The Assassin

by Rachel Butler

  “Yeah, I got lucky. I survived Albert Spradlin. Let the son of a bitch slam you onto concrete, throw himself on top of you, and pound your face in, and maybe I’ll be more sympathetic about him breaking an old chair over your head.”

  Simmons wagged one finger in the air. “Don’t try to avoid the subject. I’m a detective. I’m trained to get answers. Who was she and why was she picking you up at the hospital?”

  Darnell Garry was actively listening in, and so was Jeff Watson, one desk over. Had Tony’s personal life become so pathetic that the mere mention of a woman was enough to make everyone around take notice?

  He scowled at all three of them. “She’s my neighbor, and she was . . . being neighborly.”

  “You got an island-girl neighbor and didn’t tell us?”

  Simmons’s description of Selena was more accurate than he knew. All the things Tony associated with island getaways—hot days, steamy nights, sensual rhythms, the seduction of the sun, the mind, the body, and the spirit— were all things he now associated with her.

  “Aw, I know that look. I vote we move the weekly poker game to Chee’s house tonight, so we can all get a look at this neighbor,” Watson said.

  Tony scowled again. He had such lousy luck at cards that he’d dealt himself out of their regular game years ago. And as for whatever look he’d been wearing, hell, it couldn’t have been that bad . . . could it?

  “Trash your own house,” he muttered. “Besides, what would your wives think?”

  “Suz and I have an agreement,” Simmons said. “I’m allowed to look all I want, but if I try anything else, she gets to remove vital parts of my anatomy.”

  “Like you know what to do with them, anyway,” Garry jeered.

  With a grunt, Tony tuned them out. If any woman could change Suz’s policy, it was Selena. Just looking at her could be dangerous to a man’s state of mind. He was living proof. He had awakened that morning from dreams of her soft voice and softer touches, of her perfume in the air, so subtle he couldn’t be sure it was really there. He’d walked out the door without first shutting off the alarm, then had needed a moment to clear his head enough to remember why his Impala wasn’t parked in its usual spot.

  He deliberately shifted his attention back to the cell-phone records. They were listed by date and time, with the most recent at the bottom. He started there and worked his way back before stopping at a familiar number. The prefix was downtown, and the number rang in on the phones on his desk and every other desk in the room.

  Why had Dwayne Samuels called the Detective Division only hours before his death? Looking for Tony? To the best of his knowledge, he was the only one who’d had a working relationship with Dwayne, though he would have to ask around to be sure. Had Dwayne had information on the case to pass along? Had he been contacted by the vigilante, or heard something about him?

  “Anybody take a call Monday morning from Dwayne Samuels?” he called out.

  “I was in court,” Watson replied.

  “I was with you,” Simmons said.

  Tony glanced around. Lieutenant Nicholson had left, and except for Darnell Garry’s, the rest of the desks were empty. “Garry?”

  With the phone propped between his shoulder and ear, Garry covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “I was in, but I can’t honestly say. If I did, it wasn’t interesting enough to remember.”

  Tony couldn’t argue with that. A lot of people who called the Detective Division weren’t exactly talkative, and that went double for confidential informants. C.I.s, as a general rule, were a tad paranoid. “The call came in at eleven-thirty-two. Does that help?”

  Garry shook his head. “If he left a message, I left it on whoever’s desk. If he didn’t leave one . . .” He finished with a shrug.

  No message, likely no name. Too damn bad, Tony thought as he scanned the rest of the calls on Samuels’s records, adding those identified as coming from pay phones to the list he’d compiled from the previous victims’ records.

  Pay phones were popular with criminals. Drop in your thirty-five cents, make your call, and take care of business with no billing records, no caller ID listing showing your name, nothing beyond fingerprints or an eyewitness to tie you to that phone. The fingerprints would be taken care of by the next person to use the phone, and as for an eyewitness . . . who paid attention to anyone using a pay phone?

