"What the fuck happen here, ese?"
Burke lowered the light. "I don't know exactly. Somebody brought these people here, killed them, and left them as a message."
"On our streets, man? Holy shit." The three boys holding up the rear looked lost and terrified. But their leader was already summoning machismo. He puffed his chest. "Then we gonna find them and do them back, right?"
Burke backed away from the crime scene. "I don't think the message was meant for you and your homies."
"Then who did it, man?"
"I don't know for certain, but I'm thinking this might have been left for me."
The kid, who has seen far too many rap videos, jerked the .38 in the air, pointed down and at an angle. The gesture was intended to be at once casual and threatening. Burke had the Glock aimed at the kid's forehead before the idea reached his conscious mind. No one blinked. Burke lowered his weapon and the kid followed suit.
"You might want to put that away before someone gets hurt."
The kid's lower lip trembled, but he held his water. "Who the fuck are you, ese? What did you bring down on my street?"
"Don't worry, I'll never come back here again," Burke replied, coolly. "But I doubt whoever did this chose your turf for any particular reason."
"You better hope so, man."
"Here's what I think you guys should do. First, forget you ever saw me. Get someone to call this in. Let the cops handle it. You'll do your block a solid."
"Shit," one of the kids in the back moaned. "They'll blame it on us, vato!"
But the first kid smiled. "I get you, man. Maybe they want to nail us, but we didn't have nothing to do with it, so they can't. But the word gets out that we're bad, either way."
Burke nodded. "People will leave you alone. And I can get back to trying to track down who did this without being interrupted."
Gato examined the offer carefully and finally smiled. "I can get behind that, man. Did you know these people?"
"No, but I think I know who they are." He gave the kid his props. "Hey, do I have your permission to leave?"
A stately consideration, followed by: "Yeah. Get the fuck out of here."
TWENTY-NINE
The drive from the barrio down to the cop bar on Magnolia Boulevard in Studio City was a blur. The after-effects of the crime scene were severe. Burke broke out in a cold sweat. He put The Wave on the radio and tried to slow too-rapid breathing. The sight of old people gutted like deer had distilled the truth of the situation. He was crossing swords with people ruthless as enraged Columbian drug dealers. They already knew about Jack Burke—but he still had no idea who they were, or why they were committing these horrific crimes.
The converted storefront called the "Love Inn" started out as a gay hangout. Frequent visits from vice and undercover LAPD officers gradually transformed it into a cop bar by the early 90s. Now it was one of Scott Bowden's favorite watering holes. The parking lot was unpaved, the outside lighting poor. Burke eased in through the back way, walked past the stench of urine coming from the men's room, entered the dark bar and stood near the antique jukebox. He saw Scotty Bowden, unshaven as always, in a nearby booth. His handsome head was weaving slightly as he stared into a candle flame with reddened eyes. Burke sat down.
"Brothers!" Scotty was pretty sloshed. "Have a drink with me, man."
"I went to the address the hotel register had listed for the Farnsworth's," Burke said. "Do you know what I found up there, Scotty?"
Bowden couldn't meet Burke's eyes. He remained silent. Someone disengaged from a cluster of drunks at the bar and moved their way. Burke thought the woman looked vaguely familiar, so he shrank back into the gloom until she'd passed by.
Bowden responded to the movement. "Thanks for that, man. It will go better for me if I'm not seen talking to you."
Burke's mind was still riveted to the crawling flies and two dead bodies. He put his elbows on the table, kept his face down. "Some gang bangers will call it in any time now. I don't think they had anything to do with it."
"With what?"
Burke leaned a lot closer. "With potential Stryker witnesses Mr. and Mrs. Farnsworth hanging from the rafters, sliced open with some pieces missing. I figure they've been dead at least a day or so."
Bowden looked up, eyes wide. "Witnesses to what, Red? I don't think they were even there at the Sheraton that night."
"I don't think they were, either. But they must have known something about what was going to happen to Stryker, and someone couldn't take the chance they'd talk."
