“It can,” I said, refusing to admit that I’d earned twice this much on at least two jobs in the last year. The first had paid for my apartment. The second, my car. I wasn’t sure where this newest installment would land, but it never hurt to have excess cash on hand. I’d always considered myself fairly low maintenance, but I’d developed expensive tastes lately; you can never have too many pairs of shoes.
Or enough guns, for that matter.
“And what was it you sold tonight?” he asked, angling us northeast towards Massachusetts Bay.
I cringed, trying to figure out how best to answer that. So far, Jimmy had no reason to think I was anything more or less than I said I was, but a hundred grand was a lot of money. If I told him the truth, he’d balk at the exchange and call bullshit. But I didn’t have a handy lie ready. As I tried to decide whether or not to tell him the truth, I realized we were working our way around Pleasure Bay, the water an inky pool of blackness for as far as the eye could see, illuminated only by the occasional vessel skimming across the otherwise placid surface. “Where the hell are we goin’?” I asked.
“Answer my question, and I’ll answer yours,” Jimmy said.
Since he was driving, it didn’t seem entirely fair, but I didn’t argue. I knew my response would be a sticking point, no matter what I said; Jimmy had never been the type to let things go, even before he’d started putting on uniforms. I cleared my throat and decided to tell the truth. Not because it would set me free, or any optimistic nonsense like that, but because I couldn’t think of anything more plausible. “Me buyer wanted a pair of gloves,” I said, at last.
Jimmy grunted. “You expect me to believe that someone paid a hundred grand for gloves?”
“They were uncommonly rare gloves,” I replied.
“Made out of what? Diamonds?” he joked.
“Dragon scale, actually.”
Jimmy’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. He didn’t look amused, but then I hadn’t expected him to. See, I told you the truth wouldn’t set me free. In fact, from the look on Jimmy’s face, it seemed guaranteed to get me locked up. “It’s not smart to lie to a cop, Quinn,” he said.
I sighed. “I’m not lyin’ to ye, Jimmy.” And I wasn’t. Honestly, I had no idea what a drug lord needed gloves covered in dragon scales for, but then it was my policy not to ask those sorts of questions. If he’d asked me for something a little more militant, maybe I’d have done some digging, but unless he planned to punch people to death, I doubted I’d lose any sleep over the exchange. Besides, there were easier ways to kill people, and I was betting the swarthy Honduran knew that. “I came across a few items last month from a shipment out of St. Louis,” I went on. “Apparently, a couple of the more industrious hunters had harvested scales from some of the dead dragons. I went through their merchandise and picked up a few pieces I thought I could sell for a higher price.” I shrugged.
“Jesus, Quinn, give me a break. We both know dragons aren’t real.” Jimmy’s hand tightened on the steering wheel. “Look, I saw the St. Louis video like everyone else. I’ll admit it made me wonder. But it was a prank. Somebody’s idea of fun, that’s all.”
The video Jimmy was referring to was one of those highly publicized hoaxes that occasionally captured the public’s attention—a grainy video of a dragon attacking a busy, car-laden bridge in the middle of the night. The whole thing was very Cloverfield, shaky and scary at the same time. Of course, public opinion was that the whole thing was a publicity stunt, a trailer for some nifty independent film. But I knew better. Granted, I’d never seen a dragon before, and hadn’t believed they existed myself until a few months ago. But one look at the gloves was all it took to make me a believer; no metal on earth shined quite like those silver gloves had.
Besides, all metal melted at certain temperatures. These hadn’t.
“T’ink what ye like, Jimmy,” I said. “But I answered your question. Now it’s your turn. Tell me where we’re goin’.” At this point, I might have preferred the precinct. I wasn’t sure how long it would take my lawyer to get me out of this mess, but being stuck in an interrogation room sounded a hell of a lot better than sliding around in the back of a squad car until Jimmy decided I was too crazy to be let loose on society.