  From his bottom drawer he took out the locator for pay phones in the city, made available by telephone company security. Once he’d identified each phone, he studied the list. The calls from Dwayne’s business associates were spread out across the city, with a concentration in west and southwest Tulsa—to be expected for someone who operated in the county west of town.

  Cross-referencing his records with the other victims’, Tony didn’t find any numbers that appeared on all the lists. More than a dozen numbers showed up twice, and one appeared on five lists—including Grover Washington’s and Dwayne Samuels’s. The phone came back to an address at Fourth and Denver—only a block or so away from the police station.

  “You’re gonna what?” Simmons asked when Tony told him where he was going. “It’s a pay phone, for God’s sake. Do you know how many people use pay phones every day—especially those pay phones? A lot. And you think you’re gonna get anything usable off it?”

  “Probably not, but who knows? We’re due for a break.”

  “I think you already got your break—in your skull— and your brains leaked out. You never get nothin’ off a pay phone but germs.”

  “It can’t hurt to try, can it?”

  “Just don’t expect me to tag along. If I want to beat my head against a wall, I can do it right here in the air-conditioning.”

  “Aw, Frankie, I don’t expect anything of you. I’ll see you later.” Tony left the office, took the stairs to the forensics lab, and located Marla inputting information into the computer.

  She glanced up when he stopped beside her desk, made a sympathetic face, and continued typing. “How do you feel?”

  “I’m fine.” Just a little bruised and battered, and his head hurt like a son of a bitch. “Can you lift some prints for me?”

  “Sure. Let me drop everything and get my gear,” she said, not lifting her gaze from the computer screen. “I live to do your dirty work.”

  “I can get someone else . . .”

  “And settle for second best? Give me a few minutes.”

  He found an empty counter to lean against and closed his eyes. Sounds drifted down the hall—voices, machines, music playing faintly—but the only disturbance in the office was the rapid click-click of the keyboard. The room was cool, the relative peace soothing enough to offset the antiseptic odor. More than a few minutes of it, and he would doze off where he stood.

  “There.” Rubber wheels rolled across the floor as Marla pushed back from the computer and stood up. “Whose prints are you hoping to find, and on what?”

  “The vigilante’s would be nice, on a phone.”

  She looked at him. “I don’t suppose it’s a cell phone you’ve got tucked into your pocket.”

  “Would I carry evidence in my pocket?”

  “So where is the phone?”

  “About a block from here.”

  Her expression turned comical. “A pay phone? You don’t get anything from a pay phone, not unless the call was made within the last thirty minutes or so. When do you think he used it?”

  He knew when, right down to the hour and minute, but if he answered truthfully, she would blow him off. The odds of lifting anything usable from more than a week ago were virtually nonexistent. So he lied. “Monday.”

  “Three days ago?” She looked as skeptical as she sounded, even as she took a camera case from a nearby cabinet and handed it to him. After slinging the strap of a thin leather briefcase over her shoulder, she headed toward the door. “Talk about your long shots. But if it could pan out for anyone, it would be you. You do have the damnedest luck.”

  He followed her down the
hall toward the garage. “I’m not feeling too lucky here lately. I’ve got a killer with nine victims and counting, and not one damn clue.”

  “I don’t know. You’ve got a beautiful neighbor who picked you up at the hospital yesterday and, presumably, spent the rest of the day pampering you.”

  He didn’t ask how she knew—gossip traveled fast in the department—and didn’t point out that opening a can of soup and helping him off with his jacket hardly counted as pampering. But it was a start.

  Marla unlocked the van she normally used and took out the fingerprint kit. He extended a hand to take the case, about the size of a large tackle box, but she shook her head and led the way to the intersection. “Where exactly is this pay phone?”

  He gestured across the street, and her blue eyes widened. “The bus station? Jeez, Tony, are you nuts?”

  “Remember? I have the damnedest luck.”

