So why, at the moment she needed him most, did Pasha feel overwhelming regret for having ever met the guy?
Maybe getting logical was the wrong path to take.
Emotionally, I love the man. Love him so much it hurts.
But logically…
The realization felt every bit as painful as the slap Hugo had given her.
Oh, god. I need to dump him.
I’m never going to be happy—I’m never going to be safe—until I get as far away from Phineas Troutt as possible.
PHIN
My arsenal was pathetic.
In my capacity as security guard for the Michigan Motel, I’d confiscated enough knives from drunk, high, or disgruntled guests that I could stab a whole football team without using the same blade twice. But I was criminally low on firearms.
I had ten rounds for my S&W 9mm M&P, a .380 with a missing magazine and no bullets, and four .38 cartridges with no gun that could fire it.
Earl made his presence known by thumping against my side, and habit made me reach for my bottle of pills. I’d gone so far as to dump two onto my hand before stopping myself. More codeine wouldn’t help my reactions any.
You’re a mess, Phin. Give it up. Let’s go score some coke and booze, pick up a few hookers, and forget about Pasha. It’s not like she is meant to be with you.
Earl had a point. I wasn’t any good for anyone. Having Pasha in my life would only end badly for her.
I had to leave her.
But I had to save her first.
I glanced at the bed; something I’d been trying to ignore. Kenny Jen Bang Ko’s jaw hung open, his lips and cheeks missing. His open eyes stared at nothing. Or maybe they stared at eternity.
Or maybe they were looking for me, the guy he hired to protect him.
Hey… didn’t Kenny have a gun?
Kenny kept a shotgun at the check-in booth.
I patted down his corpse, finding keys in his front pocket, took another quick look at his dead, vacant eyes.
“Sorry, Kenny.”
I packed quickly, because I didn’t own much. I had an old suitcase from a former guest who’d left it there, and threw in the few pieces of clothing I owned; some t-shirts, underwear, socks, running shoes, a leather jacket. I also took the best five knives out of my collection, the guns and ammo, some toiletries.
No personal items. No sentimental items. Nothing I couldn’t live without.
You’re such a big loser, Earl said.
No kidding.
I put on a thrift shop trench coat, left my room, walked outside, and headed to Kenny’s office, situated at the end of the building. I let myself in through the side security door, finding the right key on the third try, and then checked inside the drawer beneath the cash register, which is where I’d put a gun, and which is where I found a Norinco Hawk 12 gauge. It was a clone of a pump action Remington 870, about a quarter of the price, made in China. This one had a pistol grip.
Pistol grips on shotguns were good for one thing; smacking yourself in the face with the recoil. I suppose Kenny bought it to intimidate, rather than shoot. Or because it was short enough to fit in his drawer.
I quickly ejected all six shells—one in the chamber and five in the tube magazine—and then loaded them again. I searched around, unable to find any extra cartridges. The shotgun had no sling, but there was a lanyard hole. I used one of my eight knives to cut off the extension cord from the desk lamp, knot it through the hole, and tie the shotgun around my shoulder so it hung at my side. The trench coat covered it up fine. I untied it and stuck it in the suitcase.
Then I picked up Kenny’s phone, trying to remember her cell phone number, failing, and calling a number I that did know.
“Harry McGlade, world famous private eye. Is this Mariah Carey?”
I didn’t have time for this. “Can we skip the routine?”
“You’re not Mariah Carey. Unless you’ve been taking hormones. That’s cool with me. I’d love you even if you had a mustache, Mariah. Maybe even more.”
Apparently we couldn’t skip the routine. Harry was a friend, of sorts, who used to be a cop, and now worked freelance. He also had a bit of fame because some moron producer decided to make a TV series based on his life. That said, as far as celebrities go, McGlade was D-list. At best.
“You don’t know Mariah Carey.”
“True. But somewhere, in the infinite multiverse, she called me. Unhappily, in this one, you did, which is pretty damn disappointing. What’s the deal, Phin? Miss me so much you needed to hear my melodious voice?”
