Buzz Killer

by Tom Straw

  C H A P T E R • 26

  * * *

  A week had passed. Or maybe fifteen minutes. Who knew? Not Macie. All was timelessness and fog. Her brain felt swaddled in the same coarse woolen blanket as her tongue. The eyeballs moved, but behind putty lids too heavy to lift. A hard swallow tasted of rubbing alcohol mixed with Kool-Aid powder and burned her throat like strep. Drawing in air both hurt and helped. It carried the odor of diesel and stale motor oil but each inhale brought her around to slow consciousness with enough clarity to be scared shitless. Even though her eyes were closed a man’s voice said, “She’s back,” and the other answered, “About fucking time.” Apparently playing dead worked with bears, not so well with attack dogs.

  Wild forced her lids open, and the first thing she saw was their backs while they fiddled with some gear on a workbench. Which made her wonder why they were so careless with her until she tried to wipe her mouth and couldn’t move her hand. Her wrists were Velcroed to the arms of the chair. That small bit of effort taxed her and she checked out again, waking next time to Pipe Wrench giving her light slaps on the cheek. “Rise and shine.” Sing-song, but his cynical voice robbed it of any cheer. A mask covered her mouth, and every breath lifted the haze. So, oxygen. She filled her lungs with deep huffs and took in her surroundings. The room had a high ceiling, narrow oblong windows where the cinder-block walls met the roof, and a concrete floor showing ancient grease and oil stains. The metal rolling garage door to her left was down, and smeary tire tracks indicated where cars and trucks had come in and out for repairs over years.

  Pipe Wench took away her mask. “Time for a chat. Be smart, and it’ll save a lot of trouble.”

  “And pain,” said the other, the second man at Stamitz’s apartment invasion. Wild looked around for an actual pipe wrench and didn’t see one. But there were plenty of tools mounted on the walls, not a welcome sight.

  “Nicely now,” said Pipe. “Where is he?”

  “Hall?” she asked. “I don’t know. I came here looking for him, you know that.”

  “Not Hall. Where is the Russian?”

  The last time Macie saw Borodin, she was chasing him into the Low Line. “He could be anywhere. I have no idea.”

  His friend was impatient, volatile. “Fucking lawyers. Let me give her a jolt just for being a bitch.”

  Pipe Wrench ignored him. “What did Hall tell you?”

  “About what?”

  Pipe Wrench persisted evenly. “What did he tell you about the take?”

  “What take?”

  Her tormentor leaned in close enough to smell his breath. “The take, the take, the—”

  “—I don’t know anything about his take. You mean from the break-ins?”

  “Now we’re getting there. What about the pouch?”

  “Pouch? Honestly, I don’t know anything about a pouch.”

  A silent decision passed between the pair. Pipe turned to the workbench; his partner grabbed Macie’s blouse with two hands and ripped it apart, sending the front buttons ticking in all directions across the cement. Her attempt to cover up was thwarted by the straps binding her wrists. She tried to kick him but her ankles also were fastened to the chair. She heard a click then a droning hum that reminded her of the beehive her mother had started in the garden up in Rye. Pipe Wrench turned toward her from the worktable. He was holding a silvery metal wand, the size and shape of a microphone, trailing a thick cord leading to a box with lights and a dial. He approached her, then thrust the smooth metal head against her diaphragm. Immediately her skin burned and her solar plexus tightened involuntarily into an agonizing clench. Macie gasped, a moan of pain knotted in her throat. He pulled it away. While she panted, head down, Wild didn’t need to ask: she knew exactly what that was. A TENS machine like this had scorched the crew chief before he got dumped into the tidal marsh. It may have even been the same one, a grim thought that Macie tried to suppress because it was a preview of coming attractions.

  “You can try to hold it back,” said Pipe Wrench, “but you can’t fight this.”

  “Unless you die, trying,” said the other, with a cackle.

  “I’m going to explain something to you.” Pipe held up his wand. “That was nothing.” He reached for the TENS box on the workbench and turned the dial up a notch like a burner on a stove. Did the hum really grow louder or was that the blood rushing in Macie’s ears? “At this level, there’s a good chance the muscle contractions could stop your heart. You up for that, or do you want to start talking?”

