The Fear in Her Eyes

by Grant McKenzie

  Black-ink tattoos leeched onto every square inch of exposed flesh to form a jumbled, schizophrenic mess. Unlike a lot of nothing-but-time convicts who used their heavy iron, pumped-up bodies as a living canvas for Frazetta-inspired fantasy, Tosh had veered off on a more literary journey. Like a monk’s illuminated bible, whole passages of calligraphic prose, interspersed with ornate thumb-sized drawings, filled the full sleeves of his arms.

  The undecipherable writing was in several languages, including English, Russian, and Sanskrit. No more than a few words of each line appeared in the same language, but from the way each chunk formed a rhythmic shape, they looked to be poems. The full-color illustrations were of everything from the devil’s face to winged and heavily armed angels, severed fingers and breasts, random blood spatters, and six-fingered paw prints.

  When Tosh blinked, Ian read the words stenciled on his eyelids. The right one said Kill. The left: Faster.

  “Finished gawking?” Tosh’s voice had the scratchiness of an old vinyl record played on a cheap Kmart stereo.

  “It could take awhile,” Ian said as he took a seat.

  “Strip me naked and there’s a lifetime.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Unlike the other prisoners in the room who were receiving visitors, Tosh’s hands were handcuffed to steel rails on either side of the table.

  “You bring licorice?” Tosh asked.

  “Jumbo bag. Red shoelaces, as requested, although I prefer black myself.”

  “You ever notice it’s actually green? It looks black on the outside, but bite into it and it’s green—dark chlorophyll green.” Tosh grinned, showing a set of rotten teeth. “It steals the light. Stains my teeth.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Don’t fucking mock me, you won’t like the result.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Ian calmly. He leaned forward. “Who paid you to kill Tyler Young?”

  “Who says I did?” He flicked a quick glance at Angus.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Ian continued, “I don’t give a rat’s ass about Young. In fact, the main reason I brought you the candy was to say thanks. I wish I could have watched, but the timing of it sucked. Whoever paid you needed to silence Young before he could tell me who hired him to kill my daughter.”

  Tosh leaned back as far as his restraints would allow and laughed—loudly. “You’re the crazy fuck who tried to wrestle the corpse in the morgue, ain’t ya?” He laughed again. “Fucking priceless.”

  Ian bristled. “Do you have kids?”

  Tosh shot forward. “Drowned them at birth.”

  “Jesus.”

  “In here it’s pronounced hey-zeus, and he’ll stab you in the fucking back just as fast as anyone.” Tosh turned his palms to the ceiling. “We done here? I got a craving for licorice.”

  An image on the man’s left wrist stole Ian’s attention. The tiny tattoo had earned a place of honor upon the blue-veined freeway, exactly where one could easily feel their own pulse.

  “You’re not a lifer are you?” Ian asked.

  “Nope. Pigs fucked it up. Got me on a bullshit charge of illegally disposing of human remains. I’ll be out in another three with good behavior, but more likely less.” Tosh grinned again. “I’ll look you up.”

  Ian let the threat slide. “The tattoo on your wrist? The bee.”

  Tosh looked down at his wrist with affection. “Super Bee,” he corrected.

  “1969 Dodge Coronet Super Bee, two-door coupe, yellow and black with twin fresh-air induction scoops on the hood to cool the 426 cubic-inch hemi V8.”

  Tosh’s dead eyes sparked with the first sign of life as his brow knitted into deep furrows. “You know cars?”

  “I know yours.”

  His confusion deepening, Tosh’s arms strained against the steel cuffs until his biceps looked hard enough to drive nails.

  “Was that the payment?” Ian pressed. “Not money or red licorice, but a deal to keep your Bee polished and cherry until you got out. Who’s looking after it? Who made the deal?”

  Tosh didn’t speak.

  “Is it registered in your name?” Ian continued. “If someone pried the VIN from the dash and ripped off the fender tag, would your name still be listed if we ran the numbers from the radiator support, cowl support, or trunk lip? That last one is under the rubber, right?”

