Cherry Bomb (11 page)

CHAPTER
21

S
OME URBAN LEGENDS
are too good to be false. There’s the one about the crazed man, high on PCP and adrenaline, who displays superhuman strength and snaps police handcuffs in half while being arrested. And there’s the oft-repeated tale of the desperate mother who lifts up a car to save her child trapped beneath it.

So there was a precedent, however slim, that I could leap from the RV to the bus solely fueled by fear, determination, and adrenaline.

My footing was good, and I measured my steps perfectly, launching myself into the air at the very edge of the roof, my new Nikes gripping despite the drizzle, my aim true and sure.

Halfway there I knew I wasn’t going to make it, and three-quarters of the way there I knew it was going to hurt, bad.

I held my hands out in front of me, slapping palms onto the top of the bus while my ribs slammed into the side. The wind rushed out of me like I’d been, well, hit by a bus. Bright motes punctuated red and black splotches in my vision, swirling around and adding a shot of disorientation to the pain cocktail. My jaw connected with the roof, reminding me of the last time Alex hit me in the face, which then reminded me that this wasn’t Alex, it was a bus, and I was twelve feet above the unforgiving blacktop and going to break something—probably several somethings—when I fell in a second or two.

As anticipated, my palms found no purchase on the slick bus top, and my ribs contracted and expanded, giving my body a springboard push off the side, and then I was falling backward through the cool Chicago night, wondering if the twinkling skyscrapers above me were the last things I’d ever see.

I may have shrieked a little.

But, incredibly, when I hit, I didn’t hit hard, and I managed to remain lucid enough to wonder why. Rather than cold wet asphalt and hot sticky blood, I felt something semi-soft envelop me, wrapping itself around my legs and shoulders.

There was an “uumph,” which didn’t come from me, and then another small drop, and I stopped flailing long enough to see I was sitting in someone’s lap.

Phin.

No time for thanks, or apparently even a tender glance, because he roughly shoved me off and then just as roughly grabbed my armpit and yanked me to my feet.

I sort of remember running through cars, people yelling, horns blaring, and someone blasting Motorhead. When my wits partially returned Phin and I were beating feet down the sidewalk, each of my steps less wobbly than the last.

Two blocks later Phin jerked me into an alley. We pressed our backs against the wet brick of an office building, the scent of old garbage mingling with the ever-present car exhaust. I was breathing like an asthmatic on a hay ride, and Phin was bent in half, hands on his thighs, sucking just as much wind as I was.

I inventoried my aches and pains. Jaw hurt, but a quick tongue probe proved I still had all of my choppers. Ribs hurt, but nothing seemed broken. Left palm hurt, and I squinted in the darkness and saw I’d scraped it trying to keep hold of the bus’s roof.

Amazingly, I still had my purse. Even more amazingly, I wasn’t dead. I stared at Phin.

“You saved my life.”

Between breaths he said, “I knew you were going to go after me, figured you wouldn’t make it, so I ran around to play catch.”

“My hero.” I coughed. “Except that’s bullshit. You didn’t think I’d go after you. I practically shot you.”

He grinned, shrugged.

“The Feds chased me around the bus, and I just happened to be there when you fell.”

That made more sense. “Well, thanks.”

“My plea sure. Thanks for not shooting me.”

He stared at me hard again, and I didn’t mind as much this time. But when he moved in for the kiss I forced my elbow between us and gave him a less-than-delicate jab. The exhilaration of being alive was soured by the fact that I was now a federal criminal.

“They’ll question Harry, but I don’t know how long they can detain him for. He’ll deny knowing you were wanted, lawyer up, and probably be on the street again tomorrow.”

Phin gave me some space, rubbing his sternum.

“So what’s our next move?”

“We need to go through Alex’s files, see if there’s a mention of a cop named Lance in her past.”

“Your partner have the files?”

“No. They’re probably with the lead detective. Guy named Mankowski.”

I searched through my cell phone numbers, found the right one. Mankowski was a good cop—smart, honest, sort of looked like Thomas Jefferson.

“Got my files in the trunk, Lieut. Figured I’d get some reading in on the road.”

“I need to see them, Detective.”

“Might take a while. I’m in Indiana. Gary. Was following up with some of Alex’s hometown friends. Sorry I missed the funeral.”

I glossed over the sentiment.

“We can come to you, Tom.”

“Might not help. Car is in the shop. Radiator blew. If it’s locked in the garage I can’t get it until morning.”

“You up to speed?”

“Sergeant Benedict filled me in. I know we only have a few hours left. I could maybe find the mechanic, get him to let me in, but there are three boxes of files. A lot to read.”

“You go through them yet?

“Just enough to know that Alexandra Kork is a serious wack-job. But I haven’t seen the name Lance mentioned anywhere.”

