by Tom Fowler
“So your treatment of him isn’t going to go over well.”
“‘What I must do concerns me, not what people think.’”
“Who said it?”
“Emerson.”
“Look,” Rich said, “I’m not trying to pile on, but if he files a complaint, we’ll have to look into it.”
“And you might get asked about it.”
“I might.”
“And you wouldn’t lie about it,” I said. Rich shook his head. “Fair enough.”
“It’s going to look bad for you. I know you play it fast and loose, but this is different. They might want your license for this one, C.T.”
I took out my PI badge and ID. I looked at them one final time before tossing the billfold to Rich. “So give it to them.” I turned and walked away.
Chapter 25
“You did what?” Gloria said after I arrived home.
“It’s nice to see you, too,” I said.
She cracked a smile. “Of course I’m glad to see you. Relieved is probably a better word. But . . . what did you do?”
“Let him live, but Rich is right. Tyler will file a complaint against me.”
“He’s a killer.”
“Killers still have the right to file a grievance if someone mistreats them,” I said.
“And you mistreated him.”
“In the eyes of the law, sure. I led him to a public place under false pretenses, put a gun in his back, assaulted him, nearly shot him, and ended up pistol-whipping him. I think the prick deserved more, but the law’s going to see it as mistreatment.”
Gloria frowned. “And you could lose your license for it?”
I sat on the sofa. Gloria sat beside me, grabbed my hand, and squeezed it. “It’s possible,” I said.
Gloria let out a slow, deep breath. “What will you do?”
“There will be a hearing. I’ll plead my case.”
“I mean if they take your license away.”
I shrugged. “I’ll do something else. I haven’t thought about it.”
“You’re good at what you do,” she said. “It’s important. You help a lot of people.”
“Maybe I can find some other way to help. The thing is, if solving my sister’s murder and seeing her killer rot in jail costs me my license, it was worth it.”
“And you’d do it again.”
“All day, every day,” I said. “Maybe even twice on Sunday.”
Gloria squeezed my hand again. “I love that about you. You’re so sure that what you’re doing is right, and you’re willing to risk so much for it.”
“Some might bundle those under the banner of stubbornness.”
She grinned. “They might. I think it’s a good thing, though.”
“It’s served me well over the years.”
“You ready for bed?” she said. “It’s been a long night.”
“Lead the way,” I said.
She did.
* * *
My phone ringing and vibrating on the nightstand roused me from my sleep. A quick glance showed me it was 3:51, and caller ID told me it was Rollins. This couldn’t be good. “Hello?” I said, trying to summon a voice sounding somewhat awake.
“Someone found her,” Rollins said.
My sleep-addled brain struggled to catch up. Her could be no other than Melinda—or Ruby—or whatever I should call her. Someone found her. She’d been staying with Joey, I remembered. I frowned. “What happened? Was she at Joey’s?”
“Yeah. Someone got them both.”
I swallowed hard. After dealing with Samantha’s killer, I couldn’t bury Joey, too. “Are they alive?”
“Both in the hospital. Your friend has a concussion and looks like he’s gone a few rounds with one Wladimir Klitschko.”
“What about Melinda?”
“At least as bad.”
“Where are you?”
“At the hospital with them,” he said. “University.”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
* * *
I met Rollins in the waiting area outside the emergency room. He led me down a hallway. Office doors lined each side. Rollins opened one and walked inside. We each sat in a chair. He closed the door. “What happened?” I said.
“I got there toward the end,” said Rollins. “Saw a car I didn’t recognize. A couple lights were on later than I’d expect, so I went to the front door. I heard some commotion inside, heard a scream, so I went in.” I didn’t bother to ask if the door had been locked. Small details wouldn’t stop Rollins. “Whoever was there must have heard me and took off through the back of the house.”
“You get a look at him?”
Rollins shook his head. “He wore a mask. Kind of a short guy, broad and powerful.”
The description didn’t fit Jackson McMurray. I wondered if this guy was the same one who beat up Joanie in the alley. “You got the tag number on the car, though.”
A glare served as my only answer. “I thought about chasing him, but Joey and the girl were barely conscious and looked bad, so I called for an ambulance.”
“The cops come?”
“Yeah.”
“You talk to them?” I said.
“No. When I heard sirens, I went back to my car, then followed the ambulance when it left.”
I nodded. “You have the tag number?” He recited it from memory. I entered it as a note on my phone. “Any word on Joey and Ruby?”
“I’m sure they’ll be admitted,” he said. “Stay at least overnight for observation and all.”
“All right. I’ll hang out here and talk to them once they’re in rooms.”
“You need any help with whoever owns the car, you let me know.”
I smiled. “Oh, I’ll take care of him.”
* * *
And I intended to after checking on Joey and Melinda. She said she wanted to give up the life and do something else. I hoped she got the chance to do it. I felt bad for her, but I’d known Joey much longer and doing a favor for me was the reason he’d been hurt, so I stopped to see him first. He, however, was out cold when I popped in, so I visited Melinda. She happened to be awake.
“How are you feeling?” I said, sitting in the chair by her bed.
