by Rick Murcer
She wiped absently at the tear moving down her cheek. Eventually, he grew tired of her and was preparing to get rid of her, for good. He told her so during his last perverted frolic. She found herself welcoming death. It had to be better than another day, another second with him. But he’d made a mistake, forgetting, or not caring to make sure the handcuffs were secure. He must have thought her half-dead already.
She waited three hours, quietly opened the door of her demonic prison, found the kitchen, and then his bedroom. She never hesitated, stabbing him forty-eight times in the chest and face, then cut off his genitals and put them in his mouth.
The next day, she left Chicago and ended up in Lansing. Two years later, she was still here. But things were changing, evolving. She could no longer control the anger, the pain, the shame inside, and didn’t care to. It was time for all of them to pay up, and she was the cashier.
“Shit happens, but someone has to clean it up,” she whispered. Her mother had been right about that one, right up until she died four months ago, lung cancer dragging her into the afterlife—if there was such a place.
It had been good to get two others to join her cause, her club. And surprisingly, not that difficult. Stella had been more willing than the other. The chief’s wife seemed to be traveling down a similar path. But a few nights out and a couple of drinks will do wonders to get people to talk about what’s really on their minds. The trick was to get them to put the words, the thoughts, into action. A few sad stories, a little sympathy, and a mutual hate (and make no mistake, hate was as strong as love) proved strong motivators for building and cultivating a state of mind that was already blooming. A few more sessions, and eventually the concept of the JUSTICE CLUB was born. Nothing like a freshly discovered loathing for men to bind women together.
She put on the last of her makeup, picking up the prepaid cell phone she’d used to call Detective Williams, and headed out the door for work.
She hated breaking up the Club like that. They’d grown close. But stupidity wouldn’t be tolerated. Stella Crosby would have to learn that lesson the hard way.
Chapter-37
“This grieving wife and mother crap is getting old fast,” Stella whispered, looking out the window of Gavin’s hospital room. The sun was beginning its trek to the horizon, and she wanted to be out in it. Not here. By God, not here. It was a minor miracle she’d hung around as long as she had. But she had to keep up appearances, at least for a while longer. Williams wouldn’t take too long to put things together, particularly once her too-honest son explained that he hadn’t seen his backup weapon for a few months. The Firestorm .22 was supposed to be locked away in Gavin’s study.
Mike never could keep a secret, not even for his mother. She supposed it was a good thing he hadn’t become a pathological liar, but a little white lie once in a while wouldn’t hurt, especially to protect his old mom. That wasn’t in the cards based on the question he’d asked her, right before he was cuffed and rushed downtown. He had seen her leaving the apartment complex and had probably already told Manny. Not a real problem—it’s just that she wanted a couple more days. No matter. She was ready for what came next. All part of the plan.
She rolled the piece of paper with the name and address of tonight’s lucky contestant around in her fingers, then stuffed it into the pocket of her blue jeans. She had a few hours before she had to leave, to dress the way that would get her in the door of his apartment. She’d tell the nurses she couldn’t take the visitors and phone calls anymore and wanted to go home for a few hours. They would nod with sympathetic understanding, and that would be that.
Stella walked over to Gavin’s bed and glared at his face, felt his helplessness, and wondered if some kind of coherency existed in the secret landscape of his brain, anything that would cause him to remember how he got where he was. She hoped so. He deserved to know, to suffer. Lexy had, and so had she, all on his watch. She couldn’t put a date on it, or even a year, but he’d killed what was “them” a long time ago. Stella shrugged. What did it matter? What was done was done. Onward and upward.
She reached out to touch the “we’re thinking of you” card that Louise and Manny had sent, and laughed.
After tonight, she would really be on their minds.
Chapter-38
“This better be good. It’s late, and I’m missing my beauty sleep. You know how I am when I don’t get that,” moaned Sophie, taking another slug of black coffee.
Manny caught the quick glimpse she threw his way from the darkened passenger seat of their unmarked cruiser. They were parked across the street from the less than high-end Mason Street Apartments where the caller said the next target lived.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes, dear. I know you didn’t get much sleep. But four or five hours is better than nothing. And like I said, for the fifteenth time, I believe the caller knows something, and we have to make sure, one way or the other.” Manny’s fingers gently drummed on the steering wheel as he glanced at his partner. The faint glow of the streetlamp allowed just enough light to see the outline of Sophie’s oval face. He turned the radio down, and the sweet harmonies of Celtic Woman faded away.
“I hope you’re right. Otherwise, this goes on your tab and I AM going to collect.”
“Collect what?”
“I don’t know, maybe a set of diamond earrings, or an oceanfront condo in Aruba.”
“How much do you think I make?”
“You can get a second job as a male escort or something.”
“That could be interesting, but not the part where Louise hurts me . . . in all of the right places.”
“I still want something for my trouble.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
He knew she hated the whole stakeout idea. He got that, but after he received the call, plans had to change.
The call. Why? How did the caller know? What was in it for him? He would bet his next paycheck that being Citizen of the Month wasn’t on the caller’s agenda. But he couldn’t ignore the warning that the caller claimed as truth. Not to mention, it felt like the truth.
