a king cobra tattoo, and a clutch of blue butterflies, was a rendering of one dozen jacks, the kind kids played with before I was born. She closed her eyes. And the sharp, metal toys pushed out against her flesh. Then, one-by-one, they fell into her waiting hand, and when all twelve were manifested out her window they went.

  A few loud pops came from behind as her metal toys punctured the patrol car’s tires sending it into a spinout.

  But another black and white zipped past him, and clamped onto our tail.

  “This is getting tiresome,” I said.

  “So what’re we going to do?”

  “I got an idea. We’re ducking into Tunnel Town.”

  “Really?” Doodle turned to me all bright eyed. “You’re kidding?”

  “Nope. But we’ll need to take the expressway to get there.” Ahead was an on-ramp. I turned up the steep incline and we were on the highway in seconds. But I immediately regretted it.

  “It’s like a parking lot up here,” Doodle said.

  And boy was she right. All seven lanes were slathered with cars as far as I could see. “Damn it, the construction. Seven interstates run through this burg and I choose the I-93.”

  “The what?”

  “Five miles up there’s a bridge where they’ve removed one of the sections. Now this damn road’s a traffic causing cliff.” Keeping my gas pedal horizontal I swerved onto the shoulder, kicking up dust and stones in my wake. But behind me, through the cloud, red and blue lights were still flashing. They were getting smaller. But still, we were on a highway’s shoulder. There was nowhere to hide, and nowhere to go but straight ahead to the next exit. If I got there though, we’d be home free.

  “What’ll we do now?” Doodle said. “There’s no way to lose him.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “I got an idea. But we’ll need something big.”

  She pointed ahead. “Will that do?”

  I followed her finger to an SUV in the closest lane. “No. Bigger.”

  “How much bigger?”

  “A lot.” I kept looking. There were some minivans. A pickup truck. Another SUV.

  Then I finally saw what I needed. “That’s it. Hold on.” I stomped the brakes and we slid to a halt. The cloud of stones and dust rolled in from behind, covering us like late night fog. “Be right back.” I jumped out, and ran back a few yards past my rear bumper.

  In the closest lane, rolling my way slow, was a massive cement truck. I stepped in front of it. The mighty vehicle stopped. Its horn bellowed deep. I crouched down. Reached beneath its bumper on the driver’s side. And grabbed the frame. Taking a deep breath, and putting everything I had into my lower back and legs, I pulled up. Slowly the truck lifted off the ground. But I could only get it up to my waist. And if this was going to work, it had to go a lot higher.

  “What the hell?” The driver jumped out, and hit the ground already running. It made the truck lighter, but not by much.

  I knew I couldn’t curl it the rest of the way, so quick as a cat I dropped down and slipped my right shoulder under the frame. The mammoth weight pressed me lower. Beads of sweat formed on my face.

  Then the police cruiser pulled up on the shoulder, stopping behind my Jalopy, right next to the cement truck. The front door opened and out came the cop. “This is the police, vacate the car with your hands up.”

  Peering under the truck I could only see his feet, but the look on Doodle’s face said he was aiming his pistol at her.

  I sucked in as much air as I could, and pressed. Pain ran up my lower back like wildfire. Both knees shook. But the colossal truck pitched over some, towards the cop. I grabbed the frame with both hands. And pushed some more. My elbows nearly buckled. But now the truck was leaning over even farther. Just one more shove. That’s all it needed.

  I took a deep breath. Harnessed everything I had in reserve. And put it into my arms.

  Finally, gravity claimed the truck for its own, and the large vehicle toppled sideways. The cop screamed, “What the hell?” and dove to the ground, barely dodging death as the truck flattened his cruiser. Wet cement poured from the spout in the back, covering the street like thick, gray oatmeal.

  I jumped back in my Jalopy and pulled away. “That’ll slow them down.”

  Doodle looked back. “That was incredible, he’ll never catch us now.”

  I wiped the sweat from my forehead. “Not unless he grows wings.”

  “I got a pair of those on my back,” Doodle said. “They don’t really work though, just-”

  A spotlight lit up the car and a loud voice boomed, “Pull your vehicle over now.”

  Doodle leaned forward and looked up. “Great, they got a chopper.”

  “Fat lot of good it’ll do. Hold on.” I pressed the gas down and took the next exit. As I bombed down the off-ramp I could see cop lights flashing to the distant right. So at the bottom I turned left.

  “How are we going to lose them all?”

  Tightening my grip on the wheel I said, “We’re almost at Tunnel Town.”

  Doodle turned towards me. “Really? Where is it?”

  “Right there.” About a hundred yards ahead our road ran under a bridge.

  As I raced towards it the chopper above us picked up some altitude. He was planning on flying over the bridge to pick us up on the other side.

  But as we drove beneath it I clicked off my headlights and pulled the emergency brake. The Jalopy spun out forty-five degrees, and we came to a stop facing the wall.

  Doodle said, “What are-”

  “Get out.” I pointed to a yellow wrong way sign. “And pull that thing to the right.”

  “Why?”

  “Do it now!�
�

  Doodle jumped out, grabbed the sign, and yanked. Then, directly in front of my bumper, a section of the wall lifted up like a garage door, revealing an inky, black tunnel.

  I said, “Let’s go already.”

  Doodle hopped back in and we drove through the opening. Behind us the door closed, while a few feet above, on the ceiling, a small orb lit up and bathed the rough-cut, red tunnel in a soft, yellow glow. We drove forward, and as we went new lights clicked on as the old ones behind us died.

  I turned to my kid and said, “Welcome to Tunnel Town.”

  She looked out the window in wonder. “This is so cool. How many tunnels like this are there?”

  “Dozens. Hundreds probably. Nobody knows them all, but this one leads to an old club called Crush. It’s where Tera and I spent a lot of time.” I smiled at the memory.

  Doodle said, “Neat.”

  “Not always.” I looked her way. “But it was worth it.”

  After a ways the tunnel opened up and I laid on the gas. It took about half an hour but we finally came to a fork. I turned right, and when I got to the tube’s end, the wall sensors that worked the lights had the rock face slide open. We drove out through Speedy’s abandoned garage, which served as the false front, and behind us Tunnel Town sealed tight.

  Doodle looked around. “Where are we?”

  In both directions ran block after block of run down buildings. “The Outskirts. Way north of town. Where’re you staying?”

  “With Swamp. But after tonight I’m not sure. I’ll call mom’s answering service and leave a message, and in an hour or two she’ll get back to me on where to meet.” When we stopped at the first red light Doodle leaned over, kissed me on the cheek, then opened her door. “Thanks, I can find my way home from here.”

  I snatched her arm. “In the Outskirts? No. No way you’re roaming these streets. Or any streets. You need to lay low.”

  “Ok.” Doodle shut the door. “I guess that’s smart. Where’re you thinking?”

  “Someplace special.” I cut a smile. The dewy kind. “But first, are you hungry?”

  Chapter 24

  A few blocks from my office was Eggs Am, a twenty-four hour diner with a checkered formica floor so dotted with scuff marks you couldn’t tell which were the white squares and which were the black. My usual spot was at the lunch counter in the front, but we required cover, so I led Doodle down the row of sparkly, blue booths to the spot in the corner, and slid into one side while she took the other. Holding a hand up to my mouth I yelled, “Acouste.”