Cherry Bomb

by J. A. Konrath

  “I can’t see from here, but it doesn’t look like he has your purse.” Alex talks louder than normal; her ears are ringing, and so are everyone else’s. “But he probably has your cash and credit cards on him. I’m guessing he ditched your purse someplace in the store.”

  The woman’s jaw is hanging open. Alex tips her cap, holsters her gun, and pushes her cart toward the exit.

  The gangbanger is on the floor, clutching his knee, face wrenched with pain. Early teens, peach fuzz on his chin. His running days are over. And from the amount of blood on the floor, his walking days might be over as well. He sees Alex approach and fumbles for something in his loose-fitting jeans. Alex draws again, pointing the barrel at his groin.

  “I blew off your kneecap from over a hundred feet away,” she says. “You want to see what kind of damage I can do this close to you?”

  He shakes his head, his whole body twitching, and slowly raises his empty hands. Alex digs into his pocket, takes out a battered .22. She tucks it into her belt.

  “Do yourself a favor, kid, and quit crime. You suck at it.”

  She walks out of the store with a cop swagger and a cart full of merchandise she didn’t pay for.

  CHAPTER 35

  PHIN AND I STARED AT EACH OTHER for a little bit. I put on my cop face to keep my emotions hidden. But instead of Phin wearing his tough-guy face, he looked like the last kid picked for kickball.

  “I’m not going to be around for long,” he said.

  I folded my arms. “I’m not forcing you to help me, Phin. You can leave whenever you want to.”

  “I meant being alive. I’m dying of cancer, Jack. I might not make it through winter.”

  “Oh.” I was trying to be strong, not be an asshole. “Sorry.”

  “It’s just—women carry pregnancy tests for two reasons. Because they think they’re pregnant…”

  “I’m not pregnant.”

  “…or because they want to get pregnant.”

  “I don’t want to get pregnant. And you had no right to search my purse.”

  “I wasn’t searching your purse. You told me to take money for donuts.”

  “And you saw something wrapped in toilet paper and decided to take a look?”

  “It wasn’t wrapped in toilet paper. It was sitting on top of your wallet.”

  I wasn’t buying. I reached into my purse, pulled out the wad of toilet paper I’d used to wrap up the EPT, and waved it like a surrender flag.

  “Are you saying this isn’t toilet paper?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant, that’s toilet paper. But it wasn’t wrapped around anything.”

  “Why else would I have toilet paper in my purse?”

  Phin shrugged. “Emergencies? Afraid of being caught without it? How should I know? I’m not a chick, I don’t own a purse. I don’t know why you women keep half that stuff in there.”

  “I only keep essentials in my purse.”

  “You’ve got a wind-up plastic nun in there.”

  “That’s Nunzilla. She shoots sparks out of her mouth.”

  “That’s essential?”

  “It was…a gift.”

  Latham gave it to me, on our first-year anniversary.

  “Look, I know you’re hurting. I know you miss him a lot. But if you’re trying to get pregnant to fill a void in your life, you should find a father who will be around for a while.”

  I wasn’t sure what rankled more, Phin thinking I slept with him to get pregnant, or Phin thinking I needed a child to fill some void in my life.

  “It’s not any of your business, but since you brought it up, I missed my last period and thought I might be pregnant, so I bought a pregnancy test when we were at the gas station last night. If you’d bothered to look closer, you’d see there was only one blue line, not two. I’m not pregnant, so this conversation is over.”

  Phin shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then cupped his elbow and rubbed the back of his neck.

  “I believe you,” he said.

  “Good. Because I’m telling the truth.”

  “But if it’s negative, why did you save it?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out. What was I supposed to tell him? That part of me wanted to be pregnant, so I could always have part of Latham with me? That maybe I did have a void that needed to be filled? That keeping a negative pregnancy test was one more way I could punish myself, as a reminder of what never would be?

  I wasn’t ready to tell him that. Especially when he was high on coke.

  “If you think I slept with you because I wanted a sperm donor—”

  He raised his palms. “I’m just trying to understand you a little better.”

  “Why? Why the hell do you need to understand me?”

