by Lonni Lees
She spotted her gun nearly within his reach. He spotted it too and reached toward it. Maggie heard bones snap as she stomped on his hand. He yelled. She reached for her gun as he grabbed her ankle with his undamaged hand. She lost her balance and fell forward onto the floor with a painful thud.
Marty let out a string of profanities as they struggled. He hated her, he’d show her who was boss, she’d get what she was asking for. He called her every filthy name he could think of. The hand she’d stomped on was useless but even one-handed he was strong. But her anger and instincts were stronger.
She escaped from his grip, rose and gave him a hard kick to the side of his head. She grabbed her gun, jumped atop him and straddled him like a rodeo cowboy.
Maggie cocked the gun and shoved it against the back of his neck. It took every ounce of control she could muster not to pull the trigger. She wanted him dead, but she also wanted him to suffer long and hard for what he’d done.
And for what he’d tried to do.
She knew he was wired wrong but never thought he could be this dangerous. Anger rose like hot lava and bile burned her throat as she spoke.
“Who’s calling the shots now, huh Marty? I told you we weren’t right.” She shoved his face into the floor. “You really need to find yourself a new girlfriend. Somebody more passive. You should know I don’t take crap. Not from you. Not from anybody!”
He struggled beneath her and uttered more profanities.
“Don’t move or I’ll blow your head off.”
Sirens in the distance grew closer and closer. Flashing lights danced across the walls like a psychedelic crazy quilt. Car doors slammed.
“Maggie, you okay in there?”
The door crashed open and there stood Jerry Montana and his sidekick Aaron Iverson, guns pointing around the room then settling their aim at Marty as he continued to struggle beneath her hold. Maggie had never been so happy to see his face.
“Freeze right there,” said the rookie with authority. “We got you covered and we’ll shoot.”
Maggie leaned forward and whispered in Marty’s ear like a lover as she pressed the muzzle of her gun harder into the back of his neck. “You’ve got three guns on you, Marty. A smarter man might reconsider all that wiggling.”
“Spread your arms out at your sides,” said Jerry Montana. “And don’t move.”
Defeated, he obeyed. Once she felt his muscles relax Maggie got off him. The rookie cop dragged him to his feet, yanked his arms behind him and clicked on the cuffs.
“We’re not interrupting a hot date here are we?” said Jerry to Maggie.
“Bit me, Montana.”
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”
“I think Marty here might be suffering from separation anxiety,” she smirked.
Jerry looked at her bloody, beaten face and her torn clothes.
“Should we call for a bus? You don’t look so good,” he said.
Maggie felt the swelling above her eye and wiped the blood from her mouth.
“No, I’m okay,” she said. “Just get this creep out of here. Assault and battery on a police officer, unlawful entry, attempted rape and kidnapping for starters. I’ll add more once my head clears.”
“Kidnapping?” Marty yelled, “You’re kidding me.”
“The minute you held me against my will. You’re going away for a long time.
Marty looked at Jerry Montana. “It’s nothing but a little misunderstanding,” he said. “A lover’s spat.”
“Right, this is how he serenades me,” said Maggie.
“Then I guess we can add domestic abuse to the charges.”
Marty released an unearthly growl like a wolf-trapped animal ready to chew off its own leg.
“Jerry,” said Maggie, “How the hell did you know to come here?”
“Some guy called 911, frantic. He knew your name but not where you were. He gave the dispatcher an earful when he told her you were one of us and we’d better get to you pronto.”
“Thank you both.”
“You betcha,” said Aaron Iverson. “The caller wanted your address. Damn near chewed the dispatcher’s ear off, but she stuck to the rules and didn’t budge.”
Jerry Montana pulled out his camera while Aaron Iverson held the perp. “We need to photograph the damage so pose pretty for me, Irish.”
Maggie stood still as he photographed her torn clothes, black eye and bloody mouth.
