Angel With a Bullet (21 page)

Thirty-one

I wake with a
start, the muscles i
n my neck cramped, back stiff, my left hand feeling as though someone has stuck a knife through it.

A hollow chime echoes somewhere in the distance and it takes a moment to realize where I am. I can't recall falling asleep, but I do remember the warm sun shining through the bay window and the comfortable, overstuffed couch where I still lay. The window is in shade now, but Frank has thrown a blanket over me to keep off any chill.

Rising slowly to my feet, I attempt to stretch my muscles. Every limb protests and the exercise only makes them feel worse. Giving up, I wander into the hallway in search of the hollow chime.

I find the source easily enough. A grandfather clock stands at rigid attention as though guarding passage to the kitchen. Its crystal face is cracked; a loose, glittering web crawling from a bullet-sized hole near the number six, but the polished wood of its cabinet sings with history and a preserved, loving care. The hands on its face inform me it's just after five o'clock.

In the kitchen, I splash water on my face and drag the wet fingers of my working hand through my hair. It's while I'm dripping water onto the linoleum and squinting half-blind in my quest for a dishcloth to dry myself that I spot the note stuck on the fridge door. There are only two hastily scrawled words on it—“work called”—and Frank's indecipherable signature.

I pick up a brass phone sitting on an elegant child-size desk in the hall and dial the Hall of Justice. It takes a five-minute game of telephone tag around the building before I'm told Frank's away from his desk. No one knows when he'll be back.

Without Frank's help it takes twenty minutes to make my way through the bureaucratic phone maze and find anyone who knew anything about Kristy's Bug. Finally, I'm informed it has been towed and that I can have it back just as soon as I cough up the $175 charge.

My wallet groans.

_____

By the time
I park the Bug in front of my building, I'm cranky and depressed over my impending deadline. Stoogan will be chomping at the bit for a story, but apart from annoying prominent businessmen and putting my personal safety in peril, I don't have an opening hook. Stoogan gave me two days, and that was two days ago.

Every theory I have is based on conjecture, but I'm not in the business of opinion. I need cold hard facts and indisputable proof.

The moment I enter the lobby, my dark cloud dissipates as Mr. French throws open his door and beams up at me like a teenage boy who's just touched his first breast.

“I believe,” he says excitedly, “I have found the author of our notes.”

He holds the door open as I walk into his apartment, the air smelling of cherry and moist cedar. Baccarat is sitting on her perch, pecking at a tiny mirror and chirping away.

“She has such big stories to tell at times,” Mr. French says wistfully as he follows me into the living room. “Pity I've yet to master the language.”

Mr. French whistles at his pet before producing his leather notebook and opening it to a marked page.

“Before I begin,” he says softly, “may I inquire as to your health?”

“I look that bad, huh?”

“It's not that.” The corners of his mouth turn up in a soft smile. “It's just I notice your hand, and the commotion last night. You are on the other side of the building and yet …”

“And yet throwing someone out a window tends to make a little noise?”

“Ahh, yes. Forgive my intrusion—”

I laugh. “You're not being nosy. I appreciate the concern. We … I had a burglar last night, but it's under control. The police are on it.”

“A burglar?” His face pales. “Oh, dear.”

“Don't worry,” I say reassuringly. “He was after a specific item, a painting. It has since been moved to a safe location.”

“Ahh.” His face relaxes. “Well, thank you for the update.”

“You're welcome. Now tell me what you've uncovered.”

Mr. French goes into great detail about how he and the owner of the stationery store, Mr. Clifford Clements, approached each of the five women on their short list.

“Clifford was kind enough to load me up with paper samples,” explains Mr. French. “As a way of gaining entry to the suspects' homes. I played the part of salesman.”

“Very clever,” I say.

Mr. French beams.

“I've always been a fan of Arthur Miller,” he says excitedly. “So I imagined myself as Willy Loman, but back when he was younger, before the events of the play.”

“Imaginative.”

Mr. French beams wider still.

