Cherry Bomb

by J. A. Konrath

  “We’ll talk tomorrow. At seven. Sooner if I hear anything. And tell that asshole McGlade to sit on his mechanical thumb and spin.”

  Herb hung up, and I tucked the phone back into my purse.

  “How’s the partner?” Harry asked. “Still fat?”

  “He says hi. Can you send the picture and texts to him?”

  I handed Bernice’s cell number to Harry.

  “Sure. I got a program that can do it from the computer.”

  “We also need to go to Wrigleyville. Joe’s Pool Hall, to see if Phin is there.”

  “Check and roger.”

  “And turn off the porn.”

  Harry batted his eyelashes. “Anything else I can do for you, Your Highness?”

  “Yes,” I said, thinking of Alex. “Take me to the nearest gun shop. I need to exercise my second amendment rights to bear arms.”

  CHAPTER 14

  ALEX SITS IN A BOOKSTORE CAFÉ, dressed in her funeral best.

  The WiFi is free, and her laptop is open. Her back is to the wall so no one can see her screen.

  She uses a search engine to find her next victim. First the name. Then the town. It takes less than three minutes to get a phone number, and another two minutes to find the address. Scary how easy it is to find someone, Alex muses. People should pay closer attention to protecting their privacy.

  The drive will take a few hours. Alex decides to wait until morning before leaving. She can’t go back to the Old Stone Inn, because her bed is currently occupied. She calls the cell phone using the computer program, and a window opens, showing her a live feed of Lance. The picture isn’t very good—even with all the lights on, the room is pretty dim. The camera phone is taped up to the wall, offering a wide angle. She presses some buttons, zooms in on Lance’s chest.

  He’s asleep. Or unconscious. The burns have stopped bleeding, begun to scab over. It makes the symbols easier to see. She saves a picture of her laptop screen as a JPEG, crops it in Photoshop, and uploads it to her cell, viewing it from various angles, and judging it clue-worthy.

  It’s all Greek to me, Alex thinks.

  Jack will get a copy later to night.

  Alex hits the hibernate key, blanking out her screen, and lets her eyes prowl around.

  The bookstore is one of those large chains, ten times bigger than the library in the town where she grew up. Alex’s father hated libraries. Believed that people only needed one book, the Bible, and that all others led to Satan. But according to Father, pretty much everything led to Satan. He blamed the dev il for his appetites. He should have learned to embrace them. Indulge them without remorse.

  Like she does.

  Alex yawns, stretches out her long legs, and leans back in the chair to scope out women.

  One walks by, wiggling her hips, getting in line for coffee. The right build. Right age. She orders something called chai tea. Alex doesn’t know what that is. It would be a good thing to use as a way of introduction. But when Alex stands she notices how short the woman is, and doesn’t bother. She sits back down.

  Another woman, tall enough, but too young. Some men, whom Alex barely glances at. Then, a brunette. Age and height fine. A big ass, but people can lose weight. Alex gets into line behind her.

  The woman orders a large vanilla latte and a pecan Danish, neither of which will help narrow her gluteus maximus.

  “Are the Danish good here?”

  The woman glances over her shoulder.

  Alex doesn’t smile behind the veil. She knows how it contorts her face, makes her look even more freakish. It’s a definite handicap. Smiles disarm people. Taking a smile away from a recreational killer is like taking a pinky from a major league pitcher.

  “They’re pretty good. Not as good as the coffee place on Prospect.”

  The woman faces the cashier again. She’s either in a hurry, not wanting to chat, or Alex’s veil has set off subconscious warning bells. Strangers aren’t to be trusted. People who hide their face are hiding something else.

  Alex moves in a little closer, watches as the woman digs into her purse for a wallet. Though her clothes are decent, expensive, her handbag looks more like a backpack than an accessory. Alex catches glimpses of a tissue pack, some children’s Tylenol, and a large key ring attached to a Lucite-encased family photo.

  No good. Alex returns to her table, and is surprised to find a little girl standing next to it. She’s blond, perhaps eight years old, and staring at Alex’s laptop screen.

  “Is that man hurt?”

