“That’s funny because I was just thinking the same thing.”
He didn’t expect things to go this way with Kim, but it felt safe.
“Mike?”
“Yes?”
“Can we do that again soon?”
“Can you wait twenty minutes?”
Chapter 32
It had been weeks since Glenda called Josh Altman, M.D. in West Virginia. To her thinking, the less contact, the better. Better and safer for Josh, and if somehow the clinic phone or internet was compromised—Glenda didn’t want to think about that. Until now. Now she sat with her mouth gaping open. Moe wasn’t in shock, like her, but the story that broke out of Tera Alta, W.V., was a doozie.
There was dead silence in Gold’s Kew Garden’s Hills home as the reporter interviewed the clinic nurse, Becky. In the midst of the amateurish questions, Jones had to giggle a little. The newsperson pushed a little too hard. The response was predictable.
“I done told y’all three times what happened.”
“I’m from a different network. Can I indulge you just to tell it again?”
“Last time! I was sittin’ at my desk when these two guys in suits walk in. I took them for trouble in an instant. When they turned the latch on the door, Dr. Altman walked out of the exam room, and the taller guy done hit the doctor with his gun. I hadn’t noticed the little gun until then.”
“Did they threaten you?” asked the reporter.
“The other one pulled out what looked like a .25 caliber Beretta, and he aimed it at me. I froze right there.”
“What happened next?”
“I seen the doc on the ground. He was bleeding from a cut under the eye. Then the big guy kicked him and asked him a question that I couldn’t understand. Something like ‘where’s the phone.’ It was strange and scary,” admitted Becky.
“Then what happened?”
“I noticed that the little guy was looking away from me, so I pulled out my Colt and shot ‘em both.”
“Did you intend to kill them?”
“What are you? A lawyer?” sneered Becky.
“No. I’m just curious as to what was going through your head.”
“Living was goin’ through my head.”
The newsman looked unsure of what to ask next.
Becky helped him. “I was intent on living, and they was intent on dying, which is what happened. I didn’t go for no leg shot. They each got two in the chest. The small guy was still standing and turned his gun in my direction, so he got a bonus in the head.”
The city reporter looked befuddled.
“Then I called my cousin, the deputy, and he come over and did what he does.”
The reporter turned back to the camera. “And that is the surprising story here in Tera Alta, West Virginia, where two robbers are dead at the hands of a brave and courageous nurse. Meanwhile, the clinic’s doctor is being treated for a facial laceration and is expected to make a full recovery.”
Gold looked over at Glenda. “Is she single? I want to marry that woman,” he said in jest. “Does she always talk like that?”
“What do you mean? Southern? No, not that strong. I think she was putting that on for the news media.”
“My dear friend, I’d say that a couple of your drug lady’s whackers just got whacked. With a .45, no less.”
“Moe. Becky knew damn well what they were asking. They were asking for Glenda Jones, not the ‘where’s the phone?’”
“You know that, but the local cops don’t, and the feds don’t. This is getting interesting.”
She frowned at Moe. “How many weapons do you have here?”
“A shotgun, a 10mm, and my Glock.”
Jones exhaled audibly. “Can you keep them handy?”
“I always do.”
“Even on Shabbos?”
“Yes. Even on Shabbos.”
*
Rosalita was displeased. She sat at a picnic bench. It was 1:30 a.m. in a park in Queens. Being up this late just added to her bad mood. Bruner sat across from her, genuinely aware of all of her bad vibes. In the dark, he could see her bodyguard. The man looked intimidating, just standing there motionless, nestled and barely visible among the trees and bushes.
The tense quiet between them was suddenly interrupted by a small group of teens. John’s honed instincts identified them immediately as gang members—they just had that look. He checked his weapon.
“Turn around and go away,” Rosalita spoke clearly and with no hesitation.
“Shut it, bitch. Give what you got,” the lanky ringleader yelled back. In the dim lighting, it was hard to see his features very well.
