Dirty Deeds

by Sheri Lewis Wohl

  Under the cover of darkness, she kept close to trees and bushes until she got to the back door. Picking the lock took a little longer than made her happy. What could she do? It took what it took. She wasn't a professional but it just happened it was one of those little skills that came in handy once in a while. Chris had been able to teach her all sorts of nifty tricks before his accident, and they were lessons she remembered well. When he came out of his coma, she'd thank him again.

  With her hands covered by a nice pair of latex gloves, she peeled away the yellow tape with care. When she left, she'd put it back in place and no one would be the wiser about her little nocturnal visit.

  Inside, the house was as dark and quiet as a cemetery. Her penlight didn't give her much illumination, but she'd have to make do. It wouldn't be wise to turn on an overhead light and broadcast to the neighbors that the recent murder site currently hosted a visitor. Too many amateur sleuths these days, thanks to reality television and a slew of crime scene investigation shows. She didn't need either the complication or the annoyance, so penlight it would have to be.

  She stepped carefully to avoid the blood-covered floor. The stains left a detailed picture of the violence that had claimed Kendall's young life. Once past the scene of the shooting, Louie went through the rest of the house, room by room. She hoped that she'd find something to help her understand both Kendall's connection to James McDonald and the reason why she was killed. As random as the killing seemed, Louie was convinced it was anything but.

  Kendall had been a tidy woman. The only mess in the house had been created by her murder and the subsequent investigation. Fingerprint powder was smudged everywhere and blood stains streaked the otherwise lovely kitchen floor. She pitied the cleanup crew saddled with this job. Few people thought about the aftermath of violence and what was often left behind for the families. Another piece of the heartache Louie didn't wish upon anyone.

  Her gaze went to the floor and she sucked in a breath. She didn't need an outline to remind her where the body had been. She could see it all too vividly in her mind, blood and all. Chills still went up her back at the memory. She'd seen many dead bodies in various states of decomp, but that didn't mean she ever grew accustomed to it. Death was cruel and it was ugly. There was no getting around it. Anybody who did, well, she had the name of a good shrink.

  She stood in the kitchen and tried to get a sense of what had happened that night. She closed her eyes and remembered what she and Paul had seen: the trail of blood, the position of the body. Opening her eyes and turning in a slow circle, Louie walked to the kitchen sink. A window above the sink opened to the backyard. Although it wasn't a large yard, it did have several old maples big enough for a man to stand behind, unseen from inside the house. Correction … big enough for a man and a rifle to stand behind.

  When she'd been here the night Kendall died, Louie hadn't had enough time to study the window. She had the time now. Though the window didn't shatter, the hole was surrounded by a network of cracks. One big wind storm and the window would give it up.

  "You son of a bitch," she muttered.

  He'd been outside in the yard, probably waiting for James to run to his girlfriend. Actually, it was pretty faultless logic. But why had Kendall been killed rather than James? What did she do? Or more likely, what did she know? This was the kind of crime that pissed off Louie the most. It wasn't fair that a woman died just because she knew or was involved with a man. Kendall didn't do one single thing wrong and still she'd lost her life.

  Once more Louie closed her eyes. This time she put herself in Kendall's shoes. She envisioned Kendall standing at the sink when out of the inky darkness a shot hits her in the chest. At first she doesn't understand why suddenly there's a burning sensation in the middle of her chest. She spins, lurches for the phone, and falls. As she drops, she realizes in an instant that had to have seemed more like an eternity, that someone has shot her. She looks down in amazement at the flowering red stain as it spreads across the front of her shirt.

  Louie mimicked the imagined movements, falling to the floor near where Kendall had lain while managing to avoid the police marks and dried blood. She wanted to understand, but she couldn't disturb anything. She stretched her right arm out above her head where she remembered Kendall's had been, and turned her head, so her cheek rested against the cool tile floor. She could smell the faint though unmistakable scent of blood.

  Louie slowed her breathing and relaxed. She listened to the sounds of the refrigerator running, the occasional car driving by on the street outside, a dog barking. She went outside herself to become Kendall Stewart and a whole new world was revealed. Her eyes scanned the floor from where she lay looking for something, anything that the police might have missed.

  It worked. The tiny speck of white was almost impossible to see from where she lay, and would have been concealed from any angle other than prone on the floor. She slid her fingers as far she could beneath the lip of the range and was able to feel just the edge of the card. She worked it until she could slide it out.

  "Thank you, Kendall," she whispered.

  Louie sat up and blew the dust off the business card. She recognized the name, and a chill raced through her. In her business she knew them all, from the gypsy car dealers to the loan sharks who preyed on those souls who needed money and had no where else to turn. Martin Fitz was one of the latter, or as he was known around town, Money Marty. He was the guy always willing to bail out the druggies and the gamblers…at a price. A very big price. Why would Kendall Stewart have Money Marty's card?

  Something was written on the back. As Louie turned the card over, the chill turned to ice.

