by Larry Enmon
Sims flashed a sheepish grin. “Must have ruptured my ICEE Squeeze in my shirt pocket.”
Frank jumped up and nodded at Sims. “You got him?”
“Yeah, we’re good,” Rob replied, wiping blood away from Sims’s forehead with a handkerchief.
Frank turned to the uniform. “Follow me.” And led him down the stairs.
* * *
When Frank got to the first floor, the tall officer they’d left guarding the elevator landing lay sprawled on the floor. Blood pooled around his head. Damn!
“See about him,” Frank shouted at the uniform following, “and get us more backup and a couple of ambulances!”
Screams and shouts came from the restaurant around the corner. Frank charged the door, passing a bloody handprint smudged on the wall. Jesse had come this way, and she was injured.
Bedlam had erupted in the dining room. People streamed out as others crouched under tables. Drops of blood led out the front door. Frank ran outside and scanned the parking lot as another marked unit rolled up, red and blue lights still on. He quickly displayed his badge to the arriving uniforms.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw her. She leaned against a dark blue sedan, bent double. The gun in her right hand dangled at her side, and her left hand covered her midsection. Blood oozed between her fingers. She glanced around at the patrol unit and pushed off the car, staggering for the shadows of the building. A fist-sized red stain marred the back of her white dress.
A trapped and fatally wounded animal, struggling to survive. For a second Frank hoped there might be another way. There wasn’t. He pointed at her as the uniforms approached. He didn’t want to say it, but it was the fastest way to get their attention.
“She just shot two officers,” he yelled.
Jesse swung around as he shouted, and they met eyes for the first time. Hers had a feral, determined look. A crooked smile crossed her lips. Her head wobbled as she stepped backward. As if in slow motion, she lifted the silenced pistol toward them.
Frank and the two uniforms fired. She tumbled backward over a curb and didn’t move.
Frank lowered his gun. He slowly walked to her and stared down at over a dozen red blooms sprouting on her chest and stomach. The red wig had shifted. Strands of golden hair outlined her young face. Her dead-eyed stare caused his breath to catch. His gut knotted and bile rose in his throat as a wave of nausea passed over him.
Don’t let me be sick.
40
The next morning when Frank woke up, he didn’t go through his usual Saturday morning routine. He didn’t do his yoga exercises or lovingly prepare his cup of café au lait. He was still tired. He and Rob had stayed with the homicide detectives, explaining what happened until after three in the morning. Terry made the shooting scene while Edna briefed the sixth floor. For the first time in weeks, the city seemed to relax.
Frank yawned and stretched, then fixed a large cup of strong black coffee. He wrapped himself in a blanket against the chill of the late October morning and sat on his balcony. Most of the day passed that way—thinking. About two o’clock Edna called.
“Doing okay, Frank?”
Frank let out a slow breath. “Yeah.”
“Sorry about the shooting. Know that’s not how you would have wanted it.”
“Me too.”
There was silence on the line for a few seconds before Edna cleared her throat. “Listen, Frank, there’s another thing …” Another long silence. He thought he’d lost the call before she spoke again.
“Thank you.”
“Huh?”
“Thank you for saving my ass. Higgins is so unpredictable, I was afraid of being relieved and reassigned. If it had gone on another couple of days, I’d be gone.”
Frank didn’t know what to say. Even felt a little embarrassed. He’d never been able to accept compliments graciously. “I’d never let that happen, Edna.”
“Anyway, just wanted to check on you,” she said. “Take care.”
The line went dead and Frank closed his eyes. He doze off sitting in the patio chair. When he woke, it was dark. He grabbed a couple of bottles of red, wrapped himself in the same blanket, and started thinking. What could he have done differently? By bedtime he still hadn’t come up with an answer. Just before turning in, Rob called.
“You okay,” Rob asked.
“I’m okay. You?”
“I’m good. Carmen and I had a nice evening together.”
It went without saying that when Rob used that phrase, he’d done the true cowboy thing. Two grilled T-bones with baked potatoes, a few beers, and made love with Carmen. His casual voice had returned. Sounded like the old Rob again.
“The newest drug appears to be working,” Rob said, “haven’t seen Carmen feel this good in weeks. May have turned a corner. Hope so.”
“That’s great,” Frank said. He slurred a little. He didn’t care. He was heart sick over the way the whole thing went down, especially over the officer by the elevator getting killed. Levern’s death wasn’t easy either.
Rob didn’t answer for a few seconds. When he did he seemed to have read Frank’s mind. “You know that was the only way it could have ended. Levern was a doper, bound to happen sooner or later. Jesse was a warrior. They don’t do well in captivity.”
