by Rick Reed
Book had scored a quantity of SUX from a medical student when they did a job in Chicago last year. In exchange for the drug Book had promised not to kill the rich little bastard. He’d lied. Book had tested the SUX on the medical student. He went limp and then suffocated.
“There’s a parking lot behind the strip joint,” Book said. “Let’s go back there, and the next time the blonde comes out, we get her.”
The van was parked in a motel parking lot cattycorner from the Busybody Lounge. Clint moved it to a spot near the back of the lot. He had watched the blonde make several trips up and down the street on the side of the business. Each time she would strut her stuff, then look around to see who was watching. It was obvious to Clint what she was doing. He just hoped she would come out soon, because they couldn’t afford to raise suspicion. A few minutes later the blonde appeared on the street.
“Here she comes,” Book said. Clint started the van to attract her attention while Book climbed in the cargo area, taking out the syringe loaded with SUX.
She walked along, teasing her hair, and then turned toward the van and smiled at Clint. Book took the cap from the end of the syringe.
She was wearing a low-cut peasant blouse exposing her midriff and a lot of cleavage. Her thick makeup made it hard to determine her age, but she looked delicious in the cut-off jean shorts and cowboy boots. Thick blond hair fell in perfect waves around her face, down onto her shoulders, and accentuated a pair of tits that filled Clint with lust.
Book said from the rear, “Dancing sure has kept her in shape. There ain’t a ounce of fat on her.” But something about her reminded Clint of the farm girls he grew up with in Iowa. Those girls worked their asses off. They worked alongside the men, from sunup to sundown, then cooked supper and cleaned the dishes before they went to bed, with few exceptions. There wasn’t a chance of them gaining weight. Suddenly he didn’t want to do this, and the feeling was so strong it shocked him.
Clint twisted in the seat and saw Book was already poised with his hand on the door.
Clint whispered, “Let’s skip this one, Book. It don’t feel right.”
“Just get her around to the cargo doors, Clint!” Book hissed, and gave him an unbelieving look, as if to say, “What’s wrong with you?”
Clint turned back just as the young woman walked up to his open window. Her eyes widened when she saw the large fold of cash Clint was holding.
She leaned against the van’s door and asked, “Have you been inside?” Clint shook his head. “I didn’t think so. I would have noticed you,” she said flirtatiously.
Clint felt shame, and it was unlike him. He hoped his face wasn’t turning red, but he could tell it was.
The woman started to laugh and said, “Is this your first time?” She reached through the window and her hand found his crotch and began rubbing. “Come on, baby. I’ll do you real good.”
Clint found his voice again, and said, “I got a hundred dollars.”
She looked around the parking lot and Clint thought he’d messed up. Maybe a hundred dollars was too much and she smelled a rat. Maybe she thought he was a cop?
He quickly said, “Of course, it’s for the whole night,” and this was rewarded with a slight nod of her head.
“I got a place we can go,” she said. “Show me.”
He held up five twenties to let her see the money.
Clint felt Book nudge him in the back and quickly said, “Why don’t we do it right here first? I can’t wait till we get to the room.”
She twirled a strand of hair around her finger as if thinking his proposition over, then grinned and said, “Hell. Why not?”
“Let me help you,” Clint said. Getting out, he led her around to the cargo door and took her by both shoulders as if to kiss her. The door slid open behind her, and she let out a startled squeal as Book wrapped a thick arm around her neck, plunged the needle in her throat, and emptied it. Her eyelids fluttered, she tried to speak, then went limp. Clint helped Book hoist her inside the van.
So much for that farm girl, Clint thought.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Katie had been calling Eric’s home and cell phone periodically during the day, but his voice mail picked up each time. Now it was late and she knew she should get some sleep, but she couldn’t rest yet because she was concerned.
This morning had been going so well until Jack rushed off, taking Liddell with him. Shortly after, Eric told her he had to do something for Trent, and left her to make his excuses to their friends. She’d masked her disappointment, but here it was almost midnight and he still hadn’t called to explain why he’d left.
When she’d been married to Jack, this was a common enough occurrence. He was never off duty. His phone would ring at all hours of the night and day and he would just give her a wry smile, a peck on the cheek, and he was gone. He might be gone for a day, maybe two, and on more than one occasion he had come home with cuts and bruises that he wouldn’t talk about. The worst of those times were when he’d been involved in shootings. He would grow pensive and refuse to admit that it affected him, and after a while he really believed that it didn’t bother him.
She shuddered at the memory of her own brush with death by a psycho who had kidnapped her and wanted Jack to watch her die. She closed her eyes and unbidden tears ran down her cheeks as she imagined the knife that had been against her throat and the look on Jack’s face right before he shot the man. She had cried for months afterward, even sought professional help, but sometimes she would still wake from a nightmare with the smell and feel of the man’s blood spattering her face and shoulders.
But not Jack. He was straight-faced, even calm, after what he’d done. She felt guilty having these thoughts because she knew Jack had no other choice than to kill the man.
Jack was a good man. But his job was turning him into a monster.