I crunched the numbers. Three-hour round trip to Indiana, and several more hours to read through that stack—if Tom could even locate the mechanic. Maybe he could fax them, but there were hundreds of papers, and faxes weren’t exactly lightning quick.

“See what you can do.”

“I will, Lieut. You can also try that Crime Lab cop. He had the files checked out before me. Really into her case. I heard he was writing a book about it.”

“Which cop?”

“Weaselly little guy named Hajek. He might know who Lance is.”

Hajek had told me he read the files for research. It was for a book? Now I wondered if he’d actually been hitting on me, or simply wanting an interview.

I thanked Mankowski and hung up. I could call Hajek, even though he’d been less than receptive to my previous plea for help. News of my retreat from the Feds would be all over the airwaves by now, and once Hajek heard about it he’d never give up the information. Assuming he even had any information.

I stared at Phin, saw him looking at me with concern. I didn’t return the sentiment. I had so many conflicting feelings about Phin right now that remaining neutral was my best course of action.

I called Herb.

“Talking to me is an aiding and abetting charge.” I explained the situation.

“I’m hoping you thought all of this through, Jack. Is this guy worth it? Can you even trust him?”

I thought about having Phin in my gun sights, almost pulling the trigger, and didn’t have an answer.

“I need a cop’s address. Scott Hajek. CSU guy, lives near the Crime Lab. If I call Dispatch it’ll throw up red flags.”

“Call you back in two.”

I looked past Phin, down the alley, trying to keep my mind on Lance. Save him first. Then deal with everything else.

Herb called back in seventy seconds.

“He lives in an apartment on Halsted.” He gave me the address, then said, “Shit, Jack. Feebies calling on my other line.”

“It’s my career, my life. Not yours. Cover your ass, Herb.”

“With both hands. Don’t forget my Turduckinlux.”

Herb disconnected. I wouldn’t be calling him again, no matter how hot things got.

“Lieutenant Daniels? This is Special Agent Coursey, FBI.”

The voice came from my purse. The walkie-talkie.

“You need to come in, Lieutenant, before this escalates.”

Phin and I stared at each other. I had an irrational urge to drop my purse and run away from it. Or maybe it wasn’t so irrational.

“Lieutenant Daniels, you have to remember that you’re a professional. We understand you’ve been through a rough patch, but you’re still a police officer.”

“Let me talk to her.”
Harry.
“Carmalita, honey, that wasn’t Immigration. You didn’t need to run. Those ten men don’t want to take you back to El Salvador, chicita. Now you need to bring back my walkie-talkie. It has a ten-block radius, and is very expensive.”

“May I have the radio, Mr. McGlade?”

“I got two words for you, Special Agent Pinhead: Carmichael and Levine. They’re my lawyers, and they’re going to sue the bone marrow out of you. They’ll make you wish you never came aboard the Crimebago.”

“We need to move.” I switched off the radio. “Feebies have ten men. Figure two are with Harry, that’s four teams of two out there.”

Phin nodded. “Searching a ten-block radius. Harry isn’t as stupid as he seems.”

“No one is as stupid as Harry seems. Including the Feds. They’ll add more teams, widen the perimeter. How far away is your truck?”

“Maybe four blocks.”

“Could the Feebies know about it?”

Phin shrugged. “No registration. Stolen plates. But everything leaves a trail.”

“It’s still our best shot,” I decided out loud. “Let’s move.”

We moved.

CHAPTER
22

A
LEX CALLS ALAN’S ROOM
from the house phone in the hotel lobby. Jack’s ex-husband doesn’t pick up. She sets the receiver next to the phone without disconnecting and crosses the lobby to the stairs. Alex takes them three at a time, orients herself on the second floor, and quickly finds room 212. Placing an ear to the door, she hears the phone ringing inside.

“Mr. Daniels?” Alex makes a fist and raps hard.

No answer.

He might be a sound sleeper, assisted by pills or alcohol. But the smarter bet is he’s not in his room.

Alex adjusts her bangs, finger-combing them over the scars while considering her next move. Alan might be elsewhere in the hotel, maybe the bar or the gym. She knows his face from his Web site. Alan Daniels is a freelancer and all freelancers have homepages. But people might see her approaching him, recall the police uniform she’s wearing. Better to wait until he returns to his room.

Alex doesn’t like waiting. She likes action. Always has. She remembers being a child in Indiana, when a bully picked on Charles during the walk to school. She kicked the bully between the legs, hard as any eight-year-old ever kicked anyone. They ran away, but the bully promised he’d take care of both of them once school let out.

Alex didn’t even make it through the first hour of classes. The waiting was excruciating. So she asked for a pass to go to the toilet, snuck through the halls until she found the bully’s room, and rammed a sharpened pencil in his eye when he looked up from the math book he’d been leaning over. Well worth the expulsion.