The camera flashed and Jerry said, “Yup, this one’ll make a great Miss March for next year’s calendar.”
“You’re incurable,” Maggie said.
Prowler walked across the room and rubbed against Maggie’s leg.
“Did you get the caller’s name?”
“Rico something. No, Rocco. Rocco La Crosse,” said the rookie.
Maggie finally remembered they’d been on the cell phone. That hit on the head had knocked it straight out of her. Once again Rocco had entered the picture and this time it probably saved her life. Or Marty’s. If Jerry and Aaron hadn’t shown up when they did, she might have had no alternative but to shoot Marty. Not that she’d have minded. But that would have involved a long internal investigation. And visits to the shrink. No doubt she’d come out on top, but it would be in her file just the same.
Pain shot through her as she crossed the room and bent down. She groaned as she picked up strewn cans of cat food to the delight of her hungry cat.
“This La Crosse character a friend of yours?” asked Jerry Montana.
“Yeah, I guess you could say he is.”
She looked over at Marty. He was glaring at her, one eye filled with the iciness she’d seen at the café, the other filled with bug shit crazy.
“We’ll need your statement,” Jerry reminded her.
“I’ll give it to you in the morning, Montana. Tonight just get this animal out of my sight and into a cage,” she said. “I’m tired.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DWINDLING SUSPECTS
Maggie assessed the damage as she undressed in front of the bathroom mirror. Bruises were surfacing from head to toe. She turned on the shower. Her body ached and a knot the size of a baseball swelled where her head had hit the end table. Her hands trembled as she downed a handful of aspirin then ran the washcloth painfully across her face. Outside, coyotes yapped at the moon and she heard the snorting and rustling of a family of javelinas as they worked their way down the alley, upending trash cans and rooting out their meals in the darkness. Prowler stood at the bathroom door, stomach full and eyes questioning his mistress.
She dabbed the washcloth gently at her split and swollen lip. “Ouch! That was some Valentine, wasn’t it boy?”
The cat walked over and squatted in his litter box, then covered his deed.
“My sentiments exactly,” Maggie said. “But I wish you wouldn’t stink up the room when I’m in it.”
She stepped into the shower, welcoming the stream of warm water that caressed her body and washed away the filth of Marty’s touch. There was no second guessing. She’d handled him diplomatically but there was no reasoning with crazy. It took violence to close the book. Too bad she had the bruises and all he had was a very sore groin and a trip to the slammer.
And a few facial scratches.
He deserved more, but that would have to do.
No introspection necessary.
She heard loud banging at the door as she stepped out of the shower. She threw her robe over her damp body. The doorbell rang non-stop as she limped across the living room. Expecting to greet a nosy neighbor she was surprised to find Rocco La Crosse standing there panting like he’d just run the marathon, perspiration running down his face and into his dark, unkempt beard.
“What, what happened...home invasion? What—are you okay? What happened?” He ran the words together, gasping and trying to catch his breath as he leaned against the doorway. He looked disheveled, as though he’d thrown his clothes on as an afterthought. Maggie tightened the sash on her bathrobe, realizing she didn’t look an
y better herself.
“Come on in,” she said. “You look like you could use a cold one. And so could I.”
When Maggie returned to the living room with the beers, Rocco was sitting on the couch. She handed him one and sat down next to him. As they were uncapping them, she asked “How in the world did you find me?”
“You’re not listed,” he said, holding up a sheet of crumpled paper. “I ripped this out of the phone book and worked my way down.” He took a deep draw from the bottle. “I started banging on doors hoping I’d find a Reardon that knew you—that knew where you lived. I tried to convince them I wasn’t a crazy person.” He took a deep breath. “Congratulations, you’re door number five.”
“Thanks for calling 911. I’m beyond grateful. But once you made the call, why go beyond that? Especially for a cop who sees you as a suspect in a murder case.”
“You’re the detective, you haven’t figured that out yet?”
Maggie didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.