“That’s not going to happen. Did you guys notice the man standing in the trees over there?”
They all turned at once. Her bodyguard had a 10mm with a silencer aimed at them as he walked out into the open. They radiated uncertainty but were experienced at being targeted.
Rosalita snapped her fingers and stood up, facing the teen who’d called her a bitch. He was about ten feet away.
“Now, what we have here is a failure to communicate.” She turned for a moment to grin at Bruner. “I always wanted to use that line.”
The group seemed to be increasingly unsure of themselves and were unwilling or unable to voice anything back at the middle-aged woman staring them down.
“My friend over there with the Sig pointed at you can put you all down in just about five seconds. Do you boys want to live?”
The lanky kid had a lot of guts coupled with stupidity. “There’s six of us. We cut you before you can shoot us.” He had a slight Venezuelan accent, Rosalita noticed. Her man began to move as she raised her hand to delay him.
“Which three of you would like to die first?” she asked them in Spanish. None moved. “You five, step back. Not you, big mouth. If any of you run, you will be shot down like a dog.”
Five of them retreated a few feet while the skinny one stood his ground. The drug queen stepped forward. Just then, Bruner noticed the scissors in her right hand. Things were getting interesting; at the same time, he was desperate to avoid a massacre. He began to say something, but without turning, Rosalita shushed him.
“What is your name?”
He looked back at his gang and felt the pressure to stand up to the woman. “My name is Fuck You Bitch.”
One of the group called out, “Tell her, man.”
In a flash, she rammed her knee into the kid’s groin. He dropped, groaning in agony on the grass.
“Balls or ear?”
He didn’t respond, but he was gasping and holding his crotch.
“Balls or ear. Pick one.” Rosalita got down on one knee, holding the scissors to his neck. Her victim was in too much pain to process what she’d said. She clarified it in Spanish, “Do you want me to cut off your balls or your ear?”
The delinquent teen began to struggle. She brought the large, pointed weapon to his chest. “If you move, you die. Cajones or your ear?”
He froze and mumbled, “Ear.”
Rosalita pushed his head to the ground, brought the scissors to his head, and snipped off the top of his ear. The punk started screaming, but she took the butt of her hand and smacked him in the head. “Shut the fuck up, or I will do your balls.”
She glared up at the stunned group of gang members. “Does anyone else want to make a choice tonight?”
The reply was a deafening silence. The somewhat pacified woman stood, observing them all. “Now leave. If you come back here, I will use my scissors on every one of you.”
The kid on the ground got up, bleeding from his head, and began sprinting away, followed by the others.
Bruner pondered her ruthlessness. The chief wasn’t sure if she was seriously going to castrate the little turkey or not—he was glad it was only the tip of the teenager’s ear. Rosalita walked over to a fountain and rinsed off her shears. The woman was twisted and frightening.
“Now,” she sat down. “Where were we? Oh. Yes. I’ve got two dead
guys in the morgue in West Virginia. You may have seen the news.” The way Rosalita seamlessly moved from clipping off some punk’s ear to talking shop was unnerving. “I will hand it to the nurse who put them down; she did a good job. They weren’t careful. I’m done bothering with the clinic down there. We took a crack at it, and it wasn’t meant to be. Glenda was nowhere to be found in West Virginia. So we’ll leave it alone.
“That leaves Casper? We have about five minutes, so hurry. Those kids will be coming back with their older brothers.”
Bruner also recognized the urgency to conclude their business and move along. “Casper left town. We’re chasing him. A taxi gave him a ride up to Newburgh. That’s north of the city.”
“I know where it is.”
“He was with a black woman. They stayed at the Econoinn. They bought a junk car for cash and left.”
“African American.”
“Huh?”
Rosalita was feeling impatient. “Not black, John. African American.”
He decided to humor her. “Right. Sorry. African American. We are trying to track them.”
“Give me the details.”
