Rusedski put up a hand. “Not so fast, dammit.” He motioned us past a pile of junk to where we could talk privately. “Tell me what happened, and you leave anything out, I swear to God I won’t just bounce your ass, I’ll bring charges.”
Maggie huffed, playing the wrongly accused to a T. She went into it, same story as before. This time with more detail, more embellishments.
Another day, another place, I would’ve appreciated her performance, but I had to get out of these pants. God, I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t keep from checking the blood spot again. I could feel it resting on my leg. I could feel it.
Calm down. Pretend it’s not there. Concentrate.
The coroner arrived. Not Abdul, dammit. He’d picked a fine time to take a day off.
The forensics wouldn’t match. Wouldn’t be close. Bronson Carew didn’t shoot his victims. He stabbed them. His postmortem mutilations weren’t ragged, half-assed cuts. He didn’t leave chips of glass in the wounds. Probably wasn’t left-handed either.
But Carew was a psycho. An unstable, delusional psycho. Who could say that his MO couldn’t change? It wasn’t that big a stretch, was it? Rusedski would fall for it. The killer was in a rush. He got interrupted midway. The evidence couldn’t be expected to be a perfect match.
It was too big a leap for him to think I could’ve done this. That I shot two men in the back. That I pulled down Mota’s pants, picked up a piece of glass, and did what I did. Too outlandish. Even for me. I wasn’t that vicious. Or that desperate. I wasn’t that fucked in the head.
Except I was.
Med techs set up lights. The coroner got generous with the fly gel, gunky globs applied to the wounds.
“Who is that?” He pointed at Panama.
Maggie said, “Ask Juno.”
Great. Rusedski aimed eagle eyes at me. “Well?”
A fly landed on my pocket. I nervously swiped it away. I cleared my throat to make sure I still had a voice. “He’s a Yepala cop, a sheriff.”
“You shitting me?”
I shook my head and waved for him to come close, like I didn’t want the unis and med techs to overhear. He took an impatient step forward, and I beckoned him closer, hoping that I could bring him in near enough that he’d have no place to put his eyes except my face.
He stayed where he was, his pissed glare telling me I better talk.
“The YOP sheriff was in business with Wu, Froelich, and Mota.”
“What kind of business?”
I glanced down. Three flies on my leg. Fuck. I stuck my thumb in my pocket, let my fingers hang over the bulge. “They were dealing a new drug. The genie.”
“Genie? As in magic lamp?”
I nodded as I struggled to line up the words in my head. Concentrate. “It’s a date rape drug harvested from genetically engineered snails, but it doesn’t put anybody under. It gives you control over them, makes them do anything you want.”
He chewed his lip, processing.
I felt a fly on my knuckle, twitched a finger to make it take off. “You give somebody the genie and you get a helluva lot more than three wishes. It puts you in complete control until it wears off.”
“How long does that take?”
I gave him an unknowing smirk.
He was silent, gnawing on his lip, wheels turning inside his eyes.
I wiggled my fingers, flies launching and boomeranging straight back. I had to get out of here, needed to fast-forward to the end of this conversation. This charade wouldn’t last. Damn flies were going to give me away.
Words spilled out fast, nervous energy impossible to contain. “These assholes unleashed the ultimate rape drug. And the fucker who took my hand was one of its first victims. Bastard got raped, and then he got ignored when he came to the police.”
“He came to us?”
“Damn straight. But when Froelich and Wu found out, they swept it under to keep their operation going. They said he was a willing participant, told him he must’ve enjoyed it. Now he’s getting his revenge.”
Rusedski kept gnawing that lip. I kept spinning my yarn. “Mota was all over my ass because he was trying to cover his. He and this piece of shit from Yepala necktied Kripsen and Lumbela in an attempt to stop me.”
I saw a hint of fear creeping into his eyes. He was beginning to understand that he’d landed in the middle of a big-ass shit storm, and he was already trying to figure a way to keep himself clean. Classic low-level brass. First thought: containment.
