“So what you need, boss?” he said, and dropped his pants, exposing his big, hairy ass. The muscles of his legs bulged like bundles of steel cables under the skin. “You gotta excuse me, but I’m way overdue for this.”
“Better bodies through chemistry,” Connors said, more than a little pissed off at Nuke’s inattention. But, he re minded himself, he needed him. For the present, anyway. Especially for the task at hand. “Go ahead and take care of business,” Connors said. “I’ll wait.”
Nuke nodded and picked up the syringe, tapping it to consolidate the tiny air bubbles, then depressing the plunger until a viscous drop of yellow liquid appeared at the end of the needle. He worked the needle into a thorny patch of skin on the top of his buttocks and injected the two cubic centimeters of the steroid.
“Like I mentioned, I’ve got a problem,” Connors said.
“Haaaah,” Nuke slowly grunted as he finished depressing the plunger. “No problem’s too great. What is it?”
“There’s someone,” Connors said, “I want you to eliminate.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Chinatown
Leal went through his mental checklist as he prepared to embark on what he hoped would be a very pleasant evening. He checked his watch: six twenty-five. No sense rushing, he thought. It’s only in Evergreen Park. Twenty minutes tops. And he didn’t want to arrive early, although that was preferable to arriving late. Grinning, he slipped on his sports jacket and grabbed his keys, taking a final look around to make sure his earlier cleaning sprint had been successful.
Gone were the unseemly stacks of dirty clothes, old newspapers, and scattered dishes. In the off chance that he’d invite Sharon over, he wanted to be sure the place was at least presentable. Plus it was overdue for a cleaning anyway. The straightening, dusting, and vacuuming had been almost as exhausting as the workout the night before with Hart. Leal thought about her and the progression of the case.
Hart was starting to shape up. He felt he could do worse for a partner. At least she listened and always gave it her best shot. With a little more confidence, she could turn out real good. Maybe. Leal remembered her sudden nervousness right before they’d gone in to interview Walker. I haven’t really got a lot of experience doing this sort of thing, she’d said. But she had picked up on the inconsistencies in Walker’s actions and statements. That was an intuitive ability. You either had it or you didn’t. It couldn’t be taught. Refined and developed, yes. Taught, no. Someone like Brice just didn’t have it. Never had, never would.
Brice, he thought. The epitome of the Peter Principle. Yeah, he’s a Peter all right. Random victims, carjackings, chop-shop rings…The bastard couldn’t find his ass with both hands. And Ryan going right along with Brice’s half-assed theories. The consummate yes-man.
Shit, thought Leal, checking his watch again. I’m supposed to be relaxing on my night off, I got a date with an angel, and here I am thinking about the stupid case.
It was time to get going.
As he walked out to the unmarked squad, he grabbed the box of condoms that he’d picked up, just in case, at the drug store. Being prepared was essential, even though his expectations only fell into the realm of a pleasant dinner and stimulating conversation.
But, if we really hit it off, who knows, he thought, whistling as he appraised the job the guys had done at the car wash. At least it smelled nice with the aromatic air freshener. Like strawberries or something. He removed two of the condoms from the box and slipped them in his inside jacket pocket. Unobtrusive, yet easily obtainable if needed. The box was another matter.
Should’ve left it at home, he thought. But now it was already six thirty-five. Where did the extra time go? He opened the glove box and stuck the box under the maps and gas-log papers, then closed it.
I hope she doesn’t mind the county car, he thought, twisting the key. He felt a slight twinge in his side. This was his first real date since the shooting, too. If things did get that far, he wondered how she’d react to the railroad track scar on his chest.
One step at a time, he thought. One step at a time.
Sharon’s apartment was one of those two-story brownstones that had proliferated on the south side and its contiguous suburbs. The name next to the upper buzzer read S.A. Devain. Sharon Ann? he wondered. Her distorted voice came out of the speaker and the door buzzed. Leal went inside the little foyer and glanced up the stairway to his left. A door popped open at the top and he heard her call, “Come on up.”
