by R. T. Wolfe
She should have been flooded with relief, but at that moment, rational emotions were nowhere to be found. "Thank you, sir," she said mechanically. "I won't."
* * *
"Do you want me in here, or should I wait in the car again?" Eddy was understandably pissed.
Nickie took a cleansing breath, and turned down the alley behind Hardware by Joe. She pulled close to Baxter's back door and rested her forehead on her steering wheel.
"Oh, shit. I didn't mean it." He ran his hand up her arm, over her shoulder and behind her hair. It was warm. Eddy had always cared about her. That was never the problem. With his other hand, he took hers and linked fingers. She glanced at their joined hands, then up to his eyes. They were the softest blue. She pulled her hand away.
"No. It's my fault," she said. He was sincere, it seemed, as he looked from one of her eyes to the other. She placed her clammy palm on his cheek. "I need some time. I've been through worse."
They exited the car as she took her gun off safety. "I've got a plan."
"I always like the sound of that," he said as he closed his door.
Before shutting hers and locking the car, she tossed her coat on her seat. She wanted her gun and badge on display for this asshole.
Pushing open the back door of the gym, she let it slam against the wall, announcing her entrance. It was effective. All eyes turned. The place had the scent of rusty metal, sweat and the feel of damp concrete.
She scanned the place but didn't see the dude from Mrs. Hendrix's police rendering. She did see Baxter. He wasn't happy to see her.
She knew men and needed to get this one agitated. Just the way she liked them.
"Maybe we should talk in my office, Detective," Baxter said as soon as they were within whispering distance. Step one, check.
Before they left the open area, she stood her ground in front of the thin group of employees and members, each of whom had yet to get their eyes off them. "You first." Gesturing with her arm like she was a chivalrous man allowing the woman to enter before her, she reached for the door before he had a chance. The glare he shot at her was priceless. Step two, check.
For a quick moment, she saw Duncan. It was the time he held the door open to his new office. The one he bought so he could spend more time in Northridge, spend more time with her. The wash of emotion that spilled over her was not welcome.
"Detective?" Baxter barked from inside his office.
Her eyes saw nothing but fog. Confusion. Hurt. Disappointment and a haze.
Eddy shut the door behind them more softly than she would have preferred. Turning on Baxter, she walked up to him, chest out, stopping inches from his face. She paused and smiled. "You sent me on a wild goose chase, Baxter the boxer."
His face turned all sorts of colors, and he spoke through his teeth. "You're gonna want to step back, pretty lady."
She adjusted her hair. "Pretty lady? Why thank you, Rex." She stepped close enough that only a thin line of air lay between them. "I lost my beauty sleep sitting in front of Hendrix's bookie's house."
She pulled out Mrs. Hendrix's police rendering from her back pocket. Shoving it in his face, she crooned, "Where is this man?"
He took a step back to focus on the sketch. She countered and took a step forward. His eyes showed a flash of recognition before they turned stone cold. Step three, check.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said through smiling teeth.
"Of course you don't, dear." She took a step closer, causing him to step back and hit the wall behind him. She heard his piece clunk against the wood paneling.
It was a dance of wits, and he was easy prey. Taking the warrant from her other pocket, she crooned, "How about this? I've got two witnesses implicating you and your two-bit money laundering and loan shark joke of an operation. One who identifies your employee as the man who took a hit on two citizens. He's been stalking their kids. Left an envelope of candid kiddie pictures for the mama."
"Pictures of kids? What the hell do you take me for?"
He was sincere about the pictures. Interesting.
"The warrant covers every piece of computer equipment and every scrap of paper." She glanced around his back. "And for any gun matching this description. Let's start here..." She slid one hand over her gun as the other reached around him, careful not to touch him.
He didn't disappoint. Two thick hands spun her around and backed her to the wall. "You stupid whore. You have no idea what you're doing." Step four, check.
