“You happen to get an ID on the vehicle?”
“They walked in. Probably parked several blocks away,” Ox said, grabbing a handful of roasted peanuts from a bowl. He shelled one and offered the insides to me before eating them in one smooth motion. “I’d have followed them, but it was lunchtime and the place was busy. Ruby was off today and we were one short in the kitchen.”
As in many downtown areas across the country, parking was at a premium in the historic Wilmington district. Well-traveled sidewalks, which connected more than two hundred square blocks, were often busier than the roads.
I thought about eating dinner, but settled for some peanuts instead. The only way to learn more about the visitors was to wait for them to return. I just hoped they did it soon.
SEVENTEEN
When the numbers came into focus as I woke up, the clock on my nightstand told me it was just after three o’clock in the morning. I’m not sure if it was an unnatural noise or a sense of intrusion, but something awakened me and rang my internal alarm. A squirt of adrenaline pulsed through my veins and I instantly went into combat mode. Cracker, asleep at the foot of the bed, suddenly lifted his head and stared toward the bedroom door with intensity. The outline of his alert ears and perfectly still wide head was barely visible by the streetlight filtering through my bedroom windows.
“Shhh,” I whispered to the dog. Reaching for the Glock, which was on the nightstand, I rolled off the mattress into a crouch. I waited for eight, maybe ten seconds and didn’t see or hear anything. Still, the feeling of unease did not dissipate and Cracker continued to stare into the darkness, his nose working. As it had done countless times before, my index finger rested lightly on the trigger, ready to inflict deadly force with less than a half-inch worth of movement.
“Stay,” I told the dog softly. I didn’t want Cracker involved with an intruder, especially since he probably wouldn’t offer help. If burglars were to hit the Block when Spud and I were away, Cracker would lick them in greeting and watch them cart off the goods with his tail wagging.
In spurts of quick, silent movement, I made my way through our kitchen and into Spud’s efficiency apartment without turning on lights. A pair of Frederick’s of Hollywood satin sleep shorts and matching cotton tank top were my pajamas of choice, and bare feet allowed me to move noiselessly. Spud’s bedroom door was open and I could just make out the rumpled covers of his bed. He wasn’t in it.
I jumped through the doorway, moving the Glock in a searching arc in front of me and came face-to-face with the barrel of a gun. It was one of Spud’s and he held it steady with both hands, pointed at my chest.
“Son of a bitch!” He exhaled quietly, as recognition registered in his brain.
“Sweet Jesus!” I whispered, thankful my father didn’t have a jumpy trigger finger.
We breathed deep and instinctively moved together so that our backs were flush against the bedroom wall. Once a cop, always a cop. And, once a marine, always a marine. Father and daughter shared the same genes and apparently, some of the same instincts. Something had awakened Spud, too, and he hadn’t liked whatever it was, either. A search of his room and the immediate hallway revealed nothing.
“You almost scared the piss out of me, for crying out loud,” he muttered. “My prostate ain’t what it used to be.” Spud had taken the time to don a robe and eyeglasses after he’d gotten out of bed. We paused to regroup, our weapons pulled in to our bodies, pointed at the ceiling.
“Stay here,” I told him.
“Like hell,” he said.
He would do what he wanted to anyway. “Okay, then, cover me.”
The house was eerily silent and in a heightened state of awareness, I could hear blood coursing through my arteries. I didn’t even detect the usual sounds a two-hundred-year-old building makes. It was as though the Block held its breath with indignation, waiting to see who had rudely invaded its upper level so early in the morning.
Spud and I made it to our shared kitchen when deep growling erupted and settled into sharp, spitting barks of warning. Cracker sounded like a lethal German shepherd instead of a perpetually happy, trusting Labrador. The next sound my ears processed was a gunshot. The explosion of gunpowder was reduced to a compressed whistling sound and echoing pop—the bullet had been fired from a small or medium caliber gun equipped with a silencer. The muffled sound ricocheted off the Block’s exposed brick walls and the barking stopped.
