Chaser_A Jinx Ballou Novel

by Dharma Kelleher

  I slipped into the passenger side and stuck my face in front of the vents blowing cool air. “Oh, thank goodness!”

  “Any luck with the neighbors, love?”

  “Asshole next door thought I was there to trim the bushes. Can you believe that shit?” I lifted the bottom of my shirt and shook it, trying to send some of the cool air across my chest. “I swear one of these days I’m moving to someplace cool, like Seattle or Portland. Maybe Canada.”

  “Anyone seen Holly?”

  “Not in the past few weeks.”

  “Shite! No luck on my end either.” I could hear the bag rustle in his hand. “Care for a Cheeto? I find it helps me think.”

  “No, thanks. Just want to cool off.”

  “Maybe we should talk to Detective Hardin,” he said. “Find out why he arrested her.”

  The memory of Hardin’s gruff voice chewing me out for doing something stupid on a domestic disturbance call rattled in my brain. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  “Why?”

  “What’s it matter to us why he arrested her? Our job isn’t to find out whodunit. I just want to track her down and bring her in. End of story.”

  “Ya know him, don’t you?”

  “What? No!” I sighed. “Okay, yeah, I know him. He was my training officer when I joined Phoenix PD.”

  “Why don’t ya want to talk to him?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Maybe Holly’s lawyer knows where she is. This Swearingen guy.”

  “A lawyer ain’t gonna tell ya shite about his client’s whereabouts, Jinxie. Let’s talk to Hardin. If we can persuade him to let us look at witness statements, it might give us a lead.”

  I turned away from the air vent to glare at him. “Who’s running this case? Me or you?”

  He gave me a pacifying look, as if I were a rabid bulldog. “You are, love.”

  “Damn straight!” I was being a bitch, but I was hot and frustrated about not being at Comicon. Not to mention being pissed at being outed. Poor Conor was in my line of fire.

  “Holly’s lawyer is bound by privilege. I doubt you’ll get anything useful outta him.”

  “Then I’ll just have to be very persuasive.”

  “Persuasive? What are ya gonna do? Threaten him? Charm it out of him?”

  “I can be charming.” I sneered at him. “When I want to be.”

  “Aye! Charming like a snake. And just as deadly.”

  “Hey, I charmed you, didn’t I?”

  “Aye, that ya did, love.” He chuckled. “Care to place a wager?”

  “I’ll bet you fifty bucks I can get Swearingen to tell me where Holly is. Assuming he actually knows.”

  “I’ll take that bloody bet.”

  15

  Zach Swearingen’s office was located in the Corporate Century Office Park on Shea Boulevard, just east of Scottsdale Road.

  Conor was right. It was a long shot. Lawyers weren’t chatty about their clients except in the courtroom. But I had a few ideas of how to loosen this one’s lips. First, I had to get past his secretary. After canvassing Morton’s neighbors, I looked like a wreck and smelled even worse. It was time to get creative. I parked the Gray Ghost in the office park parking lot, grabbed my purse from the glove box, and got to work.

  Moments later, Conor knocked on my window. “Oy! Jinxie! We goin’ in or what?”

  I rolled down the tinted window, and he gasped.

  “Jesus bloody Christ! What happened? Ya look like you’ve been battered.”

  I smiled. “That’s the idea.” I’d used a combination of purple eye shadow and smudged eyeliner to give the illusion of bruises. “You still got that bag of hot Cheetos?”

  “Sorry, love, I ate them all.”

  “But you still have the bag, right?”

  “Aye. How come?”

  “I need it.”

  He went to his Charger and returned a moment later with the empty bag. I stuck my hand into it, coated my fingers with the spicy red powder, and rubbed my left eye with it. “Holy fuck, that hurts!” I gasped.

  “Bloody hell, Jinxie!”

  I clenched my fist and gritted my teeth as I waited for the fiery pain in my eye to subside. It didn’t. At least not right away. I tried to distract myself by thinking of the things I could do with my half of the bounty. Didn’t help. “Ugh, that really hurts.”

