by R. T. Wolfe
Standing with both hands on the side of his desk, he locked his elbows and dipped his head low. This was circumstantial. She wouldn't like it. He wanted to scream, to punch something. Instead, he sat down and decided to research jewelry stores to see how common this bracelet was.
* * *
Nickie knew Eddy would be pissed she hadn't call him for backup, but he was needed where he was. Instead, she called dispatch for the closest beat officer. The dude was already there when she arrived. She recognized him as the one who assisted her with some evidence in a bridge underpass search. Officer Parker. He was built like a brick and, if she could describe him, acted like a brick; stiff and formal.
"Ma'am," he addressed her as he approached.
Shutting the car door, she walked to him. "Do I look like a ma'am to you, Officer?"
Clearly baffled, he opened his mouth, closed it again, and then stuttered, "Uh..."
"It's Detective or it's Savage." She didn't care if it was petty.
Mrs. Hendrix ran out of her house, waving a white, business-sized envelope in her good arm. Black makeup dripped in straight lines down her cheeks.
Nickie took a pair of plastic gloves from a compartment on her belt and slipped them on. "Let me help you." The pictures were, indeed, of her kids. Each of them. Playing in front her house, in the yard at the school. "We can send an officer over to pick them up from school. Do you have a safe place to stay? Preferably an out-of-town friend or relative?"
She nodded and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her shirt.
"Let's get you inside and get you a coat. It would be better if you went with the officer to the school. The kids will feel safer rather than going with a stranger."
* * *
As they sat in the lounge at the station, Nickie handed Mrs. Hendrix a bottle of water and a bag of pretzels.
"Thank you, Detective. I owe you." Her eyes were bloodshot, half from crying and half from whatever she was taking. Nickie hoped it was only a prescribed dose of pain meds.
"All you owe me is a name. You keep saying, 'they.'"
"The hospital says if Chris's numbers stay steady through the night, he gets out tomorrow."
Nickie hated this part of her job, but it had to be done. "You're waiting for his instructions? His advice put your children in danger. Both of you have been shot."
The sobbing started again. Nickie had little tolerance for hysterics. It never did a damn thing except cloud judgment. She got the woman a tissue, counted to ten in her head, then continued.
Taking out her photo of Rex Baxter, her husband's bookie and a handful of other photos, Nickie asked, "Do you recognize any of these men?"
Mrs. Hendrix's eyes turned to Nickie, then back to the photos. "None of these men shot us, Detective Savage."
Nickie was losing her patience. "Are any of the men who worked for any of these men responsible for the shootings of you or your husband?" Without opening it, she placed the white envelope containing the pictures of Mrs. Hendrix's children in front of her.
Tears dripped on the table. "They'll kill us. We owe so much money, and now with the hospital bill..."
"We can help you."
"Chris says you can't."
"Chris isn't the one saving your kids' butts. You did that. You did that by letting us help you."
Nickie reached behind her for a pad of paper and a pen, and then pushed them in front of Mrs. Hendrix. "I need a name, an address and a phone number. For your children, Mrs. Hendrix."
"I didn't recognize the man who shot me. Chris says it was the same guy. You won't tell him I told, will you?"
"Of course not," Nickie lied.
"And I don't have a name, but I know what he looks like."
"We have people for that, Mrs. Hendrix. Come with me."
George Henery was a pushover, the poster child for OCD and an excellent sketch artist. Nickie left Mrs. Hendrix with him and decided it was time to call Eddy. She pulled out her cell as she made the corner to her office. And nearly ran into him. A waft of new leather and the cologne he liked to wear breezed over her.
"You ditched me," he said flatly.
"Not really," she lied again. "You were needed where you were. I had this under control. Did you find out anything?"
He turned from her and headed into his office. "Just that the bookie thinks his wife is having an affair." He was saving face as he spoke with his back to her. Male posturing got tiresome, but Nickie followed anyway.
"Mrs. Hendrix is working with Henery on a rendering of the man who shot her. Says the same dude got her husband."
