“Who is it?” the same girl asked after I knocked.
“Sub Barn delivery.”
A girl who looked to be in her early teens opened the door. She stood about four foot ten with an upturned nose and eyes that were hard and dark. Her hair was dark and extremely short, as if recently buzzed.
“Holly Schwartz?”
Her gaze locked with mine for a moment, then to something behind me. I turned to see what she was staring at and caught a blur of motion and then stars.
Next thing I knew, I was lying faceup on the motel bed with my hands cuffed to the headboard above me. Something soft had been stuffed in my mouth, with a strip of duct tape across my face. I was in trouble.
28
My head hurt with the fury of a hangover after a bender of well drinks and cheap wine. My stomach threatened to erupt like Vesuvius. I couldn’t remember why I was hungover. No memories of a wild night at the bars. Nothing to explain the handcuffs or the improvised gag.
“Who the heck are you?” a male voice asked.
My vision was a bit doubled as my eyes fluttered open. I managed to make out a man with long, straight black hair and tan skin. I guessed he was Native American or Latino. He stood above me, a nervous look on his face, pointing the Taser at my chest.
“I’m sorry I hit you. But . . .” He glanced at the girl with the bristly hair who was standing beside him. “So who are you?”
I gave them an incredulous look and a muffled grunt. Like, how was I supposed to answer with a gag in my mouth?
The guy ripped off the duct tape. He must have mashed it on good because it felt as if half my face were coming off with it. He then pulled a sock out of my mouth.
“Jesus Christ on a cracker, that hurt!” I took a breath to clear my head. “I’m looking for Holly Schwartz.”
The girl’s gaze narrowed. “Why?”
“Holly?”
Her mouth was a thin line.
“Your aunt’s worried about you. She asked me to find you. Your father too.” Technically true, even if they didn’t hire me.
“I’m fine.”
“She’s about to lose her house because of you. You missed your court date.”
“Aw, crap, Holly. She’s a bounty hunter.”
“A bounty hunter? What do we do, Richie?”
The guy again jammed the sock in my mouth and slapped the duct tape back in place. “Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t let you take her to jail. She’s been through enough already.”
I gave them an angry, muffled grunt through the gag. The guy pulled the trigger on my Taser, and my body convulsed in agony. Everything went black.
When I came to again, they were gone. My phone was ringing in my left back pocket. My mind was fuzzy, and the sick feeling in my stomach was worse. I steeled myself. Throwing up with a gag in my mouth could prove fatal. I wasn’t going out like this. No freakin’ way.
I took some slow, steadying breaths, trying to picture myself with Conor, but that made things worse as I thought about the fight we’d had. So I focused on my parents and my brother, Jake. The world was still swirling and unsettled, but I didn’t feel as though I was going to puke and asphyxiate myself. By that time, my phone had quit ringing.
Okay, think, girl. You can get out of this. You have handcuff keys. I kept three keys on my person at all times. One was on my keychain in my front pocket but wasn’t accessible since my hands were cuffed to a vertical metal bar attached to the headboard.
My second key was in my back jeans pocket. Also not accessible.
That left the one on a ball chain around my neck. I grabbed the chain at the back of my neck and pulled it up until I had the key in hand. Grateful laughter rumbled in my chest. I would get out of here. With a frustrating amount of effort, I released one hand, then the other.
When I sat up, the room started spinning. Bile rose in my throat. I ripped the duct tape off my raw lips and cheeks and pulled out the sock, trying not to puke. Wincing at the pain, I focused on my breathing until the vertigo lessened.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket. Three missed calls from Conor. One each from my mother and Becca. “Geez, how long have I been out?” The clock on my phone said it was nearly five o’clock. I rang Conor first.
“Jesus! Ya been dodgin’ my calls? Ya treat me like a bloody tosser an’ then ignore me.”
“Con, listen.” Another wave of nausea hit me. “I’m . . . something happened.”
“Wha’? You all right, love?”
