Stripped

by Brian Freeman

  Time to fold.

  He heard running footfalls and knew Stride was making his move, creeping closer.

  Blake silently slipped back into the last row, where his brown sedan was waiting. He came upon a couple huddled by the side of a Toyota RAV4. The woman, overweight with curly black hair, stared at him and his gun with terrified eyes and buried her face in her husband’s chest. The man put on a brave face, staring angrily back. He had a round face and a double chin.

  “Not a sound,” Blake hissed. He extended his arm and pointed his SIG-Sauer into the man’s face.

  The sirens were almost on top of them. The first police car fishtailed as it swerved into the parking lot. The people who had been hiding in the rows began running for the protection of the squad car.

  Stride jumped when he heard another explosion, then realized it wasn’t a gunshot but a car backfiring. Two rows ahead, at the far back of the lot, a car engine roared to life. His heart lurched-he knew what it was.

  He started to run again and saw a brown sedan leap the shallow landscaping that divided the lot from the Boulder Strip. He squatted, preparing to fire and aim for the car’s tires. Then he realized that the car’s dome light was on, and he could see two silhouettes inside. He couldn’t risk taking the shot.

  “He’s got a hostage!”

  The sedan headed north at extreme speed. Stride gave up on cover and sprinted for the highway. He waved his arms, flagging down three of the police cars converging on the casino, and pointed them toward the sedan. Its taillights were already disappearing as it weaved around the other traffic on the road.

  The chase began.

  Stride jogged back to the other end of the parking lot. Cordy was there, along with half a dozen uniformed officers and another two police cars that had blocked the exits. They were taking names and phone numbers from the people still lingering in the lot, but Stride knew the scene was blown. Most of the people had melted away.

  He asked about Serena, and Cordy jerked his thumb inside. The two women were back in the casino, well away from the shattered window, with several armed police officers standing watch around them. Claire had both arms around Serena and her head on Serena’s shoulder.

  He came up to them. Serena pointed at his chest. “You need a doctor.”

  “It’s nothing. A Band-Aid, that’s all.”

  “What about your legs?”

  Stride studied the splashes of red on his pants and frowned. “Not my blood.”

  “Blake?” Serena asked.

  Claire looked up, expectant, waiting for his answer. “Did you get him?”

  Stride shook his head.

  Wearing a baseball cap, a Running Rebels T-shirt, and gym shorts, Blake strolled out of the Limelight parking lot No one tried to stop him. His other clothes were stuffed into the backseat of a Mustang convertible. He waited for the traffic to clear before crossing the highway and scanning the streets for a cab.

  He could still vaguely hear the distant sirens. They’d be catching the brown sedan soon, running it off the road. He hoped the round-faced man and his overweight wife would be smart enough to keep their hands in the air and not draw fire.

  It had been easy-hand the man his keys, tell him to drive as fast as he could and not stop for at least ten minutes. He also told them there was a bomb in the trunk that he could detonate by cell phone if they stopped early for the police. Complete nonsense, but people will believe anything when there’s a gun in their face and someone is giving them a chance to stay alive.

  So off they went.

  He could have driven the sedan himself, but he put the odds of surviving the chase at no better than fifty-fifty.

  Not good enough. He still had work to do.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Stride lay naked on their bed. The ceiling fan spun above him, circulating the stifling air that crept in through the open window. It was three in the morning. They had finally come home from the crime scene at the Limelight to find the power out in their town home. The bedroom was pitch black and hot as he lay there, eyes open, seeing nothing.

  He was in pain. His whole body hurt. It was bone pain, the worst kind, deep and achy, not like muscles that could be stretched and massaged. Everywhere he had tumbled and rolled on the pavement, he felt it now. There was a time, in his twenties, when he didn’t pay a price for that kind of punishment to his body. No longer.

