by Larry Enmon
He nodded, but it was a tentative nod.
“You guys making any progress on identifying the red head?” she asked. She looked back and forth from Rob to Frank. When neither answered, she said, “My gut tells me if we can identify and locate the red head, we could figure this out.”
When Edna used the word “we” that way, Rob took it to mean, “Get off your asses and find her.” Frank still hadn’t spoken. He sank deeper into Edna’s couch.
“Okay, guys, let’s go,” Terry said, and stood. He led the way back to Frank and Rob’s cubes. Terry leaned against Frank’s desk and glanced over his shoulder at the glass wall separating Edna’s office from the main area. Edna was on the phone, scribbling something on a notepad.
Terry leaned closer and whispered, “Stay focused on the woman at Ricardo’s. We have no way of knowing if these two things are related, or if there even is a blonde with a rifle. Kid’s mother said he watched too many movies. Let Sims follow up on that lead. That’s homicide’s job anyway. If we go off in several directions, we’ll be chasing our tails and not get anything accomplished. Okay?”
Terry was right, as usual. He’d been around long enough, seen lots of weird shit. He knew how to keep an investigation focused. That was the key. Drill deep into it and see what popped out. But to Rob, this one had a serious problem: the deeper they drilled, the more confusing it became.
A loud clap of thunder sounded outside. Rob jumped, although Frank remained perfectly still and mute. He probably wasn’t convinced but didn’t want to get into a pissing contest with Edna or Terry over which woman was which. In the years Rob had worked with Frank, his partner had never seemed swayed much by popular opinion. His gift was seeing clues that everyone else saw, but didn’t recognize. Frank’s eyes always gave his thoughts away if you knew what to look for. Rob studied them. He didn’t like what he saw.
Edna rushed out of her office. “Breaking news. Channel Eight just reported what appears to be another gang shooting. Two cars racing down the LBJ Freeway exchanging shots. Hit a car driven by a woman with three kids.”
“Oh, hell,” Terry mumbled.
Edna’s cheeks were red. “Higgins has called a meeting on the sixth floor.”
The look on Edna’s face reminded Rob of the look death row inmates showed when taking their final walk. She headed for the door. Frank lowered his head and let out a long slow breath. No one could help her now.
24
Antoine Levern sat in his recliner and stared out his third-floor window at the afternoon thunder shower. Sheets of rain drifted over downtown and the dark clouds whirled. Whirling and spinning out of control, just like his life. He had spread around all the money Phil left, plus twice that much of his own, but all his feelers had come back dry. No idea who put the hit on him, or who had the contract, or who blew Leon’s head off behind the club the other night. Not even Frank had come up with anything. Antoine accepted the fact he’d done enough bad things in his life that if a hit man whacked him, it would only be poetic justice. But that didn’t make it any easier. And this time, he hadn’t actually done anything wrong. He was innocent.
“Need anything, Boss?” Tabor asked, walking up.
Levern shook his head. “You got the new guys squared away?”
“Yeah, two stay in the parking lot all the time, keeping an eye on who’s coming in. The other two are downstairs, backing up the ones in the restaurant stairwells.”
“Think that’s enough?”
“More than enough,” Tabor said. “It would take an army to get in here.”
Levern sucked in a deep shattering breath. “It’s not an army I’m worried about—just one guy with a rifle.”
Tabor shrugged and chewed a toothpick. “Think you should be sitting beside that window then?”
Levern stretched his leg and touched the glass with the toe of his shoe. “Bullet proof, and reflects out. No one can see in.”
Tabor shrugged again and dropped his hands in his pockets. “Okay, call if you need something.” He meandered toward the stairwell.
“Hey,” Levern said, “you know one day you’ll have your own gang. Might even take over from me when I retire. I won’t do this forever.”
A knowing grin swept across Tabor’s face. “Yeah, Boss. I know—someday.”
“Thanks. You’re the only one I can really count on. The rest are just punks.”
Tabor shuffled his feet and removed the toothpick from his mouth. “That’s all I want right now—to learn from you.”
