“Shit.” Alex is no longer horny. Just irritated.
He’s almost dead, probably in shock, but she takes some time to vent her frustrations out on him. When she’s finished, his face looks a lot worse than hers ever did.
Then she squats next to a rain puddle and rinses off the folder before clipping it back to her garter belt. On her way out of the alley she picks up the dropped umbrella and opens it, shielding her face from the drizzle.
Alex needs money. The three bucks she just stole won’t even buy hair dye. When the body is discovered and ID’ed, there’s a chance it will lead back to the coffee shop. Cops will be looking for a blonde staying at the Hyatt who recently attended a funeral—all three false leads, once Miss Clairol gets involved.
Luckily, this is a big city, and money is everywhere if you know where to look. Alex checks her watch. She has some time before her date. More than enough time to make a few grand.
She heads uptown, a spring in her step, eyes searching for the perfect person to murder.
CHAPTER 3
TURNING LATHAM’S FUNERAL into a crime scene didn’t endear me any further to his relatives, but work was more productive than grief. I established the perimeter, organized teams to question the attendees and cemetery staff, bagged, tagged, and sent the camera phone to the Crime Lab, and led a search for Alex that proved fruitless.
My boss, Captain Steven Bains, waited for things to calm down before approaching me. He was short, stocky, with a crop of unnatural-looking black hair that may have been a weave, a toupee, a hair transplant, or some kind of dead animal.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you. And thanks for coming.”
“When one of these perverts attacks one of our own, we make it personal. We will catch her.”
“I know.”
“The key word there is we. Not you. You’re a victim. You can’t be on the case. You’re too good a cop to throw away your career on a personal vendetta.”
I did my best to look neutral. This didn’t surprise me, but it still rankled.
“Alex called you, right?”
“I gave my cell to Herb. He’s working on tracing the number.”
“Sergeant Benedict isn’t part of this investigation either.”
“He said he’d pass it along to Mankowski.”
Bains searched my eyes. If he detected the lie, he didn’t call me on it.
“I can’t imagine how much you want this woman, Lieutenant. But if I find out you’re trying to involve yourself in the investigation, your leave of absence will become permanent.”
The wind kicked up a notch. I shivered, and the act made me feel weak. Bains gave me an awkward half hug, sort of slipping around me and patting my back. I got a good look at the top of his head but still couldn’t tell what sort of hair he had up there. I fought the urge to touch it.
Bains eventually broke the embrace, and an impromptu line formed behind him, cop after cop shaking sad hands with me and offering words that meant nothing. I outranked most of them, and stayed stoic until I got to Herb.
“I should have done more,” he said.
“Jesus, Herb. You did everything you could.”
“So did you.”
“It wasn’t enough.”
He grabbed me like a bear.
“You’ll get through this, Jack. You’re the strongest woman I ever met.”
Like all strong women, I ignored compliments.
“If Bains asks about my cell phone, tell him you gave it to Mankowski.”
“What?”
“I’ll explain it later.”
Herb released me, staring over my shoulder.
“Ah, shit. The assman cometh.”
I followed Herb’s gaze and saw Harry McGlade walking over to us. Harry was an ex-cop, and my ex-partner, currently eking out a living as a private detective. He looked as he always did: expensive tailored suit that needed to be pressed, three days’ growth of beard, a Bogart hat, and a broad grin that made you think he was laughing at you. Which he usually was.
“Hi, Jackie. When are we going after the bitch?”
Harry had been there the night Latham died, and had his own reasons for hating Alex Kork, many of them just as valid as mine. But I’d worked with him in the past, and had no desire to repeat the experience.
“I’m on a leave of absence,” I told him.
“Good. We can take turns driving the Winnebago.”
“The what?”
“I just bought it. Stocked with all the latest spy shit. Phone tracers. Surveillance equipment. GPS trackers. It’s like a crime lab on wheels. If her ass is hiding in a Stuckey’s shitter in Mobile, Alabama, I’ll be able to find it.”
