by Diane Kelly
Christina reached into the neck of her shirt, pulling a folded, and marked, hundred-dollar bill from between her breasts. She handed it to Joe.
His eyes flashed. “It’s warm.”
Sheez. Joe Cool needed to cool off.
We watched through the window as Joe went to the front of the truck and pulled a large metal toolbox from under the driver’s seat. He retrieved a set of keys from the glove compartment, unlocked the box, and removed a small paper bag. He handed the bag through the window to Christina. “It’s good stuff.”
“It better be.”
I could feel Joe’s eyes on us as we walked up the steps and back into the house, forcing ourselves not to run. We heard Joe put his truck in gear behind us and pull away from the curb.
In rapid motion, Christina dashed to the kitchen and dumped the contents of the paper bag onto the countertop. A small plastic bag slid out. Inside was a substance that looked like tiny shards of ice. I could see where crystal meth got its name.
Christina ripped the clear bag open and dropped a small sample of the substance into one of the tubes from her field test kit. She shook the vial and the water turned from clear to orange. “Bingo. Let’s roll.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Hot Pursuit of Joe Cool
We dashed out the door and down the street after Joe’s truck, walking fast but not running, not wanting to alert him to the fact that his minutes as a free man were numbered.
Joe’s brake lights flashed red as he eased around a turn a block ahead, the tinny music still blaring through the neighborhood.
With Joe now out of sight, Christina sped up and I followed suit, the two of us now bolting after Joe like overzealous contenders in the fifty-yard dash on field day. With her long legs, Christina easily hurdled a pile of garbage bags in a front yard, gaining a small advantage since I had to maneuver around a shopping cart, assorted lawnmower parts, and a chipped lawn jockey.
We continued our pursuit and were only a dozen feet behind Joe’s truck when he spied us in his side mirror. He stuck his head out the window and looked back at us. “What the fuck?”
“DEA!” Christina hollered, running up to the side of his van, her gun now drawn. “Come out of your truck with your hands up!”
He hesitated for a split second, a dumbfounded look on his face. He pulled his head back inside, the van’s tires screeching as he floored the gas pedal and roared off, leaving us in his dust.
“Shit!” Christina spat.
The two of us took off after Joe again.
Joe careened down the street, one eye on the road, the other on his side mirror, narrowly missing a chubby black teenage boy who’d stepped into the street wearing nothing but a faded pair of teddy-bear-print pajama bottoms and waving a dollar bill. “Get your ass back here, ice-cream man!”
When we passed the kid he joined in, running after us as fast as he could in his bare feet, his boy-boobs and Buddha belly jiggling with the effort.
Christina hollered back at the kid. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“Missed the bus.”
“Go home, kid,” I shouted. “This could get ugly.”
“I seen that ice-cream man,” the kid called back. “It’s already gotten ugly.” The footsteps behind us slowed as the boy ran out of steam. That’s what happens when you skip too many gym classes.
Joe turned another corner, taking the turn much too fast, jumping the curb. His tires kicked up a spray of dust and pebbles from the yard. He floored the gas pedal, banging down off the curb and roaring out of sight.
“He’s getting away!” I yelled. I was tempted to pull out my gun and shoot out his tires, but then I’d have to fill out another firearm discharge report and face another internal investigation. I’d managed to keep my job last time, but I wasn’t sure I’d be so lucky if I fired my gun again.
We were losing ground when an enormous green garbage truck rumbled into the street ahead, spewing black smoke and looming over the intersection, blocking Joe’s escape. Joe swerved to miss the garbage truck, his van tilting first to one side then the other, tires squealing as he overcorrected. He hit the curb. The van bounced up into a yard and—POOM!—crashed into a tree stump, the back tires of the vehicle leaving the ground as momentum caused it to rock forward. The van slammed down and bounced to a cockeyed stop straddling the curb, half in and half out of the street.
Christina bounded up the right side of the truck, while I took the left, approaching the driver’s window with my gun clasped at the ready in case he tried to escape out the driver’s door. Joe was no longer in his seat. I reached out and yanked the side mirror inward until it gave me a view inside Joe’s van. I saw him standing hunched over in the middle of the van, hands in his mullet, turning one way then another, trying to figure out what the hell to do. Thank goodness he wasn’t holding a weapon.
