Edge of the Heat 2 (Westwood Harbor Corruption)

by Ladew, Lisa

  “Who the fuck told you to sic Cassandra on her?” Norman’s face was red. He felt like the top of his head was going to pop right off.

  “I just thought it would be good for her. Scare her a little more,” Jeffries practically whined.

  “Did you happen to tell Cassandra not to slice her up?” Norman demanded.

  Jeffries looked down. Norman knew he had his answer. Jeffries was a fucking idiot who couldn’t be trusted not to fuck shit up. “Fuck you dumbass. Now I gotta fix it!”

  Norman stomped back into the station. He thought about it. True, she wasn’t here anymore, but she had been processed and she had been terrorized. This really wasn’t too big of a deal, he could work with it. Now to figure out what was going on with the missing firefighter. He walked back to the receiving desk to talk to Sergeant Daly.

  “Hey this morning I heard the firefighters calling up a helicopter to search for a missing fireman. Did they find him?”

  “Oh yeah, they found him, but he must have been hurt. He was flown to the hospital.”

  Norman’s jaw twitched. The hospital? “Is there an investigation?”

  “Nah, they never called us.”

  Norman grunted again and turned on his heel, heading to his office. Masterson was flown to the hospital, but no one called the cops for an investigation? Was he alive? And if he was alive had no one figured out he was shot yet? Was he alive but so burnt no one could see the bullet wounds?

  Norman’s hand shook as he pressed the elevator button. Luckily he was alone. He stared at his hand, willing it to steady. Panic and fear were not emotions Norman allowed himself to feel. He had learned to slam a lid on any feeling that betrayed his sense of control a long time ago.

  He learned that at the hand of his mother. Norman never knew his father, if indeed he even had one. Norman’s mother had been just mean enough and just crazy enough to make a deal with the devil, or maybe even have sex with the devil. Norman could never imagine a normal man wanting to impregnate his mother. She had been tall, and strong like a man. Her hair had been cropped short so she didn’t have to brush it, she said. She had hated life, and every person on the earth, including Norman. She started beating him with a horse whip when he was little. He never had a memory of not being hit at least once each day by that thing.

  By the time he was 13 though, he was big enough to take it away from her and she stopped. Her mental abuse had not stopped though. By this time she had been an alcoholic for over 15 years and her liver was starting to give out. Her stomach distended and her skin had started to darken in places. The more miserable she became, the more she tried to kill herself with a bottle, or goad Norman into doing it for her. Sometimes she would raise her hand like she was going to hit him and then laugh when he flinched. “Little baby boy,” she would mock. “Are you going to wee-wee in your pants baby? Is the baby-diddums scared of the big bad lady?” Norman learned very well to not give an inch of emotion. He also learned to hate.

  Norman entered his office and tore himself away from his thoughts. He called the hospital and asked what room Craig Masterson was in. “I don’t have that information sir,” the female voice on the other end said.

  “Is he a patient?”

  “A Craig Masterson was admitted this morning, sir, but there is no record of what room or floor he was admitted to and no record of him being released.

  “Is he dead?” Norman demanded.

  “Dead? Why, I don’t know sir, but there is no record of him, uh, dying.”

  Norman slammed the phone down. This was not helpful. He needed to talk to someone in the hospital. He had a couple of contacts there - a security guard in the E.R. who was on the payroll but didn’t have much access to the computers. A doctor in the geriatric ward caught with cocaine, but Norman had let him go as long as he remembered the ‘favor’. A cook in the cafeteria who Norman had sent to jail for marijuana possession, but Norman had not reported the meth lab in his basement, so the cook owed him a favor too.

  Norman looked in his rolodex for the doctor’s number. A few minutes later he had tracked down Doctor Paloma and was on hold waiting for him to find something out. Inwardly Norman fumed. Outwardly he sat relaxed in his office chair.

  A click on the line told him Dr. Paloma was back. “Yeah, Craig Masterson was admitted this morning and went straight to surgery. He’s in the ICU now, room 1214, but his room is being guarded.

  “Guarded? By who?” Norman bit the inside of his lip, hard, willing his face to remain impassive. He thought he probably knew the answer to that question.

