Donaldson halted.
“Hey, scarface, how many ugly sticks did God break over your face to do that to you?”
Donaldson wasn’t religious, but that was just plain mean. Stares and occasional comments were expected, given his appearance. But he knew the difference between disgust and aggression. Drunk, on vacation, looking to impress the girls; they were looking for a fight.
“He’s staring at me, Brad. Make him stop staring.”
Brad’s hands balled into fists. “You staring at my girlfriend, creep?”
Donaldson considered the crowbar. In his earlier years, he would have thrown caution to the wind and had a go at beating them all to death. But Brad was pretty big. So was his buddy. And those women almost for sure worked out.
Donaldson already had enough failures for the day, and decided his best bet was to scurry off and lick his wounds in private.
“I asked you a question,” Brad puffed out his chest and picked up his pace, closing the distance between them. “You staring at her?”
Donaldson backed away. “I was in an accident. I can’t close my eye.”
“Dónde está mi bota?” the drunk Mexican said, pointing.
Brand pointed, stereotypical ugly American striking the bully pose. “Did you steal this man’s boot?”
Donaldson turned and hurried back to the car. He reached for—and missed—the door handle because his depth perception was shit with his injured eye. Feeling around until he found it, he managed to get inside and hit the lock just as Brad began banging on his window.
“Where you going, freak?”
“I need a doctor,” Donaldson moaned.
“You need an ass kicking!”
Brad pounded harder. Donaldson chanced a look in the rearview, and saw Brad’s musclehead friend coming up from behind.
Time to go.
Donaldson peeled out of the parking lot, wondering what the hell was wrong with people these days. He remembered when, decades ago, he could lure potential victims into helping him by pretending to be injured. He’d killed over a dozen unsuspecting good Samaritans by feigning a broken ankle, or a heart attack. But now, when he actually was injured for real, some ass-goblins were trying to injure him even more. It was like the collective compassion of the human race had taken a face-dive into the toilet.
He blamed violent video games.
Donaldson turned the Caddy east, keeping his good eye on the lookout for a hospital, hoping Mexico had as many as the United States did.
JACK
Kansas City
Have you heard of Emilio Cardova?”
“No.” I was sitting in the desk chair in my hotel room, talking to Herb on my cell.
My friend, Herb. Not Harry’s pet pig.
“The Cardova cartel is one of the largest in Mexico,” Herb continued. “They have poppy farms as far south as Columbia. Specializing in syrup distro.”
“Cough medicine with opiates.”
“Right, but without the medicine. It’s basically sugar water you can OD on. A few weeks ago, one of Cardova’s men was arrested in La Joya, and tried to cut a deal. He said that Cardova had a secret compound where—get this—he’s forcing prisoners to fight in gladiator games.”
“Like the Roman Coliseum?”
“Supposedly worse. Fighting to the death while assholes bet on the outcome.”
Nice. Humanity continued to thwart my efforts to have any faith in it whatsoever. “What’s Luther Kite’s link?”
“The suspect said that the arena was run by a scarred guy with long, black hair. They call him El Cometa.”
I punched that in on my laptop and used Google Translate. “The Comet.”
“Cometa also means something else in Spanish,” Herb said. “It’s another word for kite.”
So Luther had made it to Mexico, and somehow wound up running death matches for a cartel.
“Where is the arena?” I asked.
“It’s called La Juntita. Supposedly hidden somewhere in the Vizcaíno desert, but the guy couldn’t point to it on a map. We’re talking ten thousand square miles of wildlife refuge.”
“Impossible to search.”
“Or maybe the police know about it, but Cardova paid off the right people.”
This was quickly devolving from very bad to much worse. “How about satellite images?”
“Suspect said the compound is well-camouflaged. Even if you knew where to look, you wouldn’t see anything from above.”
I closed my eyes. Violence was part of our genetic code. If there were only two people left on the planet, one would wind up victimizing the other. I’d known this for decades. But now that I had a child, my world-weary resignation had been superseded by paranoia. Paranoia that was constantly being reinforced by real life events.
I quit being a cop because I didn’t want to deal with the violence anymore. I wanted a normal, boring, mundane, average, run-of-the-mill life, where the main worries were money and sex and health. How was I supposed to tell Samantha that her father went to murder a serial killer and wound up dying in a gladiator arena while men placed bets? That was so messed up it was almost funny.
“How are you holding up?” Herb asked, his voice soft.
“Fine.”
“You sure?”
“This might sound awful, but I think I might be getting used to psychos targeting me and those I love.”
“So you feel desensitized?”
“Heh, I wish I felt desensitized. Instead, I feel…”
How did I feel?
Cursed. I felt cursed. Condemned to walk the earth, fighting monsters. And I was pulling my friends and family into the chasm with me.
I sighed. “I’m just having a pity party, Herb.”
“This isn’t your fault, Jack.”
“That’s like saying it isn’t the lightning rod’s fault it keeps getting zapped.”
“Phin chose to do this. It’s on him.”
“How is Luther Kite on him?”
“How is Luther Kite on you? He was never one of your cases. You were never after him. It’s just some stupid quirk of fate. Shit happens. Don’t let that define you.”