After trotting up the stairs he pushed open the door and she stood there smiling at him in a light blue silk blouse and navy skirt. The blouse was open at the neck and he could see the delicate serpentine loops of a gold chain against her neck. Her hair looked freshly curled and her makeup perfectly accented her eyes and high cheekbones.
“I’m almost ready,” she said. “Make yourself at home.”
She closed the door behind him and disappeared into another room. Leal saw the apartment was furnished with a big, comfortable-looking couch opposite a television and VCR. A coffee table with a lace doily in the middle was in front of the couch. An original oil painting, a landscape depicting effulgent trees and bodies of water, hung on the wall. Looking closer he saw the name S. Devain printed along the bottom. The next room looked more lived-in, with a computer sitting on a long table and a paperbound volume of the criminal statutes next to it. Probably her office, he thought.
Sharon came into the room, slipping on a dark jacket and grabbing her purse from the couch. She flipped on the light switch and said, “Okay, I’m ready.”
Leal smiled, appraising her, thinking she looked like a million dollars.
“Where would you like to go?” he asked. “Anyplace special?”
“You decide. But I have to be back by eleven, or so.”
Why was she giving him the time constraint up front? Was she trying to tell him something? He compressed his lips. Remember, he thought, a pleasant dinner is all I’m hoping for. But he had to ask.
“Why?” he asked, trying to sound light. “Afraid my car will turn into a pumpkin or something?”
Sharon laughed. It sounded almost musical.
“Oh, I guess I should have told you, I got sort of roped into starting my next shift a little early. You see, my partner on Felony Review was supposed to be on call tonight, but his sister’s getting married tomorrow and he asked if I could take anything after midnight.”
Leal felt his confidence returning.
“I can understand that,” he said. “I’m on call a lot, too.”
Sharon smiled as they walked outside.
“Is that why you brought your squad car?”
Oh, shit, Leal thought, trying to think of an appropriate comeback. Suddenly his preplanned response that he might get called at any time to handle a life-threatening emergency seemed pretty lame. But, his mind raced, I can’t very well tell her my personal car is a piece of shit, can I? Deciding to hell with pretension, he said, “Actually, my personal car’s worse than this one. It’s due for the auto graveyard, but I’ve been too busy to look for a new one.” He watched her reaction as he opened the door and she slid inside. “Plus, I don’t have to worry about parking tickets.”
Sharon smiled.
They decided on dinner at Chinatown, and Leal headed down Ninety-fifth Street to the expressway. Sharon dug into her purse for a cigarette and Leal immediately reached to press in the lighter. Except the lighter had been removed so that the emergency light could be plugged in. Dammit, he thought, glancing over at her.
Sharon must have noticed his dilemma and smiled, flicking her own lighter and holding it to the cigarette.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I need this,” she said, cracking the window. She blew a cloud of smoke to the side. “You don’t smoke, right?”
“I quit.”
“Wow, I wish I could. I’ve tried to so many times. How’d you do it? The patch?”
“I got shot in the chest,” he said. “But I wouldn’t
recommend it.”
“Yeah, I remember hearing about that. When they told me about you telling off Judge Gable.”
He grimaced. “That was really more of a misunderstanding.”
“Oh, I’ll bet,” she said, looking over at him with a wide grin. “I thought it was great that you did. It was about time somebody told the son of a bitch what an asshole he is.”
Leal glanced over at her and smiled back. This girl doesn’t mince words, he thought.
They ate at the big Mandarin Restaurant on Twenty-second Street, the conversation floating along so pleasantly that Leal was reluctant to even surreptitiously glance at his watch. For an after-dinner drink they each ordered wine.
“But only one glass,” Sharon said, smiling. “I have to keep my wits about me.”
He liked her smile. He liked everything about her.
