Whiskey Tango Foxtrot: An Addison Holmes Mystery (Addison Holmes Mysteries Book 5)

by Liliana Hart

  Lights flashed between the cracks of rickety boards, and I could feel the vibration of the bass beneath my tires. No one was standing outside, but I had the feeling there were eyes everywhere.

  The street was lined with cars on both sides, and even the neighboring streets were full. I saw a car leave about a hundred yards from the building and slipped into the spot, thankful that it was at the end of the block so I didn’t have to parallel park between two cars. I turned off my lights and double-checked that all the doors were locked. It really wasn’t a good neighborhood. And then I pulled out my binoculars.

  I hadn’t been sitting there for five minutes before I watched someone bust a window on the Lexus a few cars up and snatch something out of the front seat. I took my weapon out from under the seat and set it on my lap. Just in case anyone got any ideas.

  A black Escalade passed by me and I watched with interest as it slowed to a stop in front of the Tiger Lounge doors. The license plate said UGMO3, so I was thinking chances were pretty good that the car belonged to Ugly Mo. The front door of the club opened and a gaggle of cackling women hustled out, wearing less clothes than they should’ve been on a night like this. They didn’t seem to notice the cold.

  I recognized Jasmine immediately, even though her hair was different than her picture. I remembered Mo saying she wore wigs to change things up a little, and tonight she’d chosen a platinum blonde number that barely reached her chin. The picture of her spray-painted on the side of the building hadn’t done her breasts justice. They were enormous and barely contained in a poison-green Lycra dress that stopped just short of showing everyone her preferred method of bikini maintenance.

  The doors to the Escalade opened and just as the women started to get in, something hit against the side of the van, rocking it back and forth. My heart stopped and fear gripped its icy fingers around my spine. And then I heard the maniacal cackle of someone not altogether sane, and chills pebbled across my skin.

  “Little bitch, little bitch, let me in,” he called out in a sing-song voice. And then his face appeared in my window, and a strange sound escaped my throat.

  I shook my head no, sure that he saw the fear in my eyes. My hand gripped the gun comfortably and I thought just once I should probably start taking Nick’s advice when he tried giving me orders. He only had my best interests at heart, after all.

  My would-be attacker smiled, his face bony, the flesh stretched across his skull grotesquely. He was mixed race, but looked mostly Hispanic, and he had tattoos across his face and neck. There was a smudged image on his right cheek I couldn’t really make out, but the words “Property of FL” were stamped on his other cheek.

  My first thought was that job interviews were probably a real challenge for him. My second thought was that I was staring into the face of a cold-blooded killer. He had piercings through almost every part of his face and ears, and one of his incisors was gold. He was wearing a black hoodie and kept tapping his crowbar against my window.

  I was pretty sure I was going to die, and it would be horrible. But I was a cop’s daughter, and if I was going to die, I’d make sure I went down in a blaze of glory. I held the gun up, leveling it at him.

  He stared down the barrel of the gun for a few seconds and then laughed, that same maniacal laughter that crawled across my skin. My fear quotient went up ten-fold. There wasn’t a lot you could do to fight crazy.

  I knew I’d missed my window with Jasmine. They were probably long gone by now, and if she was riding home in one of Ugly Mo’s personal vehicles, chances were she wasn’t making stops along the way to meet with his archenemy.

  That left me and my killer in a standoff. There was no way I was letting go of the gun. And I couldn’t reach across to put the car in gear with my left hand. It was time to piss or get off the pot, as my grandfather used to say.

  I hit the button on the door and the window rolled down. Icy rain slapped across my face, but I didn’t flinch. Flinching meant death.

  “I will shoot you without regret,” I said evenly. Sometimes I amazed myself at my bravado. I was almost positive I was going to have to change my pants when I got back.

  “I like feisty bitches,” he said. “Especially ones that look like that movie star.”

  “Anne Hathaway?” I asked.

  “Nah, Audrey Hepburn. I like the classics.”

