Bitch Factor

by Chris Rogers

  In the kitchen, she took a photographer’s vest from the coat closet. The vest’s custom lining would stop a 270-grain shell from a .357 Magnum. Several of the vest’s fourteen pockets contained items she occasionally found useful—sandwich bags, tape, putty, wire, a glass cutter, a Lock-Aid tool for instantly opening any lock except high security, a pair of binoculars.

  Dann held a pocket flap open while she inserted the cartridges.

  “This side job looks serious,” he commented quietly. “Should I be worried about you?”

  “Worried?” She looked up.

  The top of her hair brushed his chin, and she found him studying her, eyes hooded and dark. A weighted silence hung between them. Dixie wasn’t used to having anyone worry about her. Except Amy.

  Dann swallowed, as if his mouth had gone suddenly dry. She noticed a web of laugh lines that framed his eyes and thought he must laugh a lot during less stressful times. She knew she should look away, but the concern that filled his gaze was very real. It was also strangely gratifying.

  Kidnap victims often developed an emotional attachment to their captors, she’d read. Complete dependency on a person for food, shelter, human companionship, and approval created false endearment. Was that happening here? And if so, why was she feeling it, too?

  An invisible cord seemed to draw them closer.

  “What if something happens to you?” Dann said softly.

  His voice had the rich sensuousness of dark velvet. She’d noticed it before; now it enveloped her like a plush, warm cloak. She liked the sound.

  She also liked the strong line of his chin. And the way his brown hair waved over his ears.

  Her chest felt suddenly tight, her breathing shallow. She zipped and unzipped a pocket flap. A strand of hair fell across her cheek.

  He reached for it—

  Mud’s jaws snapped over Dann’s wrist with the speed of a viper.

  Chapter Thirty

  Be just his luck, Parker thought, Flannigan getting herself killed. Mud holding him prisoner out here in the boonies till they both starved to death. Parker’s arm still twitched when he thought about the damage Mud’s teeth could’ve done.

  He ran hot water over pans and liquid soap in the bottom of the sink.

  The dog was dedicated to Flannigan, no argument there. Maybe it was just plain dumb, thinking he could win the dog over and waltz out the gate. Likely get himself chewed to a bloody pulp. Mud, all grins and wags till you made a move toward his master. Must play hell with Flannigan’s love life.

  Flannigan’s love life— now why did that thought give him a start? Everybody had lovers. Woman her age, her looks. He tried to picture the kind of man she’d fall for. Lawyer type, probably. Or cop. Maybe that homicide cop who’d given her information on Parker’s case. Traded information, Flannigan said. She does a side job, cop gives her a peek at the file. What kind of boyfriend would put a woman in danger? What the hell kind of a job, anyway, required a whole box of bullets and those electronic gadgets? Were they even legal?

  Bounty hunters were known to straddle legalities when it suited them. Be worth a chuckle, discovering Flannigan fenced stolen art or ran a smuggling ring on the side. See her get busted. Some eager young cop locking Flannigan in handcuffs, throwing her in the slammer.

  Jail was a bleak damn place. Wouldn’t wish that on anybody.

  He loaded the dishwasher, then picked up the piccata pan from the floor, where Mud had licked it clean.

  “And you!” Mud sat up, his ears twitched straight ahead. “Some friend you turned out to be. Could’ve broken my arm, grabbing it like that. I wasn’t going to hurt her. I was just thinking—”

  Hell, what had he been thinking? Turn on the charm, get her feeling all mushy, maybe talk her into letting him go? He’d bet Flannigan’d never been mushy about a guy in her whole damn life, even as a scrawny teenager.

  He appreciated her poking around for some evidence to clear him. Parker didn’t read her as a do-gooder, either, just a helluva strong woman with a passion to see justice win out. “The first thing we do,” Shakespeare wrote, “let’s kill all the lawyers.” Good idea, but maybe he’d have made an exception with Flannigan.

  Halfway through his trial, Parker had lost faith in justice. Which was why he’d skipped, why he was even now working on a backup plan.

  What happened earlier, though, with Flannigan, wasn’t part of any plan. Her standing there, all soft curves and perfect face, not much more than a handful but with her tough-bitch veneer. Parker wondered what she’d have done if he kissed her. He looked down at Mud.