He grinned, winked, then nodded at Herb.
“How’s the knee?” Harry asked.
“Hurts.”
I hid my surprise. It was the first time I’d ever seen Harry and Herb be civil to each other.
“I see the pain hasn’t kept you from eating.” Harry rubbed his chin. “You’re going to give Rudolph and the other eight reindeer hernias.”
Herb smiled, but it held no humor. “The police report will say you lost your teeth resisting arrest. Bad for you, but good for your boyfriend.”
“Guys—” I stepped between them.
Harry stuck his head over my shoulder.
“I’m a heterosexual. Ask your mom. But you…you’re a hippo-sexual. How does it even work? Does Mrs. Claus hang above you in some kind of harness?”
Herb brought up his crutch like a sword. Harry snatched it in his prosthetic hand. There was a whirring, mechanical sound, and the aluminum frame bent in Harry’s metal fingers.
Herb smiled for real this time. “It’s time for a physics lesson.”
He shoved, knocking Harry onto his back. Several cops still in attendance came over, but Herb warned them away. He gripped the top of the crutch and leaned on it, forcing the end into Harry’s diaphragm.
“This would be a good time to apologize.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry croaked, struggling to breathe. “Maybe you’re not fat. Maybe you’re just pregnant with a wildebeest.”
Bernice, Herb’s better half, gently took her husband’s arm and led him away, probably saving Harry’s life. Harry grinned up at me.
“I’m glad his trainer stopped him before he ate us all.”
I shook my head. “You’re an idiot.”
“And you’re my sister. But, disgusting as it sounds, I still can’t help looking up your skirt.”
I’d recently discovered that Harry might, might, be my half brother—a troubling fact that DNA testing would either confirm or deny in the next few days. If it turned out we were related, I’d have to double my weekly therapy sessions. Once I bothered to find a therapist.
“Go away, Harry. I don’t want to deal with you right now.”
“I’ll call you later. We can eat in the Winnebago. It’s got a kitchenette. You can cook stuff.”
I started to walk away, back to the casket.
“When you come over, bring food!” he called after me. “I haven’t bought any food yet! Pick up some steaks! Or a ham!”
“Shut up!” someone yelled. “It’s a funeral! Show a little respect for the dead!”
“Who the hell are you, Big Nose?”
“I’m Latham’s cousin Ray!”
“Well, I was with Latham the night he died, and his last words were: ‘My big-nosed cousin Ray is a dick!’”
Swearing ensued, and probably a scuffle. I didn’t look back to find out.
Mom stood at the edge of Latham’s grave, peering down. We’d spent six hours shopping for her dress, Mom dismissing one after another, convinced that Latham wouldn’t have liked them. They’d been close.
I reached out, held her hand, feeling swollen knuckles beneath thin, cool skin. I tried to recall the exact moment when Mom had become an old lady, and wondered when I’d reach that point myself. I stared at my hand, looking for signs of a
rthritis, and instead focused on my engagement ring.
The pain threatened to erupt. I shook with the effort to keep it buried.
“You have to mourn sometime, Jacqueline.”
Mom’s voice left no doubt she was following her own advice.
“I need to find her, Mom.”
My mom turned away from the grave, her red-rimmed eyes finding mine. The softness of her tone didn’t undermine its strength.
“I could tell you that revenge won’t bring him back. Or I could tell you that letting go is the only way you’ll be able to get on with your life. Or I could even plead with you to not chase Alex, because I can’t bear to lose you. But instead of all that I’m just going to say that when you need me, I’ll be there.”
I managed to choke out, “Thanks.”
We were silent for a moment, focusing on Latham’s final resting place.
Mom broke the silence.
“Revenge won’t bring him back.”
“I know.”
“You need to grieve and accept. It’s the only way you’ll get through this.”
“I know.”
“And if anything…happens…to you…”
I hugged my mother, her tears warm on my neck.
“I know, Mom. I know.”