  * * * *

  The only thing left for Paul to do was pack up Jamie's desk. The scarred wreck looked as though it might have been salvaged from a Dumpster. He picked up a calendar with notes in Jamie's handwriting jotted all over it. Curious, he flipped through the months. A few phone numbers were written along the edges every month or so, and one, a Spokane number, looked vaguely familiar. More than likely Kendall Stewart's, and perhaps it looked familiar because of the area code. He looked at the number again, shrugged and dropped the calendar into one of the packing boxes.

  The second drawer Paul opened had a shoebox inside. As soon as he removed the lid, his vision blurred. Ticket stubs to games he'd played in and even a fair number of games he'd coached filled the battered shoebox. He picked the stubs up, one after another, and his heart ached a little more with each one. He'd wondered for years why Jamie kept coming to the States. As he stared into the box he suddenly understood why Jamie came back over and over. More than Kendall Stewart had brought Jamie over the border.

  His heart twisting, Paul put the lid back on the shoebox and placed it inside the packing box next to the calendar. There'd been so much about Jamie that Paul hadn't been willing or able to understand. Now he did and now it was too late. He'd made the conscious choice to see only the bad things about his brother and by doing so had blinded himself to the good things. What kind of man did something like that? What kind of brother did something like that? All he could do now was right the wrong done to Jamie. His killer would be found and brought to justice.

  He started to close the packing box and, prompted by some inner instinct, stopped to pick up the calendar one more time. He flipped six pages or so and looked at the phone numbers. One caught his attention, the Spokane one. He was pretty certain it wasn't Kendall's, because it looked familiar, and he didn't know Kendall Stewart's phone number. Taking a piece of scratch paper, he copied it and shoved the paper into his jacket pocket. Then, he dropped the calendar back into the box, closed the lid and ran a strip of fiber tape across the top.

  Slowly, he walked around the apartment one last time. The boxes were taped, marked and stacked. Everything was ready for when his folks felt up to moving them out. The place no longer held the personality it had a few hours earlier. The sneakers were gone, the picture was gone, Jamie was gone.

  Paul br
eathed deeply and stepped outside. The door clicked shut and he walked away.

  He was on the freeway and a few hours out of Spokane when he remembered why that telephone number seemed familiar. He hit the brakes, pulled the car over to the side of the road, and clicked on the interior light. Digging in his pocket, he pulled out the piece of paper and again looked at the mysterious phone number. Then he pulled his cell phone out and punched in Louie's number, which he'd memorized about two seconds after she'd given it to him.

  "Paul?" She sounded surprised.

  "Yeah."

  "Are you all right?" Her surprise had shifted to concern.

  "Why are you whispering?"

  "Give me a sec."

  He heard rustling, the sound of a door closing, some more rustling and then what sounded the opening and closing of a car door. What in the world was she up to?

  "Louie?"

  "One more sec."

  He could hear a car start and assumed she was on the road.

  "Okay," she said, her voice now at a more normal pitch.

  "What was that all about?"

  "You don't want to know."

  "I think I do."

  "Why did you call me?"

  He didn't miss the change in subject and while any other time he might pursue it, tonight he had something more important on his mind. "I've been in Jamie's apartment."

  "Did you find something?"

  "I found Harry's phone number jotted on Jamie's calendar."

  "No big deal there. Harry was his bondsman, so of course he'd have his number."

  "Except it was on his calendar six months ago."

  There was a moment of dead silence before she asked him, "Where are you?"

  "Just west of Moses Lake. I'll be Spokane in less than two hours."

  "Meet me at the office."

  He didn't like the way her voice sounded. "What's up?"

  "I don't know yet, but I'm going to find out."

  * * * *

  Louie looked at her watch. She had some time. Enough? Could be pushing it. She was maybe a mile from Harry's house and odds were in her favor he'd be at the office for at least another hour or so. He rarely, if ever, left before eleven. Most of his business came during the night and he liked to be available. She was banking on that now.

  As she anticipated, the house was dark and the street quiet. His middle-class neighbors were, from all appearances, tucked in for the night. She drove by and parked a block away, hoping to blend in with little or no notice by inquiring eyes. As quickly and quietly as she could, she closed the distance between her car and Harry's house. So far so good.

  The lights were out in the neighboring houses and she managed to make it to his back door without arousing any sleepless dogs. The lock was a little challenging, yielding only after a fair amount of coaxing. She slipped into the kitchen and breathed out a sigh of relief. This breaking and entering was becoming a bad habit tonight, even if it was necessary. And to think she'd personally arrested any number of perps for B and E.

  Harry was a pragmatist which meant there was an alarm mounted on the wall not far from the door. A bright red light on the small panel blinked rapidly. She'd have only a couple of minutes to get in and get out. No delusions here. She could pick a lock pretty quickly but she had no expertise at all at disarming security systems. But she'd been in Harry's house dozens of time through the years and knew exactly where to look. All she needed was sixty seconds, give or take a moment or two.

  She glided out of the kitchen and down the hallway to the den. Twenty seconds later, she stood in front of a large, lighted gun display case. One bit of luck today, Harry had it in the display case instead of locked inside the gun vault installed in a corner of the basement.

  "Oh, Harry," she murmured.

  The M24 sniper rifle was his pride and joy. Valuable as it was, he tended to keep it out for guests, and himself, to admire rather than hiding it away in the much more secure vault. There was always the chance he'd have put it downstairs. Tonight luck and predictability were on her side.

