by M. C. Grant
Kingston stops a foot away, his face bewildered.
Before he can speak again, a scream rises from my belly and my hand reacts. Kingston’s head snaps back as I land a solid right to his nose.
The punch catches him by surprise and he staggers back into the wall. The goblet falls from his hand to shatter on the floor.
Kingston’s eyes come alive with a murderous rage as blood flows from his nose. He roars like a bull elephant and charges just as I swing a Louis XIV chair at his head. Kingston steps directly into the path of the chair and takes the brunt of its force on the side of his head. His eyes roll skyward as his body crumples and he hits the floor with a muffled thud.
_____
When he regains consciousness, Kingston finds himself strapped to a wooden chair with a silk rope I found in his bedroom. His face turns purple when he notices me looking out the large picture window. The view of the city is so peaceful.
“You’re going to pay for this,” Kingston snarls.
“You’ve already tried to collect … a few times.”
I turn around to show him the switchblade.
“What do you want? Money.”
“Answers.”
“To what?”
“Why you killed Diego Chino.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then you ordered someone to do it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I advance slowly, the knife held firm.
“What about your forgery operation?”
“What forge—” He stops as my knuckles turn white on the handle of the knife. “So what?” he adds quickly. “I faked a few paintings. Big deal.”
“Why?”
“Because I can.”
“Does Adamsky even exist?” I already know the answer.
Kingston shakes his head and snorts crimson blood. He actually seems to be enjoying the confession.
“I hired Diego to paint a few canvasses and then got a crew to churn them out by the truckload. I was getting bored with it though.”
“So you torched the warehouse?”
“Why would I torch it?” He sounds genuinely surprised. “I don’t own the building. There would be no profit in destroying it.”
“But you got rid of evidence, and you almost got rid of me.”
“You? You’re nothing.”
Anger twists inside me as I begin to doubt my conclusions.
“My story would ruin your reputation,” I say. “You tried to stop me earlier by sending someone to my house. The same person you sent to take care of Diego.”
Kingston laughs.
“You’ve got a lot to learn about power,” he says. “What makes you think your feeble-minded readers even care about a few knock-off paintings? Most of them celebrate theft. They download movies, they pirate software, they rip songs off their friends’ CDs. So a few rich people got punked. Who cares?”
My shoulders slump and the anger drains from my face. I suddenly feel sick.
“Face it, Flynn,” Kingston continues with a smile growing on his face. “Your story can’t even mention me. The warehouse is leased in Casper’s name. And if any rumors of my involvement do start, I can crush them underfoot with a wiggle of my pinky toe. Oh, I might lose a good man in the process. But scapegoats are easy to replace.”
“Declan?”
“His usefulness is diminishing.”
I’m an idiot. Everything he said is true.
“Why don’t you let me go now?” Kingston’s smile turns devilish. “Before you add kidnapping to the list of offenses I’m going to sue your ass over.”
I’ve blown it and now I’m going to end up in jail for breaking and entering and willful damage of a gallery. I wonder if Yee will still act as my lawyer.
I reach out to cut the rope.
“Don’t move, Dix,” warns a familiar voice. A voice I never expected to hear again.
I turn to stare into the face of a ghost.
The man pointing a double-barreled shotgun at me is Diego Chino.
_____
“You’re supposed to be dead,” I say.
“So are you.”
I recognize madness in his smile.
“Untie me, damn it.” Kingston’s chair rocks under his protest.
Diego smiles even wider.
“You’re the last one, Mr. Kingston.” Diego’s teeth are red with blood as he chews the lining of his mouth. “You’re not an easy man to catch up with.”
“What are you talking about?” Kingston barks.
“I’m talking about death. Specifically, yours.” Diego balances the shotgun in one hand and unsheathes a large hunting knife with the other.
“What did I ever do to you?” Kingston demands.
“You murdered me, of course.”
“What are you babbling about? You’re both crazy.”
Diego raises the shotgun and I notice his eyes drift across the room for a moment before snapping back into focus.
“You stole my art, desecrated it, forced me to lie for you.”
Kingston sneers. “I gave you a job when you were nothing.”
“Only to use me. To steal from me.”
“I paid you.”
Diego shakes his head and raises the knife to his own face. The blade slices into his cheek, drawing blood. I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
“You sank your teeth into my throat and drank your fill.”
“You’re insane. You didn’t have to work for me.”
“I didn’t?” Chino screams. “No, I could have starved on your streets or cowered on my reservation, too afraid to leave, to even try for a better life. I wanted to live like a human, not a dog in a kennel. You used that against me.”
“You destroyed yourself.”
“NO!” Diego cocks the twin hammers of the shotgun. “You used me! When I wanted to leave, when my art was selling and I had a chance to follow my dream, you threatened to tell the world I was Adamsky.” His voice cracks. “It meant nothing to you. You wanted to laugh at the world. You wanted to tell everyone that Adamsky was nothing but an Indian at the front of an assembly line. You wanted to prove just how smart you were.” His voice is a rasp, his eyes swollen with pain. “But why? Why destroy me?”
