Touch of the White Tiger (12 page)

Marco poured another drink.

“If you plan on drinking that entire bottle, Detective, then you’d better get something to eat.”

Carl, the plump, white-haired Austro-Hungarian waiter, set up a meal for Marco at a private table. Bogie sat with him and gave terse greetings to any customer rude enough to interrupt their tête-à-tête. “Rick” was famous for refusing to drink with his patrons, so his presence at Marco’s table drew stares.

By the time Bogie and Marco had finished off two bottles of wine, they were in complete agreement on one subject—women.

“You can’t live with them,” Bogie said, “and you can’t live without them.”

“No!” Marco said, grabbing his arm, “You can’t live with them and you can’t live with them.”

They both laughed.

“I’ll drink to that.” Bogie swilled the last of his wine. He loosened his bow tie and stared morosely at the candle burning in the table’s centerpiece. “Still, some women are hard to forget.”

“Hello, Rick,” came a soft, emotion-laden voice with a slight Swedish accent.

Marco looked up in his quasi-drunk state and found the Ingrid Bergman compubot staring longingly at her co-star. She wore a trim cap and conservative suit—very much a lady, but vulnerable in a touching way. Her large, innocent eyes were swollen with unshed tears. Her soft, pretty mouth was moist with a ready kiss.

“What do you want?” Bogie replied with surprising venom. He slammed a fist on the table so hard the silverware jumped. “Why don’t you go find Victor Laszlo? He’s the one you married. Not me. You left me in Paris, remember?”

Marco watched the lovebirds argue, wondering if true love always ended this way.

When she finally walked away, Bogie ran a hand through his hair, bemoaning, “Of all the gin joints in all the towns—”

“Let’s cut to the chase,” Marco said dismissively. “You know by the end of the movie you’re going to sacrifice everything for her—including her love for you. And all you get, in the end, is the guy. You walk off into the sunset with that little French detective.”

“He’s a captain. And we walk off on a foggy tarmac.”

“Whatever.”

“I have no regrets about how my story ends because I did what was right. If Ilsa didn’t get on that plane with Victor Laszlo, she would have regretted it the rest of her life. Sometimes you have to make tough decisions because they’re the right ones for everyone involved.”

Marco wiped a cloth napkin over his mouth and pushed aside his plate. “You’re right. I have to figure out what’s best for everyone in my situation. I’ve just learned that Angel’s life is in grave danger.”

“If she’s in danger, you have to protect her.”

“It’s not that simple. I’m hip-deep in crocodiles. She might be better off without me. Maybe I should just disappear from her life.”

“Don’t ever do that,” Bogie admonished him. “Do you know what kind of pain that causes to the one left behind?”

“Not as much pain as I’ll cause when she finds out who I really am. And what I’ve done.”

“We all have pasts we’d like to run from, Detective. But few of us have that privilege. My advice to you is to stick around and protect the dame no matter what. It’s in the movie-hero code of honor. You’re now an unofficial member of the club.” He raised a glass. “Here’s to doing the right thing.”

Picture This

W
hen I woke the next morning, I wanted to pinch myself, but I didn’t dare. There wasn’t an inch of skin that Marco hadn’t rubbed to the point of tenderness in our marathon of lovemaking. I couldn’t remember ever feeling so contented.

He was amazing. The only reason he’d stopped was because I couldn’t take anymore. And he’d intimated that he didn’t use any of the new ever-ready erectile dysfunction drugs endlessly advertised on television. He had to be telling the truth, because the men who took the once-a-month pills usually had to resort to wearing codpieces, which looked like decorative athletic cups sewn on the outside crotch area of pants. Nothing like a thirty-day stiffie to bring back twelfth-century fashion.

I couldn’t bask in the afterglow for long, though. I had to
get ready for the CRS meeting. Meanwhile, Mel Goldman called with a report on the bank. Administrators found no records of my safety deposit box contract. They didn’t even acknowledge that I was a customer.