  “Two FBI agents.”

  Norman sat for a second. So that’s why no one had called them. The FBI had taken over the case even before the police had known there was one. What a fuckup. But why was he alive? And how had they heard so quickly?

  “One more question doctor, and then you can get back to your evening. What is his condition?”

  “Well, um, I’m not trying to make a joke here, but he is listed as guarded. And that’s all I know. There are no records in the computer yet, and the nurse said that the doctor hasn’t let anyone see the chart.”

  “How bad is guarded?”

  “That means he is being watched closely as his condition could go either way.”

  “Got it doc. I’ll be talking to you.”

  Norman replaced the receiver quietly. In his mind, he picked the heavy phone up and threw it across the office. In his mind, when officer Franks looked up at the noise from his desk in the big room beyond, Norman grabbed the phone and smashed Franks’ face in with it until shards of bone littered the floor.

  Norman bit his cheek harder and willed himself to calm down. So Masterson was alive, and could be talking. But even he didn’t know who shot him, so all wasn’t lost yet. Hell, maybe the FBI would still be fooled by the planted gun at the scene and the letters in Masterson’s car, if they found them.

  Norman just needed to do a little damage control, that was all. He needed some time to think about this.

  He grabbed his keys and headed out to do some thinking.

  ***

  Norman ended up at the Black Dog Saloon. He was wound up tight, and he’d never be able to think of what to do unless he could work off some of this stress first.

  He pulled open one of the big red doors and pushed past the bouncer standing inside. The bouncer made a move to stop him, but held back when he saw who Norman was. Smart move asshole, probably the smartest thing you’ve done all week. Norman thought.

  Norman went up to the bar and ordered a tequila shot. He looked around lazily. There were always good prospects at any bar, but he didn’t just want a good prospect. He wanted a great one. He never knew exactly what he was looking for, but he knew he would know it when he saw it.

  The bar was dark but not crowded. There were maybe 12 people at the bar, and 30 people at tables, with a few on the dance floor.

  There.

  Standing by a booth, talking to the women sitting down. He was tall, taller than Norman, but older. Probably 15 years older, dressed in a typical bar outfit, jeans and black leather biker vest over a black t-shirt. He looked tough and mean and strong, but was beginning to get a bit of a beer belly. Norman noticed he had one slim scar hooking down his left cheek. Matching scars, coming up.

  Norman headed to the bathroom, and purposely tripped over the man’s feet as he went. The man snarled, “Watch it buddy!” Norman looked him dead in the eyes and waited a beat. The man fell silent, unsure. Norman continued on. As he pushed the bathroom door open he heard the group of women break out into tinkling laughter. Norman smiled, a flat, evil, deadly smile.

  In the bathroom, he checked his pockets and holsters. Everything was in order.

  He sidled back out towards the man, breath under control, emotions in check.

  The man was leaning over the table now, in deep conversation with one of the women.

  Norman glided up to him without making a sound, eyes on the man, peripheral vision noticing the women wh
o could see him fall silent. One looked scared, eyes wide. The other looked excited, with a small smile playing on her lips. He might try to talk to her later.

  He shoved the man in the shoulder, hard. “What did you say about me?”

  The man stood up. His vest had several patches and emblems on it. The only one Norman bothered to read was one that looked like a name: Saint.

  ‘Saint’ eyed Norman up and down, looking for a weakness. Norman saw irritation and anger in his face, but no fear. Good, this guy will be fun.

  Saint looked indecisive, like he didn’t want to fight, but he knew he had to or he could kiss talking to these ladies goodbye. He planted a snarl on his face. “I said I hoped you could find your own ass when you got in there.”

  A ghost of Norman’s deadly smile reappeared. “That’s what I thought you said.” His right hand shot out in a testing jab towards Saint’s soft-looking gut. Saint was ready for it. He didn’t even grunt. He just took it. Saint’s gut might have a bit of a beer belly growing on top of it, but the hard sheet of muscle was totally intact.

  The bar hadn’t noticed yet, although Norman was positive the bouncers had been watching him since he walked in. They noticed, they knew, he was sure.