  “Please. Don’t. You’re asking me questions I can’t answer.”

  “You mean won’t answer.”

  “Can’t. Because I don’t know.”

  “Hmm, which is it? One way to find out.” For good measure, he gave the dial another click. A noise made them turn. It was like a small pebble or a coin bouncing off the rolling garage door. Then silence. “Check it out,” said Pipe Wrench.

  His partner left Macie’s side and tiptoed to the garage door, resting a precautionary hand on the grip of his gun. He pressed an ear to the articulated metal and listened. Satisfied, he turned and shrugged. That was his pose when an engine roared, tires squealed, and the entire garage door got ripped off its frameworks with a thunderous blast as a tow truck barged clean through it.

  Gunnar Cody floored the wrecker through the space. The roaring truck detached the garage door, which stuck to its grill and turned the business end of the rig into a snowplow of angry steel. It broomed the entire area in front of Macie, scraping away Pipe Wrench, his torture device, even the workbench, slamming the lot into the wall so hard it lifted the rear tires of the fifteen-ton Freightliner.

  The blitz became a ghastly slow-motion event for Macie, who gawked at her torturer, now pinned between the warped metal door enfolding the front of the wrecker and the wall of hanging tools. One of them, a long chisel, had impaled him through the back of his neck, leaving a gurgling exit wound between his Adam’s apple and jaw where the blade protruded. Poetic for the man favoring a tool as weapon of choice. His accomplice’s lower leg splayed out from under the engine block, a lifeless foot lacking only a ruby slipper.

  Cody hustled around the rear of the truck, ducking under the tow hook. “Don’t look,” he said, then stood before her to block the view of the gore. He had on a pair of nitrile gloves that made it difficult to undo her restraints. After some cursing, he finally threw aside the last strap and got her to her feet. Her purse was on the floor behind her chair. He snagged it and asked, “Can you walk?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. Then you can run.” He didn’t wait for agreement but hooked an arm around her back, then ushered her past the collision to the rear of the garage. He gently set her to lean against the wall before he opened the back door, made a recon of the outside, then enfolded her again, hauling her into the narrow breezeway separating theirs from the next building. Chalking it up to her vulnerability after the trauma, Macie found his physicality powerful and comforting. At the end of the tight little alley, he planted her against the cinder blocks, boosted himself up to stand one-footed on an electric meter housing, and pulled down a cable taped to the outside of the oblong window overhead. “We’re clear, let’s go.” But after he made his cautionary peek around the corner of the building, he held back. A few seconds later a car passed. When it was gone, he drew her out onto the sidewalk one street behind the auto repair shop. He picked up speed as they got closer to his van.

  “Wait,” said Wild. “My car . . .”

  “Is parked far enough away that you’re better off leaving it for now.” Gunnar opened the passenger door and helped her up. “No sense wandering back to a crime scene. There you go, lift your knee.” But Macie hesitated. She had so many questions, so much had happened so quickly. Then she heard an approaching siren, and just got in.

  ♢ ♢ ♢

  Macie wept. The tears came unbidden, and she sobbed as quietly as she could, facing away from him all the way out of the Bronx, hug
ging her blouse together but really hugging herself. Gunnar said nothing. He let her have her feelings without platitudes or diversion, although once, at a stoplight after they crossed the river into Manhattan, he did place his palm on her knee. She didn’t respond to it, but felt a little sorry when the green light came and he removed it. “How did you find me?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “To me.”

  “You’ve got Find My iPhone toggled on. When I got your message and you didn’t return my call, my Spidey-sense tingled. Plus I have my guy. You know, CyberG.”

  “You hacked me.”

  “Be grateful for that.”

  “You came damned close to taking me out along with those two.”