She hurt him bad, but knew from experience that a wounded dog was more dangerous than a healthy one. So later that night, after the police released her, she and Charles rode their bikes to the hospital and used a pen knife on the bully’s other eye.

Good times.

The bully didn’t die. Not then. He grew up, coped with his loss of sight, became some sort of minister. A few years ago Alex followed him home after church, and they had a thoughtful conversation about the nature of good and evil before Alex skinned him.

Alex has lost track of the number of people she’s killed. While in Heathrow, her shrink made some half-assed attempts to get her to talk about previous murders. Alex played it coy. The truth is, she has no idea how many have died at her hands. It’s like counting the number of times you’ve had sex. Maybe you can remember the first fifty. After that, everything becomes a blur.

If there’s a secret to being a good killer, it’s not finding anything wrong with killing someone. Enjoying it can be a plus, but some people with the thirst—like Charles—enjoyed it too much and got sloppy. The best way to treat murder is with apathy. Sometimes it’s necessary, often it’s fun, but it shouldn’t be a compulsion.

Alex thinks back to the bully minister’s death. He begged, like they all do. For fun, she made him renounce the God he’d spent more than half of his life serving. But she didn’t consider her act evil, any more than a shark killing a seal is evil. Pain and death are part of life. And everyone knows it’s better to give than to receive.

Speaking of giving…

Alex looks down the hallway, at all the closed doors. Like a giant box of Valentine’s Day candy, offering the potential for limitless fun. Fun, but necessity as well. Alex can’t check into the hotel—they’ll ask for ID and credit cards, which she doesn’t have. But she needs a room in order to deal with Alan properly.

She approaches the door next to Alan’s, raps twice, turns her head so her good profile and police officer cap are viewable through the peephole.

“Who’s there?”

A child’s voice. Alex can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl.

“It’s the police. Is your mom or dad there?”

“They went to eat. I’m playing video games. I’m not supposed to open the door.”

“That’s very smart. But police officers are your friends. Push a chair to the peephole in the door and stand on it so you can see me.”

Alex takes a step back so the child can take in her full uniform.

“I see you.”

“Here’s my badge.” Alex holds it up. “When a police officer asks you to open up, you have to. It’s the law.”

“I still can’t let you in unless you know the code word.”

Half of Alex’s face twists into a smirk. She considers pushing it, maybe telling the child that his or her parents are hurt. But this seems like a well-trained kid. One cell phone call to Mom and things could get complicated. Better to find easier prey.

“I understand. I’ll come back later when your parents finish with dinner. Have a nice night.”

Alex tips her cap, then moves on to the next door. Knocks. No answer. Moves another door down.

“Yes?” A woman’s voice.

“Police. Can I ask you a few questions?”

This time the door opens. The woman is at least a de cade younger than Alex, short, a bit plump. She’s got the security latch on and is peering through the three-inch gap. Alex could break in with a single strike of hip, shoulder, or foot, but the finesse is more satisfying. She likes it when victims torment themselves with
why did I let her in?
thoughts.

“Have you been a guest here for long, ma’am?”

“Two days. Is everything okay?”

“There was an altercation earlier. We’re interviewing witnesses.”

“I didn’t see anything.”

“Actually, you were named as a participant.”

“Me? I’ve been out all day.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about. I just need to verify your whereabouts.”

The door closes. Alex listens to the latch being removed. The door opens again.

Alex enters the room. It’s dark, the bed unmade, the TV with the picture paused. Open suitcase in the corner, some clothing scattered on the floor. Room ser vice dishes sit on the desk, fish bones and squeezed lemons. The woman is wearing red sweatpants and a T-shirt, no makeup, no bra. Her hair has unnatural red highlights. She’s attractive, in a Gen-X kind of way.

A moment after she closes the door behind her, Alex lashes out with the knife edge of her hand, catching the woman on the bridge of her nose. The woman collapses. Alex gets on top, pressing her face into the carpeting, tearing at her cotton top for use in binding her hands. The scream is still building up in the woman’s throat when Alex muffles it with a cloth napkin. Legs are tied using some discarded panty hose, and Alex hoists the woman up to the bed.

“Don’t move, don’t make a sound, and I won’t hurt you.”

The woman freezes, stock-still, eyes wide with fear.

“Now I want to ask you a question, and I need you to answer honestly. Nod your head if the room ser vice fish was good.”

There’s a slow, unsure nod.

“Are you positive? Because I saw the restaurant menu downstairs and they have a prime rib special. I like prime rib, but I’ll try the fish if you think it was worthwhile.”

Another nod, more emphatic. Alex has learned not to trust people who fear for their lives, so she picks up the phone and orders both the fish and the prime rib. Just to be safe.

“So what’s on?” Alex asks. She flops onto the bed next to the woman, gently strokes her hair, and hits the pause button on the remote.