She shook her head quickly. “Don’t kill me. Please.”
He leaned down. She jerked her head to the side. He kissed her cheek gently. She tried to head butt him, so he pressed his lips hard against her cheek, her chin, her neck, and then he ground his hips into her. She pleaded for him to let her go.
“You’ve betrayed me, dear Norma.” Then he bit her neck.
She stifled a scream. Tears streamed down her temples. “I didn’t. I haven’t. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Just don’t kill me.”
He eased his weight off her so as not to hurt her but kept her pinned. She started to sob. He kissed her face gently. Her forehead. Her nose. Everything but her lips.
“You have one chance. Her name.”
Her sobs were for the woman she was about to betray—not for herself. He knew her strength well enough to know she would have died keeping the other woman safe, if she could have. But the will to live was stronger than her desire to save another.
They were all the same when it came down to this moment. The pleading and the power he held over them once they realized they were about to die at his hands. She stared into his eyes and held his gaze for many moments. She wasn’t going to tell him. She needed a bit more convincing.
Because he didn’t have that much time, he pressed the blade against her beautiful throat. Enough to cut but not kill. The familiar odor of blood rose between them, and he held her gaze and let her study his face. He didn’t care if they told her who he really was when she described him; when they pieced this altogether in the weeks to come. He’d already be long gone. And she’d realize how lucky she was that he let her go.
She would owe him. Tears poured from the corners of her black eyes, down her temples, and into her hair.
“Your last name?”
“Chasing Dog.”
He grinned. “And hers?”
In a tiny voice she said, “Good Run. Julie Good Run.”
“Norma Chasing Dog.” He kissed her forehead and disappeared in the dark, leaving her to her thoughts of him.
I WOKE UP IN the emergency room, woozy, and with the worst headache of my life.
I was alone, behind a curtain. I tried to get up, but my head pounded, and I regurgitated into a nearby bedpan.
Damn it.
I glanced at the clock. 11:15. How did I get to the hospital so quickly? Last I remember, I was skulking around behind my apartment complex at 10:30. I remembered being clobbered … which I wished I didn’t remember … but I did. Everyone else I’d ever known had a bit of amnesia around a violent event. I seemed to remember every gory and brutal detail.
Unfair.
I recalled everything about the guy who’d been following me, even the crazy scar along the right side of his nose. It looked like he’d been punched by a right-hander. Probably a boxer’s punch—not a jab or an uppercut but a hook—well executed and strong. He had likely broken the bones of his nose in a bout. The scar was exactly like those after tiny nose bones slice through the ridge of the cheek. He was definitely a fighter.
I lay back down and groaned. I reached for my forehead to ease the pounding, only to find my arm tethered with an intravenous needle.
How did I get here?
A nurse pushed the curtain aside, stepped closer to the foot of my gurney, and slid the privacy drape closed. “You’re awake.”
“You mean conscious?”
“I mean, awake. You were conscious when the paramedics arrived. You fell asleep almost immediately and have been out since.”
She bustled around my bed, scowled when she saw the bedpan, and clicked her pen several times on, then off, after each documented reading. Each click was like a .45 being fired next to my ear. I wasn’t so out of it not to wonder why the hell she didn’t leave the damn pen alone until she was all done with her exam.
“Name and date of birth?”
I answered. Accurately. She checked my reply against my hospital bracelet.
“Wait, how did you know?”
“Driver’s license,” she said, not glancing my way. She was too busy affixing another blood pressure cuff. “Don’t talk.”
I didn’t, knowing if I did, the blood pressure reading wouldn’t register accurately. After a long minute or two, the air hissed in release. My head throbbed. She ripped the Velcro strap off, and the grating noise amplified in my brain. She quickly wound the rubber hose around the band and shoved the contraption hurriedly into a cabinet. The wooden door closed with a bang.
I cleared my throat. “Would you mind telling me what’s happening? Apparently, I’ve been asleep for a few minutes and missed all the excitement.”
