“You steal her stuff?” I asked.
“Technically it was her grandma’s. But I told her I’d pay her back.”
“Uh-huh.” That’s what they all say, I thought as I dabbed at my nose with the bloody tissue.
“My public defender ain’t done shit for me. Fucking loser!”
I ignored her and punched Sara Jean’s number on my phone’s contacts list.
“Gosh darn it, Jinx. Now what do you want? It’s Sunday afternoon for crying out loud. I’m at a church picnic.”
I wanted to taunt her, but my head hurt too much to be cute. “Just wanted to get a verbal acknowledgment that you’ll pay me for Mandy Tipton.”
“Mandy Tipton? I told you Renzelli was the last one. I’m not paying you for Tipton. That case belongs to Fiddler.”
“And yet I have her and Fiddler doesn’t. Found her in one of the valley’s many gay bars. Guess it pays sometimes to be a part of the queer community after all. If I let her go, Fiddler will never find her. I guarantee that. Liberty will be on the hook for the entire amount of her bail. What was it? Twenty grand?”
“You think you’re so smart, don’tcha?”
“Five seconds, girlfriend. Four. Three. Two.”
“Oh, all right! I’ll pay you for Tipton too.”
“Pleasure doing business with you.” I hung up.
“You can still let me go.” Mandy looked like a puppy begging for table scraps.
“Yeah, right. I’d rather get paid.”
When we turned south on Central, Tipton groaned. “I don’t feel so good.”
I turned around in my seat and looked at her. “Aw, crap. Conor, pull over. She’s going to puke.”
“Hold on. I’m in the left lane. Gotta let this bloke on my arse get past me.”
“Hurry, she’s—”
The woman leaned forward and unleashed what looked like gallons of vomit all over the back of Conor’s seat and the floor.
“Aw, shit.” The smell hit my nose and made me gag.
By the time Conor pulled into the parking lot of the Park Central shopping center, Tipton was down to dry heaving and spitting into the mess on the floor of my brother’s truck. He was going to kill me.
“I . . . I feel better now,” Tipton said.
35
After turning Tipton over to the fine folks at the Madison Street Jail’s intake, we stopped at a do-it-yourself car wash on McDowell and rinsed out the backseat of the truck as best we could. Still, the stink of vomit lingered. I figured I could get the truck detailed in the next day or so before I returned it to Jake.
It was dark when I dropped off Conor at his place.
“Ya coming in?” he asked as he handed me the truck keys by the driver’s door.
“I feel like sleeping in my own bed tonight.”
“Ya don’t look well, love. Ya okay to drive?”
“Just got a headache, and my nose hurts. I’ll survive.” I hugged him and gave him a peck on the lips.
“I could follow ya back to your place.”
“Up to you. I won’t be much company.”
When we walked in my front door, I made a beeline to my kitchen for a couple of acetaminophen. I chased them down with a cold beer Conor handed me as I flopped down in a chair and rested my head on the table.
“You all right, love? Ya look like shite warmed over.”
I pressed the bottle against my temple. “Should’ve stopped to fill that pain meds prescription.”
“Ya want me to go fill it for ya?”
“No, thanks.”
“Ya want something to eat?”
“No!” The thought of food turned my stomach.
“Ya feelin’ nauseous? Should I take ya back to hospital?”
“The word’s nauseated. Even if I were, I’m not spending another night in the ER.”
“Nauseous, nauseated. Same difference to me.”
“Just leave me alone.”
“Feelin’ hormonal, huh?”
I raised my head and gave him a death stare. “First of all, fuck you. Second, I only missed one dose, so no, I’m not hormonal. I’ve got a busted nose and a headache, a fugitive that I can’t find, and your endless questions are annoying the hell out of me. So for the love of all things holy, shut the fuck up.”
“Sorry, love. I’m a tosser for saying you’re hormonal,” he said in an appeasing tone. “Whaddya say we go back into your bedroom for a ride, eh? Get your mind off work stuff.”