The expression on his face was perfect as she dug the end of her Smith and Wesson into his belly. "I'll shoot you in the gut and watch you bleed on the floor," she whispered in his face. No need for Eddy to hear that part. Baxter's response was textbook. He knew he lost it, and that he lost it to a woman. Men could be so damned predictable.
"Rex Baxter, you're under arrest for assaulting a police officer, obstruction of justice and lying to an official. You have the right to remain silent..." Keeping the gun pressed to his belly, she slipped around him, letting Eddy do the honors of cuffing him as she finished reading him his rights.
* * *
Duncan sat on the stool in his studio, contemplating the landscape his agent insisted he finish for his upcoming show. His most delicate brush was in his hand. The oil paints sat beside him. The lighting was perfect. Natural sunlight with a haze of cloud cover. His hands didn't budge.
He'd emailed the pictures to her. Put the hard copies in snail mail. But there was no sensation of closure.
He turned his eyes to the cello stand that stood empty. As empty as the hole in his heart. 'It's your neck,' his brother had said. What had he done? He'd hurt her is what he had done. Again.
The look on her face. He'd kept the picture from her. As well as the ones he brought to her.
Lynx took the former. Stole it from his home. He would deal with that when the time came.
But this was on Duncan's head, not Lynx's. The expression in her eyes was one of betrayal, but there was more. His sketch meant more to her. Did she know the man? He didn't want to think of the possibilities if that were true.
He dropped his brush and placed his hands on the sides of his head. The phone rang. Tipping his stool, he picked it up from where it sat on the wet bar. It was his aunt. He couldn't face anyone at that moment and set the phone down without answering.
Grabbing his jacket, he headed for the stairs. He stepped over the plastic and around the paint cans, and realized none of it seemed to matter anymore. Losing her was like losing an arm.
The boxes containing a state-of-the-art security system lay in the foyer. The company was due out next week to do the install. He hadn't bought the system for himself.
His feet led him to his car, his car to the airport. He would pay his pilot accordingly for the short notice. Waiting on the runway was a pitiful metaphor to what he was doing—running away.
The flight to L.A. was a business venture, he told himself. He had a string of potential clients he could check on. Convincing himself of the reason for the trip wasn't that difficult. He was panicking.
He had the worst flashback he'd had in months, and he had no one to blame but himself. Taking a deep breath, he gazed out over the runway. His plane was stored to the side behind a row of propeller planes in the small Northridge airport. The air was crisp and seared through his cheeks. The pain was welcome.
When his pilot arrived, he approached Duncan and glanced around the back of him. "No bags, sir?"
Duncan wasn't sure what to say. "I... it's a last-minute trip, as you know. I'll pick up some things when we touch down. Thank you for coming on such short notice." He made himself remember he wasn't the only one alone on a holiday weekend. "I'm surprised you weren't with the kids."
"I saw them yesterday," his pilot answered as they headed for the plane. "They're with their mom for the rest of the weekend. We have clearance to taxi in twenty. You'll wait on the plane, I assume?"
Duncan nodded as they reached his plane.
His pilot reached for the stair release. Duncan took his hand. "Wait."
"Sir?"
"This is wrong." This is what he did. Ran away. He'd done it for thirty-plus years. It was Nickie who made him want to settle in Northridge, but it was Northridge that made him want to stay. His aunt and uncle, his brother, his new nephew.
It was against everything his gut wanted him to do, but he told his pilot to go home.
The man gawked at the large bills in his hand. "I didn't do anything. I can't take this."
"Take it. Yes, you did. It's a holiday, and I'm going home."
* * *
Nickie had enough to keep Baxter for at least twenty-four hours. He could sleep on his transgressions in the comfortable cell he shared with a handful of meth addicts and petty thieves. It made her smile for the first time that day.
She sat straddling her cello with her laptop open in front of her. Her fingers did the dance of a spider over the strings on the wooden neck. She'd done everything she could think of; finished reporting on her day, checked her email, ignored the ones from Duncan, checked her voice mail, ignored the ones from Duncan, and now she sat, running her bow along the strings in a slow, sad rendering of Bach's "Sonatina."