  “Some friend.”

  The dog yawned and gave Parker his “Who, me?” look.

  Scrubbing a spot of burned crust on the broiler pan, Parker recalled watching Flannigan drive away in the gray van. The guns worried him. Useless, though, worrying about something you couldn’t fix.

  Pans. He could fix pans. And food. Cooking took his mind off the shit he could do nothing about. Like an artist with a painting, get your mind wrapped around creating a meal, then sit down and eat it—double the pleasure. Better yet, share the meal with somebody. Couldn’t eat a painting.

  He’d had a chuckle looking at Flannigan’s scrapbooks. Pictures of her growing up, her older sister, Amy, and the old folks. Nice life. Sometimes he wondered why he’d never settled down. Pretty wife, big shady yard, maybe a kid or two. A dog like Mud.

  Crazy name for a dog, but there it was, right on his tag: MEAN UGLY DOG. MUD in parentheses. Flannigan had a sense of humor. Parker hadn’t seen much of it, but it was there. Her mother must’ve had one, too, naming a daughter Desiree Alexandra. Found that in one of the albums, a spelling bee award from school. No damn wonder she called herself Dixie, with such a girly name to live down. Desiree Alexandra. Sounded like something from Gone With the Wind.

  Parker stacked the clean pots and emptied the sink. Be dark soon. He hoped Flannigan wasn’t getting herself into something dangerous.

  He opened the pantry and took out the red Frisbee.

  “Come on, Mud. Let’s see how close I can get to the barn, and the cars inside the barn, before you turn mean.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The Valdez house, faded yellow with black shutters, sat close to the street, flower beds overgrown with weeds, yellowed newspapers piled on the porch, oil stains spotting the cracked concrete driveway. Hermie Valdez’s twelve-year-old Toyota was parked in the open garage. There was no other car in sight.

  Dixie cruised past, looking for obvious signs of occupancy. Before leaving home she’d called Rashly. Hermie hadn’t yet been released, so the house should be empty.

  In its heyday, the early seventies, the southwest neighborhood had rocked with disco parties every night, swinging singles riding the fast track to corporate management. Now it was being ethnicized by Hispanics, Asian-Americans, African-Americans, and East Indians, with and without green cards, with and without drug and alcohol habits. On early mornings, men lined the street, waiting for the day labor truck to drive by, wondering if they’d be selected for work.

  In place of the Mustang—a former police car that would likely attract attention in this neighborhood—Dixie was driving the gray van. It now sported a magnetic sign that said DOVER PLUMBING. She backed into the driveway behind the Toyota, parking nose out, then climbed down lazily from the cab. As she opened the truck’s side panel to get her “plumber’s” tools, she scanned the neighboring yards.

  The van blocked the view from the street Hermie’s house stood between Dixie and the neighbors on the west. The house on the east side appeared dead empty. But Dixie felt someone’s eyes on her. She hoped her blue overall with the Dover name patch looked convincing. Beneath it she wore the bulletproof vest and her sister-visiting clothes; she looked thirty pounds heavier. Fortunately, it was a cold night.

  From the battered toolbox, she slid the Lock-Aid tool into her pocket and palmed the directional beeper, slapping the back of it with putty. She picked up the toolbox, clo
sed the truck, and strode purposefully to the back door of the house. With luck she could be in and out in less time than a plumber could replace a faucet washer. Passing the Toyota, she slipped the beeper into the curved lip of the tire well.

  She knocked on the door. After a moment, she opened the screen door and knocked again, louder. When still no answer came, for which Dixie was entirely grateful, she pressed the Lock-Aid against the dead bolt, pulled the trigger, and listened until the bolt magically clicked back.

  “Plumber, ma’am,” she called, as if someone had asked. She eased the door open. “Here to fix the leak.”

  Inside, with the door closed behind her, she flipped the light switch and scanned the kitchen. A cockroach scurried across the table, apparently startled from feasting on a partially eaten TV dinner. Next to the leftover meal was a bakery pumpkin pie and a new one-pound can of Folgers coffee. Despite the room’s coolness, the pie was moldy.

