Chaser_A Jinx Ballou Novel

by Dharma Kelleher

  “He has them!” She pointed at the guy Conor had shot. I heard shouting and the pounding of boots on concrete coming from all around us.

  “Cover me!” I told Conor.

  I stashed my Ruger in my waistband and searched the dead guard, shuddering as bursts of gunfire ripped through the air. My hands found a cluster of keys attached to his belt. I cut the belt with my knife and located the one that looked like a padlock key.

  I popped the lock as a spray of bullets hit the fence around me. The people in the cage screamed, and we all dropped to the floor. I turned with my Ruger out and dropped another guard raising his weapon at me.

  “FBI! Drop your weapons! Get on the ground!” One of the guards held up a badge.

  “What the—” I wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not.

  “Drop your weapons, now! Get on the ground!” A female voice came from behind me in the cage. I turned. A woman with dirty-blond hair and fierce eyes had a Glock trained on me.

  “Fuck.” I set my gun on the floor and lay down with my hands behind my head. Conor did the same.

  “We’re bail enforcement agents,” I said. “Looking for a fugitive.” I felt myself being cuffed.

  “Took us months to infiltrate this organization, and you two screw up the op because some jailbird jumped bail?” the female agent asked.

  I looked over and saw the other agent cuff Conor. This was so not how I pictured it would go down.

  The lady fed pulled me to my feet and escorted me to the warehouse office. Once inside, she closed the office door and pushed me into a swivel chair. “Who are you?”

  “Jinx Ballou. My partner’s Conor Doyle. We’re looking for Holly Schwartz. She was kidnapped by Volkov’s organization. Who the hell are you?”

  “Special Agent Deborah Velasco, FBI. You’re looking at several felonies, Ms. Ballou. Murder, B&E, obstruction.”

  “Look, Agent Velasco, I’m sorry we wrecked your undercover investigation. But we had reason to believe our fugitive was here. That gives us the right to enter. And you can’t charge us with murder for defending ourselves.”

  Agent Velasco knitted her brow. “You’re looking for the teenage girl charged with murdering her mother?”

  “We have reason to believe she was kidnapped and was brought here.”

  “I hate to burst your bubble, but you were given bad intel. There was a disabled girl here a week ago, but it wasn’t her. You just exposed a federal undercover investigation for nothing.”

  “Shit.”

  23

  Conor and I were transported, still handcuffed, to the FBI’s Phoenix office, then put in separate interrogation rooms. Velasco and her partner, Special Agent Danny Gleason, repeatedly questioned me over our failed rescue attempt. When I realized my explanation was getting me nowhere, I invoked my right to counsel.

  By that time, the bitter coffee and stale vending machine snacks had their intended effect. My back teeth were floating when my attorney, Kirsten Pasternak, stepped into the interrogation room. Yellow-framed glasses on a chain. Gray silk jacket over a white blouse. She stood a good three inches taller than Agent Gleason. I’d met her at the transgender support group and had found her an invaluable, if expensive, resource.

  “I represent Ms. Ballou and Mr. Doyle,” she told the agents. “I’d like a moment to confer with my client.”

  I gave her a rundown of the evening’s events. Apparently she had already spoken to Conor and confirmed that our stories matched. She called the agents back into the room, and the three of them sparred while I concentrated on holding my bladder. Occasionally, I added a bit of information when Kirsten gave me the green light.

  When Kirsten pressed the agents to either arrest me or release me, Velasco and Gleason agreed not to charge us for now. I made a beeline for the restroom to pee and clean the dried gore from my face and hands. My shirt and cargo pants were beyond repair.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d killed someone in my duties as a bounty hunter. Unfortunately, circumstances sometimes made lethal force necessary. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over the deaths of a few punk-ass human smugglers.

  When I trudged out of the restroom, Kirsten met me at the door.

  “Am I free to go?” I asked.

  “For now. Just don’t leave town. There’s still a chance they press charges.”

  “Great.”

  “So this Holly Schwartz you’re chasing, she’s the one that’s been in the news, right? Charity poster girl allegedly turned killer?”