“I already wrote it out.” He handed her a page from his jacket pocket. She looked it over.
“Call all of your people off. I’ll deal with this myself.” The drug boss got up and walked away.
John rose from the bench and headed in the opposite direction. He checked over his shoulder for the possibility of the gang returning in force. After covering a mile or so in the car, he made a call.
“Call up all your buddies. Tell them to come home. We’re off this assignment.”
Bruner ended the call and drove back to Manhattan.
Chapter 33
By Joplin, Missouri, Kim and Mike got an exceedingly unwelcome flat tire. He pulled off of old Route 66 and stepped out to join Kimberly as she stared at the right, front paper-thin radial.
“You’re the engineer. Can you do some magic on that?”
“Sure. I’m going to watch you magically replace that thing with the spare from the trunk.”
He went back and popped the lid. The spare was a joke, one of those skinny, little, yellow-rimmed cheapies.
“Do you need some help with that?” A Ford sedan, black and suspicious, slowed to a crawl next to him. There were two guys. They both looked dangerous—or maybe that was anxiety kicking in, Casper thought.
“No. Thanks. We’re good here.” He waited to see if the response was going to be a bullet to his chest.
“There’s a tire place up the road about a quarter-mile on your right. I think they’re open until 8:30. Good luck.” The Ford driver hit the gas and headed down the road.
“Did that make you nervous?” asked Kim.
“Not at all. Hell no. Just a couple of guys looking to do a good deed for an interracial couple in Missouri.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “Pardon my French, but you are so full of shit.”
“Yes, I am.” Mike began pulling the spare and the jack out.
“One more thing, mister.”
He wiped off the grime from the tire onto his jeans and stopped to look at her face. “What’s that?”
“Are we really an interracial couple?”
Pulling her close, Mike said, “Couple, yes. I don’t give a damn about what anyone thinks about us.” He kissed her. “And, Kim, I wouldn’t go straight to interracial anyway. First, I’d say smart, good-looking, ingenious, brave, sexy—”
“Okay,” she interrupted him. “You made your point. Now kiss me again before you go and get yourself all dirty.”
The cheap spare held out until they made it up the road to the tire shop. “Anyone here?” Mike leaned into the open garage door.
“Yes, sir. We’re closed in fifteen minutes. What can I help you with?”
“I’ve got a fake spare that needs replacing. In fact, I’d like to replace all four tires.”
A chubby guy came around from the other side of a GMC truck. He had a blue uniform and a scraggly beard. “Can it wait until tomorrow morning?”
“I’m sorry. We really need to get on the road tonight. I can pay cash if that will help.”
The middle-aged man spat out a wad of tobacco. He looked like a washed-up single-A ballplayer locked into a career that he’d never wanted. “Cash don’t help. I’ve already closed out the paper money for the day. It’ll have to be plastic.”
The payment method that Casper had been avoiding like the plague. His only plan was to use Kim’s card and hope that it wouldn’t show up in the system until they were a thousand miles west.
The technician grunted. “Like I said, better to do it in the morning.”
“One second.” Mike went out to talk to Kimberly and returned with her card. “No problem. I’ll put it on my girlfriend’s card, and I can put a little extra cash in the deal if you can replace all four tonight.”
“Cash tips are welcome.” The tire guy shoved a wad of chaw back in his mouth. He smelled blood in the water. “Minimum tips on a closing-time job is twenty-five.”
Casper didn’t flinch.
“Twenty-five for each tire, I mean.”
*
There are approximately 110 million credit card transactions every day in the U.S.A. It’s an impressive number, and even more impressive is tracking down a specific card without anyone knowing about it.
That was Roger’s job, and he was really, really good at it, which meant he had access to the most remarkable internet and cloud server tools anywhere.
“I got them again..”
“I’ll be right there.”
One minute later, there was a knock on the door. Roger buzzed the man in. He looked up from his bank of screens. “It was easier than I thought. Casper fudged up and used the Manshu woman’s card.”
