Bloodshot

by Cherie Priest

  “A medical condition?”

  “Yes, a medical condition. It’s rather personal and I don’t care to explain, but suffice it to say, my client and I share a medical condition and his … erm … health is, in its way, related to mine.” In more ways than one, I nearly added.

  “Okay, fine. You’re both sick, you’re both—”

  “I didn’t say we were sick. I only said we shared a medical condition. For all you know, we both have green eyes, or we both pee a little when we cough.”

  “And you’re the one who didn’t want to share!”

  “Oh shut up, Horace.” I shifted my grip on the phone and settled down into my couch. I’d be lying if I’d said I wasn’t enjoying the conversation. I only just then realized that it’d been days since I’d simply talked to anyone apart from a salesclerk or a tollbooth operator. “The thing is, I can’t drop this guy’s case—not even if I wanted to. So your weirdo will have to take a backseat.”

  “When do you think you’ll be back on the pony?” he asked, every vowel oozing impatience.

  “Later,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “Give me another couple of weeks here, and then you can start bothering me.”

  “I don’t know if she’ll wait a couple of weeks.”

  “Then go find someone else to put a smile on her face, because I won’t make bargains any sooner than that.” I’d be lucky to take a new gig even that soon, all things considered.

  “A couple of weeks,” he said, but he said it funny, like he was only repeating what I’d said—and like he had a pen in his mouth. He was probably looking for a calendar, circling the day on which he could begin to harass me without fear of reprisal. “All right, a couple of weeks. You’re a hard negotiator, Ray-Baby.”

  “I’m going to get a lot harder if you call me that again.”

  “Give me a minute. Less than a minute. I’m almost certain I can make a filthy joke in response to that.”

  “No,” I told him. “No, for the love of God, don’t.”

  “Oh fine. But I’ve got you down for two more weeks of peace and quiet, and then … then I’ll come calling again. I recognize this area code, don’t I? Where’s it from …,” he asked, not really asking me, but asking his memory.

  “Don’t do that, Horace. I’ll come to you, or I’ll call you.” He’d figure it out soon enough, but let him. Atlanta’s a huge place, filled with millions of people spread out over dozens of square miles. If he could track me down by an area code, I deserved to be tracked down and berated by a fierce and pissy little man who wanted me to steal things.

  An awkward silence passed between us before he broke it by saying, “So everything’s all right, then?” He wasn’t accustomed to pretending to care, and it came out stilted.

  “Everything’s all right,” I said, whether it was true or not. “I’m going to go ahead and hang up, but if something crazy or pressing comes across your plate, go ahead and give me a call.”

  “Works for me,” he said, and closed his cell phone before I could close mine.

  I stared at the other phone for a few seconds, willing it to ring in the wake of Horace’s forced interest, but Cal didn’t reply and neither did Ian. I considered trying to give the major another call, but thought better of it. It might be tempting fate, considering that I’d been all but chased from my home by some form of organized long black car brigade, and I’d freshly broken into a military storage facility.

  But it might be worth checking to see if he’d responded to my previous email.

  Sure enough.

  Abigail,

  Still no word from Trevor on my end. I don’t know what’s up with that guy, but I might have to write him off. On the upshot (for you) it means I might have an assignment or two you could take. We have places that need exploring, and now I’m short a guy. If I have to settle for a girl, I’ll settle for a girl. You think you can handle it?

  So if you’re a friend of Trevor’s, I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could handle his last assignment, could you? Since you got my info from him, and all. You must’ve talked about what he was working on.

  Christ on a cracker, I hated that guy. But that didn’t stop me from writing him back, since I had the laptop open and everything. I did a lot of self-editing, believe you me. And this is what I sent back.

  Major,

  Can I handle it? I could handle it in my sleep. And no, I haven’t heard from Trevor either. His roommate said he skipped out on rent and he’s thinking about filing a missing persons report. I don’t know what to think.

  I knew he’d been inside some building downtown, because yeah, we talked about it. But are you saying he never reported back at all? I don’t know what he was looking for or anything. What do you want to know about the place? Maybe I could go there and check it out.