The search engine stood empty on the screen. Waiting. Taunting her. She wasn't in a hurry, she convinced herself. It had been fifteen years.
Closing her eyes, she moved her bow as she led her mind to places that would soothe. The time she took down Captain Tanner for his involvement in over thirty years of using barely teens to get his kicks. Except, Duncan had been there for that. And was the main reason she wasn't sitting at the bottom of Seneca Lake with bricks tied to her ankles.
She led her mind to the ecstatic relief on a college girl's face when Nickie had freed her from the soundproof bunker where the sex offender had trapped her. Except, Duncan was the one who'd found the bunker.
The cello wasn't working. And her cello always worked. It as the single thing she took appreciatively from her upbringing as a Maryland Monticello.
She set it aside and scooted her stool closer to her laptop. Setting her fingers on the keyboard, she made them type out the name 'Jun Zheng.'
Chapter 11
Her fingers trembled as she pressed enter. The screen listed 'About 1,280,000 results.' She took a deep breath and chose an image search. It came up with endless pages of photos of men and women, sports enthusiasts and chemical engineers.
Rubbing her hands over her face, she took her machine, curled in her lounge chair and set to work. She wouldn't forget his face. Fifteen years of aging wouldn't change it enough for her to forget.
Time passed as she studied each picture. Memories she'd carefully packed away became real... in color and stereo surround sound. He'd laughed at her. Again and again. He loved it when she fought. To him, it was like poking a caged animal through the bars and watching it react. And she reacted. Every damned time.
What a fool she'd been. She should have been smarter, kept her head down and did as she was told. But she wasn't like that. Not then, not now.
She pushed her laptop from her legs and let it slide to the floor. Enough. Turning her eyes to the clock, she noticed it was 2 a.m. She curled in a ball in the chair and laid her head on the armrest. The last she heard was the beep from her phone signaling another voice message.
* * *
As she'd requested, they had Baxter waiting for her in Interrogation One when she arrived at work. It was 7 a.m. Her hair was damp from her morning swim, and she was getting a caffeine headache.
She made sure Baxter saw her through the thin window on the door as she took the long way to Eddy's office. A slow stop at the soda machine, turn on the lights in her office, boot up her desktop, and head to Eddy's office.
He was sitting at his desk when she knocked.
"You never have to knock," he said as he stood.
Right. "Anything from IT?"
"Baxter's office computer was clean. That would have been too easy. Home computer, same. They had an external hard drive, but so far, it's all family stuff on there. They found a computer in a back office with encrypted shit. They're working on it."
"Family stuff?" She plopped down in one of his guest chairs, slouching as she folded her hands over her belt. "Baxter has kids?"
"Two. And a wife to go with 'em."
"I'm going to visit IT before I tackle Baxter. The wait will do him some good."
His brows dropped as he tilted his head. "Did you listen to the message I left you last night?"
Which one? She sat up, back straight. "What message?"
"We found the shooter. A Rob Ramsey. He's in interrogation two."
"What? Where?" She missed that? This was wrong. This mess with Duncan was affecting her job performance. "Where is he?"
"We found him at Baxter's house. No shit. Right there at Baxter's home. If you hadn't gotten Baxter to shove you around, we couldn't have booked him. Then, he would have been able to call and warn Ramsey while we confiscated the computers and files. I don't get the impression Ramsey was there for the wife. He's not talking, by the way. Lawyered up before we got his mug shot and prints."
"Okay. You wanna take Mister Tight Lip? I want Baxter. I've got a plan."
"I love it when that happens." He smiled at her. It sent a refreshing wave of rejuvenation through her.
* * *
With a Diet Coke in hand, Nickie strolled into Interrogation One and set a white envelope in the middle of the table. She had the officer on watch contain Baxter with cuffs attached to the table. Not that she was scared of him, because she wasn't. She just wanted him good and pissed.