“You and Jack still in Minnesota?”
“We got stuck here dealing with the Feebies and the locals and the army of media asking me for quotes. Is it egotistical to describe myself as the stalwart hero of the decade?”
“Yes.”
“Stalwart means well-hung, right?”
Harry McGlade considered himself funny. Sometimes he was. Mostly, he was an asshole. Not an asshole as in he couldn’t be trusted, or that he was always in a bad mood. He was mostly reliable, and likeable in small doses, but his constant good spirits and bad jokes could wear you out faster than babysitting twins with ADHD.
I’d been humoring McGlade because I needed information, and because it was impossible to get a word in while he was doing his schtick. But I was out of time.
“Is Jack with you? I need to talk to her.”
“I knew you had a thing for older women. Does this mean your doctor girlfriend finally dumped your cancerous ass? Is she available for dating? Or handies? Answer the second question first.”
“Jack, Harry. It’s important.”
“I got sick of talking to feds and snuck out on her an hour ago.”
“What’s her number?”
“I’d give her body maybe a seven, her face a six. But I have unrealistically high standards. Did I tell you about the time I dated the Playmate of the Year? She was so hot she gave my boner a boner.”
“Goddammit, McGlade, what’s her goddam number?”
There was a silent moment, unusual when talking with Harry. If I’d pushed it too far, he might get curious. I’d already doomed myself, and probably Pasha. I didn’t want to drag him into this as well.
But instead of probing, Harry recited ten digits. Then he said, “Is there a reason you’re so—”
I hung up and dialed Jacqueline Daniels, Chicago Homicide Lieutenant. Jack was a friend, of sorts.
“Daniels.”
“Jack, Phin. I need a big favor. Two actually.”
“You ditch me and Harry in Minnesota and then call needing a favor? Really?”
“There’s a dead guy in my room. He’s the owner of the motel I live at, Kenny Jen Bang Ko. He was left on my bed. My older brother, Hugo, killed him.”
“I didn’t know you had a brother.”
“I need you to send someone here. Someone you trust. Kenny has been dead for a while. Rigor has already set in. So, technically, you’re my alibi.”
“Even though, technically, you left Minnesota and asked me to cover for you.”
“I know. It’s a big favor. Also, I need everything the CPD has on Hugo Troutt. Criminal records, associates, addresses, vehicles.”
“You’re going after him?”
I didn’t answer. You don’t tell a cop you intend to commit a crime.
“This is a murder case, Phin. Leave it for the police.”
“I need to know where he is, Jack. He took…” I couldn’t say he kidnapped Pasha, because she would insist the cops get even more involved. “He took something of mine. Something important.”
I didn’t like lying to Jack, but technically that wasn’t a lie.
“What did he take?”
“I can’t say.”
“Why? Something illegal? Drugs?”
“I can’t tell you. Not right now.”
“You’re asking a lot, here.”
I knew I was. I had no real choice. “Do we trust each other?”
Now i
t was Jack’s turn not to answer. I had to lay it on thicker. Cops were loyal. Women were sentimental. I targeted both.
“Look, I know we’ve got this weird relationship. We’ve been through some crazy stuff together, and we’ve always had each other’s backs. Jack… I consider you one of my closest friends. I’d trust you with my life. I’m not asking you to help me find him. I’m only asking for information.”
“You really left a mess up here.”
“I know. I’m sorry about that.”
“I’m not going to be an accessory to premediated murder.”
“You know Minnesota wasn’t premediated. That was a rescue mission.”
Just like this.
I waited, feeling every second before Jack replied. “If you find Hugo, you’ll call the cops?”
“Yes. You have my word.”
And I’d keep my word. I’d call the cops, after I blew my brother’s diseased head off his body.
“Give me five minutes. You’ll be at this number?”
“Yeah.”
She hung up.
