Chasing Thunder

by Ginger Voight

  Joe Bennett’s murder had impacted every single person who had seen it. M.J. hated guns and refused to use them. Jim had gone out and immediately bought more guns.

  And Snake had used his to terrify anyone who got in his way as he tried to singlehandedly solve the case and bring that bastard to justice.

  Outlaw justice.

  With every punk that cowered in front of him, he felt more and more powerful. With a gun, a little man could become a big man. But every time he used the threat of that gun to terrorize someone, he realized that it didn’t make him any bigger at all. He was using force and intimidation to get his way, which made him a very small man indeed. It took almost a year before he realized that there was no justice in becoming the very thing he hated.

  Assuming custody of Kid had been merely an excuse. He was waiting for a reason to put that gun down. And now he had the very same reason to pick it back up again.

  With his mouth thinned out in a grim, determined line, he closed the empty case and reached for his holster.

  12. RUNNING ON EMPTY

  Police had been crawling all over the storage unit where Todd Delpy had been discovered early that morning, thanks to an anonymous tip. At least, that was the official report. Landers knew damn well who had reported it, but for the sake of everyone he had played that information close to the vest.

  In the end it didn’t even matter. The caretakers of the facility had already discovered the body by the time the police got there. The arduous task of collecting clues began by daybreak. This process was made even more challenging by the press that had gathered to scoop the story.

  Agent Llewellyn arrived that afternoon, and he was the one who found the empty can of bug fogger in the corner. He pieced the evidence together: the bomb had been set off while Todd was still alive. Choking on the fumes, he had convulsed, kicking the chair out from under himself. “It’s a statement,” he told them. “Our killer sees kids like this as roaches to be exterminated.”

  “Could it be our killer?” Harris asked.

  Llewellyn shook his head. “Gut instinct, no. The victim is completely against type, and this crime scene is too carefully constructed to mislead authorities on motive. The person or people who did this want you to think some tweaked-out junkie burned down the motel for fun, and karma caught up with him in the form of a sadistic trick. But most of the things that tie Todd in to the arson at the motel were placed on him after he had already expired, like the gasoline on his hands. Even the welts on his body, which denote BDSM gone wrong, were actually inflicted on dead flesh. The heart had stopped pumping, which is why there is hardly any blood. Clean wounds. This means someone tried really hard to make us think it was some random trick and brutal sexual misadventure, which is clearly a cover for the real motive. Our guy is far too narcissistic. He’d never work that hard to make something look this random. He’d want to claim the deed and collect his trophy.” He paused. “Unless . . .” he trailed off, and Landers was quick to pounce.

  “Unless what?”

  Llewellyn took a deep breath. “Unless whoever did this wanted information only this kid could provide.”

  “Do you think he got that information?” Landers asked with a sinking feeling in his gut.

  “I think we’d have to ask whoever called you with the tip.” He looked around the unit. “If this was a message, it was sent to someone in particular.”

  It was exactly as Landers feared. He avoided Harris’s pointed stare and headed to his car.

  Now that the tweaker had essentially been exterminated, M.J. was forced to take her investigation to the streets. The Hard Candy Killer had yet to produce another victim, but she knew it was only a matter of time. According to the Internet, he had already left a disturbing calling card at the original crime scene, where the phone had been retrieved with some discarded clothing.

  Of course, it could have been a copycat. Lord only knew how many sick people were in the world. Sick people like Dominic Isbecky, who had made it clear that he wasn’t going to let Baby go without a fight.

  If it was a fight he wanted, M.J. decided, it was a fight he was going to get.

  The first thing she had to do was get into those upper rooms at Slick.

  Actually, that was the second thing. The first thing was ditching the goon patrol following her around Hollywood. She hopped on her bike and headed south for a twisting, turning joyride that challenged her stalkers to keep up all the way down through Orange County. She finally lost them at rush hour in the Orange Crush interchange, allowing her to double back and head to Los Angeles, with a short pit stop at a supply store to buy rope and grappling hooks.

  By the time she got back to her run-down apartment in the city that night, her arms were full and the street was empty. Without having prior knowledge that this was where she holed up, there was no way to trace the apartment back to M.J. Her official residence was in a 1920s bungalow just blocks from the beach in Santa Monica. She had rented the apartment through one of many aliases, authenticated through a fake ID, and only three people knew to find her there.

  So she was quite surprised to find someone sitting at her Formica table, his back to the door.

  He didn’t stir when she opened the door. He sat with his back to her, his head covered with a hoodie. She was on him in a heartbeat, her arm around his throat. “Who are you?” she demanded.

  Effortlessly, he twisted her arm around and stood to face her.

  “You,” she breathed, glaring at Detective Kelly Harris. “How the hell did you find me?”

  “Harry is my partner, remember?”

  She shook her head. “He didn’t tell you.”

  “You’re right,” he agreed. “He wouldn’t.” They had a brief staredown, then he smirked. “It’s traditional to offer a visitor a beverage, you know.”

  “My apologies,” she said. “Can I offer you a cup of bleach? Perhaps some rat poison? I’m flexible.”

