by Jim Heskett
The doctor hadn’t seemed to have noticed Micah’s entrance.
Micah spun around and his eyes landed on a table near the door, topped with a collection of items. A plastic skull, cut away in sections to reveal a brain inside. A football with some faded autographs etched below the laces. And some object that was made of glass, about eight inches tall, in the shape of a slender pyramid.
Micah snatched the glass pyramid. His eyes landed on the words To Dr. Herschel Spector engraved at the bottom. Instead of pausing to read the rest, Micah swung it at the doctor in one motion, cracking the base of it into Spector’s head.
Now the doctor noticed him.
He released his grip on Frank’s throat as his hands flew to the spot Micah had smacked him. Blood filled a tiny hole above his eyebrow. The doctor stumbled back a couple steps, wailing from the pain.
He turned around, and when his eyes met Micah’s, he went as white as a glass of milk. Mouth fell open, revealing a collection of gold crowns.
“You,” Dr. Spector said. Balled his fists. His eyes darted around, and then he threw his hands at Micah’s chest, leveraging his full weight behind the blow.
Caught off guard, Micah had no time to deflect the attack. He fell backward, his tailbone connecting with the table. The football tumbled to the ground. Burst of pain shot up his spine.
Micah saw stars from the pain for at least a full second. By the time he’d recovered, the doctor was rushing out of the office, brushing past Micah.
Micah tried to grasp the man as he fled, but the pain in his back had dulled his reaction time. It took another endless second for him to gather his wits. Through the closed door, he could hear the doctor barking at his receptionist.
Frank was still on the table, his hands around his own throat. Micah rushed to his side, and Frank pushed himself upright. His face was flushed, his chest heaving.
“I’m fine,” came Frank’s throaty and deep voice. “Go after him, kid. You let that doctor leave, we’ll never see him again.”
Micah left Frank there alone and raced out of the office, into the reception room, as the building’s front door slammed. The little old lady at the desk was shouting, but Micah couldn’t make out a word of it. He did hear Frank behind him, lumbering to rise to his feet.
Micah barreled forward, but he hit a roadblock when the door wouldn’t open. The doctor had locked it behind him.
Precious seconds were disappearing. Micah fumbled with the door until he found the deadbolt to unlock it. He flung it open and ran out of the office, into the street. Barely managed to avoid not being flattened by a passing Corvette. The honk of its horn momentarily jarred his brain.
Looked left and right. No sign of the doctor.
Micah picked a direction and ran, cutting around the side of the building and doubling back. The parking lot was behind the office, and he had to assume the doctor would go for his car.
Micah needed to get there first.
“I’m right behind you,” Frank shouted as Micah made the last turn into the parking lot.
Micah glanced around the lot, and realization smacked him like a frying pan. Doctor Spector was there. Sitting, leaning up against a brand-new Chevy Malibu, his throat cut. Blood spilling down over his lab coat.
One minute ago, this man had been alive. Someone else had been waiting for him.
Frank came to a stop next to Micah.
“He knew right away,” Frank said. “Knew exactly why I was there. Big son of a bitch jumped me.”
Micah spun around in the parking lot, looking for anything that might explain what had happened. Suicide was possible, but there was no bloody knife nearby, no other sign of a weapon.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of color. Two men racing toward a truck, growling at each other to hurry up. They hadn’t seen Micah and Frank, they were too busy scurrying through the parking lot. One of the men tossed a backpack into the bed of the truck, and then they both jumped into the cab. Micah scrambled to free his phone from his pocket.
As the truck peeled out of the parking lot, he managed to raise the phone and snap a picture before it joined the street and disappeared.
He checked his phone. Spread two fingers to zoom into the picture, and he could see the faces of the two men. “I got it, Frank. I got a picture of them.”
“Let me see that.”
Micah handed the phone over and fished the rental car keys out of his pocket. “Do we go after them?”
“Son of a bitch.”
“What?” Micah said.