  “Because…”

  He gave me that look again and I knew that he was going to say the L word, and I did not need to deal with that right now.

  “Never mind,” I interrupted. “We need to get to Gurnee and meet Harry. You want to drive, or rifle through my purse some more?”

  He went from lovey-dovey to wounded, which I preferred.

  “I’ll drive.”

  I followed Phin out to the Bronco. The day was gray, overcast, and matched my mood. We got in the truck and didn’t say anything to each other for the first half hour of the drive. I finally got hungry and picked out one of the donuts he bought.

  “Sprinkles,” I said, after swallowing a bite.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I like donuts with sprinkles.”

  “Oh. Good to know. Anything you want to know about me?”

  He sniffled, rubbed his nose. I resisted the temptation to ask which coke he preferred, Colombian or Panamanian. I also resisted asking him about criminal acts he’d committed in his past. I was curious how bad this bad boy really was, but I was also a cop and might feel compelled to act on the information. Sometimes ignorance makes things easier.

  “Does it hurt?” I asked instead.

  “The cancer?”

  I nodded.

  “Only some of the time.”

  “When doesn’t it hurt?”

  “When I’m asleep.”

  “The pain is bad?”

  He nodded, took one hand off the wheel to rub his elbow again. I reached out, touched his injury.

  “Jesus, Phin! It feels like you have a beanbag in your elbow.”

  “It’s pieces of cartilage. I’m supposed to keep it immobile.”

  “You should have it in a sling. You don’t want permanent damage.”

  “It won’t be permanent,” he said.

  He didn’t say it with regret, or self-pity. He said it matter-of-factly, like he was talking about the weather.

  I’d met some tough guys. Cops. Military. Bikers. Mobsters. Killers. With one sentence, Phin took the tough-guy crown. Which made me want to kiss him.

  Jesus, this was messed up.

  The phone rang. I cringed, thinking it was Alex, but it was Harry again.

  “Where you at, sis?”

  “We’re taking the Gurnee exit now.”

  “I’m on the north side of the mall. Knock three times.”

  “What about that deal you made?” I asked, referring to him selling out Phin to the Feds. I didn’t want to walk into a Feebie party.

  “Not until we catch Alex. Trust me.”

  Gurnee Mills was one of the largest malls in America, but the Crimebago was easy to find, even in the packed parking lot. Phin pulled up behind it, and I knocked three times like Harry instructed.

  “Door’s open!” he called from inside.

  Upon opening the door, I was greeted by a nasty smell. Not the normal nasty smell I associated with Harry. Something far worse.

  “Jesus, Harry, it stinks in here.”

  “I’m working on that.”

  Harry was in a rumpled suit, stained with wet spots of various colors. He was holding a handful of those cardboard pine-scented car fresheners shaped like Christmas trees. But I wasn’t
smelling pine. I was smelling zoo on a hot day.

  There was a scream to our left, and I dropped to one knee and struggled to dig my gun out of my purse. When I got it in my hand Harry grabbed my wrist.

  “Sis, don’t shoot Slappy!”

  Another screech. I followed the sound to a large wire cage. Inside the cage was a monkey. It was light brown, perhaps eight or nine pounds, with large brown eyes and the cutest little monkey face.

  I put my gun away.

  “This is the extra help you recruited?” I asked.

  He nodded, grinning. “He’s a pig-tailed macaque.” Harry said it mack-a-cue.

  “I think it’s pronounced ma-kak,” Phin said.

  Harry scratched his stubble. “That’s not what Al told me.”

  “Al?”

  “Al at Al’s Exotic Pets, in Deer Park. He sold him to me this morning.”

  “He’s adorable,” I said, meaning it. “Why’d you name him Slappy?”

  On cue, the monkey slapped himself on the side of the head. He did this over and over, increasing in speed and force. The sound wasn’t unlike applause.

  Harry frowned. “There wasn’t much of a selection down at Al’s. It was either him or another primate I would have named Gassy. He also had some sort of gibbon, missing an arm and both legs.”

  “Stumpy?” Phin said.

