The Assassin

by Rachel Butler

  A quiver of anticipation skipped down Tony’s spine— the same quiver he’d felt the week before when he’d found out the Prinz kid had witnessed Bryan Hayes’s murder. Removing a notebook and pen from his jacket, he flipped open to a clean page. “Did you get a good look at him?”

  Javier’s head bobbed. He swiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve, then took another anxious look around at the surveillance van and the cemetery crew, now working at the grave. “G-good enough. He was tall, taller than me. Heavier, too. Maybe—maybe about his size.” He gestured toward Simmons, who was now waiting at the car. “He come to the house after they”—another jerk toward the grave—“got there, and there was gunshots, and then he left.”

  “Was he black, white, Hispanic, Asian?”

  “Black.” His head bobbed again. “Black as me. And bald. Balder than me.” With a nervous grin, he combed his fingers through his thinning hair, then seemed to realize for the first time how bad the shakes were. He stuck the cigarette between his lips, then folded his arms tightly across his chest as if he could hold himself steady that way.

  A black man. The Prinz kid was just as certain that Hayes’s killer had been white. Maybe Henry was right, and Hayes’s murder had nothing to do with the vigilante. Tony felt oddly disappointed—and stubbornly disbelieving.

  “You’re sure he was black?”

  “Come on, Chee. I been black all my life. You think I can’t recognize a black man when I see him?”

  So maybe the Prinz kid was wrong. It had been late for a six-year-old—nearly midnight. He had been awakened by a dog barking outside his open window, then a knock at Hayes’s apartment across the sidewalk, and had rolled over in time to watch a tall man shoot Hayes when he opened the door. Maybe he’d gotten confused, or had been so traumatized by what he’d seen that he didn’t really know what he’d seen.

  But Tony had interviewed the kid a short time later, and he hadn’t seemed at all traumatized. In fact, Tony would have bet he didn’t even understand what death really was. People died on TV and in movies and video games all the time, and then they showed up again, just fine, in other TV shows and movies or when the video game was restarted.

  “That neighborhood’s three miles from where you live. What were you doing there in the middle of the night?”

  “Wasn’t the middle of the night. It was almost morning—about four o’clock.” That uneasy grin came again. “Time don’t matter when a man has certain needs. I was lookin’ to—to fulfill those needs.”

  “Your dealer live in that area?”

  Nervous energy damn near vibrated through Javier. “Aw, Chee, don’t ask me about that. I can’t tell you nothin’ about nothin’ if you’re gonna be like that.”

  “Okay. Tell me everything from the beginning.”

  Javier rolled back on his heels. “I been trying to cut back, you know, but I had a tough night Saturday. I couldn’t get by on my own, so I went to score. I was waitin’ over by that house when them boys came. They went inside, and a little bit later, the other guy showed up.”

  So much for his theory that the shooter had been waiting for the other three to arrive. “How much later? Five minutes? Ten?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t wear no watch. But, yeah, somethin’ like that.”

  When he didn’t go on, Tony prodded. “Then what happened?”

  “For a minute, nothin’. Then all of a sudden, there was six gunshots, real quicklike. Bam, bam, bam. Then the fourth man come out, got in his truck—a red one, like a Bronco or something—and he drove off. He wasn’t in no hurry at all, just takin’ his own sweet time.”

  “And then?”

  “I didn’t stick around no longer. I scored someplace else,” Javier said with that shaky grin. “Today’s the first chance I had to talk to you.”

  Something nagged at Tony—the unwillingness to admit that his instincts had been wrong?—but he pushed away from the tree. “Thanks, Javier. I’ll be in touch, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. Mind if I get out of here before you leave? Wouldn’t want people to see me talking to cops.” At Tony’s nod, Javier darted away, hands in his pockets, head down.

  Before he’d gone ten feet, Tony called, “Hey, Javier, you know a guy by the name of Marcell Napier?”

  He didn’t slow his steps, but just replied over his shoulder. “Nope. Sorry.” As soon as he reached the gate, he trotted across the street and ducked into a waiting car. The driver made a U-turn, then headed off in the opposite direction.