She looked at me through weary eyes. Weary not just from the last few hours but the last few years. Her face was a mass of bruises, contusions, and puffiness. Someone beat her and enjoyed it. “Like shit,” she said in a small voice.
I needed to be vigilant for hospital workers. Visiting hours didn’t start for quite a while yet. Inquisitive nurses or staff would allow a few minutes if you flashed a badge and offered your best this-is-a-serious-investigation look. Of course, I tossed my badge and ID to Rich in the alley last night. Oh well—if pressed, I would think of something. “Melinda, who did this to you?”
“I don’t know.”
“I heard he wore a mask.” She nodded. “The body type doesn’t sound right for Jackson.”
“It’s not.”
“But he has friends. Someone beat up Joanie a while back. Maybe it was the same man.”
Melinda thought about it. She pondered it so long I thought she’d drifted asleep. “I think it might have been,” she said after a couple minutes. “It was a mask both times. A black one with red around the eye holes.”
“Could be the latest in maskwear. Blue eye holes are so last year.”
She smiled and winced for it. I noticed a couple of teeth missing when she did. I clenched and unclenched my fist. Whoever this guy was, I would make sure he lost even more teeth if I needed a wrench to extract them. “Body type was the same both times. A little shorter than you, and thicker.”
“Thick like muscle or like fat?”
She shrugged. At the risk of thinking indelicate thoughts, I figured Melinda saw the difference over the years. “Some of both, I guess.”
I nodded. “Don’t worry about him. I’ll find him.”
“Be careful, C.T.” Melinda reached out and gave my hand a fee
ble squeeze.
“I’ll be OK,” I said, flashing a reassuring smile. “You should worry about the other guy.”
“I’m not going to worry about him.”
“There you go,” I said.
* * *
I sat at Joey’s bed for a few minutes until he came to. He looked around dazed, and his swollen eyes struggled to focus on me. Joey’s face looked like Melinda’s but a little worse. He didn’t have a square inch of skin not bruised, discolored, or lacerated. The bastard who beat Melinda and enjoyed it relished it equally as much with Joey. I hated this prick more and more every minute.
“Sorry, C.T.,” Joey whispered.
“Don’t be,” I said. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I tried to fight him off. He got us when we were asleep.”
I hoped not together, but I bit that question down. “You did your best, Joey. I shouldn’t have put you in such a tough spot.”
“I don’t know how the asshole found her.”
“Maybe I’ll ask him before I kick his teeth in.”
Joey shook his head. “He’s tough, C.T. I know you want to get him, but be careful.”
“Careful is my middle name,” I said.
“The hell it is.”
“It’s better than my first name.”
“So it is,” Joey said with a chuckle.
“I heard the guy wore a mask.”
“Yeah. White guy. Five-ten or so. Squat and compact.”
“Looks like he enjoys his work,” I said.
“Bastard. I mighta had a chance awake.”
“I’ll take care of him.”
“How are you going to find who it was?” said Joey.
“Rollins got a plate number.”
“Coulda been a stolen car.”
I shrugged. “Could have been his car, too.”
“Excuse me, sir,” a voice called from the door. A redheaded nurse gave me her best thousand-yard stare. “Visiting hours don’t start until nine.”
“It’s nine-o’clock somewhere,” I said.
“Somewhere past England, yes.”
I liked this nurse. “Can I have another minute with my brother before you give me the boot?”
She looked at her watch. “I’ll be back by in under five minutes. You need to be gone by then.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The honorific earned me a quick glare as she walked away.
“I like her,” Joey said.
“Moving on from prostitute to nurse so quickly?”
“Love is fickle,” said Joey.
* * *
I texted Rich as I left the hospital. To my surprise, he called back a couple minutes later. “You sound awake,” I said.
“Because I am,” Rich said. “What’s up?”
“I have a tag number I’d like you to run.”
“You can’t do it?”
“It’s easier if you do it.”
Rich didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “Are you OK? You’ve had a pretty trying night. Maybe you should get some rest and not worry about this tag number.”
“I appreciate your concern, Rich. What I need is to keep working.”
“Without your license?”
I sighed. “The tag number I asked you to run probably belongs to a guy who’s beaten the crap out of two girls, plus Joey. I don’t need a license to deal with this.”
“All right,” he said, “I’ll run it. I’m just concerned about you. This whole thing with Samantha and your parents, the alley . . . it’s a lot for anyone.”
“I’m fine, Rich. Tell my parents you asked about me when you talk to them.”
“They’re worried about you, too.”
“Did you tell them I caught the bastard who murdered their daughter?”
“I figured it was your place,” Rich said.
He was right. “I’ll talk to them at some point.”
“You should.”
“Send me a text with the tag info,” I said to refocus the conversation on what mattered.
“I will. Get some rest. You’ve had a long day, and you can expect a summons soon.”
“The sack of shit filed a complaint?” I focused on the road as I drove home. The weird hours I’d been keeping were catching up with me.
“Of course he did.”
“I’ll take my chances,” I said.
“You’ll probably have to take them soon,” Rich said. “Things like this tend to go to hearings quickly.”
“Should I be concerned?”