  The abrasions on his skin stung. The cut on his chest was bandaged, but there were others, scrapes and burns, that he hadn’t discovered until he stripped off his clothes and found places where the slightest touch made him wince. He forced himself to take a shower. The hot, pounding water felt like knives, but it made him feel better to wash away the dirt and then to stretch out in bed.

  He heard the bedroom door open and close softly as Serena came in. She crossed to the open window and stood there, looking out. She was a tall, lovely silhouette.

  “Claire?” he asked.

  “Sleeping. I gave her an Ambien.”

  She came and sat down on the bed.

  “I was afraid you were going to get yourself killed out there,” she told him.

  “Right now, I wish I had.”

  He felt her fingertips moving, tracing circles on his chest.

  “Do you hurt?” she asked.

  “All over.”

  “Let’s see if I can make it better.”

  Her hands put gentle pressure on his skin, pushing, looking for the erotic nerve ends that let him feel her there.

  “Claire’s in love with you,” he said. “It’s obvious.”

  “I know that.”

  Claire had made no effort to hide it. It was there in how she looked at Serena, how she hung on her on the ride home.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  Serena touched a sensitive spot, and he sucked in his breath in pain. “Oops,” she said.

  “You did that on purpose.”

  “Then don’t ask me silly questions like that.” She cupped her hand over the skin as the pain faded, then began again, touching him.

  “I’ve been keeping something from you, Jonny, but not about Claire.”

  He made a low sound, questioning her. It didn’t matter what she told him now, not while she was doing this.

  “Deidre and I were lovers,” Serena said quietly. “Back when I was a teenager. I’m sorry, I should have told you before.”

  She picked up one hand and rubbed along his fingers with her thumb, then sucked each fingertip into her mouth. A moment later, he heard the drawer of her nightstand open. She retrieved something from inside.

  “A lot of men find it exciting,” she said. “Two women together.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you?”

  “What do you think?” he said.

  She didn’t need to ask. She could feel the effect she was having on him.

  He had always suspected there was more to the relationship between her and Deidre than she had let on. He wished he had pushed her harder. It was such an important piece in the puzzle that was Serena.

  Her hands came back to his body, on his legs this time, massaging the muscles on his thighs. She ran them up onto his stomach and then down all the way to his toes.

  “My shrink would say it’s transference,” Serena said. “I’m guilty about Deidre, so I’m attracted to Claire.”

  “What do you say?”

  “She’s hot, and she turns me on.” Serena laughed.

  She pulled back, and he heard a strange plastic sound, like a cap being popped, and then he quivered as a stream of cool liquid dripped down his shaft. Her hands were back, both of them, and suddenly he was slippery, and her hands rubbed up and down as if gliding over soapy skin.

  “It’s your fault,” she told him. “You turned me into a damn sex addict”

  He tried to speak, but he wasn’t sure he knew how anymore. His body seemed to lift off the bed. The pain evaporated.

  “Feel better?” she asked, and he knew without seeing her
that she was grinning.

  When the spasms began coursing through his body, he found himself holding his breath, and the lack of oxygen spun images into his head. Cindy, his first wife, in bed, making love. Maggie, his partner. Amanda. Serena. He thought about being homeless and about being, at that instant, disconnected from his body, rising above it, looking down into the darkness.

  He wasn’t sure how long had passed before she went into the bathroom and then came back with a warm, damp towel that she used to clean him off. She slid into bed next to him and was asleep almost immediately, her head lying on his arm, her breath blowing on his face. He thought he would sleep, too, but he didn’t. His mind was too full of her, and of Minnesota, and of what it meant to be home. Long minutes later, he finally felt himself slipping away, but he thought, or maybe he dreamed, that he heard Claire’s footsteps in the hall, and he wondered if she had been there the whole time, listening to them.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Sawhill put down the phone. His face was purple. The lieutenant who kept an iron lock on his emotions was losing control, and Stride thought the man was ready to stroke out right there in front of them.