“So tell me,” she said. “When you testified before the grand jury you gave your name as Francisco. Is that Hispanic?”
“Actually, it comes from my dad’s side of the family. My mom’s Irish, my dad’s Mexican. Guess you could call me sort of new generation Black Irish.”
Her eyes swept over him. “So, do you speak Spanish?”
“Yeah. That’s why I did so well in MEG. Everybody thought I was your typical Latino drug dealer.” He grinned. “The bastard probably wouldn’t have shot me if he’d thought I was a cop.”
“Fran-cis-co,” she said, drawing out the pronunciation. “I like that. So it’s Frank for short.”
“Actually, my mother calls me Cisco. And that was a primary motivation for me taking up boxing in school.”
She laughed again.
“What about you?” he asked. “I saw those paintings in your apartment. Did you paint them?”
Sharon sipped the wine slowly, looking at him over the rim.
“I wish,” she said. “My sister Sara did. She got all the artistic talent in the family. I, on the other hand, inherited all the brashness. Hence, my profession.”
The waiter came over to their table with a small platter containing the check and two fortune cookies. Leal slipped some money in the folder and told him to keep the change. The waiter bowed deferentially and left. Sharon was already breaking open her cookie.
“What does yours say?” she asked.
He snapped in two and pulled out the slip of paper.
“Great things are in store for you,” he read. “Yours?”
She smiled slowly, her tongue darting over her teeth for only a second.
“It says I’m going to meet a tall, dark, handsome man,” she said. She twisted the paper and put it in her pocket. “But I already have. Maybe we both can share yours.”
Outside the night was cooling off, but it was still comfortable enough for them to walk down Wentworth through a few of the blocks that comprised Chinatown, looking at all the shops, the bright neon signs displaying foreign lettering, the designs on the windows, and the throngs of Asians crowding the sidewalks and speaking in foreign tongues. They walked back to the car holding hands, stopping in front of the big ceremonial gate to admire the ornate Chinese characters. Sharon lit a cigarette and asked him what time it was.
“Almost ten,” he said. Dammit, where had the time gone?
“I guess we’d better head back then,” she said.
He nodded. Just dinner and some pleasant conversation, that’s all, he reminded himself.
The ride home went uneventfully, with the traffic seeming lighter than usual. When they pulled up in front of her building, she turned toward him.
“I had a nice time, Frank,” she said.
“Yeah, me, too. Maybe we can do it again sometime.”
She nodded, staring up at him, her fine features illuminated by the overhead streetlights, and kissed him softly on the lips. “Do you want to come up for a while?”
Do I? Leal thought.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that very much.”
She looked at him for a moment, then smiled wickedly.
“Just remember, Francisco, that I’m subject to get beeped after midnight.”
The beep came while they were still making love. Abrupt and intrusive, its piercing sharpness shocked both of them. Sharon, who was on top, inhaled quickly with a sudden sharpness, kissed him, and then was off padding around in the darkness.
“Shit,” she said. “Where did I put that fucking thing?”
Leal rolled on his side, watching her naked ass, opalescent in the moonlight, as she moved around the bedroom sorting through the helter-skelter array of clothes they’d left lying in their wake. Finally she stooped over and grabbed something from the floor. The insistent chirping stopped.
She came back and sat on the edge of the bed, her back to him, and turned on the night-light. The phone was on the table next to the lamp.
“We’ve only got so many minutes to answer these damn pages,” she said, dialing the number. He reached up and softly caressed her shoulder. To his surprise she turned and faced him, kissing his fingers lightly, then leaned forward to kiss him on the lips.
“Yes, this is ASA Sharon Devain. What have you got?” she said into the phone.
Leal leaned back, trying to follow the periphery of the conversation, but losing much of it due to her monosyllabic responses. “Okay, I’ll call them in a few minutes.” She hung up after scribbling down a number and turned back to him.