  I peeked at my reflection in the rearview mirror, at least with my right eye. My left eye was red, puffy, and tearing uncontrollably. I really did look as if I’d been punched.

  “Have you gone completely mad? What’d ya do that for?”

  “You’ll see.” I grabbed my purse, leaving all my bounty hunter gear on the passenger seat, then locked up the Gray Ghost. “Just follow my lead.”

  Conor and I joined a petite elderly woman in the elevator, and I punched the button for the fourth floor.

  The woman glanced at me then gave Conor the evil eye. As the door opened onto the third floor, the woman wagged her finger at him. “You should learn to keep your damned hands to yourself.” She marched out of the car, and the doors closed behind her.

  I chuckled.

  “Please tell me I’m not the villain in this daft scheme of yours.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “Story is that you’re my new lover, protecting me from my abusive, hopefully soon-to-be-ex husband.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  On the fourth floor, I led Conor through the glass doors of Miller, Crouch, and Swearingen.

  A sharply dressed man with a soul patch, wire-framed glasses, and a single diamond stud earring sat behind the receptionist desk. As soon as he saw me, a worried expression crossed his face. “Uh, can I help you?”

  I drew on emotions from the darkest moments of my childhood. My jaw tensed. My throat tightened, and I blinked back tears.

  “I . . . I do hope so,” I said as I grasped Conor’s hand. “I recently separated from my abusive husband. But he keeps coming after me and my new boyfriend.”

  “I’m so sorry.” The receptionist offered me a box of tissues from his desk. I took one.

  “Thanks. Unfortunately, the police won’t do anything. I tried to get a restraining order, but it was quashed. My friend Kim Morton suggested I hire Mr. Swearingen to get it reinstated.”

  “I see. Well, do you have an appointment?”

  “No, I . . . I’m just so afraid. He . . . he’s threatened to kill me. Please, I must see Mr. Swearingen now.”

  “Of course.” He picked up his phone and dialed an extension. “Mr. Swearingen, we have a woman in an emergency situation here. Says she was referred to you by Ms. Morton. Yes, certainly.” He hung up. “You’re in luck. One of Mr. Swearingen’s court appearances got postponed. Go down the hall. Third door on your left.” He pointed.

  “Oh, bless you.” I put my hand on his and gave him a teary smile.

  As we walked toward Swearingen’s office, Conor said, “Damn, love. That was Oscar-worthy. And more than a bit scary. Made me want to batter the imaginary wanker that done this to ya.”

  “Two years in the Aristotle Collegiate High Drama Club. You should have seen me as Rose in Meet Me in St. Louis.” I used the tissue Chris had given me to wipe as much of the fake bruise makeup off my face as I could.

  Zach Swearingen stood when we walked into his office. He wore a pin-striped black suit with a Rotary pin on his lapel. “Can I help you?”

  I tossed the tissue in the trash can next to his mahogany desk. “Yes, we need help tracking down one of your clients.”

  “What? I thought you were a domestic violence victim.”

  “Sorry, didn’t think your office manager would let us in if we told him we were bail enforcement agents.”

  “Bail enforcement agents? Get out of here before I call security.”

  “Why is everyone calling security on me these days? It’s really rude.”

  “Maybe you should take a hint.”

  “Your client, Holly Schwartz, missed her court date last month,” I said. “Ass
urity Bail Bonds hired us to bring her in. If we don’t return her to custody by Tuesday, your friend Kim Morton loses her house.”

  “I have no idea where Holly Schwartz is. Most likely kidnapped by the man who murdered her mother. Maybe if the damned cops put out an AMBER Alert, we could find her.”

  Something about his gaze told me he was holding something back, but I had no idea what. Or maybe he was just a shifty-eyed lawyer. Or both.

  “Mr. Swearingen,” Conor said, “could ya tell us what ya know about her mother’s attacker?”

  He fiddled with a gold Cross pen on his desk. “According to Holly, he was about six-eight, medium-dark skin, wearing an orange shirt. Had a black wing tattoo on his right arm and a gold hoop earring in one ear.”

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  “That’s all she gave me.”