  She points at the live feed of the hotel room. Lance has woken up, and he’s thrashing around on the bed like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. The child must have pressed a key, brought the computer back from hibernation mode.

  Alex closes the cover, then looks around to make sure no one else saw anything.

  “It’s a movie. He’s pretending to be hurt.”

  “My favorite movie is Toy Story. Have you seen Toy Story? It’s about a cowboy named Woody, who is really named Tom Hanks. There’s also Toy Story 2, but we don’t have it anymore because it got stuck in the DVD player and Mommy threw it out.”

  Alex stares at the girl. So small and fragile. Father would have liked her. Alex prefers adults to children. Nothing can induce a migraine like a little kid screaming hour after hour. Even gagged, the high pitch is piercing enough to call stray dogs.

  “Melinda!”

  A woman hurries over, her expression a mix of concern and disappointment. She’s tall, thin, pretty, platinum blond. Alex notices how she moves, in an easy, assured way. Athlete. Possibly a dancer.

  “What have I told you about wandering off? You were supposed to stay by the picture books.”

  “The lady has a computer like Daddy’s.”

  Melinda points to Alex’s laptop.

  “It is like Daddy’s, but that doesn’t mean you can go and touch things that aren’t yours.” Her blue eyes mea sure Alex. There’s no hesitation, no drop in confidence, even when she notices the veil. “I apologize. Melinda, she’s a curious little bug. I hope she didn’t disturb you or ruin anything.”

  “You might want to keep her on a tighter leash.” Alex puts a bit of iron in her voice. “There are some pretty crazy people in the world.”

  “Tell me about it. Look, it’s not my business, but is that blazer Dolce and Gabbana? It is freaking gorgeous.”

  “Yes, it is.” Alex appraises the woman’s outfit, jeans and a red top. “Those jeans are Italian, aren’t they?”

  The woman lights up. “Yes! You won’t ever guess what they’re called.”

  “They’re called My Ass. I used to have a pair. The belt line in back dips down, like the top of a heart.”

  The woman spins on her toes and lifts her shirt, revealing the divot, along with an intricate lower back tattoo. No visible thong or panty lines. Her heels are three inches, gold lamé. Alex amends her initial assessment from dancer to stripper. She’s the perfect height, and no wedding ring either.

  “I used to love those jeans. I bet your husband does.”

  “I’m not married.”

  “My mistake. Melinda said Daddy, so I just assumed…”

  “Daddy died,” Melinda chirped in, just as cheerful as when she was talking about Toy Story.

  “We were never married,” the woman explained. “Her father died last year. Car accident.”

  Alex’s interest rises several notches. She still isn’t sure about the woman’s sexual orientation, so she plays it coy.

  “I’m new here, so I don’t know where any of the shops are. Where can a girl buy Louis Vuitton in this town?”

  “I love Louis Vuitton! See?”

  She holds up her brown purse, which Alex had spotted immediately after noticing her.

  “It’s freaking gorgeous,” Alex says. “I’m Gracie, by the way.”

  “Samantha. Sammy for short.”

  Sammy offers her hand, smirks. Her touch is soft, and she tickles her index finger on the inside of Alex’s palm when she
shakes.

  “Look, Sammy, this may sound kind of forward, but I need someone to help me shop. I’ve been hiding from the world for a while. Car accident. Really messed up my face. This is the only outfit I feel I can wear in public. I haven’t been out of the house in months.”

  “God, Gracie, that’s awful.”

  “Are you and Melinda free now? We could hit a few shops, then I’d buy you guys dinner.”

  “Shit, that would be fun. But my shift starts in an hour.”

  “Is Sammy your stage name?”

  Sammy grins wide, revealing perfect caps.

  “Stage name is Princess. You used to be in the life? You’ve got the body for it.”

  “I’ve worked a few poles in my day. Which club?”

  “High Rollers. It’s uptown.”

  “Long hours. Does Grandma watch Melinda while you dance?”

  “Grandma is in heaven with Daddy,” Melinda says.

  Sammy puts both arms around her daughter, cradling her face. “Our neighbor watches the bug. I only work four nights a week.”

  “Money that good?”