  Tony headed for his own car, where Simmons was munching on a cookie and talking with Darnell Garry. He’d discarded his suit jacket, revealing sweat stains on his too-tight shirt.

  “Crank up the AC on this thing,” he said, straightening as Tony opened the door. He affected a bad Southern accent. “I’m about to wilt in this hot summer sun.”

  Garry snorted. “ ‘Wilt’? I always thought you were a little light in the loafers, Frankie.”

  Simmons made kissing noises at him as he gave him the finger.

  Garry turned to Tony. “The lab’ll have these pictures ready for you in a few hours. They’ll give you a call.”

  Tony nodded as he slid behind the wheel. The car had been in the shade when he’d parked it there nearly three hours earlier, but now the sun shone down on it full blast. He started the engine, rolled down the windows, and flipped the AC to high, then fastened his seat belt as Simmons hunkered down in the passenger seat, juggling cookies, suit coat, and seat belt.

  “Wasn’t that ol’ Javier? What’d he want?”

  After Tony repeated the gist of the conversation, Simmons frowned. “So now we’re looking for a tall black man and a tall white man. Hell, that oughta cut our suspect list down to no more than fifty thousand.” He stuffed the cookie bag onto the dash and ignored the shower of crumbs that spilled to the floor. “Hey, Chee, have you ever noticed when we work together that everyone always has information for you? Like I’m not even workin’ the same case? I wonder why that is.”

  “Because they know I’ll do something with it?” Tony responded dryly as he followed the van along the winding road to the nearest gate.

  “Hey, I’d do something with it.”

  “Yeah. Put it away until Monday morning.”

  “The city don’t pay me enough as it is. They’re damn sure not gettin’ overtime from me. Besides, is it my fault that I have a life?”

  “I have a life.”

  “Yeah, sure. What’re you gonna do tonight? No, wait. Let me guess. Have a frozen dinner while you study those photographs and all the other evidence, then go to bed. Am I right, or am I right?”

  He was closer than Tony wanted to admit.

  “No answer, huh?” Simmons shook his head mournfully. “Just say the word, and I’ll set you up with one of Suz’s friends.”

  “I told you, I’m not interested. They’re all looking to get married.”

  “Not all of them. There’s one or two who’re just looking to get laid. They’re not the hottest ones in the bunch, but hey, in the dark who’s gonna notice?”

  The hottest one in any bunch was temporarily living next door. If Tony was looking for anything, that was probably where he’d look first. Not that it mattered. The only thing he wanted to find right now was a killer.

  And if that said something pathetic about his life, so what?

  The thud of his footsteps on the asphalt Saturday morning seemed to echo the thud of Tony’s heart as he matched his pace to Marla Johnson’s. Given a choice when he’d met the crime-scene tech jogging on the trail, he would have said “Hello,” then continued along his usual route, but she’d asked him to join her.

  “Anything new on the case?” she asked, her breathing labored.

  “We might have a witness to the last three deaths.”

  “Reliable?”

  “Usually. He says the killer was a black man.”

  “What does that do to your theory that the same guy killed Hayes?”

  “Blows it t
o hell.” Maybe. Something still nagged him about Javier’s version of events. He hadn’t figured out what yet, but it would come to him. Sooner or later, it always did.

  “Anything else?”

  “Jerome Little showed up at Grover’s funeral.”

  “Those months he spent in the hospital might be a pretty good motive for murder.”

  “Uh-huh. But that was more than a year ago. Why wait until now?”

  “Revenge is a dish best served cold, or so they say.”

  “Maybe.” Jerome had been busy in the past year, relearning things like how to walk again. He’d made a pretty good recovery, though his gait was stilted, his speech slurred.

  But it was tough to see him as an avenger. He was small-time—a petty thief, a petty human being. He didn’t take big risks or expect big payoffs, and he didn’t have what it took to commit cold-blooded murder. Tony was sure of it.

  “Maybe,” Marla repeated sarcastically. “Richard uses the same tone when he thinks I’m totally wrong but doesn’t have the nerve to say so. So what’s your theory?”

  “I’m not sure I have one.”