  Dixie strode through the house with her penlight to make sure no one was sleeping in a back room. It occurred to her that Sikes might be staying right here. Stupid, but possible. The .45 nestled in a holster under the overall, not particularly accessible; but a hell of a big plumber’s wrench was tucked in her hip pocket. Her search revealed four empty rooms, with nothing more menacing than another Texas cockroach. Yet the feeling persisted that someone was watching.

  Finding a wall phone in the kitchen and a Princess model in the bedroom, she made sure they rang on the same line, then proceeded to install the tap.

  The front doorbell buzzed.

  Dixie froze, telephone wires dangling from her hand. A minute later, another buzz, followed by an impatient knock.

  “Hermie! You in there, girl?” A woman’s voice.

  Dixie pocketed the phone tap. Hefting the plumber’s wrench, she turned on the porch light, then opened the front door.

  The woman outside stood about five feet tall, shorter even than Dixie, and wore an animal-print jumpsuit. She was plump, pretty, thirtyish, and curious as hell.

  “Who’re you? Where’s Hermie?”

  “Plumber, ma’am. Nobody’s here but me.”

  “Well. How’d you get in if ain’t nobody here?”

  “Landlord sent me over to fix a leak. One leaky faucet can make a whopping difference in a water bill.” Dixie drawled each word like pouring molasses.

  “Ain’t it just like that tight bastard to worry about a water bill when Hermie’s been needing a new heater ever since winter broke? Anyway, I was hoping Hermie was home.” The woman tried to look past Dixie, into the living room. “Listen, maybe I should come on in while you work. You know, a witness in case anything goes missing from the house?”

  “I’m bonded, ma’am. Afraid I can’t let you in, though. Shouldn’t have opened the door, but you looked like an observant neighbor who might be worried about Ms. Valdez’s property. Wanted to set your mind at ease, so to speak.”

  “Oh, well… thank you. Guess I do try to look out for my neighbors when they’re not at home.”

  “Don’t suppose you saw anyone else prowling around this house, did you? Landlord’s concerned about burglars. Word gets around when a house sits empty.”

  “Hermie’s coming home soon, ain’t she?”

  “Don’t know anything about that, ma’am. You see anyone lurking around the property here?”

  “Nobody but Hermie’s no-good boyfriend, Alton Sikes. Saw him slinking across the backyard last night. Don’t know what she sees in that good-for-nothing.”

  “What was he doing in the backyard, do you think?”

  “Lord knows. Looking for Hermie, I guess.”

  “You see where he went?”

  “Why you so interested in Alton Sikes?”

  “Sikes is not a resident here. The landlord would be upset to find him living on the premises while Ms. Valdez is away.”

  “Well, no, I don’t think Alton’s staying here. I’d’ve seen him coming and going, my house being right next door.”

  “You have any idea where Mr. Sikes lives?”

  “On the street, you ask me. Hasn’t got a pot to piss in.”

  “You’d think Ms. Valdez’d worry, him living on the street.”

  “Listen, Hermie’d do anything for that man, but she ain’t stupid. Alton’s a junkie. If he had a key to this house, he’d hock everything Hermie owned, and be as gone as a bee-stung cat. Wouldn’t be no good to her then, if you catch my drift. She only lets him stay over when she’s here to watch her things.” The woman paused, and a secretive smile tugged at her lips. “Anyhow, I hear the cops want Alton again. Maybe he’s back in jail, where he belongs.”

  Dixie gently coaxed the woman into leaving, then finished the phone tap. She found a place in the hall where a UHF transmitter would pick up sounds from any of the four rooms. Later, after the transmitter did its job, she’d have to come back and retrieve it. Otherwise, she was out eight hundred bucks.

  Before driving to Amy’s, Dixie stepped into the back of the van to shed her overall and vest. She unstrapped the .45, placed it in a compartment marked “sump pump,” and straightened her tan sweatshirt. Climbing back into the driver’s seat, she fluffed her hair, applied lipstick, grimaced, and wiped it off again. She felt as ready as she’d ever be for a visit with her sister’s family.

  Fog drifted across the road, diffusing Dixie’s headlights. She exited the freeway, turned toward the inner-loop community of West University, and parked on the street in front of Amy and Carl’s spacious home. Their gaslight boasted a hand-painted sign that said THE ROYALS. She refluffed her hair in the rearview mirror, thought again about applying lipstick, decided the hell with it, and hurried up the walk.