Wondering how badly Cracker was hurt or if the animal was dead, I resisted calling out to him. With Spud on my heels, I moved to the living area.
“Stay here,” I whispered again.
“Like hell,” he said again.
At the same instant we crossed into the living room, clicking sounds reached my ears. Cracker’s toenails dug into the hardwood floor as he ran at full speed toward the fireplace. I silently said a word of thanks to the man upstairs. We were all in immediate danger, but a nanosecond of relief washed over me when I knew Cracker hadn’t been hit.
Movement caught my eye as I searched for Cracker’s destination. Squatting on the elevated brick hearth, a bulky form aimed a gun at the dog, preparing to fire again. Several shots pierced the night at the same instant Cracker barreled into the man’s stomach with ninety pounds of canine force. The stranger’s body slammed against the brick wall of the fireplace and hung there for a frozen second before crumpling to the floor in slow motion.
Weapons ready, we scoured the living quarters for another intruder. There wasn’t one. Spud flipped on a light and I squinted as my eyes adjusted. Fur raised along his spine, Cracker stood over the man on our floor, a steady growl emanating deep from inside his belly. I kicked the gun, a Smith & Wesson Model 19 .38 revolver, away from the man’s hand—even though there was most likely not a need to.
I had aimed for the intruder’s shoulder area and the two rounds of .45 hollow-point ammunition from my Glock disabled him. But the single shot from Spud’s Ruger punched a hole squarely in the center of the man’s forehead. He’d landed on his back when he slid to the floor and the opening in his face looked small and perfectly round. The back of his head, though, would reveal a grisly hole the size of a baseball and I was glad we couldn’t see it. Just to be positive he was no longer among the living, I felt for a pulse on the man’s neck. There wasn’t one, and I immediately got the willies.
“Oh, man. I hate being around dead people.” Backing away in revulsion, I studied Spud with raised eyebrows, wondering why he hadn’t aimed to disable like I had. It was tough to get information out of a dead man.
“He was going to kill my dog, for crying out loud,” my father said.
I hadn’t realized Spud considered the dog his, but then I guess from a domestic standpoint, we had joint custody. And one thing was certain about Spud. Although his eyesight had deteriorated and his arthritic joints continued to thicken, his aim with a weapon was still dead-solid perfect. A gun collector and shooting enthusiast even before he’d become a cop, Spud taught me how to shoot at about the same time the training wheels were hammered off my bicycle. By the time he walked out of my life when I was nine, I could put a tight circle of holes through the center of a paper target with a .22 revolver at thirty feet. He’d taken his other guns, but left the snake gun with me. I still had it.
“Can’t say I blame you,” I said, petting the dog to calm Cracker’s stressed nerves. And mine. “But when they ask, tell the cops the guy was aiming at us.”
Spud didn’t flinch. “He was aiming at us.”
We studied each other for a beat.
“Look, kid,” my father said, gesturing with his gun, “that man didn’t break in to shoot a dog, for crying out loud. And since I can’t think of anybody who wants me dead, I figure the guy planned to shoot you, as soon as he took out Cracker.”
Still, he could have put his round into the man’s shoulder instead of his brain. “Your point is?”
“I don’t want to lose my daughter, for crying out loud.”
&nbs
p; It was as close as he’d ever come to saying how he felt about me. I’d take what I could get. “Thanks, Spud.”
It suddenly occurred to me that my sanctuary had been invaded. Since I’d opened the Barnes Agency, no one had ever come after me at home. The overwhelming majority of my jobs were nowhere near Wilmington and I’d come to think of the Block as my peaceful refuge. Although I’d installed a nearly impregnable security system when I first bought the building, nobody ever bothered to use it. Waking up to find an armed killer in my home stung like an unpredicted slap in the face. I felt foolish and vulnerable.
Cracker threw a final growl at the dead man before trotting to stand by Spud’s side.
“Way to kick some ass, you too-white fool,” Spud told the dog. Like me, he hadn’t believed the animal had any guard-dog instincts in him.
