Act of Betrayal

by Shirley Kennett

  Act of Betrayal

  Book Four of the PJ Gray Series

  Shirley Kennett

  To my son Timothy, whose spirit is as large and beautiful as the Ethiopian sky under which he was born

  Revenge is a wild kind of justice, which the more a man’s nature runs to, the more ought law to weed it out.

  —Francis Bacon, 1561-1626

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Epilogue

  One

  CUT DIDN’T HAVE THE connections to pull off the murder inside the prison, but now his target was on the outside. The timing couldn’t be better. He always associated the summer heat with the day that his boy died.

  It was hot in the apartment, but Cut was used to the heat. His lean body sweated freely, and the undershirt he wore was soaked under the arms and down his back. The last week of July in St. Louis was bad enough when a person could lie in the deep shade of a tree and let the breeze take away the sweat. In his long years he’d spent many an hour enjoying such breezes, the kind that left behind a salty taste on the skin and a hope for more than distant thunder from heavy clouds in the west. Compared to an afternoon under a shade tree, the apartment was a little slice of hell.

  It would have been nice to open the window.

  Though he had rented the apartment months ago, he had only furnished it with two rickety wooden chairs he’d picked up at Goodwill. That was back in February, and he hadn’t noticed that the apartment didn’t have air-conditioning then. No wonder the rent was so cheap. Even in something as important as deciding where the target would die, Cut was a practical man. No need to part with more money than he had to.

  The linings of the leather gloves he wore were soaked with sweat. He’d worn the gloves every time he was in the apartment. As the weather turned hotter, his palms, encased in winter gloves, responded like the tongues of eager puppies. Smelled like a wet puppy, too, one that had been rolling to pick up odors that were only attractive to another dog. After being sweated in and dried a few times, the gloves had lost most of their flexibility. He was planning to throw them out afterward, which was a shame because they had cost him fifteen bucks.

  Last week he had brought in all the supplies he needed. Securing the chemicals had been an interesting challenge, something he’d never had occasion to do. Cut spent some time putting the weather stripping on the door and sealing the heat vents with plastic bags. He’d found a dead mouse in one of them, dried and stiff, and taken it as a good omen.

  On the Big Day, he got to the apartment at seven in the morning, after treating himself to a biscuit breakfast and a cup of coffee at a fast-food place. It was a good thing he remembered to bring the insulated picnic jug of water. He took a sip, the cool water mingling with the sweat on his lips and trickling down his throat. He tilted his head back to enjoy the water, like a bird drinking. He pictured himself carousing in a birdbath, fluffing his feathers and shaking the water down to his skin. It helped some, took his mind off the heat. He wasn’t an imaginative man, but when he did get a good mental image he held onto it.

  A couple of years in Vietnam had taught him that heat was a relative thing. An enlistee at the age of thirty-four, Cut was almost rendered helpless by the heat when he stepped off the plane and into the jungle. Then he put it behind him in his practical way and got on with the business of surviving. He stayed in one country’s service or another’s for fourteen years, moving into covert activities after the evacuation. He wasn’t in the US Army after Vietnam, but the action was rewarding and the paychecks were regular. His only complaint was that it seemed that every place he was sent was blazing hot or so cold he began to think that blue was the normal color of his fingertips. He found he had a talent and a love for knife work, both close-in and with throwing knives that flitted like black wings of death, and he earned his nickname time and again. When he started to slow down, he told himself that it was a young man’s work and he should get his bony carcass out of the way and let them carry on. But he kept the name because he liked it.

  It was four in the afternoon. Cut’s stomach was empty, but his determination was fueled by thoughts of his only son, who had been so cruelly taken from him. He pulled off one glove and fished into his pocket for a peppermint candy. He popped it into his mouth, then carefully placed the wrapper back in his pocket and tugged the sweaty glove back on.

  Released from prison that morning, Cut’s target was on his way to the apartment. It had to be so. When a man got out of prison, he got himself a few drinks and then he got himself a woman. For the past several months, the target had corresponded with a woman, Ginger Miller, who lived in the hot-as-hell apartment on the third floor of an apartment building in south St. Louis. Cut knew all about that, because he wrote the letters himself. Ginger was the name of a teacher he’d had a crush on in sixth grade, and when the opportunity came to choose a woman’s name, he indulged himself. She didn’t really live in the apartment, but the target didn’t know that. Ginger’s letters had started out friendly, then grown hot and encouraging, and the last few had been open invitations to sex.

  The young man on the receiving end of those letters would be coming to Ginger’s apartment, as surely as a raccoon to an open garbage can.

  He sucked in the heated air, held it in his lungs, and thought that he could open the window for a little while and close it after the target arrived. No good. He’d already used the petroleum jelly, sealing the window glass and the frame as best he could. That hadn’t done his gloves any good, either.

  Just when he was berating himself for having weak thoughts of cool breezes and bathing like a bird, he heard the stairs creaking. Exhaling deeply but silently, his lips pursed into an o, Cut flexed his fingers and fought the stiff gloves. It was time.

