The Chase

by Jesse J. Thoma

  “Oh my God. This is delicious. How do you keep your body looking like that if you’ve been eating these things since you were a kid?”

  “Well, I started late in life, since I didn’t have my first one until I was eighteen, but I’m making up for lost time. I’m glad you like them. Isn’t this better than whatever fine dining on Federal Hill you had in mind as your write-in option?” Holt ducked in time to avoid the meat sauce covered napkin aimed at her head. “Okay, not quite as good.”

  “Okay, bounty hunter, since you won some points with your greasy, heart attack in a bun, tell me about your big, bad, scary job.”

  Holt almost choked on her second hot wiener. She frantically searched for a way to make her job not scare-your-pants-off scary. Isabelle didn’t need those stories, although Holt knew ignoring dangerous situations wouldn’t make her think they didn’t exist.

  “You don’t need to tell me how many times you’ve been shot at, or how many rapists and serial killers you’ve caught. Just tell me about your day.”

  “Seems a little normal, me telling you about my day,” Holt said. “Today was pretty slow. Lots of paperwork, some background work with Max. I arrested a guy, and Moose and Tuna sat surveillance for eight hours.”

  “Do you work with anyone with a normal name? You’ve told me about friends of yours that are named for food products and animals, and now you tell me about one who qualifies for both.”

  “Hey, my name is normal, and there’s Max. Not an animal, mineral, or vegetable.”

  “Your name isn’t all that normal, and Max doesn’t count. For one, she’s too young. You haven’t had time to sink your nickname claws in her yet, and her name is only normal if you yelled for her and either a teenage boy or golden retriever appeared.”

  Holt was encouraged. Isabelle looked like she was enjoying their time together.

  “I’ve always thought of Max a little like a puppy. Maybe that’s why she hasn’t gotten a nickname. You can’t name a puppy until you really get to know them, understand their personality.”

  “How long has she worked for you?” Isabelle asked.

  “Less than a year, but she’s really fitting in well. Might have to get my nickname claws in her soon.”

  Isabelle rolled her eyes. “So tell me more about the guy you arrested. Did you have to go in guns blazing?”

  “I don’t carry a gun, remember? Up for a walk?” Holt asked, rising to leave. “The gentleman today, he might have been my easiest arrest. I knocked on his door, told him I was the cable guy, got invited in and offered a beer. I sat on the couch, watched the Red Sox game for a few innings, and arrested him when he flopped, passed out drunk as a skunk in my lap. He even thanked me for waiting to catch the end of the game before I dragged him back to jail. When he woke up, he wanted to make sure the Sox held the lead.”

  “Does that sort of thing happen often?” Isabelle was laughing. “That sounds pretty tame.”

  “That exact scenario, no. That was a first, but you would be surprised how many people come back in the fold willingly. People have all sorts of reasons for missing court. They’re not always trying to avoid justice. Some just need more time to finish up whatever pressing business they’re dealing with. Some forget, some don’t care enough to show up, and then some really are trying to hide. The number in the last group is surprisingly small.”

  “But you do chase the really bad baddies, right? Murderers, rapists, drug dealers?”

  “Yes, those high value criminals usually come to us. The reason they do, though, is because we are the best. We’re the most prepared, the most highly trained, and best able to handle people who really would rather not go to jail. Safety is always my number one concern for everyone who works for me.”

  “Do you realize you’re talking about safety concerns and high value criminals, and it all sounds so normal? At my office, we prepare for safety concerns by having fire drills twice a year. The worst I have to deal with is an IRS audit flustering a secretary into sending a bookkeeper’s training file instead of the real thing and my client being upset about it.”

  “Does that happen a lot, people getting angry?”

  “No, not often at all. A little more with the economy the way it is, but that’s just frustration. Perhaps angry isn’t the right word. I don’t know how I would describe that conversation.” Isabelle’s focus was elsewhere. She seemed to be trying to remember her earlier discussion.

  “Try me. What did he sound like? What were you talking about when he got upset?”

  Holt tried hard to avoid switching into work mode, but something in Isabelle’s voice triggered her instincts. Isabelle looked off-balance at the change.