  Anyway, yeah. Hit me with what you’ve got. Give me an address, and I’ll get inside. Should I assume you’re based in the Seattle area? If not, where’s your office? Would I need to come in and sign some kind of release or something?

  That wasn’t too much, right? I was trying to walk a line between credibly curious and not overly snoopy. Didn’t want him to get the idea I was prying, or otherwise behaving suspiciously. As if emailing some dude about breaking into abandoned buildings in order to perform “reconnaissance” wasn’t amazingly suspicious already.

  Was it ballsy to ask about my own building? Perhaps. But it was also well within the realm of possible questions a prospective employee might ask. And since I’d gotten “lucky” with my find in Alpha Building Four, I might as well see if lightning would strike twice and I’d learn something good.

  I hit SEND and hung around on the Internet for a bit, leeching off some neighbor who didn’t know any better than to leave his WiFi connection unsecured. I visited a few blogs, read some Hollywood gossip, and generally pissed away thirty minutes doing not much of anything.

  When much to my surprise, the major wrote back.

  I checked my watch. It was pretty damn late for business.

  Abigail,

  Trevor was looking at an old factory down on Pioneer Square. It wasn’t technically abandoned, but the owner was a real pain in the ass to locate—and might be involved in some illegal activities. But we’re pretty certain no one comes or goes from the place, with the exception of a teenage squatter or two.

  So Trevor didn’t say anything about it? Did he tell you he’d run into any trouble, or that everything had gone smoothly? I want to know what he saw in there.

  To answer your other question, no, I’m not based in Seattle. I pass through every now and again. I do a lot of traveling. My office is in D.C., so you can’t just swing by and sign anything. And it’s like I said on the phone, there won’t be anything to sign. There won’t be any evidence whatsoever that you and I ever talked, much less any evidence if I opt to send you out on an errand.

  These emails don’t mean anything. No one will ever trace the address back to me. I trust my tech.

  Let me know if you’re still game. Here’s the joint. Case it, break it, and let me know what you find inside.

  Then he’d cut-and-pasted a link to a Google Map pointing directly to my warehouse.

  His email gave me chills. Such chills that I sat there and stared at it, rereading it for a few minutes, trying to milk every last drop of information from it. I unpacked it until my eyes crossed.

  Then I fired off one more quick email, in case he was still online—and in order to feel like I’d gotten the last word in.

  Major,

  You sure know how to reassure a girl, don’t you? But I’m hard to scare. So count me in. And hey, D.C.? I’m actually headed that way next weekend. Me and some friends are crashing town for a convention. Maybe if I can prove I know my shit, you’ll invite me to tour the facilities or whatever.

  Anyway, I know that neighborhood. I’ll check out your mystery building and report back within twenty-four hours.

  ~Abigail

  The line ab
out the convention might come back to haunt me, but I was willing to bet it wouldn’t. It’s Washington, D.C., and I defy you to find a single weekend wherein not one single convention is being held there. For all he knew, I was scooting into the District for a Star Trek event or a gun enthusiast show. I just hoped he wouldn’t call me on it.

  I wanted to dwell on this, to fester over it and try to paste together some psychic defense against it, but it was coming up on nine o’clock at night.

  This meant it was still entirely too early to check out the Poppycock Review (a name I loved, by the way) … or so I’d assumed, until I managed to convince myself otherwise. The night may be too young for me to show up as a customer, but the time was damn near perfect if I wanted to get in and out in a sneakier fashion without battling the disco-darlings and their tribe.

  Who was I kidding? I was bored, and out of ideas, and only trying to justify getting out of the condo when I was almost too frightened to do so. A little fresh air would help calm me down. Probably.

