by David Wind
We were bridge building now, constructing layers of trust between two people who did not know each other well. At the same time, I wanted to see what else this conversation could buy me. And, because I didn’t believe Lia Thornton had anything to do with Scotty’s death, I gave her the story she was looking for.
I told her about trying to go back into the theatre, and then my decision to join the Army and become a Ranger. Without telling her what I’d done, which was still and would always be classified, I explained I’d become a Ranger to learn my next trade and learning meant spending a lot of time in third world countries that most people didn’t want know about.
“And what made you become a Private Investigator?” she asked when I’d finished.
“Prison is like living in a cave. I needed escapism at night, when the lights went low and all I had was my cellmate’s snores. I read a lot of escapism, mostly detective stories, the old ones: Daschle Hammett, the Maltese Falcon, Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer novels and Prather’s Shell Scott.”
“So you became the modern day hard-boiled detective?” she said with an easy smile.
“A fact you already knew.”
“Yes, Scotty told me some. Are you that tough?”
I shifted on the couch, suddenly uncomfortable. “I learned how.”
“The image fits you well.”
“Thank you.” The mood had changed, and I decided digging into her past or reviewing what happened to Scotty would be better at another time. I stood and stretched. From the corner of my eyes, I caught the flickering skyline. “The view is incredible.”
“It’s why I stayed here after Jeremy’s death.” She stood and walked toward the bank of windows.
I joined her and we looked out on the city. We were inches apart, and I could feel the heart coming from her body. I turned to look toward the East river. As I did, my hand bumped something on the table. I wasn’t quick enough to catch the small ivory carving, which shattered when it hit the floor.
We bent to retrieve the carving at the same time. As I started to move, I caught an all too familiar flare from the rooftop to my right. As I reacted to the flash, the glass of the window where we had been standing shattered.
Chapter 22
Nothing is more distinctive than the starburst flare of a rifle muzzle at night. Reacting instinctively, I dove on top of Lia, crushing her to the floor and covering her body with my own as the window disintegrated into a shower of glass. She shook beneath me, but I held us both still, waiting for the second shot. When nothing happened, I rolled off her.
“Are you okay? Are you hit?” I looked over her fear-etched face, making sure the glass hadn’t caught her.
When her breathing calmed, she whispered, “I’m okay.”
“Stay there.” I rolled onto my stomach, ignoring the glass crushing beneath me. A couple of shards dug into my back and another pinched my calf. I levered up to the window and looked at the roof across the way. The lack of movement told me the shooter was gone.
“Gabe, what happened?” Lia asked from behind me.
Without speaking, I got to my feet, pulled her up and fast-walked her out of the living room just as the housekeeper charged in.
“Mrs. Thornton what–“
I stopped her and motioned her to follow us. Lia led us into the kitchen and turned to me. “Someone tried to kill me, didn’t they?”
My mind raced over the scene: My hand knocking the ivory carving onto the floor; Lia and I bending an instant before the muzzle flash and the explosion of the window. The memory danced through my head and anger followed on its heels - sharp, hot anger.
“Not you. They were after me.”
Lia’s eyes widened. “But how, why?”
“Because I was stupid. It’s connected to what happened when I was warned off the case.”
“But here? How did they know you were in my home?”
“I was followed.” The words stung. I rarely leave my guard down, yet somehow I hadn’t picked up the tail. In Afghanistan, I’d discovered a sixth sense: When someone was tracking me, I knew it. That unknown sense saved my life more than once, but not tonight.
There was no point in beating myself up so I slipped my cell phone out and thumbed number one on the speed dial. Three rings later, Chris answered. After my explanation, he said he’d have a car dispatched and for me to wait and give them the full story. As he talked, I went into the living and looked at the wall near the fireplace.
“Any ideas?” he asked when he’d finished.
“It’s connected to Scotty and to what happened at the Looker’s Club.” My eyes tracked along the wall looking for the bullet hole. It was there, high up.
“That’s a guess,” he snapped.
“It’s what I have.”
“Don’t go charging off on this, Gabe.”
“Not me.” I hung up, returned to the kitchen. “The police are on their way. Show them the mess if I’m not back before they get here. Tell them the round is in the wall a half foot to the left of the fireplace.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the roof. Tell them I’ll be right back.”
In the lobby, I warned the concierge the police were on their way; and, to get maintenance upstairs to jury rig a covering on the blown out windowpane. In a building like this, there would be twenty-four hour maintenance.
I jogged to First Avenue. The building, a half block in, was a non-descript apartment building with a first floor health club that even late on a Friday night had a group of people working out. Loneliness drives people to do strange things.
Flipping my badge too fast for the doorman to make out anything except the steel shine, I asked for roof access. The doorman nodded, walked me to the elevator, got in with me and rode to the top floor. He took me to the side stairs and up one more level, where he unlocked and opened the door.
“I’ll take it from here.” Without waiting for an answer, I strode passed him and out into the hot night. When the door closed behind me, I scanned the rooftop. Up and to the left was Lia Thornton’s building. The penthouse floor was a single story higher than the roof. It was a good shooting angle.