  “Water will be fine,” he said, and she hesitated only a slight moment before she decided to comply with his request. As she retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge, he peered into her new bag of goodies. “Planning to knock over a bank?”

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said. She handed him the bottle. “All those ATM fees. You know how it is.”

  He uncapped his water and took a swig. “As fun as our banter is, do you think we can possibly have a real conversation here?”

  “I have the right to remain silent,” she reminded him with a sweet smile.

  “Fine,” he said, sitting back in the chair. “I’ll do all the talking.”

  She glared at him and sat.

  “I know you’re the one that found Todd,” he said. He picked up the matchbook from Slick that lay on her table, folded open to reveal the one missing matchstick. “And you’re going to tell me about it.”

  “I am?”

  “Yep,” he said. “Or I’m going to haul your ass to jail for arson.”

  She scoffed. “You can’t make those bogus charges stick and you know it.”

  Kelly raised an eyebrow. “Oh no? I can prove that you were at the Roses ‘N Palms motel both before and after the fire.”

  “Rose Palmer is a friend of mine,” M.J. said.

  “Does she know that you removed evidence from the scene? This matchbook distinctly smells like smoke.”

  “It’s a matchbook,” she pointed out.

  “With one missing match, and—just a hunch—your fingerprints all over it.” She didn’t say anything, so he went on. “You know, when I was at Roses ‘N Palms the other day, I happened to see this big clay pot by the door. Being nosey, I looked inside. It was full of all these matchbooks and business cards from all over the world. I didn’t see anything from any local establishments when I was looking through the contents, but it was a cursory glance. I probably wouldn’t have even remembered it at all, had I not seen this. Now I’m really curious what all was in that pot. And wouldn’t you know? From the official report, it’s the onl
y thing that Mrs. Palmer was able to retrieve from the premises. You see where I’m going with this, M.J.?”

  “What do you want, Harris?”

  “Information,” he answered simply. “I know you think so, but I’m not your enemy. We can help each other. You and I both know a young girl’s life may depend on it.”

  Her jaw clenched. She couldn’t argue with that logic.

  “So tell me something, anything. Give me a lead. Meet me halfway . . . or sit in jail, wasting precious moments we could all be using to catch this guy.”

  Her eyebrow arched. “You talk that strategy over with your boss yet?”

  “No,” he said. “But I’m sure he’ll see it my way when I threaten to take everything to the press.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’d really jeopardize your case for that?”

  “No,” he repeated. “Because your dad wouldn’t risk it. Despite what you may think, he’s a damn fine cop. He didn’t just fall ass-backwards into the most powerful position in the department. He worked hard and he made smart choices. So I can tell you that you’ll be cooling your heels in a holding cell by daybreak, and I’ll have a search warrant to find anything you’re hiding anyway.”

  “You’re an asshole,” she told him.

  “I know,” he replied.

  From the look in those steely blue eyes, M.J. knew he meant everything he said. It wasn’t an empty threat. It was the strategy of a cop desperate to catch a killer, and she understood that desperation.

  “We want the same thing here, M.J. We’re on the same side. At some point you’re going to have to start trusting somebody.”

  She laughed. “Right. So why not start with some cop who’s trying to blackmail me for information?”

  “That’s the offer,” he shrugged. “Take it or leave it. But our last known witness just bit the dust, so you better make up your mind fast. I’ll take responsibility for Todd. The next one is all on you.”

  She thought about Baby with a knot in her throat. Finally she said, “You don’t need me, Harris. The biggest clue has been under your nose this whole time.”

  He held up the matchbook. “Slick.”

  “Gentleman’s club by day, brothel by night. The entire second floor, except for the owner’s office, is devoted to prostitution, and my guess is they’re all underage.”

  “Why?”

  She took a deep breath. It went against every fiber of her being to cooperate with a cop. “The owner is a man named Dominic Isbecky. On paper he’s a reputed businessman with a lot of high-powered friends. In person, especially alone in his office, he’s intimidating and threatening. Those girls in that photo? He wants to know the whereabouts to only one, the one allegedly seen with me in Hollywood.”

  “When you offed one of his hoods in the alley.” She neither confirmed nor denied. “So where’s your girl now?”

  Another shrug. “Who knows? Like with the rest of my kids, my first priority was getting her the hell out of Dodge. Bottom line, he wants to find her. And he’ll do anything to make that happen.”

  “Why?”

  “It can’t be good. Maybe she saw him commit a crime. Maybe she knows a little bit about his illegitimate businesses. Either way she’s a threat to him, otherwise he wouldn’t be so desperate to find her.”

  “And kill anyone who refuses to help him.” She nodded. He gestured to the bag. “So what’s this stuff for, really?”

  There was a long pause before she answered him. “I’m going to Slick. I’m going to break into the second floor. And I’m going to try and find the other girl from the photo.”

  “You really think she’s there?”

  She shrugged. “The best place to hide her is right under everyone’s nose. No one would expect it, and he’s arrogant enough to do it. Even if by some stroke of luck you start sniffing around his trail, he’s counting on the police abiding by the law and getting proper search warrants, which would give him plenty of time to cover his tracks.”