  I skipped the MARTA and drove myself back down toward the deJesus residence, then took a handful of turns that led me deeper into the frat-boy-and-bachlorette-party-plagued blocks where the bitch-techno blared and the locals complained about all the slumming straights. The pure agony of finding a place to park made me almost reconsider my loathing of the public transportation system, but eventually I found a narrow slot in which to leave my vehicle. I had to bash the bumper of an SUV to squeeze into the nook, but I didn’t exactly shed a tear over the event and no, I didn’t leave a note. That’s what they get for parking too close to a fire hydrant, with one wheel on the curb. An asshole who leaves his (or her) vehicle in such a fashion deserves whatever automotive detailing inconvenience comes his (or her) way.

  (I do have auto insurance, believe it or not. Over the years I’ve stolen the identities of a few people—none of my victims, that’s too close for comfort, but I’ve got paper trails leading back to tombstones here and there. My insurance is listed under one of those identities, and it all looks legit. But that doesn’t mean I jump at the chance to hand it out.)

  The Poppycock Review was a two-story building that somehow managed to look short and squat, regardless of its peaked red-and-white roof. The wall that faced the main street was painted 1983 Prince-Purple, and the side wall where the front door was located was bright yellow, with giant rhinestone sparklies rimming the door frame like salt on a margarita glass. Curtains were artfully draped, covering the window and obscuring the interior view. These curtains were rainbow-themed, with gold and silver threading giving them a touch of added shimmer.

  Here’s to truth in advertising.

  But all its aggressively bad trappings aside, the Review looked like an aging hooker—tarted up real pretty, but starting to break down beneath the cosmetics. The windowsills had all been painted over recently, but that didn’t hide the fact that they were warped and splitting with age, and the glass in the window was clean but scratched all to hell. I got it. The place had seen better days, and this wasn’t the top-of-the-line destination it might’ve been thirty years ago.

  But if the warm-up music inside was any indication, the joint was still ready to hop. I heard a house-style remix of something funky from the late seventies kicking inside, though when I tried the front door it was locked. A tiny, peeling sticker on the inside of the window to my right said that things got started around ten o’clock, so yes, I was plenty early despite the traffic.

  But I wasn’t the kind of girl to be deterred by a locked door, so I pulled out my kit, took two of my most basic tools to the ancient and wobbly lock, and had the door open in ten seconds or less. I shoved the tools back into the little roll and jammed them back into my purse, in case anyone saw me stroll inside. If they saw me with lock-pick tools, they’d know I was up to know good. If I turned the knob and acted like I owned the place, I could always swear it’d been unlocked when I got there.

  I didn’t see anyone in the foyer area, so I shut the door behind me and made a point to leave it unfastened, to bolster my story.

  The carpet under my heels was worn but not sticky, so I thanked heaven for small blessings. I wasn’t really dressed for clubbing, but I wasn’t really visiting the Poppycock Review to see the show, so that was fine. I’d gone with something understated and gray, with ankle boots that had a low heel for easy running away, should the situation call for it. I’d stuck to maroon accents for a little color, but I hadn’t gone nuts with it or anything—just a leather bag and a belt. I’ve never been one of those women to coordinate everything from my lips to my toenails. It’s just too time-intensive, and it gives you more goop to smear on a crime scene. Forget it.

  The lights were all dimmed except for the dance floor, which I could see on the other side of a big beaded curtain that looked like a varsity cheerleader’s chest at Mardi Gras. Someone was in the DJ booth, tweaking settings and laying out a playlist, I guess. I couldn’t really see what was going on back there, just that there was a person-shaped shadow behind the Plexiglas.

  I stood away from the curtain, so that I couldn’t be seen any better than I could see.

  The light from the dance floor augmented the low-lit party lights in the foyer, so there was plenty to see by. Costume masks and rainbow schwag was posted up on the walls, over the windows, and all across the wood paneling that no doubt originally came with the building. It was awful, but it was being handled cheerfully, to the good-natured credit of whoever was in charge of the decorating.

  I didn’t take too many pains to be super-quiet as I wandered down first the right corridor (where I found a glass-and-neon bar) and down the left, where I found a series of doors that were mostly shut and often locked—except for the unisex restrooms all lined up in a little row.

