Angel With a Bullet (20 page)

Twenty-nine

As we pull up
outside Northern Station, I notice the painter is busy again with his bucket of gray, repairing another midnight graffiti attack. The symbol of choice seems to be Nazi swastikas, but whether that is a comment on the occupants or the taggers, I can't speculate.

I wait in the back of the cruiser, my hands cuffed in front since I'm too girly for the big men in uniform to be overly concerned for their safety, and wonder what Kingston is playing at.

Harley and Cort have been no help at all. I told them I was hungry and would treat them to drive-thru burgers, but either they'd already eaten or just didn't care to share a meal with me.

The rear door is finally opened. I'm pulled out by my elbows and escorted inside the station to stand before the bored countenance of Sergeant Woods. Harley and Cort stand on either side of me like bird dogs waiting to have their ears scratched.

“He owes me ten dollars,” I inform my escorts.

“Put her in a cell,” Woods barks, barely glancing up from his computer.

“Don't I get a phone call?” I protest as my arresting officers drag me toward the elevator.

“Didn't you have one already?” Harley asks.

“How could I—”

“Yeah, I'm sure she did,” pipes up Cort.

“Listen—”

“Cheeky bitch called a 900 number,” Harley adds.

“Yeah,” Cort sniggers, “it was a lesbo sex line too.”

I decide to shut up. Eventually, they'll have to give me access to a lawyer, I hope. Although ever since former President George Bush Jr. broke out the Patriot Act, you can't rely on a lot of things you think you know from TV anymore, no matter your race, religion, or sex.

The main holding cells are in the basement. Most are empty, but a few are filled with the regulars. One cell holds the drunks, the stink of urine wafting in a haze around their soiled bunks. Another cell holds two men waiting for transport to either jail or court, the surly looks on their faces making it difficult to tell which. At the end of the row, three cells are reserved for the sex workers. One for boys, one for women, and one for those the cops aren't too sure about.

Harley and Cort drag me to the end of the row.

“Which cell you want?” Harley asks. “Whores, fags, or freaks?”

“Any place is better than out here with you.”

“Open three.”

Cort unlocks the cell where a group of three transvestites stare at me with bored expressions through a blue haze of cigarette smoke.

Harley removes the cuffs and shoves me through the door. When the cell is locked behind me, Harley leans close to the bars.

“You should ask these fellas if they like art,” he says with a laugh. “Give you something to chat about while you rot.”

I raise the middle finger of my good hand and turn away before he can see the false bravado fade from my eyes.

_____

“They do that
to your hand, sweetie?” asks a muscular black man who introduces himself as Dorothy.

“Trouble earlier,” I explain.

Unlike the other two, Dorothy doesn't appear to identify as a woman. The sprinkle of coarse dander on his chiseled chest says he isn't on hormone pills, his close-cropped scalp is cut to a smooth carpet, and the Kama Sutra–inspired tattoos on his impressive biceps are enough to make a longshoreman blush.

The only giveaway of his feminine side is the purple dress with matching shoes and a pair of shaved, silky smooth legs to show them off.

“Wouldn't have surprised me,” Dorothy says. “They smashed my hand in a desk drawer once. Broke four nails. They was natural too. Had to switch to fake after that.”

He shows me his long nails, painted to match his dress, but with white French tips. Both thumbs have the added touch of tiny Swarovski crystals in the shape of a flower.

“You a regular, then?” I ask with a smile.

Dorothy grins back. “Used to be more often before the chief took a fancy. Now they mostly leave me alone unless Chiefy wants a little play time.”

“Chief McInty?” I ask.

All three women nod.

“You see that desk he has?” Dorothy asks.

“On the raised platform.”

“Uh-huh. Well, he likes me to climb on top and—”

I hold up my hand. “I don't need the details.”

Dorothy laughs. “Life is
in
the details, honey.”

“Then maybe we can arrange to get some photos one day,” I say. “Give you a little leverage.”

“And you a hell of a story,” Dorothy says smugly.

I'm surprised. “You know who I am?”

“Hell, Ms. Dixie Flynn of the San Francisco
NOW
.” Dorothy flashes a beautiful set of white teeth. “I'm your biggest fan.”