“You okay?” I asked Spud.
“Sure. You?”
“Sure,” I said. “Except for the minor detail of a dead man in our home.”
Glock in hand, I jogged down the stairs to search the Block’s lower level. There were no more bad guys hanging around, but one of the industrial garage doors had been pried open and was raised just enough for a man to belly-crawl through. The shooter had come in the same way he’d entered the previous day, when he’d spoken to Ox—right off the sidewalk, through the door, and into the pub. Only this time, he continued up the stairs that led to my home. I was in the habit of locking only the doorknob instead of the dead bolt above it, and that was just to keep an errant customer from wandering in. It was an easy lock to pick and once again, I mentally scolded myself for not taking precautions like setting the alarm system, especially considering current events that included getting shot at on the side of the road. Complacency could get you killed.
I flipped on the Block’s outdoor floodlights and grabbed the cordless phone from behind the bar to call Dirk. Oddly, it rang before I had a chance to punch any numbers.
I answered before the first ring stopped. “Hello?”
“What happened?” Ox said, the words rushing out. “You okay, Barnes?”
“A man tried to kill me, but he’s dead. How did you know something happened?”
“A dream woke me up. Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Spud?”
“He’s fine. Cracker is, too.”
“You search the guy?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“Need to search him before police arrive.”
The mere thought of squatting next to a dead person repulsed me. “Think to yourself that it’s just a body,” Ox continued. “An empty shell that can’t hurt you.”
“Okay,” I said, not at all comforted.
“See you in a few minutes. Meanwhile, do the search.”
“I haven’t called the cops yet. Can’t you search him when you get here, then we’ll call?”
“Somebody else may have already called,” Ox said patiently.
Knowing it would take police ten minutes to get to the Block regardless of who summoned them, I disconnected from Ox and immediately dialed Dirk at his home number.
“Thompson here,” he replied automatically through a sleep-laden haze. Since he was a detective on the force, phone calls in the middle of the night were probably more common than he’d like.
“Got a dead man inside my house,” I told him, “and it’s completely creeping me out. Would you please send somebody to haul the body out of here?”
“Jersey?”
“It’s me.”
“Somebody came after you at the Block? Is Spud okay?”
“Yes, and yes. But if it’s the same boys who came looking for me yesterday and spoke to Ox, there were two of them. I’ve only got one.”
“You see the other one?”
“No.”
“You dial nine-one-one?”
“No.”
“I’ll take care of it. You’ll be flooded with blue lights in no time,” he said.
I walked back upstairs and forced myself to take another look at the body on my floor. I didn’t know him but felt positive Ox would recognize him from the day before. In case I’d need them later, I snapped two photographs with a digital camera, one wide shot and one close-up of the face. Next, holding my breath and reminding myself that being frightened of a dead person was absurd, I slipped on a pair of latex gloves and did a rapid search of his clothing. He didn’t have another weapon on him nor a wallet. All I found were a set of car keys, half a roll of Turns antacids, a money clip holding less than a hundred dollars, and a matchbook from Club Capers. I wasn’t familiar with the establishment, but from the etched silhouette of a naked dancer on the cover, I imagined it could be an adult club. Scrawled in blue ink on the inside cover was what appeared to be, “collect” and below that, “5th St. left.” There was also “4:30” and tomorrow’s date written on it. I returned the money, keys, and Turns to their rightful pockets, went to my bedroom to get dressed, and practically ran back downstairs to get away from the body. Within minutes, the Block turned into a blue-and-white flashing circus. Ox arrived immediately after and when he encircled me with broad, warm arms, the rapidly cooling body on my floor ceased to panic me.