  One minute and counting.

  Once more, Louie pulled the picks out. Was there time? After a short moment of indecision she stuffed them back in her pocket. Instead, she picked up a book from the nearby table and used it to smash the glass.

  Thirty seconds gone.

  She grabbed the bolt-action rifle and ran down the carpeted hallway, past the blinking alarm panel, and into the kitchen. She dashed out the back door pausing only long enough to turn the lock as she went. No sense advertising her entry into the house.

  Keeping to the shadows, she ran as fast as she could to her car. She put the rifle into the trunk and covered it with a tarp. Slamming the trunk lid shut, she got into the driver's seat and started the car. Telling herself to be calm, she began to drive down Harry's street, right on the speed limit.

  In the distance, a siren wailed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Harry took the call at about nine thirty. False alarm or so the patrolman who responded to the silent alarm at his house reported. He wasn't convinced. Something didn't pass the smell test here, and he couldn't afford any more slips. McDonald had cost him enough already.

  He locked up the office and drove the few miles from Monroe to the Garden Springs area where his house boasted a great view of Finch Arboretum. Just as the patrolman reported, the house was locked up tight as a drum. It still stank, and he didn't care how innocent things appeared. The patrolman was wrong.

  Opening the back door, he crossed to the alarm panel and punched in the code. Then he turned on the lights and looked around. Everything was as it had been earlier when he'd left for the office. Nothing that he could see had been disturbed. That all changed when he went into the den and flipped on the light. His eyes narrowed and his heart raced.

  "You little bitch," he hissed.

  Only one person he knew had the skills to get in and out of his house quick enough to elude the police. Only one person who knew where he kept his guns on display without having to search. Louie.

  Shattered glass lay all over the rug and the ruined door hung open. A single gun was missing and he didn't have to check to know which one. Fury rose hot in his chest.

  Downstairs, he turned the combination lock on the large gray gun safe. The heavy door swung open and Harry stopped to study the various weapons inside. His gaze lingered on the array of handguns on the top shelf. There was a Colt Commander, a sweet Glock 19, an even sweeter Springfield XD. He put a finger to his lips, his eyes narrowing again. Decisions, decisions.

  He could always go for the ever-dependable M16, but it was far too impersonal. This had become quite personal when she'd removed his baby from the display case. And on top of that, she hadn't bothered to pick the lock. It was as though she was taunting him.

  He'd kill Louise Russell and he'd do it face-to-face. He wanted to see the life flow out of her after he let her know he'd shot her precious brother.

  That stupid Russell family had cost him much over the years and it wasn't fair. It wasn't like he was doing anything that horrible. Drugs were a commodity and the business needed people like Harry to keep the commerce going. Besides, the damn Army had gotten him hooked on gambling in the first place. If that hadn't happened, he wouldn't have needed the extra money. If he hadn't needed the extra money, he wouldn't have become involved with the drug trade. So, all he'd really done was use the skills the Army had provided to solve his financial problems.

  When Chris had become involved, it almost cost Harry everything. Jesus, Chris had been Harry's very best friend. To turn on Harry like that was wrong and he'd had no choice but to stop him. Harry had planned to kill Chris, not put him into a coma. Not that it mattered either way, the end result was still the same, and he'd been safe for the last five years. At least until that piece of shit James McDonald messed up.

  Killing didn't bother Harry, but the untidiness and the waste of his valuable time did annoy him. Still, a man had to do what a man had to do.
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  He picked up the 9mm and tucked it into his belt. It'd do quite a good job of putting Louie Russell in her place once and for all. It felt warm and comfortable at his side, as natural as if it was part of his body.

  He should have known this day would come. As hot as she was, Louie was far more than skin-deep looks. She was a natural on the job and didn't miss a beat when she'd stepped into the role of bounty hunter, oh, oops … bail enforcement agent. Good was good and Louie had it in spades. Unfortunately for the talented beauty, the very brains and skills that made her so good were going to get her killed. A damn shame too. He was gonna have a hard time finding another employee with her natural ability to step and take her place.

  He closed the heavy vault door, spun the dial and headed back out to his car. Adrenaline made his body buzz. He whistled as he pulled out of the driveway.

  "Here I come, little girl," he said into the darkness.

  The hunted now became the hunter.

  * * * *

  Louie dropped the M24 off with Chucky before she headed back to the office. Relief washed over her when she noticed Harry's car wasn't in the lot. All the better. Her breaking and entering for the night wasn't quite done yet. Hey, with two already under her belt, one more wasn't going to make a difference. The upside was at least she didn't have to break and enter into the building. All she had to do here was break into his desk and his files, which should be a cakewalk compared to her earlier endeavors. Besides, she was on a definite roll.

  Before she got out of the car, her gaze strayed to the dark windows on the second story of the old brick building. Her heart ached at the thought of Meg and the violence that had ended her life. Who would want to hurt such a gentle soul? Of course, Amy's logic made sense considering the background that Meg had concealed. Perhaps her past was the reason she now lay cold and alone in a morgue. And maybe not.