  Tosh’s face had changed from gray to an angry purple with smudges of charcoal under the eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks. “What the fuck are you saying, man?”

  Turning to Angus, Ian made another request. After a short discussion, Angus reluctantly left the room.

  “Where’s he going?” asked Tosh.

  “I need to show you something.”

  When Angus returned, he was carrying Ian’s phone. “It doesn’t leave my hands, OK?”

  “No problem.” Ian instructed Angus how to open the camera application and display the most recent photos. “Show him.”

  Angus held out the phone and showed Tosh the first photo of the burnt wreck. With a flick of his finger, he displayed the second. The third was a close-up of what was left of the bee insignia on the blackened front grille.

  Veins, thick as rebar, throbbed in Tosh’s neck. “That’s not my car.”

  “It started following me when I left here on Friday,” said Ian. “I saw it again parked outside where Lee Hogg was staying. Whoever drove it killed Hogg and when I was getting close, tore out the tags, and torched it.” He pointed at the phone. “You’re looking at what’s left.”

  Kicking his chair behind him, Tosh attempted to leap over the table. Ian sprang back in terror before he realized the table was bolted to the floor and Tosh was still firmly attached to the table.

  “That’s not my fucking car!”

  “We’re running the tags now, but I think you already know what we’ll find. It’s your car. Or at least it was.”

  “You’re fucking dead!”

  Ian stepped forward, his eyes as hard as the prisoner in front of him. “I didn’t torch it, Tosh. But tell me who hired you and after I’m done with her, I’ll make sure you get a cozy, little visit to talk cars. I have friends in high places. They can make it happen.”

  Tosh was breathing heavy through his nose, and his sharp mouth twisted into a vicious sneer. “You ain’t got friends high enough.”

  BACK IN the reception area, Ian slipped his phone into his pocket and looked at Angus with clear disappointment. Tosh had refused to say another word except for demanding a return to his cell.

  “One last thing,” said Ian.

  Angus rolled his eyes. “I usually require dinner, a movie, and a bottle of Scotch before I put out this much.”

  “I bought breakfast.”

  “That got you in the door. Now I’m trying to gnaw my arm off to get away before you turn into a bloody stalker.”

  “Last time. I promise.”

  Angus sighed. “OK. What?”

  “I need a list of all Tosh’s visitors in the last month, especially any women.”

  “There’s been quite a few people,” said Angus. “He’s been hitting the law books and trying to get his sentence reduced to time served. Even though he hated the guy, he went ballistic when Hogg got his early release. Not that it did him much good, I guess. His latest ploy is claiming the parole board is unfairly prejudiced against him because the body parts in his trunk belonged to a child and the majority of the board has children.”

  “Can’t you slip an overdose of morphine into his morning corn flakes?”

  “Don’t even joke. Knowin’ my luck, that’ll actually happen, and this conversation will end up on my record somewhere.” He turned to the computer. “When do you need this?”

  Ian leaned his shoulder against the wall. “I’ll wait.”

  Angus snorted. “’Course you will.”

  27

  Sitting in the prison parking lot, Ian studied the names on the list that Angus had printed off. Only one stood out, and its
inclusion troubled him.

  He dialed her number.

  “Hello?” Her voice, smoky and seductive without being overtly sexual, made Kestrel Carroll ideal for convincing jurors of her clients’ innocence.

  “Are you seriously defending Tosh Rollins?” Ian’s patience for pleasantries had elapsed. “Another child killer. Is that your specialty now?”

  The smoke turned to ice. “Is this you again, Mr. Quinn? You do realize it’s still the weekend, and I only take shit from people during regular office hours.”

  “I’ve just been visiting your client.”

  “Tosh Rollins is not my client. Not anymore.”

  “But you visited him last week.”

  “Yes. That was my final visit.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not allowed to—

  “He’s the one who killed Tyler Young, your other scumbag client.” Ian ground his teeth. “Did you arrange that? What did you promise him?”

  “Has Rollins been charged with Young’s murder?”