He sat down his beer and straightened out the torn and wrinkled phone book page.
“Who are Michael and Sarah Reardon?” he asked, pointing at the listing.
“My parents,” she said. “I never got around to changing the listing after they died.”
“Detective Reardon,” he said looking at her bruises.
“We can use first names now, don’t you think?”
“Wait here, Maggie.” He rose from the couch and went into the kitchen, returning with ice cubes wrapped in a dish towel and sat down next to her. “Just hold still,” he said as he pressed the cold cloth against her swollen eye and rested his other hand on her shoulder.
His touch was gentle, his expression reassuring.
“That hurts, but it feels good,” she said.
“So what happened? A home invasion?”
Embarrassed, Maggie lowered her eyes.
“An ex who didn’t like the word no.”
He listened as she filled in the details.
“How could he do this?”
“With enthusiasm.”
Rocco pulled her to him and stroked her hair as she leaned her head against his chest.
* * * *
Maggie awoke nestled in the lap of a snoring Rocco with a purring cat draped across her hip. Embarrassed that she’d fallen asleep in his arms she straightened up, freeing his arm that had been folded beneath her and sending Prowler flying to the floor. Rocco opened his eyes and smiled at her, then stretched his arm in front of him and began shaking it.
“It fell numb about two hours ago,” he said, as he shook it back to life.
“Why didn’t you just give me an elbow in the ribs?”
“You were sleeping so peacefully.”
Having his arms around her had felt safe and comfortable. Too comfortable. He’d hinted at his feelings, but never made a pass. And Barbara Atwell remained under his roof. He’d offered comfort when she needed it. He was a hard one to figure. Slowly, Maggie stood, every muscle in her body aching and her head throbbing like a scared rabbit’s heart. The violence of the previous night came back with every painful movement.
When Rocco La Crosse stood up Maggie noticed the logo on his tee shirt.
“You’re a Buddhist?” she said.
“For the most part,” he said, looking down at the yin and yang design on his tee shirt.
“So you’re a pacifist then,” she said, relieved. If he was a pacifist it was doubtful he was a murderer.
“That’s the part I have a problem with,” he said as he stretched his arms toward the ceiling and yawned. “The Dalai Lama would be disappointed, but I’d do anything to protect those I care about. So philosophically, yes. You could call me a pacifist, just not in the strictest sense of the word.”
So, who exactly are you protecting? It’s right back on the suspect list for you, she thought, disappointed.
But she was attracted to him. Even more so since he’d barged in like a knight in shining armor, determined to protect the very person who held him suspect.
“I’ve got to brush my teeth,” she said and left the room.
When she came back he was in the kitchen. He’d cleaned up the half empty beer bottles from the night before. And Prowler was eating breakfast.
“Let me fix you something,” he said.
“No. Not a good idea. I’ve got to get to work. You should go.”
He shrugged. “Whatever you say.” Then added: “Barbara’s going back to the gallery today and I promised to help Adrian move back there too.”
“You must be disappointed.”
“Why would I be? Those two belong together. It’s just too bad it took this tragedy for Barbara to figure it out.”
“And Adrian Velikson might have accelerated things, don’t you think?”
“I know you can’t trust anyone right now, but I wish you could trust me. Adrian is good at waiting. And she can be jealous. But there’s not a violent bone in her body.”
“You’re friendship could be clouding your judgment.”
“I trust my feelings. And I trust my feelings for you.”
As much as she wanted to give in to her own, she said, “We can’t go there.”
“We could go for a cup of coffee.”
She walked over to him.
“I can’t thank you enough for last night, but it’s a bad idea.”
“Do you deny that you’re feeling what I am?”
“Rocco,” she said. “they say if you don’t know a horse look at his track record. Mine is lousy. I’d be a bad bet, believe me.”
“I’m willing to take that gamble.”
“It would be at your peril.” And you might just be a killer, she thought.
