Night Moves

by DJ Steele

  Julia retrieved her backpack by the door in the hallway and tucked the file and laptop inside. Luckily, she had left the camera inside her backpack and not in her office. She worried the man they saw leaving the motel murder scene wanted the photos she had taken.

  Wait. How would he know they took photos? How would he know where she worked? License plate, maybe. That wouldn’t tell him her office location. It could only be one thing.

  Laquita.

  The woman was texting on her phone. "Laquita, we need to talk."

  She typed a second more and then shoved the phone in her back-jean pocket.

  "I thought ya said we need to get outta here," said Laquita.

  "How would the man we saw leaving the murder scene know where I work?"

  "I figger he musta got yo tag number or coulda followed us."

  "My tag number wouldn’t have told him where I work. He would’ve had a hard time getting to his car in time to follow us. I took lots of turns to make sure nobody was tailing us."

  "I dunno. Maybe he wasn’t here. Ya said we were probably gitten’ paranoid. Maybe ya put the file in the wrong spot."

  "Your friend. He told you he saw us taking photos yesterday at the motel. Said it was his territory. You think the man we saw also saw your friend? He could’ve asked your friend if he knew you?"

  Laquita’s big brown eyes widened. "Oh my God," Laquita cried out.

  "Call him. Call your friend now and find out," urged Julia.

  Laquita held the cell phone in her hand and thumbed a message.

  "I’ll text him. He gits back faster that way."

  Laquita’s slender fingers moved to the scar on her forehead. Her fingers nervously stroked the scar.

  The phone vibrated. Laquita thumbed more messages. She stopped and slipped the phone in her back pocket. "We need to call the cops," Laquita said. She traipsed over to the window, pulled back the cheap blinds and looked out.

  "What did he say? Did he talk to somebody about our surveillance in that area?"

  Laquita turned and faced Julia. "We need to git goin’."

  Julia was losing her patience. "Did your friend say we need to leave? Why? What does he know?"

  "He don't know nothin'." The quiver in her voice gave her away.

  "You're lying. He does know something. What the hell is it? Tell me now," demanded Julia.

  "I ain't lying."

  "Then why are you in such a hurry to leave and now all of a sudden you want to call the cops? You don’t trust the cops. Remember?"

  "Cuz, my friend’s worried. That's all."

  "About what?"

  Laquita shook her head. "I just think that file being in the wrong place means somebody probably got in here. Okay? That makes me nervous." She turned and peeked through the slats of the blinds.

  Julia took a step toward Laquita, reached and snatched the cell phone from Laquita’s back jean pocket.

  "Give it back," Laquita yelled as she twirled around.

  Julia scanned the text messages on Laquita’s phone. She read the last few texts between Laquita and a guy named Max.

  * * *

  Max—Keep away from that PI and her office.

  Laquita—What?

  Max—Could be trouble

  Laquita—???

  Max—That man you took photos of at motel…he knows

  Chapter Nine

  Shockley hated the smell.

  Antiseptic from cleaners, blood, vomit, and even the scent from get well flowers. Pongs that triggered memories of the time his mother spent in hospitals.

  An orderly sped down the hall pushing a gurney. The patient on the metal table moaned as he was wheeled past Shockley. At least a dozen people were injured from the blast at the motel. Two known dead. A police officer and the manager of the motel had died at the scene.

  The hospital corridor was a bustle of activity. Shockley had already been checked out by a doctor. A few stitches above his eyebrow and a small bandage on one hand were the only visible signs of his injuries. Luckily, the blast had propelled him forward causing him to land on top of reporter Susan Porter, protecting her from the impact. Others were not so lucky.

  Amber Bull was in surgery. As the crime scene investigator, she was leading the team toward the exterior stairwell located on the east side of the building. The room with the bomb was located at least forty feet from the top of the stairwell. That distance probably saved her life.

  "Is she going to make it?" was what he kept asking the nurse who had obviously been in this position too many times before. "I’m an officer." He flashed his badge. "I need to know."