  “I can see that now,” I said, gesturing toward his face with the gun. “I couldn’t make out the Betty Boop on the side of your cheek before.”

  “Betty Boop is primo pussy.”

  “Nothing can get a guy off like a cartoon,” I said. “Look how popular Jessica Rabbit is.”

  “Smart-mouthed bitch,” he said. “I got something that’ll fill that mouth up. Big Eddie’s going to have fun with you tonight. I bet you got primo pussy too.”

  “I take it you’re Big Eddie?” I asked with a lot more courage than I was feeling.

  “In the flesh. Want to see?” He grabbed his crotch and cackled again.

  “I’ll pass. You should probably stick with Betty Boop. My pussy is used to real men.” He made a move forward and my finger squeezed just slightly on the trigger, enough that I could hear that first warning click. It was slight sound, more of a feel than anything. If I kept squeezing, a bullet was going to go into his head.

  “I’m going to fuck you up, bitch.”

  “Maybe, but it’s not going to be tonight. I come from a long line of crazy women. My grandma drove her car straight through a Western Sizzler just because she couldn’t get to the dry cleaners on the other side. Last year, I ran over my ex-fiancé. And yesterday, my aunt shot the ear off some asshole who tried to rob a gas station.”

  “Get the fuck out,” he said incredulously, taking a step back. “Your auntie shot Javier’s ear off?”

  “And she liked it,” I said for good measure.

  “That’s cold. I heard they couldn’t reattach it.”

  I moved the gun slightly to the left, so it was pointed toward his ear. “Maybe that’s what I’ll do. I think death is too easy for someone like you.”

  Big Eddie narrowed his eyes at me and we stared each other down for a few minutes. And then he said something about crazy bitches and backed off into the shadows.

  Thank God I’d left the van running. I put it in gear and got the hell out of there. I ran through a couple of stop signs and was shaking by the time I made it back to the highway. The roads had started to freeze and the tires were finding the occasional patch of ice, adding to my panic. And it was the middle of the night and everything was closed except for the 24-hour Walgreens.

  I parked in the fire zone and ran inside to grab an emergency pint of Haagan Dazs. Drastic times called for drastic measures, so I grabbed Rocky Road instead of plain chocolate. I was proud of myself because I managed to restrain myself from impulse-buying a value-pack of fun-size Snickers, the two-for-one boxed wine, and a thirty-six pack of condoms that were ribbed for my pleasure. They sure knew how to cater to the late night crowd.

  It took me almost ten minutes to drive the three blocks to the agency. I was driving at a snail’s pace due to the icy spots on the road, and the fact that I was trying to eat my ice cream one-handed. It was after three in the morning and no one else was out and about.

  I parked in my same spot right in front of the agency and sat quiet for a few minutes to see if anyone was lurking in the area. The van felt too exposed. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to sleep in it comfortably without the fear of someone crashing into me or blowing holes through the side, a la Bonnie and Clyde. And maybe I shouldn’t have bought a Mercedes. A Mercedes probably didn’t blend in in the projects unless it belonged to a drug dealer. And more likely than not, recreational vehicles were probably not a drug dealer’s first choice.

  With my mind made up, I grabbed my clothes and headed back inside the agency where it might be slightly more difficult to kill me in my sleep. If I was going to die, I didn’t want to know about it, so I took an over-the-counte
r sleeping pill, pushed a chair under the doorknob, and snuggled under the covers on the tiny mattress.

  * * *

  I woke the next morning to my phone vibrating against my cheek. I must’ve rolled over on it sometime during the night.

  “’Lo,” I answered.

  I remembered why I hated taking sleeping pills. They made me feel like a slug for at least a couple of hours the next morning. I could barely lift my head up.

  “Addison?” Rosemarie asked. “Is that you?”

  “’S’me,” I slurred. “’S’up?”

  There was a pregnant pause before she started talking again. “I was just calling to check on you. You made a couple of weird phone calls to me last night. Are you okay?”

  “Sleeping pill. Makes me drunk dial.”