“I’m . . .” I hurled all over the floral polyester bedspread and thanked the stars I was no longer gagged. I continued heaving until nothing came up. By the time I was able to put the phone back to my ear, I was afraid he’d hung up. “You there, Conor?”
“Jinxie! Where the hell are ya?”
“I . . . I don’t remember. Some motel room.”
“Hang on, love. I’ll track your phone. I’m on my way.”
I shuffled unsteadily into the bathroom and splashed water on my face. The back of my head ached from where I’d been hit, and my hair was tacky with blood. Probably explained the nausea. I checked myself and found no other serious injuries, just chafed wrists from the cuffs and facial abrasions from the duct tape.
As for my weapons, my Ruger was locked in the Gray Ghost’s glove box. I still had the revolver in my ankle holster. An expended cartridge was all that remained of my Taser. Still, it could have been worse.
I was still feeling nauseated when Conor pounded on the door.
“Jinxie, open up!”
Keeping a hand on the wall, I made my way to the door and opened it. The glaring afternoon sun and triple-digit heat hit me like a semi truck. Conor caught me before I lost my balance and helped me sit in a chair.
“What the bloody hell happened? Ya look like ya been battered.”
“Holly. She’s . . . not disabled. The whole thing. Must’ve been a con.”
“She did this to you?”
“Some guy with her. Ambushed me from behind. Knocked me out. Then Tased me after I came to. Ugh, God, my head hurts so much.”
Conor’s hands gently touched the side of my head. “Cheeky bastards. Certainly gave you a knock, didn’t they? Ya wanna call the cops?”
“No. My job’s to catch Holly. Don’t need the cops. How bad’s it look?”
“There’s a shite-load of blood, but I think ya stopped bleedin’. Oughta get ya checked out, though. Could have a concussion.”
“Ugh, last thing I want to do is sit in some ER for the rest of the night.”
“This yours?” Conor was pointing at the puke on the bed and floor.
I felt my face warm. “Yeah.”
“Come on, love. We gotta get ya looked at. Your ma would have my arse if you up and died on me.”
He helped me into his Charger and drove me to the entrance to John C. Lincoln’s Emergency Department. I knew he wasn’t coming in. For all his toughness and bravado, Conor had an extreme phobia of hospitals. He said it started after his sister was killed in a bombing in Northern Ireland.
I could see the ambivalence on his face as I gathered my strength to open the door. “I know. You can’t go in.”
“Gah! I feel like such a tosser, but . . .”
“I understand. Go grab some coffee. I’ll call you when I know something. It may be a few hours, though.”
“Ya want me to call someone to sit with ya?”
My eyes met his. He looked liked a wounded puppy. “I’ll be okay. You got me this far.”
A man in teal scrubs knocked on the door. “Are you okay, miss?”
I opened the door and pulled myself shakily to my feet. “I’ll need help getting inside.”
A woman in matching scrubs showed up with a wheelchair, and they whisked me inside. Four hours, one MRI, two Tylenol tablets with codeine, and a fourteen-hundred-dollar copay later, a young doctor with a South Asian name and a Brooklyn accent determined I did not have a skull fracture but did have a mild concussion. They treated my facial
abrasions, cleaned out the wound on my scalp, and wrapped the top of my head with gauze.
The doctor pulled up my medical information on the hospital laptop near the bed. “It says here you take estradiol. What’s that for?”
I hated answering that question. But I was too young to be menopausal and didn’t feel right about lying and saying I’d had a hysterectomy. “I’m transgender,” I said with all the confidence I could muster.
“I see. I suggest you stop taking the estrogen for a week or so.”
“A week? Why?”
“Estradiol is a blood thinner. Because of your concussion, it puts you at risk for a brain bleed.”
“Okay, you’re the doc.”
“We’re also going to admit you for a twenty-four-hour observation. Just to be on the safe side.”
“I don’t think so. This job’s already cost me enough. I can’t afford an overnight stay. Thanks, but no thanks.”