Christina stepped up to the open window on the other side and peered through it, both of our Glocks trained on Joe.
“Don’t move,” Christina ordered, “or we’ll blow that greasy mullet right off your head.”
Her threat was a lie, for two reasons. One, Joe had yet to use deadly force and all federal agent manuals prohibited the use of deadly force unless faced with the same. Second, with agents on both sides of the truck, if either of us shot at him there was a risk we’d end up taking out each other. Nothing like shooting your partner to ruin a perfectly good working relationship.
Joe probably wasn’t savvy enough to make this logical connection, but the guy still wasn’t willing to go down without a fight. “Fuck that shit!” Joe jerked the freezer door open and ducked behind it to shield himself from Christina’s view. “And fuck you, too!”
I could still see Joe plainly from my side, but apparently he hadn’t noticed me. Moron.
“Hey, Joe,” I called through the driver’s side window. “What she said.”
His head spun around so fast he risked whiplash. He spotted my face in his window and banged his fists on the rim of the freezer. “Fuck!”
That was Joe’s third “fuck” in less than fifteen seconds. “You really need to expand your vocabulary.”
Desperate, Joe reached into the open freezer, grabbing armfuls of frozen treats and hurling them at the windows, raining a hailstorm of ice cream down on me and Christina. I ducked, but not before I took a Drumstick to the forehead. Damn! Who would’ve thought a frozen ice-cream cone would make such an effective weapon?
When I stood back up and looked through the window, Christina had Joe by the hair, and was attempting to yank him out the service window by his mullet. Bent over, he slapped at her hands, trying to free himself from her grip. Sheez. He fought like a girl. But we girls didn’t.
I ran around to the other side of the truck, grabbing him by his shirt and the seat of his jeans to help Christina drag him from the window to the ground. He twisted as he fell, and I felt the fingernail on my index finger rip. Another manicure biting the dust. Dang.
While I checked my nail, Christina wrangled with Joe on the asphalt. For such a runt, he was putting up a pretty good fight now. They rolled over a couple of melting fudge bars, the ice cream leaving wet, brown stains on the back of Christina’s top.
I watched the two of them grapple, looking for an opportunity to jump in and help my partner. Just when I’d decided to try grabbing Joe’s arm, the two of them rolled over again and his arm disappeared into the mix of wriggling bodies. Should I try grabbing his ankle? When Joe bucked under Christina, tossing her a foot in the air, I saw an opportunity I simply couldn’t pass up. Christina now lay sideways across Joe’s chest, her hands wrapped around his wrists, trying to pin him to the ground. But Joe’s lower body, including his groin, was exposed, accessible. Heck, the guy was practically begging to be kicked in the nuts.
A swift punt to the crotch was all it took to put an end to Joe’s resistance. Christina climbed off him and he pulled his legs up, rolling onto his side in a fetal position, his hands on his groin, retching. We gave him a few se
conds to finish writhing in agony before Christina rolled him onto his stomach, sat on his lower back, and pulled his arms up behind him. Under other circumstances, Joe probably would’ve loved this.
She held out her hand and I handed her my cuffs. Once he was properly cuffed, she ruffled Joe’s hair playfully and climbed off him. “You made this fun, Joe. Thanks.”
Joe turned to look up at us, his face red and spotty with road rash. “Bitches!”
Christina knelt down then, putting her face in Joe’s and—dear Lord—the guy still couldn’t resist looking at her breasts. “You have the right to remain silent,” she began. “Anything you say can be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to a decent haircut.”
She continued on. By the time she finished reading Joe his rights, local police had arrived, alerted by a concerned resident who’d reported “two skanky hos trying to rob the ice-cream man.” Officers shoved Joe into the backseat of a cruiser and kept onlookers at bay as we explained the situation to the sergeant in charge.
As the cruiser pulled away, Joe looked back at us through the rear window, eyes narrowed in fury, his mouth forming unheard curses behind the glass.