She smirked. “You’re at St. Joe’s ER. We’re busy. Which is why you still don’t have a room. And since you were so sound asleep, we just let you stay here last night. Not a few minutes. Try twelve hours.”
I glanced at the clock again. 11:30? In the morning? Yikes. “So what happened? When can I leave?”
She finished her tasks with speed and efficiency, never landing a glance my way other than fleetingly. “The doctor will be in shortly. After the phlebotomist. We’ll need your labs.”
“But—”
“Your friend will fill you in.” She snatched the sullied bedpan, ripped the curtain aside, and disappeared.
“Friend?” I asked.
Streeter stepped through the opening, grinned, and quietly slid the curtain closed behind him. He looked awful—and wonderful. I was so glad to see him.
“You didn’t listen,” I said, grinning back. “You came anyway, didn’t you? You never got a wink of sleep.”
He shrugged, sat down on the edge of my bed, and leaned down to kiss the right side of my forehead, opposite of where I’d been clocked. “How are you feeling?”
“Like Sleeping Beauty, only not so much the latter.”
He tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear.
“What happened?”
The pained look in his eyes scored deep.
“I called.”
“I answered.” I remembered. I had thought it was Streeter who’d knocked on my door. “Someone had knocked on my door. Twice. I thought it was you.”
“You didn’t check?”
I nodded. “Of course. No one was there. I grabbed my gun and went to answer the door … and was about to turn the knob when you called.”
“You thought it was me,” he said, sadness flooding his face. “I found you in the entrance of your apartment. The door was open. Do you remember anything?”
“Yeah, unfortunately. I remember everything.” I tried to sit up but got woozy again. I didn’t want to puke in front of Streeter, and I probably smelled and looked like hell.
“Careful,” he said, helping me settle back onto my pillow.
“I’d give anything to brush my teeth.”
His grin was lopsided. He fished something from the pocket of his jacket and held up a packet with two mini-toothbrushes “with a freshening bead of paste built into the brush.”
“It was either this or M&M’s. And you think I wasn’t paying attention all weekend?”
“I am a bit of a nut about my oral hygiene,” I said, offering him a crooked smile. “And about my chocolate. Would you mind helping me?”
He opened the plastic wrapper and gave me the first tiny brush. I used them both, spitting into the plastic cup he’d handed me. Heaven. My mouth felt fabulous. My breath had to smell better, too. I tossed the two used brushes into the cup. “My mouth thanks you. The nurses thank you. My doctor thanks you.” I glanced over his shoulder. “My phlebotomist thanks you.”
“I need your labs. Do you mind?” The young woman didn’t appear old enough to be out of high school. But she was quick and efficient like the other nurse and was in and out.
“What are they looking for? When can I go home?”
“Everything’s normal. They’re worried about concussions or any other damage—like eyesight problems or seizures.”
“And if everything comes
out okay, can I go home? I’m late for work.”
He held my hand. “You’re not coming to work. Liv, this is serious.”
I withdrew my hand from his. “I have plans. I promised Bert Ridgewood and my brother.”
“I know, I know. But your health is far more important.”
He grabbed for my hand again and patted it. His tone was condescending—like I was a child. That pissed me off. “My health is fine. I just got a bump on my head. That’s all.”
“We don’t know who did this.”
“I do. It’s the guy with the grey truck.” I pushed back the blanket, lifted my hospital gown, and pointed at the fading numbers written in pen on my stomach. “This guy.”
“You saw him? And you remember?”
“Every detail—including the scar running down the right side of his nose. Five eight. Hundred and seventy pounds. Straight black hair below his ears, tucked. Scruffy, but like he’d shaved, and it quickly grew back. Black eyes. No glasses or tattoos visible. Early forties. Hispanic.”
I stopped, breathing heavily. My anger subsided. Streeter appeared stunned. Then he arched an eyebrow in amusement. “Every detail. Of course.”
