by J. L. Drake
It didn’t help that she was still facing the end of the hall. Neither Josh nor Jason could see her face or hands, which were the two parts of the perpetrator you always want to keep your eye on in this type of unstable situation.
He crept forward, attempting to steady his breathing.
“Now, ma’am,” he said, “we’re L.A.P.D. Would you mind facing us?” He then added, “Slowly.”
Suddenly, the woman whipped around, and Jason could see both her face and her hands.
Her face was gorgeous, just like he thought it would be, with amber eyes and pale skin that looked softer than satin. Her lips, though, were twisted an aggressive growl, and her eyes were like a kamikaze soldier’s.
And her hands clasped a small can with a nozzle fixed on top.
Pepper spray. Man’s second best friend. If the cops and crooks had only one thing in common, it was that a spurt of pepper spray could reduce them all to sniveling babies that couldn’t even speak, much less take action.
This is what the woman held in her hand. And she had it pointed at Jason’s face.
Aw, crap.
She flexed her finger and released a stream of vile brown spray from the can’s nozzle. Jason easily sidestepped it, but the strangling smell spread through the air and was a physical punch to his throat.
Jason grabbed the woman’s wrist and wrenched the can out of her grip. It clattered to the floor as he twisted the arm around her back, immediately incapacitating the finely manicured attacker.
“Look at you, assaulting officers of the law!” Jason exclaimed and laughed lowly as he directed the woman to walk forward. “Usually, we have to search for reasons to detain people we want to question, but you just willingly gave us one. It’s always nice when that happens.”
Josh bent forward, scooped up the can of pepper spray, and marched behind Jason. He shot Jason a glance, clearly befuddled by Jason’s brash attitude, but the detective knew what he was doing.
This woman was beautiful, thus, confident, so Jason had to be cocky, thus, more confident, otherwise he wasn’t going to get a bit of information from her.
He let go of the woman’s arm. She immediately took a few irate steps away from him and leaned against the wall.
Jason faced her, matching her uptight attitude. “Your name, ma’am?”
She shot him a gaze that could either set him on fire or freeze him to his core. Within sixty seconds, this woman had gone from crazed ferocity to calm and collected, which put Jason on edge. With the elegance of a dove, she crossed her arms and locked eyes with the L.A. detective.
“Carly,” she answered.
Jason smiled as warmly as possible. “The pleasure’s mine. Last name?”
The human knockout pursed her lips. “I’m not saying anything until my lawyer is present.”
The good ole Sixth Amendment never failed to chew up precious time. Jason grew softer. He needed to change tactics, be more cordial rather than obnoxiously confident. She was too smart for that, he could tell.
“All right, I gotcha.” He leaned back on his heels, relaxing the joints that were still tight from their encounter with the pepper spray. “My name is Jason Flynn, and this…” He gestured to the officer idling behind him.
Josh didn’t take the hint for a couple seconds. Carly’s stunningly icy eyes snapped him to attention.
“Oh! I’m, uh…Josh.” He grinned widely and straightened up, turning on all the charm he thought he possessed. “Josh Locke.”
Carly wasn’t exactly swept off her feet. She turned back to Jason, her gaze saying she knew he was the one worth speaking to. “So, can I help you gents?”
“Yes. You may have noticed that we are investigating one Adam Fischer, apartment number 4-H. Do you know him?”
“You could say that. I’m one of his employees.”
Bingo.
Jason continued, “And what kind of work are you two in?”
An oyster could not clam up more than Carly did. She merely raised her eyebrows, gleefully reminding him she held all the cards here.
“Lawyer.” Jason chuckled. “Right.” He clacked his teeth together in thought, gazing at this lovely woman.
She winced. “Oh, do not do that. I can’t stand little body noises like that.” She tucked her thick locks behind her ears, displaying the sensitive appendages to the officers.
Jason obliged, stilling his teeth with a smirk. He needed to tiptoe around her barriers in order to subtly pry out the info he wanted. Casual questions were the way to go—the right ones could reveal more answers than direct attacks.