  Saint smiled his own deadly smile. “That all you got?” He kicked his right leg back into a fighting stance and put his hands up. With his left he motioned ‘come on’ to Norman.

  Norman assumed his own fighting stance. This guy knew how to fight. Norman would see what he had and then pull out his backups if he needed to. For the first time since he walked into the police station his agitations were truly gone. All that existed was this man, this bar, this beating, and the soup of adrenaline and cortisol rushing through his veins. Fighting worked way better than sex.

  The bar had noticed now. The music was still playing but people were yelling and starting to circle them. The bouncers hovered outside the circle, ready to break up any side fights or pull off anyone who decided to help Saint. They knew the drill when Norman walked in. It always ended in a fight, and if they pulled Norman off anyone or didn’t pull friends off Norman, one of them was getting arrested for something they may or may not have done. Norman was a smart bastard who kept his ear to the ground and kept files on everyone.

  Norman threw the first punch. A high hook to the right. Saint blocked it and countered to Norman’s jaw. Norman pulled back but was grazed. Damn, this man was probably professionally trained. That was probably good though, Norman liked to fight dirty. Usually the guys who were boxers just boxed.

  They circled for a second without much room. Norman stepped inside quickly and went for an eye with an open, rigid hand. Saint bobbed then danced away and chuckled a little. Norman thought he heard Saint mutter ‘baby move’ under his breath. He would pay for that.

  Norman stopped advancing and stood there. “So I underestimated you. What say we just forget this thing?”

  Saint relaxed a little and laughed again. “Sure fella, whatever you say.”

  Norman dropped his guard and put his hand out. Saint ignored it, watching him. Fucker. Now Norman was getting pissed. This guy was too quick but Norman was itching to get in there and land some blows. Saint would just side-step him if he rushed him. He needed to get Saint angry and on the offensive.

  “Nothing to see here folks, break it up,” he told the crowd, who backed up. The bouncers warily exchanged glances but stayed put. Norman pulled over a chair and sat down next to the booth where Saint had been talking to the women. He tipped a wink to the woman who had looked excited before. She was in her 30s, long brown hair, and too much makeup wearing a tight black bustier that practically spilled her boobs out the top. “So what was so interesting about that pussy?” he asked her loudly.

  The three other women at the booth eyed him warily, but the one he winked at giggled merrily. She loved this kind of shit. He was glad she didn’t seem to have any attraction to Saint or Norman probably would have felt her jump on his back and hit him with a beer bottle.

  He watched Saint out of the corner of his eye - he was standing where Norman had left him, probably trying to decided if he really wanted to fight or not. Norman had no doubt that Saint could kick his ass in an honest fight, but Norman wouldn’t fight honestly and Saint probably knew it.

  Saint walked over to the bar and ordered a beer. Norman had to shift in his seat to see him. When he sat down on the bar stool Norman stood up and rushed him, landing a hard hit to the temple. Saint fell off the seat onto the floor. Norman jumped on top of him and hit blow after blow, head, nose, chin. Blood spouted out of Saint’s nose and soaked everything, making Norman’s fists slide against Saint’s face. Hands grabbed Norman from behind and hauled him up.

  “That was dirty fightin’” a huge biker yelled in his face. The smell of stale beer and bad breath assaulted Norman. “You get the hell out of here!”

  Norman snuck a hand in his pocket and brought the hand out with his brass knuckle duster on his middle finger. He grabbed the biker by the shirt and pounded him hard to the temple. The biker’s face sliced open from eye to ear and a flap of skin dangled down an inch. A woman screamed behind them and the crowd pressed in again. Norman shoved the biker backwards and whirled around towards Saint. Saint had stood up and was eying the hand with the knuckle duster warily, sneaking glances at the bouncers for help, blood running down his face and soaking his shirt. He grabbed a beer bottle off the counter and waited for Norman to come again.

  Norman stood up straight, grinning. He knew exactly what he was going to do about that fucker Masterson. He headed for the bar exit past everyone backpedaling to get out of his way.