She hoped life would be different with Eric. She knew lawyers put in long, hard hours, but deputy prosecutors were different. They rarely worked weekends, and until today Eric had never been called away. In fact, he’d spent so much of his time with her over the last few months that she’d given some thought to his suggestion that they move in together before the marriage. It made sense, at least financially. He was still living in an apartment, and she had all this room.
But if he was going to disappear without her knowing what he was doing, she would have to reconsider.
He might be injured somewhere right now, and they wouldn’t know to call her. But the idea of Eric being in danger was ridiculous. He was an attorney, for God’s sake, not a cop. He didn’t carry a gun, and the closest he came to criminals was in a courtroom where they were shackled and under guard by armed deputies.
But still, she had heard Jack talk about the newer, younger prosecutors, and the times he had called some of them to be on hand while he executed a search warrant, or even made a forced entry into the homes of armed criminals. She hadn’t thought to ask Jack if the prosecutors went inside. Jack never talked much about his job. She’d had to find out the details from other policemen’s wives, and in truth, she was glad Jack hadn’t shared his close calls with her. He had always tried to spare her. And she had let him. What did that say about her?
He was so different when they had met in college. She was going to teach grade school, and Jack was already on the police department, taking courses for the detective test. He was so full of fun, life, and enthusiasm back then. The future had looked so bright and within their reach. But after they married, and after he’d made detective, he had changed. It was as if he had taken on the weight of the world. He called people “his victims” as if they were his personal charge. And instead of being the fun Jack, he had pulled into himself and was more wary. It was a perfect trait for a policeman on duty, but it played hell with a relationship.
But even with that, he changed back into the old Jack when she announced she was pregnant. He spent more time at home, fixing the spare room into a nursery, planting bushes, and making r
epairs around the house like he was nesting. He even bought a video camera, and was talking about buying van because he planned to have a big family. He would have been a wonderful father.
They already knew the baby was going to be a girl, and even though Jack had bought things for a boy, he was so happy that he cried. They were going to name her Caitlin, a name shared by Katie’s mother and Jack’s grandmother.
Tears welled in her eyes when she thought about the day she and Jack had visited the doctor for her thirty-six-week check up. She was almost full-term, and this would have been one of the last appointments until she delivered.
The doctor had listened to her stomach for an unusually long time and then had the nurse come in. An ultrasound was ordered to physically look for the baby’s heart because the doctor was having trouble hearing it. After that it was a blur of activity. She was rushed to the OR, labor induced, and several hours later their daughter was delivered—stillborn. Caitlin had been carried to heaven.
She sat on her bed, chastising herself for dredging up these painful memories.
I should have seen the writing on the wall.
I should have known that Jack would take all the blame for Caitlin’s death.
That’s who he was. That’s who he still is.
But Jack had never let her see him grieve. He never let her share in their loss. He treated her like she was made of glass, and even their sex was gentle, and careful, and planned.
He didn’t have to say it, but she knew they would never try to have another child. They never spoke about Caitlin, and when she tried, he would say, “It will just upset you.” But she knew it was because it upset him, and he was too tough to ever admit that he was hurting. He needed love. He needed another child. But instead he had “his victims” and “his dead bodies,” and in the end, that was all he had.
“Poor Jack,” she whispered, and turned off the bedside lamp.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was midnight when Jack arrived at police headquarters. He parked in a reserved spot for a city councilman, and trudged up the steps to the back entrance. A lone third-shift detective was sitting on the steps of the lineup stage in the squad room. He was smoking a cigar, blowing the smoke up the lineup staircase that led to the old jail. He gave Jack an acknowledging nod and continued puffing.
As Jack wearily settled in behind his desk, his thoughts turned to the new hot tub he’d installed on his deck this year, and how good a soak and a couple inches of Scotch sounded. The thought of Scotch made him think about Eric’s remarks at Katie’s house that morning, and that reminded him to call Katie and apologize for bailing on her today. Then he looked at the wall clock. It was midnight.
Oh, hell! he thought, and dialed Katie’s number.
“Eric?” Katie’s voice came over the line, and Jack felt his throat tighten at the mention of the other man’s name.
He remained silent for a moment, wanting to hang up, but said, “No. It’s me, Katie.”
“Jack. Is anything wrong? Is Eric okay?”
No. Eric’s not okay. A lot is wrong with him. “I’m sorry for calling so late, but I wanted to apologize for leaving your party without an explanation. I didn’t mean to wake you. I’ll let you go back to sleep.”
He heard a click and imagined she had turned on the small lamp beside her bed. The one she insisted wasn’t girly at all, even though it had a frilly pink shade.
“Are you and Eric working the same case?” she asked.
He wondered how to answer her question. He was the detective working the case, and Eric was the . . . what? The suspect? Well, not yet. At least not definitely.
“We must have both been called in about this case,” he said. “He was with me earlier. I’m not sure where he is now.” Maybe he’s in bed with another coworker.
“He hasn’t contacted me since he left here,” she said, and Jack could hear a tiny edge to her voice. “I heard from Moira what you’re working on. I’m so sorry, Jack.”
This struck an all-too-familiar note, and Jack didn’t respond at first. “Well, go back to sleep, Katie,” he finally said. “Sorry I woke you.”