This confirmed what I already knew, that I was being framed by someone with incredibly powerful connections. Someone powerful enough to tamper with a national bank’s database. I didn’t expect the branch employees to remember me. Hell, most of them were automated tellers anyway. But my name should have at least popped up on somebody’s computer.

I thanked Mel and went down to apologize to Mike for my tirade. Normally, I found apologies difficult, but I was eager to beg his forgiveness. Mike deserved better than I’d given him last night. I went to his shed and heard the soft droning of his Chinese chanting. I hesitated in the doorway. He sat in a lotus position on his straw floor mat. I must have made a sound, because he opened his eyes, though he didn’t stop his
Om mane padme hum
. He gave me a quick wink, then lowered his eyelids, falling back into his meditative trance.

Mike’s ready forgiveness left me grinning in amazement and relief. After spending three years as an indentured servant, very little rattled him. In gratitude, I said a silent Hail Mary, followed by a quick thanks to Kuan Yin to cover all the bases, and headed back to the house.

I heard Lola rattling around in her downstairs bedroom, so I knew she was okay. But I wasn’t ready for a mother-daughter heart-to-heart. Frankly, I found them excruciating. I’d grown to appreciate Lola’s strengths in recent weeks and had tried very hard to overlook her weaknesses. But it didn’t seem like she was according me the same favor. I always felt as if I were letting her down.

That’s one good thing about compubots. They didn’t seem
to understand anything about guilt or resentment. Their interactions were refreshingly straightforward.

With that thought in mind, I went into the living room and found Jimmy at the window.

“How’s it going? All quiet on the northern front?”

“Shhhh!” he hissed. “Get down! Get down!”

He waved downward so emphatically that I dropped into a squat. “What is it?” I demanded sotto voce.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” he rasped, rubbing a hand nervously over his perspiring upper lip. He was in a real tizzy. Bogie never perspired. Jimmy must have an upgraded anatospheric program. “This…this…this hooded young man. I’ve seen him before.”

“A hooded man?”

“Yes, it’s as if he’s trying to hide his identity.”

“Maybe he’s making a fashion statement.” I started to rise.

“Get down! Get down!”

I dropped on my knees without thinking, then took a deep breath. “Jimmy, I’m going into the other room now. Don’t panic. I’m going to do a reading on my crystal ball, and I don’t want to be interrupted. Just try to be cool, okay?”

“Be cool?” he repeated incredulously. “What does that mean?”

“It means relax.”

“Aren’t you going to even try and find out who this joker is?”

I let out a beleaguered sigh and marched forward on my knees until I reached his wheelchair, saying, “Give me the binoculars.”

I raised my head just far enough over the window ledge to see without being seen. I focused the lenses on the guy standing across the street.

“Oh…my…God.”

“What?” Jimmy whispered, leaning toward me. “Who is it?”

I swallowed the lump of dread that had instantly congealed in my throat. “A homicidal maniac.” I slowly rose to my feet.

“Don’t let him see you!”

“Don’t worry,” I said in a deadened tone. “He can’t see me. He’s blind.”

Jimmy grabbed the binoculars out of my hands and took a closer look. “Well, I’ll be damned. He’s facing this way, but you’re right. His eyes are a mess. If he’s not watching your apartment, why is he just standing there?”

“He wants to intimidate me.”

“Why?”

“He’s probably planning on killing me.”

“Won’t that be hard if he can’t see you?”

“Not if he has help. Obviously, someone brought him here.”

“Maybe the person who killed Roy and Victor?”

I shrugged. “Maybe. But lots of bad guys have used Cy’s underground prison. Any of them might be helping him. I’m calling the cops.”

That didn’t do much good. I found out that Cy had been set free from the Crypt on a technicality. I hung up on the desk sergeant in the middle of his “There’s nothing we can do about it, ma’am” speech. How come authorities could never do anything about the true psychopaths of this world but they had no problem holding me accountable for a crime I hadn’t committed? I shelved that question beside “What’s the meaning of life?”

