The kid waved him away.
The man started spraying the glass cleaner on the windshield.
The kid raised his hand again. This time his revolver was in it.
The man dropped the spray bottle on the curb and stuck both hands in the air. He backed away from the Mustang and put one hand on the handle of the shopping cart, indicating he was leaving.
The kid nodded and lowered the revolver out of Baker’s view.
The homeless man pulled a sawed-off shotgun free of the rags and emptied both barrels into the window of the Mustang.
There was no sign of the kid between the shattered window and the bloody dashboard.
Baker stepped out of the shadows and raised his right hand. “Nice shooting.”
The homeless man swung both barrels of the emptied shotgun toward Baker. “You must be the guy that called.”
Baker shot him twice in the heart with the .45 concealed in his left pocket. “I’m the guy.” Then he exchanged the .45 for the kid’s revolver and walked quickly away.
When he was safely removed from the scene, Baker called Little Bill Ellison and told him their target had surprised them and killed the kid before Baker could put him down.
“My God,” Ellison said. “How could that happen?”
Baker took the hollow-point bullet he’d palmed from the kid’s revolver and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t know. It’s almost like the man knew we were coming.”
John Billheimer holds an engineering PhD from Stanford and is the author of the “funny, sometimes touching,” Owen Allison mystery series set in his native West Virginia. A new series featuring a midwestern sportswriter with a gambling problem made its debut in September 2012 with the title Field of Schemes. Visit his website at JohnBillheimer.com.
THE CHAIR
* * *
* * *
Peter Blauner
As Arturo Burgos read the computer screen over his daughter’s shoulder, he let out a cry of anguish so sharp his wife, Nila, came running into the room.
“Ai, Nila.” He held his right elbow with his left hand as if he were having a heart attack. “How could this happen?”
On the monitor of the secondhand HP desktop that he’d paid a hundred dollars to have repaired for his daughter to take to the rich people’s college in Pennsylvania was a review of his business.
“Arturo Burgos es a fraud,” it began. “Most korrup furnechure-restore en the Bronx. Mi abuela’s best dinning roomchar kollaps soon as she sets on it.”
The corners of his eyes burned. Twelve years of long hours and earnest labor, trying to make a name for his business on Fordham Road and carry on the family tradition of the finest craftsmanship started by his great-grandfather in Bogota back in the 1920s. Years spent learning the subtle language of wood grains, of coming home smelling of glue and sawdust, of doing jobs at a loss just to build a reputation as an honest tradesman while trying to save enough to help pay for his daughter’s school books at this faraway college. All of it threatened by this character assassination in white letters on a navy background.
“Oh, Papi, forget about it,” his daughter Linda said. “It’s the Internet. You can’t take it to heart.”
The tender admiration with which she looked up at him, brown eyes and the same black pigtails she’d had when she was six, brought him back to sanity. His pride and joy. His heart soared when he thought of how she’d managed to rise above the norm at her mediocre public high school and win a scholarship based on her advanced math skills, but it plummeted when he thought of how he would miss her.
“Let it go,” she advised. “Look how many other good reviews you have. Eleven out of twelve give you five stars.”
He nodded and kissed her on top of the head. But all through dinner and watching the Yankees that night, doubt and anger plagued him, distracting him even from a ninth inning rally led by Robinson Cano. Although he had just turned fifty himself, this century bewildered him. A flurry of taps on a keyboard and one’s honor could be besmirched forever. In a more noble era, such slanders could be answered in a proper duel.
A week later, he insisted his daughter log on again. Three new reviews had appeared. Two lauded his attention to detail and his sense of “old world” courtesy, but there was a new attack.
“Burgos ruind an antque rockin char that ben in my familia for many year! He returnd with crak spindeles! Hes a peasant pretending to be an artis.”
A red mist fell over Arturo. The name on the slugline—SBoliver67—was obviously a ruse, but he recognized the pattern of misspellings and the author’s birth year. Undoubtedly, this was the work of his old employee Rafael Nunez, that boracchin from Cartagena, who had appealed to Arturo as a countryman in asking for a job and then abused his trust by showing up drunk and stealing from the cash register. He’d been badmouthing Arturo in the bars and bodegas of East Tremont for two years since getting fired, but now it was obvious the coward found a way to disseminate his complaints more widely.
Arturo waited until his wife and daughter were asleep and his beloved Yankees had fallen prey to the cruel stratagems of Boston. Then he went back to the keyboard and, using his daughter’s password, logged on to the offending website. Nunez had posted a third scurrilous review, and Arturo began to type out a bitter reply, hunting and pecking with two untutored index fingers. But after two sentences, he backspaced furiously. If Rafael had used trickery to get under his skin, he needed to be equal in stealth. Remembering the drunkard’s predilection for unvirtuous women, he began imitating the way he’d seen his daughter copy and move blocks of words on the screen, his fingers flexing and prancing across the keys as gracefully as Linda had danced the role of the deceptive contessa at her tenth-grade recital. “SBoliver67, you are a man of passion…”
Two detectives came to the house ten days later. Swollen men in dark suits and polished shoes not of the finest quality.
