by Ann Raina
"Harper, Ms. Jennings. I'm Peter Harper, detective in charge."
"Detective Harper, I know I'm a civilian and have no right within your investigation, but since it was my house that got burglarized, I would like to know about the man and his gun. It's quite a piece for just robbing my house."
"Damn right." Detective Harper looked at the weapon and shook his head. "I haven't seen something like that for years. The new electric weapons are much more common among burglars. They stun without killing. As I see you got one, too."
"Will you share your results?"
"As you said, ma'am, you're a civilian and--"
"I was a cop once and if I hadn't shot that man you wouldn't have him in custody right now and you wouldn't know shit. Maybe Mr. Bithrell would be dead if he hadn't defended himself so well. So now you might be a bit more cooperative here, sir, since we did part of your job." Detective Harper's glance warned her she should be careful with her words and whom she talked to. But Kyra did not care. She was shaking now, thinking that such a criminal had crept into her house and would have shot her if she had been alone.
"I can only repeat that the results of the investigation are for police use only. So…"
"Get out." Kyra's voice was cold.
Oliver quickly stepped between Harper and Kyra. "You must understand that the situation shook her up, detective." He smiled with all the politeness he could muster. "One man is hurt and she was forced to shoot the burglar. I'm sure that you know how upsetting it was for her." He directed Kyra to the couch, happy she had given him the gun before.
"I'll be back for some questions for you and Mr. Bithrell." The detective straightened his jacket and left the house.
"My, my, Kyra, are you all right?" Oliver sat beside her and put the gun out of reach. "I mean, I know this was hard, but hey, that man also only does his job."
"Ah, fuck it!" She touched her forehead. It was clammy and she felt an inner restlessness and, yes, fear. While being a cop she had known that situations could turn messy. You never knew what to expect at a scene. But her life had turned peaceful, an even flow of events. And now everything was different. Julian had been hurt. The idea hit her mind that Julian would be dead if he had not reacted so fast and she would also be shot. Her heart hammered behind her ribs that she felt sick. Very sick. She doubled over and held her brow on her knees, moaning.
"Shall I get you some water? Or a cold compress?"
"Don't play mommy," she mumbled, but it was muffled with her head down.
"I'll get a compress and water." Oliver stood and ran for the kitchen.
"How is she?" Julian asked.
Oliver was startled and dropped the towel at the sink. "Don't do that again. And…and Kyra's not really well. It was…a tricky situation. And the detective just topped it by being a pain in the ass. Do you need anything?"
"I feel like shit, but no, I don't need a thing. Maybe a new head."
Oliver stared at him. "You look…terrible. But you were really brave. Fighting that guy." He glanced to where the cops lifted the burglar on a stretcher and took him away. There was much blood on his face. "He'll be locked up for a long time."
"I hope so."
Oliver brought Kyra a glass of water and a cold, wet towel. She accepted both with a small nod of gratitude. "You better lie down, Kyra. Get some rest. I can take you upstairs, tuck you up, sing you a song."
"You sound like a chainsaw in d-minor."
"Feeling shitty doesn't keep you from picking at me, does it? But, really, you should not sit around here. I can take care of the police until they're gone. See, they're almost done here."
Kyra lifted her head and gave him a bloodshot stare. She was so tired and yet so afraid. "You're babbling."
"Shall I sleep over on your couch?"
"I'll take the couch."
"Why?"
"Julian's too sick to move," she said quietly. "So I have to baby-sit a little."
"I can do that."
She managed a smile. "Only if I chop off his head first." Oliver pouted and she put a hand on his arm. "I know, you could do it, but he won't let you close."
"And you?" Oliver was worry incarnate. She cherished his will to care. It was right what she needed. Without another word she slipped in his embrace and stayed there. Stayed there until the police was gone and the doors closed.