I knew I wasn’t normal. He knew that, too. “And he didn’t want to hit me.”
“How do you know that?”
“A feeling. He clocked me with the butt of my own gun.”
“I thought you said this guy was a road rager?”
“At first, that’s what I thought. But then I realized he was just a tail. He was smoking a cigarette at the back door of my apartment complex. He got there before I did.”
“He knew where you lived.” Streeter’s eyes widened.
“Exactly. So I snuck up on him and pretended I was sending Beulah to attack him. He ran and dropped his cigarette.” I thought back to exactly where I saw him drop that smoke. I would retrieve it as soon as I got out of here. I’d bag it, in case we needed his DNA for something. “Then I ran up the back stairs to my apartment.”
“But if he was a tail and knew where you lived, why did he follow you to your apartment? And why would he knock on your door?”
I shrugged. “Don’t know. But what I do know is that I surprised him. I opened my door. I had a gun, and I attacked him when he jumped me from behind. I’d stepped out looking for you.”
“Maybe he was surprised you were on the phone.”
“I just don’t think he was intending to do anything with me. Other than follow me.” But then I wondered if I’d been wrong. What if he’d intended to rape me?
Streeter plowed his fingers through his short, white hair. “What is this about?”
“Dick Roth?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Mully?” I asked, knowing that couldn’t be.
“No way.” Streeter covered his face with his hands and rubbed his eyes. “Think, think. Why would someone have a shadow on you? You’ve been out on sabbatical, not involved in any open cases for weeks.”
“The press?”
He glanced up at me.
I shrugged. “You said yourself that they were trying to find me. Maybe it’s just a paparazzi thing—this guy was hired to find out where I lived. Maybe the knock on the door was a photographer he’d called in to take my picture.”
“And instead, he assaulted a federal agent and stole her gun?” Streeter asked.
“He stole my SIG?”
Streeter was about to answer when the curtain slid back again.
It was the doctor.
Before she could say a word, I asked, “When can I get out of here?”
“SO WHAT DO WE have on this guy?” I shifted the cell phone gingerly to my left ear.
The entire right side of my head felt like an exposed nerve. The doctor said that if everything remained normal, she’d release me when she returned for her afternoon rounds. Until then, I was bedbound. It might take me time before I could get rid of the goose egg on my forehead, but thinking didn’t hurt a bit. And she never said I couldn’t work.
Laurie Frumpley said, “Dick has been a very bad boy. Since last Tuesday, when you recorded the shakedown of Ridgewood, he’s leaned on four different operators. That’s just under a week and all of them on Saturday.”
I scooted to the edge of my bed as I listened, then bent at the waist, and stretched down to my toes with a groan. The throbbing worsened. I pulled myself erect, straightened my hospital gown, and scooted back against my pillows. “How’d you find that out?”
“That tracking device you managed to slip into his wallet? The one that looks like a credit card? It showed me exactly where he’s been. How long will that device last?”
I’d managed to plant the tracking device without him knowing. He had told Ridgewood he’d be back after lunch for the money. Dick Roth clearly valued food, so after shaking Ridgewood down, I suspected he’d go eat somewhere besides fast food.
One thing I loved about having a big family was that I was surrounded by experts in various fields. My sister Elizabeth treasured cutting-edge technology, particularly surveillance equipment. I wasn’t sure if she really hired out as a PI from time to time or if she used that as a cover to amass her stash of equipment and weapons—or if she secretly worked for the CIA.
The futuristic credit card had been a gift from her—in case I ever needed it.
I had thought about planting a tracking device in his car, but it was government issued, and he probably used his personal car on weekends for most of his heavy work, assuming he was smart.
I spotted his car at a local saloon. He was eating at the bar, his eyes transfixed on a television mounted near the ceiling. His cell phone and wallet were lying on the counter to his right beside his plate.