“He never saw this coming,” I said. “Part of me almost feels sorry for him.”
Christina sighed. “Me, too.” And with that, she lifted her blouse and bra, giving Joe a glimpse of the last set of boobs he’d see for years to come.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Pride and Procedures
Once the dust had settled, I looked over at Christina. She’d acquired a few abrasions in the melee, as well as a dark spot on her cheekbone certain to turn into a sizable bruise. That had to hurt. I retrieved a Popsicle from the ground and handed it to her, gesturing to her face. The cold would help numb the pain.
She held the still-wrapped frozen treat to her cheek. “Thanks.”
We searched Joe’s truck, which turned out to be a veritable pharmacy on wheels. There was cocaine in the glove compartment, more crystal meth in the toolbox, a dozen prerolled joints tucked inside a folded map under the seat.
I lay on my tummy to search under the freezer. “Holy shit.” Reaching a hand underneath, I pulled out a double-barreled, sawed-off shotgun. I sat cross-legged on the floor and checked the chamber. Loaded. Whoa. I looked up at Christina.
Her eyes were wide. “Yikes.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Yikes.”
“He must’ve panicked and forgot he had the gun.”
“Thank God.” I was a good shot, sure, but my Glock would have been no match for a shotgun at point-blank range.
Once we’d secured the evidence and had Joe’s ice-cream truck towed to the federal impound lot, the two of us headed back to the stakeout house on foot.
We’d need to obtain a search warrant to look through Joe’s apartment, but it couldn’t hurt to get Christina some medical attention before heading to the courthouse. I felt a little guilty that I’d escaped unscathed this time—other than my fingernail, that is.
“Let’s make a quick stop by the doc-in-a-box,” I suggested. “Ajay’ll fix you up.”
We left the dog in the backyard with a bowl of water, piled into Pinky, and headed to the clinic. You might have expected us to be jovial then, celebrating our victory. But everything was still too fresh, the adrenaline not yet gone from our systems. I felt myself begin to shake and glanced over at Christina. She, too, was quivering, as the adrenaline drained from her bloodstream. We drove the entire way to the medical clinic in silence.
Kelsey spied us as we came in the door. “Back again?”
I nodded, hiking a thumb at Christina. “Her turn this time.”
Kelsey pushed away from the counter, rolling back in her chair. “I’ll make a new file.”
Once Christina had completed the same reams of paperwork I’d filled out not so long ago, a nurse led us to an exam room to wait.
A moment later Dr. Maju entered the room. His T-shirt today sported a picture of Bart Simpson with the words DON’T HAVE A COW, MAN printed below. When he noticed that the patient sitting on the table was Christina, he bolted across the room. He brushed back her bangs, tilting his head as he eyed her bruise and abrasions. “What the hell happened?” He retrieved his flashlight from his pocket and shone his light in her left eye.
“Stop that.” She pushed his arm away. “That’s annoying. I’m fine.”
Christina told Ajay about the takedown.
Ajay’s face clouded when he learned that Joe had been the one to hurt his woman, his mouth dropping when she told him about the loaded shotgun I’d found under the freezer. Ajay’s eyes narrowed. “That asswipe. I should’ve offed him last Friday night. I could’ve cut him into pieces and had him hauled away with the other biohazards. No one would have been the wiser.”
I filed that tidbit of information away for future reference. It might come in handy someday.
Ajay cleaned Christina’s superficial wounds, applying antibiotic ointment and covering them with small circular Band-Aids, then giving her a kiss on the cheek.
When he finished with Christina, he took a look at my forearm. “The cream seems to be working.”
A slightly raised, uneven line crossed my skin, the surrounding flesh still pink, but it looked much better than it had initially. It was my battle scar. A wound that would serve as a constant reminder of the dangers of my job. But hell, it was nothing compared to the hole Joe’s shotgun could’ve put in me and Christina.
I would never have faced dangers like this if I’d stayed with Martin and McGee. Was that where I belonged? What would I have done if Joe had pulled the shotgun on us? Was I just fooling myself that I had what it took to be a special agent?