EIGHTEEN
I thought about the man that Spud killed while I grunted with the effort of bench-pressing one hundred and five pounds. I was at the Kingsport Health Club enjoying a free visit. I’d told the anorexic girl behind the counter that I was thinking about joining and wanted to try the place out. She gave me the once-over and, smiling with what she thought was a glamorously healthy look, told me to help myself and call her if I had any questions about the equipment. Although it was a beautiful smile, her face looked gaunt, as if the skin were stretched too tightly over her chin and cheekbones. When she handed me a towel and locker key, I noticed that her collarbones protruded enough to rest a pencil on top of them, and I experienced an urge to feed her. Instead, I returned the smile and toured the facility.
I’d already been once, to ask the manager a few questions after I found the encoded flash drive hidden in the same gym bag as a Kingsport Health Club aerobics schedule. The manager was happy to cooperate but all I learned was that the Chesterfields had a family membership. Jared and Lolly, separately, would work out occasionally.
I wasn’t accustomed to using Nautilus equipment instead of free weights and decided I didn’t much like the machines. There was something satisfyingly puritan in placing heavy metal discs on a bar and pumping it without the controlled stability that a Nautilus machine provided. But Kingsport didn’t have a free-weight room. I missed the odor of clean sweat and the grunts of exertion and the words of encouragement from spotters forcing one more repetition out of their partner’s exhausted pectorals. And I missed the cold beers that were drunk afterward, not to mention that I was often the only woman in the place. Kingsport was a gym for the beautiful people of Wilmington and its social-friendly atmosphere came complete with televisions, sofas, and a juice bar. The sounds of electronic beeps, blended with smooth hydraulic swishing sounds blanketed the room. It was almost hypnotizing.
Shaking out my arms, I maneuvered myself into an incline leg machine and set the pin to one-fifty. Lying on my back, focusing on the rhythmic tones as I methodically pushed the foot panel out and slowly allowed it to return, I noticed a fellow in the wall mirror looking at me. I gave a nod of acknowledgment before doing two more sets of twelve. I was looking forward to getting back to my regular gym for the next workout, even though there were better-looking men at this one. I managed to extricate myself from the machine with some grace and was wiping my face when he approached. He was younger than I with a slim, well-toned body and a dark, perfectly uniform summer glow that must have been gained by lying inside a tanning bed. Flirting with a regular might be a good way to pick up some useful information about Jared.
I gave him my charming smile. “Feel free to work in with me,” I said, even though there was an identical—and empty—leg machine right beside us.
He returned the smile. “Thanks.”
“Actually, I think I’m finished with this one so you’ve got it all to yourself. Lying nearly upside-down to do squats makes me a little nervous,” I said.
He laughed knowingly. “I know what you mean. It took me a couple months to get used to this club after always doing free weights. But it’s like drinking skim milk. Once you get used to it, you don’t like the regular stuff anymore. Free weights now seem archaic. I like having my pulse automatically checked, and knowing how many calories I’ve burned, and the total amount of weight I’ve lifted.”
“So you’re a regular here, then?”
“Sure am. Name’s Matt.”
I touched his arm. “Perfect, Matt! I’ll buy you a smoothie at the juice bar and you can tell me all about the place, since I’m thinking of joining.”
“Sounds good. Half hour?”
“Works for me.” He wasn’t as hunky as Ox by any means and he didn’t have Bill’s model-perfect face, but if I were in the dating market, I’d share a dance floor with him any night.
We went our separate ways and in my peripheral vision, I caught him discreetly watching as I navigated the machinery, expanding and contracting muscle groups in my body. I showered in the locker room and threw on a pair of white flare-leg jeans, the Sig in an ankle holster, a black tank top, and the same sandals I’d worn in. After returning the locker key to Anorexia, I found the juice bar and slid onto a seat next to Matt. He’d showered, too, and donned a clean tee and jeans.
I would have preferred my customary glass of water chased by a Bass ale but we ordered two fruit smoothies with powdered protein, ginseng, and vanilla. Surprisingly, mine tasted good—similar to orange sherbet with a bit of grit and spice in it. I felt healthier after the first few swallows, like I was making up for all the salt, grease, and booze I’d dumped down my gullet during the past week.
T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 01 - Southern Fatality Page 18