  “It’ll do till I get my business degree. I’m taking some classes during the day, when she’s in school.”

  No husband, no mother, and a stripper to boot. She’s almost perfect.

  “If to night isn’t good, maybe sometime later?”

  “Definitely. Let’s trade numbers.”

  Sammy digs a pen out of her purse, writes down Alex’s cell phone number on the back of a McDonald’s receipt. She rips the paper in half, and gives Alex her number.

  “One more thing, Sammy. And this is embarrassing. When I was working, sometimes the customers would want a little extra attention, and I got busted. As a condition of my parole, I’m not allowed to associate with any known criminals. If you’ve got a record…”

  Sammy shakes her head.

  “I’m clean as a whistle. High Rollers gets stung all the time, under-cover cops coming in, trying to get the girls to do more than dance. Two of my friends got nailed, so I don’t do that. Not that I think it’s wrong or anything. Just can’t risk getting arrested when I’ve got Melinda to look after.”

  “Cool. Good luck to night. Make some money.”

  “I always do. Hopefully we can hook up soon, Gracie.”

  Alex smiles her half smile and pats Melinda on the head.

  “You can count on it.”

  CHAPTER 15

  PHIN WORE JEANS and a white T-shirt, an outfit I’d seen him in many times. When he was bald from the chemo, it made him look like Mr. Clean, right down to the broad chest and narrow hips. He was currently in remission and his hair was back, blond and cut short.

  He was leaning over the pool table, lining up his shot using a bridge. I’d never seen him use a bridge before, but when I eased through the throng of bar patrons and got closer I saw the reason. His left arm was in a sling.

  Phin glanced up at me, looked back down at the table, and worked the stick. The cue ball hit the six, which knocked the nine into a side pocket, winning the game. His opponent, a blue-collar guy with mean eyes and a fuzzy beard, swore and dropped ten bucks on the rail.

  “Lucky shot, crip. Let’s go again.”

  Phin laid down the cue and the money disappeared into his jeans.

  “Some other time, pal. I’ve got some other competition.”

  “Like hell. We’re going again. I got money to win back.”

  “I said later.”

  “I said now!”

  Mean Eyes grabbed Phin by his bad arm, high on the biceps. Phin spun, so fast he was a blur, coming up behind the guy and snatching his hair. He yanked, flipping his attacker over an outstretched leg and onto his back. Phin placed a boot heel on his throat as Mean Eyes flailed his arms. The flailing stopped when Phin raised the cue, directly over the man’s eye.

  “I beat you at nine ball one-handed. You want me to kick your ass one-handed?”

  Mean Eyes attempted to shake his head. Tough to do, when someone is stepping on your neck.

  Phin raised his foot, and the guy scrambled away, pushing through the gawkers. Then Phin tilted up his head at me. My dress was still damp and clingy, and his stare lingered on my body in an unmistakably male way. I’d been gawked at by men all day, but this time it didn’t bother me. Truth told, it made my skin flush, which warmed me up for the first time in hours. When Phin’s eyes finally met mine, they were kind.

  “Hi, Jack. Latham was a good guy. I’m sorry I couldn’t go to the funeral.”

  I had expected Phin to make an appearance, after all we’d been through together. But my earlier chat with the Feebies explained his absence.

  “Too many cops there,” I said.

  “Not my kind of crowd.”

  “Last time we spoke, you told me you weren’t wanted for anything.”

  “You had enough on your mind, Jack. Didn’t want to burden you.”

  I should have been pissed, but the smile was already on my lips.

  “Road flares?”

  Phin’s face stayed blank.

  “What are you referring to, Lieutenant?”

  “You want to play coy? You weren’t coy for the bank cameras. The Feds showed me a nice picture of you waving.”

  “Must have me confused with some other handsome guy.” His voice betrayed nothing, but his eyes crinkled at the edges.

  “You don’t trust me, Phin? Think I’m wearing a wire?”

  “I know you’re not.” His eyes moved down. “Not the way that dress is hugging you.”

  I blushed harder, hoped he didn’t notice it, then wondered why I cared one way or another. Phin was a friend, and nothing more. He was also a criminal. Our relationship went as far as playing pool, and doing each other occasional favors. Sex was not among those favors, and it should have been the last thing on my mind at the moment.