“What fucking part of ‘I’ve got a fucking headache’ did you fucking not under-fucking-stand?”
“Fine. Then what do you want?”
“I want you to shut the fuck up.”
He folded his arms and glared at me. “Look, love, I’m sorry ya’ve got a headache. And I’m sorry you’re in a pissy mood. And I’m sorry ya haven’t caught your fugitive. But I’ll not be treated like a bloody bastard when I’m tryin’ to help ya feel better. I’m outta here.”
He stormed out and slammed the front door so hard the windows rattled. I buried my head in my arms. “Fuck.”
An hour later, the acetaminophen had taken the edge off my headache. I called up Becca, hoping for some help and more than a little BFF sympathy.
“Hello?” She sounded worse than I felt.
“I need you to research some phone numbers for me.”
“It’ll have to wait until morning, Jinx. I’m not able to handle anything tonight.”
“Crap.” I was tempted to press her, but even in my mood, I knew it would be wrong. “All right. Hope you feel better tomorrow.” I hung up.
I made myself a bowl of cereal just to have something in my stomach. I felt like shit. I no doubt looked like shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
I pulled out the burner phone we found and grabbed a yellow legal pad and a pen. I created a written log of the recent calls, then started dialing the numbers I didn’t recognize. Three were no longer in service. One rang at the motel where I’d found Holly and her boy toy. And two more had a male voice saying, “I’m not here. Leave a message.” No names. I wasn’t sure if it was the same voice on both numbers.
I dialed the first number again and forced myself to sound chipper but professional, which in my condition took considerable effort.
“Hi, my name’s Liz Windsor with the Arizona Foundation for People with Disabilities. I’m not sure if I have the right number, but I’m looking for either Holly or Bonnie Schwartz. I have a check made out to them for nine thousand dollars. Please call me back so I can send you your money.” I left my phone number and hung up, then did the same on the other mystery number.
I poured myself a hot bubble bath and played one of Selena’s albums on my old iPod. When I was a teenager longing to be a girl, listening to her music always made me feel better. I popped in my earbuds as I eased into the water. My phone was on the floor within arm’s reach, in case Holly called looking for her imaginary check.
I had only a couple of days left to locate Holly Schwartz and very few leads. If I didn’t find her in time, chances were Sadie Levinson wouldn’t hire me to locate any more of her skips. And then what would I do? No one else wanted to hire me. What would I do for income? Working a nine-to-five was not an option. Not for a pirate girl like me. Too much Lafitte blood coursing through my veins.
Selena’s song “Dreaming of You” got me thinking about how I treated Conor. I was a bitch. Totally. Sure, I was off my hormones, and my body felt like shit. My head still hadn’t completely stopped hurting. But those were just excuses. If he’d treated me that way, I would’ve walked away too. I felt awful.
I turned off the music and called him. It went straight to voicemail.
“Uh, hi, Conor. Sorry I was such a bitch tonight. I, uh, call me when you get this. Thanks.”
Did I apologize enough? Should I call him back and apologize some more? Have I already screwed up everything beyond repair? Is he avoiding my calls? Is he talking to someone else? Is he cheating on me?
Pressure built up behi
nd my eyes. Tears streaked down my face until I was full-on ugly crying in the tub. Just soap in my eyes, I told myself. That and I felt utterly alone, worthless, and miserable.
36
As I was drying off, my phone pinged. I prayed it was Conor sending me a text saying he was sorry too and he would be over to make everything okay. Underneath all the badass was a princess who sometimes just wanted to be taken care of.
I picked up the phone. It was a text but from an unfamiliar number.
* * *
I’m hoping the gift I left on your doorstep will convey my true feelings for you.
* * *
Was this Volkov again? And what the hell was left on my doorstep?
I pulled on some shorts and a shirt, flung open my front door, and gasped. A six-foot-long bundle of clear plastic stretched on the floor of my front porch. I didn’t have to unwrap it to know it was a body. I could see smears of blood on the inside of the plastic. What I didn’t know was whose body it was or who had left it.
