“You only gave me a partial plate, so I was able to narrow it down to three vehicles. One belongs to a Dmitri Gorkov.”
“Never heard of him.” I wondered if he was an associate of Volkov’s.
“The other two possible matches are Yvonne McKinley and Robert Dixon.”
“Wait, did you say Robert Dixon?”
“Yeah, full name is Robert Lee Dixon. You know him?”
I sighed. “Fiddler. It was motherfuckin’ Fiddler. I swear, next time I see him, I’ll kick his ass.”
“You know him?”
“Old bounty hunter for Liberty Bail Bonds who was on my team until a few days ago. The one Big Bobby gave my outstanding cases to.” I managed a smile. “He also was looking for Holly Schwartz, until Sadie Levinson turned the case over to me. Thanks for the 411.”
“Glad I could help.”
“Do me a favor, though. Don’t tell Conor it was Fiddler, if you happen to talk to him.”
“Why not?”
“I want to handle it myself.”
“You got it. Anything else?”
I thought about it. I hadn’t heard back from my charity check scam on those two phone numbers. “Yeah, I located that burner that had been calling Bonnie Schwartz’s number. Got some other phone numbers I want you to reach.” I gave them to her.
“I’ll run them and let you know what I find out.”
I poured myself a cup of coffee. Despite my lack of sleep, I actually felt better than I had the day before. My nose was still tender, but my headache was gone. After some eggs and coffee, I was actually feeling almost human. I still felt a bit emotional, especially when I thought about Conor. Why the hell hasn’t he called me back?
After throwing on some clothes, I decided it was time to get paid. I hopped into Jake’s truck, which still stank faintly of vomit, and zipped downtown to Liberty Bail Bonds with body receipts in hand.
Big Bobby was talking with Sara Jean when I walked in through their glass doors. They did not look happy to see me, which made the situation all the sweeter. Assuming I actually got paid, that was.
“Good morning, assholes! How the hell are you?” I said with a smug grin.
Big Bobby stood up tall and crossed his arms. Damn, he was a big man. “What the hell you doing here? We fired you last week.”
“Maybe so, but you still owe me for these two.” I waved the body receipts.
Sara Jean looked as if she’d just eaten a cockroach. Big Bobby got a confused look on his face.
“We ain’t paying you for those!” Big Bobby insisted. “We gave your cases to Fiddler.” He reached for the body receipts, but I pulled them out of his grasp.
“Au contraire, monsieur. Sara Jean and I already discussed it. I even recorded our conversation.”
“What?” He turned to Sara Jean. “What the hell’s she yammering about?”
Sara Jean harrumphed. “What was I supposed to do, Bobby? We were running out of time on those two. She grabbed Renzelli on Saturday. Said she’d release him if we didn’t agree to pay her.”
“What about the other one?”
“Mandy Tipton?” I asked with a smirk. “Grabbed her yesterday.”
“She was at one of them lezzie bars,” Sara Jean said with a sneer. “Fiddler never woulda found her.”
“Aw, why all the sour faces? This is good news. I found your skips, turned them in, and saved you good people a ton of money and hassle.”
Big Bobby still didn’t seem grateful. Oh well, not my problem.
“Enough chitchat.” I set the body receipts on Sara Jean’s desk. “Time to pay for services rendered.”
“I don’t care what Sara Jean told you.” Big Bobby stepped between me and Sara Jean’s desk. “I’m the owner of this here outfit. And I say, I ain’t paying you nothin’, ya little pervert.”
“Seriously? I’m the pervert?” This was getting old. Time for a change of tactics. “From what Fiddler told me, Bobby, you’ve been spending a lot of time with a young thing you met at Chasing Tails, that strip club near Grand Avenue and Indian School. The one that dresses up like a Catholic schoolgirl? Not that I judge.”
“You what?” Sara Jean glared at him.
Big Bobby muttered incoherently, no doubt trying to come up with an explanation. “I, uh, she don’t know what she’s talking about.”
“Big Bobby, are you seriously going to deny it? You want me to show Sara Jean your credit card receipts? I mean, seriously, who puts lap dances on a credit card? Honestly, I think you wanted to get caught.”