After he left, Levern pushed against the window with his toe again and frowned. He stood and slid his chair back into a shadow and settled down, staring at the wet buildings across the skyline. If someone were after him, someone he couldn’t get to first, he couldn’t let his guard down. Whoever it was wasn’t known to the community. Usually, after spreading around a few thousand on the street, he could find out anything. It wasn’t working this time. He felt as if some monster was crawling toward him and he kept blasting it, but it just kept coming.
Levern checked his watch. Almost dinner time, but he wasn’t hungry. He’d started losing his appetite after Frank’s visit. Being a prisoner in your own home wasn’t something Levern had ever considered. He’d sit here awhile longer and enjoy the rain.
He rose and switched off the lights in the room, and then walked back to the chair.
* * *
Jesse wrapped herself in the towel and switched on the hair dryer. She fluffed her hair which was bobbed to her chin, with her spare hand and stared in the mirror. Another clap of thunder shook the building. She strolled into her bedroom and gazed out her window at the storm. Sheets of rain blew sideways across the hotel parking lot. She liked the rain.
Pouring a couple of fingers of bourbon, she plopped down in a chair and watched the lightning streak across the sky. Jesse picked up the pile of papers and looked at the names. An explosion of thunder rumbled in the distance, and rain fell so hard cars had to pull over on the street. On a night just like this, not that long ago, she’d learned her own secret. Nothing had been the same since.
* * *
March 2009
The thunder shook Glen’s old Chevy truck, the hard rain sounding like a stampede on the roof. Under the camper shell in back, she sat astraddle of him. They were both naked. The smell of old diesel rags mixed with his aftershave lingered in the air as she rocked back and forth, feeling the pleasure wash over her like a great hot wave. He lay on his back panting, both hands caressing her breast. When her climax came, she screamed and fell on him. He took her in his embrace, and they didn’t move for a long time.
God, I love him so much.
Another thunder bolt that sounded like an explosion rattled the truck. He moved his hands to her butt and squeezed. With the cold front passing through, the night had a chill. She grabbed the blanket and pulled it over them.
Glen let out a groan. From the outline of his face, she was sure he was smiling. He always had that grin right after. In two months they’d graduate from high school. Glen had taught her about passion and sex. They’d hunted together and been lovers for the last year. Rumor around town had it he was in the market for a ring.
She cuddled closer. “What time are you leaving tomorrow?”
He nuzzled her neck and kissed her ear lobe. “About sun up.”
“Wish I were going with you.”
“Me too.”
“Will I see you when you get back Sunday?” she whispered.
He squeezed her butt again and his pelvis pushed up. One last wave coarsed through her, and she shook.
“I’ll see you Sunday night,” he said.
She kissed him hard, holding his face in her hands. “I love you.”
“I love you,” he whispered.
She’d been putting off asking him a question, but now seemed right. She raked his hair from his face and kissed his nose. “When you shoot something, how do you feel?”
“Huh?”
“You know, that secon
d you pull the trigger, how do you feel?”
He laughed. “I don’t know. How am I supposed to feel? If I’m on the target range and nail the ten ring, I feel damn good.”
Jesse phrased it another way. “No, that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m not talking about shooting paper—I’m talking about shooting something alive.”
He laughed again. “Well, I feel good if I make a clean shot and drop the animal. Is that what you mean?”
Of course, it wasn’t. What she couldn’t tell him was that her feelings were so different. Shooting prairie dogs that day at Uncle Bill’s had been the tip off. When she pulled the trigger, it gave her a thrill. She loved it—looked forward to experiencing it again.
The next day she slept late and helped her mom around the house. Just another ordinary Saturday. Her mother promised to teach her how to make stuffed cabbage—one of Glen’s favorites. About lunch, a sheriff’s department patrol car pulled into the driveway. Jesse leaned closer to the window as Deputy Rogers got out and walked to the door. Before he could knock, she opened it. His brow wrinkled and he cleared his throat. He removed his hat and hesitated, not letting his eyes meet hers. It was at that exact moment—she knew. He didn’t have to explain. Her legs weakened and she leaned against the door frame.