She followed into his office and flicked on the lights. Her eyes drew like a magnet to a paper on his desk. It was a regular-sized piece of paper, 8 ½-by-11, but to her it was as big as a billboard. Her feet gave out beneath her as she grabbed the sides of the doorjamb to keep from falling to the floor.
"I need to show you something," he said.
The air felt like it had been knocked out of her lungs. Her head bobbed, but her eyes couldn't leave the paper. It was a drawing, a rendering. And it was of the man who held her captive for eighteen months of her childhood.
Chapter 9
Nickie noticed as Eddy turned to finish his sentence, but she was concentrating on keeping herself conscious. She bent over and Eddy grabbed a garbage can, placed it in front of her face. Smart man, because she emptied the contents from her stomach then and there.
Sucking air, she asked, "Where did you get that?"
"Where did I get wha—? Oh, that." He set the soiled wastebasket down, held her under her arm and reached to grab a box of tissues. Guiding her to the floor, he reached over his desk and retrieved the paper. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I found it in Pretty Boy's printer this morning at his place. Since it had your name written across the top, I figured it had to be for you."
She knew he was lying. He'd taken it. Somehow she knew she should be glad, but right then, her heart was breaking in so many pieces she didn't have room to comprehend anything.
* * *
Duncan took the elevator to the top floor of the police station. His head spun with millions of possibilities. How was the personal assistant to the governor of New York involved with the kidnapping and forced prostitution of young girls in Nevada? How far did this reach, and what was his interest in Nickie?
The elevator doors opened as he unbuttoned his coat and extracted the photos from his inside pocket. If Moody was involved and knew of Nickie's past, why didn't he take her or keep an eye on her or... maybe he was.
He and Nickie would find out soon enough. This would classify as a viable hunch, even in her cut and dry mind. Her office was dark. He should have called first. He wasn't thinking straight. Kicking himself, he almost turned around before he spotted her. She was on the floor near the doorway of another office, sitting on her heels. Her hair draped in long, flowing waves down to the center of her back.
And over her hair were the arms of her ex.
Duncan's first instinct was blind jealousy. But he trusted her. Next, he realized she was trembling, and his feet charged into a run. She turned at the sound of his footsteps. Her eyes spoke to him. No tears. Never any tears. But they were red and screamed anger and betrayal.
She slid one of her arms from around Lynx. In it was a paper. It was the man of Asian descent Duncan had obsessed over for months.
"How long?" Her voice was raspy and nearly inaudible.
Time turned into slow motion. Pieces fell together in his head. She knew this man. Well enough to cause this reaction.
The paper slipped between her fingers, just as she slipped between his.
He looked down at his hand. He held the prints of Thurmond Moody. He couldn't remember why.
He could explain. "It was a hunch." It was only a picture. "The Vegas casino." Panic set in. His feet didn't retract, yet the image of her grew smaller and smaller.
"I think you know what you can do with your hunch," she said to him as she turned and buried her fa
ce in Lynx's shoulder.
* * *
"Detective?"
Nickie lifted her head to find Mrs. Hendrix standing in the doorway of Eddy's office. Her knees were flattened with dents from Eddy's berber carpet. In her good arm, the misses stood holding the rendering of the shooter.
"I don't mean to... uh... interrupt, but Mr. Henery told me to give this to you myself because you make him nervous. His words," she added as a disclaimer.
The woman's pathetic stance, slouched and pouty, gave Nickie the will to try her legs. She was working on autopilot and hoped it didn't malfunction. This overwhelming rush of defeat was something she never allowed.
Taking the sketch from Mrs. Hendrix's hand, she said, "Good, good, let's—"
Dipping her head, she brought her eyes closer. She'd seen this man. He was at Baxter's gym stalking around with a clipboard. Turning it to face Eddy, she asked, "Recognize this man?"
He shrugged.
She put her face in her hands and took a deep breath. There was too much in her head to know where to start with sorting it out.