Sara Jean slapped him. “You filthy pig. You said you was on a stakeout.”
“I was, sugar pie, honest.”
“Don’t get so high and mighty, Miss Sara Jean.”
Sara Jean turned back to me with a confused look on her face. “Me? What did I do?”
“Gee, let me think. How about the money you’ve been slipping some of the defense attorneys under the table. I wonder what the Department of Insurance would say to that if they found out you were paying referrals to lawyers. They could shut you down.”
Her fleshy face turned a lovely shade of fuchsia. “You wouldn’t?”
“Hey, I understand. Cost of doing business. And as long as I get paid for these body receipts, it’ll just be our little secret.”
“That’s extortion,” Big Bobby exclaimed.
“Naw, extortion would be if I demanded another ten grand to keep my mouth shut. I just want what I would have earned if you two weren’t such backwoods bigots.”
“All right, all right. Pay the woman, Sara Jean!” Big Bobby glared at me. “But this is it, ya hear? All your other cases have been reassigned.”
Sara Jean scribbled out a check and handed it to me without a word.
“Thanks!” I said, slipping the check in my back pocket. “You two hypocrites have yourselves a fabulous fucking day.”
The office door squeaked open behind me. I turned, and Fiddler was walking in. The image of my spray-painted truck popped into my head. My blood boiled. “There you are!”
Fiddler’s eyes went wide. “Aw, shit!” He turned tail and dashed out the door with me on his heels. I maneuvered through a trail of toppled pedestrians left in Fiddler’s wake as he barreled down the sidewalk. He didn’t get more than half a block before I grabbed him and threw him against a building.
“Whatcha running from, Fiddler?”
He was gasping, trying to catch his breath. “I . . . I don’t know . . . what . . . you’re talking ’bout,” he huffed. “Just seemed . . . nice day for . . . a run.”
“Cut the shit, Fiddler. I know you vandalized my ride.” I popped open my phone and showed him the photo.
“Not me.”
“Had a friend of mine trace your license plate, douchebag.” A small crowd of people started to gather around us, holding up their phones, no doubt recording the excitement.
“So what?” He got a smug look on his face. “You are a faggot, right? Heard you even got your dick cut off. Fucking tranny faggot.”
Suddenly Fiddler was on the ground, moaning. Blood dribbled from his nose and a cut below his left eye. I didn’t remember hitting him, despite the throbbing in my fist.
“Stay away from me, Fiddler, or I will kick the ever-loving shit out of you. Got it?” I turned away, cradling my hand. I glared at the lookie-loos recording me. “What are you looking at?”
As I was on the way back to the parking garage, my phone rang. “Yeah?”
“Jinxie? You okay?”
I felt all the bluster go out of me like a deflating balloon. “Conor.”
I collapsed onto a nearby bus stop bench. Memories of the night before flooded my mind. The acrid smell of blood, death, and plastic. Hardin’s never-ending questions.
“Hensley’s dead.”
“Aye. Heard about that on the news. Recognized your house on the telly.”
“It’s Volkov. He’s . . . ” I wasn’t sure how to explain it. “He’s been stalking me. Sending creepy emails. Then t
his.”
“Jesus Christ, I’ll kill the fucker before he lays a hand on ya.”
“Honestly, I think he’s got a creepy crush on me. I promised to let Hardin’s guys handle it. I need to focus on finding Holly Schwartz.”
“Where are ya?”
“Downtown. Just picked up a check from Liberty. Had a run-in with Fiddler.”
“Fiddler? What about?”
“He’s the one who vandalized the Gray Ghost.”
“That bloody wanker! Ya give him what for?”
“I punched him in the face.” I actually felt bad about it, which made me wonder what the hell was wrong with me. Was I going soft?
“Good for you, lass.” I heard him chuckle.
“Conor, I’m sorry for getting all pissy with you yesterday.”
“Aw, Jinxie, I understand. Been a rough couple of days.”
“Thanks, you’re the best.”
“So ya want some company?”