Kingston spits blood on the floor. “No one walks out on me unless I say so.”
Christ, it’s a madhouse and the inmates are running the show.
Diego steps closer, his finger caressing one of the triggers.
“Who died for you, Diego?” I blurt.
His finger stops moving on the trigger and he looks at me blankly.
I rephrase the question. “Whose blood is on the canvas you signed?”
“That was foolish,” he answers distantly, his voice weak. “I thought I ruined everything when I signed it, but it was powerful and I had created it. I signed it with my name, my real name.” He starts to laugh, quietly, achingly. “The police are such fools. They thought it was a suicide note when all along it was a confession.”
“But who died in your place?” I press. “Your cousin?”
“Pascal wouldn’t let me walk away. He”—Diego nods at Kingston—“seduced him with a promise of wealth. A promise that Pascal bought, like legions of our ancestors before him, from the mouth of a forked-tongue devil.”
Diego’s voice drifts off and for a moment his eyes shine white as they roll into his head. I take a step forward but stop as the shotgun whirls upon me. His eyes snap back into focus.
“Quiet!” Diego yells, though no one is speaking. He rips open his shirt to reveal a mass of self-inflicted wounds. Some are deep and still bleeding.
“This is the blood of my people,” he hisses. “Crying for vengea
nce.”
He levels the gun at Kingston’s chest.
“You were in my apartment,” I say in an effort to buy more time as I let my own knife slip so the thin blade is firmly between my fingers. “You went out the window.”
Diego grins and nods.
“I am an eagle,” he says.
His finger starts to squeeze the trigger, and with nothing to lose I cock my arm and throw the blade directly at his chest.
In the same instant, I dive on Kingston, knocking him and the chair to the ground as a shotgun blast explodes in front of us.
A shower of plaster sprays above our heads as we land. Without wasting time, I scramble to my feet but find myself staring down the barrels of the shotgun again. My knife lies harmlessly at his feet.
I missed.
I don’t have any ideas left.
“Goodbye, Dixie. Again.”
I close my eyes and am deafened by the roar.
Warm blood splashes across my face as I collapse to my knees. Strangely, there is no pain.
_____
“Dixie!” A familiar voice. “You OK?”
I open one eye.
Frank stands in the doorway with his gun drawn and smoking.
Diego lies in front of me. Most of his head is missing.
“How’d you find me?” I croak.
“I got Ruth to take another look at the corpse to find out about this asthma puzzle. She ran the prints and—”
“It wasn’t Diego,” I say.
Frank nods. “When I couldn’t reach you, I called Mo. Turns out he was worried about you too. He had a taxi tail you here and your angry boyfriend downstairs gave me the room number.”
Wiping the blood from my face, I turn to see if Kingston is OK, but my gaze is diverted to the blood splattered across the virginal white walls.
The effect is as powerful as when it bore Diego’s signature, but this time the intensity comes from the lives it has saved rather than destroyed.
Thirty-six
The drunken camaraderie filling the Dog House almost makes me turn around and head back to my apartment. I have been hiding for the last two days with only my computer and Bubbles for company. But the crazy, crooked grin on Bill’s face when he spots me peeking around the door brings me to my usual stool between Frank and Capone.
The dozen hard-drinking customers around us are yelling and screaming over everything from horse racing to the endless bloody heat, but as Bill fishes a Warthog Ale out of the fridge and places it in front of me, the noise seems to slowly fade into the walls.
Frank sits patiently beside me as I take a long swallow and wipe the rich froth from my lips with a sigh. Then, with his huge hands wrapped around a near-empty mug of nonalcoholic beer, he asks how I’m doing.
“I’m OK,” I reply. “The tribal leaders arrived to take the two bodies back home. It gave me a nice ending to the story.”
“You get the cover?” Bill asks.
“Yeah.” I grin. “How could they resist murder and art fraud involving the city’s wealthiest asshole?”
Bill slaps the bar and grins like a proud father. “Al said you’d get it. I think he likes you.”
“Nice to know somebody does.”
I take another long pull of beer.
“Kingston still suing?” Frank asks as Bill walks down the bar to break up a scuffle near the washroom.
I nod. “I’m not too worried though. The case will be stuck in the courts for a bit and I don’t have enough money to make it worth his trouble. Plus, he has to consider that if I hadn’t broken into his place, you wouldn’t have shown up and he’d probably be dead. I’m sure he’ll eventually settle for a public apology.”
“You planning on giving it to him?”
“Not much choice, but he’ll have to ask nicely.”
I grin and polish off my beer. Bill instantly appears to place a fresh one in front of me before vanishing to throw a mouthy drunk out the door.
“What about Declan?” Frank asks.
“Well.” My grin disappears as I recall our conversation when I tried to apologize. “At least he dropped the vandalism, car theft, and kidnapping charges. I guess I had him figured all wrong. Shame it didn’t work out, we could have had some fun. I don’t usually spoil things that quickly into a relationship, but he made it quite clear that I was more trouble than I’m worth.”