  Amy was all smiles, warm cushiony hugs, and White Diamonds perfume. Dixie was surprised not to see Ryan bounding ahead of her.

  “Ryan has the flu,” Amy explained, tucking the tag on Dixie’s sweatshirt out of sight as she steered her toward the dining room. “Started coughing this afternoon, and now he’s in bed with a fever.”

  “Have you called the doctor? Does he need anything, some aspirin or something?”

  “The doctor sent a prescription, and Ryan’s comfortable. That’s about all we can do.”

  “Well, darn.” Dixie thought of Ellie Keyes, her chapped nose and queasy tummy. Kids seemed so pitiful when they were ill. Dixie felt helpless around them. The flu wasn’t an enemy you could drag away in handcuffs. “How long will he be sick?”

  “Until it runs its course. The doctor said it’s rather virulent, especially with the bronchitis. The medicine will help a lot, and of course the usual, plenty of rest, plenty of fluids.”

  “Then it’s not really serious.” She knew Ryan would hate being bedridden.

  Amy hesitated, a frown puckering her brow.

  “It is a serious flu strain. There’ve been three deaths reported, from dehydration and pneumonia, but, Dixie, two of those were street people without anyone to care for them, and the third was an elderly woman.”

  “People don’t die from the flu.”

  “Now, don’t worry about Ryan. We caught it early. He has the best of care. He’ll be fine.”

  Dixie insisted on peeking in on her nephew. Sleeping, he looked thin and vulnerable, his blond hair tousled, his cheeks pink with fever. Dixie shook the prescription bottle; Amoxil, same as Ellie’s. Enough fat pink tablets to make him well, she hoped. Plenty of tissues. A full water pitcher. She had to grin when she saw the Cessna controls beside his water glass. The plane sat in the middle of the floor, where he’d apparently been taxiing it back and forth. As soon as he was well enough to go outside, she’d take him flying.

  At dinner, Dixie put everything but family out of her mind, soaked up every warm, fuzzy feeling they threw at her, and even managed to avoid arguing with Carl. The food was not as good as Dann’s Piccata, but far better than carryout. They opened gifts—ballet tickets for Amy, Rockets tickets for Carl. Her gift from Ryan was a stuffed talking bear, and from Carl and Amy a yellow si
lk pants suit.

  “Since you quit working downtown, you never dress up,” Amy explained. “Yellow is great on you.”

  When Dixie finally made going-home noises, Amy tried to talk her into staying over.

  “Ryan will be awake in the morning, probably feeling well enough to stay up awhile. Dixie, we see so little of you these days.”

  “You mean since I’m not on TV every other week explaining to the press why we let another burglar/killer/rapist go free.”

  “You could do so well in your own practice,” Amy said, bringing up a recurring argument. “I don’t understand why you won’t consider it.”

  “If you’re tired of criminal law,” Carl put in, “you could specialize in business law or civil litigation. What I’m saying, I know people who’d put up money to get you started.”

  Dixie didn’t want to explain once again why business law bored the hell out of her and most civil suits were a blight on the system.

  “Maybe someday.” Waving that glimmer of hope usually placated them both.

  “You will stay over, won’t you?” Amy coaxed, when Carl picked up the TV remote.

  Dixie thought she’d skirted that suggestion. She didn’t want to mention having to work. Amy would want details, which she couldn’t provide, and would worry all night, details or not.

  “Amy, you know how much I wanted to see Ryan, but I didn’t leave any food or water out for Mud, and I’ve been gone most of the day.” No lies in that statement, and Amy liked Mud.

  “Well, give Ryan a call in the morning. He’ll be disappointed he missed you.”

  When Dixie looked in on her nephew one last time before leaving, the high color had faded from his cheeks. The boy looked pale and sweaty, but he was sleeping soundly, despite the stuffy nose and occasional cough. She kissed him, smoothed his silky, tangled hair, and left feeling totally useless.

  The Valdez house stood dark and silent when Dixie cruised past, no sounds transmitting from inside, Toyota parked in the same spot. She checked the phone tap: nothing. Either Rashly hadn’t released Valdez yet or the woman hadn’t gone straight home. Dixie had hoped to finish the job tonight, finger Sikes and be done with it. Instead, she’d have to stay on hold until she heard from Rash.