by L. K. Hill
Kyra stayed behind them for several blocks, unsure how to approach. She wasn’t a shy person, but this had to be done delicately. She’d wanted to let them beat up on her, so they felt superior. Now, she had to show them they couldn’t keep her down. She had to do it in a non-threatening way, though. Otherwise, they might just beat her to death on the spot. Heart pounding, she moved forward.
Light filtered through steam rising up from grates and water dripped from rusted pipes, all a part of life in the Slip Mire. The dank stench of unwashed bodies and urine hung heavy in the air. Kyra was so used to it she hardly noticed anymore.
One of the gangsters glanced over his shoulder. She froze, looking him straight in the eye. There was more light on this street, even a few open businesses, and she was sure he could see her clearly.
He stepped forward and whispered something into Norse’s ear. At first, Norse only smiled, looking unconcerned. When the goon leaned down and whispered again, Norse’s head snapped around, angry eyes settling on her. He came striding toward her, his sneer menacing. She said a quick, desperate prayer for strength and wit, bracing her body for what might well be another beating.
“Back for round two?” Norse asked, thrusting his face so close to hers that their noses almost touched.
Kyra held onto the wall to keep herself upright, locking her knees and squaring her shoulders.
“Are you a glutton for punishment, or are we, perhaps, just eager to experience Otter’s many talents?” His lackeys chuckled—fast becoming one of Kyra’s least favorite noises—and even Otter smiled a bit.
“No,” she said calmly, in her husky Supra voice. “I want to talk to you.”
Norse barked a laugh. “I think we did all the talking we needed to back there in the alley, don’t you?”
Vomit tickled the back of her throat, but Kyra shook her head. “No,” she said firmly.
Norse arched an eyebrow, face becoming still in a dangerous sort of way. “You know,” he said quietly after a moment’s pause. “I thought you had the brains to be doing business with my rivals, but I was wrong. I’m beginning to think you’re mildly retarded.”
His goons laughed loudly and Norse turned away from her. She recognized the defense mechanism. He’d realized on some level that she was not someone easily intimidated. The best way to look tough in front of his gang buddies was to belittle her. Good. Let him back-peddle and set up defenses, even if it was unconsciously done. It gave her time to think. She had to find a way to bring him around to her.
“You’re right.” She said it loudly to be heard over the chuckling minions.
Norse turned in surprise.
“I was working for your rivals.”
He stalked toward her, jutting his face angrily toward hers. “Which ones?”
She forced a nonchalant shrug. “What does it matter? Enemies are enemies, right? They all deserve the same treatment.”
He leaned away from her, straightening his back and giving her a considering look. “You have my attention.”
Steeling her resolve, Kyra plowed forward. “Your…rivals sent me into this district to find out if there was any financial advantage to setting up shop here.”
Norse burst out laughing. He was the only one, and it echoed off the brick buildings lining the street. “They would have known the instant we saw you, we’d put a stop to it. Stupid woman,” he sneered. “They sent you here to die.”
His little coterie chuckled like evil truckers again.
“Okay, so they don’t value me,” Kyra said, talking over them. “That’s their loss because I’m good at what I do.”
“And what’s that?” Norse asked, still smiling.
“For them, I was a glorified errand-runner. I ran messages, set up meetings, and,” she motioned to the goons, “was sent behind enemy lines, apparently. I’m good at observing and getting information. I’ve learned more about this area in a few days than your guys could learn in months.”
The smile had faded completely from Norse’s face. “Is this your way of asking for mercy?” he sneered.
“No. This is my way of asking for a job.”
Norse’s eyes widened to the size of saucers and he seemed, for the first time, truly speechless. Kyra made sure to keep the triumphant smile off her lips. “The truth is,” she said before he recovered from his shock, “I couldn’t get anyone around here to buy from me. They’re all too loyal to you. I like this area and I want to get into the business. I’m good with people. I’m little and non-threatening, so I can get information your guys can’t get.”