_____

When Frank arrives, I'm hunkered on a steel-frame bunk, listening intently to my three companions share their life stories and the daily struggle they still face. I thought growing up as a woman was tough, but it's nothing compared to growing up knowing you're a woman and yet trapped in a man's body.

“You play nice?” Frank asks gruffly as he steps up to the bars.

“It's been refreshing,” I say, crossing to meet him. “I don't think I'll take the simple fact of sitting down to pee for granted anymore.”

My cellmates smile at that.

“You don't look great,” Frank says. “Show me your hand.”

I hold up my hand. The bandages are completely soaked through with blood.

“I've made you an appointment at the hospital,” Frank continues. “No arguments.”

“Ooh, la, la,” Dorothy mocks from the bunk. “Who's your gorgeous sugar daddy, honey?”

I grin.

Frank doesn't.

A uniformed officer arrives and unlocks the cage.

Frank takes my arm.

“Let's get out of here,” he says.

I oblige.

_____

The walk to
freedom is a short one. Chief Caleb McInty stops us at the top of the stairs with hands on hips and a meaty face flushed with anger.

“What are you doing with that prisoner, sergeant?” McInty bellows.

“She made bail, sir,” Frank replies in a calm and courteous voice. “I'm making sure she doesn't cause more trouble on the way out.”

“You have no authority at this station, sergeant.”

I notice that McInty likes to emphasize Frank's rank, while dismissing the detective side of things.

“I'm not on the clock, sir.”

A sharp-faced Asian gentleman in a $2,000 silk suit walks up behind McInty and flashes Frank and me a brilliant Tom Cruise smile.

“Detective Sergeant Fury is looking out for your department's best interests, Chief,” the man says.

McInty turns and his face instantly loses some of its angry hue.

“What do you mean, Mr. Yee?” he asks.

I glance at Frank, confused.

“That's your lawyer, kid,” Frank whispers. “Quinlan Yee. He's won more lawsuits against corporations and police departments than anyone in the state. His opponents call him the Sunset Kid: When he shows up, your days in the sun are over.”

Yee smiles graciously and hands McInty a neatly typed affidavit.

As McInty reads it, the blood drains from his face.

“As you can see,” Yee says calmly, “your department refuses to divulge the identity of its source in this matter, which means your officers had no right to pull over my client, nor to search her vehicle.”

McInty flushes. “What about the stolen painting?”

Yee smiles again. “My client claims the painting was planted by one of your officers. And due to the brutality of her arrest, which will require her to be immediately rushed to a waiting surgeon, not to mention the denial of her right to contact a lawyer, it would be in your best interest to make sure all charges are dropped post-haste. If you choose to persist, the lawsuit my client is prepared to file, along with the corresponding media coverage, will result in a public outcry for the resignation of whomever was responsible for allowing such an abuse of authority to take place.”

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Yee?” The tops of McInty's ears blaze red.

“Of course not,” Yee replies, the smile still on his face. “My client is.”

I look at Frank, dumbfounded.

He whispers, “Woods called after you were brought in to say he's keeping your ten spot. He intimated I should bring Yee along for company.”

Son of a bitch. I misjudged the desk sergeant.

The lawyer and the chief face each other in silence until McInty finally puffs out his cheeks and walks away.

Yee looks over and winks. “What are you waiting for? Go to the hospital and then get some rest.”

“That's it?” I ask, still having a difficult time believing my change of luck. “They'll drop the charges?”

Yee nods.

“You're good,” I say.

Yee grins wider and hands me a card. “Tell your friends,” he says. “I love pissing off McInty.”

“In that case,” I say slyly, “you should talk to my new friend Dorothy in the holding cells. She has an interesting story to tell.”

Thirty

Frank pulls into a
McDonald's drive-thru, buys a Big Mac value meal, and watches in wonder as I greedily wolf it down. The hospital surgeon used a local anesthetic, so I was kicked to the curb immediately after he re-stitched and re-bandaged my hand.

The funky digital scans didn't show any nerve damage and the surgeon praised Ruth's tight, neat stitching—which I obviously didn't appreciate since I ripped half of them out. I told him I would be sure to pass along the compliment since Ruth's usual clients were very close-mouthed and a bit stiff about showing their appreciation.