“All of the women were very friendly toward me, except for one, a Mrs. Irene Pennyworth, who said I smelled of a tobacconist and she could not in good conscience purchase paper from, as she politely put it, ‘a walking corpse.' ”

“Charming.”

“Quite. However, I quickly ruled her out as our letter writer.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, you see, upon closer examination, Clifford and I discovered something new inside the envelope of the second letter you delivered.”

“Go on.”

“A single, long white hair not of human origin.”

“I'll call David Duchovny,” I say.

“I'm not sure I—”

“
The X-Files
,” I explain. “He played an FBI agent who investigated alien conspiracies.”

“Ahh, I see,” says Mr. French, although it is clear from the confused look that he doesn't see at all. “But, no, the hair isn't alien, it's feline.”

“Feline?”

“Persian, to be exact.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because we found the matching cat.” Mr. French beams. “Long, flowing white coat; large, round head with a blunt, pug-like face; small, rounded ears; large eyes; and a short tail. Definitely Persian.”

“Well, case solved, then. I should talk to her and see why she's sending the notes.”

“You could do that.”

“But?” I ask, sensing his hesitation.

“But matching paper and a stray cat hair does not an unbreakable case make.”

“It doesn't?”

“No. It does give us enough to warrant an approach, but if she denies the fact, we have nothing to counter with.”

“True, but—”

“Clifford and I are happy to continue our surveillance until such time as she delivers a third note.”

“Catch her in the act,” I say.

“Precisely!”

I smile and wonder how men ever manage to rule the world when all they really want to be are boys playing in puddles and tree forts as spacemen, cowboys, and detectives.

“OK,” I agree, seeing little harm in allowing their game to continue. “So long as you don't perceive this woman to be a threat to Mrs. Pennell, we'll wait and catch her in the act.”

“Excellent!” Mr. French claps his chubby little hands together in delight. “I'll finish making sandwiches and tell Clifford the good news.”

“Sandwiches?”

“Why, yes!” Mr. French beams. “We're on stakeout.”

_____

In my apartment, I slide off my shoes, pour a stiff rum and ginger on ice, pop a frozen sausage pizza in the oven, and survey the room.

Someone, probably Frank or Sam, has nailed a piece of plywood over the broken windowpane, which makes the apartment darker.

I want my mind to switch off, to find that perfect balance of comfortably numb. To that end, I pop the last two Percs and head to the computer to see what is playing on TV.

Unfortunately, within the ten strides it takes to cross the room, I spot a rare blinking light on the answering machine. I hit play.

“Umm, hi, Dixie, it's Declan. Sorry I haven't been in touch. Work got a little crazy, and I was running around trying to organize a new showing. A lot of interest in Diego Chino now that he's, well, you know. Well, umm, I was wondering if you had plans this weekend. Maybe Sunday? We could get together for lunch or an early supper. Take in an art show or a play. So um, call me. Bye.”

Not exactly wine and roses or “I haven't been able to stop thinking about you.” His cuteness factor might sway the vote, but I have to admit he isn't making a strong case to avoid being flicked.

As my father often told me: Never settle for a man who won't treat you like the princess you are. So far, however, I have discovered that bagging a prince is not as simple as kissing a lot of frogs and licking a few toads.

The machine kicks over to a second message.

“Hey, Dixie. Aurora here from the co-op. I hate these machines, don't you? They turn us into Pavlov's dog, hear a beep, start to blab, blah blah drool blah. Hey that might make for a cool piece. You think? Everything freezes until the beep. Then two minutes later, freezes again, waiting for another fucking beep. Could be cool, no? Anyhow, I talked to some of the artists and they said Diego worked at the paint factory just a few buildings down. Number 201. It's patrolled by a couple of pervy young guys with guns, so best go during the day. Hope that helps.
Ciao
.”

And there it is. Another misjudgment.

If Kingston is hiding anything about his relationship with Diego, it must have its roots in that factory. And there is no Goddamn way I'm waiting until morning.