  I came closer, resting my hip against the table.

  “How’d you hurt your arm?”

  “Dislocated elbow. Happened that night with Alex.”

  “You never told me.”

  “You had enough on your mind. Didn’t want to burden you.”

  He moved a step closer, until we were less than a foot apart. His expression was friendly, playful. In the bar lighting his blue eyes appeared deep purple.

  “You here for a game?”

  “No time. How bad is the elbow?”

  Phin removed the sling, stretched out his arm. I watched his face. If he was in pain, I couldn’t tell.

  “I’m supposed to keep it immobile, but I have a full range of motion.”

  “Painkillers?”

  “Nonprescription. Alex back?”

  I nodded.

  “Who’s on our side?”

  “Just me and McGlade.”

  “So now we’re three. When are we starting?”

  “Now. You free?”

  Phin leaned in, until our bodies were almost touching. His friendly stare became something else.

  “I’m always free for you, Jack.”

  His breath was warm, and smelled faintly of cinnamon. When he touched my hip, I moved away. I needed Phin’s help, but unlike with Hajek, I wasn’t willing to lead him on to get it. Not because I felt anything for Phin. But because, unlike with Hajek, I didn’t think Phin would be dissuaded once he was encouraged.

  “We need guns,” I said.

  Phin took the hint, gave me some space. “I know a guy.”

  I grinned. “I do too. He works at Sports Authority. Can you fire a rifle?”

  “Haven’t had much practice. But I’m a quick study.”

  “I meant with your injury.”

  “I’m good at coping. But I need to pick up some things first.”

  “No time. Latham’s paying for this. We can get you clothes and toiletries at the store.”

  “Some things aren’t for sale at the store.”

  I wondered what he meant, then wondered if I really wanted to know.

  “We need to go now, Phin.”<
br />
  “Okay.” Phin dug his hands into his pockets. “I’m yours.”

  We made our way through Joe’s, weaving through laughing, happy people, and one who wasn’t laughing or happy.

  “Liar! You ain’t crippled!”

  Mean Eyes broke through the crowd and launched himself at Phin. I caught a glimpse of something in his hand, and my leg whipped around in a spin kick, my head snapping back to take aim. I planted my foot dead center in the guy’s gut, as hard a blow as I’ve ever landed. He fell to his knees, dropped his knife, clutched his belly, and began puking up beer. I should have arrested him, but I didn’t have my badge on me, didn’t have any handcuffs, and didn’t have the time.

  I bent down and grabbed his knife, a four-inch folder with a serrated blade. Phin squatted next to me and picked up my heel, which had broken off.

  “Nice. Red is my favorite color.”

  I didn’t understand what he meant, because my dress and shoes were black.

  Only when we walked outside did I remember that my pan ties were red. My dress must have ridden up while I was kicking.

  I felt myself flush, embarrassed, even though I had no reason to be. Phin was a friend. Nothing more.

  I kept saying that to myself, over and over, as we walked back to the Crimebago.

  CHAPTER 16

  ALEX CAN’T SLEEP.

  True, it’s only ten p.m. But it has been a pretty full day. She killed two people, got laid, tortured an old friend, killed two more people, flirted in a bookstore, and planned her next murder. She should be exhausted. But instead, she’s wired.

  The Motel 6 room she’s in is nicer than the one where she left Lance. The bed is bigger, softer. The pillows fluffier. Sleep should come. But she stares at the ceiling, jaw set, unable to relax. Her mind refuses to shut off. The end is in sight. Not quite the home stretch, but each passing hour brings her closer to her goal. A goal that will fix everything in Alex’s life.

  Jack is no doubt on her way. That idiot McGlade is probably with her. And Phin, whom Alex finds dangerously attractive. She imagines having Phin tied to the bed, and predicts she wouldn’t need to use a rubber band with him. If circumstances were different, she might not even need bindings. Phin wouldn’t mind a woman with scars. Perhaps he’d even find them sexy. She senses in him the same predatory nature as Charles, her one true love.