Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set

by Gordon Carroll

  Cinnamon knew her limitations. A pro at manipulating men, this exceeded her abilities. She needed help; but who? Barney? The police? A private investigator? She thought about it. If it wasn’t Barney then he could probably find out who it was and take care of business. Of course if it was Barney then her contacting him might speed things up, eliminating any chance for outside help; and if it wasn’t Barney it would give him a way back into her life — and that just wouldn’t do. The money she’d stolen from him, although well hidden and the books carefully doctored, would sooner or later be discovered by his accountants; and when they did she didn’t want Barney to even be thinking of her.

  No, too dangerous to call Barney just yet. She’d wait until she could be sure he wasn’t involved, and even then only as a last resort.

  So that left the police or a private investigator. As a rule she stayed away from the police. Women in her profession didn’t blend well with law enforcement types, except for the corrupt ones, and they were only good for what you could get out of them and after that they could be a real drag and hard to dump.

  She sucked her cigarette, let the smoke dribble slowly out her nostrils, took a sip of the brandy she’d poured a while earlier, and considered doing a line of coke but decided against it. She needed her head clear to think this thing through.

  She needed a shower. She’d done five shows tonight and had maybe a couple of hundred hands touch her as they dropped their bills into her panties. She smelled of beer and sweat and stale tobacco. Her head ached, a dull throb that pulsed in time with her heart. Again, she thought of the coke — a line or two and the pain would be gone — forgotten. She liked to joke about cocaine being the fastest, greatest headache reliever in the world.

  Elephant Gunns was only temporary. She had come out to Colorado to work at the new strip joint, Gatling Gams, but its opening gala had been delayed until the fourth of July, forcing her to work at the Gunns until then. Still as the main attraction, she garnered top dollar as always. Gatling Gams billed itself as the end all of strip clubs, so much so they were putting up a million dollar prize for one lucky patron.

  She polished off the brandy, poured a couple more fingers into her glass, took another long pull on the cigarette and made her decision. She would go to the police. Not because she thought it was safe or even that they would do a better job. She decided on them over a private detective simply because she feared a PI might learn more than she wanted revealed. A really good PI might dig too deep and learn about the money. She didn’t want to take the chance of being blackmailed, or worse, sold out to Barney. She doubted cops would be smart enough or motivated enough to dig that deep. She thought a cop would be easier to handle — to control.

  So, the cops it would be; tomorrow. She finished her cigarette, drank the last of the brandy; stared out at the beauty of the city.

  Now where was that coke?

  21

  Sarah Hampton

  * * *

  Illusion

  * * *

  “What were you thinking?” asked Sarah. She kept her tone as neutral as possible. The three of them were in Sgt. Creed’s office; her, the rook, and Chuck.

  “I was thinking he was killing us in there and I had to stop him.”

  “I mean what was your thought process. Take me through it.”

  “Well, he’d already taken out about twenty bouncers, all the cops in the city, and you were next. So I had two choices, shoot him or put him to sleep with your stick. I chose the stick.”

  Chuck held up a hand before Sarah could respond. “You hit a world renowned celebrity a potentially fatal blow with a deadly weapon during what amounts to a bar fight. And on top of that he’s black.”

  “He didn’t die, sir.”

  “That’s not the point,” said Creed. “The point is he could have died. The point is that you hit him in the head with a baton on purpose. You’ve read our policy and procedure manual on use of force; is that an approved baton strike? Did you learn that hit at the police academy?”

  Dominic looked down. “Not exactly.”

  “And exactly what does ‘not exactly’ mean, Rook?”

  Dominic looked him in the eye, Sarah liked that.

  “It’s a United States Marine Corps approved move, sir.”

  Sgt. Creed shook his head. “Well this isn’t the Marines, and we are not at war.”

  “It sure felt like war, Sarge,” said Dominic.

  Creed let out his breath. “Yeah, I suppose it did, but this is Gunwood, not Afghanistan or Iraq or the Nam. These are American citizens with full constitutional rights. You know what that means? Let me tell you what it means. It means that each and every one of those American citizens, who you have sworn to serve and protect, have access to American lawyers who love to sue the crap out of American police departments. Ever hear of the ACLU? How do you think they’d feel about getting a case where a rookie cop split open the head of a black gazillionaire with a non-departmentally approved baton head strike? What are you, some kind of racist?”

  “No, sir. His race had nothing to do with this.”

  “Oh that’s what you think, Rook. That’s what you think. Ever hear of Rodney King, George Zimmerman? By the time the lawsuit is said and done you’ll find out that you’re the biggest racist who ever lived, and that’s why we hired you, so you could go out and split open innocent black heads with your big racist nightstick. Because the city of Gunwood will also be proven to be the most racist city this country has ever known. This city, the chief, your FTO and me! All of us. And why? Because a brand new rookie couldn’t remember that he wasn’t at war no more.

  “Do you like your house, Rook? Your car, your boat, the money you saved for your kid’s college, your pension? Huh, do you?”