  The nurse answered, "All I know at this time is that the doctors are doing everything possible. Her condition is serious. We’ve notified her husband. He’s on his way. You should go home and get some rest."

  Rest? Is she kidding? His friends were just blown up. He needed to make sure they would pull through before he left. Then he would hunt down the son of a bitch who did this and make him pay.

  Shockley headed to the Intensive Care Unit to see how T-Bone was doing. The same nurse who advised Shockley to go home was leading him down the hospital corridor.

  "Here we are," the nurse said, her eyes weary from a long shift. "Use the antibacterial foam located near the patient’s bed to disinfect your hands."

  "Thanks."

  The nurse quickly held her hand up blocking Shockley from entering. "No more than ten minutes, please. Mr. Bone needs to rest. He’s been heavily sedated."

  Shockley nodded. This would not be easy. The first time he saw his mother in ICU he was shaken. He never wanted to see anybody he loved that helpless and vulnerable again. Shockley lowered his head, closed his eyes for a second. He had to be strong. His friend needed him.

  He pushed the heavy brown door open.

  T-Bone’s head was wrapped in bandages. His face swollen with deep yellow-purple bruises. The familiar mechanical cadence of beeps and buzzes from the machines in the room made his chest feel tight. His friend was attached to IVs, a heart monitor and there was an oxygen tank next to him. His neck stabilized in a cervical collar. A doctor with a stethoscope hanging around his neck and a nurse by his side were at the foot of the bed doing an exchange of incomprehensible medical terminology.

  The doctor noticed Shockley and gestured to the hand sanitizer dispenser. He walked over and squirted some in his palm. He worked the foam around the bandage on top of his hand. His hand hurt more than he wanted to acknowledge.

  "I’m Detective Shockley." He flashed his badge. "How is he?"

  "Critical, but stable," the doctor replied while he walked toward Shockley.

  "I’m Dr. Williams." Shockley had to look down at the short man. He had black hair, Mediterranean features and could easily pass as Italian.

  "What’d you mean by critical, but stable?"

  "Means he will get round-the-clock bedside monitoring by one of our critical care nurses. We’ll know more later today." Dr. Williams studied Shockley then pointed at him. "You were at the explosion?"

  "Yeah. T-Bone, I mean Officer Bone and I were investigating a double homicide at the motel when the bomb went off."

  "You were lucky you weren’t in the room where the bomb exploded."

  "Is he awake? Can I talk to him?"

  "He’s been asking for you. Right now, it’s important he rest."

  "I won’t stay long Doc."

  "No, you won’t," the doctor said with a slight grin across his face. The doctor wheeled toward the nurse standing next to the monitors. "That’s nurse Becky over there. She puts her patient’s welfare first. I wouldn’t challenge her if I were you. When she says you need to leave, leave." The doctor patted Shockley’s arm as he walked past him and out the door of the room.

  Shockley hoped nurse Becky might give him more information on his friend’s condition. "What do you think 'bout T-Bone’s condition?"

  The nurse took a minute before diverting her attention away from the monitors and looking at Shockley. H
er brown hair pulled up and back with two oversized twists on top of her head reminded him of Nurse Ratched from the old movie, One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest. He hoped it was just an appearance similarity and not a personality one.

  She smiled. "There isn’t much else I can say, except your friend here is a very stubborn patient."

  She was right about that. T-Bone was a stubborn man. There was a time T-Bone didn’t have enough money to buy his son the birthday present he wanted. T-Bone’s ex-wife had taken him to the cleaners during the divorce. He gave her everything. All he wanted was joint custody of his son. Shockley tried to loan him the money. T-Bone refused. Said he'd figure it out. He did. T-Bone got a job bagging grocery to earn enough extra cash.

  "That’s the truth ma’am. T-Bone makes a mule seem reasonable."

  They both laughed.

  "Your nickname for your friend is clever," she said. She adjusted the blanket on T-Bone and continued, "Being stubborn can be a good quality at times." She paused a beat. "We will take very good care of your friend."

  Shockley smiled at her. Becky was no Nurse Ratched.