“So, Carly, I take it you and Mr. Fischer were quite close.”
She cocked her head.
He elaborated, “As you are visiting his apartment on an early weekday morning.”
She shrugged, keeping her face passive.
“Well, I’m extremely disappointed to inform you Mr. Fischer was murdered within the past twenty-four hours.”
That got her attention. She gasped silently and became erect. As quickly as she was surprised, though, she reverted back to leaning against the wall, not letting any emotion show on her face.
“I’m terribly sorry, Carly…” He chuckled slightly and held up his hands. “I apologize for being so informal, calling you Carly, but you won’t give me a last name…” He relocked eyes with her, his chuckle still in his voice. “Now, could you describe him for me?”
“Describe him?” Carly asked.
“Yes, physically. What did he look like?”
The woman kept her mouth shut.
Jason clacked his teeth once. Just once. “Yes, yes, waiting for your lawyer. That’s the smart thing to do, what with the whole bit about everything you say can and will be held against you, and so on. Yeah, you should wait, because you’d be screwed in court if you told us Mr. Fischer wore size-ten loafers.”
“Well…” Carly groaned, her eyes on the ceiling. She was not one to tolerate being mocked.
Jason nodded once, throwing a victory party in his head.
The beauty turned over her eyes, thinking of the man Adam Fischer.
“He used enough hair gel to take a bath in. He always had his hair swooped up and over like he was auditioning for Happy Days, know what I mean? His back was always straight as a board. And his fingers never stood still, always wiggling or tapping or something. And his fingernails!” She threw her hands in the air in some sort of cross between disgust and disbelief. “He kept them so long! Not dirty, mind you, just long and spindly like a witch’s.”
Her voice trailed off. Jason nodded slowly; he had gotten exactly what he was looking for. The things she said about Adam were objective, completely neutral facts. But the tone she used to speak about him was sardonic and hateful. No matter how you slice it, she did not like Adam Fischer.
“Does he have any favorite restaurants, clubs, bars? Any place he visits frequently we can look into?”
Carly took a quick look around as if she was expecting to find someone listening in, then answered.
“He constantly hangs in a high-class club called the Ace of Spades, eating, drinking, and chatting it up with all the super-important folk.”
“High-class?”
“Yeah, the Ace of Spades is the hot spot of the west side of town. A party consisting of Barack Obama, Justin Timberlake, and the Loch Ness Monster couldn’t get in without a reservation.”
Jason stroked his jaw. “And you say he’s there often?”
She nodded. “It’s his second home.”
“So he’s an important guy?”
Carly clenched her jaw, mulling over this question. “He certainly thinks so.”
Jason nodded a couple times and turned his back to the woman, pushing Josh around with him. He leaned in close to the officer, getting a giant whiff of the cheap coconut-scented shampoo he clearly had used that morning, and whispered to him:
“I’m going to jump upstairs and talk to some people for a few minutes. Keep an eye on her, all right?”
Jason hopped up the staircase, walked down the fourth floor hallway, and ran into Cheyenne.
“Find anything?” Jason asked.
She nodded, withdrawing a pad filled with quick notes. “Yeah, from the tenant of apartment 4-G. Big, brawny guy. Not too bright, but very observant, lucky for us. He said that Fischer had many conversations—either over the phone or face-to-face—with countless different people, but they were all referred to as Mr. Anderson.”
Jason thought aloud. “A codename? Sounds shady. Probably meeting about some illegal activities?”
“That’s what I was thinking. Fischer always directed ‘Mr. Anderson’ to a club in west L.A. called the Ace of Spades, and they always met on Sundays.”
The Ace of Spades…Sunday…
Cy Perri had mentioned Adam leaving his apartment for entire Sundays at a time. He must’ve been meeting these various clients at the Ace of Spades to conduct some sort of business.
Just what kind of business, Jason needed to wait for Carly’s lawyer to find out.