The shattered window was less than three hundred yards away. It was a typical city roof with a poured pebble-like substance covering thick layers of tarpaper. I searched around, but couldn’t find a spent shell casing and instead inspected the three-foot abutment surrounding the roof and spotted a couple of grooved scratches eight inches apart.
The scratches were right for a rifle stand. If the shooter had dragged it from the ledge after firing instead of lifting it, it might leave those marks. The ground near the scratches yielded a cigarette butt. I wrapped it in my palm. It was warm, not hot: It had been out for a while.
I stared at the butt. Asking to have a DNA trace on a cigarette that may or may not have been smoked by a sniper would be pushing things. Tossing the butt, I left the roof top with my thoughts centered on the question of why they would go after me at Lia Thornton’s apartment.
My mind took a sudden bend, making me wonder if I’d jumped the gun. Was Lia Thornton the target and not me?
Downstairs again, I asked the doorman if anyone had left in the last ten minutes.
“Mr. and Mrs. Meyers from five-oh-two,” he responded. Then he looked at the health club door. “Oh, yeah, one of the guys working out left too.”
“Was he carrying anything?”
“Yeah, long gym bag.”
“You get a look at him?”
He shrugged. “Regular guy, average height—he had long hair. I was on the intercom so I didn’t get a look at his face.”
I thanked him and left. A pro wouldn’t have let anyone get a good look at his face.
When I got back, two uniformed cops were talking with Lia Thornton. It was a veteran-rookie team, with the older cop sporting stripes. When I walked up to them, the sergeant turned to me. “Mr. Storm, Captain Bolt said you would explain what happened.”
Giving him what
he wanted in short crisp sentences, we walked into the living room where I pointed out the round lodged in the wall. A moment later two maintenance men came in and went to the window. The cop turned to stop them. I put a hand on his shoulder. “Let them fix the window, it won’t interfere with the scene. Forensics will get the angle from the wall entry and they’ll see the scratch marks from where the shooter set up on the roof.”
He gave it some thought and nodded. “You’re right. I’ll call the Crime Scene guys.”
He lifted his radio just as Lia and the rookie finished their conversation and came into the living room. The sergeant went over to the window to get a better look at the roof while he spoke on the radio. He came back a minute later. “It’s been a busy Friday night. CSIU is out of staff. Since there’s no fatality, they won’t be here until morning. They said no problem replacing the window, just save the glass and don’t mess with the wall,” he added, pointing to where the bullet entered the plaster.
“No-one will mess with the wall. You need anything else?”
“I need to fill out a report and have both of you sign it. It won’t take but a few minutes.”
He was as good as his word. He sent the rookie to fetch the forms and, seven minutes after the cop returned to the apartment, he had our signatures on the report. When the duo in blue left, they told Lia the crime scene people would be there early.
The maintenance men, who had left in the middle of the cops’ report, came back as the policemen were leaving, carrying a roll of thick plastic. It took them no time to seal the window, slip their tools into a case and leave, saying they would have the window replaced tomorrow.
Alone in the kitchen, the housekeeper in the living room cleaning up the remaining pieces of glass the maintenance men missed, Lia found a smile. “That was ah… exciting. Do things like this happen a lot around you?”
I liked the animated sparkle in her eyes. I was learning that she was a strong lady. “Sometimes.”
“I have a feeling it’s more than just sometimes. I need a drink, you?”
I shook my head.
“I’ll be right back.” She turned then stopped, her eyes tracking along the floor.
I followed her gaze and saw droplets of blood. Then I looked closer and saw the blood on my pant leg. “Damn.”
Kneeling on my left knee, I pulled up the right trouser leg and saw a triangular shard of glass sticking out of my calf. I hadn’t felt it, and realized why: the glass had cut into some old scar tissue. I pulled the piece free and more blood trickled out.
“No biggie,” I said to Lia.
“It is to my floor. Wait here.” she went down the hallway.
I tore a paper towel from the holder by the sink and ran it under water. As I bent to wipe the cut, Lia came back and said, “Don’t.”
Kneeling next to me, she poured some hydrogen peroxide on a piece of cotton and wiped the cut. Then she opened a band-aid, squeezed some ointment onto it and pressed the beige plastic strip into place.
“Antibiotic,” she said, gathering the things and standing. “Don’t want you to get an infection. You couldn’t be a gumshoe then.”
“You didn’t have to bother.”
“Yes I did,” she smiled, “after all it was my glass that got you.”
I realized the banter was Lia’s way of dealing with what had happened. “Are you going to be okay?”
“After I have my drink, I’ll be fine. I guess that means you’re leaving.”
“I am. If you think of anything, anything at all that may help, call me.”
“I’ll call you… I think you were holding back on the story you gave me. I think there’s a lot more to it.”
I winked. “There’s always more. You of all people should know that.”
Her head jerked and her eyes fired up. Then she laughed. “You are a tough one. Good for you.”
<><><>
At home, a dull ache throbbed in my right calf. I’d spent the last hour walking the streets with no particular destination. My goal had been to try and pick up a tail.