  “That’s her.”

  “Any idea who’s representing her?”

  “Some guy named Swearingen.”

  Kirsten barked a laugh. “Zach Swearingen? Last time that hack saw the inside of a courtroom, Bill Clinton was getting blow jobs in the Oval Office.”

  I shrugged. “Apparently he’s a friend of Holly’s aunt.”

  She handed me one of her business cards. “When you do find this girl, have her call me. Tell her I’ll represent her pro bono.”

  “Pro bono? You don’t represent me pro bono.”

  “You’re a successful bounty hunter. She’s a penniless orphan in a high-profile case. I could use the publicity.”

  I rolled my eyes but took her card. “Whatever. If she asks, I’ll give her your card.”

  “Thanks.” She patted me on the back. “Now try to stay out of trouble until we can get this matter resolved.”

  It was midnight by the time we got back to Conor’s bunker. I headed straight for the shower to wash off the remaining blood, dirt, and the night’s trauma. Only the blood and dirt came off.

  I stood there letting the water wash over my body, trying to make my mind go blank. But Conor’s play-acting punch had unearthed a Pandora’s box of memories I’d intentionally buried more than a decade earlier.

  I’d been dating Peyton Dietz at the time. He was our high school’s star basketball player and had been offered a scholarship to UNLV. I was looking forward to getting gender reassignment surgery after graduation before going on to study at ASU. When he asked me out, I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. Peyton knew about my gender transition and didn’t care. He accepted me for the girl I was. Peyton’s father, Barclay Dietz, was a different story.

  Whether Peyton told him or Mr. Dietz found out some other way, I never heard. But a few hours into a graduation party at a mutual friend’s house, Peyton got a call from his father, insisting the two of us meet him outside on the street. He made it sound urgent. Fearing it might be a family emergency, we rushed outside.

  We found Mr. Dietz several houses down, standing beside his Jaguar with his arms crossed. Where Peyton was tall and lanky, Mr. Dietz was massive and muscular like a bull. Peyton said he’d been a middleweight boxing champion in his day.

  Mr. Dietz ordered Peyton to wait in the passenger seat, saying he wanted a private word with me. Peyton protested, but Barclay Dietz wasn’t one to put up with back talk. Peyton obeyed.

  Mr. Dietz started with some innocuous questions. Was I having fun that evening? How was the food and the music? He even complimented my dress, an off-the shoulder peach number full of ruffles. Back when I wore ruffles.

  Then his questioning turned darker. “What kind of girl are you?” he asked with an accusatory tone.

  I wasn’t sure how to answer. He asked me if I had breast implants. His questions were making me uncomfortable, and I told him so. When he pressed the issue about implants, I assured him I didn’t.

  “What you got between them skinny little legs of yours?” Mr. Dietz stepped into my personal space, his clenched fists looking like blacksmithing hammers. “A cunt or a cock?”

  “I think I should call my folks.” I backed away along the sidewalk toward the house party.

  He stalked toward me. “You think my son’s a cocksucker?”

  “What? No! Of course not.”

  “You must. You’re not a girl. You’re just a little faggot in a dress, aren’t you?”

  I never saw the first b
low coming. I just realized I was on my back on the sidewalk with my head throbbing. A thunderstorm of punches and kicks rained down on me. Somewhere in the blackness, Peyton shouted for his dad to stop. Or maybe I imagined it. I never saw him after that to confirm.

  I woke up in the hospital days later with a fractured skull, a ruptured spleen, broken ribs, bruised kidneys, and a punctured lung. Barclay Dietz, I learned, was charged with aggravated assault but had jumped bail and hadn’t been seen since.

  It had been years since I’d even thought about that night. I’d been in countless fights with fugitives and their associates since then. Never fazed me. But Conor’s slap brought it all back and shook me to my core. So much so that I found myself shivering in the shower, the water having turned cold.

  Wrapped in a towel, I stumbled out of the bathroom, trying to stop the trembling. My lip was still swollen. My jaw hurt. My chest and wrists were sore.