"We were sent on a wild goose chase, Lynx. Mrs. Hendrix, you wait here. We're gonna be a while. I'm going to put someone in charge of you. They can get you anything you need—food, something to drink, cigarettes. Please wait in the lounge for a few until I can wrangle someone up." Mrs. Hendrix nodded nervously as Nickie took Eddy by the arm.
"Come on," she growled. On the way out, she dipped into her office and grabbed a warrant application. Duncan was long gone.
"Are you going to tell me what's going on? I'm talkin' about you and Pretty Boy. What happened back there?"
"I don't wanna talk about it." It was almost the truth. She couldn't talk about it, not if she wanted to keep her head on straight. She was broken and overwhelmed and didn't plan on letting it take hold of her. Broken maybe, but she was in control. Had to be. Survival was what she did best. No man was going to break her. And no man was going hide things behind her back.
Eddy took her arm. "Slow down."
She shrugged from his grip.
"Are you going to tell me where we're going? Tell the captain, maybe?" His tone was short and sarcastic.
"We're going to the hospital, then to Judge Foster, then to Baxter's gym. The sketch was of one of his employees. You call and notify Nolan." She took the stairs two at a time.
* * *
Nickie drove. Eddy rode with his hands planted firmly, one on the dash and one on the door. And in true form, not quietly. "Whoa, Nick. I'm too young to die."
She barely heard him.
She parked in front of the ER and turned her lights on. There was still enough room for an ambulance to get through. "You coming or not?"
Eddy took a pronounced breath before slinking out. She ignored him and walked ahead. She stepped in front of the person waiting at the reception counter and slapped her badge on the white Formica. "Chris Hendrix's room number."
The receptionist gawked at her like she had three eyes.
"You wanna come to the station with me for obstruction of justice?"
Rolling her eyes, the woman tapped at her keyboard. "Room 223." She popped her gum.
"Nick, wait." Eddy took her arm.
She glared at his hand like it was a bug, then lifted her focus to his eyes.
He released her and held his hands up, palms out. "Slow down, man. What's the matter with you?"
"Come or stay. Your choice."
She barged into Hendrix's room to find him sitting up with unidentifiable hospital food on a tray in front of him. He pushed it away when he saw her like he'd just lost his appetite.
"Do you know about these?" She set the envelope with the pictures of his kids on his lap.
He didn't open the envelope. "Maybe."
"Listen, asshole. The only way you're going to come out of this alive is if I put this guy away."
"I don't disagree with that, except you're not going to put anyone away." He crossed his good arm over his chest.
"I don't mean only the shooter. I mean Baxter too. You're going to stop this game, man up and take one for your family, you bastard."
"You can do that?"
"I guarantee it," she said as Eddy poked her in the back.
Hendrix took too long considering.
"Ticktock, Hendrix. I need a statement. How do you know Rex Baxter?" She noticed a nurse stick her head in the door. Nickie stuck out her badge, using it as a stop sign.
She was about to conveniently bump his bad arm when Hendrix took a deep breath and finally spoke. "Rex Baxter runs a money laundering and loan shark business. I owe him money I used to pay off some gambling debts. I was late, and he hired one of his dudes—"
"Was it this dude?" She showed him the police artist's sketch. His eyes said it all. "The rest is circumstantial." She walked around Eddy to the door. "I'll keep in touch," she added as they left.
* * *
The pool in his house wasn't ready, so Duncan tried laps in the one at the Northridge Y. The water was too warm, and he had to share a lane with a man who was much too slow for the pace Duncan needed.
Relationships.
Impossible.
He kept his head lower in the water than usual, following the line painted on the floor beneath him. Between muffling outside noises, the rushing sound of the water helped dull the inside noises. The ones from his memory that were always there.
He'd come to her with what he had. And what he had was information on Thurmond Moody.
He had nothing on the nameless Asian man.
What he had was crucial, and now it sat on the seat of his Audi. She wouldn't answer her phone. The sensation in his gut was one he'd never experienced. Not when his parents died. Not in the desert. Not even the first time he spotted the scars on Nickie's back. Six thin lines drew away from her right shoulder blade to just below. And three small, round cigarette burns. All returned to the color of skin with the passage of time.