CHAPTER 11
The burglary did not make the headline of the Boston Herald. Police kept a tight lid on the investigation and only Kyra's connection with Pisetti and Josepha got her the information that the burglar was an unknown quantity. They could not match his fingerprints to a known convict and had his picture checked through every police organization without success, which was rare with the equipment the forces worked with around the globe. The Glock was an imported piece and they still sought the customer. The line seemed endless, but they did not give up. Josepha had stated that Kyra must have enemies in high places, but the laugh with the sentence had been as nervous as Kyra felt.
Josepha had sent pictures and files of Perry Wilson. He was twenty-nine, five-foot-nine, and on the first picture he wore long, mottled brown hair that needed a cut, a wild beard that even covered his upper lip and a strange, distant gaze. It was neither aggressive nor passive, but something in between. As if he endured being arrested and photographed knowing that it was just an intermediate dwelling. He had light blue eyes, which made Kyra think that his hair color might be lighter, but judged by the picture she had never seen this man. Well, what was to be seen of his face. She called up the second picture and thought to see a different man. Hair shorter, still bearded, but the expression of his eyes was livelier. The third picture showed Perry with a crew cut and no beard at all. He had a scar on the lower left cheek, fine enough to be covered by beard. The files said that he had been caught twice while trespassing and both times he had looked totally different. Kyra frowned at the pictures. He was a chameleon, a man able to switch identities. It seemed self-evident that police had found different social security cards on him. What had Julian to do with such a versatile crook?
She did not tell Julian about the calls or the news she had about Wilson. At noon on Sunday she sat beside him in the kitchen and watched his sleeping face. The cuts and bruises looked even worse the day after the brawl and he was too stiff and hurt to get up. She feared his ribs to be broken, but he denied that. His gaze assured he avowed to know out of experience.
Oliver had stayed without her asking, but she was calmer with her friend around. "Your fridge is full," he stated. "Shall I make some omelets with cheese? Something hearty after the night's stress?"
"If you don't mind…" She looked up at him and he gave her a smile that would compete with every gigolo.
"Yes, my dear honey bunny, I'll whip some eggs and peel some onions and then, slowly, let 'em sizzle."
"Make him stop," Julian pleaded and opened his eyes.
"Don't ruin my recitation, boy."
"And don't call me boy."
"Sweetheart, a girl you are not," Oliver replied indignant and took eggs, onions and cheese out of the fridge. "And before you add some other, witty comments, would you also like something to eat?"
Julian thought about that for a moment, but his rumbling stomach decided. "I guess I need some fuel."
"Good b…" He stopped himself and both Kyra and Julian looked at him. "I didn't say it! For God's sake, don't roast me for a word!" He busied himself with pan and pottery and Kyra turned to Julian.
"Still feeling shitty?" she asked quietly. He touched his cheek and she took his hand away. "Don't." His knuckles were bloody, too, and she wondered about the intensity of the fight. The unknown burglar had also looked pretty smashed. She wondered what he had said after he had awoke in custody. "You look as if you were beaten to pulp in a ring. Tell me what happened."
Julian wet his lips. "I guess, he tried to bridge the alarm--"
"It's impossible."
"--and sneak in, but the noise ruined that. I saw the gun and was up befor
e he could aim it." He flinched. "I had him disarmed, but not stopped. He's got quite a punch."
"So you fought with him."
"I'd have stood better chances without the chain, but…" He shrugged. "I had to take him like I was."
"He noticed the chain?"
"It's hard to miss."
"The alarm was on."
He frowned, regretted the action and just looked at her. "Are you saying that I lie?"
"No, I just try to figure out what happened."
"The cop asked the same questions."
"Bad habit." She kept caressing his hand. "Back to the moment. You hit him, he hit back and you did…what?"
"I tried to keep him from his gun, no matter what. If he got it I'd be dead."
"What made you so sure?"
"Why should he have brought a gun?"
"That's what I asked myself, too," Oliver added from the opposite counter.
