Cherry Bomb

by J. A. Konrath

  “It’s my career, my life. Not yours. Cover your ass, Herb.”

  “With both hands. Don’t forget my Turduckinlux.”

  Herb disconnected. I wouldn’t be calling him again, no matter how hot things got.

  “Lieutenant Daniels? This is Special Agent Coursey, FBI.”

  The voice came from my purse. The walkie-talkie.

  “You need to come in, Lieutenant, before this escalates.”

  Phin and I stared at each other. I had an irrational urge to drop my purse and run away from it. Or maybe it wasn’t so irrational.

  “Lieutenant Daniels, you have to remember that you’re a professional. We understand you’ve been through a rough patch, but you’re still a police officer.”

  “Let me talk to her.” Harry. “Carmalita, honey, that wasn’t Immigration. You didn’t need to run. Those ten men don’t want to take you back to El Salvador, chicita. Now you need to bring back my walkie-talkie. It has a ten-block radius, and is very expensive.”

  “May I have the radio, Mr. McGlade?”

  “I got two words for you, Special Agent Pinhead: Carmichael and Levine. They’re my lawyers, and they’re going to sue the bone marrow out of you. They’ll make you wish you never came aboard the Crimebago.”

  “We need to move.” I switched off the radio. “Feebies have ten men. Figure two are with Harry, that’s four teams of two out there.”

  Phin nodded. “Searching a ten-block radius. Harry isn’t as stupid as he seems.”

  “No one is as stupid as Harry seems. Including the Feds. They’ll add more teams, widen the perimeter. How far away is your truck?”

  “Maybe four blocks.”

  “Could the Feebies know about it?”

  Phin shrugged. “No registration. Stolen plates. But everything leaves a trail.”

  “It’s still our best shot,” I decided out loud. “Let’s move.”

  We moved.

  CHAPTER 22

  ALEX CALLS ALAN’S ROOM from the house phone in the hotel lobby. Jack’s ex-husband doesn’t pick up. She sets the receiver next to the phone without disconnecting and crosses the lobby to the stairs. Alex takes them three at a time, orients herself on the second floor, and quickly finds room 212. Placing an ear to the door, she hears the phone ringing inside.

  “Mr. Daniels?” Alex makes a fist and raps hard.

  No answer.

  He might be a sound sleeper, assisted by pills or alcohol. But the smarter bet is he’s not in his room.

  Alex adjusts her bangs, finger-combing them over the scars while considering her next move. Alan might be elsewhere in the hotel, maybe the bar or the gym. She knows his face from his Web site. Alan Daniels is a freelancer and all freelancers have homepages. But people might see her approaching him, recall the police uniform she’s wearing. Better to wait until he returns to his room.

  Alex doesn’t like waiting. She likes action. Always has. She remembers being a child in Indiana, when a bully picked on Charles during the walk to school. She kicked the bully between the legs, hard as any eight-year-old ever kicked anyone. They ran away, but the bully promised he’d take care of both of them once school let out.

  Alex didn’t even make it through the first hour of classes. The waiting was excruciating. So she asked for a pass to go to the toilet, snuck through the halls until she found the bully’s room, and rammed a sharpened pencil in his eye when he looked up from the math book he’d been leaning over. Well worth the expulsion.

  She hurt him bad, but knew from experience that a wounded dog was more dangerous than a healthy one. So later that night, after the police released her, she and Charles rode their bikes to the hospital and used a pen knife on the bully’s other eye.

  Good times.

  The bully didn’t die. Not then. He grew up, coped with his loss of sight, became some sort of minister. A few years ago Alex followed him home after church, and they had a thoughtful conversation about the nature of good and evil before Alex skinned him.

  Alex has lost track of the number of people she’s killed. While in Heathrow, her shrink made some half-assed attempts to get her to talk about previous murders. Alex played it coy. The truth is, she has no idea how many have died at her hands. It’s like counting the number of times you’ve had sex. Maybe you can remember the first fifty. After that, everything becomes a blur.