  “Holt, it’s fine. He was annoyed. I’m just a little spooked after you got us shot at.” Isabelle softened the accusation by squeezing Holt’s shoulder.

  “What’s his name? His bookkeeper is the one who sent over the training file by mistake? No, you said the secretary sent over the bookkeeper’s file. How did you know it was a training file?”

  “He’s a local businessman, owns a few stores, a methadone clinic. It really wasn’t a big deal. I’m just on edge. Besides, it was obviously a training file, or some fake records. All the names were ridiculous, animals, sports teams, bubbles. It was nonsense. Don’t worry.”

  “If you change your mind, or feel weird about this guy again, you’ll tell me, right?”

  “Stop worrying, bounty hunter. I’m fine. In fact, I’m great. Certainly better than that poor woman over there.”

  Isabelle pointed across the street to where a woman was being questioned by three police officers. The woman was obviously upset, yelling at the officers and struggling against one of them who was holding her loosely. A small crowd was starting to gather.

  “Fuck,” Holt said, looking completely dejected. “Now, of all fucking times? Things were going so well.”

  “What’s going on?” Isabelle asked.

  “I have to make a phone call. I’m so sorry.” Holt looked miserable.

  When Holt got off the phone, she turned to Isabelle and kissed her deeply, intensely, and thoroughly.

  “Holt, what’s going on? You’re scaring me a little.” Isabelle was sure she would have been less freaked out had Holt started ranting and raving. The kiss was weird. It felt a little desperate and strangely like a good-bye. “What just happened?”

  Before Holt could explain, a black truck similar to the one Holt drove skidded to a stop, a giant of a man behind the wheel. He hopped out and stood waiting for instructions. For the moment, Holt ignored him.

  “The brother of the woman across the street is someone I’m looking for. He’s one of those bad baddies you talked about. I need to speak to her.” Isabelle was surprised at the pain on Holt’s face.

  “So talk to her. I’ll wait.” She didn’t understand. Even the silent man looked uncomfortable.

  “She’s being arrested, and she’s suspicious of anyone tied to the police,” Holt said, like that explained everything. “The arresting officer is my cousin. It presents a unique opportunity. One I don’t think you’re going to like, but one I don’t think I’m going to get again. I’m sorry. I have a feeling you’re about to see the parts of my job you file in your head under ‘worst case scenario.’”

  “They’re moving, H. Time’s up. You want me to get Isabelle home safe?” the man said.

  Holt nodded but didn’t take her eyes off Isabelle. Her expression was tender as she took Isabelle’s face in her hands. “This is Moose. He works for me and he’s going to get you home safe. Whatever you decide after this, I had a wonderful night with you. Everything I felt and said was real, whatever else you believe.” Holt kissed her once more and loped across the street without looking back.

  “Mr. Moose, what’s going on? She’s acting like she’s dying.” Isabelle’s heart was pounding and she felt slightly nauseous.

  “It’s just Moose. I’m sorry we have to meet under these circumstances. To answer your question, I thin
k she’s afraid. I’ve rarely seen Holt act like that, but if I had to guess, I think she’s worried that after today, you won’t speak to her again. Get in the truck. I’ll drive you home.”

  “Afraid? In the truck? I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell is going on.” Isabelle couldn’t help her volume and frustration. She was upset, and all the secrecy and odd behavior was making her anxious. She had no idea where the perfect evening she had been enjoying had gone or why Holt would think she wouldn’t speak to her anymore.

  Before Moose could answer, Holt’s gait changed and caught Isabelle’s attention. Instead of the confident, strong woman she was used to, Holt was now walking like a falling down drunk. She wove her way into the crowd on the sidewalk, shoving onlookers aside.

  She honed in on the largest of the three officers and moved directly into his personal space yelling and gesturing at the woman they were arresting. The officer yelled back and the situation escalated quickly.