"Do you think he came to kill you?" Kyra carefully watched his face, though bruised and all, for some hint.
Julian grimaced. "Me? Why me? What makes me a target? It's your house."
"Indeed." Kyra wondered why the hell an unknown killer should enter her house with a Glock 9mm and a silencer attached to it.
* * * *
Detective Parker stopped by a second time, asking the same questions she had asked herself and Julian before. The burglar appeared to be a professional hitman and those people enter houses with the intention to kill the inhabitant, which consequently led to the prime question of what made Kyra Jennings a target. She had no connections to important people, she was no cop anymore, she did not earn millions of dollars and had not dealt with imported or stolen goods. She was clean as a whistle. Parker sat on the edge of the armchair matching the couch and looked at her seriously through fresh polished glasses. "Ms. Jennings, by your description I don't see a reason for such a man to try and kill you." She nodded. She had come to the same conclusion. "That leaves open two possibilities. First, the intruder had the wrong address, and second, you were not the target, but Mr. Bithrell. Who, I have to add, has connections within criminal range."
"He was convicted for dealing with Fidelity. That doesn't make him target for a hitman, detective. He was no major criminal. Not even one conviction before."
"I did not say the intruder was a hitman, Ms. Jennings."
"I so do not care for your semantics."
"Does Mr. Bithrell have contact with other people aside you and Mr. Hartford?"
"He works in my shop, detective. So, of course, he has contact with other people. All workers at my business, to be precise. He meets them on weekdays and I don't control with whom he talks or not. So don't say that one of them has anything to do with this assault."
"I did not accuse him or any of your workers, Ms. Jennings, so would you, please, just answer the question?"
"Ms. Jennings yourself, detective." Kyra stood from the couch, too agitated to sit. "If you feel the need to interrogate my workers, don't make it a big deal." She looked him hard in the eyes. "Mr. Bithrell has been accepted by his colleagues. I don't want you to ruin his reputation, implying that he might be a target or whatever for a hitman." She stressed the last work, knowing well it would piss off Detective Harper. "He saved himself and he saved me last night so I want to see gratitude and not accusation."
"I was in no way--"
"Yes, you were, detective." She rounded the couch and eyed him while he failed to look eloquent. "You think, once a crook always a crook. You would try to connect him with the invader if the hints fit. You wouldn't try to see that he was the defender of my home and me."
"Ms. Jennings, your argumentation goes the wrong way. Honestly, I see Mr. Bithrell as a victim who managed to fight off a burglar. And as long as the facts stay like that he will be questioned as a victim who might give us valuable information of the way the man got into the house and how he fought, for example."
"Then do it, but leave out the people at my business."
"Ms. Jennings, I will leave them out until I see a need to interrogate them." He stood and pocketed his computer. The other hand fumbled for a cigarette. "Have you thought about a personal bodyguard?"
"No." She escorted him to the front door. "And since the man is behind bars I don't see why I should do it."
"Very well." He wished her a good day and left, lighting the cigarette on the way to his car.
Kyra stood on the porch until he drove away. The detective had not answered any questions, but left open what was behind the burglary. Am I a target? Will the man who had sent him send another hitman? Who is my enemy?
She fought the urge to scream in frustration, but returned to Julian. With her help he sat up and looked at her, tired and beaten. "Thanks for defending me."
"It's just the truth. I'm still shivering with the thought that this man came to my house to put a bullet in my head." She rubbed her arms, but she was not cold. Not from the outside. "If I had been here, alone, and had heard the alarm…I would have come downstairs, right into his line of fire and--"
"Sshh." Julian reached out to her and she sat beside him, careful to not touch his bruised body. "It's over. He's collared. No matter who he is, he's out of the game."
"I wouldn't call that a game, Julian." She shivered and he pulled her close. "The gun. Did you see that gun?"
"Up close and personal."