  Resigned to justify the grand entrance, Gunnar said, “You’re familiar with TARU, that little unit I used to work with? The one you have a bug up your ass about? One of our gigs was setting up communications for hostage negotiations. What I did was straight out of training. I assessed the location then planted a mic and lipstick cam looking down from the window so I could get a visual on you and your pals.” She recalled him pulling down the cable as they left and nodded that she was following so far. “With eyes and ears on that garage, I was able to do two things: one, measure distances and positions; two, I saw and heard you were in danger. Guess you didn’t know one of my numerous skills is how to hotwire a truck. Which I would have proved if the keys weren’t already in it.”

  “Why didn’t you just call the police? A novel idea when someone is kidnapped.”

  “Timing. Or did you kinda like the pain thing? Those TENS units get used in BDSM dungeons, too, you know. So there’s no shame if you did.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever known a man who could drive a truck into a steel garage door, kill two people, and joke it off. Don’t you feel regret?”

  “Yes. It was a perfectly fine garage door.” At the next light, he turned to her with a more sober look. “Of course, there’s something. Maybe not regret, I don’t know . . . But don’t forget they were about to turn your heart into a Hot Pocket. That’s when I lost my deep sense of kinship for them.” Gunnar locked eyes with hers. “You just do the job. Period, full stop.”

  She sat quietly for a few blocks, touching the superficial burn on her stomach. “I think we need to report this.” Anticipating him, she added, “At least I do. Officer of the court, and all that.”

  “Not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Wish I could say I was surprised to hear you say that.”

  “Well, seeing how we still aren’t sure how your Buzz Killer mysteriously disappeared from a highly secure jail ward—while under police supervision—I would suggest that the police are not your best option, counselor.”

  The weight of the trauma, the spreading stain of conspiracy made her blurt, “I need to go to my office!” Then Wild seemed to realize how manic that came off, and dialed it down. “I need to be busy. And I need to stay on my case. Cases,” she corrected for good measure.

  For his part, Gunnar said exactly the right thing. “Don’t need to explain anything to me.”

  First she wanted to change clothes and clean up. Out of an abundance of caution and for her peace of mind, Gunnar offered to escort her to her apartment and then drive her downtown to the public defenders’. Macie accepted without a blink.

  After he walked her place to clear the rooms and closets, she showered while he made them some coffee. When she appeared, it was with damp hair, a crisp blouse, and a suit right out of the dry-cleaning plastic. She drew an approving sip from her mug and tilted her head toward him. “Thank you.”

  “Not too strong?”

  “I mean for rescuing me. In all the craziness, I realized I hadn’t said that.”

  “Not a problem. Although this is the second time I’ve saved you, and the second time you’ve given me shit after.”

  She draped a hand on top of his, the make-good for the missed moment on their drive. “Next time, my turn.”

  “So I can give you shit?”

  “You can try.”

  “I love a challenge,” he said, laced with flirtation. Once again, Macie found herself drawn to the current of warmth flowing from him. Then he switched the subject. It felt the same as when he had taken his hand off her knee in the van. “OK, so while you’ve been performing your ablutions, I’ve been thinking about why those two fucks were drilling down on you about Jackson Hall’s take.” Wild withdrew her hand and pulled a frown. The sensation of her violation was still fresh. The heat of the shower had made her skin burn, and now, reliving her rendition was having the same effect on her breathing. “Oh, listen, if this is uncomfortable for you . . .”

  “Maybe just now. Give me an hour.” She laughed. “You’re looking at the Queen of Compartmentalization.”

  But he studied her with those kind-sad eyes and said, “If you’d feel better not being here alone, you’re welcome to crash at my place tonight.”

  She ran a finger around the rim of her mug, and said, “No, I think I need to cocoon in my own place.” Then she looked up to him, adding, “But you can stay here.” Macie felt a chest flutter and quickly tagged it with, “On the couch I mean. I don’t mean . . .”

  “Right. Whatever you don’t mean— Yes, I’d be happy to.”

  C H A P T E R • 27

  * * *

  Even though it was the end of her workday, Wild settled into her desk with a vengeance. The self-proclaimed Queen of Compartmentalization needed the governing of a realm to distract her, and she began with a session of docket signing with her paralegal. When she had finished, the Aussie gave her a squinting appraisal. “You doing all right? You look a bit of a cot case.”