  Perched on one of the chairs near the door of the apartment, he waited for the knock. When it came, he pressed the button on the tape player on the floor next to him.

  “Come on in,” the sexy female voice said. “The door’s open.”

  He had recorded it from a porno movie.

  The door opened and the target stood there with a silly grin on his face and a swelling below the belt that probably wasn’t a wad of money in his pocket. Cut rose and swung his fist in one smooth motion. As he’d guessed, one punch was enough to knock the unsuspecting man out. Even though Cut was sixty-six, he knew he was strong. He kept up his arm strength with push-ups every morning, and the morning of the Big Day had been no exception.

  It paid off. The target landed flat on his back in the hall. Cut dragged the unconscious man inside the apartment and over to the other chair, parting the sheets of plastic that he’d thumbtacked to the ceiling. Grasping h
im under the arms, he lifted the man easily to the chair that stood there. He stripped him of his clothes, thinking that added a nice touch of humiliation, then secured him with leather arm, leg, and chest restraints. He had decided against restraining the head. If his target thrashed around and convulsed, so much the better. Then Cut taped the man’s mouth. No sense taking the chance that anyone would hear him scream. The young woman, on the first floor was home with her baby, but as far as he knew the residents of the other apartments weren’t home. He had watched the building, and on other Wednesday mornings the place had been deserted except for 1B, the woman and baby.

  Cut had eliminated lethal injection first thing. Too gentle, although if he left off the anesthetic part of the process, it had possibilities. It would have been interesting to try electrocution, but Cut had feared electricity since the time he had nearly died of a bad shock as a child. He couldn’t set up an electric chair, himself, and he couldn’t very well hire an electrician. Too many questions, and not a clue to what he could answer that didn’t sound bad. Bringing lumber up the three flights of stairs to build a gallows held no appeal at all. He couldn’t do a firing squad properly with only himself to hold a gun, and besides, he didn’t want to be thought of as some kind of cheap-thrills Charles Branson in the Death Wish movies.

  He picked up the jug of water and doused his captive. As soon as the man got through sputtering and became fully alert, his eyes showed fear.

  Good.

  After taking a last look at the man’s pleading eyes, and watching him struggle against the restraints, Cut closed the flaps of the tent, walked over to door, and yanked the cord he had strung. He picked up the water jug and tape recorder. No sense wasting perfectly good things.

  He would like to stay and watch, but he was worried that gas would escape the makeshift tent and make staying inside the apartment dangerous. He had a fleeting thought for the woman and the baby in 1B, but knew he had sealed up the apartment pretty well, including the windows and vents. They should be okay.

  He heard the fizz of the cyanide tablets as they hit the acid, and moments later saw very faint tendrils of vapor rising from the bucket. Standing at the door, watching through the clear plastic, he saw Rick Schultz, Detective Leo Schultz’s son, hold his breath as long as he could, holding onto life. Inevitably, the young man released the pent-up air through his nostrils, and took in his first breath of deadly gas. Cut closed the door tightly and left him to die.

  A son for a son.

  Two

  PJ GRAY SMASHED THE buzzing alarm clock with a righteousness worthy of a pulpit-pounding preacher. It was 6:00 A.M. Monday morning, and it seemed as if her head had just hit the pillow. In fact, she had gotten three hours of sleep, but her body was slow to admit even that. She turned over onto her side, closed her eyes, and indulged in wishful thinking.

  Her cheek was lightly brushed by something that registered as spider legs. Popping her eyes wide open, she found herself with a close-up view of honey-colored feline eyes. Megabite, responding to the sound of the alarm and the expectation of the meal to follow, was on PJ’s pillow to make sure the human did her part in the morning routine. PJ, grateful that she had felt the cat’s whiskers and not real spider legs, blinked at the sunshine that was brash enough to come in her window. Still inert, she was bumped on the nose by Megabite, who clearly wasn’t satisfied with progress made.

  She had just about convinced herself to sit up, promising herself a long shower and a leisurely breakfast, when the phone rang. Fumbling for it, she sent Megabite tumbling to the floor, and earned an indignant stare from the cat.

  “What?” she barked into the phone. It was all of Monday morning pared down to a single word.

  “Take it easy, Doc. After all, I waited until the alarm went off.”

  “Just how do you know when my alarm goes off?”

  “Deduction. I’m a dee-tective.”

  “Not so anyone would notice.”

  “Christ. Okay, I’ll call back after you have your coffee. You can explain the delay to Lieutenant Wall.”

  A defensive Detective Leo Schultz was like a porcupine rolled into a ball. She squeezed the bridge of her nose and regretted every drop of wine that had passed her lips the night before. Mike Wolf hadn’t left until nearly 3:00 A.M., so that made it this morning rather than last night that she had done her unaccustomed drinking. Fine way to start the day.

  “Let’s start over, detective,” she said in the best apologetic tone she could manage.

  There was a pause as Schultz unrolled himself and flattened his quills.