“They could take away your license for something like that, C.T. It’s serious.”
“I solved my sister’s murder,” I said. “Her killer will rot in jail. If it costs me my license, I’ll gladly pay the price.”
“Fine, fine. I’m just worried about you.”
“So you’ve said. Send me the DMV info when you can.”
“I will,” Rich said.
I hung up. I appreciated Rich’s concern, but I didn’t want to dwell on it. License or not, I wanted to stay focused on the other case I had signed up for.
* * *
Rich texted me the registration and driver’s license data a few minutes later. It wasn’t a rental or stolen. Peter Kormos was 35 and listed his measurements at five-ten and 200 pounds. The dumb bastard took his own car to Joey’s.
I did some research on Kormos. He owned a house in Rosedale and worked enough part-time jobs to keep it. The money he made beating up women no doubt helped, too. Kormos kept his work schedule on his Google calendar. He left some menial job at 1:00 AM and was due back in at noon for a nine-hour shift later today. I looked at the clock. I needed some sleep and would have a chance to get about five hours before I wanted to be at Kormos’ house.
Maybe I could even write him an excuse note for work.
* * *
Before ten o’clock, I polished off a breakfast sandwich and coffee en route to Rosedale. I got to the house a few minutes after ten. He lived on a quiet cul-de-sac of about a dozen homes. Kormos’ registered vehicle and one other sat on the street. If this were an old west town, I would have expected a few tumbleweeds to blow down the street. I got out of my car, checked for both tumbleweeds and nosy neighbors, and walked up to Kormos’ house.
His storm door wasn’t locked when I opened it. I didn’t hear a dog bark. On the other side of the door were a regular lock and deadbolt both looking shopworn. I got them open in just over a minute. No neighbors took any notice of me as far as I could tell. I opened the front door slowly, looked around, and saw no one. I let myself in, closed up quietly behind myself, and padded into the house.
Kormos needed a maid. I’d seen neater dormitories during my college years. Detritus littered the living room. The stack of empty food cartons could have been used to fashion a new piece of furniture, and it probably would have looked better than what Kormos displayed. I’d planned to sit and wait for the asshole to come downstairs, but I didn’t know if I wanted to experience the furniture up close. I settled for the kitchen table. It wasn’t a federal disaster area in there, and I enjoyed the added benefit Kormos wouldn’t see me—or the .45 sitting on the table—until he walked in.
A few minutes passed, and I heard no activity in the house. I nosed around in the fridge, grabbed a can of Coke Zero, and sat back at the kitchen table. As soon as I did, I heard an alarm buzz upstairs. Feet hit the floor a moment later, then footsteps came down the stairs. I would get Kormos before he had his morning coffee or shower. Cool.
He trudged into the kitchen and stopped. He glanced at me, then looked at the .45. I could almost see his tired brain spinning, trying to devise a way out of this. The hamster was working overtime. After a moment of standing and staring, Kormos said, “Who the hell are you?”
“Sit down.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m a man with a .45 on your table,” I said, “and I don’t care if I have to shoot you before I leave. Now sit.”
He parked onto the stool opposite me, sulk
ing. Kormos wore a tank top and sweatpants. I could see most of his 200-pound frame was muscle. His biceps definitely had a couple inches on mine. If we got into a posing contest, I would be in trouble. “OK, I’m sitting,” he said.
“Why did you do it?” I said.
“Do what?”
“Beat up a hooker and the guy protecting her?”
“Who says I did?”
I inclined my head toward the gun. “My friend Sig Sauer told me.”
Kormos’ eyes flickered between the pistol and me. “OK, so I did it. What’s the big deal about a whore and a fat fuck?”
“Who put you up to it?”
“Why’s someone gotta put me up to it?”
“I’ve spent ten minutes in this sty you call a house, and I can tell you don’t do anything without a lot of motivation.”
“You think you know me?” Kormos frowned and balled his fists.
“Was it Jackson McMurray?” I said.
Recognition flashed across his eyes as I mentioned Jackson’s name. “He’s got nothing to do with it.”
“You’re a liar.”
“Yeah?” Kormos said, leaning forward. “If you were gonna shoot me, you woulda already. What are you gonna do about it?”
Kormos was right—I wouldn’t shoot him unless I needed to. I glanced down at the can of Coke Zero. I hadn’t opened it yet. Kormos leaned in closer and tried to fix me with a menacing stare. I felt un-menaced. My eyes moved toward the gun. His followed.
I grabbed the soda can and clobbered him in the face with it.
Kormos spilled out of the stool onto the dingy linoleum kitchen floor. I put the .45 back into its holster and snapped the thumb release closed. Kormos shook off the cobwebs and struggled to sit up.
I clobbered him with the soda can again. When his head rebounded off the floor, I let him have it a third time. Then a fourth and a fifth. The bottoms of Coke cans were remarkably durable. The whole thing was dented all to hell but never exploded.
These would not be my proudest moments ever in a fight. Kormos would have represented a good challenge. The reality was I still felt drained after the Tyler confrontation, and this bastard beat the tar out of Joey and Melinda. He didn’t deserve a fair fight, and he wasn’t going to get one.