Panic blazed in my mind as I rushed to unwrap the body. Please don’t be Conor! My hands grew slick with blood from pulling at the slippery plastic in my furtive attempts to reveal the body in front of me. Please, please, no!
When the last layer of plastic was peeled away, I didn’t immediately recognize the body. The face was a battered, pulpy mess. I dug into the victim’s pockets and pulled out a wallet. The driver’s license read Thom Hensley.
I barked out a laugh of relief as I realized it wasn’t Conor. One laugh turned into a series of guffaws that abruptly devolved into uncontrollable sobs. My mind struggled to make sense of the situation. I hated Thom Hensley for what he did to me, but I never wished him dead.
Under the golden glow of my porch light, I sat on the wooden bench, staring at the carnage. An envelope underneath the layers of plastic caught my eye. I snatched it up and tore it open, smearing it with blood. A computer-printed note read:
* * *
My dearest Jinx,
I’m told this man outed you without your permission. Truly a tawdry, cruel, and invasive thing to do to such a lovely and gifted woman as yourself. A man like that does not deserve to live. Please take this gift as a token of my affection.
Warmest regards,
Milo
* * *
I felt numb. Why was this sick fucker so obsessed with me? Was this revenge for raiding his warehouse? Or did he really have a twisted crush on me? I’d hoped if I ignored him, he’d give up and leave me alone. Clearly, that wasn’t working. And now he knew where I lived.
I was in way over my head. It was time to bring in reinforcements. I called Conor, my hand shaking as I held the phone. The call again went to voicemail. “C-Conor, please call me. It’s . . . it’s an emergency.”
Why wasn’t he answering? Was he punishing me? Or had something happened to him too? I tried not to think about it. I punched his number into the locator app on my phone. It showed his phone was at his house. I was tempted to drive over, but I couldn’t leave Hensley’s body on my porch. Sooner or later the cops would show up. It would look worse for me if it was someone else who called them.
I made one more call before bringing in my former brothers in blue.
“Somebody better be dead or on fire,” Kirsten Pasternak’s groggy voice said.
“S-Someone’s dead.”
“Jinx? What happened?”
I took a deep breath to get a hold on my emotions. “Someone killed Thom Hensley. Dumped his body at my place.”
“Thom Hensley, the reporter?”
“Yeah.”
“Where are you?”
“At home. On my front porch with the body.”
“Are the cops there?”
“No.”
“Call 911, but do not answer any questions until I get there. You hear me? Just tell them you found a body on your porch. Nothing else.”
“Copy that.”
Within minutes of my call to 911, patrol cars had cordoned off the street. Curious neighbors stood outside their homes and peeked from windows, drawn like moths to the flashing lights. When the first officer on the scene, an Officer McAfee, started his battery of questions, I told him I’d found the body and would answer the rest of his questions when my attorney arrived.
By the time Kirsten walked up my driveway, yellow crime scene tape stretched across the wrought-iron supports holding up the roof of my porch. Crime scene techs scoured the scene for evidence, including Volkov’s note.
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God you’re here.”
“What happened to your face?” she asked.
“Drunk fugitive head butted me. Nothing to do with this mess.”
She eyed me suspiciously. “If you say so. Let’s step inside, and you tell me what happened.”
I led her to my kitchen table, afraid I’d get blood from my clothes on anything else. I gave her a complete rundown of events, showing her the emails and text I’d received from Volkov. “Will I have to surrender my phone as evidence?” I asked. “I rely on this for work.” Also, I still had that locator app that I didn’t want them to find.
“We’ll see what we can work out.”
I heard a knock on my front door, followed by a familiar voice. “Hello? Anyone home?”
“In here.” I gave Kirsten a look.
Detective Hardin shuffled into my kitchen. “Gotta say, Ballou, you’re the last person I expected to be talking to this evening.”