“We need to speak to your daughter,” said one as he sat down in a 1907 wing chair with cherrywood legs that Arturo had spent months varnishing.
“She’s busy packing,” Arturo said, as his wife joined them in the living room.
“We were telling your husband, we need to speak to her about an investigation. A man named Rafael Nunez was stabbed to death near the Grand Concourse two nights ago. He’d arranged to meet a young lady there. The messages to set it up came from your daughter’s e-mail account.”
“It’s not possible.” Arturo felt himself grow faint as his wife let out a wail. “My daughter is attending the University of Pennsylvania.”
“Not this term.” The other detective leaned on a Chippendale dresser that Arturo had refurbished for Linda to take to school. “She’s coming to our squad. And we got a warrant for her hard drive.”
Linda had emerged from the bedroom, bleary-eyed from last night’s farewell party. “Que pasa, Papi?”
The sight of her standing there, in her pigtails and college T-shirt, about to be yanked away from the promise of a bright future, caused Arturo to feel his heart was being yanked from his chest.
“Take me instead,” he pleaded.
“Doesn’t work like that, sir.” The detective who’d been standing put handcuffs on Linda. “Your daughter should’ve known better. This is the modern world.”
“Mi corazon!” Arturo waved his arms helplessly.
“That’s a nice chair,” the detective who’d been sitting said as he rose and looked back. “They don’t make them like that anymore.”
Peter Blauner is the author of six novels, including the Edgar Allan Poe Award–winning Slow Motion Riot and the New York Times bestseller The Intruder. His most recent book is Slipping into Darkness. He lives in Brooklyn with his family.
SUCKER’S BET
* * *
* * *
James O. Born
It was probably the puke that woke me up and left me retching and gasping for air. The panic was caused by a confluence of factors like the handcuffs secured behind
a heavy gas pipe in the corner of the dim room and the fact that someone had whacked me on the head hard enough to knock me unconscious. That had never happened before, and I didn’t like the feeling. My stomach still wanted to empty, and a trickle of dried blood cut across my face like a scar. I could feel it, but there was nothing I could do. Besides, the chicken parm sandwich I’d eaten for lunch that was splashed across my chest was more annoying than the dried blood.
There was nothing to do but gather myself. I wriggled in the hard wooden chair and noticed my issued Beretta and badge sitting on the bare concrete floor of the room. Then I realized it was a storage locker with a few boxes scattered around.
I tried to move my legs but noticed they were duct-taped to the legs of the chair. I thought of the old saying in the detective bureau: duct tape, the kidnapper’s best friend for over fifty years.
Next, my thoughts went to who could do this. Maybe if I still worked narcotics, it’d be easier, but three years in crimes/persons made the suspect list tough. All the homicide suspects were in prison or awaiting trial. But it could be anyone else. And there were a lot of suspects. It could even be an old DUI manslaughter defendant from my years in traffic homicide.
The thought made me remember a talk the chief gave me on my first day in uniform. The hulking bald man with a hard face said, “I want you to be nice to people. Go out of your way to help them. Talk to people on the street. But always have a plan to kill them.” That was the life of a cop. Chatting one minute and fighting for your life the next.
After a few minutes of worrying about myself, I started to realize how big this could be. Were my kids in jeopardy? My wives? I only spoke to one ex-wife, but I still didn’t want anything to happen to the other two. My mind flashed to Maria, the current title-holder. I had to get word to her at least. Tell her to watch out. She’d been a good wife. I’d just gotten bored. I should’ve learned, but the same patterns emerged after fifteen months or so. Now, nearly three years into my hitch with Maria, I was back to my old habits. I never should have rolled the dice again, but I was a gambler and I had a thing for Latin women.
I could hear voices but didn’t want to risk calling out. I might have a slight advantage if my abductors thought I still was unconscious. I struggled and realized I wasn’t moving anytime soon. I gazed across the dank space at my gun. I wanted to hold it so bad. Worse than any woman I had ever wanted to hold. I’d turn down a blow job for my gun right this second, and I’d never turned down a BJ in my life. That partially explained the extra marriages.
Where was the last place I remembered being? The club over on the east side of town, checking out the hot college girls cycling through, picking my next target. I liked them young and malleable. Then something flicked on the left side of the car and must have struck me through the open window. That was Cinco Muertos territory, but I had no beef with the gang. They were small-time dopers.
Maria wouldn’t miss me for a while. I’d told her I was working late. It was a simple excuse that always worked as long as I was home by daybreak.
My stomach growled and my head throbbed. At least I wasn’t gagged and could breathe freely. That was one of my fears: killed by my faulty sinuses if someone ever shut off air thorough my mouth. Weird, specific concern, but that’s how most irrational fears evolved.
There was movement in front of the room, and the metal sliding door rattled. This was it. The riddle would be solved. It was what happened next that scared me. I held my breath as the door slowly rose, making a clattering sound as the wheels turned along the track.