  Conor lay on his bed in a pair of camo boxers, reading a Lawrence Block paperback. Concern shot across his face. “You all right, love?”

  “I’ll survive.” I sat on the bed next to him. “What was I thinking? Busting into Volkov’s warehouse?”

  “Don’t be batterin’ yourself. You held your own.”

  “And what did we accomplish? We’re no closer to finding Holly.” I lay next to him, drawn to his warmth. “This crazy theory about Holly getting kidnapped. Maybe Hardin’s right. Maybe she did kill her mother. Maybe someone’s hiding her, trying to keep her from going to jail. I just don’t know.”

  “Maybe the aunt. We can have another go at her tomorrow if ya’d like.”

  “There’s something she’s not telling, but I didn’t get the feeling she was hiding Holly. Why would Morton risk losing her house over a girl she barely knows? She’d be better off taking her chances in court.”

  Fatigue was dragging me under like a powerful current. “I’m too tired to think.”

  Conor kissed me on my temple. “Let’s get some rest, love, and reassess in the morning.”

  24

  My head and body still ached when I woke the next morning to the sound of my phone ringing. Sunlight peeked through the vertical blinds in Conor’s bedroom. I picked up my phone from the nightstand. It was a few minutes after seven. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Sweetie, you didn’t return my call yesterday. You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Sorry I didn’t call back. I was busy till late last night.”

  “Ever since that awful newspaper outed you, I’ve been so worried. Your brother says it’s all over the Twitter.”

  “I’m okay. Really.” And even if I wasn’t, I didn’t need her worrying about me.

  “The people at your work. They know?”

  “I’m working for a different bail bond agent now. She knows, and she’s fine with it.”

  “Maybe this is your chance to do something less dangerous. I don’t like you chasing criminals all the time.”

  “Mom, relax! Most fugitives I pick up are good folks who simply forgot their court date. Nothing to be concerned about.”

  “But what about the dangerous criminals, sweetie? I saw on the news there was a big shoot-out in Buckeye between bounty hunters and human smugglers.”

  “Really? Huh. Well, I was nowhere near that warehouse. Just out searching for a young woman. No danger whatsoever.” What was I going to tell her? Yeah, Mom, I stabbed a guy in the neck, then shot two other guys while covered in the first guy’s blood. So not going to happen.

  “You coming over tomorrow morning for brunch?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it. Conor too.”

  “Perhaps you could come to Mass with me.”

  “Mom, we talked about this.”

  “I worry for your soul.”

  “My soul is fine.” Would God send me to hell for killing a murderous human smuggler? Do I even believe in God? “I have to go, Mom. I have work to do. Love you.”

  “Okay, sweetie. See you tomorrow. I have some pretty dresses I’d like you to try on, so don’t be late.”

  I rolled over and sighed. Conor leaned up on one arm, smiling at me. “Lying to your mother again?”

  “What am I gonna do? Tell her I was going all Lisbeth Salander on a bunch of scumbags? She’s already worried about me.”

  “So what’s our game plan, Ms. Salander?”

  “I honestly have no clue. I’ve been through the possible scenarios. Scenario A, she was kidnapped for ransom.”

  Conor nodded. “Except no one’s received a ransom note as far as we know.”

  “True. Scenario B, she was kidnapped by human traffickers. Problem is, she wasn’t at Volkov’s warehouse last night. Agent Velasco said a paraplegic girl was there a week ago but assured me she wasn’t Holly Schwartz.”

  “Which brings us to Scenario C—she’s hiding voluntarily, most likely with some help.”

  “But help from who? And why?” I thought about it. “Maybe Detective Hardin was on to something. He claimed Holly wasn’t as mentally disabled as everyone thinks she is. Her aunt hinted at the same thing. Maybe this whole thing about her being sick and disabled is just a scam.”

  “To what end?”

  “Money. Attention. She’s been on all of these telethons. Charities and individuals are sending her money.”