  “If ya think she’s innocent, why are ya pleading that she’s daft?”

  Swearingen’s face flushed. “Look, buddy, are you a lawyer?”

  “Can’t say as I am, no.”

  “Then don’t tell me how to plead my case. You two clowns have wasted enough of my time.” He stood and pointed toward his office door. “I want you gone.”

  “Fine,” I said. “But if Kim Morton loses her house because of you—”

  “Get out! And if you harm one hair on Holly Schwartz’s head, I’ll bring criminal charges against you both. You hear me?”

  On the ride down the elevator, Conor held out his hand. “Pay up.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, right. He didn’t know. That was a condition of the bet, remember?”

  Conor harrumphed. “He knows where she is. I could see it in his eyes.”

  “There was certainly something he wasn’t saying.”

  “So pay up. Fifty bucks.”

  “Good lord! I don’t have it on me.”

  “Figures.”

  My eye was still irritated, and my head was starting to pound. “I’m calling Becca. See if she can do some skip tracing.” I pulled out my phone and dialed her number.

  “Not a bad idea,” Conor said as we exited the elevator.

  “This is Becca.” She sounded glum.

  “Yo, Becks, it’s Jinx. I need you to do some skip tracing.”

  “Jinx.” She groaned. “Today’s not the best day. Can it wait?”

  “Normally, I’d say yes, but I’m on a tight deadline. Got to catch my fugitive by Tuesday night. Chronic fatigue acting up?”

  “Yeah. Not a good day. I’m all out of spoons.”

  She was telling me that her chronic fatigue syndrome was flaring up again and that her energy level was critically low. I felt bad about pushing her, but if I didn’t locate Holly by the deadline, my career as a bounty hunter was over.

  “I keep telling you, switch to knives. It’s much more fun,” I said, trying to cheer her up.

  “Funny.” She sighed. “I know I’ll pay for it tomorrow, but for you, I’ll risk it.”

  Years earlier, when she was first diagnosed with chronic fatigue—or myalgic encephalomyelitis, as it was formally known—I was one of the few people who didn’t think she was just being lazy. I also tried to be there for her whenever she had a flare-up to make sure she had food and other essentials that she didn’t have the energy to get for herself. Just part of our pact as besties.

  “You’re a goddess.”

  “Yeah, Hypnos, Greek goddess of sleep. Who am I looking for?”

  “Holly Schwartz.”

  “The girl in the wheelchair whose mother was killed?”

  “That’s her. I need whatever you can find on her, her mother, and her aunt, Kimberly Morton. Pull phone records. Bank records. Anything that shows some recent activity.” I gave her the relevant information from the bail application.

  “Okay, I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  “Thanks, Becca. You need anything? Groceries? Fast food? Porno?”

  She chuckled. “Naw, I’m set, but thanks for asking. I’ll be in touch.”

  I hung up. “Okay, she’s on it.”

  “Brilliant. Let’s go to the Phoenix police and talk to Detective Hardin.”

  “Ugh,” I groaned. “I’d rather eat glass.”

  “What’s the deal between you two?”

  I cocked my head. “Asks the man who doesn’t want to spill about his torrid affair with Sadie Levinson.”

  “We never had an affair. I worked for her father. Things got complicated is all.”

  “Complicated? The more you dance around this, the more I want to know. You realize that, right?”

  “Fine.” He strolled out of the lobby into the parking lot. The hot air made my eye burn more. “Don’t tell me about you and Hardin. I’ll just go back to working with my own team.”

  “Wait! Wait.”

  He stopped and turned. “Yes?”

  I stared at the pavement, kicking at loose bits of asphalt. “He was my training officer, okay? That’s how I knew him.”

  “And what? He was a bad cop?”

  “Just the opposite. He’s top-notch. Very by the book. Thing was, he was always on my case, criticizing every little thing I did wrong. Some of the other officers called him Officer Hard Ass. Now I guess he’s Detective Hard Ass.”

  “Really that bad, eh?”

  I looked up at Conor. “When I quit the force, he chewed me out. Called me a disappointment and said I was throwing away a promising career. He raked me over the coals for turning my back on the opportunity to be the department’s first transgender officer. We parted with a lot of bitter feelings between us.”