  If there’s a secret to being a good killer, it’s not finding anything wrong with killing someone. Enjoying it can be a plus, but some people with the thirst—like Charles—enjoyed it too much and got sloppy. The best way to treat murder is with apathy. Sometimes it’s necessary, often it’s fun, but it shouldn’t be a compulsion.

  Alex thinks back to the bully minister’s death. He begged, like they all do. For fun, she made him renounce the God he’d spent more than half of his life serving. But she didn’t consider her act evil, any more than a shark killing a seal is evil. Pain and death are part of life. And everyone knows it’s better to give than to receive.

  Speaking of giving…

  Alex looks down the hallway, at all the closed doors. Like a giant box of Valentine’s Day candy, offering the potential for limitless fun. Fun, but necessity as well. Alex can’t check into the hotel—they’ll ask for ID and credit cards, which she doesn’t have. But she needs a room in order to deal with Alan properly.

  She approaches the door next to Alan’s, raps twice, turns her head so her good profile and police officer cap are viewable through the peephole.

  “Who’s there?”

  A child’s voice. Alex can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl.

  “It’s the police. Is your mom or dad there?”

  “They went to eat. I’m playing video games. I’m not supposed to open the door.”

  “That’s very smart. But police officers are your friends. Push a chair to the peephole in the door and stand on it so you can see me.”

  Alex takes a step back so the child can take in her full uniform.

  “I see you.”

  “Here’s my badge.” Alex holds it up. “When a police officer asks you to open up, you have to. It’s the law.”

  “I still can’t let you in unless you know the code word.”

  Half of Alex’s face twists into a smirk. She considers pushing it, maybe telling the child that his or her parents are hurt. But this seems like a well-trained kid. One cell phone call to Mom and things could get complicated. Better to find easier prey.

  “I understand. I’ll come back later when your parents finish with dinner. Have a nice night.”

  Alex tips her cap, then moves on to the next door. Knocks. No answer. Moves another door down.

  “Yes?” A woman’s voice.

  “Police. Can I ask you a few questions?”

  This time the door opens. The woman is at least a de cade younger than Alex, short, a bit plump. She’s got the security latch on and is peering through the three-inch gap. Alex could break in with a single strike of hip, shoulder, or foot, but the finesse is more satisfying. She likes it when victims torment themselves with why did I let her in? thoughts.

  “Have you been a guest here for long, ma’am?”

  “Two days. Is everything okay?”

  “There was an altercation earlier. We’re interviewing witnesses.”

  “I didn’t see anything.”

  “Actually, you were named as a participant.”

  “Me? I’ve been out all day.”

  “Then you have nothing to worry about. I just need to verify your whereabouts.”

  The door closes. Alex listens to the latch being removed. The door opens again.

  Alex enters the room. It’s dark, the bed unmade, the TV with the picture paused. Open suitcase in the corner, some clothing scattered on the floor. Room ser vice dishes sit on the desk, fish bones and squeezed lemons. The woman is wearing red sweatpants and a T-shirt, no makeup, no bra. Her hair has unnatural red highlights. She’s attractive, in a Gen-X kind of way.

  A moment after she clos
es the door behind her, Alex lashes out with the knife edge of her hand, catching the woman on the bridge of her nose. The woman collapses. Alex gets on top, pressing her face into the carpeting, tearing at her cotton top for use in binding her hands. The scream is still building up in the woman’s throat when Alex muffles it with a cloth napkin. Legs are tied using some discarded panty hose, and Alex hoists the woman up to the bed.

  “Don’t move, don’t make a sound, and I won’t hurt you.”

  The woman freezes, stock-still, eyes wide with fear.

  “Now I want to ask you a question, and I need you to answer honestly. Nod your head if the room ser vice fish was good.”

  There’s a slow, unsure nod.

  “Are you positive? Because I saw the restaurant menu downstairs and they have a prime rib special. I like prime rib, but I’ll try the fish if you think it was worthwhile.”

  Another nod, more emphatic. Alex has learned not to trust people who fear for their lives, so she picks up the phone and orders both the fish and the prime rib. Just to be safe.