  “Oh, that makes more sense. Couldn’t make out what you were telling me. Something about Betty Boop and boxed wine. Thought Scarlet had taught you some of that Navaho code from during the war.”

  My mind, as foggy as it was, had its own mental breakdown at that sentence.

  “Anyway,” she went on. “I headed straight over after church. I’m circling the block now. I felt guilty not coming to check on you after your phone calls. I would’ve called Nick to come check on you, but I didn’t have his private number, and I wasn’t sure it was worthy of a call to 9-1-1. I spent the whole morning praying you weren’t laying in a ditch somewhere.”

  “I’m fine. Got work. Missing organs.” My mind felt like mush, but I was functional enough to know two things. One: Coffee would help if I drank a whole lot of it. Two: I didn’t have the energy for Rosemarie.

  “Organs?” she asked. “Who would steal an organ? They’re so bulky and all the good ones are inside churches. What kind of person would steal the Lord’s music? That doesn’t even make sense. Maybe you need to see a doctor.”

  “Internal organs,” I said. “Hearts, kidneys…that kind of thing.”

  “I read something about that on the travel channel once. They were talking about American tourists traveling to all these exotic countries and sometimes they’d just go missing. Organs are a delicacy in a lot of cultures, so these tribes would snatch these people up and cut out their organs like in Temple of Doom. Then they’d burn the bodies and grind the organ meat up for some kind of stew. Turns my stomach just to think about it.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” I said, swallowing hard and dropping my head back to my pillow. I heard a horn blare and moved the phone away from my ear.

  “Good grief, people,” Rosemarie muttered. “They’ve salted all the streets. A bunch of idiots behind the wheel.”

  “It was bad last night,” I said.

  “Sun’s out now, so it’s melting, but the people in this city don’t have the sense God gave a goose. I don’t know how you can stand to live right in the thick of it. Don’t you miss Whiskey Bayou?”

  “Nope,” I said. If I was sure of one thing in my life it was that I in no way, shape, or form missed living in Whiskey Bayou.

  “That’s odd. People are always asking about you.”

  “I’m sure they are. I kept the local gossip column in business the last couple of years. Bunch of busybodies.”

  “Which reminds me,” Rosemarie said. “Your mother said to tell you hello, and that she hopes you’ll find the time to visit the church that is literally next door to you some Sunday. Even I felt guilty after listening to her talk.”

  The detective agency was right next to the Trinity Methodist Church. It had been built in the mid-eighteen-hundreds, so it’s not like I could give the excuse that I didn’t know it was there.

  “She’s really good at the guilt part,” I said.

  “We almost didn’t have church at all,” Rosemarie went on excitedly. “It iced over real bad last night, and you know the city has both thumbs right up their ass when it comes to doing things like salting the streets. Walter Mosely tried parking in his usual handicap spot by the door, even though we all know that man’s about as handicapped as Evander Holyfield with that little piece of his ear missing. Damn ridiculous if you ask me.”

  “Wha?” I asked, confused.

  “Well, Walter pulled into his spot like usual, but it was slick as owl poop, and he just slid right on through. Took the handicapped sign with him and all those crepe myrtles. His car finally stopped just inches from the church wall. I told Pastor Frank that was probably the best thing that’s happened in a long time. All the sinners came running out of their houses to see what had happened, and then they felt guilty once the excitement had died down, so they just moseyed over and finished out the church service. Biggest crowd I’ve seen since last Easter.”

  I put Rosemarie on speaker and let her talk, and then I rolled out of bed and crawled on my hands and knees for a bit to work out the kinks. The chair was still lodged under the door, and there was nothing but silence on the other side. It was rare for anyone to come into the office on Sundays. And Kate never came in.

  I had a one-cup Keurig in my office and popped in a pod to take the edge off. I caught my reflection in the little silver part of the machine and let out a little squeak at the stranger that stared back at me. I’d forgotten about my hair.

  “Addison, are you okay? I tell you, you’re just not acting like yourself lately. I’m your friend, and I’ve got only your best interests at heart, but I think you need to marry that man already. It’s ridiculous to keep yourself tied up in knots like this. It’s not good for your digestion. And you get real cranky when you go too long without sex.”