The surgeon was cute, which made me think of Declan, but when he didn't laugh at my joke and wrote a prescription for Tylenol 3s rather than Percocet, he dropped to one-night-only status. If Declan doesn't call soon, he is quickly heading in the same direction.

When Frank parks, it's on a quiet street in front of a picturesque turn-of-the-century house, painted lemon yellow with white and lilac accents. A stone pathway leads from the front gate to wind between flowerbeds before reaching a roomy front porch.

“Is this your house?” I ask.

Frank nods and walks around to my side of the car to help me climb out. We follow the path onto the porch.

“I never pictured your place like this.”

It's strange; in all the time I've known him, Frank never once invited me here.

“Where did you think I lived? An army cot in the file room at the station?”

“Yeah, that sounds more your style.”

Frank's mouth twitches. “It probably is.”

Inside, the house is clean and perfect. Frank shows me into a cozy living room filled with antiques and paisley-patterned furniture. Sunlight streams in through a bay window to bounce off the polished brass of an old gas fireplace. Sitting on the mantel is a lone photograph in an ornate frame.

I walk to it and see a hand-colored black and white of a handsome young man and his new bride. Both of them are laughing, their faces full of life.

“I haven't really changed anything since she died,” Frank says behind me. “Just finished up the list of chores she always left on the fridge: Fix the back step, it creaks; new light bulb in the root cellar; turn over the soil in the vegetable garden.”

“It's nice, Frank. She must have been happy here.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Marion was always happy, always singing, always …” He laughs lightly. “Always cooking. If she was here, you would be stuffing yourself with homemade pie while she made a care package to send home.” He pats his belly. “Never liked to see anyone too skinny.”

I smile. “I wish I could have met her.”

“Yeah, me too.” Frank turns his gaze away from the mantel and walks out of the room. When he returns, he is carrying a small bottle and two tumblers of ice.

“So tell me,” he says, splashing Dr. Pepper in the glasses. “Art theft?”

I accept the glass and take a sip. It tastes so good that I follow it with a healthy swallow. It takes away the medical tang of the Tylenol.

“Well, you know, journalism has its kicks, but …” I shake off the lame joke and take another sip. “I don't know what to make of it,” I begin again. “Kingston wants to teach me a lesson, I guess.”

“You piss him off?”

“Not on purpose,” I protest. “Well, not exactly on purpose.”

“Hmmm, you have a knack for that.”

I ignore him. “With what little proof I have of murder or a cover-up or whatever, the story can't hurt Kingston. In fact, the way things are looking, the piece will end up helping him. The more I discover about Diego, the more tragic his life becomes. People will be interested.”

“But?”

Frank is forcing me to think.

“But …” The gears turn slowly. “If I miss this week's deadline, the story loses its immediacy and ends up buried in the magazine. If there is anything potentially dangerous in the story, it gets downplayed simply by the nature of placement.”

“And getting tossed in jail makes it more difficult for you to meet your deadline.”

I nod.

“So something in your story must frighten him?”

“I guess.”

“Give me a theory.”

I think about it.

“We know,” I begin, “that Kingston has ties to Diego's original agent. Casper, the wormy creep who showed up at the death scene, works for Stellar Galleries. Stellar Galleries is funded by Kingston, so chances are he says who gets the biggest push in the art world. With the snap of his fingers, Kingston drops Diego in favor of Adamsky. Soon, Diego isn't selling and Adamsky is the rising star.”

I take a breath before continuing.

“Now, what if Diego decided to teach them both a lesson by stealing a couple of valuable paintings. Kingston gets pissed and hires some muscle to make Diego give him his art back. The muscle gets creative and ends up blowing Diego's brains out.”

“Not bad,” Frank says. “But why attack you?”

“Because I decided to dig and Kingston didn't like it. He either has to buy me or frighten me. Unfortunately, he chose the latter.”

“There must be easier ways to shut you up.”

I grin. “Can't imagine what.”

Frank shakes his head slowly.

“How have you survived in this business, Dix? You have more enemies than friends. That's not healthy.”

“I didn't get into the biz to make friends.”

“Well, you're lucky you made a few by mistake.”

My grin widens. “And I appreciate it.”

“You better,” he says. “Because some days I wonder if you're worth the trouble.”

I clink his glass with my own.