Bowden looked back down, sipped his drink. "I am so fucked."
"Scotty, talk to me. What the hell is going on?"
"I don't know, man," Bowden said. "But when it comes to the Stryker thing, I am being told to zip my mouth and wrap it up yesterday."
"By who?"
"It's from high up, man. I can't say. If I open my mouth I'll be so toast even Cary Ryan won't be able to save me."
"Scotty, somebody else was in Stryker's suite that night. Somebody who probably used surgical gloves and covered his tracks well. But then, I suspect you have already figured that out on your own, haven't you?"
After a long pause, Bowden nodded. "It crossed my mind."
"But you still tossed my name to Nicole Stryker, so I guess that was just to control the situation. Then you told me to wrap it up quick, that there was nothing about the case that wasn't righteous."
"I'm sorry man. It's cover-my-ass time. And if she was going to hire somebody, I wanted it to be a friend of mine, you know? Besides, somebody asked for you by name."
"What? Who asked for me by name, Scotty?"
"I don't know." Bowden looked up, then back again. His eyes blazed. "Fuck you, Jack. I've been good to you."
"Sure, but you also might have set me up in the process of covering your sorry ass. Did that ever cross your mind?"
"What do you mean?" But Scotty understood. He hadn't thought this one through well enough. More people would die, and Burke might be one of them. Bowden wiped his brow. Burke let him twist in the wind for a while.
Finally Scotty mumbled: "I'm getting some real heat to let it slide, Red."
"Even though you know something stinks."
Scotty eyed the middle distance. "Yeah."
"So help me fight."
"I can't." His expression was wan, haunted, but even in the poor light of the bar, colored with shame. "Because I got IA on my ass too, Red."
"Shit, Scotty . . ."
"Oh, I'm not actually dirty, more like a little bit smudged. Some meals here and there, a few hundred bucks from a bookie last Christmas. But they've got enough to hang me out to dry if they want to. That would leave me with a bad jacket and no pension. I'd be fucked."
"So the deal is you shut up and drop this, IA closes the file."
"You got it. You are on your own here, pal. Just consider that little fax I sent kind of a gift for old time's sake."
"What happened to you, Scotty?"
Bowden shrugged. He forced a thin, bitter smile. His face reassembled and became a studied mask of indifference. "Life happened."
Burke slid out of the booth. He stepped back, stayed close to the wall and opened the side door. Scotty lit a cigarette. With his hand masking his mouth: "So what are you going to do?"
"In the long run?"
"Yeah."
"I don't know. Right now I'm going to go report to my boss."
"The Stryker girl is crazy, you know that. Why are you going to tell her anything?"
"Her check cleared."
THIRTY
SUNDAY
"That is just horrible." They were in Nicole Stryker's kitchen, late the next day. She seemed truly upset about the Farnsworth murder. Nicole was wearing a plush, beige bathrobe that covered some kind of lacy black nightgown. The blonde hair was mussed and her dazed, slightly pink eyes said she had already smoked a little Sunday afternoon dope. "They were such nice people."
Burke had told her about the deaths. H
e'd neglected to mention he'd seen the bodies personally, saw no compelling reason. Nicole looked up at him as if reading his mind. "Just how did you hear about all of this?"
"A contact at the police department."
"And you think this is connected with what happened to my father at the Sheraton? But why?"
"One of my people hacked the guest register." Burke worked to avoid staring at her breasts. "As I told you, the suite on one side of your father was empty. The other was registered to Mr. and Mrs. Farnsworth. Only they weren't there that night, they were somewhere else at a party."
"But then why kill them?"
"I don't know yet."
"God." She dropped her head. The already yawning robe opened a bit wider, likely by design.
Burke looked away. He ordered his mind to stay on track. His mind told him to take a hike. "How well did your father know the Farnsworths, Nicole?"
Muffled, dazed: "They met for dinner and drinks now and then. I remember them from parties at the house, before my father withdrew from the world. They always seemed nice enough to me. I can't imagine why someone would . . ."