  "I’m going to step out and give you some privacy, detective. No more than ten minutes. Try to keep him calm."

  Shockley thanked Becky. He relaxed a bit, T-Bone was in good hands.

  He drew closer to the side of the bed and studied his friend. The large man’s swollen eyes were closed. He pulled up a chair and put his hand on top of the bed’s side rail.

  "Sorry man. It should be me in that bed, not you," Shockley choked out.

  He blinked back the wetness forming in his eyes. His friend’s grotesque face and all the tubes and wires he was hooked up to made the large man look like Frankenstein. T-Bone was almost unrecognizable.

  "Cowboy," a weak voice spoke. "That you?" T-Bone had opened his eyes, yet the slits looked closed.

  "Yep, T-Bone. It’s me." Shockley took a deep breath. "How ya doing buddy?"

  "My head feels like it’s gonna explode. Hurts like a sonofabitch."

  "I’ll tell them to give you more pain meds." Shockley started to remove his hand and go find the nurse when a large hand stopped him.

  "No," T-Bone’s voice was barely audible. The hand on Shockley’s hand was surprisingly strong.

  Shockley leaned his head closer to his friend’s face. "What is it T-Bone?"

  "Something’s not right, Cowboy." T-Bone moaned.

  "Don’t talk. Just rest. We need you back on the force."

  T-Bone kept his grip on Shockley as he continued, "Dead guy…tattoos."

  "From a local gang," added Shockley. "Probably a prostitute messing with the wrong guy. Maybe a local gang getting revenge."

  T-Bone moaned again. Shockley knew the massive amount of morphine his friend had been given was overtaking his mind. The big hand held on. T-Bone closed his eyes.

  "The girl," he whispered. "Wrong…place."

  "What do you mean T-Bone?"

  Shockley leaned his ear close to the man’s mouth to hear the struggling man speak.

  "Girl…wrong," T-Bone faint voice muttered.

  The big strong hand opened, releasing Shockley’s arm.

  T-Bone had drifted back to sleep.

  Shockley knew his friend would hear his promise. "Don’t worry big guy, I’ll find this bastard if it’s the last thing I ever do."

  Chapter Ten

  Fairmont Chateau

  Lake Louise, Canada

  * * *

  When the assassin in the hotel room at the Fairmont Chateau had spun toward Alec to fire her pistol, Elke was faster. She didn’t want to kill the young assassin, yet she had no choice. Alec instructed Elke to get out of there as fast as possible. He’d have the room sanitized before housekeeping arrived.

  "Thanks for saving my life," he said.

  He stepped closer, pulled her against him and passionately kissed her. "I owe you."

  Alec was right. He owed her and she usually collected.

  She pulled back from his hold and studied him. A man with lonely eyes. It came with this line of work. When you can’t trust people, it’s hard to get close to them.

  "The Russians will soon learn what happened. We need to get out of the country," she warned.

  "Already made the call. The agency will handle this. My orders are to get you out." Alec’s voice stiffened, "I'm sorry. My intel on when the assassin would arrive was wrong. After you told her what she wanted to know, she’d have killed you, too."

  "Your Kremlin mole told you the assassin would not arrive until tomorrow. Obviously, your mole is—"

  "Being provided contrived information to ferret out the mole."

  "Therefore, your inside informant is—"

  "Probably dead."

  "We must move fast," Elke said as she began to dress. "The Kremlin will learn soon their assassin failed."

  Calgary International Airport

  Calgary, Alberta, Canada

  * * *

  There were no nonstop flights from Calgary International Airport to Washington, D.C. Her lay-over in Toronto was now delayed more than forty-five minutes. Due to the flight delay, Elke learned she wouldn’t arrive in D.C. till late in the evening. Damn. I need to be in D.C. now, not in the evening. Airlines are so incompetent. She found an area away from the swarm of people in the terminal to make the necessary call.

  "Situation report," Elke demanded from the man on the other line.

  "She and another woman were near the motel when there was an explosion." The man had been instructed not to use names on an unsecured line.