  “So what’s on?” Alex asks. She flops onto the bed next to the woman, gently strokes her hair, and hits the pause button on the remote.

  CHAPTER 23

  SCOTT HAJEK’S EYES bugged out when he saw me, and they practically escaped his skull when he noticed Phin. He tried to slam his apartment door, but my new Nikes were faster and I blocked the attempt.

  “You can’t be here.” Hajek’s face pinched. “The Feds are after you both.”

  “You found that out pretty fast.” I pushed my way in. “Do you listen to your police scanner on your nights off?”

  Hajek folded his arms. “Yes. I do.”

  The apartment was furnished in 1980s male fanboy, science fiction posters and paraphernalia of the Star Wars and Battlestar Galactica variety everywhere I looked. Phin followed me in and closed the door. I briefly wondered what his apartment looked like, and would have bet some serious money he didn’t own a single collectible figurine.

  Hajek reached for a Buffy the Vampire Slayer phone, and Phin stepped in front of him, fists raised.

  “You’re a fugitive. I’m calling the police.”

  “You are the police,” Phin said. “You want to read me my rights?”

  Hajek persisted in his quest for the phone. “I’m calling for backup.”

  Phin caught his wrist. “No, you’re not.”

  “Or else, what? You’ll beat me up?”

  “That sounds about right.”

  Hajek thrust his lower jaw at Phin.

  “You’re not going to lay a finger on me with the lieutenant watching.”

  “Jack,” Phin said. “Close your eyes for a second.”

  I turned away, heard the fist connect with Hajek’s face. Not the way I wanted to play it, but I didn’t want Scott to get into trouble for helping us. If he had a black eye, that was proof we’d forced him. Not a shining moment in my career, but we only had a little less than six hours to find and save Lance.

  “Want me to turn away again?” I asked.

  Hajek had his palm pressed to his right eye. The defiance had drained out of him.

  “What is it you two want?”

  I walked over. “You’re writing a book about Alexandra Kork.”

  “I’m compiling notes, mostly. Haven’t written much yet. Did he have to hit me?”

  Phin picked up a replica Death Star bookend and whacked Hajek across the knuckles.

  “Jesus! What the hell is wrong with you!” Hajek took the hand away from his eye to cradle the new injury.

  “We made you give us information,” Phin said, “but you fought back like a tiger.”

  Hajek looked at the blood on his fingers and grinned.

  “Yeah, I did. Could you smack my other hand too? Make it look like I went all Charles Bronson on you?”

  “Maybe later,” Phin said.

  “We should get some of your blood on my carpet. Maybe on my shirt too. For the DNA match. It will look like I really kicked your ass before you subdued me. I think I’ve got a syringe someplace.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Okay. Can you spit on me, maybe? We can get DNA from that. Or when you’re working me over, I can spit on you. Get in your face and be all You can’t make me talk.”

  “No one is spitting on anyone,” I said. “We need your help, Scott.”

  Scott held out his hand. “I should put some Neosporin on this.” He eyed Phin. “You think Bronson used Neosporin?”

  “Sure,” Phin said. “Those punks he beat up were probably lousy with germs.”

  “Do you have germs? I mean, I don’t want to imply that you’re germy or anything. You’re not germy, are you?”

  I tapped his shoulder. “Scott, focus for a minute. I know more about Kork than anyone else. I could tell you things not in any files or newspaper stories. That’s why you wanted to have dinner with me, right?”

  He squinted at me with his good eye. “Partly. I also used to find you attractive, until you started bullying me around.”

  I took out the cell phone, showed him the picture of Lance on the bed, along with the text message.

  “Ever see this guy in any of your research?”

  “No.” He rubbed his chin. “But that’s a pigstick. They use them on bomb squads.”

  “We think he’s an EOD cop. He’s only got a few hours left to live. We need to save him.”

  I reached out, touched Hajek on the shoulder. He flinched a little.

  “He might be from Alex’s past, Scott. You’ve read the files. Did she know anyone named Lance?”