“I’m glad you did,” she said, and he felt tightness in his throat. “Good night, Jack.”
He said good night and put the handset back in its cradle. She said, “I’m glad you did.” What did she mean? But before he had time to analyze the meaning of Katie’s words, Garcia called.
“Good news—I think.”
“Tell me and then go home,” he said. And she told him what she had gleaned from the Internet, which was a lot.
When she was finished, she asked, “Do you think the prosecutor knew about Nina’s involvement with MS-13 in North Carolina?”
“Well, you found out just by Googling her name,” Jack said. “If they interviewed her before they hired her, I would assume they also knew she was special prosecutor on dozens of those cases. You say she received death threats?”
“That’s what the newspaper articles said,” Garcia said. “They made it sound like she was a one-woman antidrug campaign.”
Jack had to consider how this new revelation affected the investigation.
“Are you going to call Eric and have him check it out? Or should I call Nina’s old boss in North Carolina? I can do it first thing in the morning.”
He knew he should call Eric, but the prick had lied to him once already. No, he decided. This information should be discussed with the prosecutor himself. Yet it was almost twelve-thirty. Not a good hour to be calling Trent Wethington at home.
“I’ll make the call,” Jack said to Garcia. “Good job. Now go home.”
“I’m leaving, boss. Out the door right now.”
Jack had to check in with Captain Franklin, and though the captain sounded annoyed, he agreed that Trent needed to be called right away. “I’ll notify Chief Pope and we’ll all meet early in the morning.”
Jack hung up with the captain and called Central Dispatch. The prosecutor’s home number wasn’t listed in the telephone directory, but like everyone else in Vanderburgh County, his home address and telephone number were on file.
He dialed the number he was given and it immediately went to voice mail. “This is Trent Wethington, the prosecutor for Vanderburgh County.”
Jack had heard the message dozens of times because Trent rarely answered his office telephone. He was about to hang up and try again in the morning when the phone was answered by a sleepy voice. “Hullo.”
“This is Detective Murphy.”
“I know who you are, Jack. For God’s sake, do you know what time it is?”
Good. It’s the prosecutor, Jack thought. “Sir, we need to talk.”
Jack heard rustling and then a whisper—“It’s okay, honey, go back to sleep”—and then a throat clearing. He imagined Trent putting on a silk smoking jacket and fez, and going to another room where he could talk. He’d never been in the man’s house, but knew it was located in a neighborhood of million-dollar homes.
Trent came back on the line with no trace of the earlier drowsiness. “Is this about Nina?”
“Yes, sir,” Jack answered. “Can we talk?”
“No!” Trent blurted. “I mean, can’t this wait until morning?”
“I’m afraid Captain Franklin said it couldn’t. I can come to you if you want.”
“That won’t do,” Trent said. “I’ll come to my office. Meet me in twenty minutes, Detective Murphy.” The line went dead before Jack could respond.
Why did Trent want to meet face-to-face? He didn’t even ask what information I had. Weird!
Jack called Franklin again, and was told to stay put.
The captain and the chief of police are coming in. At one o’clock in the morning, no less. What’s wrong with this picture?
Except for the relaxed mood of Captain Franklin, the prosecutor’s office was somber. The men acknowledged each other as they entered with a lowering of the head and quick glances. Jack felt like he had been called into the princi
pal’s office as he sat in a hard wooden chair across from Trent Wethington. The county attorney Bob Rothschild flanked Jack on his right, with Marlin Pope on his left. Franklin sat on the window ledge with his legs dangling above the plush carpet.
Jack had merely called Trent to ask if he was aware of Nina’s past work on cases involving MS-13. This hastily arranged late-hour meeting seemed like an exaggerated response to that telephone call.
Trent had yet to ask any questions of Jack, and the fact that he called in the county attorney without knowing what Jack had to say smacked of subterfuge. In a normal case, if a suspect refused to answer questions and obtained an attorney, it was considered suspicious behavior that bordered on an admission of guilt.
Of course, these were not ordinary times. Trent was running for governor, and Jack reckoned he was just trying to protect himself.
Trent came to the meeting dressed for work, wearing a pink dress shirt with white collar and cuffs, and his deep blue suit jacket was draped around the back of his chair. Gold and onyx cuff links clacked against the desktop when he placed his hands together. His dyed black hair was slicked back and perfectly in place.
“Jack has updated me,” the chief of police said, breaking the silence. “Ask your questions, Jack.” He glanced at the county attorney, and Rothschild nodded at Trent to answer.
“How well did you know Nina Parsons?” Jack asked pointedly.
Trent took too long to think about the question. “I’m not sure what you’re asking, Detective Murphy.”
So, I’m Detective Murphy now? “It’s an easy question, Mr. Prosecutor.”
“Come on, Jack!” the county attorney chimed in. “There’s no need for an attitude. You asked for this meeting and we’re here.”
Jack sat back in his chair. Maybe Trent knew Eric was having an affair with Nina, and he is trying to keep his office out of a scandal. “In the first place, Bob, I didn’t ask for this meeting. I called Trent to ask some questions about Nina and he wanted to meet tonight. Second, I don’t understand why you’re here.”