I glanced down, my hand dotted with flies. My pants pocket too. I took a hurried step forward and bumped into him. I pulled my hand away from my pocket, put it on his shoulder, and whispered in his ear, “All these killings, it’s all about the genie. The public gets word that two of your detectives unleashed this devil, you’re going to fall.”
Check-fucking-mate. I had all the leverage I needed. You want containment, you stop riding Maggie. You give her whatever she wants. You make her a star.
I opened my mouth to drive the point home.
He pulled away from me. “Who is he?”
“Who?”
“Who the fuck do you think? The serial. What’s his name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t try that crap on me. He came to the police. He filed a report. What’s his name?”
Shit. Shit. Shit. My heart sank into my stomach, my stomach into my intestines, intestines dropping right out of me. My leverage was gone, evaporated. You said too much, you stupid shit.
I couldn’t let him find Carew. Not until I found him first. I had to plant my evidence. This case had to be closed up tight. And soon. I couldn’t let Rusedski’s task force mull over all the fucked forensics on this rooftop, couldn’t let them think too long or they might pull on one of a thousand loose threads and unravel the fabric of our story.
“You two are done holding out on me.” He turned to Maggie. “You think you can steal the glory? You think you can steal my job one day? Well, fuck you. You want to keep your job, you give me that name.”
I couldn’t tell him. I had to find Carew first. What were the odds we could outrace an entire task force? They’d post his pic on the news. Some do-gooder spots him and calls it in, we’re done for.
“Tell me,” he insisted.
My pocket was hopping with flies. I was out of time. Had to get out of here before he looked down.
He stared at Maggie. Then at me. He had us and he knew it. I’d said too damn much, gave my whole game away. Idiot.
“His name is Bronson Carew.”
“Where does he live?”
“I don’t know. He’s been off the grid for months.”
He eyed me with intense suspicion. I happily took the heat. All that mattered now was that he kept his gaze above my belt. “Look him up yourself, you don’t believe me.”
He pulled out his phone. “Don’t think I won’t.”
I took the opportunity to move away, deeper into the darkness, my mini-swarm coming with, my heart rate red-fucking-lined.
I tried to ignore the flies, the thing in my pocket. I watched Rusedski call up a holo-head, black hair, eyes like wildfire. Bronson Carew.
My spine went to ice, visions of that face shifting into the stripe-faced man-eater, steel teeth dug into my flesh. The missing part of my arm tingled, a hollow kind of prickle. Unscratchable. Unsootheable. Unbearable.
I wanted out of these pants. Wanted out of this skin. Out of this nightmare of my own making.
Maggie kept her distance. The look on her face said I better get used to it. I told myself she couldn’t cut me out of her life. Shit like this sticks to you. It follows you around for the rest of your life and beyond. She and I were permanently linked. Shackled. Like me and Niki. Me and Paul.
You couldn’t ever cut the shackles loose. You just had to learn how to drag it all with you as you walked.
Rusedski put the phone in his pocket and stepped up to Maggie. “Here’s how it’s going to play. You’re going home to clean up and then
you’re going in to work. You’ll sit at your desk until I catch Carew. Day, night, I don’t give a shit. You’ll stay there until we catch his ass.”
She nodded.
“And you’re going to keep this genie shit under wraps, absolutely no mention of Froelich or Wu’s involvement. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You be a good girl, and I’ll keep all this off your record.”
The status quo had been reestablished, my checkmate reduced to a draw. I could live with a draw. So could Maggie. But I had to find Carew first.
Or it was game over.
Twenty-seven
Rusedski turned his back on us and faced the small crowd of hommy dicks. “The cop killer’s name is Bronson Carew. Time for an old-fashioned manhunt. Listen carefully, this guy is dangerous. He killed your brothers in blue. Use any force necessary.”
Rusedski’s intent was clear. He didn’t want a trial, didn’t want the truth about his detectives’ involvement with the genie to come out. On that score we agreed. The genie had to stay bottled.