  “More like Sitty. I’ve seen turtles that moved faster. I wonder if he was dead.”

  “I think you chose perfectly,” I said.

  Slappy screeched again, baring sharp yellow teeth.

  “You sure he’s tame?”

  “Most of the time. But don’t put your fingers near the cage.”

  I knelt down on the carpet to get a closer look. Monkeys always fascinated me, ever since I was a little girl. Blame Curious George.

  “Hello, Slappy. I’m Jack.”

  Something wet hit me in the cheek. Something wet and brown and horribly stinky.

  “Your monkey threw poop at me.”

  “He does that. There are baby wipes next to his cage.”

  I reached for one, and Slappy managed to pitch another slider, which hit me in the nose.

  “I think he’s aiming for my mouth,” I said, mopping my face with baby wipes.

  “Are you wearing makeup? He was rescued from a research lab. They tested cosmetics on him. Don’t let him see your lipstick—he gets a little agitated.”

  “I’m not wearing—” I dodged left, a monkey turd zinging by my face. He was definitely aiming for my mouth.

  “I like him,” Phin said. “He’s spunky.”

  Slappy aimed and Phin ducked, dung splattering on the wall.

  “Remind me again why you bought this thing,” I said to McGlade.

  “I wanted to train him to get me beer and watch sports. But all he does is throw feces, hit himself in the face, and scream. He’s kind of a downer.”

  Slappy screamed in agreement. Then he pressed his pelvis against the side of the cage and urinated on the floor. The smell was pee times a hundred, and made me cover my nose.

  “He does that too,” McGlade said. “A lot. Al said he knows how to use the toilet.”

  The stream arced through the air, landing on Harry’s sofa. Harry picked up a coffee mug that said Don’t Worry Be Happy and tried to catch the stream. I stepped away.

  “I think maybe Al lied to you.”

  Slappy screeched, then began banging his little monkey head into the side of his cage.

  “You should buy him a helmet,” Phin said.

  “He came with one. I took it off because I thought it was cruel. Now I’m afraid to get close enough to put it back on.”

  I crouched down again, wary of another salvo but determined to make friends.

  “I think you just need to learn some manners, and then you’ll be fine,” I told Slappy, keeping my voice soft. “You’re probably just scared. I would be too, living with Harry. But I bet with a few days of training, you’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

  Slappy stopped banging his head and made an adorable cooing sound. Then he grabbed his little monkey ding-dong and began to beat off with frightening intensity, keeping his eyes on me the whole time.

  Never saw Curious George do that.

  I got out of range and busied myself looking for the rifles. They were in the bedroom closet. I checked to make sure they were loaded, safeties on.

  “What does he eat?” Phin asked.

  “It’s called monkey chow. It’s not that bad. Sort of tastes like meat-flavored charcoal briquettes.”

  “You tried it?”

  “Yeah. Want some?”

  “I’m gonna pass on that one.”

  “Slappy hates them. See?”

  I carried the rifles back to the main room just as McGlade was bending down, handing Slappy a tan square object the size of a mini candy bar. Slappy took it, screeched, and bounced the food off Harry’s forehead.

  “Well, it’s been fun,” I told Harry. “But we’ve got to get going.”

  Harry frowned. “But I want to tell you how I found the second phone. It was in the mall, hidden behind a flat-screen TV at Sears. I used my Bluetooth receiver and…”

  I kept one eye on Slappy as Harry droned on. The macaque seemed to be temporarily out of bodily fluids, but I didn’t know what his refractory period was.

  “That’s brilliant,” I interrupted, “but we really have to hit the road.”

  “How about lunch? We can grab some lunch together. Sis?”

  “Not hungry,” I said. “Might never be hungry again.”

  “Phin?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Please don’t leave me alone with Slappy,” Harry said.

  “Maybe a beer will calm him down.”

  “You think?”

  “Can’t hurt.”

  “How about whiskey? Think a shot of whiskey is too strong?”

  “I’d give him a different kind of shot,” Phin said. “One in the head, then a quick funeral wrapped in newspaper.”

  Harry stared at Slappy, as if considering it.

  “Harry, you can’t kill your monkey.”