So I tipped the bartender to fumble his Coke, spill it on his belly and crotch, which she did. He rushed off to the bathroom to mop up. And when he did, I slipped the card into his wallet, tipped her a fifty, and swore her to secrecy.
“As long as he has his wallet within three feet of his cell phone, the device will recharge itself.”
“His government car was checked in on Friday afternoon. But other than Ridgewood, he had only official visits on his log throughout the week. So he must have driven his personal car on Saturday.”
“And took Sunday off?”
“Appears so,” Laurie said. “Personal car remained parked at his house since Saturday night until this morning when he went to work. I called all three operators and told them you’d be calling and confirmed that EPA Inspector Dick Roth had paid them an unofficial visit.”
“Three? I thought you said he visited four?” I studied my notes. With Ridgewood, Juzlig, and Ole along with these four, I thought the bureau had a good chance to nail this guy.
The doctor told me I had a linear skull fracture, a slight fracture, visible on my X-ray. I’d be fine and back to my normal routine in days. Never mind the warnings that I might not be thinking straight for a few days. I had my coworkers like Laurie to keep me in line until the muddle cleared. The pain was from swelling and contusions, and the concussion meant I’d lost alertness and some awareness. Probably not good in the field, but as long as I kept my movements to a minimum and eventually iced my wound once I got home, I’d be back to my usual routine in a matter of days.
“I did say four. I just got a call from Matt Juzlig. Roth visited him Saturday again. He thinks we’re not doing anything to help, so he’s taking matters into his own hands. He plans on being wired up Tuesday when Roth returns.”
“That could be dangerous.” I pulled my hair into a loose ponytail and secured the thick bunch with an elastic band.
“I told him I’d have you call him back today. Are you up for it?”
I looked at the clock. It was 4:30. “I’m on it. I’ll call all four of them and Ridgewood. I’ll keep them posted.” I jotted down the names and phone numbers she recited. “What else do you know?”
“I know you’re in the hospital and not supposed to be working.”
“Yet here I am …” I wasn’t going to get any more out of her. I was busted.
“Just don’t tell Streeter. Otherwise, we’ll both be fired. You okay?”
Laurie Frumpley was cooler than I thought. She had moxie.
“Perfectly fine. Anything else?”
“Our boy’s been busy. I found his other bank accounts.”
Impressed, I said, “You have been busy. Good job.”
“He has four total, all at separate banks. One of the accounts he uses publicly and openly for everyday business like deposits, writing checks, and withdrawing cash.”
“Amazing. How did you learn about this so fast?” She was a remarkable data jockey, and IT geeks were golden to us field agents. I had never worked with Laurie but was learning why Streeter kept her to himself.
“The other three accounts have very little activity, cash deposits on occasion but no withdrawals to speak of. He didn’t even bother to come up with a false name or a different social security number.”
“Bold,” I commented.
“Or stupid,” she added. “The odd thing is that he uses Richard M. Roth on his daily account, and he uses R. M. Roth on the other three, with social security numbers matching exactly. So it’s not like he didn’t think about changing the name.”
“How much does he have squirreled away for rainy days?” I arched my back, beginning to feel the soreness of being bedridden. I needed to get out of here.
“He has over five thousand in his daily checking account.” I heard tapping on Laurie’s end of the phone. Her fingers were on a keyboard. “And he has some other assets with one of the local investment companies totaling nearly fifty thousand labeled “Retirement.” In his other bank accounts, he has a hundred thousand in two of them and ninety-seven thousand in another.”
I whistled. “That means our boy is about to open his fourth bribery account soon. He’s spreading his money around so that he doesn’t have more than $100,000 in any one account.”
The guard standing watch at my hospital room poked his head around the door and mouthed that someone was coming.
“Laurie, I have to go. Anything else?”
I hoped it wasn’t Streeter. He’d have my ass.
Jeremiah’s Revenge: A Liv Bergen Mystery Page 13