“No need to go after them. I know exactly where we can find these two.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Olivia stood outside of the back door of the Chinese restaurant, wiping perspiration from her brow. A collection of dampness had pooled just above her tailbone. “Isn’t it a little early for it to be this hot?”
Jeremy fumbled in his back pocket to retrieve his handkerchief for her. “It’s the humidity from the lakes. Michigan is always cold and wet or hot and wet. Plus, we came from Denver, which is one of the driest places in the country.”
“Weatherman Jeremy to the rescue.”
He shrugged and gave her the handkerchief, which she used to wipe the sweat and blood off her hands. The fact that some of the blood would stick under her fingernails grossed her out. Wasn’t the first time, though.
“You ready to go back in,” she asked, “or want to let him stew a minute more?”
“He can stew. Gives me a chance to clear something up. What were you hoping to get out of talking to that club owner Tyson Darby, back in Denver? You never told me.”
“I thought I’d heard that he and Micah Reed were mixed up together. I was sure of it.”
“Why does it matter one way or another if he was working for this Tyson character?”
“Because,” Olivia said, “I like to have all the pieces together. But you’re right. It doesn’t matter. Doesn’t change what we do when we catch up to Micah.”
“I thought you were maybe just trying to stir the pot with Darby.”
She smirked. “Well, there was that, too. I did have fun, sitting at that table, pointing my gun at his crotch.”
Jeremy nodded, then he did that thing where he swished his lips back and forth, like he had a mouth full of Listerine. Usually meant he was debating how to phrase whatever it was he wanted.
“Something on your mind?”
“Yes. Last night.”
Olivia rubbed her eyes and sighed. “What happened last night happened. I don’t want to keep making a big deal out of it. Which means if you can’t keep things in perspective, then we’re going to have to stop doing that.”
He gritted his teeth. “I don’t see how you can come into my hotel room in the middle of the night, slide into my bed, and then leave right after. Then you won’t say a word about it, and we go back to business-as-usual every morning. How am I supposed to keep that in perspective?”
She was, at least, grateful he wasn’t trying to use the treating-me-like-a-piece-of-meat argument.
“Because it is business as usual,” she said. “I don’t get why you have to keep bringing it up as if somehow my position on this is going to change.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but only air leaked out. After a few seconds of this, his face turned cold. Olivia sighed, because even though she knew her late night hotel room visits kept complicating things, she wished he could man up and start seeing it for what it was. A fling. An occasional tension-reliever. Weren’t men supposed to love that no-strings freebie stuff?
He nodded and tilted his head at the door. “That’s all I wanted to say. I’m ready to go back in for round two.”
His terse response meant the conversation would be continued at some future date, and that was fine. As long as they didn’t have to hash it out right now.
They entered the restaurant through the kitchen, amid the jungle of pots and pans and canned goods stacked up to the ceiling. But most importantly, Mr. Kim wa
s still tied to the fryer, sweat dripping down his round face. The fryer was nestled against the wall between a pair of stainless steel cutting tables, with Kim’s hand bound to the side.
He’d slunked down into a crouch, his arm craned above his head at an awkward angle because of the zip tie. Chest quaking, bruises on his face already turning purple.
“Mr. Kim,” Olivia said. “Have you reconsidered?”
“Go to hell,” he said. “I don’t have to say anything. My wife will be here in half hour, so if you are going to kill me, please do quickly, then take my body out back. She already have heart attack last year and don’t need to see me dead.”
“We’re not going to kill you,” Olivia said.
Kim bared his teeth. “Then let me go, you assholes.”
Olivia motioned to Jeremy and he dipped a spoon into the fryer full of bubbling golden brown liquid. He brought the spoon up and flicked it at Mr. Kim. The boiling lard splashed against his cheek, and he wailed as it trickled down and dirtied his white chef’s coat.
“Monster,” Mr. Kim blubbered. “You people are monsters.”