  The Denver Avenue Station was relatively new, its style sort of Neo–Art Deco. The terminal was round, with glass brick, and the benches scattered around the ten bays were made of green pipe. There were two pay phones outside, one backing each of the route/schedule kiosks and both lacking visible numbers. Tony punched the number they wanted into his cell phone and hit SEND. Almost immediately, the phone to their right began to ring.

  Marla set the kit and the attaché in front of the phone, gave it the once-over, and scowled. “I understand the last two victims were killed with a shotgun instead of a .45,” she remarked as she pulled on a pair of latex gloves, then selected a brush and white powder. Tony took out the .35 millimeter camera with a close-up lens while she dusted the handset, then snapped a shot of the partial palmprint she’d raised before she lifted it and transferred it to a mounting card. “Do you think your shooter changed his method on purpose, or did someone see the chance to take care of a problem and use the calling cards to point a finger at the vigilante?”

  “In a perfect world no one else would know about the calling cards.” Unfortunately, the relative who’d found the first victim’s body, a God-fearing woman, had told anyone who would listen about the bloodstained card calling for repentance, including reporters from the World and channels two, six, eight, and Fox.

  “In a perfect world there would be no drug dealers for the vigilante to kill—and no jobs for you and me. What would you do then?” She studied the side of the phone box, then dismissed it as useless. Their killer could have pressed both hands flat against the roughly textured surface, and she wouldn’t be able to raise so much as a single whorl. Instead, she turned her attention to the smooth silver surface along the top, trading the light powder for black. “You going to get a wiretap order?”

  “As soon as I get back and talk to Nicholson.” With a pen register to track the numbers to which outgoing calls were made, and a wiretap to record the calls, maybe they could identify the vigilante’s next victim before he became a victim.

  “Just think, if this were New York City, you could do like the detectives on Law & Order and say, ‘Get me the LUDs for this number,’ and not have to bother writing up a wiretap request and walking it through the system.”

  “But this isn’t New York City, and the phone company doesn’t track Local Usage Details, even though they can. They don’t want to make it too easy on us.”

  She finished up the last print, then stepped back to study the phone. “I think that’s pretty much it. We’ve got two partial palms, a heel, and three fingers. I’ll run them through NCIC and see what we get, but don’t hold your breath.”

  She slid the prints inside the briefcase, removed a small spray bottle and a handful of paper towels from the kit, and wiped the residual powder from the phone’s surfaces. “That’s the cleanest this sucker’s been since they installed it,” she said as she peeled off her gloves and wiped her damp hands on another towel. “Any other fun little jobs you’d like me to do? Maybe print the urinals inside?”

  “This will do for now. I appreciate it.”

  “Not as much as you will when I decide to call in your debt. Don’t worry.” She gave him a sly smile. “I won’t ruin you for other women.”

  There wasn’t much chance of that, he admitted. But Selena ruining him for other women . . . that was a distinct possibility.

  Selena left the gym shortly after twelve, gear bag slung over one shoulder, and headed for her car. Her muscles were warm and loose, still tingling from her workout. She’d gone through a series of weight-training exercises, then worked in a little full-contact sparring with a set of walking, talking muscles that answered to the name of Rocky. By the time they’d called it quits, she’d been battered but not beaten, and Rocky hadn’t been quite so brash. Learning that size and gender weren’t everything was a lesson he’d needed.

  Remembering that cunning, agility, and determination couldn’t always defeat size and gender was a reminder she’d needed.

  She tossed her bag in the passenger seat, put the convertible’s top down so her hair, still damp from her shower, could dry, then headed toward the nearest grocery store. If she was in the habit of lying to herself, she would pretend she needed a few things for her own meals. Truth was, she had everything she needed for the evening meal at home . . . as long as she was cooking for just one. But since she was giving serious consideration to sharing with her neighbor tonight . . .

  She was picking through a bin of yellow and red peppers when a cart in need of oiling squeaked its way into the produce section. A glance into the mirror behind the vegetables showed an empty cart and the lower half of a well-dressed man. A familiar voice said, “Excuse me, miss. How do I know if a cantaloupe is ripe?”