“Jesse, we just got word. Glen was reported killed earlier this morning—DWI on the wrong side of the road hit him up north.” The deputy’s mouth continued to move, but Jesse couldn’t hear the words over the loud roar in her head. Her mind went blank. Her limbs went numb. She clung to the frame, but her legs no longer supported her. She sank to the floor. All her dreams and future destroyed with just a half dozen words. Her soul seemed to leave her body, and she didn’t want to live.
Jesse took the last swallow of bourbon and gazed again at the rain-soaked parking lot. The memory was an old one she seldom had anymore, but when it snuck up on her it left her with a hollow, used-up feeling.
* * *
Frank was in a full funk this Tuesday morning and hadn’t moved in an hour. Rob was sure rigor mortis would soon set in. These semi-catatonic episodes were nothing to be concerned about, but they only added fuel to his colleagues’ opinion that Frank could be a bit strange. Rob knew different—he was very strange. Frank stared at the blank computer monitor with an empty expression. Who could blame him? This case drove everyone a little crazy. Sims’s revelation about the kid who witnessed the hit had probably been the tipping point.
But Rob knew what bothered Frank most. He thought he’d witnessed Dr. Alma Hawkins enter Ricardo’s house, and a banger inside had made a positive identification on her. But it was useless information without something else—motive. No connection between her and Ricardo. No one saw her attack him, and no forensic evidence linked her to being there. Because he died an apparent natural death, there was also no murder weapon. All this only went to confirm what Rob knew from the first day of the investigation—case was screwed up. Never should have gotten involved.
Rob went back to work on his report. A half hour later Frank grunted, moved from his slouch position, and sat up straight.
“I need a cherry Coke,” Frank said.
When they walked into Sarge’s, the man himself was at the bar, in the middle of one of his long stories to a group of D.A. investigators. He acknowledged Rob and Frank with a wave as they sauntered to the last two stools on the end. A big round of laughter barreled from the investigators and Sarge strolled over.
“What’ll it be boys?”
“Whiskey for me and my men,” Rob said, and slapped his palm on the bar.
Sarge stink eyed him. “Rob, Frank is rubbing off on you more every day. You two need new partners.”
“The usual,” Frank mumbled.
Sarge shot him a glance. “What’s with him?”
Rob said, “No luck on the case. We may have a woman sniper to contend with now.”
Sarge’s mouth fell open. “Huh?”
Sarge had worked vice his last few years before retirement and had supervised Frank when he worked there. He also saved Frank’s life the day he got stabbed. They had this father/son thing going. Frank even wore his hair in the same surfer style as Sarge.
Sarge fixed their Cokes and slid them to the pair. “Sounds more messed up every time I hear it. The media’s been having a field day. In every paper—on every channel,” Sarge said. “Glad I’m retired.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” Rob said.
Frank sipped his Coke. “Sarge, you hunt, correct?”
Sarge made a swipe with the towel at some crumbs on the bar. “Yup, every season.”
Frank shifted his stare to Rob. “And you hunt?”
“Sure.”
Frank studied his glass, running his finger around the top. “So how hard is it to make the shot this shooter made? You know, from a hunter’s perspective?” He looked from Rob to Sarge.
Rob shrugged. “That’s a tough shot no matter how you slice it.”
Sarge said. “Most deer hunters won’t even try a shot over one or two hundred yards.”
Frank thumbed through his pocket notebook. “If we can believe the kid in the tree, forensics made it a little over seven hundred yards.”
Sarge released a low whistle. “And hit the banger between the eyes?”
“Yes,” Frank said.
Sarge shot a glance at Rob. He cleared his throat. “You don’t get that good from hunting deer. And you don’t stay that good unless you practice a lot, or received some kind of special training. Lose your edge pretty quick. That’s why hunters brush up on their shooting and re-adjust their scopes at the start of each season.”