  Chapter 7

  Emma couldn’t believe her luck. Agent Kinkaid said he wanted her safe, but he couldn’t spare any manpower so he was going to get her a cot and talk the doctors into letting her sleep in Craig’s room. Ordinarily overnight visitors were never allowed in the ICU. He also said he was going to try to get her a look at Craig’s chart.

  She had stolen a second away with Jerry to ask him to go get the car and he had said sure. He also said he would go to her house and get her a bag with some shower items and some clothes. She really owed him dinner or three dinners or something when this was all over. He had said he had news too but he would wait to share it until things were calmer. She hadn’t even bugged him. She could only think of herself and Craig right now. She hoped that didn’t make her a bad friend.

  When she walked back up to Craig’s room, she got a much different reception from the two men there this time. They smiled and introduced themselves. Their names were Adrian and Bret. She already forgot who was who but she tried not to beat herself up. She was surprised she could remember her own name at the moment.

  She pushed open the door to Craig’s room and peeked inside. A nurse stood over the bed, bandage in hand.

  “Hi,” Emma said. She had seen this nurse before in the E.R. a few times. Her name tag said Katy, with a big yellow smiley sticker on it.

  “Hi,” the nurse said back and busied herself with the bandage on Craig’s face.

  “So you are going to sleep here tonight? That’s unusual,” Katy said while she worked.

  Emma eased into the room and sank onto the small cot on the other side of the bed, pushed into the corner. “I know. I can’t believe they are going to let me.”

  “Me neither,” Katy said sharply.

  Emma wasn’t sure what that meant so she just kept quiet.

  Emma laid down and closed her eyes, just for a second, boots and uniform still on. She kept her mind busy trying to make some sense out of the day and everything she had learned. Norman was being investigated by the FBI? She never had gotten any answers to her questions to Agent Kinkaid either. How did he know her name? Why had Craig been wearing a bulletproof vest? And the FBI? Thinking about it, she was so glad it was the FBI investigating this, and not the local cops, but why, how had that happened?

  Emma’s questions drifted through her mind slowly. They took on a
lyrical quality, lulling her deeper and deeper. She fell asleep within 2 minutes, worn out from head to toe.

  Dimly, some part of her was aware when people entered or exited the room. Nurses came and went. She overheard a conversation between a doctor and a nurse about reducing medication. The sun rose. Jerry brought a bag in the room, then took her boots off and covered her with a blanket. More nurses. The sun set again. Agent Kinkaid came into the room and slipped a folder under her cot. A nurse came in to check on Craig but also grasped her wrist and checked her pulse. I’m fine, just tired, Emma tried to send to her telepathically.

  At 4:15 a.m., the time she normally would have been rising for work, she woke, alert and full of questions. She looked around the dark room and tried to gauge how much of what she thought had happened really had, and what was a dream. Had she really slept for about 28 hours straight? Here was her bag, and the blanket. Here was the folder. She looked at Craig. No change. Her neck was stiff and her lower back a little sore. Her stomach was completely empty and her bladder totally full. She needed some water fast, and then a bathroom. She looked around, not wanting to leave the room just yet.

  She checked the bag Jerry had brought her and sure enough, there were two water bottles and some energy bars from her pantry with her clothes. Emma drank both the water bottles empty first, and then shoved both of the energy bars in her mouth, barely stopping to chew. As she ate she prodded the bandage on her arm, trying to assess how well the cut was healing without actually seeing it. Everything seemed to be OK.

  She got up and crossed to Craig. The bandage still covered much of his face and he still had the tube down his throat, breathing for him. His skin color was good though; She thought he looked much better than before she fell asleep. She smoothed his hair down and whispered in his ear “Hi Sweetie, I’m here. I’m going to leave the room for 20 minutes, but I’ll be back.”

  She went back to the cot and grabbed her bag, shoving the file that Agent Kinkaid had brought her into it. She headed to the door, opened it an inch and peeked out. She was happy to see two FBI agents still outside the room. One was asleep in the chair and one was standing, probably trying hard to stay awake. Oh, that was Officer Kinkaid sleeping, she noticed. She wondered if he was pulling 24 hour duty here. Now that her mind was rested and sharp again she started to think about how strange he seemed during their interview, like he was emotionally involved in this case.