  One of the shut doors that wasn’t locked revealed a dressing room stacked from floor to ceiling with large and glittery high-heeled shoes, tackle boxes overflowing with makeup, halters, corsets, feather boas, and the occasional pink sheer dressing gown. I admired the dressing room owner’s commitment to fabulousness and kept on snooping.

  Down at the end of the corridor I heard voices, low and male, but with a flourish. I considered how best to play the situation—should I walk up, introduce myself, and ask questions, or finish my reconnaissance?—but the deliberation took too long and a leggy blonde stepped into the corridor.

  Bouffant B-52s hair was fluffed and cascaded to such a size that it could’ve stuffed a couch cushion, and beneath an orange terry-cloth robe a pair of crimson stilettos peeked. The wearer was probably not six feet tall in bare feet, and had both suspicious shoulders and a far finer grasp of cheekbone shading than I, personally, have ever possessed.

  She came up short and startled. “Well pardon me, Sunshine,” she said, and I’m going to go ahead and use the feminine designation here for convenience—the Adam’s apple be damned. If she was going to go through all that trouble to look like a lady, I was not going to disrespect her by insisting on my own pronouns. Also, I kind of liked being called “Sunshine,” and I decided on the spot that I was going to steal it.

  I stood up straighter and forced an injection of confidence and total I’m Supposed to Be Here into my voice. “Hello. My name is Raylene Jones, and I’m looking for Sister Rose.”

  “Raylene Jones, looking for Sister Rose. Is this some official business? Because sister, it is too soon to party.”

  “Official business, yes.” Because it’s always better to let them think you’ve got some kind of authority backing up your right to be present. “But not,” I hastily clarified, “the strictly bad kind. Rose isn’t in any kind of trouble.”

  “You look like a cop,” declared a second girl, from around the corner of the door they’d been chatting behind a moment earlier. The newcomer was going for an Elvira thing, and it was comical, but I couldn’t say it didn’t look good on her.

  I nodded and pulled out my badge. “I am a cop. I’m a cold-case detective from the APD, and I’m lo
oking into the disappearance of a teenage girl a few years ago. Rose might have a little information for me. Or then again, she might not. But I’m low on leads, so here I am. Can you point me in the right direction?”

  “The right direction’s right around the corner, baby,” the blonde said. “First door on the left. She shares it with a couple of other girls, like we all do—you know how it goes. But she’s working tonight and her shift starts in half an hour. She’s in there.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and did a stiff little half bow that implied I was finished here. I navigated the narrow, claustrophobic corridor with all its dense, dark wood and deeply piled but matted carpet until I’d passed both of the ladies and reached the indicated door around the corner.

  I planted myself in front of it, feet splayed and ready for action, and I knocked. Twice. Real loud, very authoritative, if I don’t mind saying so myself. “Sister Rose?” I called, hoping I came off as less Itchy Trigger-Fingered SWAT Team than Concerned Authority.

  “What?” came the answer from inside. It sounded irritable, impatient, and somewhat aggravated—at the world in general, or maybe at me in particular. “What do you want?”

  “I’m looking to have a word with Sister Rose. My name is Raylene Jones; I’m a cold-case detective working for the Atlanta Police Department,” I said, laying out my story and my pseudonym, since it’d served me well so far. “You’re not in any trouble, I only want to ask you a few questions about someone else.”

  The door opened swiftly and violently, before I’d heard anyone within make a peep or a step toward the knob. Inside the room, with one rather intimidatingly beefy arm slung lazily over the door’s latch, stood the most insistently innocent drag queen I’d ever set eyes upon.

  She was tall—taller than me by nearly a foot, which would put her around six-four or six-five—and she was wearing a mermaid-inspired blue-sequined dress that left little to the imagination, and much to the imagination’s Department of WTF? I knew she was packing under that bikini bottom with the dangled sparkles, but I’d be damned if I could tell you where she’d put it. On her head sat a black Amy Winehouse wig that was just as tall as the British singer’s do, but less cracked-out and more tidy. Around her neck was a flamboyant fake necklace that would’ve been worth seven figures if it’d been real.