  “I… I don’t have any of those things yet, sir. Except the car and I’m still paying on…”

  “That’s right, Rook,” broke in Creed, “you don’t have those things. You don’t. Me — me — I have those things. Me and her,” he pointed at Sarah. “Your FTO, we have those things, because we’ve worked hard for them. Worked hard for a lot of years and we don’t want to give them up to some Johnnie Cochran wanna be lawyer and his cry baby client just because of you! Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Departmentally approved baton strikes are to the shoulders, biceps, forearms, hands, thighs, calves, stomach, chest and buttocks. Not the face, head, throat, neck, solar plexus, or groin area — understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Make sure you do, because if you do it again, it could mean termination of employment, and trouble for Sarah for not properly supervising you.”

  The sergeant shook his head. “Kid Kong’s attorney has already contacted our City Attorney with an intent to sue notice. You better pray it gets thrown out as frivolous. Now get out of my office.”

  Sarah felt kind of bad for the rook. The Sarge had come down on him pretty hard. But she’d seen the look in the kid’s eyes when he swung the baton. She believed that Dominic had meant to kill Kid Kong.

  They went to the report writing room; empty at this time of night… technically morning, since it was almost five. She poured him a cup of coffee, took one herself and handed his to him. His emotions were well concealed but she could tell his ego was bruised. Welcome to the FTO Program.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  He smiled sheepishly. “Yes, thanks. I just feel sort of stupid.”

  “It happens. There’s a lot to learn in this job, and even though the military stuff helps, sometimes it can conflict too. The learning curve’s pretty steep. Not many people can do this job. So take this as a learning experience and move on.”

  “I don’t know. The Sarge seemed pretty mad.”

  Sarah smiled. “Don’t worry about that. Creed’s tough as steel, but he never holds a grudge. He chewed you out and that’s that. He’ll let it go, so you let it go too and get your head back in the game.”

  He nodded and looked a
t her. “So what now?”

  She pulled out a chair. “The really fun part of the job; you write the report.”

  “Great.” He sat down and logged onto the computer.

  “Just like taking a dump, kid; the job ain’t finished till the paperwork’s done.”

  He laughed, and Sarah couldn’t help comparing him to the statues of Greek gods she’d seen in books in school. If she were ten — maybe fifteen years younger — but she knew better. She’d never been a looker. Competent at her job, yes, and tough when she needed to be, but she’d never been the sexy cheerleader type and she had no doubt that the rook played a stone cold jock in high school with all the pretty girls trailing their pom-poms after him. Smooth too, and tough. He could maybe work on his judgment a bit, but then she’d never been to war and didn’t know how that affected a person. He’d grown used to people trying to kill him and him being able to kill them back. It might take him some time to work out the differences between there and here. She hoped he made it. He had the potential to be a really good cop.

  She watched him work on the report, took in a slow deep breath — let it out — so cute. Too bad he was practically jailbait.

  The sudden noise made her snap her head to the side. It sounded like it came from the hallway that led out to the booking area. The rook hadn’t reacted at all; too engrossed in the report. She’d have to break him of that. A cop had to have his wits and senses about him all the time. In the field you couldn’t allow yourself to be so locked onto something that you didn’t pay attention to your surroundings. If you did you might not see the drunk driver careening toward you or the gangbanger sneaking up from behind. You had to have your radar on and pinging twenty-four seven.

  The sound again.

  Definitely in the hallway; how it had gotten in she didn’t know, maybe it snuck in when the underground garage door opened for them.

  The rook still hadn’t noticed so she decided to let him work while she went out to look for the little trespasser, but when she got to the hall it checked clear both ways. She walked down to the coffee room — nothing. She walked back to the booking area — nothing.

  “Meooooowwww.”

  Ah, down by the holding cells where they kept prisoners before transporting them to the County lock up. She thought of calling Timmy and Rex in. Timmy would find it in no time and there wouldn’t be much left when he finished. But Rex could be a bit squeamish about small furry animals getting hurt. Humans — a different matter — Timmy could puncture every major organ in a bad guy’s body and Rex would laugh while the guy bled, but he’d practically bawl over a pulped rabbit in the roadway or a cat stuck in a tree. No. She would take care of this herself.

  “Here, kitty,” she said in a whisper. “Here kitty-kitty.” When she got to the holding cells there was no kitty. She punched in the code and opened the heavy door; inside only darkness. There were no prisoners; the nightly run had already been made. She flipped on the light switch and let the door close behind her.

  “Meuu.” Very quiet.

  How had it gotten in here? Not that it mattered, all that mattered was getting the evidence — no — no — that wasn’t right, of course it wasn’t. Why had she thought that? She walked down the cells, there were three of them, peering closely, probing the dark corners, the walkway narrow, bars of solid steel. Her footsteps echoed hollowly.