  Isabelle watched in horror as Holt recklessly shoved the officer and then pulled her arm back, wound up, and threw a wild punch aimed at his head. It caught him on the chin. Isabelle wasn’t sure if it was her that screamed or the woman standing in handcuffs next to Holt, but all was silent when the officer retaliated and dropped Holt to the sidewalk with a punch to the left eye. Isabelle’s first reaction was worry for Holt’s safety. That punch looked solid, and Holt lay on the sidewalk clasping her hands to her face.

  But worry was replaced with dismay and bewilderment that left her near tears and trying not to vomit as the large officer shoved his knee into Holt’s back and cuffed her hands roughly behind her back. When he pulled her to her feet, Isabelle took off across the street. She ignored the apology and sadness in Holt’s eyes, or at least in the one that wasn’t swelling closed, and for the second time, raised her hand to slap Holt. The three officers stepped in to ensure Holt’s safety, but didn’t try to contain Isabelle. They didn’t need to. She had been ashamed of reacting with violence when she had slapped Holt before, but it had been pure surging emotions. There was no turmoil now. She was sad and she was pissed. Holt wasn’t worth the slap and how bad she would feel about herself after. Maybe Holt reacted impulsively to things, but she didn’t.

  She couldn’t believe the strange, twisted turn the evening had taken. How the hell would getting arrested help Holt talk to that woman? And how could Holt let her believe her workday had been so normal, and then do something like this? Was work really more important than the wonderful night they’d been having?

  “How could you do this? How could you be so stupid?” Isabelle was so furious her hands were shaking. She had shoved aside her fears about Holt, but now they were hitting her full force, and it was a shock to her system. “You know how I feel and you still do this? When they let you out, lose my number.”

  Angry at Holt and embarrassed by her own lack of judgment, Isabelle turned silently, crossed back to the other side of the street, and let Moose guide her to the truck. “You’re just going to let this happen?” she asked Moose. He didn’t answer. She climbed into the passenger seat and fastened her seat belt. She didn’t look back. She had no desire for her last glimpse of Holt Lasher to be the moment they loaded her in the back of a police cruiser.

  She could chastise herself later about ignoring her instincts, but for now, she was exhausted and wanted to be at home, in her bed, and, sadly, alone.

  “Please take me home, Moose. There’s nothing left for me here.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Decker, the accountant is still a threat.” Gary briefed him at their weekly meeting.

  “It’s been over a month since you sent her that file, Gary. There’s no indication she’s cracked your code. Holt Lasher hasn’t been seen near her, and our business is running smoothly. What has you spooked?” Decker had forgiven, if not forgotten, Gary’s mistake dealing with Isabelle Rochat previously. Luckily, his idiocy hadn’t cost them. It hadn’t netted him a partnership with Holt Lasher either, but in this case, a draw seemed like a good outcome.

  “She hasn’t cracked the code, but she’s been digging around. She called your new secretary, and she’s been in touch with the auditor.”

  “And he called you?”

  “Yes, we pay him enough. It’s the least he can do.”

  “Any idea why this woman won’t let that damn file go?”

  “I told you already. She wants to help out on the whole audit. She says you pay her for full financial services but only utilize a small part of what she offers, blah, blah, blah. We’re gonna get nailed by Mother Teresa.”

  “Shut up, Gary.” Decker was quickly losing his patience. He didn’t tolerate talk of failure. “If she has so much free time on her hands, perhaps we can add something to her life to keep her busy. Do you know anyone who is up for a little B and E?”

  “Won’t she get suspicious if we toss her house?

  “Who said anything about her house? I want you to hit her office. Her firm has about ten employees. Plenty of office supplies and paper for your boys to play with. Leave her office alone. I want it spotless. Spook her a little, and if we’re lucky, for a while, the cops will think she did it.”

  “I don’t see how that’s going to work, boss. Why would she destroy her own office?”

  “This is not the part where I pay you to think,” Decker said. “I don’t really care if it will work. I have a few cops who are well paid too. We can keep Ms. Rochat busy for a while, too busy to worry about taking on an extra audit for a client who doesn’t want her services anyway.”

  “You got it, boss. We’ll be real secretive. Nice and subtle. It will never get traced back to you.” Gary looked excited by the chance to atone for his past mistakes.