“What if it defines me whether I want it to or not? What if I’m actually a magnet for psychos? Your wife doesn’t want you to go anywhere near me.”
“Thanks. Like I didn’t already feel shitty about that.”
“You wife isn’t wrong, Herb. If I could have stopped Phin from doing this, I would have.”
“She is wrong, Jack. For almost thirty years, Bernice has been worrying about me. Now her worries are about to end, and she doesn’t know how to handle it. Be honest; has your life improved since you’ve retired?”
“My past won’t allow it to improve.”
“You won’t allow it to improve. You haven’t been living. You’ve been hiding. Not only from the world, but from yourself.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means that you need to be you, because you suck at being anyone else. Be Jack Daniels. Stop tippy-toeing around it. The only alternative is eating your gun and taking yourself out of the game.”
“You suck at pep-talks, Herb.”
“Suicidal thoughts go with the badge. Waller, the district shrink, thinks I’m trying to kill myself by eating junk food.”
“Is she right?”
“No. I just like sugar. A lot. Hell, I’d die for sugar.”
I changed the subject. “How did you find out about Kite and Cardova? That’s pretty good police work for an old guy retiring next week.”
“I called in a favor at Interpol.”
“You don’t know anyone at Interpol.”
“Okay, you caught me. I worked with a pal in the gang unit who speaks Spanish, and we spent all day searching through Mexicali’s version of a police blotter.”
One of his last days on the Job, and he spent it helping me.
“Thank you, Herb.”
“Least I can do. I’ll keep at it, let you know if I
find anything.”
“I appreciate it.”
“I’m serious about the you being you thing. You’re one of the good guys. Denying your nature isn’t going to get you anywhere.”
Herb hung up, and I considered my next move. This information seemed important enough to share with Fleming and Chandler, who had access to resources above and beyond regular law enforcement. But Chandler hadn’t given me a way to contact her. So I mimicked Harry’s method and wrote a Reddit post using the keywords White House, bugged, Daniels, McGlade, Fleming, and Chandler.
Thirty seconds later, my cell rang.
“This is Jack.”
“You and the idiot need to stop using the Internet like rank amateurs.”
“Hi, Fleming. Good to hear from you.” She didn’t correct me and say she was Chandler, so I figured I’d guessed her name correctly.
“And don’t use codenames on cell phones.”
“You called me. Isn’t your line encrypted?”
“Yes. But you should always act like every second of your life is being broadcast live on worldwide public television.”
“That’s… awful.”
“Privacy is a myth. The faster you learn that, the better off you’ll be.”
That didn’t seem like a decent way to live, but this wasn’t the time to argue. “I have a lead. There’s a drug lord named—”
“Don’t say his name. We’re already on it.”
“How did you—”
“We’re tapping your phone.”
“Oh,” I said. “Thanks.”
“And your sugar-addicted partner is correct. Shit or get off the pot.”
“Is that what he said?”
“He said be yourself or eat a gun. Do one or the other. You’re not acting like the woman I met years ago at my apartment.”
“Wait… this is Chandler?”
She sighed. “Again with the codenames.”
“You and your sister really sound alike.”
“This small talk thing; I’m not big on it.”
“Not sure how I can respond to that without it sounding like small talk.”
“If this arena exists and doesn’t show up on satellite photos, we can try using infrared. I also have some other ideas how to find it.”
“How do we know if my husband is—”
“My sister located his cell phone. It was in the trunk of a rental car. Car was returned earlier today.”
“By Phin?”
Chandler paused, then said. “No. By someone else. We’re working on figuring out who. Now that we know who is involved, we know who to ask.”
“So you think he’s there?”
“Assuming this place exists, we’ll find it. And assuming he’s there, we’ll find him. Assuming he’s still alive. See you in two days.”
“How do I contact you if—”
“You don’t.”
She hung up.
If I’d felt bad earlier, I felt a lot worse having talked to Herb and Chandler. My paranoia and worry meters each hit the red zone.
I checked the time on my cell, wondering if it was too late to call my daughter. It was.
Calling her was probably a bad idea, anyway. Some psycho could be listening and trace it to my mother and child. A premise that would seem utterly ridiculous, except that it wasn’t. Bad people from my past have repeatedly targeted my family, and my family had suffered terrible tragedies simply because they were unlucky enough to be my family.
Though Herb mentioned that suicidal thoughts went with the badge, I hadn’t ever seriously considered ending my own life.
But to save my daughter? I’d end my own life without a second thought if it kept her safe.
Since I was already feeling so darn good about myself, I went over to the mini bar to get my drink on. But it wasn’t a mini bar, it was just an empty mini fridge, sadly lacking in liquor.
Wishing I’d taken Katie up on her offer of bar hopping, I texted her to see if she was around. After waiting more than a minute for a response that never came, I called Tequila’s room.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Jack. I’m thinking about going out for a beer.”
“Yeah?”
“Thought you might want to join me.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m watching Toy Story 2.”
“Really? That doesn’t seem like it would be your thing.”