Thirty-two

Wisps of fog drift
off the cold water beneath the docks to wrap
a gossamer cloak around a ghetto of dilapidated warehouses. The buildings are barely visible beneath a dull crescent moon and the potholed alleys between them are filled with impenetrable darkness.

In other words, this place gives me the creeps.

With the headlights of Kristy's Bug switched off, I maneuver blindly between wooden carcasses to park in a deep pool of inky night a few buildings away from 201.

There's no sign of the security guards, but I can't blame them for hiding away in some warm building with TV noise for company. If I were smarter, I'd be doing the same thing.

Softly clicking the car door closed behind me, I step into the night. My breath floats as my nostrils pinch against the stench of rotting wood, dead fish, and raw sewage. Focusing on the task ahead, I check my equipment: flashlight, Swiss Army pocketknife (in addition to my trusty boot blade), and my digital point-and-shoot in a padded case attached to my belt.

It isn't much, but hopefully it will do.

Dressed in black—jeans, T-shirt, socks, boots, and cable-knit sweater—I feel kinda sexy; a combination of Halle Berry from
Die Another Day
and Catherine Zeta-Jones in that cat-burglar flick with Sean Connery. I even found a woolen fisherman's cap to pull tight over my don't-give-a-damn-but-glows-in-the-dark red hair, and dulled my bruised and glowing complexion with a smudge of dirt.

The only thing missing is my lucky trench coat, which Mrs. Pennell's seamstress is still attempting to mend.

With the flashlight in my good hand, I trek to Kingston's warehouse. Darting from doorway to doorway, I keep my eyes peeled and ears open for the guards. It isn't until I'm almost on top of them that I hear laughter. Crouching low in the pungent darkness of a urine-splashed doorway, I wait and watch.

A metal door slams somewhere nearby and the laughter grows louder. The night twists the sound, making its direction unknown. I hold my breath, body tense.

Gravel crunches.

Too close.

Shit!

I stay perfectly still, trying to play that childish game of “If I can't see you, you can't see me.”

There are two of them and they're moving closer.

Wincing slightly from the uncomfortable position, I slink deeper into the shadows.

Two guards turn the corner and stop directly in front of the doorway. I squint, not wanting to expose the whites of my eyes, so all I see are navy blue pants and heavy-soled boots.

“What did you say the record was again?” one of the guards asks as he lights a hand-rolled cigarette.

“Twenty-two.”

“In one shift?”

“Yep.”

“Musta found a nest.”

“Prob'ly.”

The smoke is overly sweet. Not tobacco at all. The guard hands the joint to his partner.

“Don't they count bullets?”

“Buy your own. Company'll never know.”

“Good thinking.”

“Yep.”

“You got any?”

“Bullets?”

“Yeah. Extras like?”

“ 'Course.”

“Wanna kill some?”

“You bet.”

The slap of leather is unmistakable as the guards race each other to a quick draw contest. Both men giggle until one of them begins to cough. His friend slaps him on the back and lifts the joint from his fingers.

“Wish they'd give us semi-autos,” one guard says as he lifts the joint to his lips and sucks in the pungent smoke.

“Buy your own.”

“Really! They'd let us?”

“ 'Course not, but who's gonna tell?”

“Right. You got one?”

“Not yet, but next week. Damn Brady Bill. Found it on eBay.”

“Sweeeeet.”

“Yep.”

“Let's hunt.”

Both guards laugh and walk away, their loaded revolvers pointed in front of them.

I release my breath and suck in a mouthful of oxygen. It is tainted with marijuana smoke. I'm so nervous that sweat has trickled down my back and is beginning to freeze uncomfortably around the base of my spine. I hope the secondhand smoke won't make me paranoid, as I can already imagine tomorrow's headline:

Nosy reporter shot dead on docks

“We thought she was a rat,” say trigger-happy guards

I give the guards five minutes to move away from the area before creeping out of my hole and crossing the alley to the warehouse. I figure the doors will be locked, but from my earlier tour of the artists' commune, I also know the buildings are lucky to still be standing and large sections of the wood is rotten and weak.