Then again, Christina and I had taken Joe down today with little effort, despite his hidden weapon and his attempts to resist arrest. We’d stopped a tax cheat and taken a drug dealer off the streets, saving untold numbers of children from a life of drug addiction. We had a lot to be proud of. This feeling, this sense of accomplishment, duty, purpose, and—why not admit it?—heroism, was precisely why I loved my job.
I’d never felt like a hero at the CPA firm. It simply wasn’t the same. Even though it was an auditor’s job to search for internal-control issues, clients weren’t too happy when you discovered their CFO had embezzled hundreds of thousands of dollars or that their accounting staff had overstated earnings by a few million or so. Telling a client they’d have to reissue that glowing earnings report to show the company had actually incurred a net loss was awkward, especially when you followed it up with a hefty bill for your services. Yep, Martin and McGee could keep their 401(k) matching, their cushy corner office, their six-figure salary, safety, and security. Tara Holloway was born to be a special agent.
* * *
Once we’d finished at the medical clinic, we made a brief detour by the courthouse. Ross O’Donnell met us there, arguing to get us a search warrant for Joe’s apartment.
One glance at the wounds dotting Christina’s skin and Judge Trumbull granted our request without so much as a question. She might be a bleeding heart, but a bleeding federal agent was something even a liberal judge like Alice Trumbull couldn’t ignore. Besides, once we mentioned the loaded shotgun, her bleeding heart had been stanched.
Joe’s apartment was in a rundown gray stucco complex located a few miles from the crack shack. We parked Pinky next to a graffiti-covered Dumpster and picked our way among cigarette butts, broken beer bottles, and trash to Joe’s building. The water in the pool was green and cloudy, the bottom not even visible through the murk. I hung on to the rickety iron rail as Christina led the way up cracked concrete steps to the third-floor apartment. She fumbled with the key ring we’d confiscated from Joe’s truck, eventually finding a key that fit the lock. She pushed the door open and looked inside. “Wow.”
I stepped up behind her and took a look. Mounted on the wall opposite a cheap metal-frame futon was an enormous state-of-the-art high-definition flat-screen TV, one of t
he items Joe had foolishly purchased with cash, resulting in the electronics store reporting the sale to the feds. An Xbox game system and a DVR were hooked up to the TV. Off to the left stood a cabinet filled with top-of-the-line stereo equipment, every video game known to man, and a CD rack full of the latest music. Despite the high-dollar electronics, the place was filthy and unkempt, a thick layer of dust coating the equipment, the blue carpet stained, unopened mail littering the Formica breakfast bar. A faint smell of stale beer and cooking grease permeated the air.
I riffled through the mail, confiscating an invoice from Joe’s ice-cream supplier, his bank and credit card statements, and his bills. The supplier could provide us with information detailing how much ice cream Joe had purchased. All we’d have to do was tack on the standard markup and we’d be able to compute his profits and the taxes owed on his ice-cream business. The bank statement would show any cash Joe had run through his account that might not have been accounted for on his tax return. The credit card statement and other bills would enable us to estimate how much money Joe had spent. Any spending in excess of his ice-cream profits would presumably be funded by income from drug sales. Then, of course, we’d adjust for cash on hand. Not an exact method, but the best we could do. And hey, if Joe didn’t like the numbers we came up with, he was welcome to provide reliable financial records to support an adjustment.
In Joe’s bedroom, we found a pricey laptop computer on his unmade bed. When I hit the space bar, the screensaver disappeared, replaced by a photo of a blond woman with enormous breasts lying spread-eagled on a hammock, pleasuring herself with what appeared to be either a zucchini or cucumber. I didn’t look long enough to figure out for sure. “Ew.” I drew my hand back in disgust and slammed the screen closed.
As happy as I was to have helped put an end to Joe’s career in illegal pharmaceuticals, drugs were Christina’s domain. Cold hard cash was what I was after. As an IRS special agent, I served as Uncle Sam’s bill collector. After a thorough search, we found a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills in a Ziploc bag floating in Joe’s toilet tank, a sizable stash of marijuana in his bottom dresser drawer, and a box of tissues and an extra-large jar of Vaseline—lid off and half empty—on his night table. Urk.