"But…" She frowned. "He had the gun out when he passed through the door. That's strange, isn't it?" She turned to Julian. His face was blank. "I mean, he had the tools for bridging the alarm. Then he opens the door, the alarm comes to life and he doesn't back off, okay. But he draws the Glock, leaves the tools on the porch and enters." She shook her head. "The kitchen was dark. So why should he anticipate trouble? He could've taken out a flashlight or grope his way through the room, but why, for God's sake, did he take out the gun so early?"
"I'm sure Mr. Super detective will find an answer to that."
"If he had turned to the living room instead of the kitchen, would you have grabbed him?"
"The door is close to the pillar. I was up and fighting with him the moment he stood on the carpet."
"You rounded the pillar?"
"It's just two steps."
"You could have let him pass. If you had ducked he wouldn't have seen you."
"And you?" he asked quietly and very seriously. "If you had entered through the front door, he would have had a clear aim."
"Yes." She lowered her chin, exhaling. "That's even worse."
"Why?"
"You risked your life for me. Maybe he knew I was gone and would have waited in the living room." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Goodness, what an evil thought."
"Then let go. He kissed the dust."
"You took the bruises." She caressed his cheek. "I'm glad you know how to fight. Where did you learn that? I mean, the guy was almost as tall as you. No easy match."
"If you don't want to be shot, you'll find some strength."
"That doesn't cover it, Julian. Where did you learn to fight?"
"Some bits here and there."
"Which means you don't want to tell me."
"If I say on the street the next thing you say is that I was hired to beat up someone."
She smiled, apologetically. "Okay, I let that slide."
"I've got quite some strength and use that as effective as possible."
"I saw that."
"He'd have escaped without you shooting him."
"Well…" She ran a hand through her tousled hair. "I hadn't shot a person for quite a long time."
"Do you know who he was?"
"No." She exhaled and stood. "Nobody knows. He's unknown. An empty folder." She shrugged and brought a mug of tea for him and for her. "Isn't it disappointing that with all the equipment the police and FBI and whoever have, that they can't nail a man, who invaded my home with an assassin weapon and silencer? That's…creepy."
"Yes," he agreed. "Very creepy."
* *
* *
Julian had to endure Pierre as his caretaker while Kyra was at work. He did not like it. He did not want to have Pierre around who was effective, friendly, obedient and tried to behave like a woman. Julian was glad to go to work on Thursday and find the staff applauding him when he entered the shop. He looked at Kyra who smiled broadly, but did nothing to smooth the embarrassing situation. Julian went through the hall, grinning humbly and insecurely. Kyra thought he looked like a school boy packed in a very manly body. His face still showed signs of the fight, but he was back on deck. In fact he had begged Kyra to let him work to get rid of Pierre.
"I told them what you did," Kyra confessed when he was about to climb up the loader.
He waited, one foot on the lowest step. "You did? Why?"
"Why should everybody see you as a convict when there's so much more to you?"
"Oh, my…don't make me blush. I hate that." But he could not help it either.
Kyra cocked her head and stepped closer. He towered over her, but seemed smaller, almost submissive beside her. "I told the prison administration of your deed and they will note it in your papers. It will speak for you after your time's over here."
"But they didn't say that I could get rid of that collar earlier, hmm?"
"No. I asked for it, but it was denied. The five months are already considered a kind of probation time, so there's no reduction."
"Shit," he said, and it was heartfelt. "What else must I do to get rid of this collar? Save the commissioner?"
Kyra grinned and slapped his butt lightly. "Get up that loader and do what you're here for."
He got up. "Can I put that under sexual harassment?"
"If you want to make me use whip and paddle harder on you, you might do that."
He grinned so broadly she was sure other workers understood the sexual connotation, but she just turned and walked to her office. She was halfway up when the telephone rang and Sabrina answered. "Ms. Jennings? Yes, hold a sec."
"I'm on my way," Kyra said and went behind her desk to take the phone. "Jennings. Oh, Josepha. That's a surprise. I just thought about meeting you."