In the distance I hear two shots ring out, followed by a celebratory whoop.

Licking my lips, I check a large, truck-sized delivery door without any luck before moving on, my flashlight checking the walls for accessible gaps.

I almost walk by the guards' door but try the handle on a whim. It isn't locked.

With a cautious grin, I open the door and poke my head inside. The cramped, windowless room is empty except for two metal folding chairs, a round card table, and a portable propane heater that gives off just enough heat to make the interior tolerable. A single 40-watt bulb in the ceiling provides light. There is no TV, phone, radio, or monitored security cameras.

No wonder they're out shooting rats. This is the kind of job that could make someone shoot himself just to ease the boredom.

Two more shots ring out.

They sound closer.

A narrow access door in one corner leads into the warehouse. Its hinges are coated in so much rust, I wonder if it has ever been used. Fearing the worst, I twist the locking bolt into the proper position and shove. The metal screeches as rust flakes off in my hand, but the bolt slides just enough to escape its latch.

Nervous sweat beads from every pore as I yank on the handle. The door slides open stiffly for the first six inches, but then begins to protest as the bottom of the door meets an uneven floor. Despite my abused muscles screaming at me to stop, I put my shoulder into it to try and squeeze another couple of inches. It refuses to budge, leaving barely a one-foot gap between it and the jamb.

Thankful that I hadn't taken the time to eat my microwaveable sausage pizza, I suck in my stomach and begin to squeeze through the gap. My bruised breasts and buttocks don't appreciate the sandpaper massage, which I know I'll pay dearly for tomorrow, but with determination I manage to get through the tight space and pull the door closed just seconds before the guards return.

“You see the size of that last hairy fucker?” one guard says, his voice muffled by the thick wall.

“It was a badger, man.”

“Badger? It was a freakin' cougar.”

“That why you shit yourself?”

“Fuck you.”

Inside the warehouse, I flick on the flashlight to find myself on the top landing of a short flight of stairs. Unfortunately, the steps had collapsed into a rotten pile of worm-eaten compost some time over the last quarter-century.

Just what my poor body needs: an obstacle course.

With a groan, I lower myself over the edge and drop to the ground. Despite a soft landing, the massive floor creaks and groans under my scant weight. I pan the flashlight across the floor to see why this end of the warehouse isn't being used. Salt water and years of neglect have eaten away at the boards, leaving patches of rot that look as if they can barely hold a man's weight.

Hoping the trek hasn't been a waste of time, I direct the flashlight's beam to the far side. Against that wall are three long rows of low-walled cubicles with unlit industrial lights dangling from wires above. Without natural light, it seems a hellish place to work, but at least I now know somebody must.

Being careful to pick the strongest-looking beams, I make my way across the floor, alert to the possibility that I might need to leap at an instant's notice. It takes a few minutes, but soon the boards become stronger and I am able to walk without trouble. The closer I come to the cubicles, the stronger the smell of paint and turpentine.

Behind the cubicles, I spot a glass-enclosed office and a newer set of large steel doors. To the far left are stacks of cardboard boxes and large wooden crates.

I walk to the boxes first and find they're all clearly marked as oil paint, each color stamped in capital letters on the front. Using my pocketknife, I slice one open to find a hundred tubes of Cobalt blue. It's even a decent brand. Turning my attention to the crates, I spot a crowbar lying on the floor and use it to pry the top off one. Inside are bolts of high-quality canvas.

Bored with that discovery, I return to the cubicles. Each one is fitted with two metal easels, a professional light box for displaying 35mm slides, a padded stool, and a selection of brushes. Bright splashes of paint spot the floors, but oddly it seems that only one color dominates each table. The one directly in front of me is spattered with green, the one beside it in orange, and the next in blue.

Walking up and down the rows, I'm even more puzzled. Some of the workstations hold a strange assortment of stencils and laser-etched stamps. The last cubicle, closest to the office, is also the largest. It's roughly four times the size of the others, and it's the only one with a floor spattered in a multitude of colors.