  “Here, kitty-kitty.” She didn’t have to whisper in the cells—no one to hear her. Her hand moved up her thigh, brushed past her holster, thumbed the snap, gripped the curved butt of the weapon. “Here, kitty-kitty. No one’s going to hurt you, come on now, kitty-kitty.” Her voice even, the tone soothing, it sounded good to her ears, not a hint of stress or strain. She got to the last cell; darker here and she thought she saw something over by the bench against the far wall, something small and furry. She felt the solid, comforting weight of the gun as it slid free of the leather. Her heart, beating faster now, her breath coming in quick little pants, loud in the quiet of the space. She couldn’t make out the form, not well, too dark — but something hid there — something — and what else could it be?

  “Meowwwww,” quiet — like an echo of an echo — as though it weren’t quite real.

  She felt her arm lift. A part of her said no, that she shouldn’t be doing this, but the evidence — the evidence was crucial — she had to have it — she had to make John whole again. All she had to do was bring the gun up, very slowly, very carefully, so that she didn’t scare the cat, so that it didn’t run, so that it didn’t get away.

  “Sarah?” The sound came so sudden she almost cranked off a round. But she recovered quickly and turned as if nothing was wrong, a little smile playing at the corners of her mouth; the rook.

  “It’s okay,” she said, keeping her gun side away from him. “I was just making sure the cells were cleaned up. You done already?”

  “Yeah, but I’d like you to check it over before I send it in.”

  “Sure,” she said, ignoring the quiet purr that rumbled out of the cell. She slipped the gun back into its holster without him seeing and snapped the catch in the cup of her hand so he couldn’t hear. She walked out of the cell while he held the door for her. “No problem.”

  22

  Sammy Rothstein

  * * *

  Played

  * * *

  Detective Rothstein prepared to leave the office when the phone on his desk rang. He almost let it go, he had a full day ahead and wanted to leave enough time to try and make contact with Cinnamon Twist before she started her set at Elephant Guns. In the end his OCD forced him to answer it; which turned out good because it was dispatch transferring a call from a woman wanting to speak with a detective. The woman, whose voice sounded like angels singing — only seductive, identified herself as Sandra Lloyd. He recognized the name — Cinnamon Twist! His hands started to sweat.

  “This is Detective Rothstein what can I do for you, Ms. Lloyd?”

  “I’m not exactly certain,” she said. “I’m probably being silly, but I received an e-mail yesterday that listed obituaries of seven people I used to be acquainted with. They were all murdered.”

  That caught Sammy by surprise. “Who sent the e-mail?”

  “I don’t know. There was no name.”

  “What about the IP address?

  “The what?”

  “Never mind. Is this on a lap top or a desk computer?”

  “iPad,” she said.

  He was about to tell her to bring it to the station, but stopped. “I should come over and take a look at this.”

  “Really?” she said. “So you don’t think I’m being silly?”

  “No, of course not. I mean it may turn out to be nothing, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. Do you have some time right now?”

  “Yes, I don’t have to leave for work for a few hours.”

  “Good, I’ll come over. You’re at the Vader Building, apt P-10-06, right?”

  A pause. “How did you know that?”

  Sammy’s mind didn’t miss a beat. “Actually this is a bit of a coincidence. I was just going through your file when you called. One of my duties is to run background checks on all of Gunwood’s exotic dancers and I recognized the name as soon as you said it.”

  Another pause. “So you know I’m a stripper.” Her tone, suddenly cooler, less musical.

  “Yes. Truth is, it’s one of the reasons I think we should take this more seriously than if it was sent to Mary Q Public. Dancers are more prone to stalkers who carry out violent acts than say, secretaries. Okay?”

  Pause — a light clicking sound. He imagined her tapping a painted nail against her teeth and felt a shiver go through him.

  “Okay,” she said. “Okay, thank you — thank you for taking this seriously.”

  “I can be there in ten minutes.”

  “That fast?”

  “It doesn’t take long to get anywhere in Gunwood. Don’t open the door until I identify myself as Detective Rothstein.”
/>   “I won’t.” The music was back in her voice… more seductive than ever.

  The shock of seeing her so close when she opened the door was truly stunning. So tiny; tiny and beautiful. When she smiled and held out her hand he longed for the old days, the days of chivalry, when it was permissible to kiss a lady’s hand. Instead he grasped her small fingers lightly, finding surprising strength in the miniature grip.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said. “This really has me spooked.”

  “Of course,” he said, following her into the spacious suite. “Do you know of anyone that might have a grudge against you? An old flame, or someone you had to reject; anyone like that?”

  She led him into the living room; lavishly furnished with two couches in front of an eighty inch flat screen TV. One of the couches was specially made for her small stature, the other normal size. She gestured for him to sit on the normal couch while she sat opposite him.

  Sammy couldn’t help but stare at her as she smoothed her red dress and took her seat. The dress was strapless and ended just below her knees. It was thin and light and molded to her voluptuous body like a coat of paint.

  “Yes. He’s an old boyfriend, but… there’s a problem.”

  “Problem?” Sammy’s glasses slipped down a notch on his nose and he pushed them back into place.