Pernicious (9 page)

         
“No matter how slick she is, she’ll soon be facing three counts of murder one. Agreed?”

         
Tasha waited. “Right?”

         
“Maybe, maybe not. I got a bad feeling about this one, Tash. I think this’ll be a case we’ll remember for years.”

         
“Why?”

         
Bob shook his head. “I don’t know. Just a feeling. What else you got on Keshana Green?”

         
“Nothing. Zip. I’m starting to think she’s a figment of my imagination.”

         
Bob chuckled, then turned serious. “You want to shelf it? It’s not official yet. If something concrete comes along we’ll jump on it.”

         
Tasha stared at him in disbelief. “What? Bob, we don’t have anything to shelf. Are you serious?”

         
Bob folded his napkin, unfolded it. “I just think we’re going to get our hands dirty on this one. Why? I don’t know. If you insist on pursuing this, I’m behind you one hundred percent.”

         
Craps, Tasha thought, he’s the lead detective here and all he’s concerned with is our clearance ratio.

         
“Okay,” she said, “the case stinks. No physical evidence. No eyewitnesses. Nothing. And we both know we’ll have to blow smoke up a prosecutor’s butt just to get him or her to look at it. But Bob, we’re dealing with a cold-blooded murderer, who I’m sure will kill again!”

         
“Okay, Tash. Calm down. I’m on your side. You point the way, I’ll follow. Meanwhile, I’m going to the little boy’s lavatory to make room for more.”

         
The ride home, Tasha turned the radio up full blast. She needed a distraction. Anything to steer her thoughts from Perry Davis, Bob Kelvis and Neal Montgomery.

         
Inside her apartment, she went straight to her room and lifted the mattress.

         
“Craps!” As she’d expected, all her money was gone.

         
Why did she bother with such a man, anyway?

         
He fooled me, suckered me in with his good looks and token promises. Told me he was going to make me happy.
       
Lies, lies, lies!

         
‘I’ll be a millionaire by the time I’m thirty, baby.’

         
Yeah, right. Got to get a job first, Neal. You’ll also have to keep it. No one ever made a million dollars watching television all day.

         
‘Baby, I can feel it. Look at this. It says: You may have already won millions. That’s my name right there. Look!’

         
A stupid sweepstakes!
 

         
The phone rang. Tasha rolled over the bed and picked it up. “Hello.”

         
“Hey, baby,” Neal said. “We’re on the freeway. Thought I’d call and let you know.”

         
“Hey, butthead, I told you not to take all my money!”

         
“Derrick wanted something to drink on the way up. I couldn’t let the boy go thirsty.”

         
“I had three hundred dollars here, and I better have at least two hundred when you get back, do you hear me? I’m not playing, Neal!”

         
“What you gonna do, huh? Shock me again?”

         
“You better have my money!” and hung up.
      

         
She imagined Derrick sitting beside his father, listening to every word, nodding in agreement when Neal said, “Your mother is a pain in the butt.”

         
Go ahead, Neal, tell him how I broke up the marriage and put you out on the street. It’s your favorite story; no one can tell it quite like you. If that bores Derrick, you can always tell him your second favorite story: The Day Your Mother Zapped Me With A Taser And Shocked Me Within Inches Of My Life.
      

         
Tasha rolled over on her stomach, grabbed a pillow and covered her head. She didn’t want to recall the incident that changed the course of her marriage, but the memory lingered, like the smell of cheap perfume, needing only a slight sniff to garner full attention…

         
She remembered the Friday afternoon Captain David Simmons, her first commanding officer, summoned her to his office. There he slid a photocopy of three checks with her name and Neal’s across his desk.

         
“Could you explain this?” he said.

         
A long moment she stared at the checks, each stamped INSUFFICIENT FUNDS, each written to a sweepstakes clearing house.

         
Neal!

         
“I understand,” Captain Simmons said, “an officer’s pay will not put you on the road to riches, though I seriously doubt you’ll get rich via sweepstakes.”

         
She started to explain and he cut her off. “I expect my officers to maintain a high moral standard and uphold a reasonable level of personal responsibility--especially officers vying for a position on my vice squad. I don’t want to see these blatant misdemeanors on my desk again, is that understood?”

         
She felt ill. “Yes sir.”