Footsteps approached him from behind. Jason twirled to find Josh, hands trembling and practically dripping with sweat. One major detail jumped out to Jason: there was no gorgeous assailant in his custody.
“Josh!” Jason hissed, his blood pressure spiking. “Where’s Carly?” He had a feeling Josh’s answer wasn’t going to make him too happy.
The officer continued to shiver where he stood. “I…I, I turned my back for ten seconds, and she was gone!”
Jason stamped one foot, making the entire level tremble more than the San Andreas Fault could. “C’mon, Josh!” he screamed. “She was our one direct contact to Adam Fischer!”
A vibration from his pocket drew his attention from Josh. He dug out his ringing cell phone, seeing Garth’s name on the display. He stuck a finger in Josh’s deathly pale face. “Get out there and find her. If you’re not lying about it only being ten seconds, she can’t be far.”
Josh gulped and stumbled away from Jason, shell-shocked from the screaming recital he had just received.
Jason threw in an encore for good measure. “Go! Now!”
The officer scuttled down the hall—if he had a tail, it would be right between his legs.
Heart still hammering against his rib cage, Jason answered the phone. “Garth?”
“Hey, Jason.”
“You got any results?”
“More than you wanna know.”
“Spit ‘em out. There are way too many unknowns here to be comfortable.”
“Well, first off, we positively identified this body on Flight Street. Both family members and dental records confirmed this is guy is Max Black, forty-three-year-old telemarketer from the Lakewood area. Married seventeen years to Marge Cunningham, has two girls, Edith and Gayle. Collects stamps.”
“Telemarketer? No wonder he got shot.”
Garth snorted. “Right. Anyway, I thought about what you mentioned about the fingerprints being skewed, and you were right. Have you dug Adam out of his spa bath yet?”
“Working on it.”
“Well, when you do, you’ll find that his fingerprints have been sliced off.”
Jason’s head spun. “Wait, wait, wait. One more time?”
Garth continued, “Adam’s fingerprints were cut off and glued over Max’s using a light adhesive. You being sent to that apartment was no fluke.”
Jason finished the thought. “One corpse leads us to another. Coincidences don’t get this big. Max’s killer is also Adam’s, and he wants us to know that without any doubt.” Pause. “And I have a feeling more is on the way.”
Garth sighed, releasing as much stress as he possibly could. Unfortunately, it wasn’t very much. “Spooky, Jason. This isn’t run-of-the-mill stuff. I wish it was.” Jason could hear the strain on Garth’s voice. “This stuff gets me, infects like a cancer.”
“I know the feeling. I’m gonna look more into Adam’s background. I’ll keep you up to date.”
“Ten-four.”
Jason laughed. “What was that? Who are we now, Starsky and Hutch?”
“Only if I’m Starsky,” Garth responded.
Garth had heard the crack in Jason’s voice, the fissure breaking him apart from the inside out. A little playful joke was just what the doctor ordered, and, much to Jason’s appreciation, Garth was willing to oblige.
“Groovy,” Jason said.
“Later, Hutch.” Garth hung up.
Chapter 4
“Those who devise wicked schemes are near, but they are far from Your law.”
—Psalm 119:150
The presentation was fully underway.
Jason sat on a metallic, bird crap-encrusted bench facing the extreme traffic of North Highland Avenue. Heat rose from the endless rows of cars, either due to the burning gasoline and exhaust, or due to the anger and exhaust of the impatient drivers.
Thick sunglasses covered his eyes, allowing him to watch his surroundings without arousing suspicion. Long, flat clouds had rolled over the city, minimizing the brightness while increasing the heat.
He shifted, the warm air making him uncomfortable and fidgety. Then again, that may have been the situation, not the heat.
King Solomon’s Mines was clutched in his hands, open. He quietly read aloud:
“The Almighty gave us our lives, and I suppose He meant us to defend them. At least, I have always acted on that, and I hope it will not be brought up against me when my clock strikes.”
God created evil, so He better not hold my self-defense against me.