  “Forget subtle. Subtle takes too long to notice. Destroy the place.”

  *

  Holt was usually energized around the time of the annual fundraiser she sponsored. This year, she felt disinterested in the frivolity, lonely when she returned each night to her empty apartment, and even more short-tempered with her mother than usual. The gym smelled just as comfortingly fetid as always, like stale sweat air freshener. She knew the three rows of gym clothes hung to dry on clotheslines after people’s workouts didn’t help the smell, but it always made her smile to see the boxers strip down to their underwear after a hard workout and carefully, neatly, hang their clothes on the line to dry the sweat from them for next time.

  Only when the shorts could stand on their own was it time for a wash. No matter how many times she reminded herself that Isabelle was a woman she barely knew, and they hadn’t exactly parted on good terms, it upset her when thoughts of Isabelle invaded her day, which they continued to do with alarming consistency. It felt as though she had lost more than a casual acquaintance. It wasn’t enough to know her crew was ensuring Isabelle’s safety, watching over her house every night. Holt wanted a second date. Preferably without any arrests or angry endings. She could see the regret she felt in her own eyes anytime she looked in the mirror, and unfortunately for her, boxing gyms were wall-to-wall mirrors. She was, whether she wanted to be or not, in the midst of self-reflection hell.

  As was true anytime Holt was upset, she reverted to the physical. She trained her body with such intensity that by the time she collapsed in bed at night, she was too tired to think. Too tired to realize she was alone, and that for the first time, that was bothersome.

  She should have been happy for the excuse to train more. The only remaining link between her and her parents was an annual gala they threw together. This fundraiser benefited the same charity the gala did, the only cause for which Holt was willing to spend an evening with her parents every year. The fundraiser took place at her boxing gym and pitted her against a team of five challengers from the ranks of her employees. Two treadmills stood black and stark center ring, contrasting with the vibrant red ring mat.

  Holt chose the pace, evening the playing field some, and the team of five tried to outlast her in a running
competition. She was allowed one pace change during the competition if she desired. It was a strategic nightmare for her employees. They could train to run fast, but risk burning out too quickly, and if Holt chose a relatively slow pace, seven- or eight-minute miles, they would never be able to match her stamina. However, if she felt like sprinting, training for a marathon was a serious mistake. Usually, individuals on the team specialized and hoped the ones who trained for the wrong event could hold on long enough to be useful. They had to switch runners on the fly too, which was harder than it seemed. Jumping on a treadmill moving at six-minute mile speed was difficult. She knew they practiced their handoffs at every speed imaginable.

  In five years, no team had come close to beating Holt. Last year, the challengers had held on for fifteen miles, but her punishing pace of six and a half minute miles had worn them down. This year, she was even faster. She was embarrassed by Isabelle’s rejection and upset that her worst assumptions about Holt had seemingly been proven true. Emotions had fueled her training once before, and the result was Holt standing alone atop the pyramid of the best female boxers in the country. Moose was the only one on the other team who had seen her train, and he had admitted they didn’t have a chance.

  The gym was crowded, filled with friends and sponsors. Since it was a fundraiser, people donated based on varying criteria. Some chose to donate per mile run, others by how long the challengers lasted before calling off the battle. Every year, one man offered ten thousand dollars if Holt’s team could beat her. The money never tempted her to throw the event. The integrity of the fundraiser was important to her, but more than that, she really hated losing.

  Holt scanned the crowd as she stepped on the treadmill and readied herself. She knew almost all the faces looking back at her, eager with anticipation. What hit her like a sack of bricks, however, was that there was no one in the crowd for her, just her. No one was watching her every move, enjoying the feat of athleticism, and offering, without words, to take care of her aches when they returned home. Everyone wanted to see her challengers win. No one was there to watch her win. She always won, but eventually, cheering for the winner gets boring. Until her one date with Isabelle, she had never noticed. She wasn’t saying Isabelle was the one, but every jock likes a hot girl spurring them on. And she really would have liked having Isabelle there cheering for her.