But Maggie and I had far more to lose if Carew’s story went public. Nobody could ever know that he was nowhere near this rooftop tonight. I couldn’t let Rusedski’s task force get Carew until I planted my evidence.
Questions came at Rusedski from several directions, his task force members seeking clarification. Maggie gave me a look and headed for the stairs. Good a time as any. I sucked in a deep breath and swept my hand over my pocket. Flies launched. I felt them bounce off my fingers, my shirt. I walked. They pelted me in the face. Buzzed in my ear.
I came out of the shadows, my eyes on Maggie’s back, my heart thumping like a pile driver. Flies followed, black dots streaking across my vision.
I moved as fast as I could without drawing attention. I stepped around a junk pile and took one last peek at my handiwork. Mota and Panama, blank eyes staring at the Big Sleep’s bleak sky.
I passed behind Rusedski. Flies darted into his circle and scribbled the air with humming flight patterns. I saw him shoo with his hand, as did the detective next to him. I put one foot in front of the other, the stairs only a few steps away. Don’t look. Don’t look.
Maggie was already on the stairs, me and my buzzing entourage approaching fast. I reached the stairs, took my first step down.
“Juno.” I stopped at the sound of my name. As did my heart. Slowly, I turned my head, but kept my body facing forward, flies zeroing in on my pocket.
Rusedski’s eyes were cold. My nerves turned frigid. “You stay out of our shit, you hear me? You’re not a cop anymore.”
I gave him the finger and hurried down the stairs.
I stood in the shower, hot water trickling from a caked showerhead. I’d scrubbed my skin clean three times over. Same with my hair, enduring the pain of a scalded scalp. I turned off the water and toweled, wet bandages feeling heavy on the end of my right arm.
I pulled on a fresh set of clothes and exited the bathroom. Two sealed plastic bags sat on the floor. One had my bloody clothes inside. The other leaked water onto the floor. I’d bought a nice piece of fish on ice around the block from the hotel, then found a bathroom, dumped the fish, and emptied the contents of my pocket into the bag of ice.
I suppressed a shiver. I was one demented bastard.
I checked the time. Deluski was supposed to be back by now. I went through the curtain, out to the hall and walked to his room, threw open the curtain.
The room was empty. Dammit. I needed to know what he’d found out about Carew. These last few hours were all the head start I had on Rusedski’s task force.
I leaned against the door frame. Time ticked past, every second adding another turn of the wrench that had hold of my gut.
When we’d first left the hotel, Maggie and I walked down the street together for a time. I’d said something stupid, something like, “Close call.”
I remembered the way she accelerated her pace. No relieved smile. No acknowledgment of my quick thinking skills. Nothing but double-timing legs trying to put distance between her and me.
The street had been crowded with cars and pedestrians, packed walkways and crammed sidewalk stands. Maggie carved a path for herself, legs pumping, me tagging along, saying things like, “Slow down,” and “Hold on a minute.”
I tried to tell her she couldn’t shut me out. We were partners. She needed to find a way to forgive me. But she wouldn’t look at me. Wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t listen.
What else could I do but let her go? I had a lase-rifle to retrieve. I needed ice.
Deluski appeared at the end of the hall.
Finally. “What you got?”
He came my direction, with soft steps and worried eyes. “Not much. Nobody I talked to has seen Carew in months. His financials were interesting, though. He lives off a trust fund he got from a charity.”
“Let me guess. Hudson Samusaka is a donor.”
“And a board member. Carew made several big withdrawals starting about a year ago. The balance is almost zero.”
“Probably used most of it to pay the doctor for his work.”
He asked the big question: “What happened with Mota?”
“It’s done.” That was all the detail he’d ever get.
He blew out a breath. “It’s really over?”
“You’re clear. I want everything you got on Carew, then I want you to move back home. Get some sleep and get back to work tomorrow.”
“You’re gonna need my help finding him.”
I shook my head no. “He’s not our problem anymore. I told Rusedski all about him. There’s a whole task force tracking him down. Only a matter of time before they find him.”
“You saying we’re done?”