  Her gaze flickered to William. Elegantly dressed and suavely handsome, he looked as out of place in the produce section as she felt whenever allowed into his world.

  After taking a covert look around, she smiled blandly. “The best way is to sniff it. If it smells like cantaloupe, it’s ready.”

  A silver-haired woman dressed in an outfit thirty years too young for her sashayed up, reached between them for a red pepper, gave him a dazzling smile, then sashayed away. William watched her with apparent appreciation while muttering, “Old crone.”

  Though her smile remained in place, the muscles in Selena’s jaw tightened. “What a coincidence, running into you here. Having me followed?”

  His only response was a smile of his own. “You look lovely, as usual. The healthy glow that comes from a workout suits you.”

  Oh yes, there was no chance to this meeting. “Do you distrust everyone who works for you, Uncle, or just me?”

  “I’ve always kept tabs on you, Selena. It’s part of my responsibilities—watching over you, keeping you safe, providing guidance. Besides, this is your first job for me. Naturally, I want to make certain all goes well.”

  “My only job for you, remember?” That was the deal he’d offered. Do this for me, and I’ll never ask for anything else. Together we’ll destroy every bit of evidence linking you to Greg Marland’s death. Our business will be finished. As if she were foolish enough to believe him.

  He picked up a cantaloupe, sniffed it, then returned it to the pile. “How is your neighbor? I hear he had a small disagreement with a suspect yesterday.”

  She didn’t ask how he knew. It was advantageous to a man in his position to know everything, and to that end, William had sources everywhere. “He went to work this morning. He seemed fine.” She had watched him leave, dressed in a dark suit, as usual, moving stiffly and looking the worse for wear. Since his police car was elsewhere, he’d driven the ’Vette, the engine growling with that lowthroated rumble men equated with power.

  There was something damned appealing about the man, black eye, stitches, and all, in a vintage ’Vette, top down, on a cool summer dawn.

  William’s long, slender fingers scooped up another cantaloupe. “Have you slept with him yet?”

  The casual question sent a shiver whispering down her spine. For William, sex was probably just one more tool. Ev
en the wariest of cops would relax his guard around his lover. But how cold-blooded did a woman have to be to use the intimacy of sex to kill a man? Colder than she was.

  Not that she wasn’t tempted by the idea of intimacy with him. Under different circumstances . . . but circumstances weren’t different.

  She managed to keep her voice calm when she responded. “As you mentioned, he had a disagreement with a suspect. I imagine he’ll be out of commission for a while.”

  “It takes far more than a black eye to put a man out of commission for a woman like you.”

  A woman like you. It could be a sweet compliment or a stinging insult. It was impossible to tell from his tone which he’d intended. “Tell me, William, after I seduce my way into Detective Ceola’s bed, is there anyone else you would like to pimp me to for a few hours?”

  Though he continued the charade of searching for a ripe melon, his eyes turned cold. “Those people who pretended to be your parents would have turned you into a whore by your fifteenth birthday if I hadn’t intervened. I saved your life, Selena. I gave you a life worth living. I made you what you are. Don’t disappoint me by forgetting all that you owe me.”

  “How could I ever forget?” She’d meant to keep the words inside, but they came out anyway, harsh and bitter.

  The stare he directed her way should have made her shudder—would have in the past. But she merely looked at him, her breathing even, no sign of the tension knotted inside her.

  Looking grim and displeased, William asked, “Has he asked you out?”

  “No.”

  “Make him do it. Go out with him. Go to bed with him. Find out what he knows, then kill him. You have no choice, Selena. It’s his life . . . or yours.”

  She nudged her cart a few inches with her hip and began selecting jalapeños. “I don’t need the reminder—”

  Some sixth sense made her look up. The empty shopping cart still stood nearby, but William was gone. With a glance around, she spotted him, striding toward the exit, tall, dapper, striking.

  You have no choice. It’s his life . . . or yours.