  “Got a call from Dave,” he said. “Tenant complained of a bad smell from an apartment next door. Dave didn’t get too excited, since this time of year we get a fair number of those calls. People go on vacation, leave the family pooch in a locked-up apartment. ‘But I left plenty of food and water out,’ they whine when King the Wonder Dog turns up looking like a well-done roast. Those places are like ovens, especially the ones on the top floor.”

  “Could you get to the point?” PJ was thinking of cool water splashing on her face and Tylenol going down her throat.

  “What, have to go to the bathroom? I always have to take a piss as soon as the alarm goes off. Got my bladder trained that way.”

  “Schultz.”

  “Yeah, anyway, this call turns out to be a corpse of the human variety. Male Caucasian. Weird setup in the room, plastic, bondage, must have been something kinky. Dave wasn’t too specific.”

  “Good for him. He has excellent judgment.”

  Schultz gave her the address and she wrote it down. It was on the way in to work, so she’d stop there without going to her office first. It looked as if a shower and breakfast had moved farther away—in fact, over the horizon. She told Schultz she’d be there before him, and to let Dave know to expect her.

  PJ slipped on a pair of linen trousers that were draped over a chair. They were supposed to go to the dry cleaner’s that afternoon, but would have to get another wearing. Remembering with a groan that she had intended to do the laundry yesterday, she knew there wasn’t much hope of finding any clean clothes in her closet. She had spent time with her friend Mike instead.

  Mike’s wife, confined to a long-term care facility after a botched suicide attempt that left her with a devastating head injury, had died suddenly. A brain aneurysm accomplished what Sally Wolf hadn’t been able to do with a bullet. Mike had appeared at her door with the news, and there was nothing to do except invite him in and let him stay as long as he wished. Mike had become like a brother to her, so that meant the death of his wife, even though PJ had never met the woman, was treated like a death in the family.

  The price of her compassion—one of them, anyway—was opening her closet door and seeing that the only summer blouse left had large orange and red flowers and a deep V neck. It was that or go with long sleeves on a day that promised nearly a hundred degrees by noon. She slipped the blouse over her head, figuring that she had been possessed by the Demon of Poor Fashion Sense when she purchased it.

  PJ made her way down the hallway to her son’s bedroom. Sitting on the edge of Thomas’s bed, she admired his unlined forehead and angular tan cheeks, and couldn’t resist running her fingers over the soft, barely there mustache on his upper lip. At thirteen, Thomas was looking more like his father every day. It was eerie, the way that she could catch a sideways glimpse of Thomas and think it was Steven, come back into her life.

  No chance of that, even if she had wanted it. Steven had remarried the day after the divorce was final, and was happily cooing to his new wife and baby back in Denver.

  Impulsively she bent over and tickled Thomas’s nose with the tip of her shoulder-length hair. He snorted, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and looked sleepily up at her.

  “Mike gone yet?” he said.

  “Hours ago.” She refused to think of how few. “I got a call from Schultz and I need to go to work. What’s on your schedule, T-man?”

  He
yawned. “Winston and I are going to bum around the house and then ride our bikes over to the rec center after lunch.”

  “Swimming?”

  “Yeah.”

  She was glad the two boys were back together again, close companions as they had been since shortly after she and Thomas had moved to St. Louis. There had been a brief period when Winston believed that Thomas had started vicious rumors about him. It wasn’t true, but it had driven the boys apart.

  “Tough life,” she said, thinking about how she had savored her own childhood summers in Newton, Iowa. “Be home by four. I don’t want you out during rush hour on your bike.”

  “Geez, Mom, it’s not like we’re riding on the interstate.”

  “By four.” She kissed him on the forehead. He was almost back to sleep. She noticed that his alarm was set for nine-thirty.

  Envy swept over her.

  In the kitchen, PJ poured Megabite a dish of dry food. The cat sniffed it and decided to wait and see what Thomas would offer.

  PJ was surprised to find a trio of HazMat vans parked in front of the apartment building on Lake, and a crowd of people who must have been tenants clustered in small groups. Some were hastily dressed, some still in nightwear. A few men stood on the sidewalk in their boxer shorts. They had been rousted out of the building.

  The HazMat teams were packing up to leave. When PJ got out of her car, a faint smell of ammonia wafted over to her. She had a short wait at the door of the building as her ID was checked and her name entered onto the log of people entering and leaving the scene. The walls of the tiny entry vestibule were dark dirty green, and seemed to press in on her. It would have been depressing to come and go through the spot every day. There was no one in sight, so she started up the stairs.

  Climbing the flights of stairs to the third floor of the building where the murder had occurred, PJ was reminded in the clearest way that she had recently celebrated her forty-first birthday. The twenty extra pounds she carried weren’t defying the law of gravity, either, and by the time she reached the top she was breathing hard. The ammonia smell grew stronger as she climbed. It lightly stung her nose and throat, and there were tears poised in the corners of her eyes by the time she got to the third floor.