“Pixar tickles my childhood sense of whimsy.”
“Indeed,” I said.
“Have you seen it?”
“No.”
“It just started. To infinity and beyond.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what Buzz Lightyear says. To infinity and beyond.”
I stared at my wedding band. On the inside, Phin had inscribed; For forever and beyond.
I wondered if he’d gotten that from the movie.
I wondered if I’d ever have the chance to ask him.
Tequila hung up. That meant I could either find a watering hole on my own, or call up McGlade.
I found a watering hole on my own. On the recommendation of the cab driver, I wound up at The Standard Pour Tavern and I found a tiny round table for one facing a TV that was playing—go figure—Toy Story 2, but with the volume down so I couldn’t hear what was happening.
A waiter came over, and I dropped forty bucks on a bottle of local brew called Boulevard Bourbon Barrel Quad. A lot of money for a beer, but it was twenty-five ounces and almost 12% ABV, and I figured that would be all I needed to get me through the evening.
Muffled music and applause filtered in through the wall from the bar next door. They sounded like they were having more fun than I was; getting slowly tanked, avoiding thoughts of my husband and daughter, and trying to lip-read computer animated characters.
The quad got me where I wanted to go, but then Toy Story 2 ended and something much less colorful came on, and I was stuck there, alone with my thoughts.
Phin was either okay, or he wasn’t. Nothing I could do there.
Sam was the happiest toddler ever, but the world was a big, bad place that tried to kill her mother on a regular basis, and chances were high some of that would spill over onto her.
Herb (my friend, not Harry’s pig) was probably right that I needed to act more like me, but that was hypocritical advice because I was convinced he would adjust to retirement about as well as I have.
Luther Kite was never supposed to be my problem, but that didn’t matter; we were headed for a confrontation.
I had decent people on my team. Chandler, Fleming, and Tequila were the kinds of allies that you’d be scared shitless of if they were enemies. Val was my only female friend, and as competent a cop as I’d been in my prime. Harry was Harry, but as irritating as he could be he’d saved my ass more than once, and I could count on him. Katie was…
Katie was what?
Smart. Competent. Focused. Driven.
Damaged.
To some degree, we’re all damaged. Life dishes out more shit to some than to others, and some can cope with it better than others, but no one gets out unscarred.
Katie had been scarred. I’d interviewed far too many victims of violent crimes to not see it in her. The way she talked. The way she moved. The questions she asked, and the answers she gave.
This Luther Kite expedition was more than just book research to her. It was personal. And that made Katie dangerous.
The beer was kicking in big-time, and against my better judgment I called McGlade.
“You in danger, or drunk?” Harry asked.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You only call me outside of work when your life is being threatened, or you’ve had too much to drink.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re my brother, Harry.” I frowned. “Sort of.”
“Ahh. Drunk. You want to party with me and Bacondict? We ate a bunch of pot cookies two hour
s ago and they’re starting to kick in. We’re going to listen to Pink Floyd’s Animals. You’d think his favorite song on the album is Pigs, right? Because he’s a pig. Well… guess what? It is! Isn’t that hysterical?”
“Hysterical,” I said, even though it wasn’t hysterical. “I’m calling about Katie. I think she’s hiding something.”
“Really? Ya think? No duh, Einsteinpants. That’s why we brought her along. You ought to be a detective, Jack Daniels. Your name is Jack Daniels. Like the whiskey. Isn’t that hysterical?”
“Hysterical,” I said, even though it wasn’t hysterical.
“You know, if they ever do a spin-off of my TV series, starring you as the main character, they should name it after a drink. What do you think about the name Whiskey Sour?”
“Not much.”
“I bet it could find an audience. You’re one of those strong, angsty, neurotic chicks that people like for some reason. Hey! Maybe a reality show. They could follow you around with cameras, catch you brooding over all the mistakes you’ve made. Good TV. It would be hysterical. Isn’t it hysterical?”
We seemed to be caught in some terrible loop.
“Harry…”
“Wait a sec… Herb wants to talk to you. Hold on.” There was a rustling sound, and at a distance away from the phone Harry said, “It’s Jack, she wants to talk to you. Go on, answer it. You’re being rude, Herb. Just talk to her, say hi. Fine, be a dick.” Another rustle. “He stepped out for a minute,” Harry said.
“McGlade, I called to talk about Katie.”
He didn’t reply.
“Harry?”
“What? Who is this?”
“It’s Jack.”
“Heh. I was just thinking about you.”
“How many pot cookies did you eat?”
“All of them. Wait… who is this?”
“It’s Jack.”
“Jackie! You should come over, party with us. Herb and I had some edibles. Wait! I hear something outside,” he whispered. “I think it’s the cops. The pigs. Heh! Pigs! Herb Bacondict is a pig. You know that song Pigs, by Floyd? He loves it! Wait… who is this?”
“I think Cheech & Chong did this bit.”
“I love Cheech & Chong!”
I hung up, reminded why I never called Harry outside of work or when my life was in danger. But I did glean one nugget from the conversation. McGlade didn’t trust Katie, either.
Last Call - A Thriller (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries Book 10) Page 15