Nicole did not describe the picture in her mind's eye. When her hand crabbed sideways across the table to grip his, Burke felt hormones race through his body like blue fire. What the hell is going on? He had been dormant and numb for too long. Burke knew the ache he felt for Nicole was the polar opposite of his need for Indira—one female inspired love, the other lust—but at this moment in time, lust was the stronger emotion.
"Stay with me," Nicole Stryker whispered, as both of them knew she would. Her head was bowed in submission, that long golden hair flowing down to caress the damp sheen on the pale, white skin of her arms. "I need to be with someone."
Her fingers dropped to stroke his leg. Burke felt his flesh tremble and twitch. He heard a roaring in his ears, his bloodstream was suddenly oceanic, rhythmic, the pulse of the universe. Before he could reason a way out of it, he'd moved his chair and pulled her into his arms like a baby clutching at the breast; their mouths were ravenous, all tongues and teeth and panting, humid breath. The quickening was fluid. Nicole genuflected; moved her head to his swollen lap, feral fingers clutching at the zipper of his jeans.
"Wait."
That was someone else's voice, he thought. Some damned fool across the city, up on a mountain, from some other time and place. "Wait, stop."
The tip of his sex was already between her taunting teeth, the shaft being licked and sucked and fondled. The heat was explosive and relentless and it was almost over right there, before it began, but Burke knew it must not begin, mustn't happen at all. With a Herculean effort of will, he pulled her head away and clutched it to his chest. He rocked both of them, while their breath streamed through the kitchen.
Nicole Stryker was irritated, confused. "What are you doing?"
"I can't," he managed, half of him screaming frustration. He adjusted his stiffness in the chair, rose and zipped his pants. Nicole, pretty mouth puckered, young cheeks red with excitement and embarrassment, was humiliated. She jumped from her knees to her feet, uncurling like a startled gazelle, and slapped his face. Hard.
"You are so fired."
He tried to keep it light. "I think this might constitute sexual harassment."
She tried to slap him again but he grabbed her wrist, twisted lightly, and forced her back into her chair with a thump. The power shifted immediately and Nicole seemed frightened, so Burke sat down and held on to her arm.
"Look, I couldn't be more flattered," he said, and meant it. "You're a beautiful woman and I'm very attracted to you, as I'm sure you can tell. But I work for you. Now, we need to keep that straight, and get our heads clear."
"Get out." She shoved his chest with her palms. The chair squealed two inches across the kitchen floor. "I said get out. Now."
Burke did. He moved away to allow her to recapture some of her dignity. "Nicole, I don't mean to offend you. The people we are up against play for keeps."
"You don't think I know that?"
"I think we need to stay focused."
She glared at him, those eyes flashing bright shards of rage like silvers of broken glass—Burke half expected her head to spin around and spit a stream of pea soup. "Leave!"
"All right, then," he snarled, surprised at his own vehemence. "Go fuck yourself." Though a dim part of his brain called it childish and dramatic, he slammed the door hard on his way out.
THIRTY-ONE
The young woman tried desperately to nurture primal rage. She hoped it would shield her, inoculate her against the sting of his rejection. She stomped out of her kitchen and into the living room, made a tall Dewar's and soda, downed it in a few gulps.
Who the hell does he think he is?
Nicole paced the room, hugging herself, struggling to remain offended and angry rather than hurt, fighting to keep the oppressive fact of two murdered old people from dominating her thoughts, trying to keep the hideous image of her father's death out of her mind. Down deep, she knew that there was something unnatural about intense sexuality surfacing at a time like this, something even childishly needy, but she didn't care. She wanted to get high, escape, get off, and get out of the pain. A good orgasm was just another kind of drug. A wave of dizziness followed. She waited for it to pass, poured a second drink anyway. Nicole examined the roach in the ashtray and tried to light it, but burned her lip. She was out of dope.
Nicole shrugged the robe to the floor and walked through the windowed living room in her sheer nightgown. She watched her figure reflected in the glass, the long, lithe legs, perfectly formed breasts that bobbed so arrogantly. She was desirable enough for any man. Again: Who the hell does he think he is? But somewhere deeper, darker in the belly: Don't think about Daddy, don't think about Daddy . . .
