“You comin’?” Jeannie whined.
“Yes,” Rhetta said. “I’m coming. So you need to tell me where you are.”
“Oh, God bless you, bless,” Jeannie slurred.
“Jeannie, please, listen. Look at the face of the phone. It might list the name and address of your location. Where you are.”
“Blurry … oh, Mis Rodgriguez … he’s mad at me …”
“Look at the phone,” Rhetta repeated.
“’Kay, ’kay, yeah … the Owl Roost … here’s a address …”
Rhetta wrote it down. “Let me read it back to you.”
“You got it, you got it,” Jeannie congratulated her.
“Okay. Now listen. I have to disconnect because I’m on a landline, too. Give me the number and I’ll try to call you back on my cell phone. It might not work.” Some pay phones refused incoming calls; it was an attempt by the phone companies to distance themselves from drug trafficking. But since more and more people had cell phones, it was less of an issue than it once had been.
“You can’ go, you can’t,” Jeannie wailed. “Don’ leave me.”
“I’ll drive to you. It should take me less than half an hour.”
Jeannie hiccuped somewhere. There was a terrible retching sound and Rhetta screwed up her face, realizing that Jeannie was vomiting. She’d be sure to bring extra water.
Finally Jeannie said, “Okay.”
“I’ll be in a black truck. I’m not coming into the bar. I’ll honk my horn and you come out.” Rhetta made sure she was speaking into the mouthpiece. “Do you understand? I will honk.”
“I come out,” Jeannie whispered. “I’ll go outside now.”
“It’ll take me half an hour,” Rhetta reminded her.
“Okay.”
“I’ll try to call you back.”
“Okay.”
She disconnected. Then she attempted to call Jeannie back using her cell phone. As she had anticipated, the call didn’t go through.
She punched in Grace’s number but it went straight to voice mail. “Grace,” she said, “I’m going to a bar called the Owl Roost to get Jeannie Johnson. Hunter beat her up and she’s been drinking. She doesn’t want to see you. But I want you to follow me out there, okay?”
Then she wrote a brief note for Ronnie, gathered her purse, and left.
“Here we are, seventh circle of Hell,” Butch told Grace, as Connie the Porsche hugged the mean streets. Grace had spent the rest of the rainy day looking for Jamal and asking Ham to do their in-house work. He ran their cases through ViCAP to see if any other crimes in the database kicked out with similar details, MO. She asked him to call the hospital to see how Mr. Briscombe was. Ham caught the forensics report on the rope used to make the noose on the Survivor’s Tree. Not the same as that used in the Catlett abduction or whatever it was. Confirmed the APB on Forrest.
And she kept looking for Jamal. She stopped in at Tacoville, to find Butch and Bobby there, preparing to part ways for the night. Butch seemed a bit out of sorts, and Grace invited him to help her look for Jamal. They left his truck in a nicer neighborhood and drove on back to the crib he and Bobby had followed him to.
It was a part of town so bad that it made the bad part look like Beverly Hills. Blasted-out brick buildings, empty lots littered with rusted shopping carts, mountains of trash, and homeless skels—short for “skeletons,” meaning homeless people—who were lying unconscious or dead in filthy sleeping bags, using cardboard cartons as shelter from the heavy rains.
Diagonally across from the Porsche, there was a building with a boarded-up storefront, the plywood sheets tagged by the Sixty-Sixes. Butch had told Grace that behind that was a narrow alley lined with discarded baby furniture, of all things—the boarded-up shop had been a consignment store for kids’ stuff, someone’s dream gone bust—and on the other side of that alley was a triplex. All three units made up the crib Bobby and Butch had followed Jamal to on the day of his grandfather’s heart attack.
“Be it ever so hideous, there’s no place like home,” Grace said faintly.
“It’s not even as nice as his grandfather’s apartment. Or didn’t he notice that?” Butch drawled.
“It’s still standing. It has that in its favor,” Grace said. “Jesus, I had him today and I just let him walk away. I was in my car in less than two minutes, and I lost him.”
“Sounds like he doesn’t want to be found.”