  “That was Governor Durand,” Sawhill said, his voice pinched. “He’s wondering why this perpetrator is still alive, when one of my detectives had him in his gun sights last night. He’s wondering why it took half a dozen squad cars to surround a honeymoon couple from Nebraska while a serial killer was able to walk away from a crime scene where he murdered a police officer without so much as someone asking for identification.”

  Stride was reminded of why he hated politicians. “No offense to die governor, but he wasn’t there. This guy is shrewd. He used a ruse to draw Claire out into the open, and he had all of us in a situation where we needed to be concerned about citizen casualties. It’s not like we could fire randomly.”

  “Yes, yes, I’ve read the report. He outdueled you, Stride. You had the drop on him, and he turned it back on you.”

  “That’s true enough,” Stride admitted. “He’s a trained mercenary.”

  “Well, I’m sorry if we have a more sophisticated criminal than you’re used to dealing with in Minnesota,” Sawhill shot back. He reached for the stress ball on his desk and began squeezing it furiously. “But I expect my detectives to be better trained than the people they’re trying to collar. All you managed to do was shoot up an Escalade, which, by the way, happened to be owned by a senior vice president at Harrah’s who is a good friend of my father. My rule of thumb is, if you’ve got the shot, you take the shot, and you make the shot”

  Stride wondered if Sawhill had read that in The Seven Habits of Highly Effective Detectives. “Agreed,” he said.

  “Then the perp pulls a simple switch and manages to fool all of you,” Sawhill continued. “This couple owns a Subway franchise in Lincoln Falls, and we nearly blew the husband’s head off, because you told a team of squad cars the man was a serial killer who had just killed a cop.”

  “It was the perp’s car,” Stride said, but he was loath to make excuses. He knew he had screwed up.

  “And once again he proved he was smarter than the people I’ve got trying to catch him. Tell me at least we got something from the car.”

  Stride shook his head. “Fingerprints, but we already had those. He bought the car for cash three months ago. Fake name and address. There’s not a scrap of paper inside to suggest where he might be living. We’re doing a forensic examination to see if there’s dirt or other trace evidence that might give us a clue, but that’s going to take time.”

  “We don’t have time,” Sawhill said. “Is Claire under wraps?”

  Stride nodded. “Serena’s babysitting her:”

  “So what do we do to find this guy?”

  Amanda, who had been quietly watching the Ping-Pong game between Stride and Sawhill, spoke up. “We could set a trap. Put Claire back in the game in a setting we control.”

  Sawhill snorted “We do not use Boni Fisso’s daughter as bait. Period, end of discussion. Serena’s on top of her, and the perp doesn’t know where she is. Let’s keep it that way.”

  “We’ve been checking libraries all over the city,” Amanda added. “Nothing so fat”

  “Half the force is working on this, and they’re hot to catch him,” Stride said. “He killed a cop, and he killed a kid. Everybody wants him.”

  “So do I. So does the governor. This is bad news for the city. What do we think this guy is going to try next?”

  “I think he’s going to go after Claire again,” Stride said. “We need to catch him before he does. We’ve also redoubled security around other people who might be on his hit list, but the fact that he tried for Claire last night makes me think he’s at the end of his list.”

  “Do you think he might go after Boni directly?” Sawhill asked.

  Amanda nodded. “It’s not his pattern, but he might.”

  “Boni’s not an easy target,” Stride said. “But the Sheherezade comes down next week. That’s the link to Amira.”

  “Great. Just great. The implosion is going to be televised nationally, you know.”

  “Maybe he’ll take out Boni at the ceremony,” Stride said. “Good for ratings. Tourism will climb.”

  Sawhill leaned forward. “Is this a joke to you?”

  “You don’t need to tell me how this place works,” Stride said. “In six months, we’ll have a daily bus tour of the murder sites and a new ad campaign. ‘We’ve Put Sin Back in Sin City.’”