  “No, and he won’t be. You hired the right beast for the job.”

  The ice cracked and began to bubble. “I didn’t hire anyone, Mr. Quinn. And I resent the—

  “Then why were you visiting him?”

  The line went silent for a moment. “I was delivering an offer.”

  “What kind of offer?”

  “I don’t exactly know.” A tremor of unease rippled in her voice. “It was contained in a sealed envelope. I wasn’t allowed to open it. Only the client. That was the agreement.”

  “And what happened after Tosh read it?” Ian pressed.

  “He returned it to me.”

  “And?”

  “As instructed, I placed it inside a second envelope, which I then sealed.” Kestrel sighed. “Only the client and the district attorney’s office know what was inside.”

  “The DA?”

  “Yes, of course. I wouldn’t have done it for anyone outside the county prosecutor’s office. Even then, I told him I couldn’t continue to represent Mr. Rollins unless I was privy to all information and correspondence. I can’t do my job from under a blindfold.”

  Ian rubbed his eyes. Why would the DA’s office want Young dead? That didn’t make any sense.

  He softened his tone. “What do you think was in the offer, Kestrel?”

  “My guess?”

  “Your educated guess. I know you’ve thought about it.”

  A small sigh and a clink of ice in a glass. “Diet Coke,” she said, knowing Ian could hear. “I’m far too busy to be a lush.” She took a sip. “Are you recording this?”

  “No. This is just between us.”

  “OK.” After another sip of her drink, she said, “There were several unsolved child abductions in the Greater Portland area at the time of Tosh Rollins’s arrest. Those cases are still open, and naturally the DA’s office doesn’t want to shine too large a spotlight on the fact that the whole investigation is a major screw-up. They know Rollins did it, but they have no proof. My guess is they were trying to offer Rollins some kind of secret cash deal in exchange for the location of the bodies. Giving the grieving parents some kind of closure before the next election would be a gold star for the department.”

  That made more sense, thought Ian. Nothing to do with Young at all. Another dead fucking end.

  Ian looked down at his list again, but none of the other names meant anything. He needed to show it to Helena. She knew everyone in the legal game. But for now, he had to come at it from another angle. He thought about the phone call he received on the biker’s front lawn. Something the caller said about Young’s cellmate. It wasn’t easy to separate them. Plus, Angus had mentioned Tosh being angry over Hogg getting an early release.

  “One last question?”

  “If it will make you go away and let me catch up on my paperwork.”

  “Any idea how Young’s cellmate earned early release?”

  “None. I never met the man.”

  Disappointed again, Ian thanked her and hung up. His next call was to the Justice Center.

  “Hey, where are you?” Jersey asked. “I stopped by the house this morning and your car wasn’t there.”

  “I drove to Salem for breakfast.”

  “OK, don’t tell me.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Yeah, and I still wear the same belt size I did in college.”

  Despite himself, Ian laughed. The release felt good.

  “Listen,” he said. “I need to find out how Young’s cellmate earned his early release. Any ideas?”

  “I can look into it. I know a few cuties in the court system with magic fingers, but I may not get anything ’til Monday. These lovely gals aren’t exactly the take-your-work-home types. However … nah.”

  “What?”

  “No, you won’t like it.”

  “Try me.”

  “You have a more direct line to that info.”

  “I do?”

  “Yeah.” Jersey paused before plunging ahead. “Your wife is sleeping with a deputy DA. Make him squirm a little, threaten to double-date or something, and he’ll probably tell you anything just to get rid of you.”

  Ian thought about it. “Call your cuties. Do what you can.”

  ROLLING DOWN the side window, Ian wiped a sheen of sweat off his brow. The sun was playing peekaboo with a puffery of hazy cloud, and although the day didn’t appear to be overly warm, the interior of the car was stifling. He became aware of his own odor and knew he needed a shower. He would start off hot to steam away the grime before gradually cooling the spray down until his teeth began to chatter and his core became glacial. Hard, sharp, and focused.

