DIRTY BLOND

by Mark Terry

  “Can’t promise.”

  I scowled. With a million things going to hell, I really didn’t need to have the department on my case about my residency.

  A crime scene tech in a Tyvek suit and booties walked in from the bedroom. “Looks like someone jimmied the backdoor off the fire escape. I’m taking prints, but it doesn’t look like we’re going to get prints off the vic.”

  The guy’s hands were burned almost to the bone. My stomach did a slow flip-flop.

  Sharon retrieved a wallet from what was left of the victim’s jeans. She opened it, frowning. “Eron Jones. If the age is to be believed, he’s twenty-one, although that’s probably bullshit. We can run him through the system, see if he pops up.”

  “I’m on it.” I stepped outside the apartment, breaking out in a cold sweat thinking of what could have happened, me in the apartment, or the apartment going up.

  The D on duty, Janssen, said, “Gimme a couple minutes. Y’know how cranky the computers are here.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “’kay, lemme see. Eron, E-R-O-N, you said. Jones. Yeah, got something … twenty-one years old, black male … couple misdemeanor drug possession charges … indicates a sealed juvie record … let me see … see if we’ve got anything … might be connected with the Homicide Boys. Know ‘em?”

  Yes. A gang. Walker’s guess was probably right.

  But was the killer behind the bombs? Was Eron in the wrong place at the wrong time?

  My phone buzzed. Glancing at the screen, I saw it was Mom. “Yeah?”

  “Sandy, I may have just shot somebody trying to break into the house.”

  23

  Derek

  Leaving the consul, not feeling particularly more enlightened than before, Derek stood inside the doors to the building, watching the street. Was the killer out there? Waiting for him?

  But no one seemed to be loitering. Few cars were parked on the street here. Traffic flowed, but pedestrians were rare.

  He called Lisa Vhong. “Hey, it’s Derek. Still awake?”

  “It’s early,” she said.

  “Have you had a chance to—“

  “You have the address, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get your ass over here.”

  #

  She lived in a loft down in the Loop area. A wall of arched windows, polished wood floor. The beams were exposed and three ceiling fans paddled the air. “Great place,” he said.

  Lisa had taken off the fancy clothes and wore jeans and a cropped T-shirt revealing a flat stomach the color of caramel. Her feet were bare, the nails painted purple. She said, “Get any clues from the consul?”

  “Hard to say,” he said.

  “Would you tell me if you did?”

  “Maybe.”

  “But then you’d have to kill me,” she said with a laugh.

  “Well, hopefully it won’t come to that.”

  “Get you a drink?”

  “Sure.”

  “Wine? Or I’ve got some pretty good scotch. I’ve sort of got a thing for good scotch.”

  “Me, too. What’ve you got?”

  “Glenmorangie, Laphroaig and Highland Park.”

  “Christ, I think I’m in love. I’m a big fan of Glenmorangie and Laphroaig. Never had the Highland Park.”

  “From Orkney Island.”

  “I’m game,” Derek said.

  She padded into the kitchen area, brought out two crystal glasses. “Ice?”

  He made a face. “I generally prefer beverages cold, but since we’re going for the good stuff, no.”

  “Water?”

  “Uh—“

  She pointed to a bottle of mineral water, reaching into a drawer and taking out a straw.

  “You’re drinking scotch through a straw?”

  “No, silly. You only need a couple drops, maybe three or four, and it’s easier to do it with a straw.”

  “You really are a connoisseur.”

  “Of scotch and a couple other things.” She ran a finger through her dark hair, corner of her mouth turning up.

  She poured two fingers of Highland Park into two glasses, dipped the straw into the water, her finger over the end, and put four drops of water into each glass. She handed him one of them, her hand brushing his for a moment. She took a sip.

  Derek followed suit, holding the scotch in his mouth for a moment. It was sweeter than he was used to, but smoky and very, very smooth.