I spot several dollops of paint leading in the direction of the shiny metal doors. Following the trail, I reach the doors and pull. A welcome gust of warm air flows over me and my spirits rise as the treasure is exposed.

Adamsky.

A whole room full of his signature abstract art.

Stepping inside, I reach out to touch one of the nearest paintings. The paint is still tacky and instantly I know it was created in the rows of cubicles behind me.

The scenario becomes clear: Adamsky doesn't exist. He's nothing more than the invention of a corrupt marketer who brings in cheap labor to slap colored stencils on canvas and trick the idle rich out of their weekly allowance.

The whole thing is a scam, and Diego must have discovered it. Only instead of going to the police, he decided to make a statement in art. And it cost him his life.

Fighting to control my excitement, I stick the flashlight between my knees and pull my camera out of its bag. I widen the light's beam to bathe the paintings in a soft glow and snap away.

When I'm done, I re-seal the doors and snap some flash shots of the cubicles. With enough evidence stored in digital format to add visual spice to my planned exposé, I turn my attention to the glass office. The interior is your basic foreman's mess with an angled architect's table, several file cabinets, and a cluttered wood desk.

The table is covered with a detailed outline for the next Adamskys to be mass-produced and shipped to galleries around the world. There, the rich would snap them up, all the time believing $50,000 to $100,000 is a bargain for an original from a much-publicized master.

Turning to the desk, I rummage through the drawers. There is nothing to find in the first three, but the fourth is locked. I pull out my pocketknife and attempt to pick the lock. After five minutes, I curse my Zeta-Jones–lacking burglary skills and storm across the warehouse to the crates. There, I tuck the knife in my back pocket and pick up the crowbar.

The locked drawer splinters open easily to reveal a small metal box. Inside is a metal stamp of Adamsky's signature. It makes me sick to think how easily I have been fooled.

Leaving the box open on top of the desk, I move to the file cabinets. Lucky for them, they're unlocked.

A quick search uncovers a lease agreement between the owners of the warehouse, Fish Mac Retailers, and Kingston Enterprises. The signature at the bottom of the document belongs to Casper Blymouth.

I stuff the agreement in my pocket and continue to search. This time my fingers stop at a folder with Chino's name on the label. Inside is a laminated ID tag with a thumbnail photograph. It isn't Diego.

Taken aback, I double-check the folder and see this file belongs to a Pascal Chino.

I check the file cabinet again and find Diego's folder. I compare his photo to Pascal's. Despite the similarities in bronzed skin and sharp nose, it's clear that Diego was blessed with better looks. Where Pascal's eyes are watery and shy, Diego's were seductive bourbon brown made even more arresting by thick black eyebrows and a teasing mop of naturally curly hair. The two men are definitely not brothers, but it's easy to see they're from the same gene pool.

I return the folders and look out the window at the warehouse, wondering what table Diego worked at and how long he did Kingston's bidding before deciding he couldn't stomach it anymore.

The floor creaks behind me.

Damn
.

I raise my hands and slowly turn around, hoping the gun-happy guards won't shoot.

But it isn't the guards.

Before my eyes can focus on the lone figure, a stinging mist assaults my eyes and a leather boot slams between my legs.

I crumple to my knees with eyes on fire and my tender parts not much happier. I lift my head to deliver a profane tongue lashing, but a sharp blow to my right temple ends it before I can begin.

Everything goes black.

_____

When I
open my eyes, I can barely move. Every muscle in my body has united and immediately declared a general strike. I can't blame them; my mind isn't far behind. Unfortunately, the strike needs to be busted and quickly:

Wherever I am, it's on fire and heavy smoke is already making it difficult to breathe.

I try to move my hands; the bandaged left is useless, and the right barely budges. Panicking, I struggle harder and feel the coarse bite of a rope just above my elbows. I am tied to a thick wooden post that stretches to the rafters. Cursing, I attempt to stand and fail. My feet are bound together, making it difficult to find a purchase on the slick floor.