  “But according to her aunt, Holly’s been sick since she was a baby. You yourself found a bunch of doctors’ bills in their home, plus all those pill bottles at her aunt’s house. Doesn’t sound like a scam to me.”

  “According to Hardin, Bonnie was forcing Holly to get a feeding tube she claimed she didn’t need. Maybe Mommy Dearest had that syndrome where parents make their kids sick to get attention.”

  “Munchausen by proxy?” Conor cocked an eyebrow. “Honestly, how could the mother fool the doctors for so long? Something would’ve shown up in the tests, right?”

  I pondered his point. “I don’t know. If she is disabled, who would take her? And why? And who killed her mother?”

  “Maybe someone thought she was being abused.”

  “Possible. But then why not call the cops? Or report it to the Department of Child Safety?” I thought about it some more. “Unless someone did report it, and no one did anything about it.”

  I grabbed my phone and dialed Becca.

  “Hey, Jinx! You been on social media lately?” She sounded better but concerned.

  “No, why?”

  “Girl, that story in Phoenix Living about you went viral.”

  “Shit. Just what I need.”

  “It’ll pass. How’s the hunt for Holly Schwartz going?”

  “Not so great. Chasing a bunch of leads and coming up with zero. How are you doing?”

  “Surprisingly well. Don’t know how long that will last, but I’m down here at the Hub while I still have the energy to do so. By the way, I discovered something interesting.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Those donation checks that Bonnie Schwartz deposited over the past year? I took a look at the thumbnails of the checks on the bank statements. She only deposited about a third of each check’s value. The rest she got in cash. Just a few thousand a month, but it struck me as odd. Not sure if that has any connection to Holly’s disappearance.”

  “I’ll look into it from my end. Maybe a substance abuse issue? Or something else she wanted to keep off the books.”

  “Kinda what I was thinking.”

  “Could you check to see if there were any abuse complaints filed against Bonnie Schwartz? Either with Phoenix PD or the Department of Child Safety.”

  “You think the mom was abusing Holly?”

  “Just a theory I’m exploring. Right now I’m grasping at every thread to see what shakes loose.”

  “I’ll check and call you back.”

  “Thanks, Becks.”

  “Just do yourself a favor and stay off social media for a while.”

  “Of course.” I hung up and nervously checked Twitter. Because I was an idiot.

  At the top of the
trending topics list was the hashtag #TransBountyHunter. I pulled up the latest tweets. A lot of them were supportive, saying I was a hero and an inspiration. One mother of a trans teen called me a lifesaver. Others were outright vicious, misgendering me and threatening to rape and murder me. Some were creepy solicitations from men with a trans fetish, which some in the trans community called “chasers.” Ugh.

  I clicked to check my email and found it similarly filled with messages from grateful fans, violent haters, and nasty stalkers. Most of the hateful stuff, I deleted after reading the subject line.

  One email looked like a possible job offer, with the subject line “I Want To Hire You.” I opened it.

  * * *

  My Dearest Jinx,

  Thank you for your recent visit to my warehouse. So sorry I wasn’t there to greet you in person.

  Despite the disruption you caused, you managed to root out a couple of rats in my organization. For this I am in your debt. I am simultaneously impressed by your fighting skills and intrigued by your background. The article in Phoenix Living was very enlightening, though it left me with questions.

  For example, do you still have a cock? I find the idea of a beautiful, sexy woman such as yourself having a cock quite a turn-on. I long to drizzle vodka over your nubile body and lick it off. I ache to fuck you till your ears bleed. Oh the fun we could have together. The pleasure and the pain, the agony and the ecstasy.

  I would very much like the opportunity to thank you in person for your assistance and perhaps offer you a position on my staff, both literally and figuratively.

  Please reply and let’s meet.

  Warmest Regards,

  Milo

  * * *

  Holy fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! That psycho piece of shit, Milo fucking Volkov, knew who I was. He knew what I was. And he had my email address.

  Bile rose in my throat. Is this just a creepy invitation? Or a threat? I closed the email app and tossed the phone on the bed. I didn’t need this shit distracting me from my work.