  “You think the guy’s a vigilante?”

  “Could be.”

  “Or maybe another dealer looking to take over the business for this area?”

  “Could be that, too. Maybe they shared an unhappy customer. Or maybe only one of these guys was really a target and the rest were meant to throw us off the trail.” He didn’t put much weight in either possibility, though. If forced to choose at that very moment, he would opt for a power grab. If one person controlled all the drug trade for northeastern Oklahoma, he could make a hell of a lot of money . . . and a hell of a lot of enemies. But dead enemies weren’t a problem, were they?

  As they approached the Twenty-first Street crossing, Marla slowed to a walk, then stopped, bending over, forearms resting on her knees. The position pulled her nylon shorts snug over her butt and drew a whistle from a teenage boy whizzing past on in-line skates. She flashed the kid a grin, then slowly straightened.

  “I don’t suppose you’d want to skip the rest of your run and have breakfast with me.”

  For the hundredth time, Tony wasn’t sure exactly what she was offering. Her words said “just breakfast,” but the sly look in her eyes hinted at more, and the seductive smile suggested a hell of a lot more. He was tempted to say yes just to find out. But he didn’t know how much temptation he could withstand this early on a warm Saturday morning, and he wasn’t willing to find out.

  “Sorry,” he said, and saw she’d expected his refusal. “Go home and have breakfast with your lieutenant.”

  “I’m having lunch and dinner with him. Can you blame a girl for liking a little variety now and then?”

  Tony used the sound of approaching footsteps as an excuse to shift his attention away—and found he couldn’t look back. The woman who’d just turned the corner onto the trail was tall and slender, and wore bright blue shorts that made her legs look a mile long. Her sports bra was blue, too, partially hidden beneath a crimson tank top that clung, jeez, the way clothes should. Her black curls were pulled off her neck with a big clip, and her eyes were covered by mirrored lenses that reflected the scenery back at him. She smiled faintly as she passed, and neither noticed nor cared that he turned to watch her go.

  He was still staring, mouth dry, when Marla’s voice drifted through the fog around him. “And here I’ve thought all my life that being blonde and petite was the way to get a man’s attention. Catch up to her. Get her number.”

  “I’ve got her number,” he murmured. Not literally, but even better, he had her name and address. Finally he managed to look away. “She’s my neighbor. Moved up here temporarily from Florida. She’s living in Mrs. Howell’s house.”

  “That’s convenient—though it makes it hard to cheat.”

  “I don’t cheat,” he said automatically, then frowned. “Did you cheat on me when we were together?”

  “Don’t take it personally. I cheat on everyone,” she said matter-of-factly. Then she patted him on the arm. “Go on. At the rate she’s going, she’ll be at the river before you catch up. See you around work.”

  He watched Marla jog off to the north, then pivoted and headed back along the trail. Selena had been moving pretty quickly—and why shouldn’t she? She was only a few inches shorter than him, and was all legs. But he wasn’t following her. He was just running the same route, and it had been his route years before it had become hers.

  He zoned out all the distractions around him—the skaters, the cyclists, the runners, the walkers—and concentrated instead on his cases. He’d spent so much time studying the evidence that he could call it all to mind—photos, fingerprints, ballistics, autopsies, financial records, phone records. Seven homicides—because he was still counting Hayes until he had solid reason not to—with the victims all male. Three black, two white, one Hispanic, one Asian, all involved in the drug trade. The last three killed in north Tulsa, one each in midtown, east, west, and south neighborhoods. One partial license plate number that led to hundreds of cars, and two conflicting eyewitness descriptions that matched thousands of men in the city.

  Not much to go on.

  When he’d returned to the office after the funeral the previous day, he’d met with Henry and Captain Billings, the chief of detectives, and filled them in on what little he and Simmons had learned, including Javier Perkins’s story. So you were wrong about Hayes, Henry had said. It isn’t a vigilante case. Now you can hand it over to someone else.