“I’m responding to the all call,” Jimmy replied, still looking dubious. “They want additional officers re-directing traffic around Castle Island.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “What traffic?” I asked. Castle Island was a popular destination for tourists and locals alike—one of those few places where adults can find some lively entertainment and kids can play to their heart’s content. At its heart was Fort Independence, a granite edifice you could tour for a price. Usually, the island would be crawling with obnoxious couples walking arm-in-arm, spandex-coated bicyclists out for a ride, and yoga enthusiasts squatting over the lawns like double-jointed dogs. But at night, especially this late at night, traffic was unlikely.
“No clue. Apparently, they want to establish a perimeter,” Jimmy said, sounding doubtful.
“Around the island?” I asked, blown away by the enormity of that request. Castle Island was huge. Something like twenty acres. I wasn’t sure they could establish a perimeter if every officer in the state were available, let alone those who’d been called from their usual stomping grounds.
Jimmy shrugged. “I’ll know more once I get there. Listen, I’ll drop you off before we get there. But this money…” He shook his head, and for a moment I wondered if he’d insist on keeping it. Things wouldn’t go well if he did; I wasn’t about to let him run off with my hard earned cash. “Listen, you need to be more careful,” he said, finally. “And come up with better lies.”
I started to open my mouth, but Jimmy wasn’t finished.
“No,” he said, “I’m not stupid. I saw you come out of that hotel. And I don’t know how many people out there run around with this much cash, but I can guess who you met with. Honestly, I don’t know what kind of arrangement you made with the bastard, and I don’t want to know. Just tell me this...will anyone get hurt because of what you did?”
I frowned, considering whether to protest and insist I’d told him the truth. In the end, however, I decided it was better to let Jimmy think whatever he wanted. As long as he didn’t make life difficult for me in the process, I could handle him thinking I was in bed with a drug lord. Figuratively speaking. “No, as far as I know, they won’t,” I said at last.
Jimmy nodded. A tension I hadn’t noticed left his body in a rush, as if he’d been fully prepared to arrest me if he thought I were a danger to society. I smirked a little, amused by the thought.
If only he knew.
Chapter 3
We ended up parked among a swarm of squad cars, their lights flashing so bright and so frequently that everything in sight seemed like it had been painted by Uncle Sam. Jimmy had promised to drop me off, but had insisted on avoiding Marine Park at night. Something about it not being safe. I decided not to mention the fact that I was both armed and very capable of taking care of myself. Policemen never seemed to care much for the words “concealed carry,” so I’d refrained from mentioning it to Jimmy when he’d asked me to go for a ride. Instead, Jimmy had swung west, into City Point, only to be swallowed by the blockade.
“Wait here,” Jimmy said. He hopped out of the car, leaving me alone in the backseat. I tested the door. Locked. I sighed and settled back, relieved to not be moving anymore, at least. Now that I was alone, I was able to adjust the pistol riding my spine, easing some of the pressure that had built up while Jimmy drove. The P226 Sig Sauer wasn’t a massive handgun, nothing like the .357 Magnums toted by Dirty Harry fanatics, but it was a bulky hunk of metal. If I’d been a man, I could have worn a shoulder holster and let the gun sit under my armpit beneath a jacket. But I wasn’t, and while anyone who’s ever had to carry a gun can tell you how difficult they are to conceal, even fewer are the women who manage to do so and look fashionable at the same time. I’d done what I
could, but in my pantsuit it’d meant holstering the sidearm at the small of my back and buying a jacket that flared out enough to make sure the bulge was less than noticeable.
Unfortunately, it seemed I wasn’t as alone as I’d initially thought; a finger rapped against the window as I adjusted the pistol, and I looked up to find a short Hispanic woman in a pantsuit of her own, her hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun that left her face looking bare and severe. The cool expression on her face didn’t help. “Let me see your hands,” she barked.
I did as she asked. Ordinarily, I might have argued, but I knew how this looked. I was sitting in the back of a squad car, fidgeting with a firearm. Not exactly a winning combination. I held my hands up a little, though I was still ducked down thanks to the cramped backseat, my slouched back starting to ache from the pressure on my spine—probably a tactic used to fuck with alleged perpetrators.
I’ll take Stress Positions for 100, Alex.