  Elke knew who she was—Julia.

  Elke clenched her teeth. The thought of something happening to her granddaughter made the otherwise strong woman shudder.

  "Is she…," Elke could not finish the sentence.

  "She’s fine. We’re searching for clues to find out if she’s being targeted."

  "I don’t care what it takes, protect her at all costs."

  "Understood," the man answered.

  "Any victims from explosion?"

  "Our source heard from an off-the-record police officer that there were two inside the motel room when the bomb went off. They were already declared DOA. They think a hooker met a gang member for drugs, sex or both. Rumors are the hooker was the property of a rival gang. Their MO is explosives. This is a rough part of town. Lots of gang activity."

  "Two dead. Anybody else?"

  "One officer and a guy who worked at the motel."

  "You sure she's safe?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you search her office?"

  "Yes. We know who hired her."

  "Foreign influence?"

  "Probably not."

  "My flight has been delayed. I want to be debriefed when I get back."

  Elke clicked off. She glanced at her wristwatch and then at the crowd of people.

  Nothing suspicious.

  Yet.

  The call heightened her angst over Julia’s safety. She could never allow anything to happen to her granddaughter. The Russians had already taken her daughter. She’d be damned if they would harm her granddaughter. Anybody who tried would pay the price.

  The man on the call was part of the Bridge Club. Elke knew him from her CIA days. He was forced to quit after a botched extraction of a high value al-Qaeda target in Afghanistan. The Russians captured the case officer and tortured him. Elke was a member of the off-the-books extraction team that helped locate and smuggle him to safety. She had a dark suspicion the CIA had been infiltrated by the then KGB. Her concerns were rejected by both the CIA and the government.

  Elke knew Julia was still angry with her. After her granddaughter learned the truth regarding her parent's death and that Elke had worked with the CIA, she was hurt and confused. Elke tried to protect her, but things got out of control. The girl was stubborn and headstrong. Even when Julia was a small child, Elke knew she was going to be a lot like herself. She struggled to convince Julia not to buy the private detective business. The more she pushed
, the more determined her granddaughter became.

  Julia had made Elke promise to quit interfering in her life. Elke, with sincerity in her voice, agreed. It was another lie. That same day she made the promise to stay out of her granddaughter’s life was the same day she called the Bridge Club and told them to keep eyes on her.

  Elke needed a drink.

  The Vin Room Restaurant in the airport terminal had an extensive list of over 80 wines. Her drink of choice was vodka, but the wine bar restaurant was closer to her departing gate.

  A quick scan of the people inside the airport restaurant did not send up any red flags.

  Even though she could drink most men under the table, she would be conservative and just order one glass of red wine. It was important to keep her wits. She could not miss her flight. And even though Alec said the agency would handle the Russians, one could never be too careful. After all, Alec was a double agent. His motivation to betray his country was purely financial. Spying was known as the second oldest profession. When money was the main motivator, you had to watch your back.

  Information she had received from the Bridge Club was unexpected. Was it a coincidence that her granddaughter was doing surveillance where a double murder took place? Then an explosion at the same location? This couldn't be as straight cut as it appeared on the surface. It never was.

  Elke sipped her wine while keeping a watchful eye on the activity around her. A sea of people scurried past on the way to their gates. Their faces a mixture of bored and frustrated. A young tyke dressed in a Batman outfit wailed as his mother dragged him along by his small hand. Beeping noises from a motorized vehicle passed, transporting an overweight elderly woman holding a cane in her hand. A man walked a dog wearing a vest with the words Therapy Dog sewn on top. Constant announcements from the airlines blared through the terminal speakers. Airports were basically the same all over the world.

  A man in his early forties with mostly black hair wandered into the Vin Room and sidled up to the bar. He wasn’t particularly fit. His friendly face made him look like the kind of guy people felt comfortable having a beer with. Elke studied him. An average Joe who blended in with the other customers in the restaurant. The man never looked in her direction. She finished her glass of wine and was ready to leave when the waiter approached with another glass of wine.