He drove into the wall at the deep end like he was finishing a race, dipping his body and reaching for the edge. It wasn't a race he was finishing. He needed air. More air. It sucked into his lungs, but it wasn't enough.
The Chinook had taken a hit. Sand stuck to every inch of him, clinging to sweat and blood. His commanding officer yelled orders to check on the rest of the platoon, but all Duncan could see was gaping flesh and blood. Blood covered the wall of their helicopter around a hole the size of a small car.
"They're gone, sir," he said, dropping his head low.
"Who's gone?" a young male voice spoke to him. Duncan blinked and saw his goggles floating in the gutter of the pool. He lifted his head to a lifeguard who squatted next to him. "Who's gone, sir? Are you okay?"
Shaking his head, Duncan darted his eyes from one side of the pool to the other. "The cramps. My cramps are gone," he lied, slipped his goggles on and dove back in, breathing between every stroke.
He would give it another five-hundred yards, then go to his office and email the pictures to Nickie. Email and send them snail mail if he had to. Then, he would wash his hands of the whole mess. He was sure she would recognize the bracelet. She was a smart woman. She could decide what to do next.
Chapter 10
The gated community had been left open on this day after the holiday. Nickie pulled in front of Judge Foster's home. She parked with one wheel partially on the curb and slammed the gearshift into park.
"Nick—" Eddy started.
"I need a warrant, and it's the damned day after Thanksgiving. Wait here, if you want."
He didn't budge. She knew she was acting like a bitch. If the shoe fit.
She trudged up the absurdly long walk to the front door and searched for a doorbell. What the hell? Who doesn't have a doorbell? Awkwardly, she lifted the large brass ring and knocked in the center three times. It took so long for anyone to answer that she almost left. It was a butler who opened the door, in full butler getup.
"I'd like to see Judge Foster. Tell him it's Detective Sa
vage, and it's an emergency."
"Of course, Detective."
He didn't offer to let her wait inside and, instead, shut the door, leaving her in the cold. She'd been through worse. But it turned into dead time, which was something she couldn't afford.
He lied to her. Duncan told her he wouldn't keep anything like this from her again, and at the same time, he was sitting on a picture of Jun Zheng?
Jun Zheng. She hadn't let herself think that name in over a decade. Without considering, her head craned to one side as her eyes squeezed shut. It was like being slapped in the face. Again.
The door opened and she straightened. "You may come in. The judge will see you now."
The butler led her to a library where Judge Foster was pouring himself a glass of water from a bottle. "Detective." He sat on the edge of a brown leather couch. "You're at my house," he said flatly. "At dinnertime."
"Yes, sir. I need a warrant, and it can't wait until Monday." Thinking she'd better, she added, "Please." Then, took out the forms.
He picked up the papers, and without reading them, set them down next to him on the couch. "Tell me what's going on."
She didn't have the patience for this. Clenching her fists, she forced herself not to bite the hand that feeds her.
"I have two witnesses who tag a Rex Baxter of running a loan shark and money laundering business. They've both been shot, not fatal, and one of them has IDed a man who works for Baxter as the shooter. The bullets were from a Smith and Wesson M&P .45 ACP. The warrant is for the confiscation of any guns fitting this description, and any computer hard drives and files from Baxter's place of business and home."
A flash of the expression on Duncan's face ran across her mind, her thoughts. It was his confusion when he first saw her in Eddy's arms. Not jealousy or anger, but honest confusion.
"And this couldn't wait until Monday, because..."
"Hmm? Oh. No, sir. The couple has children. Pictures were sent to the mother. Pictures of their children. Someone is threatening them."
"I'm going to assume since you've never been desperate enough to come to my home that you are exactly that, desperate," he said as he reached for the papers and looked them over. "You've got a good track record, Detective. Your cases are solid. You make my job easier. Don't make this a habit." He took a pen from his pocket and signed the warrant.