I paced around the office, nervous, idle, crazy, trying not to think about what Hugo might be doing to Pasha. Memories kept rushing back, none of them good.
Even as a toddler, Hugo liked to hurt things. He was two years older than I, always big for his age, always meaner than hell. When he was six he would microwave frogs. At eight years old he’d already broken four of my bones. Puberty hit around eleven, and he began his journey into manhood by raping a nine-year-old girl at the playground.
“She won’t tell,” he bragged to me later, “or else I’ll send her friends and family the pictures.”
He was referring to the pictures he took of her while doing the deed, compliments of a Polaroid he’d stolen. Thinking about it, I can still remember several of the photos he had in his collection. The one that stands out was the face of a neighborhood kid, eyes wide with terror and shame, his mouth full of the dog shit that Hugo had forced him to eat.
The phone rang, shocking me out of my reverie.
“Phin, Jack. This is one bad son of a bitch you’ve got for a brother.”
“Run it down.”
“He’s spent nine of the last eighteen behind bars. Rape, assault, attempted murder, armed robbery… he’s a career dickhead. And worse. He’s a member of the Caucasian Nation.”
“That prison white supremacist group?”
My views on race were the same as my views on gender. All people were equal, no more to the story. People who didn’t like others because of their skin color, their chromosomes, or their ancestry, needed to go play in another gene pool.
“Not just prison. These Nazi assholes have branched out nationwide. They recruit in prison, then put their members to work when they’re released. Not minor shit. We’re talking domestic terrorism. Extortion. Murder. You remember that case a few years ago, the priest who was nailed to the floor? That was one of mine. Never caught the perp, but we had a lead the CN was involved. When we bring Hugo in, I’ll be very interested in talking to him.”
“Got an address?”
“He’s currently on parole. Got a pen?”
I took one of Kenny’s and wrote down the info on the back of a ledger. Current and former addresses, his Parole Officer contact info, and his place of employment, a garage in Aurora.
“Jesus, he’s six foot five and three hundred and forty pounds?”
That sounded bigger than I remembered. Maybe he’d gotten fat.
“And it’s all muscle,” Jack said.
Great.
“I’m looking at his mug shot. This is officially the scariest dude I’ve ever seen.” She lowered her voice. “Phin… if you need help with this. I mean, my personal help…”
“I appreciate it, but no need. You’ve done enough.”
It would have been good to have an extra gun or two on my side, but Harry and Jack were six hours away, and I had to meet Hugo in an hour. Plus, I didn’t need to drag them into my problem. They’d be great back-up, but I didn’t want their deaths on my conscience.
I already had enough on my conscience.
Outside I heard a siren, and I watched a squad car pull up.
“Cops are here,” I said. “You called?”
“I called one of my homicide detectives. Tom Mankowski. I trust him.”
“Does he know I’m not sticking around for a statement?”
“Yeah. But don’t give him shit. He’s tougher than he looks.”
Tom got out of the car. He was a lean guy, tall, with a ponytail.
“He looks like Thomas Jefferson.”
“He knows. Keep me in the loop, Phin.”
“Thanks, Jack.”
She hung up. I saw a cardboard sign in the corner of Kenny’s booth window. One I’d never seen before.
A CLOSED sign. I’d never seen it, because it was on the other side of the OPEN sign, and the motel was always open.
I turned the card, facing it the other way. Then I stepped outside to greet the cop.
HUGO
Hugo honed Göth against the wet stone, tenderly as caressing a lover, while Pasha watched in terrified silence.
Talking to the woman had been… interesting. Hugo wasn’t the sharing type. In prison, the only one he ever spoke more than a sentence to was Whitman, and that was mostly asking questions to clarify something stupid the older man had said. Hugo had never discussed his past, with anyone. He wasn’t one to reflect on the past, and no one ever cared enough to ask.
If Pasha had meant for him to develop feelings for her through conversation, the trick actually worked. Prior to the talk, Hugo felt nothing for his brother’s girlfriend.