“Do you have a permit for that?” she asked, eyes dull and emotionless, lips turned down in a frown.
I nodded and carefully patted my jacket pocket where I’d stored my conceal carry permit. It was an unrestricted permit, which was actually a bitch to get; I’d had to submit proof that I was in danger often enough to need a gun on my person to apply for one. I’d fudged the details a bit, but made sure the licensing office knew how much money I made selling goods, and what some people out there were willing to do for that kind of money; I didn’t mention that most of the offenders were greedy clients looking to score a two-for-one deal.
They hadn’t asked.
The woman never took her eyes off me, and yet somehow seemed to be scanning the crowd. Cops could do that, I’d noticed—use their peripheral vision like a third eye. Until she did that, I hadn’t really known for sure she was a cop; if she was wearing a badge, I couldn’t see it. “Where’s the officer who put you back here?” she asked, her voice sounding thin and reedy through the door, like I was in some sort of fish tank.
“I t’ink he’s lookin’ for someone to let us through so he can drop me off,” I said, shrugging. Honestly, I had no idea what Jimmy was doing. All I knew was I wanted to get the hell out of here sooner rather than later.
“Well, that’s a shame. No one is going anywhere right now,” she said.
“Why?” I asked, yelling a little to make sure she heard me.
“Detective Machado,” Jimmy said before she could respond, coming into sight from the front of the car, only a third of his body visible through the passenger window. I watched his hands move as he spoke. “I was trying to find someone to take this woman home,” he explained, as if she’d asked.
“We got a tip about the Reynold’s boy,” Detective Machado replied. “They’ve cordoned off this side of things, and will have the bay entrance blocked off soon. I don’t think we can spare anyone.”
Jimmy’s hands fell to his sides in resignation, but there was an excited edge to his voice I couldn’t miss, even with the distortion of sound. “The Reynold’s boy? Really? Here?”
The name brought with it a host of questions, but none I dared ask with the detective standing nearby. The fate of Lukas Reynolds, the twelve-year-old son of wealthy socialites Sofia and Peter Reynolds, was practically all anyone talked about since his abduction two days ago from a carnival. Not since the Lindbergh kidnapping had this much media attention been given to a missing person’s report; the boy’s cherubic face had been plastered on every news station, local and national alike, alongside a picture taken by an enterprising photojournalist of the scene Lukas had been abducted from—a high resolution image of a glistening red lollipop Lukas had been given melted partway on the ground in front of an out-of-focus carousel. The media had since dubbed the whole affair the Lollipop Case. No one knew who had taken him, or why, though a ransom seemed the likeliest motive. The Reynolds were descended from German aristocrats, and public speculation put their net worth in the millions.
Detective Machado shrugged. “I don’t know the details. But this is coming from the top, so we’re going to shut up and color.”
Jimmy grunted. “I know something about that,” he said, probably referring to his time in the Marines. I’d never enlisted, but after a series of failed career paths and financial struggles, I’d considered it; the military had seemed like a pretty viable option for someone who liked to fight and couldn’t hold down a job. Of course, if getting dishonourably discharged for having a shitty attitude were a thing, I’d have been booted faster than you could say “drop and give me twenty.”
The two cops flashed wry grins at one another, and I realized the detective was probably former military, herself—there was simply too much shared knowledge in that exchange. I also realized one other thing: Detective Machado was attractive. Attractive, and into Officer Jimmy Collins. She leaned into him when she spoke and pressed a hand to her throat, probably unconsciously. Not that I could blame her. Between the muscles, the smile, and the uniform, there was a lot there to like. She jerked her chin towards me, letting the moment pass. “You should escort the civilian out of here and let her catch her own ride home. Especially before she flashes her gun a second time,” she added, smirking.
“She did what?”
“Wait, she did tell you she was carrying, didn’t she?” Machado asked, flicking her eyes at me, one hand settling on the butt of her gun as if worried I might draw on her at any moment. I wasn’t planning on it, but I understood her concern. Her reaction was why I hadn’t mentioned the gun to Jimmy; I hadn’t wanted him treating me like I was a bomb that could go off at any moment.