His scowl returned. “I don’t need some know-it-all bitch telling me what’s going on in my own district.” He spat on the ground and glared at her.
“Mallory Butler,” Kyra said, fighting to keep the desperation from her voice. If they left, she might not get another chance.
Norse raised his head slowly, eyes wide as if he couldn’t believe she’d dared speak again.
“She was killed last night, not far from here.” She talked more quickly than she’d ever talked in her life. “I got the working girls to talk to me. One of them was Mallory’s old roommate. She said there were two men in that alley. The first was a regular of Mallory’s. The other one beat the first to a bloody pulp and took Mallory’s services for himself. Apparently he was tall and might have been wearing a wig and a skirt. You may have a cross-dressing homicidal psychopath on your hands, targeting prostitutes. As I understand it, those girls are some of your most frequent customers. If there’s a threat to your customers, then there’s a threat to your business and a threat to your revenue stream. That’s something you ought to know about and take care of. For the sake of your business, if not for the girls.” She’d spit it all out so quickly she gulped a deep breath when she’d finished.
Norse stared at her, open-mouthed. He snapped it shut, glancing self-consciously at his comrades before stepping toward her. “You found all that out in a few hours?” His voice was half awed, half mocking.
Kyra nodded, making her voice reasonable. “I can get people to open up to me. I can be your spy. These are things your guys couldn’t have found out. The hookers and the junkies are just too afraid of them.”
He looked to be considering it for a moment, but then his jaw hardened. “Until half an hour ago, you worked for my rivals.”
“That’s just a coincidence,” Kyra stepped toward him. “I know I’ll have to prove myself. By all means, make me. Don’t trust me until I do. I want to get into this business, so it’s in my best interest to do my best work for you. I’m smart. I’m good at this. Just give me a shot.”
He still hesitated, looking unconvinced.
Kyra hardened her voice. “If it doesn’t work out, you can always give me to Otter sooner rather than later.”
Norse’s eyebrows jumped to his hairline, and he laughed again. “Well, the bitch has stones. I’ll give her that.” Finally, he nodded. “There’s a warehouse on the corner of 5th and P Street, on the outskirts of the Slip Mire. It has ‘Sutton’ painted in yellow letters on the side. You know it?”
Kyra nodded. “Yes.”
“Meet me there the night after tomorrow at midnight. I’ll have a task for you. Some information you’ll need to get. Consider this a test. If you succeed, I’ll hire you. If not, you go back to my rivals with your tail between those pretty little legs of yours. And maybe Otter to deal with.” He stepped toward her, all menace again. “But I warn you. If you try to double-cross me in any way, the only way anyone will ever see you again is in pieces. Understand?”
Cold fear spread through her limbs, but she kept her face passive, her voice steady. “Yes.”
“Good. Now go away. I don’t want to see your face for two days.”
She backed up several yards before turning her back and hobbling away. As she went, she kept expecting one of them to attack her from behind.
They never did.
Kyra hobbled around the Carmichael district for over an hour, just to be sure sh
e wasn’t being followed. Once she was sure no one was behind her, she headed for her hotel. Time to call it a night. She wasn’t sure what time it was. Probably around 2 or 3 am. She had to work her once-a-week day job the next morning. If she turned in now, there’d be time to get some decent shut-eye first. After the beating she’d just taken, her body needed it.
She made it into the more respectable, commercial part of town, keeping to the shadows and moving slowly. Her ribs ached, and she prayed none were broken.
When she finally made it to the hotel, she hid under some shrubs that rimmed the parking lot and observed for ten minutes. Being a week night, there wasn’t much activity. Finally, when the parking lot was completely deserted of people, and only a few cars were nosed up against the building, she emerged.