  Her gaze was intense, steady. Derek was very aware of her sensuality, her beauty, of the toned tummy, the breasts beneath the shirt. “What do you think?”

  “I like it.”

  She crooked one hand behind his neck and drew her down to him. Their lips met, parted. Her tongue darted between his lips, touched his own. She tasted of scotch and something else, something musky and spicy.

  He put the scotch down and drew her to him. The kiss became something more. Her breath quickened. He could feel her heart beating, her firm breasts.

  His phone buzzed.

  “Do not answer that,” she said.

  “Any other day…” he said, and pulled out his phone. It was Sandy. “What?” he said.

  “I need you to meet me at my house. Someone tried to kill my Mom.”

  #

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Lisa said in disbelief.

  “I wish I was. This case is going to hell. Before I leave, though—“

  She pulled him to her and kissed him. “How much time do you have?””

  Ah jeez.

  24

  Sandy

  I ran out of my apartment and to my car. A Mustang convertible screeched next to me.

  Guy LeClare.

  God hated me.

  “Hey, Sandy, babe, you okay? I saw the cars and the meat wagon and—“

  “What are you wearing?”

  “Hey, I’ve got a date and you didn’t get mine back from the city, so I borrowed one from a friend.”

  Guy was wearing a spacesuit. As fetishes go, I didn’t get this one. Not that I understood LeClare on any given day, but … some things I just didn’t want to think about.

  “LeClare, I don’t have time for this. Someone just tried to shoot my mom.”

  “Mary? Holy shit, Sandy. Jump in, we’ll get there faster in the pony here.” He patted the steering wheel with one spacesuit-gloved hand.

  “Uh, really, it’s—“

  He revved the engine. I jumped in.

  I thought the drive out of the city was going to take several years off my life. Clutching the door handle as Guy raced around corners and tore through intersections, the wind tugging at my hair, I shouted, “Guy, just because you’re wearing a spacesuit doesn’t mean this is a spaceship!”

  “I got this under control.”

  A city bus narrowly missed us through an intersection, the terrified bus driver leaning on the horn, close enough so I saw the whites of his eyes.

  I could have reached out and slapped the bus.

  And then we were out of the city and in minutes we screeched to a halt in front of the house I shared with Mom. My gun was in my hand, ready.

  Guy reached beneath his seat and pulled out a .44 Magnum. “Jeez, Guy. Compensating?”

  “It’ll stop whatever I shoot.”

  “Including an elephant.”

  “Are you worried about—“

  I ignored whatever he was going to say and rushed toward the house. There was no point in sneaking. The entire street would have heard the Mustang roar in and scream to a stop.

  Mom stepped out onto the porch. She was in gray sweatpants and a CPD T-shirt. Her own handgun, a Smith & Wesson .38, dangled from her hand. “Took you long enough.” She gazed at Guy and shook her head. “Nice spacesuit, Guy. Got a rocket in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

  25

  Der
ek

  The rental’s GPS got him out to the suburbs, although it seemed like the address Sandy sent him to was deep in the middle of a warren of cul-de-sacs and circle courts, the full-grown trees blotting out the sky and streetlamps, casting the yards into shadow.

  Finally, the GPS alerted him that he had reached his destination, which he had figured out when he saw a bright red Ford Mustang convertible and three people standing in the yard.

  He climbed out, looking cautiously around, senses tuned to every sound and shadow.

  Guy LeClare, standing there in a spacesuit, said, “Hey, Stillwater, last one here.”

  “If you dragged me away from a hot mathematician to deal with some fetish gone amuck, I’m going to shoot you in the head.”

  “Hot mathematician?”

  “Don’t ask,” Sandy said.

  Derek looked at the Mustang. “This your car, Guy?”

  “Uh, you’re not going to do something to my car, are you?”

  “No. I’m just wondering how you can drive a stick with a prosthesis.”

  “You’d be surprised what I can learn to do with this hand with a little practice.”

  “I really, really don’t want to know.”