“Yeah. I’m heading to a rental car place at Tatum and Shea. Seems our girl and her boyfriend rented that minivan from Cheap Rides.”
“Cheap Rides?” Conor guffawed. “Sounds like a low-cost hooker.”
“Yeah, yeah. Very funny. You in?”
“Aye! I’ll meet ya there.”
38
Conor was already sitting in his Charger in the parking lot when I pulled in. I parked and stepped out into the heat, wearing my gear. He hugged me, and it honestly felt good to be held.
“I’m sorry for yelling at you,” I said, trying not to tear up. If I had to go much longer without my hormones, I was going to fucking kill someone. I only hoped it wasn’t him.
“Don’t give it a second thought, love.” He kissed me on the forehead. “You doing okay?”
I shrugged. “I’ll feel better once we apprehend Schwartz.”
“You said Volkov’s been stalking you?”
I showed him the emails and the text.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Why didn’t ya mention this earlier? He could’ve killed ya.”
“Hoped he’d give up when I didn’t respond.”
“Bloody good that did.”
“So this is my fault?” I glared at him incredulously.
“Not saying that. This is all on him. But we have to watch our backs.”
“Fuck Volkov! I hope Hardin kills him,” I said, getting control of my runaway emotions. “I have more important things to worry about than some twisted, lovesick Chechen gangster.”
“Aye. Let’s go see what the good folks at Cheap Rides can tell us about who rented that vehicle.”
We stepped into the small office with cheap carpeting and even cheaper-looking cubicles on the other side of the scratched-up counter. A clean-cut man a few years younger than me, wearing a clip-on tie and a white dress shirt, stepped up to the counter with a car salesman smile. “Hi, my name is Chad. How can I help you folks?”
I flashed my Bail Enforcement Agent badge. “One of our fugitives was seen with a man who rented a car from your office. We need to find out who he is and where he lives.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t give that information out to just anyone.”
Conor pointed at my bruised and battered face. “See this, lad? The people we’re looking for did that. Nearly killed her. They’re wanted for murder.”
“Trust me,” I said, “you want us to get them off the streets. We might even get your minivan back for you.”
“You don’t think they’ll return our van?”
I raised an eyebrow. “They’re wanted for murdering a woman and jumping bail. You think they’re worried about stealing your van?”
Chad went pale and stepped up to one of the computer terminals at the counter. “What are their names?”
“I’m not sure what name they rented under. Here’s the license plate.” I slid him the paper I’d written the plate number on.
He did his magic on the computer. “That car was rented a month or so ago by a Richard Delgado.”
Holly’s nurse. “He got an address, mate?” Conor asked.
“Komatke, Arizona. Diamondback Drive.” Chad wrote down the exact address.
“Where’s Komatke?” Conor gave me a quizzical look.
“Down on the Gila River Indian Reservation south of town. You have a phone number for him?” I asked the guy.
“I’ll print out the file for you.”
He tapped on the keyboard, and a nearby laser printer spit out a few pages. Chad handed them to Conor, who passed them to me. “He look familiar?”
The printout had a copy of Delgado’s driver’s license picture. “Yeah, that’s the guy who roughed me up. The one with Holly.”
“Anything else?” Chad asked.
“No, that’ll do. Thanks.” I gave him a smile and turned to leave. “Guess we’re taking a trip south of the city.”
“You will call, won’t you?” he said as Conor and I walked out. “Let us know if you find the van.”
“Sure,” I lied.
I climbed into Jake’s truck with Conor following behind in his Charger. On the way to Komatke, I called Becca.
“The guy who rented the car’s named Richard Delgado.”
“Delgado? Holly’s nurse.”
“Conor and I are headed to his house in Komatke now. Pull up everything you can on him. Phone logs, bank records, the works.”
“Will do.”
“Thanks, Becks.”
I hung up and breathed a sigh of relief. I was back in the hunt. With a little luck, we’d find Holly hiding out at Delgado’s place, and with Conor there, I wasn’t going to get ambushed like before. Maybe I’d even get my Taser back.
Still, something nagged me. Why hadn’t Conor answered his phone when I called to apologize last night? Did he not feel like talking to me after I’d been so awful to him? I couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was going on.