  “You’ve been here a few months, Detective. I’ve lived here nearly my whole life. My father has devoted decades of his life to this town. This is our home. You serve this city, so treat it with respect.”

  Amanda stood up and dragged Stride’s arm until he was standing, too. She nodded to Sawhill. “We’re both tired, sir. Don’t worry, we take this perp very seriously.”

  She began pulling Stride out of the office. Sawhill stood up and laid his hands flat on his desk. “See that you do,” he called after them. He and Stride exchanged icy glares, and then Amanda had them back in the corridor, with the door closed behind her.

  Amanda leaned back against the wall and wiped her brow. The air-conditioning was back on, and the office air was frigid, but she was sweating. She gave Stride a smile and a low whistle. “That wasn’t too tactful.”

  “I know. Sorry. I didn’t mean to put you in the middle of it.”

  “This is a corporate town,” Amanda pointed out. “Image matters to these guys.”

  Stride shook his head. “Money matters.”

  “You’re not going to change the city, Stride.”

  He nodded. “I know.” Before he could stop himself, he added, “I’m not sure I’m going to stay.”

  Amanda looked shocked. “What?”

  “They want me back in Minnesota,” he explained. “I’m thinking seriously about it”

  “What about Serena?” she asked.

  Stride didn’t say anything. That was the question, he knew. The one on which his life hung. What about Serena?

  “Nothing’s set in stone,” Stride told her. “Let’s catch Blake Wilde first”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Amanda pulled into the parking lot of the downtown library and got out of the car, the heat searing her lungs. It was late afternoon, when the October weather in Las Vegas should be perfect, but the sun still felt like an oven cranked to the broiler setting.

  She had been stewing about the idea of Stride leaving since he told her. There was no reason to be angry at him, but she was angry anyway. For once, she had a partner she could work with, and suddenly she might lose him. She hated the idea of starting all over again with someone new. Anyone she got would probably be like Cordy, making jokes behind her back, ogling her tits, looking for ways to drive her out. It made her wonder again what she was doing here, and whether she and Bobby would both be better off if she followed Stride’s lead. Get out. Head for San Francisco. Leave the city and all its craziness behind.

  S
he was in no mood for games. Her patience was worn down, like a T-shirt washed so many times you could see through it. When she looked across Las Vegas Boulevard, she saw the car again. A steel gray Lexus SUV. She had seen it twice before that afternoon and had already run the plates. She knew who was driving.

  Amanda crossed the street. The car windows were smoked, so she couldn’t see inside. She rapped her knuckles on the driver’s window and waited.

  The window rolled down. She felt a blast of cold air.

  “Hello, Leo,” she said, trying not to boil over. “You following me?”

  Leo Rucci was wearing sunglasses. The red veins in his neck bulged like barbells. “It’s a free country, ain’t it?”

  “Sure is. Where any shithole hood like you can become a millionaire. God bless America.”

  “Hey-”

  “Don’t play games with me, Leo. I’m having a really bad day. Now get out of here, and don’t let me see you behind me again, or I’m going to haul your ass downtown.”

  “For what?”

  “For obstruction of justice and being really annoying to a police officer.”

  “I can help you,” Leo said. “My way’s a lot quicker than some monkey trial. You get a lead on this guy, you call me. I take care of the rest.”

  “Go back to the golf course, Leo. Let us worry about Blake.”

  Amanda turned on her heel and stalked back across the street to the library. She heard Rucci’s car start up and roar away. Inside, she made her way to the reference desk.

  “I’m looking for Monica Ramsey,” she said.

  The librarian pointed at a tall woman in her fifties who was refiling microfiche boxes from a cart. Amanda approached her.

  “Ms. Ramsey? I’m Amanda Gillen. You left a message on my voice mail?”

  Monica had owlish glasses and long black hair tied in a ponytail. She was built like a walking stick and wore flimsy plastic gloves on her hands. “Oh, yes. You’re the detective. You’re looking for that man.”