That hadn’t happened, which added more fuel to my edgy anger. While I hadn’t taken the drink Lia Thornton had offered when I was there, I wanted one now and pulled a Tsingtao, opened it, and killed half of it before setting it down.
Then I went to the counter and opened Scotty’s laptop. Three minutes later, with another quarter of the beer gone, I was rereading his journal and looking for more information.
Getting nowhere when my doorbell rang, I tensed and wrapped my fingers around the butt of the Sig. No one was supposed to get upstairs without buzzing me or having a key. I looked through the door’s peephole and my breath exploded out.
I slid the gun back into its leather and pulled the door open. I’d forgotten she had a key. “What are you doing here?”
“Wow, what a great way to say hello.” Gina said. “Although it might have been better if you had your piece in your hand, cocked and pointed at me.”
“I almost did.” I let her in, surprised and puzzled at her appearance. Then I saw something deep, shadowing eyes.
“What’s wrong Gina?”
“I can’t stop thinking of Scotty. I...didn’t want to be alone tonight so,” she said, a sad smile crooking her lips, “I thought we could watch one of your movies.”
“Any movie in particular?”
She shook her head. “Pick one.”
There aren’t a lot of things that would pull me away from what I was doing, but Gina and a good old-fashioned Noir mystery was a combination I couldn’t refuse. “Go make yourself comfortable. I’ll set it up.”
“You have ice cream?”
“One of those moods, eh?”
“Yeah,” she whispered. The single word was heavy with sadness.
Staring into her large brown eyes, I found myself getting lost. Slowly, very slowly, I put my arms around her and pulled her to me.
Chapter 23
Making love to Gina is akin to freefalling from a mile up and then getting caught by an updraft of heated air and then drift slowly to the ground, only to hit hard and roll. Her body was athletic and feminine: hard in the right places and wonderfully soft in the right places. There wasn’t a place on her I left untouched.
I did my best to pace myself, but she wasn’t having any of it and all too soon, the fierce pulsing building inside of me exploded. She cried out and tightened around me, her nails digging into my back, her arms and legs locking my body as the hot depths of her gripped around me to greet my desire with her own.
Spent, we lay still, our breathing loud and our bodies unmoving until the pounding of her heart against my chest slowed. I rolled to the side and scooped her close to me. Her hand slid across my chest, her soft fingertips tracing the tight curls of hair while she shifted and then rested her cheek on my chest.
My fingers massaged the silken skin at the small of her back, dipping into the twin dimples at the base of her spine in a pattern I had long ago thought I’d forgotten.
“I couldn’t keep away,” she whispered. The warm breath propelling her words brushed across my chest. I stayed quiet, waiting.
“It’s been over a year, Gabe. There hasn’t been a day I haven’t thought of you. Tell me this wasn’t a mistake.”
“I’ll tell you whatever you want,” I said, drawing her closer, “but the only way we’ll know is by what happens after this.”
She looked up at me. “Do you want to try?”
“I always wanted to try… but.”
“Maybe things have changed.”
“What things?”
She bent her head, grabbed some of my chest hair between her teeth and gave a gentle yank. Desire sparked. She released me and said, “Me—the way I look at the world.”
“Ah! Now you’re getting esoteric?”
“In a few minutes.”
“Esoteric, not erotic.”
“Oh, I misheard….” she gave a low laugh and put a finger across my lips. “Just listen.”
/> I kissed her finger and followed her order.
“What happened to Scotty is eating at me; but, it’s also making me rethink life and what I want out of it. Seeing you this week, at the funeral and at breakfast brought it all home.” She paused to take a breath.
“I was working late tonight—a meeting with a couple of NYPD undercover cops from the Major Crime Squad who we have a joint operation with. One of the cops had his radio on and I heard the call go out for the shots fired and to see Gabriel Storm.”
I started to speak but she stopped me again. “Just listen. I thought I was going to throw up. I know I must have looked like the wrong side of shit on a shoe because two of the men turned to ask me what was wrong. When I left, I went home and stared at the pictures of us from before—ones with you and me, ones with Scotty and Chris and of you. Scotty is gone, and I don’t want to lose you… at least not yet.” She forced a half smile which didn’t quite work.
“I don’t intend on going anywhere just yet. But we still have our problems,” I reminded her—And those problems were more than just small irritations between two people who cared for each other. And then of course, there was my own problem.
“Can we work on them?”
Something inside snapped; perhaps it was the look in her eyes, or the warmth of her body next to mine. Or like her, perhaps Scotty’s death was forcing me to take a different look at life. Whatever the reason, it was too strong for me to fight. Gina was right; a year is a long time. My personal rule wavered. “We can work on it.”
“Okay.” She laid her head on me. Her arm went around me, her hand slipping between the mattress and my skin. A second later, she found the glass scratches on my back and stiffened.
“Turn over,” she commanded.
When I rolled onto my stomach to let her see my back, she said, “How close was it?”
“Not too close.” slipping from under her hand to turn and face her again, I went over what had happened.
“That doesn’t sound like it wasn’t ‘too close’.”
“The shooter was a pro, but he was a shooter, not a sniper. He didn’t have a sense of when to shoot.”