Frank choked with emotion. “Yeah, I know.”
“You alone tonight? I could stop by if you want? We could drink and talk it out.”
“Love to, but I have company,” Frank lied. “Thanks anyway.”
“Okay,” Rob said. “Guess you’ll be off for a while until they finish the shooting investigation.”
“Yup.”
“You lucked out. Everyone believes the mysterious redhead you saw that night at Ricardo’s must have been Jesse with the wig. Pretty easy explanation to close the loop on the whole thing and leave Alma out of it.”
Fatigue swept over Frank. He mumbled, “I suppose I’ve always been lucky.”
“You have, Dark Cloud, you really have.”
The line went dead. Frank finished off the wine and stumbled to his bedroom.
* * *
Sunday morning Frank resumed his usual weekend activities. Just before lunch, Sims called. They’d kept him in the hospital overnight for observation and cut him loose Saturday afternoon.
“Hey,” Sims said, “thought you’d want to know. My sergeant just called. The blonde hair found at the old house where the gangsters were killed tested out positive. It belonged to Jesse.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Frank said. “You doing all right?”
Sims’s replied was distorted by the sound of something crunching. “No problems,” he answered. “See you later.”
By evening Frank had had all he could stand. He needed to get out and do something.
The sun was setting as he drove to White Rock Lake. Eventually, as he figured he would, he pulled into the driveway of Alma’s cottage. Her car wasn’t there. He hadn’t spoken to her in three days. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he just wanted to see her, hold her one last time, tell her things he should have said but didn’t. Frank hadn’t been in love in a long time—so long he’d almost forgotten the feeling. His attraction to Alma was something he struggled to explain. Could it lead to love? How far was he willing to go to find out?
Frank recalled another verse from the old Billy Joel song:
“Well, we all fall in love, but we disregard the danger, though we share so many secrets, there are some we never tell.”
Yeah, having Alma as a love interest would be dangerous. She had more secrets than any woman he’d known. And some she’d never tell. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to know. But he didn’t care if it was a forbidden love. He might have a shot for true happiness again, and he was taking it. He’d put aside the whole “real witch” suspicion. It was silly. Everything that happened could be logically explained with enough imagination.
He followed the stone path to the front porch and rang the doorbell. When there was no answer,
he cupped his hands against the glass and gazed into the dark, empty house. Just enough light drifted through the windows to see every stick of furniture was gone.
Frank meandered to the back and strolled into Alma’s garden, a profane sadness overwhelming him. Along the path certain plants had begun to wilt—the ones not native to Texas. A gust of cold north wind ruffled Frank’s hair as he took a seat on the bench under the arbor. The average first freeze wasn’t for another month, but to Frank it already felt like winter.
Like every cop, he measured success by what he did to improve things. Nothing had been improved in this case. Levern squandered his second chance by becoming a criminal. Jesse squandered her good reputation for reasons Frank still didn’t understand. He’d never gotten to know her—never gotten into her head. If there was a winner it had to be Alma. She’d gotten her revenge, and in the process triggered the whole mess.
A depressive wave of exhaustion coursed through Frank. He walked back down the path to the rear of the cottage. Crazy thoughts went through his mind. He had plenty of time now that he was suspended with pay for the next week or two until the shooting was investigated. It would take less than five minutes to find her on the computer. Perhaps go for a week’s visit. See how things went. See if she shared the same feelings for him.
He sat on a garden bench for a while, thinking. As the last light of day faded, a cloud slid over the garden and another cold blast of wind caused the plants to sway. Yellow rose petals showered down around him. He stared at the giant Yellow Rose of Texas against the house. It was stripped bare. And then the realization hit him.
“Good-bye to you too, Alma,” he whispered.
Author’s Note
Thanks for reading the new Rob and Frank mystery.
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Author Biography
Larry Enmon worked for the Houston Police Department for six years before joining the Secret Service. During his Secret Service career he acted as liaison between the USSS and FBI, working in the Joint Terrorism Task Force. He received special training from the FBI and CIA in weapons of mass destruction. He lives in Tarrant County, TX, and likes to spend time at his ranch in rural Eastern Texas.
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © by Larry Enmon
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.
ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-64385-031-3
ISBN (ePub): 978-1-64385-032-0
ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-64385-033-7
Cover design by Andy Ruggirello
Book design by Jennifer Canzone
Printed in the United States.
www.crookedlanebooks.com
Crooked Lane Books
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New York, NY 10001
First Edition: June 2019
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