The doc looked concerned. “I hate to see money be the deciding factor on you getting proper medical care.”
“You and me both. But you want to get paid, and I like to eat.”
He waited with his arms crossed, perhaps expecting me to change my mind. When I didn’t, he said, “I understand. I’ll print out your release and some aftercare instructions, and you’ll be on your way.”
“Thanks for patching me up.”
“No problem.”
Twenty minutes later, they handed me my release papers, including a prescription for Tylenol with codeine for the headache. I texted Conor, and by the time they wheeled me outside, he was waiting for me. The nausea lingered, but I didn’t think I would hurl again anytime soon.
“As if you aren’t hormonal enough as it is,” Conor said after I told him about going off the estrogen for a week. He meant it as a joke, trying to get me to laugh. It didn’t work. Why did guys always think that was funny?
“Watch your step, buddy,” I told him. “Or I may just cut off your balls with a dull knife and feed them to you. How’d you like that, funny man?”
“Aw, love, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m sorry. Just trying to cheer you up.”
“Doing a piss-poor job of it.”
“I’m an arsehole. Let’s get you home.”
“I still need to pick up my truck.”
“You sure you’re okay to drive? You had quite a knock. And the doctor said you shouldn’t be operating heavy machinery.”
“Then I promise not to run the dishwasher when I get home.” When he grimaced at my poor attempt at a joke, I continued. “I’m fine. I’m not woozy at all. You can follow me back home if you’d like.”
Of course, there was another reason I wanted to go back to the motel.
29
When Conor pulled up to the Gray Ghost, I said, “There’s one more thing I have to do here.”
“Aw, love, you’re hurt, and I’m knackered. Whaddya say we pack it in for the night?”
“I need to check with the front desk.”
“Why? Ya getting a room for the night?”
“No, I want to see who rented Holly’s room.”
“Can’t it wait till morning?”
“I’m here. I’m getting answers. Won’t take long. If you don’t want to stay, go on home.”
He groaned as I climbed into the Gray Ghost. The codeine was taking the edge off the pain, but I still hurt. I couldn’t keep this up for much longer.
I drove around to the lobby. A bald Latino dressed in a suit and tie stood behind the counter. His name tag read Miguel, Head Manager. Just the man I wanted to see.
When Miguel looked up, his professional smile was replaced with a concerned expression. “Are you okay, ma’am?” It was no doubt a reaction to my battered face and the bandage around my head.
“I’m fine, but I need your help.”
Conor sidled up beside me as I handed the manager my authorization to apprehend Holly. “I’ve been hired by the court to rearrest Holly Schwartz, a fugitive charged with murder. She and an accomplice were staying in room 278 when they did this to me.” I pointed at my head.
“A murderer’s staying here?” His concern turned to panic. “Is she here now?”
“I suspect they bugged out after they ambushed me. I need to know who rented the room and to review your security footage.”
“I’m sorry, but those records are private. I’d need a court order.”
“Listen, mate,” Conor said, leaning over the counter and tapping the paperwork. “This is a bloody court order. But if you’d prefer we call the cops and have them arrest ya for obstructing the apprehension of a fugitive, we can play it that way.”
Most of what Conor said was bullshit, but I wasn’t going to argue. “We can call the media too,” I added. “I’m sure your guests would love to know they’re staying in a motel with a murderer.”
“That won’t be necessary. Let me check our records.” Miguel typed on a terminal behind the counter. “Okay, room 278 was rented to a Mr. Jablomi. Heywood Jablomi. Oh, crap.”
“Heywood Jablomi?” Conor burst into laughter. “Cheeky bastard’s got a sense of humor, I’ll give ’im that.”
I started to laugh too, but it made my head hurt, codeine or no. “Shit.”
“I don’t know why no one noticed this until now,” Miguel mumbled.
“How did they pay?” I asked.
“They paid cash for a week, which would have brought them through next Wednesday. But we do have a credit card on file.”