“I don’t care what he wants.” She pulled over to the curb and they got out. Grace had on her sheepherder jacket; she put on a black cowboy hat. Butch did likewise. Umbrellas would just slow them down.
They walked confidently but slowly, looking everywhere. They were going north up the street so they could approach the triplex from the open street, rather than the alley. A dark green Dumpster sat in the middle of a vacant lot, like a turtle on a dirty beach. “He’s a dumb shit.”
“Can’t deny that. He’s also sixteen.”
She tipped her hat and gazed up at the stars. “Let’s see. You were sixteen about the time you decided to defect to UT and become a Longhorn.” She kicked a syringe out of the way. “Did Kendra know that report she did on crime was bullshit? Or is she just a bad reporter?”
“Ooh, whoa, down, girl,” he drawled, unaware that those words had been spoken very recently in Grace’s presence.
“C’mon, Butch, you’re going to marry her.” Her phone vibrated. “Oh, a call came in. Rhetta.” She listened. “Oh, my God. She’s gone to pick up Jeannie Johnson. She’s somewhere drunk in a bar. Jeannie’s drunk, I mean.”
Butch stared at her. “Rhetta? Shouldn’t one of us being doing that?”
“Yeah, I’ll call Ham,” she said. “Give him the address.”
At that exact moment, someone shot at them. Grace felt the force of the bullet scream past her cheek as she launched herself at Butch and they both fell to the ground. Butch had his gun out before he hit the deck and he rolled and aimed. Grace pushed herself onto her hip so she could get her weapon out of her holster and gave him a nudge. Together they rose and darted, hunched, behind the Dumpster, into mud that stank of garbage and excrement.
“Well, this sucks,” Grace said. “I’ll call for backup.” She reached in her pocket. “Crap. I dropped my phone.”
Another shot. This time it ripped into the Dumpster with an odd, pingy crack.
“I’ll use mine,” Butch said.
“Use it fast,” Grace told him.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
No callback from Grace. Now what?
Rhetta blew a sigh between pursed lips and drove on, half fearing and half hoping that Jeannie would go home with the bikers or maybe curl up somewhere and pass out. She began to feel she’d gone on a fool’s errand. Grace would be pissed that she’d done this alone. But Rhetta had reached out to the condemned murderer Leon Cooley, and that had definitely been the right thing to do. It had brought healing and closure not only to Leon, but also to Grace. God’s hand had clearly guided Rhetta; she had the sense that He was at work here, too. Not that that would impress Grace. It boggled Rhetta’s mind that despite everything that had happened, all the tangible, concrete evidence of the divine in Grace’s life, Grace continued to pooh-pooh Earl’s assertion that Grace had been put on this earth for something grand yet to unfold.
And if Grace’s best friend felt a clear call to rescue a woman who might turn out to be a prime witness in an important case, Grace ought to trust that the divine could work in Rhetta’s life, too.
“So if the divine can work in my life, then maybe we won’t lose the farm,” Rhetta muttered as she ducked her head to maintain her line of vision between the warring windshield wipers, trying to figure out where she was. “We just have to have faith.”
Then there was a blur of red neon that she hoped was the Owl Roost. It was a stucco shack, really, a dumpy cube with a glass door covered by waving lines of wrought iron; a similarly protected front window; and an amber glow inside, revealing
milling shadows and the occasional bright light, as if someone were taking pictures with a flash. It all seemed to be melting in the rain.
Rhetta rolled up slowly and drew down her passenger window, confirming that she was right. Taking a huge breath and a bigger leap of faith, she honked her horn. One short blast. Maybe she wouldn’t be able to hear that. Two.
She leaned on the horn.
Nothing.
“Great.” She looked down at her cell phone.
NO SERVICE.
There was a landline in the bar. So … what? She would go into the scary biker bar to ask someone to come out and help her get back out of the scary biker bar?
She honked again.
And Jeannie Johnson burst from the door like a waterlogged sprite—brown hair plastered to her face, rolled-up jeans, and a purple floral babydoll top over a tank top. Good for the summer, maybe, but not March in Oklahoma. Rhetta leaned over and opened the passenger-side door, and Jeannie let out a yelp.