Manny had contacted Avery Buck, the alleged next victim, through his parole officer. After some serious convincing, he had managed to get Detectives Wymer and Ross planted in the spare bedroom of Buck’s apartment. There were two other surveillance units, a block east and a block west, parked along Mason Avenue. The blues had a full description of what the perp was to be wearing. That would let them know when, or maybe if, the shooter decided to show up to the party. The caller had said 10:30 . . . only a few more minutes to show time. He prayed this wasn’t some wild goose chase, but what choice did they really have? This could be the break that ripped the thing wide open. God knew they needed one.
The radio crackled. “Nothing yet, Manny. Hope this isn’t a waste of time.”
Sophie snatched the microphone from the dash. “Who is this?”
“Sergeant Wang. Is this Detective Lee?”
“Your worst nightmare. Don’t be bothering our asses with small talk. Keep radio silence unless you got something to say. And Wang, are you Chinese?”
“Sorry, Detective Lee. And yes I am. Why?”
“You’re giving our people a bad name by acting like a rookie. Got it?”
“I only . . . yes, detective. It won’t happen again.”
“Better not. Next time, I’m all over you so hard and fast, you’ll whine for your mama.”
She slammed the handset back into place, crossing her arms over her chest, and then let loose a full belly laugh.
“Done?”
“Yeah, that felt great. Besides, you gotta keep these guys in line.” She shifted in her seat. “A little over the top?”
“Not you.”
“Sarcasm again. I get it. But it was fun, and it helps pass the time.”
He smiled.
“I felt that little smirk. What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. Just thinking how lucky I am to have a partner lik
e you.”
“You’re damn right, and don’t forget it. I’m special . . . and you’re lying to me, aren’t you?”
“That hurt.”
“Just answer the question.”
“Not exactly, but at least you’ve stopped bitching.”
“That could change if I don’t get more coffee.” Sophie poured more java from the thermos. “So what’s the deal with this Avery Buck character? Sex crimes?”
“No. He was put away for hurting someone while drunk driving. Pretty upstanding guy before that, he even did church work. Just couldn’t shake the drinking demon.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I can’t get a grip on this victimology. Three serious sex offenders, if you count the guy killed at Mike’s apartment complex.”
“But—”
“I’m just not sure what’s going on. It could all be related, or not.”
“The guy on the Westside, Ben Morgan, had no record other than embezzlement. The other two were complete reprobates,” said Sophie.
Manny grew silent, trying to make sense of what he and Sophie had just said.
“So what’s going on in that brain of yours?”
“I don’t know. It’s like someone knows something about Morgan that we don’t. Some skeleton in the closet, same with Buck.”
The radio sprang to life again. “Subject matching description approaching from the west.”
This time, Manny picked the mic from its cradle. “Are you sure?”
“Yes sir. Tall, dressed in black, and a hoodie hiding the subject’s face.”
“Got that, Ross?”
“Copy. We’re ready. If I can keep Wymer’s hands out of the chocolate-covered nuts.” There was a brief sound of a scuffle. Wymer came on line. “I’m ready, guys. For the record, they were M&Ms, and I put them away.”
“Yeah, every one of them,” said Ross in the background.
“Just get it together.”
“Yes sir.”
Sophie grabbed his arm. “Look close.”
“There he is. But can you see those shoes?”
The light was better on that side of the street, and Manny did see as the subject of the night’s festivities moved up the steps of the apartment complex.
Reaching for the car’s door handle, he turned to Sophie. “I don’t remember the last time I saw a man wearing four-inch stilettos.”
Chapter-39
Stella moved gracefully to the front porch of the apartment complex across from the park and stopped, looking around to see if anyone had noticed her. There were a couple of cars parked on the street, but that was it. Who would really see her anyway? Not in this part of town, particularly this late. People dressed in black didn’t draw a lot of attention on the east side, especially when keeping to the shadows. If she ran into someone, they wouldn’t remember. They were too wrapped up in their own worlds. People just didn’t give a monkey’s ass anymore. Life is all about them and instant gratification, nothing more. It hadn’t been that way, back in the day, when neighborhoods were important and neighbors were more important. But times were a changing, as they say, and she’d take full advantage of the new king of society: human apathy.
She tested the grimy door handle and found it unlocked. So much for security.
Standing in the dimly lit foyer, she unbuttoned her silk blouse to her navel, displaying a tanned stomach and a lacy push up, and hiked up her skirt, showing off long legs and black fishnet nylons. Most women didn’t look this good at thirty-five, let alone in their fifties. She’d worked hard to get in this kind of shape. But hard work couldn’t hide everything that the years had handed her. She’d love to be thirty again, but it wasn’t an issue tonight. It wasn’t like he was going to see the rest of her. It wouldn’t get that far. She patted the gun and the bottle of acid and smirked. “My friends and I have different plans,” she said softly.
The steps creaked and the smell of old smoke and lavender disinfectant ran rampant in the halls as she reached the second floor. Apartment 203 was two doors to her right. She stopped, stood tall, and moved to just the right angle in front of the security peephole. The gun felt good as it rested against her thigh. She knocked on the door.