  “Does it vibrate?” the older woman said.

  “Mom!”

  “If somebody tried to kill you, why are you standing around in the front yard?”

  Derek noted, however, that all three of them had guns out, Sandy her nine, her mother a .38 Special, and LeClare, if he knew his guns—and he did—was a Desert Eagle .44 Magnum.

  “Why, Mary,” LeClare said, “you want one of your own?”

  “Let’s get inside,” Stillwater said. “Unless there’s a dead body or a bomb or something in there.”

  “Neither,” Mary said. “Who are you?”

  “I’m a guy who wants to know why I’m here and why if somebody tried to kill you, the three of you are stupid enough to stand around outside talking.”

  “He’s got a point,” Sandy said. “Let’s go inside.”

  Following everyone inside, turning and backing into the house, eyes scanning the neighborhood, he noted that the front curtains were open. He crossed over and closed them.

  “You’re a paranoid bastard,” Guy said.

  “Since somebody tried to kill me today and tried to kill Mary … hi, Mary, I’m Derek Stillwater. I’m with Homeland Security.”

  Mary shook his hand. She had a nice grip, a no-nonsense manner, and her resemblance to Sandy was pretty strong. A little more worn, not quite as pretty, looked a little tougher. Sandy, he thought, was as tough as a 99-cent steak. Her mother, he thought, could out-tough a Green Beret. And he should know — he’d been one.

  “Can I get you a beer or something?”

  “Yeah, let’s make it a party,” Derek said.

  Mary shot him a look. “You always so cranky?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Your possible death interrupted his chance of getting laid by a hot mathematician,” LeClare said.

  “Shut up.”

  “It’s true, right?” LeClare said.

  Mary returned with a couple bottles of Heineken, handing one to Guy and Derek and, apparently, keeping one for herself. She flopped down on a patterned sofa and said, “Have a seat. Anyone want to tell me why someone took a shot at me?”

  “And blew up Sandy’s apartment,” LeClare said, taking a long chug, which he followed with an earth-rattling belch.

  “What!?” Derek and Mary said simultaneously, heads swiveling toward Sandy.

  Hands raised, Sandy said, “One train wreck at a time, please. Mom, from the beginning.”

  #

  Mary had cooked dinner, throwing together some spaghetti with some Alfredo sauce out of a can and a grilled chicken breast, and was cleaning up. The TV was on in the living room, a rerun of The Big Bang Theory.

  “I just got a vibe,” Mary said.

  “Back to vibrators again? You really gotta get laid,” Guy said.

  “Shut up, Guy,” Sandy said.

  Derek cocked his head at LeClare. “Can I shoot him?”

  “Jesus, Stillwater, it’s just a joke.”

  “Guy’s really afraid of you, Derek,” Mary mused. “That’s unusual.”

  “He’s a psycho! He threw me through a plate-glass window a couple years ago.”

  “Can we stay on fucking point here,” Sandy snapped.

  “Okay,” Mary said. “Maybe it was a sound. Maybe I saw a shadow by the kitchen window. A little while before it happened I remember a car driving by, then turning around. Like someone was lost. It happens, but not that often. We don’t get much traffic down here one way or the other and I sort of know everybody’s schedules. Anyway … you know.”

  “Go on,” Derek said.

  “Anyway, I got my gun to investigate. After this whole thing with the Chemist and all of Sandy’s other cases, it pays to be overly cautious. So I went around the house, making sure everything was fine. Doors locked.”

  It was a pleasant evening and most of the windows in the house were open, the screens in.

  “I was at the front of the house when someone tried to break in the back door. Somebody punched out the glass in the door.”

  Sandy immediately stood up and left the room.

  “So you started blasting away?” Guy asked.

  Holding up a hand, Derek said, “Let’s wait for Sandy to get back, Guy.”

  LeClare looked at him. “So who’s this hot mathematician. She a chick? You’re not into guys, are you? How old is she? She got, like, big ta-tas?”