Turning her chair backward, she slung a leg over the top and sat. "We found your friend Ramsey. You lied to me, Baxter the boxer. Not only do you know Ramsey, but he was cozying up with your wife." She smiled wide as she lied, thrumming her fingers on the table. With a pronounced shrug, she added, "No harm done there, except Ramsey's not so happy with you. Bad news is ballistics found that the bullets shot from the gun registered to you match the ones taken out of Chris Hendrix's shoulder." She shook her head and lifted a corner of her mouth.
Baxter smiled back.
"When we met up with Ramsey—at your house—we may have mentioned the possibility that you could roll on him." She made her voice as sweet as the Maryland Monticello she once was. "I suppose anything's possible," she crooned.
He didn't speak. His arrogance would be his downfall.
"He thinks you might do it," she continued as he sat in silence. "Because it seems as if he might have gotten himself a little collateral." She enunciated each syllable of the last word.
That got him to turn his eyes to her. Momentarily.
"He's looking at two counts of Man 1. You wanna be in on that? You're just the guy who works with him. He did the shooting. I'd rather be an accomplice than the shooter, that's all I'm saying." She pushed the envelope within arm's reach of the cuffs. "I always thought collateral was in the form of a flash drive or a secret safe deposit box filled with incriminating documents." Leaving the envelope for him, she added, "Some guys are dirty mean."
She brought out her best blonde voice. "We have him in interrogation two. I'm going to go check on him. He'll be interested in all the talking you're doing. Oops. Did I get that wrong? I hope I don't get that backward when I speak with him."
She figured he would know she was watching through the two-way mirror, but she didn't care. She went directly from Interrogation One to the room on the other side of the mirror.
Eddy walked in shortly after. "Ramsey's still not talking. Asshole."
Baxter turned his gaze to the mirror, then to the ceiling. Acting like he didn't care about the envelope, he put on that arrogant smile and pulled it open enough to see inside.
It was like watching a favorite movie. The muscles in his face fell. His eyes turned to the mirror like he could see through it. The glare was the first honestly intimidating one she'd gotten from him, and he couldn't even see
her. With as much room as he could get with the cuffs secured, he turned the envelope upside down and shook the contents on the table. Scattered were a handful of photos of his two children. At home, at school, at the park. He wasn't too happy about it.
She gave him enough time to decide to roll on Ramsey, but not so much he might think up an alternative plan. After all, she had court at 10 a.m.
Walking in, she repeated her first entrance, turned her chair backward, slung her boot over and sat facing him. She moved the photos to the side and replaced them with a notebook and a pen. He didn't speak at first. Suited her. She had time to let him sit here while she went to court if needed. Using her knuckles, she pushed her jaw until it cracked.
"It was his idea. I told him not to. Hendrix has kids."
Yada, yada, yada. She kept quiet as he made this up.
"He took my gun. I didn't know."
He'll be glad to know you said that, she thought.
She pushed the notebook closer to him. "The DA might very well see it that way." When hell freezes over.
Patiently, she sat as he wrote. When he finished, she took her time reading it over before gathering up the photos and handing them to him. "Give these to your wife for me, will you? I found them on your home computer. I expect she'll appreciate 'em."
As she left the room, she heard the chains from the cuffs strain under a Baxter the boxer-sized tantrum.
* * *
Duncan couldn't bring himself to cancel his appointment with the governor's personal assistant. His feelings had ranged from defeat to denial to rage and now simple vengeance. The home was about an hour north of Manhattan Island. The two-hour drive for him was proving to be therapeutic.
New York was stunning country. Rolling mountains. Enormous trees that were strong enough to withstand nor'easters and coastal storms. Long fields and plenty of creeks, lakes and rivers. The scenery brought him to terms with what had happened and gave him enough painting inspiration to last months.