By the time I hung up, Cy was gone. But I knew he’d be back. A lot of my clients were women who hired me to intimidate restraining order violators, or ROVORS as they were quaintly called. I knew how persistent a stalker could be.

I gave Jimmy one of my digital cameras, since his old-fashioned Kodachrome had been trashed by Marco. Jimmy
agreed to take a picture of Cy, or anyone else, who decided to loiter down below. I wasn’t going to panic about Cy’s visit. Not yet. I’d gather proof that he was staking out my place and then call out the dogs. Or a wolf, if Brad the Impaler was willing to loan me Keshon.

Meanwhile, I set up my crystal scrying ball at the kitchen table. I still felt a little silly using it, but I hadn’t yet been able to conjure visions at will without focusing on the ball. I was finally ready to learn more about Marco. Until we made love last night, it had never occurred to me that he might have insecurities, too. I wanted to support him and make him feel accepted, but to do that I needed to understand more about his past than he was prepared to share. I guess I wanted a glimpse of the worst-case scenario so I could keep a straight face when he finally decided to clue me in.

I placed my hands on the grapefruit-sized glass. Immediately, it began to glow, which gave me a boost of confidence. My concentration seemed to improve every time I did this.

Let me see Marco
, I thought, and he appeared, fuzzy at first, then clearer.

“Yes, I know Angel Baker,” Marco said to someone I couldn’t see. “What of it?
”

“I want you to leave her alone,” came a deep voice with a Russian accent
. The speaker stepped into view, and I immediately recognized his brusque outline and silver hair.

“Vladimir Gorky,” I whispered in shock.

“Why should I leave her alone?” Marco inquired
.

“Because I have plans for her. And they don’t include you
.”

I was so shocked I whipped my hands off the glass and pressed them to my gaping mouth. Blood pounded in my ears. What on Earth did Gorky want with me? More important, why hadn’t Marco told me he still had contact with the most dangerous man in Chicago?

I reluctantly put my hands back on the crystal. I was both disappointed and relieved to see the scenery had changed. I looked closer and saw an apartment that seemed familiar.

“Getty,” I said, finally placing the scene. This was Getty Bellows’s place. She was a CRS who lived ten blocks south. I couldn’t figure out why this image was important—or even if my psi abilities included any kind of filtering process.

Then it all became clear. I saw Getty in her living room. On the floor. Slaughtered.

I hoofed it the ten blocks to Getty’s bungalow because it was faster than hailing a cab. I threw on some joggers and hit the pavement at a dead run, dodging pedestrians, potholes and windblown trash cans. We can send a woman to Mars, I muttered, but we can’t invent trash cans that remain upright on a windy day.

I leaped over more than a few, adrenaline lifting me high as I stretched my taut legs over each hurdle. My mind raced even faster than my body.

No, no, no!
I thought.
This can’t be. My vision was wrong. Getty is okay. I’ll get there and realize that my so-called psychic abilities had been nothing more than imagination gone wild. She’s probably watching cartoons. I love that about her!

When you don’t know whether someone is dead or alive, you immediately started recalling even their most bizarre habits with fondness. Getty was forty-two-years-old, but she watched kids’ shows and dressed in plaid school uniforms, complete with white bobby socks and tennis shoes. She kept her orange hair in braids tied with blue ribbons and applied freckles to her nose with an orange eyebrow pencil. She looked like the psycho president of a Pippi Longstockings’ fan club.

The weird thing is, she was one of the most levelheaded
people I knew. She loved kids, and her retribution business specialized in crimes against children. If someone had killed Getty, I’d be
really
pissed off.

I stopped abruptly when I reached her corner lot. A trash can rolled back and forth in front of the steps leading up to her small house. Panting as I caught my breath, wiping away a trickle of perspiration that ran down my temple, I studied the can. Had it been wind tossed or knocked down by an escaping murderer?