Sunlight flooded the room, answering one of my questions. I could barely make out the human form as it slipped into the room. I turned my head as my eyes adjusted to the light and mumbled, “What the hell is going on?” Then, with more effort, “Who are you?”
There was silence, and then I heard a woman’s voice. My hearing was still fuzzy, but the accent caught my attention.
“What?” I called out, desperate to hear the voice again.
“I said I expected you home hours ago.”
I blinked out the haze, and my eyes focused. It was my wife, Maria. I felt a surge of joy, then worried she might be held here against her will, too.
I blurted, “Are you all right?”
She smiled. “I must have hit you too hard.”
“Hit me? You?”
“Of course it was me. You gave me no choice. You rubbed it in my face, always chasing those young girls. I should’ve listened to my family and never agreed to marry you.”
“But I don’t understand.” My voice trailed off because I suddenly did understand. Everything.
Maria gave me a wicked smile and said, “I think my uncle’s cement mixer will explain it all better than I can.”
It was right then that I finally realized marriage was a sucker’s bet.
James O. Born is the author of seven novels. He won the Florida Book Award for best novel and the Barry Award for best short story. He has published science fiction as well as crime fiction.
ENTITLED
* * *
* * *
Rhys Bowen
“Sorry to disturb you, Professor, but I’m just popping down to the village. Is there anything you need?”
Dr. Woodson turned his wheelchair toward the round, comfortable shape of his housekeeper. “No thank you, Mrs. Broad.” The words came out as if spoken by a robot, not from Dr. Woodson’s very human face.
“Right-o, then. I’ll be off. Mr. Jackson should be back from Cambridge any moment.” She closed the door almost reverently behind her. He went back to work. The next second he was lost in the world of quantum physics.
He heard the light click of the door handle, though. His remaining senses had become fine-tuned. Including his brain. Still one of the best in the world.
“Jackson?” he asked, not looking up from the screen. He had been waiting impatiently for his secretary’s return. There had been a flood of correspondence since the Nobel Prize had been announced.
“Not Jackson,” said a voice behind him.
He spun the wheelchair in surprise to see that the intruder had come in through the French windows.
“Mason. My dear old friend.” His face managed the ghost of a smile.
“Hello, Woodson,” the man said. They were about the same age, but Mason was still in the full bloom of health. He looked down at the shrunken cripple in the chair, his head held steady in a cradle, a great bellows behind the chair making an almost-human sigh as it breathed in and out for him.
“I gather congratulations are in order,” Dr. Mason said.
“Thank you. A great honor. I feel quite humbled by it.”
“As well you should,” Dr. Mason said, his big shape coming between Woodson and the sunlight. “Getting all the credit for years of shared research.”
“Of course you deserve some of the credit,” Woodson said. “I’m going to make that clear in my speech.”
“Some of the credit?” Mason’s face was flushed now. “It should have been my prize, Woodson, not yours. You won it with the sympathy vote.”
Woodson’s clear gaze held the other man’s eyes. “Not true, Mason, and you know it. We did the initial research together, but I went on.”
“I took a different tack.”
“The road less traveled?” Woodson asked. “And that has made all the difference?”
“The difference of a million pounds.”
“Oh, so it’s the money that comes with the prize that irks you?”
“I need that money, Woodson.”
“My own lifestyle is not exactly cheap to maintain,” Woodson said. “All these gizmos just to keep me alive.”
“To keep you alive,” Mason repeated. “It must be terrifying to be so helpless.”
Woodson swiveled the chair as Mason circled around him.
“One tug, Woodson,” he said. “One pull of the plug and you’re gone.” His hands reached for the back of the wheelchair.
“Get awa
y from me.” Woodson swung the chair to avoid him.
Mason laughed. “I don’t think you can run away from me, old chap. I’ve wanted you dead for years. Now I’m damned if you’re going to get that prize.”
“I’ll sound the alarm for my secretary.”
“I happen to know he’s not back yet,” Mason said. “I’ve planned this perfectly. Everyone thinks I’m in France. And, as you notice, no fingerprints.”
Woodson realized now what had been bothering him. The man wore latex gloves. One gloved hand reached behind the wheelchair.
“So simple. Disconnect computer. Then I pull out the breathing tube and you stop breathing. So long, old chap. Brilliant brain. Such a pity.” He gave a violent yank, looked back once, and then slipped out through the French doors.
Woodson fought rising panic. Had to tell someone. Couldn’t telephone without his computer. Couldn’t open the door. No way to communicate. His eyes scanned the room. Less than a minute. Only his brain to help him, if he worked fast. The robot arm shot from the computer to grab a book. It fell to the floor, then another…
Inspector Hadley looked around the room. Too many books for his taste. The walls were lined with them.
“You don’t think it was an accident then?” he asked the young man and the housekeeper who stood together, ashen faced.
“But someone disconnected the computer,” the secretary said. “He couldn’t do that himself.”
“Who found him?”
“I did, sir,” Mrs. Broad said.
“And the room looked like this?”
“He was facing the wall,” Mrs. Broad said. “There were several books lying on the floor.”
“Where are they now?”
“I picked them up,” she said.
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