“Rocks,” she said, as she climbed inside.
From the doorway, an enormous man wearing riding leathers waved. Jeannie leaned out of the open passenger window, waving at him with both hands.
“Bye!” she cried.
Then she flopped against the seat and covered her mouth with her hand. Rhetta touched her teeth together.
“You’re not going to be sick, are you?”
“Already was.” She lolled her head toward Rhetta.
“And I don’ have anything lef’ a puke back up.”
“Good to know,” Rhetta murmured. She put the truck in drive and got the hell out of there.
“I hate to tell you this, but whoever is shooting at us is in the triplex,” Butch said to Grace as he slid his phone back into his pocket. They had to speak loudly because of the rain; but because of the rain, they weren’t too afraid about being overheard. “Which means they’re in the Sixty-Sixes. So it could be Jamal.”
They were still crouched behind the Dumpster. Dispatch informed them that help was on the way with plenty of lights and sirens to scare off their attackers. Grace was counting the seconds. At least the rain was making it a little harder to see the two of them huddled like sitting ducks in the rising swill.
“That’s the best news I’ve had all night,” Grace retorted. “Jamal, I mean. We can arrest his sorry ass and then he’s off the streets.”
“Then Jamal’s got a record.”
She watched the triplex for more signs of movement. “He’s a juvenile. It’ll fall off his record in two years.”
“You’re dreaming, Grace. The state of Oklahoma that I live in would try him as an adult.”
She grimaced because he was right. If Jamal wanted to run with the big dogs, he’d get locked up with them.
Shadows slid down the fire escape, which ran parallel to the cracked, weed-infested sidewalk. Someone was climbing down. Looked to be at least two someones. She saw a glint of metal; it had to be a gun. Maybe today Jamal had gotten his gun.
Tough times.
She felt a cold fire in her stomach as lightning crackled overhead, confirming that the lead guy was Jamal with a gun. He was followed by someone big and hulking, with prison muscles. Tyrell himself? Ready to witness the kid making his bones?
I don’t want to shoot him. But she held her gun with both hands, following them. Beside her, Butch did the same. If it came down to her or Jamal, Jamal was dying tonight.
She and Butch had cause to shoot. Neither one of them was doing it. She thought about his little brother, and Mr. Briscombe, wheezing for life the way that kid had in the alley. This was one of the ways criminals got made. Bad options led to bad choices. It took a lot of balls to stand your ground while the Four Horsemen galloped toward you. It was also pretty stupid. But there were things you could do, to save yourself. If you couldn’t plan your future, staying a couple of steps ahead of them, you could just flat-out run. Or ask someone who was already running to carry you.
Here she was.
“Grace,” Butch said, “this Mexican standoff is bullshit.”
“You don’t want to shoot him, either.”
“I don’t want to die today, either.”
Then she lost the two figures in the accordion slats of the fire escape. Goddamn it, she and Butch needed night-vision goggles to deal with this. She wondered if the Sixty-Sixes had them. Sons of Oklahoma probably did. Her nerve endings were crackling like live wires. People—armed criminals—she couldn’t see lurked just a few yards away. Which way had they gone?
“I’m going around the other side of the Dumpster,” she said.
He nodded.
She flattened herself against the wet metal, planting her feet carefully because it would be easy—and stupid—to slip or twist her ankle in a pothole. Taut, she kept her gun at the ready, scanning all around. Adrenaline made her hum inside. She had to redirect it or it would turn into fear, so she did—into a nearly superhuman attentiveness. She had a cop’s edge, which was why cops won at these games more often than bad guys. The bad guys lacked the Jedi discipline to move into a place where you weren’t any emotion at all. Where you were the job and nothing else.
Except … she couldn’t ignore the part of her that wanted to spare Jamal Briscombe.
There was a shift in the air. Lightning flashed again, and Grace studied Butch’s back. Judging by his posture, she knew something was up. Something was about to happen. She took a deep breath and stayed in control of herself. If it came down to her and Jamal, it would be her. If it came down to her and Butch, it would be Butch. She knew he would do the same for her—take a bullet, go down. After all these years as cops, it was part of their DNA. It was something they could count on.