A few seconds later, there was a noise as someone bumped the door. She moved a little closer to the peephole. She felt his eyes do a double-take. Then a third. He was probably racking his brain to figure out what he’d done to deserve what he was seeing. She couldn’t wait to tell him.
The safety chain clicked into place, and the door opened six inches. His partially exposed face was unshaven; the eye she could see was bloodshot. His drug addiction seemed to be in full bloom.
“What can I do for you?”
“You can’t guess?”
“Makes me nervous when I get a question answering a question. What do you want?”
“I understand you are into certain things—things I need.”
He swallowed so loud that she almost laughed.
“Yeah? Like what things, and who told you what I’m into?”
Stella pulled a photo from her purse and eased it through the crack in the door.
“Let’s just say a mutual friend said that action like this gets your attention.”
The man behind the door grew silent, then spoke. “Are you a cop?” His voice had already grown thick.
“Not in this lifetime.”
“You want me to do this to you?”
“And more. I’m not here to bring you cookies. My husband thinks I’m sick. He doesn’t understand people like you and me. I need to be handled . . . your way. But if you don’t like what you see, maybe I’ve got the wrong guy…”
“No, no. I’m your man, baby. I want to see your face.”
“I’ll show you everything, do everything, when you let me in.”
The lobby door, two floors down, closed with a thud, and she heard footsteps coming up the stairwell. More than one set, in a hurry to boot. She couldn’t be seen.
“Now or never,” she urged calmly.
The chain rattled, and then the door opened. She walked in.
Stella took one more step and pulled her purse tight. He was on her like lions on meat. He spun her around and slammed her face-first into the wall, his groin pressing against her buttocks with unbelievable force. Ignoring the pain, she laughed. “Wait. Wait. Let me get ready.”
“Your friend should have told you more about me,” he snarled.
“Oh, she did.” Stella reached back, grabbed his woody, and twisted. The yelp of pain was amazingly gratifying, but he hung in there like a bad hairdo, pressing harder. She twisted again, he screamed, and this time backed away. She pulled the gun, whirled, and stuck the barrel up his nose.
“I think I’ll take over now.”
Chapter-40
Manny crouched on the left side of the door with Sophie to his right. Sergeant Wang and three other uniforms positioned themselves in a half moon behind them. It had been a minute or so since the mystery woman had entered the apartment, but they had heard nothing from Ross and Wymer. He was getting nervous.
There was a sudden thud against the wall followed by excited yelling, and with the suddenness of a Florida thunderstorm, the door burst open.
Detective Ross looked at Manny. “Well, that wasn’t too tough. This woman is supposed to be our perp?”
Manny cruised through the door and almost into laughter. Big Frank Wymer was sitting on the worn velour sofa, flabby leg draped over the midsection of a young woman who was half dressed in black lingerie and a short leather skirt. She was handcuffed to his thick right arm. The woman’s eyes were wet, but spitting fire, as she struggled helplessly against the leg that must have weighed as much as she did.
“Hey, Manny. Look what I found. Can I take her home? I don’t think the wife will mind too much.”
His captive started to speak, but was having trouble catching her breath. “Get-t-t that-t thing . . . off . . . me!” she panted.
“Are you going to behave?” asked Manny. “
If not, he’s got another leg.”
She nodded with the enthusiasm of a lottery winner. Manny motioned to Wymer, and he moved his leg. She gasped for air, and then jumped up, darting for the door, forgetting about the cuffs. She was jerked unceremoniously back to the couch, long legs flying over her head. A few seconds later, she was again pinned by the leg from hell.
“That wasn’t nice.” Manny slid the maple coffee table over and sat close to her. “What’s your name?” he asked. “And how old are you?”
“None of your business, and I don’t remember. Get lard ass’s leg off me, and let me go. I didn’t do anything.”
“That’s not going to happen. What are you doing here?”
She gave Manny a sour look. “What the hell does it look like I’m doing, cleaning the freakin’ carpet?”
“I think she broke my wrist,” complained Wymer. “Can someone get me some ice?”
“The gentleman that lives here didn’t call you, or anyone else. So I’ll ask again, why are you here?”
“Some gentleman. I got this one like I get all of my appointments. I got a message from my . . . business associate . . . to be here at 10:30.”
“Does this look broken to you?” moaned the big detective.
“How did your business associate get the message to be here?”
“I guess from the bulletin board at the church. How the hell do I know? I just go where I need to go.”
Sophie leaned over to Manny. “There was nothing dangerous in her purse, unless you count cherry-flavored condoms and a small whip. I kinda like the whip; it’s cute.”
“Nothing else?”
Sophie shook her head. “That’s it, want to see?”
This was beginning to stink like roadkill on a hot day. He hated it. It was becoming obvious they had been set up. In a big way. But the caller had been right about the time and the place and even what the woman was wearing.
This made no sense.
He stood up and paced to the apartment’s front window, then turned back to the young hooker. “Listen, I don’t care about the prostitution thing, not tonight. I just need some answers.”