  “You’re going to have to translate.”

  “There I go again with the Melbournese. Exhausted. Fit for bed.”

  Macie thought about confiding her ordeal. Tiger Foley was one of those rare people with whom she could share a secret and know it wouldn’t go anywhere. But this was too loaded, especially since it wasn’t just about her, but also about Gunnar having killed two men. So she told the truth she could tell. “It’s been stressful, Tige. Client on the loose, body turning up this morning . . .”

  “Of course. Just checking.” He gathered the signed documents. “Shall I assemble the troops?”

  She declined. Not only was Soledad Esteves Torres off campus in Red Hook on an outreach to a coworker of Jackson Hall’s girlfriend, too many meetings stalled progress. “I’ll just do some office hopping.”

  Tiger grinned. “Then, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go fossick the cubbies to make sure someone’s actually in them when you ’roo around.”

  Jonathan Monheit was in the middle of typing up his notes from the visits he’d made to Hall’s known associates. “I’ll still send you the e-mail, but here’s my download, going geographically. I did East Side first. The fishing pier was NG. All school kids or some day camp, whatev. No adults. I’ll go back in the morning. That’s when his buddies usually met. Next, the Stealer’s Wheel bar on 125th. Lovely establishment. When I finally found somebody who’d talk to me, he said there was no sign of him.”

  “You think that’s covering?”

  “It occurred to me. But he also told me other people had just been in looking for him, so I figured he was being straight.”

  “Other people? Like what, cops?”

  “I asked. He didn’t know.”

  “Did you get descriptions?” He gave her the Jonny Midnight blush and said he’d go back and ask. “And did you make it to Spatone’s?”

  “My Upper West Side leg. He was there, but wouldn’t open the door. Yelled through the little peep hatch that last time he talked to you, his friend Stamitz got fished out of a marsh in Baychester.”

  Chip Ross didn’t have an office. He had a modest perch in a bull pen shared with the other summer interns. It’s what the budget allows in a public defender law office. Chip had just returned from a follow-up meeting, and Macie found him taking off his b
lazer, revealing a powder blue oxford shirt drenched with perspiration from the humidity. “This could be something,” he said, blotting his forehead with his sleeve. “Got a call a couple hours ago from one of the sons of that Arab dude.”

  “Mr. Sharif?” she asked, hoping respect was contagious.

  “Yes, Fahad Sharif. Anyway his eldest son was there the other day when I reached out to him to ask if anyone had circled around to sell back any of his stolen property. Mr. Sharif had said no, but his son—Idris is his name—he is into college football, and we got to talking LSU. ‘Geaux Tigers.’ So I guess I made a connection, because when Idris called me to meet up with him just now, he told me his dad actually had been called by someone trying to sell back two wristwatches.” Chip looked at his notes. “One of the Cartiers and the Patek Phillippe. At first, his father was going to buy them back, but after they agreed on a price, the guy squeezed him for $5,000 more at the last minute, just like with Henkles. Mr. Sharif walked away. Said he was too sick to deal with the stress.”

  “Did he say who the caller was?”

  “I asked. He never knew because his father never got a name.”

  “You’re right, this is definitely something. Nice going, Mr. Ross.”

  ♢ ♢ ♢

  “So we have confirmation of a pattern,” said Gunnar. Macie had called him as soon as she finished with Chip. “Somebody, or a couple of somebodies, on that burglary crew was trying to extort ransom for some of the items.”

  “Not only of ransoming stolen goods,” she added, “but exploiting the victims at the eleventh hour with a price bump. Could that be enough to give one of our burglary victims a motive to kill?”

  “You mean kill Pinto? Maybe. Stamitz? Possibly. If I don’t sound completely sold it’s only because those two were done-up royally before they died. You don’t cowboy somebody like that over a wristwatch. But it’s a clue we didn’t have before. Hopefully we’ll figure out where it fits. Hang on a sec.” In the background, Wild heard Gunnar telling someone to keep the change.