  “So he knew you were trans?”

  “Not a lot of secrets that side of the blue line.”

  “Was that why he was such a tosser to ya?”

  “No, he was a bastard to everybody. Good cop. Really knew how to control a bad situation. But he didn’t put up with a lot of bullshit. Turned being rude and sarcastic into an art form.”

  “Ah, so that’s where ya get it from!”

  “Funny. Not.”

  “I think ya should face your fears and talk to the man about Holly Schwartz. Maybe something in the case file can point us in the right direction.”

  “Fine. Let’s do this.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Actually, I’ve got something else I gotta take care of, love.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What? You just talked me into seeing Hardin. Now you’re bailing on me?”

  He shook his head dismissively. “Just a minor errand. Shouldn’t be long.”

  “Whatever. I don’t want to know.” I hopped into the Gray Ghost and started it up, letting the AC blow out all the hot air before closing the door.

  Conor knocked on my window. I rolled it down. “Yes?”

  “Where ya going after you talk to Hardin?”

  “The Schwartzes’ house in Maryvale.”

  “I’ve got the address. I’ll try to meet ya there.”

  “Whatever.” I rolled up the window before he could respond, and drove off.

  16

  I walked into the Phoenix Police Department building on Washington Street and found my buddy, Ortega, manning the front desk.

  He glanced at me, and a smile opened up on his face. “How’s it going, Ballou?”

  I fist-bumped him. “Going well. I see you earned some stripes.”

  “Yeah,” he said, patting the sergeant patches on his arm. “Passed the exam a few months ago. You looking good, mama.”

  “Shut the hell up, Ortega. God!” I blushed like a damned schoolgirl.

  “You still chasing fugitives?”

  “Matter of fact, that’s why I’m here. I need to talk to Hardin about one of his cases. He in?”

  “Should be at his desk.” He handed me a visitor’s badge. “Homicide unit. Third floor.”

  “Thanks.” I attached the badge to my belt. “Good to see you, man.”

  My pulse quickened as I rode up the elevator and strolled through the homicide unit’s maze of cubicles. Detective Pierc
e Hardin looked as though he was not having the best of days, and that was saying something. His skin was ashen. His clothes looked slept in. And there was a bottle of Maalox on his desk.

  “Rough day, dear?” I asked nervously, resting an arm on the cubicle partition.

  He turned a weary eye to me. “Ballou. And here I thought we got rid of you years ago.”

  “I’m back.”

  “Like a bad case of herpes. What the hell you want? I’m busy.”

  “Need some information on the Holly Schwartz case.”

  “Why you want that?”

  “She jumped bail, and I’ve been hired to apprehend her.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I’ve been up all night working a triple homicide, and you want me to help you do your job? Ha!”

  “Hey, when the people you lock up don’t show up for court, somebody’s gotta track them down. We all have a job to do so that justice is served.”

  “Justice, huh?” He rubbed his face, leaned back in his chair, and folded his arms. “What information you looking for exactly?”

  “For starters, why’d you charge her?” Since I was here, I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask. I grabbed a swivel chair from a nearby desk. “She’s a mentally disabled girl in a wheelchair, for God’s sake.”

  He pulled out the murder book, a three-ring binder filled with reports, photos, and notes on the case, and flipped through it. “Several reasons. The ME report shows the stab wounds coming from someone who was short or in a seated position, like a wheelchair. If the mother’d been stabbed by a large man standing, the angle of the wounds would have been completely different.”

  “So you don’t believe her story about a black man in an orange shirt? A black wing tattoo on his arm sounds like a rather detailed description, if you ask me.”

  “No evidence of forced entry. Also, when we found the girl, she was covered in blood.”

  “So? Holly could have tried to stop her mother’s bleeding,” I suggested.

  “So she claimed. But the blood on her shirt and pants wasn’t just from transfer. It showed directional spray, consistent with castoff from a knife.”

  “Why would she kill her own mother? Her aunt says the two were thick as thieves.”