Olivia crossed her arms. “You’re doing this to yourself. All I want to know is if you and your people were in Bassett Park on the 15th. That’s it. We know your little gang slings meth and coke in that area.”
“If you want territory,” Mr. Kim said, “you can have it. It’s a shitty neighborhood anyway. Poor business.”
Olivia nodded, and Jeremy spooned more fryer lard onto Mr. Kim’s head. More screams, more smell of melting flesh. She tried not to gag at the smell, but it was getting harder with each flick of the spoon. Why was this little Asian man so damn stubborn?
“You’re still not listening to me,” she said. “I don’t care about your small-fry powder operation and I don’t want your customers. I’m onto bigger fish. I want to know if you were in the park that night. A body turned up there, all shot up, burned, cut into pieces. A body that got dumped at the Genesee County Medical Examiner’s office as a John Doe. You know the one I’m talking about?”
Mr. Kim, even though his eyebrows were missing and the flesh underneath was mutilated like the side of a melted candle, still managed to twist up his face in surprise.
She dropped to a knee, looking deep into Kim’s haggard eyes. He had no idea what she was talking about. No way could he have faked that face after what they’d done to him.
“I don’t know,” he said. “We didn’t kill no one in the park.”
So if this fake Micah Reed wasn’t killed by Mr. Kim and his little drug operation, then who killed him? Had Micah done it himself to try to collect the bounty on his own head?
“That would be ballsy,” she muttered. “And unlikely.”
“What?” Jeremy said.
Olivia shook her head. “We’re done here.” She motioned for Jeremy to cut Kim’s zip tie. Jeremy dragged a knife across the plastic ties, and Mr. Kim collapsed to the ground as soon as his bonds were cut. Didn’t try to get up. Instead, he groaned and wept softly to himself on the floor.
Olivia tilted her head toward the back door, and Jeremy followed her out of the restaurant.
“What was that all about?” he said. “Why did you stop?”
“I had a feeling this might be a waste of time, but now we know for sure. It wasn’t him or his people. I’m thinking either Micah Reed did in this lookalike himself, or our original theory was correct.”
“Which way are you leaning?” Jeremy said.
“I don’t know, but it makes sense to tail Micah until we know for sure, so we’re going to stay on him. Make sure he doesn’t mess things up.”
“But we know where he’s staying. If you’re concerned about his involvement, shouldn’t we go ahead and pick him up?”
She considered it. Wanted to keep her options open. “I’d rather not make ourselves known to him if we don’t have to. Not yet, at least.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rourke Patterson lifted the steak and onion sub to his mouth and dug in, red sauce dripping from the corners of his mouth onto the table. He and his two friends Carter and Ethan liked to eat at the Big John Steak and Onion on Dort Highway, not only for the sub sandwiches, but also because it put them across the street from the Dort Mall, their target.
Well, not the mall itself, but underneath the mall.
For a long time now, they’d been coming here, investigating, learning what they could. Weeks had bled into months. Rourke could feel it in his bones that now was the time to strike. All of the hesitation and second-guessing had led them in circles. They had a million excuses to keep delaying.
Besides the three of them, only one other person was eating at the Big John that afternoon. They kept the conversation limited to the Detroit Lions’ draft choices until that man left, and then Rourke got down to business.
“We need to settle on a date,” Rourke said. “I feel like once we have a date, it’ll be easier to get everything together. And I don’t mean a date six weeks from now. I mean a date like this weekend.”
Carter pushed his glasses up his nose and ran a hand through his long blonde hair. “This weekend? Having a date won’t help if we can’t acquire the guns in time.”
“We have guns,” Ethan said.
“We need more,” Carter said. “Automatic weapons, not pea-shooters. I want this just as much as you two, but not unless we do it right.”
Rourke wiped the grease from his hands on a napkin and took a long pull from his Dr. Pepper. Carter had a point, but Rourke wasn’t going to be swayed this time. “We’ll find a way to get what we need.”