Had H. Rider Haggard known that thought would be so profound, even now, a century and a half after he had written it down?
He shut the book and set it aside—the first time he had ever done so.
Memories and thoughts sprang to his mind, images that made his palms sweat and blood run cold:
Max Black’s desperate, blank eyes. His blood spilled all over the pavement.
The twisted smile of the real estate agent from Amador City and the bloody chicken wire he had wrapped around his future mother-in-law’s throat.
Keri Flynn’s sweet, beautiful face as she walked out the front door, only to be shot in the head thirty minutes later.
It all made Jason nauseous.
And on the eighth day, God created the rapists, and the machine guns, and the lunatics, and the atomic bomb.
I doubt He thought it was good.
So why did He create them?
Jason cleared his mind. Such pointless questions didn’t deserve his attention.
Thirty hours had passed since he had left Adam Fischer’s apartment building. Both he and Cheyenne had felt depressed, and each had massive migraines from all of the curve balls the two dead men had thrown at them.
Just before departing, Adam had finally been unearthed from the concrete block. Sure enough, the layer of skin that held his fingerprints had been cleanly sliced off. According to forensic examination, he had been frozen within his grave anywhere between eleven o’clock Saturday night to one o’clock Sunday morning. The detectives had found him on Monday morning at nine. The concrete had kept him from smelling. If the fingerprints planted on Max hadn’t led the police to the apartment, Adam would most likely still be there.
Adam’s lifeless expression was one of total shock, as if he had walked into a surprise birthday party just before being frozen alive. His skin was solid as a rock, yet sickeningly brittle.
The sight of such a psychotic murderer’s handiwork instilled a fear deep in Jason’s soul. Not a fear for himself. A fear for Ted and Cheyenne and Garth…and anyone foolish enough to take on this killer.
Jason then left the apartment, the fear making his heart thump and fingers tremble, and asked Captain Jones to be taken off the case.
It took some doing, but Jason finally prevailed. The captain put him and Cheyenne on a new case: the ta
king of Harold Lawson.
***
That is what brought Jason to this bench on North Highland Avenue. Lawson was about to be taken into police custody.
The man named Harold Lawson was a delicate old man who wore thick bifocals, hiked his trousers up to his chest, and had liver spots dotting his skin like a connect-the-dots puzzle. One sharp tap, and he would probably require back surgery and two hip replacements. But no one dared mess with him, not even the criminals and kingpins. He held all the power because he held all the dough.
Harold was the underground crime ring’s accountant. With a few pencil strokes and phone calls, he could fund World War III without putting a dent in his funds. No matter how powerful Harold became, nobody had the guts to assassinate him, as they’d simply be biting the hand that fed them.
The L.A.P.D. had set its sights on Harold. With him out of the picture, many branches of the crime ring would shrivel up and die.
According to some of Jason’s not-exactly-legal-but-not-illegal sources, Harold was going to exit the Kodak Theatre on Tuesday, today, at precisely 3:07 p.m., stroll down North Highland Avenue, and slip into a silver BMW en route for San Diego, where he would then board a jet and fly to Honolulu, Hawaii. While there was nothing particularly sinister about Honolulu, it was never a good sign when criminals jumped the continental country—either they do bad business, or they never return.
This was the only opportunity Jason had to snatch the accountant. There was very little time to plan and strategize, but he trusted that his team was efficient. Cheyenne, Josh, and Sam were all disguised out on the avenue, waiting for the clock to turn 3:07 p.m.
Jason’s sources had also revealed to him that an escort would accompany Harold from the Kodak Theater to Honolulu. Sort of like a prom chaperone, except this one could kill you in a hundred different ways using only a licorice stick and a spatula.
The escort was an international hired gun known only as the Hearse. He was a tall, Kenyan man, fluent in eight languages and strangely devoid of scars. What made the Hearse so globally infamous was his ability to kill a man, transport the corpse, and dispose of it without being detected. This assassin was scheduled to act as Harold Lawson’s bodyguard.