  “I dunno. I can’t remember.”

  “Can we see your notes?” Phin asked.

  “Sure. They’re in the study. I should get my Neosporin first.”

  “Notes first.”

  “That works too.”

  We filed into the study. Scott rubbed his knuckles on his computer screen, and across the top of his keyboard, but the bleeding had already stopped so I doubted the CSU would pick up anything.

  “Can I have a few hairs at least?” he asked Phin.

  Phin sighed, then bent down, allowing Hajek to pluck out a few blond strands and sprinkle them across the desk.

  “Scott? The clock is ticking. We need those notes.”

  “Okay. I’ve scanned in a lot of Alex’s files and used an OCR to turn the text into a Word document.”

  His screen saver, predictably, was Xena, but his computer desktop background surprised me.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Didn’t mean for you to see that.”

  Phin gave me a small nudge. “That’s a good picture of you.”

  It was candid shot, at a crime scene. A close-up of my face. I was talking to someone out of frame. The detail was very good, and I looked closer and saw he’d used some computer program to airbrush out my crow’s-feet.

  “I took it a while ago,” Scott said. “I think it captures the lieutenant’s professionalism while also showing a softer side. She was breaking the news to the victim’s mother here. If you look closely, at her left eye, you can see the underlying sadness, even though the face is all business.”

  Phin leaned in closer.

  “Yeah. I see it. You see the sadness there, Jack?”

  “The notes,” I repeated.

  Hajek pressed some keys, opened a word processing program. I wondered how many other candid shots of me were on the computer, and whether I should be flattered or paranoid.

  “I’m searching for Lance. And here we are.”

  We all read the sentence. In some notes taken by Alex’s court-appointed psychiatrist, she’d mentioned a relationship with a man while still in the marines and stationed at Ft. Geiger. But Lance wasn’t his name. His name was David Strang, and he was a lance corporal.

  “Can you find out anything about him?” I asked.

  “I’m crawling the search engines now. Okay, here’s a newspaper article. He’s a cop in Milwaukee. Bomb Squad. No picture, but let
me look for images.”

  Hajek found Strang’s police ID photo. He was late thirties, mustached. I held up the picture on the cell phone and we compared the two.

  “Same ears,” Hajek said. “It’s him.”

  We could be in Milwaukee in about ninety minutes. That left about four hours to find Detective David Lance Strang before the shotgun shell in the pigstick blew his head off.

  “Thanks, Scott.” I tugged Phin’s arm. “We have to go.”

  “Wait!” Scott said, so loud I stopped in my tracks. “I, uh, maybe I should have a few strands of your hair too, Lieutenant. So they believe the story.”

  “You’re not touching my hair, Officer Hajek.”

  Phin nudged me again. “Other ways to leave some DNA evidence, Jack. Give the little guy a break.” He puckered his lips and made a kissing sound.

  I sighed, then plucked out a few strands of my hair, offering them to Hajek. His eyes lit up like he’d just been handed the Holy Grail.

  Phin led us out of the apartment. I could have told Hajek to contact the Milwaukee PD, but I knew he was on the phone before the door even closed.

  “I think he likes you, Jack.”

  I followed Phin into the stairwell. “Do you know the quickest route to Milwaukee?”

  “Did you know he was pining for you like that?”

  “He’s not pining.”

  “He looks at you every time he turns his computer on. That’s either pining or stalking.”

  “He admires the job I do.”

  “He admires more than that. I think you came close to giving him a heart attack when you gave him some of your hair. I bet he’s building a shrine to it right now.”

  We exited at the lobby, and I nodded at the doorman who’d let us in.

  “So far, Alex isn’t lying to us. She was telling the truth about being in Milwaukee, and the cop’s name isn’t Lance, but I bet the nickname has stuck with him.”

  We hit the sidewalk. The rain had started up again, even colder than before.

  “You’re shivering. Anything I can do to warm you up?”

  I frowned at him.

  “Phin, you and me, it’s not going to happen. I almost shot you on the bus.”