“Looks like I’ll have to go,” she said, her long legs snuggling down next to his. “They’ve got an armed robbery/rape, and I’ll have to go interview the offender before he lawyers up.”
Leal didn’t know what to say, sensing that the mood of the moment had faded.
“So do you want me to go with you?” he asked.
She shook her head. “And how would that look?”
He laughed slightly. “Not too good, I guess.”
She kissed him again, harder, and said, “I told you I was subject to getting beeped in the night, so we’ll just have to continue this another time, okay?”
For the first time, Leal sensed that the roles had been strangely reversed for him. Getting kicked out of bed while she went off to fight crime in the middle of the night. Was this what it felt like to be the girl? Looks like both of us got beeped tonight, he thought.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
No Need To Ask
Leal pulled up in front of Hart’s apartment building late Sunday morning and debated whether to honk the horn or just trust that his partner, ever observant, would be watching for him. Screw that, he thought, and tapped the horn twice. Everybody who isn’t up by now should be. He stretched and settled back in the seat, reflecting on what had turned out to be a pretty damn good couple of days for him.
He’d spent most of Saturday looking at new cars, and finally found a used red Pontiac Firebird in fairly decent shape with a reasonable price tag. Plus, when the dealer found out Leal was a cop, he offered to slip in a few extras, like a CD player and a free recharge on the air-conditioning. Leal had also managed to tag up with Sharon at her place again, after she’d recovered from her night session interviewing felons and witnesses, and they’d ended up in bed again. They’d started early enough this time to preclude any beeping interruptions and he’d ended up spending the night.
I’d better be careful, he thought, and he glanced out the window. Or this could develop into a habit. But maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, either.
Hart was still conspicuously absent, and Leal tapped the horn again. What the hell was keeping her? He looked up at her picture window and saw her wave, using an “I’ll be right there” gesture. Leal nodded and settled back again, thinking that next week he’d pick up his new wheels and drive to Sharon’s in style. No more using this beast, he thought. It had felt good to relax with Sharon for a couple of days. Ryan had been right to suggest the time off. It was great not having to think about the goddamn Walker case, or that fucker Brice and his horseshit theories, or that ass-kisser Ryan with his nose so far up Brice’s butt that he wa
s probably having trouble breathing.
He saw Hart jogging across the lawn, carrying a blue windbreaker and a spiral notebook. She had on a beige sleeveless blouse and black slacks, the big Model 19 bouncing in the holster on her hip. Leal hit the door lock and she jumped in looking, he noticed, raring to go.
“Hi,” she said, looking him over. “Am I dressed okay?”
“Sure,” he said. “How were your days off?”
“Oh, pretty good. I got a real heavy workout in Friday and did some posing routines. Yesterday I took a light one and did some work on the case.”
“Huh? What was that?”
“I ran a check on Simon Ellias, the poet,” she said, turning to look at him. “Guess what?”
He shrugged.
“He doesn’t exist,” she said.
Leal squinted at her. “Run that by me again.”
“I ran a Soundex on him and came up with zilch in Willow Springs,” she said, opening her notebook. Leal could see pages of notes in her neat cursive. “Remember that’s where the book said he lived?”
Leal nodded.
“So I went to the library and traced him down.” She paused and smiled. “Well, actually, this real helpful librar- ian did, but I found out his real name. Are you ready for this?”
Leal nodded again.
“Randall S. Pecker. No lie. That’s it.” Her grin looked a mile wide. “Simon might be his middle name. I guess we can surmise why he used Ellias, right?”
“I guess,” Leal said, smiling.
“And,” she said, paging through her notebook, “I also called that agency where Walker’s former housekeeper worked and persuaded them to give me her address. They wouldn’t do it over the phone so I went there and flashed my badge.”
Leal felt proud of her. She’d done some good legwork on this and he told her so.
“Thanks,” she said. “But I gotta tell you, Sarge, I could’ve used this baby instead of burning up a half a tank of my own gas driving back and forth.”
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