Then, as if he was reading her mind, he leaned over and kissed her softly on the forehead. “I’m one of the good guys,” he said and walked to the door.
There was sadness in his eyes when he turned and looked back at her.
And, without another word, he left.
* * * *
Detective Maggie Reardon went through the motions in a daze. She gave Jerry Montana her statement, sat out the squad room routine impatiently and refused the suggestion that she go on medical leave. She had a case to solve.
She contacted forensics. Still no results and they were backlogged. She urged them to put her at the top of the list. Instinct told her that the red clay was an important clue in putting the puzzle pieces together.
When she stopped at the mini mart for her coffee she wore her sunglasses and kept her head down. She didn’t want the over-protective Carlos to see the bruises or to have to explain. She drove past Viente de Agosto park and Crazy Jake and Mouse weren’t at their usual spot under the statue. She turned onto Convent Street and pulled up in front of the bright yellow garage door.
“Who is it?” came Jake’s voice from inside.
“Detective Reardon,” she said.
“Go away.”
She could hear Mouse whining at him.
“She’s a nice lady Jake. Just stop it.”
Mouse opened the garage door and welcomed her in with a smile.
“Did you catch the guy who killed Armando?”
“We’re working on it.”
Maggie looked around the room. A bare mattress lay on the floor, a makeshift sink and toilet were illegally plumbed into a back corner, and Jake sat in one of two bean bag chairs riddled with rips and duct tape. The sleeping dog was sprawled out on the floor. There was a shelf that held a few books, a couple of bongs and two of what must have been Armando’s Mexican statues. They were nothing more than cheap tourist crap, just as she’d been told, but she’d have expected to see more of them. Lack of taste notwithstanding, they bought them at every reception, so where were they all? She walked over to the shelf and picked one up.
“I can see why you like them,” she said. “They’re charming.”
Jake’s eyes were doing the same paranoid dance she’d observed at the park.
“
Don’t touch that,” he said nervously.
“Calm down Jake,” said Mouse.
Maggie placed the statue back on the shelf. “I’m surprised to see so few,” she said. “I hear you buy a lot of them.”
Mouse hesitated. “It’s just cuz, uh,”she squeaked.
“Let. Me. Talk.” Jake shot her a warning glance as he rose from his bean bag chair.
“Okay Jake, okay.”
“There ain’t no law,” he began. “So we buy ‘em and then we sell ‘em for more.”
Mouse looked at him with admiration.
“It’s called Capitalism,” he smirked.
“Yea,” she added. “It gives us a little more for—food.” She looked at Jake for his approval.
Maggie got a nose full of body odor as he walked over and stood in front of her. “If you got nothin’ else, go now,” he said, his rancid breath mixing with the fumes from last week’s sweat.
“Thank you for your time,” she said.
When she got to the street she took a deep breath of fresh air. Even if she could work up a motive for Crazy Jake or Mouse to kill Armando Salazar, she doubted either of the drugged up pair could muster the necessary motivation.
Maggie took out her notebook and crossed them off her list.
* * * *
As she drove across town, Rocco La Crosse kept wedging his way into Maggie’s thoughts. There was something about this guy, something beyond her attraction to him or her suspicion of him. He’d told her he was one of the good guys. She wondered if he really was. There were so few of them. He was certainly a man who gave generously of his time, as well as of his friendship. He was like a scruffy social worker who appeared to reach out to anyone in need.
He had reached out to her.
And that blasted electricity shot through her every time she was in his presence.
Or thought of him.
She definitely had to put the woman inside her on the back burner.
It was a distraction.
The cop in her came first.
Maggie pulled up in front of the white house and walked through the barren landscape to the front door. On the other side she could hear the cockatoo screeching out his string of profanities and Misty Water’s near-whisper admonishing him. There was something about all that white that Maggie found unnerving. It was as though the woman had washed it over herself until she disappeared unnoticed beyond the vale. Behind the mist. Exactly what was she hiding?