She hurried across the lot, entered the building through a side entrance using the same plastic key that opened her room, and prayed that no staff or other patrons of the hotel would see her. Not that it would be disastrous if they did, but she stood out enough with her spikey hair and bright blue eyes to be easily remembered. She hadn’t looked like this when she checked into the hotel, and she wanted the hotel staff to know her only as she truly looked, not in her Supra guise.
She made it inside and to her room without being seen. Just as she fumbled to get her plastic key into the slot, a door right across the hall opened. Kyra pressed her face into the corner made by the niche the door was in. An instant later the green light flashed and she pushed the door open, shutting it behind her without turning. Whoever emerged across the hall would have only seen black sweats and short hair. They might not have even been able to tell she was a girl, though her height—or lack thereof—was a pretty good indication. Either way, hopefully what her neighbors saw would remain unremarkable in their minds.
Heaving a deep breath, Kyra turned on the lights. She went up on her toes to peer through the peephole. The corridor was vacant. She turned the dead-bolt, swung the metal latch over brass ball that kept it in place, and pushed a chair up under the knob. Only then did she move deeper into the nondescript hotel room.
The hotel she’d chosen upon coming to this city was not five-star, but it was on the upper end of things; a prosperous chain that respectable business people stayed in when they travelled for work. She’d known that—especially on days like today—she’d need a respite from the streets if she was to keep her sanity.
She was sorely tempted to simply drop onto one of the two beds in the room, but if she did that, she’d never get back up. Instead she kicked off her shoes and trudged into the bathroom. After removing her shirt and pants, along with the gun and credit card strapped to her thigh, she inspected the bruises Norse had inflicted on her. Two on her abdomen. Another on her jaw. And her right eye had swollen up like a golf ball. Ugly shades of black and purple faded to yellow around the edges. She’d be sore for days. Even makeup wouldn’t fully hide that eye. She shifted and moved, even doing a few yoga poses on the floor, and determined nothing was broken.
Then she turned on the shower as hot as it would go. She’d never been a fan of scalding showers before coming here, but whenever she came in from the streets, she always felt the compulsion to purify herself.
Turning to her reflection one more time, she dug her fingers up under the spikey black hair and unclasped several clips that held the wig in place. She winced as she pulled it away from her head and it yanked out several real, single hairs as it went. Her true hair—sandy blond and falling just below her shoulders when it was down—was pulled into a tight bun, flattened against the back of her head so it didn’t look like a lump beneath the black wig.
Pulling her contact holder and solution from the corner of the sink, where she’d pushed them three days earlier, she removed the electric blue contacts from her eyes. She took good care of them. Contacts with vivid color, but that the wearer could still see through, were expensive. She had more than one pair, but wanted to get as much use out of each as possible. Without the contacts, her eyes were still blue, but very pale. The color of a calm sea, not the electric hue of the nightlights in the Slip Mire.
Using the bar of soap provided for hand-washing by the hotel, she scrubbed the fake track marks from her forearms. She could do it in the shower, but the makeup was goopy enough that it nearly clogged the drain the first time she scrubbed it off in the tub. Since then she’d been sure to scrape most of it from her arms and use the shower just to wash away the residue.
When she was done, she shook out her hair, peeled off her underclothes, and stepped into the water. The heat stung her injuries—even the bruises. She luxuriated in it anyway.
By the time she emerged twenty minutes later, wearing clean, comfortable sleepwear, her eyelids were so heavy she could barely keep them up. She was desperate to drop into bed, but there was one more thing she had to do first.
Going to the wooden table provided by the hotel, she dropped into the office chair and pulled her computer bag from underneath. After plugging her laptop in, she connected to the hotel’s wi-fi and pulled up her private blog. She’d begun the entries as soon as she’d decided to come here, but it wasn’t something she advertised. She had no followers and preferred it that way. She used it more as a record of her progress and experiences, so she didn’t have to keep notebooks and pens around.
Navigating to the page for creating new posts, she began to type.