  Not yet, Tony had argued. He’d talked his way into keeping the case, though Henry had made it clear his patience was wearing thin. Once that was settled, Tony had asked permission to form a task force, which was pretty routine for a case like this. They could put together some Homicide detectives, some guys from Narcotics and Street Crimes, maybe even someone from the DEA, and have a better shot at finding the killer before he found his next victim.

  The chief of detectives had looked to Henry for guidance on how to respond, and when Henry had shown no enthusiasm, neither had Billings. There wasn’t enough manpower, he’d said—a difficult point to argue considering the budget cuts in preceding years. Tony and Simmons could handle it just fine.

  Tony scowled. If seven students at the University of Tulsa had been murdered, there damn well would have been a task force. If seven bankers or seven nurses or seven teachers had been shot to death, he and Simmons would have had all the help they could use and then some.

  Which led to the dirty little truth—none of the people charged with stopping the vigilante, or whatever the hell he was, cared. He was cleaning up the streets, making the city a safer place. As for the fact that he was breaking the law . . . well, the ends justified the means, right?

  The tenor of his footsteps changed as he started across the Pedestrian Bridge. People fished below the dam, kids peered between the rails into the river, and one teenage couple made out beside a massive beam. The closer he got to the west side, the stronger the odor from the refinery became. The smell of money, Henry often said. Oil had built the state in general and Tulsa in particular. All the great oilmen of the twentieth century were long gone—Phillips, Gilcrease, Skelly, and Henry’s own grandfather—but their legacy lived on.

  Tony had gone back north, then turned east across the Twenty-first Street bridge when a flash of bright blue and crimson caught his attention at the far end. He picked up his pace until he’d caught up with Selena, then matched his stride to hers. Her coffee-colored skin glistened with sweat, and her sunglasses sat on top of her head, anchored in all that thick hair. When she glanced at him, her dark gaze suggested she’d been aware all along that he was behind her.

  “It’s a little warm this morning.” The mark of a true conversationalist—open with the weather, he thought scornfully.

  “Come to south Florida. We’ll show you warm.” Her breathing was measured, even, as if she hadn’t run several miles already.

  “This is a p
oor substitute for the ocean, tropical breezes, and palm trees.” His gesture took in the muddy brown of the river, the still air, and the growth of blackjacks, river birches, and post oaks. He could easily imagine her in a Caribbean hideaway, spacious and airy, with verandas and French doors opening off every room, a lush lawn and flowers growing wild right to the edge of a white sand beach. Steel drums would play in the background, a subdued accompaniment to the regular ebb and flow of the waves lapping against the shore, and the fragrant breezes and steady supply of tropical drinks would be enough to make a man forget the heat, the world, everything but her, dressed in flowing white clothes, feet bare, curls tumbling down her back . . .

  Scowling again, he swiped the sweat from his face. He didn’t get poetic over women, and this wasn’t the woman to start with. Not that she wasn’t beautiful. Exotic. Just reticent enough to be mysterious.

  But she was temporary. When her stifled feeling went away, she would leave, going back to the islands where an exotic beauty belonged.

  And there was that reticence. He liked mysteries, liked finding clues and solving puzzles—at work. But in his personal life, he preferred openness and honesty.

  When they reached a drinking fountain in the shade of a tree, she stopped to take a drink. In spite of the heat and her activity, she wore a wooden necklace, thin medallions of gleaming mahogany separated by matching beads and strung together on a leather thong. It fell forward when she bent, giving him a glimpse of the fading bruises that marked her throat.

  He’d wanted to ask about them Thursday night. The cop in him had been all ready, but the part of him that was off-duty, that had been on her patio in the capacity of neighbor, had stifled the questions. It hadn’t been easy, turning off his protect-and-serve side, especially when any rookie could recognize the source of the bruises.

  “Who choked you?” He kept his voice soft, not making accusations, trying not to intimidate, but to himself he sounded both accusatory and intimidating.

  She straightened abruptly. As she wiped a stray drop of water from her chin, the necklace fell back against her skin. “Who—?” Her hand reached toward her throat, then, as if catching herself, she folded her arms over her chest instead. It was a poor attempt at nonchalance, particularly since it brought another set of black-and-blues on her right upper arm into prominence. “It’s not what you think.”