  After removing his borrowed jacket, Ian stuck his phone in the hands-free cradle and started the engine. He didn’t have air-conditioning, but at least on the move he could create a breeze.

  He told the phone to dial Helena’s mobile. A computer voice told him the number was no longer in service. A moment of panic shot through him until he remembered he hadn’t updated his contact list with her new number. Keeping one eye on the road, he flicked through his recently called numbers and selected the right one.

  Helena answered on the third ring. “Have you found her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “When can I go back to my apartment?”

  “Soon.”

  “Did she trash the place?”

  “No. It all looked very neat.”

  “I don’t like that someone was in there. Rifling. Touching.”

  “I understand, but listen—can I come over?”

  Helena hesitated. “Why?”

  “I want to show you a list of people who recently visited the man I believe was hired to kill Young. I need to know who they’re associated with and see if anyone stands out.”

  “You think this mystery woman could be on the list?”

  “Maybe. I’m hoping.”

  “OK. When?”

  “I’d like to grab a shower first, so maybe two hours, a bit less.”

  “OK. I’ll get—

  She stopped talking in midsentence, but Ian had already filled in the blank. Dressed.

  Jersey was right. He had to use whatever leverage had fallen into his lap to get the answers he needed.

  “Can I talk to Rolando now?”

  “Why?”

  “I need to ask him about Young’s cellmate.”

  When Rolando came on the line, he addressed Ian by his first name. The familiarity was like a nail striking between his eyes.

  Ian struck back. “Lee Hogg. He was released from prison early. Why?”

  “I deal with a lot of cases, Ian. I can’t be expected—

  “You’ll remember this one. Hogg was Tyler Young’s cellmate. And if you’re sleeping with my wife, you’ll know how significant Young was.”

  “Yes, of course, but—

  “Were you involved in his release?” Ian was swinging his knife blindly now, hoping to spill blood.

  “My
office was, obviously, but—

  “I’m talking about you. Did you engineer his release? And if so, why?”

  “Look, Ian.”

  Another prick of poison.

  “It’s Mister fucking Quinn to you,” Ian snarled. “And why are you avoiding the question?”

  “I’m not avoiding anything, Mr. Quinn. I was not directly involved in Mr. Hogg’s release, but if you leave it with me, I will look into the matter first thing tomorrow and get back to you.”

  “I’m on my way over to your place now. See if you can make it sooner.”

  Ian hung up before Rolando could answer. Even if it didn’t do any good, it still felt right to rattle his cage.

  WHILE STILL riding the adrenaline rush of anger, Ian called the prison and asked to be transferred to Angus.

  “That didn’t take long,” said Angus. “I expected your ‘last time’ promise to last at least a day.”

  Ian winced. “Sorry, but something you said got me thinking.”

  Angus chuckled. “Go on.”

  “You said Lee Hogg received early release.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Sure, nothing mysterious there. Just the usual combo of good behavior and overcrowding. Happens a lot. We get too busy and some lucky bastards get released early to make room.”

  “Who makes the decision of who gets out?”

  “The district attorney. Sometimes the governor gets involved if he’s being swamped by some aggressive letter campaign, but that’s rare.”

  “So the DA asked for Hogg to be released?”

  “Well, kinda.”

  “Kinda?”

  “One of his deputies comes down and interviews a few of the prisoners from a list they’ve drawn up. He or she is really the one who recommends who gets released.”

  Ian felt the muscles tightening down his spine. “And who interviewed Hogg?”

  “If I remember right, it was that same fella who was visiting Young. The one with the nice suit, but cheap shoes.”

  “Rolando Aguilar,” said Ian.

  “Yeah. Good lookin’ guy. I reckon he’s being groomed for the top spot someday.”

  Ian found it difficult to talk, and he mumbled his thanks before hanging up. Rolando had lied to him from the very beginning. He had met with Young to discuss a deal in exchange for the name of a person sadistic enough to put out a contract on a six-year-old, but then he left Young alone and vulnerable by releasing his cellmate. If he had truly wanted that information to become public, he would have placed Young in protective custody. Instead, he signed his death warrant.