“Feeling’s mutual.”
“Then again, bounty hunters do like to push legal boundaries.” He nodded at Kirsten and pulled out a pen and a notepad. “Good evening, Counselor.”
“Evening, Detective.”
“I didn’t do this, Hardin, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“If you say so. Why don’t we start with a statement.”
I provided a brief explanation of my infiltration of the warehouse, leaving out the part about Conor and me killing Volkov’s men. I brought up the disruption of the FBI sting and the release of the kidnapped women being held at the warehouse, giving retaliation as a possible motive for Volkov. Finally, I mentioned the note left with the body.
“If Volkov’s mad at you for disrupting his human trafficking operation, why would he murder Hensley?”
“How should I know? I’ve never met Volkov. But judging from the note he left, he seems to have some weird fascination with me.”
Hardin nodded, taking notes. “When’s the last time you saw Hensley?”
I took a breath and shared a glance with Kirsten. She nodded. “The day that article came out. He and I had a heated discussion about it after he outed me without my permission. But it was just an argument. I let it go.”
“So you were angry at him.”
“Yeah, but not enough to kill him. He’s an asshole. But so what? The world’s full of assholes.”
“You never threatened him?”
I tried to remember what I’d said to him in his office. “I threatened to sue him. That’s it.”
“Tell me, Jinx, why’s your face all black and blue? You and the victim get in a fight?”
“No, a drunken fugitive head butted me this afternoon.”
“Really? Where were you earlier this evening?”
“Conor and I dropped a fugitive off at the Madison Street Jail around seven. Got back here around eight o’clock. Been home alone ever since.”
“Last time I checked, it didn’t take an hour to get from the jail to here. Maybe fifteen minutes in heavy traffic.”
“We had to rinse out the backseat of my truck after a fugitive got sick.” I ignored Hardin’s chuckles and continued. “Then I dropped off Conor at his place and came home.”
“And the body wasn’t here when you got home?”
“Sure, it was here,” I said sardonically. “I thought I’d wait until the middle of the night to call you guys. What, do you think I’m crazy?”
“You didn’t ask Volkov to kill him?”
“I have never talked to Volkov. Nor do I ever want to.” I just wanted to put a few bullets into the sleazeball’s skull.
“We’re going to need your clothes for evidence. And we’ll need to swab your hands for GSR.”
“Fine, whatever.”
37
Hardin promised to have Patrol keep an eye on the house in case Volkov or one of his goons showed up. He made me swear to let his team handle it. I was too tired to argue. It was nearly dawn by the time the last of the officers left.
When I was finally alone, I showered and collapsed in my bed, only to wake what felt like minutes later to the sound of my phone ringing. “Conor?”
“Sorry, girl, no. It’s Becca.”
It took a second for my brain to focus. Right. Becca. Plate numbers. “Hey, Becks, what’s up? What time is it?”
“Eight twenty-one. Too early?”
“Late night. Someone murdered Thom Hensley and dumped his body on my doorstep.”
“Seriously? Holy crap! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just exhausted.”
“Any idea who did it?”
“Milo Volkov.”
I heard her gasp. “Are you serious? Girl, you should get someplace safe till they catch him.”
“I’m not worried, just pissed off.” I swung out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen. I’d forgotten to put coffee grounds in the coffeemaker, so there was a lovely carafe of hot water waiting for me. Shit. I popped in a fresh filter and some grounds, dumped the water into the reservoir, and pressed the brew button.
While it ran, I grabbed my file on the Holly Schwartz case. “What’ve you got for me on those license plates?”
“The one from the hotel is a rental from Cheap Ride Rentals.”
It was a national chain. “Do you know which office?” I asked.
“Northwest corner of Tatum and Shea.”
I wrote down the address, which wasn’t far from Kim Morton’s house. “That’s a start. What about the Hummer that tagged the Gray Ghost?”
Chaser_A Jinx Ballou Novel Page 18