I think I made my first real progress today. Some of the low-level distributors from the gang noticed me. They threatened me, but I managed to get them to give me a chance to work for them. Assuming I don’t screw it up, I’ll be a part of the gang in a few days. They have scary initiations, but from what I gather, initiations aren’t required for low-level workers. I have some time before that level of loyalty will be required.
Now, it will just be a matter of keeping my eyes and ears open for information.
To Manny: I know there’s no possible way you’re reading this, and that you have no way of knowing that I’m in the city. If there’s any chance that you can hear me out there, somewhere in Abstreuse, please don’t give up. I’m coming to find you, little brother. It won’t be long, now.
She ought to go into more detail than that, but couldn’t make her brain think in complete sentences. She hit ‘publish,’ shut the laptop, and stood. After double checking that the door was secure, she pulled the coverlet off one of the hotel beds and slid between the clean sheets.
Realizing she hadn’t set an alarm, she groaned and pulled her bag up onto the bed. Setting aside her bible and extra ammunition, she found her second cell phone and navigated to the alarm feature. Then she collapsed onto her pillow, not even bothering to turn out the light.
Chapter 11
A knock on the door of the interrogation room brought Gabe’s head around. He and Tyke had been hammering away at Jace Anderson for hours now and, surprisingly, the guy wasn’t budging. He also hadn’t asked for a lawyer in all that time. Again, not the brightest of criminals.
Gabe gave Tyke a significant look before leaving the room.
Shaun was waiting for him in the observation room. “How’s it going in there?” he asked.
“I don’t think we’re going to get a confession,” Gabe said. “He insists someone else was there.”
Shaun raised an eyebrow. “What do you think?”
Gabe shrugged. “It’s an awfully convenient argument, and I’ve seen more convincing displays of emotion than what he’s giving us turn out to be lies.”
Shaun nodded. “What do we have on him?”
“A lot. His DNA and fingerprints all over the vic. He was seen with her just before her death, and even seen fleeing the scene.”
As Gabe spoke, Bailey entered, holding a printed paper. “I can do you one better. I dug up an old hospital report.”
“On who?” Gabe asked.
“Mallory Butler. Five months ago, she was admitted to the emergency room. Someone had been beating on her. She had a black eye, swollen jaw and
fractured wrist. The unie that took the report got her to give him a name. Guess whose it was?”
Gabe’s eyes flew open. “Anderson’s? Really?” He snatched the report she held out and scanned it.
“So,” Shaun said after watching Gabe’s face for a moment. “We have a precedent for him being violent specifically toward our vic. Medical documentation?”
Gabe finished scanning the report. There wasn’t much more than what Bailey had already said. “Yes. We do.”
Shaun nodded brusquely. “That’s good enough for me. It’ll be more than enough for the DA to bring charges. Send Anderson to central booking. Let a jury decide whether his story holds water or not.”
“All right,” Gabe said, and Shaun strode from the room.
Bailey held a second paper out to him. “The vaginal swab came back, if you’re interested.”
“Does it help us?” Gabe asked, taking the report.
“No,” Bailey shrugged. “It doesn’t hinder us, either, but it’s kind of weird.”
Gabe scanned the page. “She hadn’t had sex in days?”
“Nope.”
“How is that possible for a prostitute who was…doing someone when she was killed?”
“We know Anderson didn’t achieve penetration. All it means is that we were wrong about the unknown set of prints. Not another john. Anderson must have been her first customer of the night and, for whatever reason, she hadn’t worked in a couple of days.”
“So who would the second prints belong to?”
Bailey shrugged again. “Could be anybody. Family member. Roommate. Jiu jitsu partner.”
Gabe smirked. “I don’t think many hookers do jiu jitsu, Bailey.”
Bailey arched an eyebrow, taking on a mock-scandalized look. “I find that comment sexist, Mr. Nichols.”
Gabe rolled his eyes. Bailey’s face softened into a smile, but it faded quickly. “Sorry I couldn’t be more help.”