  Ignoring the laughter on Mary’s face, Derek said, “There isn’t even a speed-bump between your brain and your mouth, is there? No red light. No stop sign. Nothing.”

  “You always know what you get when you’re with me,” LeClare said.

  “And most of the time it’s sewage.”

  “Hey, fuck you, Stillwater. You don’t even know me.”

  “That’s true. If what I do known about you is the tip of the iceberg, then I hope the rest of you stays under-fucking-water.”

  Sandy returned. “Okay. How many shots did you fire, Mom?”

  Mary’s expression was grave. “Three.”

  “There’s a bullet in the wall next to the door.”

  “So I might have put two into this guy.”

  “Way to go, Mary!” LeClare said, pumping his mechanical fist.

  “Let’s back up a second,” Derek said. “You heard the glass break. You were where?”

  “Right there,” Mary said, pointing to a spot about three feet from where Derek was sitting. Away from the window, about four feet from the front door.

  “And what did you do?”

  “Spun around and headed for the back door.”

  “Ran or what?”

  “I’m not an idiot, Stillwater. I’m a cop.”

  “Ex-cop,” Sandy said.

  “Once a cop, always—“

  “Mother!”

  “I brought my gun up and moved against the wall.”

  “Did you say anything?”

  “Like what?” she asked.

  “Like, ‘Go ahead, make my day, motherfucker!’” LeClare said.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of, ‘Who’s there?’” Derek said. “Or maybe, ‘I’ve got a gun.’”

  “No. I just moved.”

  “Show us,” Derek said.

  With a nod, Mary got to her feet and crouched next to the wall, knees bent, gun in both fists. She crept forward. A look of intensity and tension spread across her face.

  She was reliving it, Derek thought, and it wasn’t all positive. There was fear there. And anger.

  Maybe being Sandy’s Mom wasn’t the easiest job in the world. Thinking of his own parents, missionary physicians who spent most of their time in African hellholes, he suppos
ed it wasn’t easy being his parents either.

  Mary stepped sideways, so she was against the wall leading into the kitchen.

  “I did this.” She ducked down to peek around the edge.

  Smart. A shooter would expect to see someone at chest or head-height. She’d taken her look at about pelvic-height.

  “And?”

  “He punched an elbow through the glass and reached in the door. So I shouted, ‘Freeze, police!’”

  “And then you blasted him!” Guy said. “Awesome!”

  “Guy!” Sandy warned.

  “Not quite,” Mary said, still standing against the wall outside the kitchen. “It didn’t slow him down. He unlocked the door and pushed it open. Then nothing.”

  “He waited,” Derek said.

  “Yes.”

  “How long?”

  “Hard to say. Felt like forever, but it was maybe just a few seconds. I stepped out this way and waited.”

  She shifted so part of her was blocked by the wall, but her gun was aimed at the doorway. Her body was coiled, tense. The atmosphere in the room was thick, palpable.

  “Then he exploded in the door. So fast.”

  “And then you blasted him,” Guy said. “Pow!”

  Mary seemed lost in the moment. With a nod, she said, “And I blasted him. Three shots.”

  “How did you space them?” Derek asked.

  Sandy raised an eyebrow.

  “One fast. Paused. Next two fast together. If I’d been calmer, he would have been dead from the first shot, but I was keyed up and he was moving so fast, sort of in a crouch.”

  “Which shots do you think hit him?”

  “First and second. Third was a little wild. He was pretty much out the door at that point.”

  “How did he react after the first one?” Derek asked.

  “Um, I’m not sure.”

  “Momentum?” Derek asked.

  “Why the questions?” Sandy asked. “Why this line of questioning, Derek?”

  “Did you see any blood?” Derek asked.

  “No. Not in the house.”

  Reaching into a pocket, Stillwater pulled out his phone and clicked on the flashlight app. He strode into the kitchen, shining it around the kitchen floor. He didn’t see any blood.