For him the answer was yes. I wasn’t going to let him get dragged into the mess I’d made of things on that rooftop. Let him think it was Rusedski’s game from here on out. “It’s really over,” I said.
His eyes misted, and he put a hand out to the wall to steady himself. “I can’t believe it.”
I grabbed his shoulder, squeezed down with my fingers. “You remember this day, you hear me? Fresh starts are hard as hell to come by.”
He nodded, gaze aimed at the floor. I held on until he met me eye-to-eye, man to man. “You hear me?”
He nodded a yes.
“What did you get on Carew? I need to pass it along to Rusedski.”
“I went down to the south-side docks where he grew up. I asked around but like I said, nobody’s seen him, not in a long time. I got some family photos, pictures of when he was young.” He handed me a chip.
“Thanks.”
With a weak smile, he said, “I stopped at the hospital on my way back to check on Maria’s sister.”
“And?”
“She got cut up good.”
“She’ll live?”
“She’ll need a lot of work if she wants to keep her job.”
“She can work for Maria.”
He went into his room to grab his things. I went into my own room, nabbed the bags on the floor, and headed toward the exit, leaving a trail of dripping water. I pushed my way outside into the church courtyard.
I threw the bag with my bloody clothes into the trash bin and made for the stairs to the street. The preacher gave me a wave from the church doorway. “Good-bye now.”
“We’re out of here,” I said over my shoulder. “Thanks for the digs.”
“Jesus loves you.”
Only because he never met me.
I sat on a park bench, downed the last bite of a ’guana taco, hot sauce running down my wrist. I wiped my mouth with a napkin then set it flat on my lap and rubbed my wrist across it. Some of the simplest shit was such a pain in the ass.
The park was busy for so late: dice rollers and card players, flasks and bottles. People jawed, and loud music swirled in O smoke.
I was alone now. Completely, utterly alone. Didn’t see that coming when Paul died. Didn’t realize he was just the first to leave me.
Niki. My crew. Maggie.
I balled the napkin and tossed it at an overflowing trash can. I sucked on a can of soda, bubbles making my overheated tongue sting. The leaky bag sat by my feet, my shoes in a growing puddle of water. I called to the woman behind the fryer, the one who had prepared my taco. “Got ice?”
She nodded, then stood and opened the cooler she’d been using as a chair.
I untied my bag, brought it over, and held it open so she could dump ice in, held it high so she wouldn’t look inside. Finished, I tied it back up and returned to the bench.
I pulled out Deluski’s chip from my pocket, pushed it against my temple; photos were picked up by my optic nerve, imagery going straight into my brain.
Bronson Carew as a baby, as a young boy. Always posing alone. A forced smile on his face.
Frustrated, I pulled away the chip. This shit was worthless. A manhunt like this required manpower. Rusedski had a task force. I had me.
Maggie should be helping. Her ass was on the line same as mine. But she was chained to her desk until Carew was caught. Truth was I wasn’t sure she would help even if she could. I’d pushed her too far. She had a good heart, and the goodhearted couldn’t associate with me, not if they wanted to stay that way.
I’d have to pull our asses out of the fire myself. Plenty fair considering I was the one who struck the match.
I put the chip back to my temple and called up his mother’s picture. Silver hair. Brown skin rutted like a sun-baked terra-cotta rooftop. She seemed too old to have given birth to a nineteen-year-old. Lagartan women weren’t prone to gestate their babies in tanks like offworlders. Didn’t have the money.
I pulled up a pic of his two older sisters when they were his age. Locked arms and broad smiles.
I pulled away the chip, the sisters’ image fading with it. I recognized her. The sister on the right.
Miss Paulina.
New possibilities blew into my mind, a ripple effect of connections and deductions. Sudden understanding gusted at gale force.
Riding a high of explosive comprehension, I stood and grabbed my plastic bag, tossed it over my shoulder, and let the ice chill my back as I walked, a glimmer of imaginary sunlight marking my path.
KOP Killer k-3 Page 26