Nicole Stryker, carefully balancing the drink with both hands, went upstairs to her bedroom. It was large, opulent with a round princess bed, the kind of bedroom a little girl dreams of having. Its pink fabric and plastic immaturity were a bit incongruous, considering the lusty, reckless young female who'd approached Burke moments ago. She used the remote to start her CD player and selected some music appropriate for the mood.
Go fuck myself? Sure, why not.
Nicole located the dimmer switch and lowered the lights. She took another drink and put the glass on the nightstand. She removed the nightgown; closed her eyes, massaged her breasts. She could still feel his thick hardness in her mouth, taste the salt from his skin. Her hips began to move on the bedspread and her right hand snaked lower. Nicole pleasured herself . . . don't think, don't think . . . Her fingers rubbed gently, persistently, patiently . . . don't think, don't think . . . The climax would be quick, she could tell, she was already wet and ready, her body twisting, her mind focused on a small galaxy of light eons away but moving closer and closer.
What was that?
Nicole froze. Jesus Christ, I left the front door unlocked. Her body was now both aroused and panicked, and thus paralyzed. The sound came again, from down the hall, something crisp and quick, like the breaking of a small piece of glass.
Or a window.
She sat up in bed, naked, heart and hands both at her throat. The 'panic button' for her alarm was across the room, by the make-up table, where she'd left it just the night before. Now Nicole was a little girl again, with a monster in the closet, and she couldn't bring herself to move. Her terrified mind rationalized: perhaps it was Burke, coming back because he'd changed his mind and wanted to apologize. Sure, and then he'd knocked something over on his way upstairs, and . . .
Squeak!
Nicole was up and running for the panic button, despite her nakedness, bare skin abruptly hived with rolling bumps from preternatural fear. The intruder caught her by the hair and yanked, hard. Her feet continued forward, absurdly determined to reach the goal, but when her torso hit the floor it took her breath away. He held onto her hair and her scalp burst into flame.
The man grabbed her from behin
d, sat her partway up, took one tender breast in each hairy hand. He squeezed and twisted the sensitive flesh. Nicole grunted an animal sound of surprise at the searing pain.
"Where is it?"
The nipples, this time, pinching hard and twisting; Nicole tried to call out but his left hand abandoned her breast and clamped over her lips, bruising them. "No screaming, just words. Where is it?"
"Where is what?"
More pain, a wave of agony beyond belief. "Please, stop!" Nicole was panting with terror. Her already aroused body was quickly tipping over into a mindless state of hysteria.
"Where is it?"
"I don't know what you mean, I don't know what you mean." She repeated herself, over and over again like a woman saying rosary. She could smell the man, and his repulsive stink caused her stomach to clench and her heart to sink into a deep, dark well. The man, or perhaps creature, reeked of shit and matches, sweat and offal; he had become death, destroyer of worlds. As his right hand crept up her trembling flesh, it scorched like a soldering iron, then clamped over her nose. Nicole Stryker began to struggle for air. She bucked and twisted and kicked her legs. The sounds she emitted were pathetic and heartbreaking. They seemed to bring the stranger real, sensual pleasure.
When she wet herself, he chuckled. Nicole could not fight anymore. She fell off a cliff into darkness . . .
. . . "Tell me where it is."
The voice brought her back. Nicole gasped for air and opened her eyes to see who or what was speaking.
The demon was terrifying. He squatted before her now, like some savage on a gory battlefield. His bare arms were covered with tattoos, ribbons and snakes of them, and his eyes burned, though they were black as slate. His awful breath reached her, and her nose twitched, the hare smelling a predator.
"Where is it?" He twisted her breasts again and she cried out. The man smiled pleasantly, and brought his bland face close to hers.
Nicole Stryker held her breath. She knew she was about to die: Dear God, he doesn't even care if I see him, he's decided to kill me anyway!
The Pressure of Darkness Page 19