  That was how my day was going, cautioning people against murder.

  “Maybe Al will trade him for the amputee one,” Phin suggested.

  “How can a no-legged monkey fetch me beer? Roll it to me?”

  “You can tie a little cord to his neck, and he can tug it behind him.” Phin mimed a one-armed primate dragging itself across the floor.

  McGlade winced. “That’s not fun. That’s depressing. I wanted a fun pet.”

  “You’re right. A pet that throws shit at you is a lot more fun.”

  “Maybe a glass cage? Then he couldn’t throw anything.”

  “He still could,” Phin said. “It would just cling to the inside walls. You’d have a big brown box.”

  “How about some sort of restraining device. Do they make little macaque-size handcuffs?”

  Monkey bondage was our cue to leave.

  “We gotta go, Harry. I’ll call you later.”

  I herded Phin past the monkey cage, giving Slappy a wide berth. He was sitting down, looking vaguely superior, like a king on a throne.

  We got out of there before the king threw anything else at us.

  “Where to?” Phin asked after we climbed into the truck.

  “The woods. Someplace secluded.”

  “Got something in mind?” He grinned at me.

  “In fact I do. But it’s not what you’re thinking.”

  “Want to clue me in?”

  I closed my eyes, thought it through, then said, “Just drive to a place where no one will be bothered by gunfire.”

  CHAPTER 36

  THE COP UNIFORM has gone from asset to liability. Showing off at the department store was a mistake, though an amusing one. Alex needs to ditch the Hyundai and the uniform, and find suitable replacements for both. She was planning to do it today anyway, but shooting a teenager in front of a dozen witnesses made it a lit
tle more pressing.

  Clothing is the easier of the two. She finds a local mall, hits Neiman Marcus, and buys a Joan Vass striped tunic with matching beige boot-cut pants. The Ferragamo loafers are overpriced but cute, and that purchase leaves her with thirty dollars in cash. Not enough to even pay the taxes on a handbag, and they have a Marc Jacobs satchel that would go perfectly with the outfit.

  Alex changes clothes in the mall restroom. The gun, holster, and accessory belt gets put into one of the Neiman Marcus bags. The pants from the police uniform get stuffed into the garbage. The shirt gets a nice long soak in the sink and then placed into the other Neiman bag—it’s plastic, so it won’t drip.

  Then it’s time to do a different kind of shopping.

  Alex leaves the mall and hangs out next to the exit doors, scanning the parking lot as if waiting for a ride. What she’s really waiting for is a single woman to come out. A single woman with some fashion sense.

  It’s a nice neighborhood, with a nice mall, and it doesn’t take long for a chunky yuppie type with a four-hundred-dollar haircut and a Prada bag to stroll outside, one hand clutching some merchandise from Saks, the other fussing with the touch screen of her iPhone. Alex falls into step behind her.

  Following her requires zero stealth—the woman is oblivious to everything but her electronic gadget. The parking lot is full. She stops twice to get her bearings, then eventually finds her car a row over from where she thought it was. Alex had been hoping for something sporty, maybe a BMW or a Lexus. Instead, the woman drives a white Prius.

  Alex checks the parking lot, but there’s no one nearby, and she reaches inside her shopping bag for the wet shirt. She wraps it around the gun, covering her entire hand. The chubby woman keeps playing with her iPhone up until the moment Alex jams the barrel into the back of her neck and fires.

  The gun is loud, but the shirt muffles it somewhat. Alex doesn’t stop to check if anyone is watching. She kneels down next to the body and opens up her new Prada bag.

  Except it isn’t Prada. It’s a knockoff.

  “Hell,” Alex says.

  All that work for a Prius and fake Prada.

  She finds the car keys, hits the unlock button on the remote, and horses the dead body into the cramped backseat, keeping low and out of sight of the cars circling the lot looking for spaces. On a whim, she checks the Saks bags. Vera Wang pajamas. They’re nice, but Alex doesn’t wear pajamas, and she certainly doesn’t wear a size fourteen. She arranges the pajamas and assorted bags over the body to cover it up, and locks the doors.