Jimmy waved that off, trying to diffuse the situation. “No,” he said, sounding far more calm than I’d expected after finding out I’d been armed during our little chat. Had he spotted the gun beforehand? Maybe I hadn’t done as good a job hiding it as I’d thought. “But she didn’t have to,” Jimmy continued. “It was a social visit. I got the call while we were catching up.”
“You brought a civilian to an active scene, Officer Collins?” Machado asked, her anger now directed at the much taller man.
“Not intentionally. I was hoping to drop her off somewhere more populated than the park at night, that’s all. Dispatch didn’t tell us what we were walking into.”
Machado seemed to consider that, then folded her arms over her chest. “Listen, Collins,” she said, her voice almost too low to catch, “I know you’re good under pressure. You did well in the Academy. Good instincts. You have potential. You might even make detective, if you keep it up. But this? Shit like this will cost you. Set you back.” She leaned back and searched his face, her expression surprisingly gentle.
“Yes ma’am,” Jimmy said, sounding appropriately chastised. I considered interrupting to take the blame, but anything I said would only muck up the water further; better a dressing down for Jimmy than a prison cell for me. Selfish, I know, but if it meant I’d end up in my own bed tonight, cuddling a bag with a hundred grand in it, so be it.
Selfish was the new sexy.
Machado tapped his chest with her finger, but lightly. “Don’t let it happen again. Now, get her out of here before—”
But that was as far as Machado got before something interrupted her. The two spun, facing back the way Jimmy had come, their backs to me. And that’s when I heard what had both cops reaching for their guns, screams echoing through the night like a flock of birds being chased off by hounds. The sound made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
With that, any guilt I had leftover from getting caught flashing my gun fled in rush. Guilt was a luxury, and the only shit I paid for that I didn’t need were designer clothes.
Fuck Machado.
I settled my hand on the butt of my gun.
Chapter 4
I banged on my side of the door. “What’s goin’ on?” I yelled, trying to see past the two cops. Neither responded, at first. Detective Machado ducked a bit, drawing her gun, and dipped between the squad cars like a wraith, swallowed
by what few shadows were visible despite the sirens. It made me wonder just what branch of the military she’d been in.
Jimmy dropped down and spoke without taking his eyes off whatever he was seeing, “Stay in the car, Quinn. And stay low. I don’t know what’s happening, but you’re surrounded by cops. You’ll be safe here.”
I opened my mouth to argue that I’d be a lot safer in a car that wasn’t locked, but Jimmy was already taking off after Machado. He was a lot bigger than she was and had a harder time finding shadows thick enough to hide him, but he unholstered his gun and padded off stealthily enough to make me glad he was on our side. I scrambled to look around, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Well, nothing out of the ordinary I hadn’t expected to see. The screams, sounding more like cries of hysteria than people in pain, had died down, leaving an eerie quiet behind like a fog that swallowed the world outside the squad car. I considered drawing my gun, then thought better of it; if a cop found me with a drawn gun in the back of a squad car, I might never get it back.
The police were pretty particular about not drawing your gun in public without cause.
Instead, I did what Jimmy suggested. I got low, dropping to my knees, slipping between the seat and the wire mesh divider to kneel on the floorboards, peering out into the distance. I almost jumped when a uniformed cop popped up on the edges of my peripheral vision. He was a fairly muscular guy with broad shoulders and a beer gut—part beefcake, part donut. His back was ramrod straight, and he rested his hand on the butt of his gun like he’d never had to draw it before, like the threat alone had always been enough. He reminded me of a small town saloon sheriff, staring out into the night as if whatever was out there could be cowed by courage and grit.
Or maybe I was projecting.
Either way, I wished he’d draw his gun and stand ready. If there was something out there, I would have preferred a stouter line of defense. That’s the thing with predicting the unpredictable: you either had imagination, or you didn’t. I was betting Wyatt Derp had none, whereas I’d seen what was behind the curtain—and it hadn’t all been pretty.
Last Call: A TempleVerse Anthology Book 1 (TempleVerse Anthologies) Page 9