         
That evening she went home and calmly explained to Neal that he was to consult her before writing a check. She even graphically illustrated on paper that if the money in the account was less the amount written on the check, the difference would be an overdraft. Satisfied that Neal understood, she thought no more about it.

         
Three weeks later, Captain Simmons summoned her to his office again.

         
This time without professional courtesy.

         
“You must be hard of hearing!” he said, tossing a sheet of paper her way. It drifted to the floor and she picked it up.
    
Another photocopy of overdrafts.
Four!

         
“We will not have this conversation again,” Captain Simmons said. “The next damn time I see a sheet of hot checks with your name on them, slide your badge under the door and keep walking! Do you understand?”

         
She mustered enough energy to nod her head.

         
“Now get out my damn office!”

         
She hurried out, went to her car, and made it to her apartment in record time. Neal lay on the floor in front of the television, snoring loudly. His checkbook was on the coffee table. She picked it up, stepped over Neal and went into the kitchen.

         
She placed the checkbook on the stove and turned the burner on. Melting plastic dripped into the heating coil well and acrid smoke filled the kitchen.

         
“What’s that burning?” Neal said.

         
“Your checkbook.”

         
“Yeah, right.” He stepped into the kitchen. “Give it to me!”

         
“I burned it. Don’t you smell it? I told you to consult me before writing a check and you disregarded that.”

         
Neal crossed his arms and glared at her. “I’m going to take a shower. When I get out, my checkbook better be on the table where I left it.”

         
“It’s gone, Neal. I burned it.”

         
“Then you better grow me one!” Neal shouted, and then went into the bathroom and slammed the door.

         
Tasha stood there staring at the melting plastic, wondering if Neal had lost his hot-check-writing mind.

         
Does he really think he can lounge around all day doing nothing but bouncing checks and jeopardizing my job?

         
In their two-year-old marriage this was the angriest she’d seen him.
 

         
I’m not the one to be pushed around, threatened…I’m

not the one!

         
Tasha went into the bedroom, retrieved a key from atop the dresser, unlocked the red trunk at the foot of the bed, took from it a metal safe deposit box, dialed the combination and opened it.

         
Inside were a 38 Midnight Special, which her father had given her upon graduation from the Academy, a 9mm Glock, a mace bottle and a Taser stun gun, which LRPD had issued.

         
Briefly she considered the mace: effective but messy; and if she maced Neal, she’d be the one washing the stuff off his face.

         
She picked up the Taser; it looked like a stapler with teeth. Unlike the mace, she’d never used the Taser, yet knew it packed one helluva jolt. She went into the hallway and waited for Neal.

         
Minutes later he came out, still looking peeved, a white towel wrapped around his midriff. He passed by her not noticing her hands were behind her back and went into the living room.

         
He quickly returned. “What the hell did I tell you? I tell you to do something, dammit, I mean for you to do it!” She could smell Scope, its minty freshness slapping her with each word. “You think I’m playing with you, don’t you?” His hands were to his sides, clenched. “Put my checkbook back on the damn table! Now!”

         
“I burned it, Neal.”

         
His hand went up, opened palm, as though to slap. Bad move.

         
Tasha pointed the Taser and pulled the trigger. Two barbed probes attached to a thin wire shot out and caught Neal’s stomach, just above and a little to the right of his belly button. Later she would wonder if Neal was only feigning to hit her; he was moving rather slow.

         
Neal screamed, “Aaaaaaaughh!” grabbed his stomach with both hands and jerked his left knee up. It looked as if he were preparing for a high dive. Then he fell on the floor, face first.

         
“What were you saying, Neal?” removing the probes. “Did I think you were playing? No, I didn’t. You weren’t playing, were you?”

         
Of course, Neal said nothing; he just lay there, as though he’d suddenly decided to nap on the floor in the middle of the hallway. She stepped into the bedroom and returned the Taser to the trunk.

         
“That’ll teach him to try that Ike Turner crap with me,” she said to herself. “He’ll think long and hard the next time.”

         
Back in the hallway she was shocked to discover Neal still lying there.

         
Somewhat frightened, she said, “Neal…!” Tugging his shoulder: “Neal!…Neal…!”

         
No response.

         
She shook him. “Neal, Neal!…Neal, get up!”

         
Bordering panic: “Neal, are you all right?” No response. She checked his pulse, good, his breathing, normal.

         
Why is he unconscious?
A stroke?