Frank took a slow drink and sat the glass on the bar. “And where does someone get that kind of special training?”
“Military,” Rob said.
“Or police,” Sarge added.
Frank sat back and interlaced his fingers. “I’m betting military. And not just an M-16 trained grunt, but a sniper with a special rifle and scope.”
Rob shook his head. “Our military doesn’t train women as snipers—only guys.”
Frank thought a moment, staring at the bar. “So if we did train women, who’d maintain the records?”
Rob shrugged again.
“Good luck trying to find that out,” Sarge said, taking another swipe at the crumbs on the bar. His wife Jan handed Rob and Frank their sandwiches. “Even if there is one, bet you can’t get them to release that kind of info. They’ll probably think you’re nuts.”
Rob nodded. “Yeah, the army has a school at Benning, and the Corps runs its Scout Sniper School at three or four locations around the country. Doubt any of them will just open up their files for us. Besides, like I said, we don’t train women as snipers.”
Frank tore a piece of crust from the bread and popped it into his mouth. “Bet I know someone who could get that information.”
* * *
There’s something about the smell of an old, abandoned house. Jesse lifted her nose and sucked in the odor. Especially one vacated years ago with windows broken out and a leaking roof. The combination of mold, bird crap, and rotting wood impales itself in your olfactory memory. Like the smell of death, it’s something you never forget.
Jesse set her foot on the top step of the staircase and examined the dim hall. Filtered light floated through the mildew-stained curtains onto the wall and floor. The cooing of some bird drifted down from above. The inner ceiling had collapsed in places, and the water-stained wooden floor showed evidence of rot. Birds had crapped everywhere. Little white caps on the floor, long dried, outlined their comings and goings.
Jesse’s training guided her. Before utilizing a dwelling for a sniper roost, ensure the structure is secure. She carried the long cardboard tube under one arm and in the other hand, her most trusted compact pistol—a silenced Ruger 22/45. When discharged, the .22 with the AAC suppressor sounded like a sneeze.
Jesse bent at the knees, silently placing the tube carrying her rifle to the f
loor. She’d already checked the rooms downstairs and now began a systematic search of the upper floor. She cleared each room using a dynamic entry—quickly bursting in and scanning from left to right with her pistol in the combat shooter position. She checked all the rooms and retrieved her cardboard tube from the hall.
Jesse had an idea of what room she wanted—the one facing northwest. According to her calculations, that gave the best line of sight to the target. She studied the room—nasty. Place stunk. Some critter with fur had built a nest in the corner behind a broken-down cardboard box. Twigs, pieces of paper, and strips of cloth—probably a rat. Droppings were scattered around the nest. In the opposite corner lay an old mattress. Cigarette burns and butts outlined the edges. Several empty rubber packs, together with the same number of used rubbers lay on the floor. But the nastiest thing was an old tampon at the foot of the mattress. Empty beer cans, malt liquor bottles, and whisky bottles littered the place. Party on, baby.
She needed a stool or table of some kind. She’d seen a small wooden card table in the room next door. After dragging it into her sniper position and setting it about eight feet from the window, she found an old crate with a faded picture of a bag of oranges on the side and adjusted it behind the table.
She sat. Perfect height.
Jesse unpacked the rifle from the tube and extended the Harris bipod at the front. Once she’d positioned it on the table, she strolled to the window. All the panes were broken out but two. Jagged pieces of sharp glass outlined the frame. Staying out of sight, she wiggled the pieces of broken glass until they lifted out. There was no curtain on this window, but shooting from eight feet deep in a room with no light made her invisible to anyone outside.
Jesse uncapped the front and rear scope covers and made an adjustment, bringing the target location into sharp focus. She approached the window once more. A clump of leaves from a tree in the backyard lazily swayed in the breeze. Less than a five-mile-per-hour crosswind. Shouldn’t be a big factor, but she’d check it again later. With the pre-shot preparations complete, Jesse checked her watch. He would arrive soon. Time to go to work.