Carter ignored this and squinted at Rourke’s sub. “Did you not get the pickles?”
“I did not get the pickles on it,” Rourke said.
“Why not?”
Rourke shrugged.
“Dude, you have to get the pickles. Not getting the pickles is like getting a hand job when you could be slipping your meat into the glorious cave. Sure, a handy will get the job done, but think of what you’re missing.”
Ethan cleared his throat. “Totally. You have to get the pickles. I knew this great sub place above the bridge, in Marquette. Good pasties, too, if you can deal with all that. Lake people, know what I mean?”
“I don’t want to talk about the pickles anymore,” Rourke said. “If we have a date to go in the casino, then we’ll have to get the guns. Having a deadline makes everything real, and that’s what we’ve been missing. All this dicking around, the what-ifs and problems.”
“Look,” Carter said, “I know this is your deal. I know how important this is to you. And it’s important to me that we do it right, because the consequences are serious. I don’t want you to think me and Ethan are only in it for the money—”
“Because we’re not,” Ethan said.
Carter sighed. “I know it’s about more than that.”
Rourke knew exactly what it was about for him. His two friends had stuck by him these last few months of planning, and their interest had never come up. “What does it mean to you?”
“Getting paid, obviously,” Carter said. “Getting these interlopers out of our neighborhood. Making this a safe place to live again.”
Rourke had no idea what interlopers meant, but he liked the way Carter had said it.
Ethan tore into his Spicy Italian sub and swallowed a giant lump. “They deserve every bad thing that happens to them. I’m all for helping that process along.”
“But having a deadline doesn’t mean anything if it’s an arbitrary date that we don’t use,” Carter said.
Rourke grinned. “Arbitrary. You always did like your fifty cent words.”
“We get the guns, and then we decide on a date,” Carter said.
Rourke set down his soda a little too hard, splashing some brown liquid on his tray. “No. I’ve made up my mind, so this is how it’s going to be. We go in three days. We’re just going to have to make it work, and all the other bullshit can take a backseat.”
Carter sat
back and crossed his arms, shaking his head. “Ethan, are you okay with that?”
“Sure,” Ethan said as he checked the date on his phone. “I mean… how tough can it be, really? We bust in, take out the muscle, and then we snatch the kitty. Maybe we have to pull a trigger, or maybe we can get the drop on them and it’s not even necessary. If we’re going in on Saturday night, there should be a shit-ton of money to be had. Seems like a good plan to me.”
Rourke pointed at Ethan while he eyed Carter. “Ethan here gets it. Time is short, my friend. We’re going to hit these bastards hard, and they’ll never see it coming.”
The lone employee at the Big John poked his head out from behind the counter as he refilled a bin with ketchup packets. Rourke and his friends hushed their conversations. The employee looked at them with a cocked eye, but he didn’t say anything about it. In another moment, he retreated back behind the counter, and the three conspirators leaned closer over the table and hushed their voices.
“Never see it coming?” Carter said. “First of all, we have to find a way to access the basement floor, which is guarded. And then we have to actually get into the casino, which is also going to be guarded. We start popping off shots, and all the easy ways in and out close up. We’ll have to shoot our way out like a James Bond movie. You’re a handsome man, Rourke, but you’re no James Bond.”
Rourke smacked Carter in the arm. “You think too much. We know they cash out around two in the morning. And we know once they take the kitty out, it’s in an armored truck, in a convoy. Right?”
“Right,” Carter said. “Once it’s on that truck, it’s gone to who knows where.”
“So we have to hit them about a quarter to two. Most of the gamblers have packed up and gone home, maybe even some of the muscle has left.”
“And are we supposed to sneak in the mall like we’re there to play the slots?” Carter said. He hooked a thumb at Ethan. “I don’t know if you could tell by his curly black hair or his last name ending with berg, but Ethan is not exactly their type. The guys who run this place aren’t equal opportunity businessmen if you know what I’m saying.”