Dread rushed through me, congealing like glue on the bottom of my feet, and I walked up the steps with great effort. Each step burned. I felt like I was dragging a freight train behind me. I finally reached the screen door and knocked. I waited. And waited. If she didn’t answer soon, I was afraid my heart would leap out of my chest. I knocked again.

“Getty?” I called, opening the screen door when no one answered and stepped in the small entryway. “Are you home?”

A man stepped into my path, towering over me. “She’s home.”

I jumped and stifled a cry of surprise, then did a double take. “Marco?”

“Hello, Angel.”

He sounded so sad I reached out and touched his arm. “What are you doing here, Marco? Where’s Getty?”

He swallowed and cleared his throat. “Did you…did you know her well?”

I blinked rapidly. “Yes, I did, I mean I do. We’re colleagues. And friends, but not
close
. So, what are you doing here? Where is she?”

When I tried to walk past him, he stepped in my way and gently gripped my arms, bolstering me. In spite of his familiar strength and warmth, I felt cold inside. I pulled away and pushed past Marco, walking down the hallway into the living
room. I stopped when I nearly stumbled over Getty’s body sprawled on the floor.

I took in several rapid gasps of breath, staggering back. “No! No!” I cried out, then slowly walked to her side, staring down in numb disbelief. It was just as I had foreseen it—horrible then, worse now. More details.

Bullet holes had pockmarked her chest, little geysers, now frozen with blackish blood that stained her navy blue and forest green plaid jumper. A brighter red stained her white lace baby doll collar.

“Ah, shit,” I moaned, kneeling at her side. “She deserved better than this.”

“Don’t touch her,” Marco said. “The homicide techs are on their way.”

Surprise whipped my head in his direction. Why would he call homicide investigators if he’d murdered Getty? I covered my face with both hands. Jesus, had I really thought, even for a second, that Marco had done this?

“I didn’t do it, Angel,” he said coolly, as if he didn’t really care whether I believed him. “I was on my way to your place when I heard a neighbor’s call to the dispatcher. I was simply the first to arrive on the scene.”

Sure. Of course. I would never have suspected you capable of such a crime,
I wanted to say, but the words stuck in my throat, so I wiped all emotion from my face as I lowered my hands and simply nodded. The damage between us was already done.

“I want to know who did this, Marco. What inhuman, worthless slime would cut down someone as well-meaning as Getty?”

“Very likely that young man right over there.”

Marco’s nonchalance left me unprepared for what I saw next. He pointed to another dead body I had somehow over
looked, this one sitting at Getty’s small dinette table. He looked like he’d lowered his head into his soup bowl to take a nap.

“Who on Earth…?” I slowly approached the frozen figure of a skinny kid who had obviously died at that awkward seesaw stage between childhood and adulthood. Angry splotches of acne marred his otherwise baby-smooth face. A patchy, failed attempt at a goatee scarcely covered his chin. I stepped around the other side of the small table to better view the tableau and saw that he clutched Getty’s orange pistol. He’d also violently vomited on the table.

“What happened here?” I muttered. “She was killed with her own weapon?”

Marco came to my side and placed a hand gently on my shoulder. “It looks like he was poisoned. He must have shot her before he died.”

“Getty would never have poisoned a kid!” Just as Roy Leibman would never have shot Victor Alvarez. I was beginning to connect the dots to a picture I didn’t want to see. “Retributionists are being painted as assassins. Why don’t the police realize there’s a conspiracy here?”

“I’m sure the detectives who are on duty will be more than willing to skirt the answer on that one. Speaking of,” he added ominously, turning me around and giving me a quick goodbye hug, “you’d better get out of here before they arrive. You’re in enough trouble already.”

“That’s an understatement,” came the crisp, British-accented voice of Lieutenant Townsend as he stepped into the room. Marco released his hold on me but clasped my hand in his. His loyalty in this moment didn’t go unnoticed, by me or Townsend.