After a few deep sobs, Mom stiffened. She held me at arm’s length, her face hard and set. The face she wore as a cop, de cades ago.
“Don’t try to arrest her this time, Jacqueline. When you have the chance, send her to hell where she belongs.”
I nodded, but I didn’t really want to think about that right now. What I had to say next didn’t come easy.
“Mom…I need you to go away for a while.”
Instead of showing anger, Mom smiled.
“I’ve already booked a cruise. Two weeks in Alaska. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
Color me surprised.
“Really? I thought I’d have to threaten you.”
“It doesn’t make sense for both of us to be worried about each other. Alex won’t be able to get me while I’m on a boat. And seeing glaciers and polar bears will help me forget that my daughter is hunting a maniac.”
“It will?”
Mom shook her head sadly.
“No. You’d better come back to me, young lady. Don’t make me strap on my gun and put her in the ground myself.”
Again I faced an internal battle to hold back the tears.
“I’ll be fine,” I managed.
“I assume Harry’s going with you.”
“Probably not.”
“You need help, Jacqueline. Someone to watch your back.”
“Harry is a…” My mind searched for a softer word than shithead. “…he’s difficult to work with.”
“He’s an obnoxious pig, and I say that knowing he might be my son. But he cares about you in his way, and you can use him.”
“Going on the road with Harry McGlade…I think I’d rather dance at a strip club for sex offenders.”
“You need someone. Herb won’t be any good to you with his bad leg. How about that other fellow who helped us? Phineas Troutt?”
“This isn’t his fight, Mom.”
“Alex seemed just as eager to kill him as she did us. Call him.”
“If you want me to.”
“Pinky swear.”
“Jesus, Mom. I’m forty-seven years old.”
She held up a gnarled pinky. I hooked mine around it.
“Fine. I pinky swear.”
Mom stared at the grave for another minute, said goodbye to Latham under her breath, then turned to leave.
“I’m going to Shirley’s. Your partner said he’d give me a ride. You sure you don’t want to come?”
Latham’s cousin was having a reception at his house following the funeral. Mom was invited. I wasn’t. I considered going anyway, weighing the pros and cons of being spat on by his family and friends. Much as I deserved it, I’d be a disruptive presence.
“I need to be alone for a little bit. If I don’t see you, have fun on your cruise.”
“I intend to. I’m hoping I’ll meet a nice man. Those tiny little cabins are much cozier when you’re sharing a bed.”
Mom winked, and touched my cheek. Then she headed back into the throng of mourners, which had now dwindled to only a few. I silently wished for someone, anyone, to come up to me and blame me for Latham’s death. Call me names. Even throw a punch. I was prepared not to defend myself.
Except for a few sour looks cast in my direction, I was ignored. I faced Latham again.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled for the thousandth time.
I tried to get my lips to say goodbye, as my mother had done. They refused. I wasn’t ready to let go just yet. So I simply stood there and stared.
After a while, the grave digger came by with a backhoe and began filling in the dirt. Methodical. Disinterested. The elaborate ceremony of death, meant to offer comfort to loved ones, reduced to menial labor. I watched, staying put as the drizzle became heavy rain, cold, relentless, and unforgiving.
CHAPTER 4
THE MAN’S WRINKLES are caked with filth, and the layers of soiled clothing wrapped around his thin body smell of BO, urine, and worse. Alex takes no joy in slitting his throat. She mixes business with plea sure when possible, but for this old crazy bum it’s a mercy killing. Alex derives no plea sure from mercy.
She holds his shoulder, keeps him turned away so the spray of the carotid doesn’t splash her Dolce & Gabbana. He moans a little, but resigns himself to his fate quickly, collapsing into a clump of bloody, dirty rags. The alley, like most in the area, is narrow and deserted.
Alex lights a cigarette and waits for him to stop breathing. She doesn’t inhale, because she doesn’t smoke. If someone happens to walk by, a nicotine break is a good excuse for standing around in an alley.