He’d disappeared a couple of times the past few days without explanation. When I’d pressed him, he lied. Or maybe the lack of hormones was making me paranoid. Ugh. I hated this.
I decided when I got home, I’d take a double dose of estradiol. I didn’t care what that doctor at the ER said. The mood swings and the fucking crying was worse than dying. If I didn’t get relief soon, I’d be the one going on a murderous rampage. Could I plead temporary insanity?
39
Komatke was a sparsely populated town in the Gila River Indian Community, in the open desert south of Phoenix. I’d occasionally passed through Komatke in an attempt to bypass rush hour traffic when I had to get from west Phoenix to the southeast valley and beyond.
We parked on the street in front of Delgado’s place, a small wooden frame house coated in a layer of desert dust so thick it was difficult to tell what color it’d been painted. The yard was natural desert. No lawn. No crushed rock. Just bare ground littered with wild grass, creosote, brittlebush, and other plants I saw all the time but didn’t know the names of. One of them might have been a Mormon tea bush. But what did I know? I was no botanist. I wasn’t Mormon. And I didn’t even like tea all that much.
No cars were parked in front in Delgado’s dirt driveway. The curtains were drawn. Not a sign of life anywhere. The nearest house was a quarter mile away.
“Think they’re in there?” I asked Conor as we met between our vehicles. I donned my shades and racked the slide of my Ruger. If Delgado tried to ambush me again, he’d find me rather unforgiving.
“No vehicles, but those tire tracks in the driveway look recent.”
“Maybe they had someone drop them off so it would look like no one was home.”
It was flimsy, and we both knew it. Technically, we could force our way in only if we had reason to believe our fugitive was inside. It was a gray area. If we were right, we were golden. If we were wrong, we could be in a whole lot of trouble, especially on the reservation.
Several years back, a team of bounty hunters was given bogus information. They stormed a house while looking for a fugitive,
only to discover the address they’d been given belonged to the Phoenix chief of police. Several innocent people were hurt in the process. The bounty hunters were sentenced to serious time in federal prison.
I didn’t want to face the same fate. Trans people didn’t do well in prison. But I wasn’t going to let Holly slip through my fingers again. This was about more than the fifty-thousand-dollar bounty. I had a grudge to settle.
I looked around. The street was empty in all directions. “Let’s do it.”
Conor nodded. “Suits me, love. Ya want the front or the back?”
“I’ll take the back this time. I’ll wait for your signal.” I turned on my walkie.
“Suits me fine.”
I hustled around to the back. Under a small porch, a ceramic chiminea sat next to a couple of dust-covered plastic lawn chairs. The back door looked weathered, the outer laminate peeling at the bottom. I put my back against the wall next to the door, my Ruger ready.
Conor pounded on the front. “Open up! Bail enforcement.” He pounded again. There was no response.
“Looks like no one’s home,” Conor said over the walkie.
A crash came from inside, like a box of something being knocked over. “Someone’s in there. I’m going in.”
“Jinx, hold on.”
I gave the back door a good kick with my boot. The frame shattered, and the door snapped inward. I rushed in, pivoting right and left as I advanced into a dark room. A flurry of dust motes swirled in the air lit up by the midafternoon sun pouring through the back windows. I whipped off my shades to better assess my surroundings. I was in the kitchen. The scent of cooking oil hung in the air.
I checked under the small kitchen table and opened every cabinet. I’d had fugitives hide on closet shelves and even in a chimney once. After Delgado spirited Schwartz away in the suitcase, I wasn’t making any assumptions. But after a thorough search of the kitchen, I’d turned up nothing but a drying rack full of dishes.
I continued into the living room, modestly furnished with an aging Barcalounger and a bulky TV that looked about twenty years old. An entertainment center held a stereo, turntable, and a stack of LPs. Photos of Delgado and lots of family members covered the wall. On another hung several awards from the Komatke High School Rifle Club recognizing Richie Delgado as their top marksman. Unopened mail lay in a basket on an end table.
Chaser_A Jinx Ballou Novel Page 19