  Kelly filled in the rest. “He uses the law to his advantage, likely bribing someone on the inside somewhere to know when a possible raid could occur.”

  She nodded. “So arrest me if you have to. But if you go by the book on this one, you’re going to have another dead kid on your hands. I guarantee it.”

  He was silent for a long moment before he finally stood. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  For a second she panicked. Was he really going to take her to jail after all she had told him? “Where?”

  He tossed the matchbook on her table, upturned to Slick’s address. She shook her head. “I work alone.”

  He grabbed the bag and headed for the door. “You used to.”

  It took her a moment to gather her wits enough to chase after him.

  13. SWEET EMOTION

  Snake was juggling two pizza boxes and three plastic bags when he walked through the door that night. Baby was quick to fetch the pizzas, and Kid rifled through the bags, grabbing sodas. They sat around the table to eat, a tradition only observed when other people were in the house. When it was just Snake and Kid, they ate separately in different rooms, often at different times.

  After Kid had turned fifteen, he’d been far more interested in his video games than in being bossed around by his brother. So he did all the chores before Snake got home and had the rest of the night to himself. Now that they were all together, filling in some of the missing leaves on their family tree, there seemed to be a reason to congregate again.

  Snake had never realized how much he missed it.

  He reached for the last bag, withdrawing a small box. He slid it over to Baby. It was a new smartphone, and she could tell from the box it was a fancy one at that. “What’s this?”

  “With you coming to the shop now, I just thought you could use a phone.”

  She laughed. “Thanks, but I have no clue who I would call.”

  “Maybe you and Kid could text from across the table. Roll your eyes at how lame I’m being. That’s the thing now, right?” The kids laughed. Snake leaned toward Baby and his voice softened. “Or whoever you want to call. Or need to call. Now you have the option.”

  She immediately felt grateful. He was giving her freedom with that phone, and she knew that meant he trusted her. That meant she was one of them. “Thanks, Snake.”

  “What’s the good of having a family plan without a family?” he asked gently.

  She gave him a mischievous smile. “Wait here,” she instructed before she darted to her room. When she returned, she had a gift of her own for Snake. It was a drawing of him and M.J. on his bike. How she’d even put it together was a mystery to him. She caught every detail: the mechanics of the bike, the curve of M.J.’s smile, even the tattoos that were showing. It seemed such an impossible task in the short time they’d known each other.

  “Wow,” he breathed. “This is incredible. When did you have the time to do this?”

  She beamed under his praise. “I draw when I can’t sleep.”

  He chuckled as his eyes scanned the drawing. “Let’s hear it for insomnia.” His eyes were gentle as they met hers. “Thank you, Baby.”

  She rewarded him with a big smile and an even bigger hug. She wasn’t used to being praised for her work, and Snake seemed genuinely impressed.

  He ended up leaving Kid to program her phone and headed toward his room to take a shower. He felt grimier than usual, and he had a sneaking suspicion that the piece he had concealed under his jacket had a lot to do with that. He began stripping the moment he shut the bedroom door behind him. He was naked by the time he reached the bathroom, and he set the temperature of his shower to near scalding. As he straightened, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. He had tattoos covering his body. They detracted attention from the scars that had been permanently etched there. He touched the skin over a tiny oblong scar on his abdomen that was a shade redder than the rest of his bronzed skin. His hand slid across the trail of hair along his lower abdomen, resting on a long gash alo
ng his leg.

  He turned around to look at the black-and-red king cobra tattoo that coiled all the way from his lower back to his shoulders. It was a stunning piece of art. But all he could see was the scarred skin from a bullet that had grazed him right between his torso and his arm.

  They were his war wounds, his battle scars.

  He sighed as he faced himself, naked and vulnerable. It wasn’t the lack of clothing that left him feeling so exposed. It was that he had been thrust into a corner he had hoped never to revisit. But since it was M.J. who needed him, he knew he would do it. He would barely think twice. His only concern had been Kid, but he was nearly grown now.

  Snake was a stone’s throw from thirty, and about to face an empty nest.

  He stepped into the shower, baptizing himself with the steaming hot spray. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the terrifying memories rising from where they had lain dormant in the unexplored corners of his psyche.

  The last time he was shot it had been to save M.J. He had jumped in front of her, taking the bullet. It had entered his lower abdomen and he’d damn near bled to death. She’d stayed with him and nursed the wound, taking care of him night and day until he was fully recovered.

  The very next night she was back out on the streets. They had the worst fight of their entire lives that night. He pulled her off the street, plopping her on his bike and forcefully removing her from her suicide mission to seek revenge on his shooter. He didn’t stop driving until they reached the desert, and the minute her feet touched the ground she gave him what for. She punched him square in the jaw, and he stared at her as blood poured down his chin and dripped off into the sand. The sun rose behind them. He issued an ultimatum. He wanted her off the streets. It didn’t matter how many fights they started (or ended), Joe was still dead and he wasn’t coming back.