Two minutes pass. No one walks by. For a population of six hundred thousand, there aren’t many people on the street. Maybe it’s the crummy weather.
“D…deh…deh…”
The bum is trying to talk, but he’s having some problems; most of his breath is bubbling out through the hole in his neck. She nudges a patch of unbloodied clothing with her toe.
“Last words are important. Try to finish.”
“D…deh…devil,” he manages, somewhere between a whisper and a gurgle.
Alex smiles, but only the right side of her face moves.
“The dev il isn’t real, buddy. I am.”
The bum expires, rheumy eyes going dull, and the blood finally stops pumping. Breaking his neck would have been quicker, but that would have meant getting behind him, finding a good grip. Changing her hair color is annoying enough. Alex doesn’t want to fuss with lice shampoo as well.
Alex peels back his sweatshirt, and the smell gets so bad it activates her gag reflex. She removed the bandage from her nose a few days ago, not because the break was fully healed, but because it drew more attention than her scars, even under a veil. Now she wishes she’d waited; a nose brace and plugs would have prevented this awful odor from assaulting her.
The money roll is in his pants pocket, almost the diameter of a soda can. During her stint in the marines, she knew of an MP who would roll drug dealers and pimps when he needed fast cash, the logic being they always had a wad. The downside was they also carried weapons, and had unsavory friends.
When Alex needed money, her solution was less complicated. Homeless people carry their entire fortunes on them. Though some were drunks and druggies, spending their last nickels to score, the schizos and psychotics tended to hoard cash. It took her less than an hour to find one on the street, muttering to himself. When she shoved him into the alley, he was more interested in protecting his plastic bags full of precious cans than his own throat.
She flips through the bills, which are surprisingly clean and crisp, and concludes she’s just made around six hundred bucks. Alex tucks the roll into her laptop bag, checks the sidewalk for pedestrians, then steps out of the alley
and heads for her car. It’s parked on the street next to a small bookstore. A recent model Honda Accord, so popular it’s anonymous. In her younger years, she preferred to steal sports cars. But those are conspicuous.
Or perhaps, Alex thinks, I’m simply mellowing with age.
She approaches it from behind and inspects the trunk, satisfied that the car’s previous owner hasn’t begun to leak any bodily fluids. Since killing Jack’s fiancé three weeks ago, Alex has switched vehicles three times. Perhaps a bit overly cautious, but she doesn’t want to leave Jack such obvious bread crumbs. She prefers to keep the lieutenant guessing.
Exactly twenty days have passed since Alex was a guest of the Heathrow Facility, a maximum security prison for the criminally insane. She’d been put there by Jack, who had torn off half of her face in the process. The skin grafts, done by unskilled surgeons on the public dime, left Alex pink and mottled from her eye to her chin. She looked like a crazy quilt made out of Spam.
While in Heathrow, Alex had a lot of time to think. About revenge. And about the future. She planned two elaborate schemes. The first was to exact some payback. The second was larger in scope, but would be even more satisfying than killing Jack and company.
After a dramatic escape, Alex paid the lieutenant a visit, intending to kill her and everyone she cared about, including Jack’s mother; her partner, Herb; her fiancé; and two old friends, Harry McGlade and Phineas Troutt. But there were…complications, and everything went to hell.
Alex had been thinking about that night a lot. About how it could have gone differently. Jack and her friends got very lucky, no doubt. But Jack had also stood toe-to-toe with Alex, and broken her nose.
Alex had been in scores of fights, with both men and women. But no one had ever broken her nose before.
So, scheme number one got flushed down the toilet. But scheme number two is still viable. Scheme number two will make everything right. And there’s room for Jack to take a big role in it.
A very big role.
Alex takes out her keys and presses the button to open the car door. After she climbs in and buckles up, she considers her next move. It’s a little past two p.m. There’s time to buy some dye, do her hair, before her four o’clock date. Alex uses the onboard GPS system and searches for drugstore, finding one less than a mile away.
Cherry Bomb Page 2