But now, he felt anger.
Anger, at the world, for making him different than everyone else.
Anger, at Phin, for being able to fit into this world even though his childhood had been just as messed up as Hugo’s had been.
Anger, at Pasha, for believing that decency was a plus rather than a handicap.
But Hugo would show her that being decent didn’t get you anywhere.
In prison, the way to truly punish someone, to truly hurt them, was to rape them.
Hugo’s sex drive had disappeared years ago, when constant steroid use shrank his balls to the size of shelled peanuts. Though he raged with testosterone, lately Hugo’s dick was only good for urinating.
But there were other ways to terrorize and debase people. Plenty of other ways.
Hugo considered what he was going to do to Phineas, when he saw him again. The news that Phin was alive still hadn’t completely sunken in. Hugo had always assumed his brother was dead.
He’d tried to find him. While in prison, Hugo would get phone books. He started with Chicago, and then branched out in all directions, looking for Phin’s name. He’d told Whitman, and Packer, that finding his brother was a priority. The CN even hired a firm that specialized in finding people, tracking social security numbers and credit cards and past addresses, and they’d come up empty.
When Phin was finally located, it made sense why he was so hard to find.
Hugo’s brother was a thug.
The CN had found him through an accident. Some skinheads were out whooping it up in Chinatown on a Saturday night, baiting the locals and stomping heads, and they’d run into a local gang called the Clan.
The skins kicked the shit out of them, then relieved them of their weapons and wallets. Found in one of their pockets was a hit list; seven names of people that the Clan had murder contracts on.
The only Caucasian on the list, other than the mayor of Chicago, was Phineas Troutt. Since Hugo Troutt was a legend in the Order, the skins brought the list and the schlammensch to the closest headquarters and got the story out of him.
It seemed that brother Phineas had endeared himself to the Clan by beating them up on multiple occasions. Further interrogation provided the Order with Phin’s address, a rundown motel on Michigan Avenue in Chinatown
Hugo personally quest
ioned the owner. He was a tough old bastard, but eventually coughed up the name of Phin’s girlfriend, Dr. Bipasha Kapoor.
Now brother Phineas was coming to save his little girlfriend. And Hugo had to come up with a suitable horrible way to kill him.
“What are you thinking?” Pasha asked. Her voice was dripping with fear, and she obviously hadn’t liked the way he’d been eyeing her, stroking his razor over the stone.
“While inside, I broke all of a guy’s fingers. All ten. A new one every day. By the third day, be begged the bulls to be put in PC, the protective custody unit. He was in there for a month, and when he got out, I started over. One a day. Ten days. He took it. Blubbered and begged, but didn’t try to run. You know what he said the worst part was?”
Pasha didn’t reply. She had a light brown complexion, but she’d gone a shade whiter than Hugo.
“Wiping his ass,” Hugo answered. “He couldn’t wipe his ass with ten broken figures. So he walked around, smelling like shit, until they healed.”
“And what did you feel? While you were doing this?”
“The same thing I always do,” he said. “Nothing.”
“If you feel nothing, why are you doing this? Keeping me here? Going after Phin?”
Hugo shrugged. “Everyone has to do something. You work here, killing babies. I bet you’ve killed more people than I have. Why do you do it?”
“I only terminate pregnancies if the fetus in nonviable.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the fetus wouldn’t survive outside the womb. In most of the procedures I do, the mother has carried the fetus for less than fifteen weeks. It’s only two inches long. It can’t even feel pain.”
“How do you know?”
“Science. In fetal development, the nervous system isn’t developed enough to send pain signals until the third trimester.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“That’s what the science shows.”
“How about you? Personally? How do you experience pain?”
Pasha didn’t answer.
“Have you ever had a broken bone, Doctor?”
“I… I broke my arm. When I was a kid.”
Everybody Dies - A Thriller (Phineas Troutt Mysteries Book 3) Page 6