I take a sip of Warthog, trying to clear my mind of its troubles. “Anything new on Chief McInty?”
Frank shrugs. “He’s taking some heat over closing the case on Chino’s suicide so quickly, but that won’t stick. Diego had us all fooled.”
“Speaking of which,” I say. “I owe you for saving my life.”
“Hell, I was just doing my job. The people you should thank are the cabbies Mo put on your tail.”
“Let me buy you a beer anyway,” I offer.
“You already have,” Bill pipes in with a cockeyed grin. “I figured you owed him a couple, so I’ve been putting the odd one on your tab now and again. I wasn’t expecting you to stay away so long though.”
“Thanks, Bill. I think.”
“Don’t mention it.” Bill puffs out his chest. “Just doing my job.”
His imitation of Frank is pathetic, but the three of us burst out laughing just the same.
“What’s your plans for tonight?” Frank asks when the laughter subsides. “Will I be carrying you home?”
I shake my head. “I’m actually expecting a phone call. There’s still one more mystery to clear up.”
“Oh? Anything I need to worry about?”
“I don’t think so, but you’re on speed dial, just in case.”
“Now I am worried,” says Frank.
_____
When the bar phone rings for me, I rush home.
Mr. French is waiting in the lobby and quickly pulls me into his apartment. He is holding a two-way radio.
“Clifford says she’s on her way,” he says breathlessly. “She’s carrying a large brown box and a third letter.”
“What makes you think she’s coming here?” I ask.
The radio squawks and Clifford’s voice says, “Sparrow to Eagle’s Nest. Cuckoo has turned the corner. Four houses from you and closing fast. I’m covering the rear. Out.”
“Ten-four, Sparrow,” Mr. French says into the handset. “Eagle’s Nest ready. Out.”
“Cuckoo?” I ask.
Mr. French shrugs. “It fit the bird theme.”
We hear the lobby door open.
The radio squawks again.
“Trap is sprung,” says Clifford.
Instantly, Mr. French yanks open his apartment door and rushes out.
The woman bent over in front of Mrs. Pennell’s door screams so loud, I’m afraid of permanent hearing loss. Mr. French, however, barely bats an eye as he wraps his short arms around her generous backside and grabs on for dear life.
The woman spins, whipping Mr. French off his feet, and charges for the lobby door.
She screams again when Clifford bounds up the steps outside and grabs the doors with both hands, barring her exit.
“I’ve got her,” yells Mr. French, his face buried in the woman’s plump back. “I’ve got her.”
In the chaos, the woman drops her brown box.
“Get off me!” the woman screams as she runs in circles around the lobby.
Mr. French, however, does not oblige.
I bend down to the box and open the lid. Inside, a fluffy orange face looks up at me and begins to purr.
“It’s a kitten,” I say, lifting the animal from the box. Purring even louder, the kitten climbs up my chest to sit on my shoulder and nuzzle against my ear.
Mrs. Pennell’s door opens. “
What is going on out here? King William and I can’t hear our show.”
“YOU!” The woman gasps for breath. “Are responsible.”
“Me?” asks Mrs. Pennell.
“Not you,” says the woman. “HIM!”
She is pointing directly at King William, who sits at Mrs. Pennell’s feet washing his face with a paw.
“King William?” I ask.
“Yes!” The woman stops moving and Mr. French loses his grip. He slides to the floor. “That beast took advantage of my poor Pearl. Look at the size of that brutish kitten. It has completely ruined her showgirl figure.”
“Showgirl?” I ask.
“Pearl is a queen champion,” the woman says. “But the scandal of this illegitimate offspring will cost her the crown.”
“Well, I don’t know how this happened,” says Mrs. Pennell. “King William never goes outside.”
“Except when he escapes,” I say, remembering my late-night encounter a few days earlier.
“Ahh, yes, well …” Mrs. Pennell straightens her shoulders. “What makes you believe King William is the father?”
“Look at the kitten,” says the woman. “It’s a monster, just like your—”
“I think,” I interrupt, “that insults won’t solve anything.”
“No,” sniffs the woman. “You’re right. We must rise above it.”
“What can we do?” I ask.
“The damage is already done, but I shall not raise that monster in my home.”
Bored with nuzzling my ear, the kitten curls around my neck and yawns.
“Well, neither shall I,” says Mrs. Pennell. “King William is enough company for me.”
“I’ll take him,” I say, smiling. “Hell, I’m already in love.”
“Fine,” says the woman.
I reach up to stroke the kitten’s fluffy head.
“I suppose,” I add, “with a king for a father and a queen for a mother, that would make this little guy a true prince.”
The woman harrumphs. “Now,” she says, “if you could get this little man off my leg, I would like to leave.”
I look down to see Mr. French lying on the floor, both hands wrapped tight around the woman’s ankle.
“You can let go now,” I say with laughter in my voice. “But you may want to get her number for later. I think you two could hit it off.”