  I hmmmed noncommittally, not willing to share that I’d had a minor lapse in judgment in my month-long sabbatical. And what had it solved? Not a damn thing. We’d scratched the itch and immediately started fighting. I could certainly understand why wars had been won and lost over sex. It was a powerful thing. Especially if Nick was doing the sexing.

  Being friends with Rosemarie was always a unique experience. It really depended on what day of the week or what time of day it was. There was teacher Rosemarie, who wore flamingo-patterned capris and big, boxy denim shirts. There was nighttime party Rosemarie, who wore lots of pleather and enjoyed showing off her nipple rings. Then occasionally she’d bring out garage sale Rosemarie, slumber party Rosemarie, or tantric master Rosemarie, each of whom were identifiable by her wardrobe. But Sundays were saved for church lady Rosemarie. She had as many hobbies and clothing choices as Barbie. I had to admire her for it. She enjoyed every aspect of her life and lived it to the fullest.

  “Oh, look,” she said. “I found a parking spot. That’s divine intervention right there. No one can ever find parking here on Sundays with the church services going. I think someone slipped out of services early. Bless their sinning soul.”

  I just stared at the trickle of black liquid filling my cup, willing it to go faster. I heard her car door slam and a couple of muffled mutters.

  “Whew, this sidewalk is a hazard. Can you believe those bastards? They salted in front of the church but left the rest of the sidewalks icy. Not very Christian of them, if you ask me. Oh Lord, would you look at that?” Rosemarie said, hopping topics again. “Such crude language. I know I use my fair share of salty language, but never on the Lord’s Day. And bastard is in the bible. And so is damn. So those doesn’t count. I’ve got standards, unlike these heathens. And right on the Savannah streets in front of a church. I have a mind to find that van owner and give them a stern talking to. There are children that walk these roads.”

  “What?” I said, a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “Somebody decided to use their van as a billboard. It looks ridiculous and I’ll certainly never shop at their store, whatever it is. They didn’t even put a website.”

  I scrambled around until I dug my UGGs out of the bag in the corner and shoved them on over my sweats. And then I hit my hip on the corner of the desk and banged my knees against the chair blocking the door. I jerked it out of the way and hauled ass down the hallway to the front doors.

&nb
sp; I disarmed the alarm and opened the front door. And then it was lights out. I woke sometime later flat on the ground, wet seeping through my clothes, and Rosemarie staring down at me. Her golden halo of hair slightly flattened by the damp air.

  “Are you okay?” she mouthed. I wondered why she wasn’t speaking so I could hear her, and then the world whooshed back into full focus and I realized it was just me that couldn’t hear.

  “Is anything broken?” I asked, closing my eyes again. “I don’t want to look. The second I look it’ll start to hurt.”

  “It doesn’t look like it,” she said. “Nothing is pointed in a weird direction. But Lordy, you scared the bejesus right out of me. The second your foot hit the top step you looked just like one of those cartoon characters stepping on a banana peel. You just went wooft and somersaulted right in the air. It was like slow motion, and then you rebounded off the pavement and went limp. Thought you were dead at first. And then the church bells started ringing and I figured that was a sign of your ascension. I didn’t know whether to weep or start singing Nearer My God to Thee, so I did a little of both.”

  “Nothing hurts yet,” I said.

  “That’s a bad sign. You’ve probably got one of those brain bleeds. Or maybe you’re paralyzed from the neck down.” She stared at me for a little bit, trying to puzzle something out, and then her face cleared as she figured it out.

  “My, my, your hair is short. Just like a boy’s. I knew something was different about you. If you hadn’t gotten your hair cut you’d have had a little more padding and probably wouldn’t have a brain bleed now.”

  “I don’t have a brain bleed,” I said, moving all my extremities, nice and slow. My head wasn’t hurting, but my shoulder felt like it was on fire. I had a feeling it had taken the brunt of the fall.