“What name’s on the card?” Conor asked. “Ben Dover? Connie Lingus?”
“No, it belongs to Kimberly Morton.”
“My fugitive’s aunt.” I thought about it. “Maybe Auntie Kim’s helping her con-artist niece to escape.”
“Unless they pinched it from her wallet,” Conor suggested.
“Okay, Miguel,” I said. “Let’s see the security footage.”
Miguel looked at me then Conor and nodded. “I really shouldn’t, but considering the circumstances. Melissa!” he called.
A young woman came from the adjoining office. “You bellowed?”
“Watch the counter for me. I need to escort these people to the security room.”
“I’m still on my break.”
He gave her a look, and she threw up her hands. “All right. You’re the boss.”
He led us down a hallway, then turned left into a room the size of a broom closet. Four monitors and a keyboard were set up on a desk. Miguel sat and began typing. Conor offered me the remaining chair.
“Okay, you’re looking for room 278. That’s on the west side.” Miguel pulled up a video showing camera footage along the walkway near the northwest stairs I’d used. He scanned backward through the footage until we got to five o’clock. I spotted Holly’s companion dragging a large suitcase out of the room and toward the elevator. He was too far away to get a good look at his face, but it was definitely him.
“Can we get a closer shot?” I hoped to get a printout of his photo to show around.
Miguel pulled up a different camera, this one by the elevator. He zoomed through the footage until we spotted our guy on the feed.
“There,” I said. “That’s him.” He was wearing shades, but at least we got the shape of his face and his overall look. “Any way we can put this on a thumb drive?”
“I’m going to have to charge you. These flash drives aren’t free, you know.” Miguel pulled out a small black thumb drive from the desk drawer and slipped it into the USB port.
“Bill me.” I dropped my business card on the desk. “Cost you a lot more if guests found out you’re renting rooms to murderers with bogus names and stolen credit cards.”
“So where’s our girl, Holly?” Conor asked, pointing at the security video.
“Good question,” I said.
Miguel scanned more footage, going back over the past couple of days. But despite all of the cameras, Holly didn’t appear in a single frame. “You sure there was a girl with him? According to
our records, he was staying alone in the room.”
“Trust me, she was there.”
“No offense, love,” Conor said, “but ya got a rather nasty knock on your noggin. Maybe your memory’s a bit dodgy.”
“I know what I saw, Conor. Hell, I called her phone and spoke with her. That’s how I found out which room number it was.”
“So where is she?” he asked.
I stared at the monitor, remembering the petite girl with the hard eyes and bristly hair. “She’s in the suitcase.”
“Wha?” Conor asked. “No way! How’d she fit in that trunk?”
“It’d be a tight fit,” I admitted, “but I bet she could do it. It’s the only explanation.”
“Why not use a disguise? Gives me claustrophobia just thinking about it.”
“I don’t know.” I rubbed my face. The codeine was making it hard to concentrate. “What about the parking lot?”
“The parking lot?” Miguel asked.
“I want to see what they’re driving.”
Miguel pulled up the list of camera footage files and selected one of them that gave a view of the back parking lot. He scrolled until we saw our mystery man dragging the suitcase and approaching a minivan. The camera gave us only a shot of the driver’s side.
The man disappeared around the passenger side, then reappeared moments later empty handed, climbed into the driver’s seat, and drove off.
“Stop!” I said.
Miguel paused the feed.
“There!” I pointed at the screen with a hazy glimpse of the inside of the minivan. A shadow was visible in the front passenger seat. “That’s got to be her. She must have gotten out of the suitcase. Can we get a license plate on that vehicle?”
“Not from this angle.” Miguel pulled up another camera feed and queued it up to the minivan pulling out of the parking lot.
Once the footage was enhanced, I managed to get the plate number and put it in my phone. “Gotcha, you son of a bitch.”
“Come on, love.” Conor put a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s pack it in. You need to rest and recuperate.”
Chaser_A Jinx Ballou Novel Page 15