“Why wouldn’t he pay cash? I thought he was good at this.”
“It’s a tire place in Joplin, Missouri. My guess? The timestamp says 9:25 p.m. It was late, and the vendor didn’t have a way to deal with cash. That’s my hunch. Either way, we can get him now. That will surprise the hell out of the guy—the slippery fisherman gets hooked. Ha, ha.”
“What else do you have?”
The computer genius easily hacked the cloud to get video of the garage. He started at around 8:30, viewing the recording until Casper could be seen in the tire place talking to the mustached repairman. “That technician kinda looks like you.”
“Can it. Give me the description of the car.”
“The computer says it’s dark blue. But here’s the plate. It’s a New Jersey plate.”
The boss drummed his fingers on a cabinet. “Just print it.”
Seconds later, Roger handed it over.
“Also, can you hack into the highway cameras?”
“I did. His options are limited. I found him on 44 down to Tulsa, then 40 West to Oklahoma City, then he just kept going to Amarillo. Then Casper got smart—ditched the interstate and left onto Route 60.”
The boss mulled that over. “I don’t want to send out thirty guys if we can do it quietly. Did you lose him?”
“You bet I lost him. But then I got lucky—a gas station in Fort Sumner, New Mexico. He stopped, and the girl got out. My software is pretty awesome, thank you. I had it looking for a white guy with a black girl.”
“African America, dumbass. The big boss hates ‘black’ as a reference to skin color.”
“Sure,” Roger said. “They went to a hotel near the Billie the Kid Museum—kind of ironic.”
“Still at the hotel?”
“Yes.”
The boss began drumming his fingers again. “It’s 11:30 there now. Casper should be tucked in bed like a sitting duck. Maybe nail him when he leaves the hotel?” He wasn’t really asking. “Who do we have out there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Look on the list.”
Roger opened up a file that scared him every time he looked at it. Scanning it, the name “Bixby” showed up in T
ucumcari. “Bixby?”
“No freakin’ way. Is there anyone else? I don’t want an entire town in terror.”
“No one close enough.” Roger scratched his nose. He had a damn pimple forming inside, and it was driving him insane.
“Alright. Message Bixby. I’ll give him the details, and then he can go and deal with it. If he screws this up, you’ll be fine, but I’ll probably disappear down the food chain. Wasn’t Bixby at that cluster ‘F’ south of Albuquerque?” It was rhetorical.
The computer savant shrugged. “Not my expertise. I should be safely programming video games, but the money is so good here that I got lured in. But, beyond snooping for the big people, I am that goofy sergeant from Hogan’s Heroes—I know nothing.”
“Lucky you. Bixby better make this neat. End of story.”
*
Peter messaged Rosalita late. Ordinarily, the queen of all things drugs and money would be pissed. Even she needed to sleep. But this was a special time.
“Keep it simple,” she ordered.
“We found them.”
“Do I need to know how?”
“It’s technical,” Peter replied.
“Fine. Why are you calling?”
Her operative cleared his throat. “I thought you would want to know. It’s pretty far away.”
“Just let me know when you have the merchandise. I don’t want this to happen in front of kids. Make sure that is clear as day.”
He knew that Rosalita was referring to the photos that Casper was undoubtedly carrying. “Also,” she added. “Be sure to have your technician ask for every copy. I’m sure he can be persuasive. Tell him to finish the transaction in an orderly fashion. I don’t need names or other details, that’s why I pay you, so just get it done.”
Peter knew that “orderly” meant clean, fast hits. In the case of Mike Casper, she didn’t want anything vindictive or drawn out. That made a lot of sense, considering the possibility of a morning hit. Dead was dead. But she said, “No kids.” That meant a possible tail until it was the right environment.
He processed her instructions—quick and thorough, but no kids nearby. In any case, there would be no need for the wood chipper on this one.
Cold Dead Hands (A Mike Casper Thriller Book 1) Page 26