Earl, take care of Gus, she thought. Then she wondered: If she died, was Earl done with the rest of her family? Maybe none of the other Hanadarkos/Normans needed extra chances.
The rain poured down; her hat was soaked, more of a liability now because it was heavy, constricted her line of vision, and made her head a bigger target. She took it off. It might come in useful later, to deflect attention and confuse the enemy.
She had reached the end of the Dumpster. Slowly she pivoted, facing the expanse of metal, and peered around the side. The hair on the back of her neck stood straight up.
Across the street, someone was directly facing her, and she was pretty sure it was Jamal. He was a silhouette barely discernible in the darkness. Did he see her? Could he shoot her? Shoot a cop, man, and your life was over.
Licking her lips, she steadied her aim.
Then she heard the blare of a squad car. There was no way she could relax now—it might be now-or-never time across the street—but she knew there was an end in sight. She hoped it was a good end. Beside her, Butch was just as alert and cautious as ever.
The squad car was joined by a second and a third, cops throwing open their doors and squatting behind them. Then a SWAT team, in a panel van. And last but not least, Ham. He had on a helmet but she knew it was her partner. He was wearing black body armor with POLICE emblazoned in white letters on the back. She didn’t distract him; in the dark, she and Butch could be mistaken for bad guys. The best thing they could do was stay out of the fracas unless they were needed. But that was also the hardest thing to do.
Ham solved that by jogging backward to the Dumpster. Butch was on the west side and Ham came up to him first, then leaned backward to check on Grace.
“You’re okay,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you …,” he began, but he stopped. Then he said, “We’ll get you covered and get a squad car over here.”
He left them there and rejoined the team. But instead of covering Grace and Butch, Tac gave the word and they surged forward, toward the triplex. Tactical teams split off, sweeping the street.
“They shouldn’t do this,” Grace protested. “Shouldn’t confront them here, on their home turf. It’s raining and it’s dark. We should get out and go.”
“I’ll l
ay you odds a chopper’s on the way,” Butch said angrily. “Make that two. One for us, and one for the press.”
“Oh, God,” Grace groaned. “I hate the mayor.”
“Say it louder,” Butch deadpanned.
Then she heard the voice of Tactical on a bullhorn.
“We have you surrounded,” he announced. “Come out with your hands in the air.”
“This is bullshit,” Grace said. “This wasn’t a planned op, was it? Did we just stumble into something?” She clenched her teeth. “We don’t have body armor on. We don’t know the op. We’re just sitting here in a puddle of crap.”
“Captain Perry’s probably throwing a fit.”
“And calling IA, I hope.” That was a sore spot with Grace. Kate had had a thing with her biggest nemesis in Internal Affairs. After he sent a spy into their midst, Kate broke it off. But not before. A captain should never have done such a thing to her detectives. Well, they’d all done goofy shit, but really that had pushed the envelope.
“We’re being put in harm’s way for publicity,” Grace said. And so was Jamal. “This is bullshit.”
“You got that right,” Butch said.
“You have ten seconds to come out,” Tac said.
Across the street, the flare of a gun announced that someone on the bottom floor—maybe someone who had just climbed down the catwalk—had aimed and fired at the cops.
Guns blazed, blam blam blam blam, in a hail of bullets. Grace kept her weapon close and her Dumpster mate closer as they watched from the sidelines. Her anger was getting the best of her. It was a battle that shouldn’t be. It was dangerous and stupid.
Through the ear-buffeting racket, Grace detected the soft whum-whum-whum of a helicopter. She looked up. POLICE was written on the underbelly, and the copter was sending out a high beam over the triplex. Grace saw two, three, five guys on the balcony. And one girl. Dumb ass. When the light hit her, she fled inside … just as the window to her right shattered. Two of the guys on the balcony crumpled.
A second helicopter appeared in the sky with the KLAE affiliation visible in the running lights. Grace gritted her teeth.
Nancy Holder Page 15
