Cross fire, p.2
Cross Fire, page 2
“Because you’re cute and you know it.” He gave me a stern look. “I expect you can get away with just about anythin’.”
“So I can put my shoes back on the dash?”
“No.”
I grinned and looked out the window. I watched the buildings pass by in the opposite direction of my home. We turned onto a street that made me sit up a little straighter in my seat. There were some places in the city that sane people just didn’t go. “Um . . . where are we going exactly?”
“I just need to make a quick stop.”
“Here? In this neighborhood?”
This was where people were murdered in broad daylight and all five of the witnesses had permanent amnesia or they wound up permanently six feet under. This was also very active gang territory.
“I don’t have time to drop you off at home,” Marx said, changing lanes and pulling into an alleyway. “And I’m not riskin’ droppin’ you off somewhere else when we have no idea where Collin is.”
I looked at the rusted, run-down buildings around us as we drove deeper into the inner-city alley. The smell of trash, alcohol, and other odors I couldn’t place filtered into the car, and I crinkled my nose.
The alleyway spilled out into a cramped space that had probably once been occupied by a building, but had since become a scrapyard for broken vehicles and apparently, refrigerators. Oh, and shopping carts.
“Are we making a drug deal?” I asked. “Because this looks like a great place to score some drugs before we die and our bodies are never found.”
He sighed. “We’re not gonna die. And drug deals are for Wednesdays. It’s only Monday.”
Ah, of course. What was I thinking? “So . . . we’re just vetting our drug dealer ahead of time, then?”
He gave me a look. “This has nothin’ to do with drugs, Holly. And where on earth did you come up with the word vettin’ anyway?”
“Isn’t that what you people say?”
He arched an eyebrow at me. “You people?”
“Detective people.”
He chuckled quietly and shook his head. “No, I don’t often use that word. Now, I need to meet with somebody and you people—by which I mean tiny women who are not cops—need to stay in the car.”
I lifted my chin. “You’re only eight inches taller than me. You’re not that tall.”
“Only,” he muttered, unhooking his seat belt and reaching across the car to the glove compartment.
I didn’t flinch away from him like I would’ve at one time, but I drew my feet onto the seat to put some much-needed space between us.
He pulled a radio from the compartment, turned a dial that made it buzz loudly, and then clipped it to his belt beside his badge and gun. He closed the glove compartment and said, “I’m done.”
I lowered my feet back to the floor and cast him a worried look. “You hardly ever take that with you. Is this dangerous?”
“I don’t expect trouble. But it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
“Can I come with you?”
“No.”
I turned in my seat to look at him. “This is not a safe neighborhood.” I didn’t like the idea of him meeting some random individual in this neighborhood without backup or witnesses.
“I’m aware of that, which is why you’re stayin’ in the car with the doors locked.”
“That’s not fair. You’re no safer in this neighborhood than I am, maybe even less so because you’re a cop.” There had been a rash of violence against inner-city cops lately, and it worried me.
“I’m much safer than you, trust me. Not only do I have a gun and trainin’, but I somehow doubt any of the gangs in this part of town are gonna want me to be their date for the afternoon.”
“Not really interested in dating?” I teased.
He gave me an unamused look. “Not at the moment, no.” He pulled a canister of pepper spray from the center console and handed it to me. “Please, Holly. Stay in the car.”
His tone was pleading, as if he expected me to do the exact opposite. Like I ever did that . . . okay, occasionally I did that. I silently accepted the canister.
“I’m gonna be right over there.” He pointed toward an abandoned factory about two hundred feet away. “And in the event that somethin’ does go wrong, call Sam. He’ll be here within five minutes.”
“Can you at least tell me who you’re meeting?” I wanted to know at least that in case something went wrong.
“He’s a confidential informant.”
“What’s his name?”
“I can’t tell you his name, Holly. That’s why it’s called a confidential informant.” He opened his door and then paused to look back at me. “Keep the doors locked. Do not open them for any reason. Understood?”
I chewed on my bottom lip as I considered it.
“Holly,” he prompted with a note of impatient warning.
“Yeah, I hear you.” I held up my phone and slumped down in my seat. I wasn’t promising anything because I had no intention of staying in the car if he needed help.
“I won’t be long.” He closed the door and locked it with his little black button, which Jordan had informed me was a key fob. What sort of ridiculous name was that? Key fob.
He weaved between the cars toward the factory. A slender man with almond skin paced in the opening, his mannerisms reflecting barely controlled anxiety.
I knew the way he moved; it was the way I had moved for years, and occasionally still did. He was afraid and on guard. When Marx approached him, he did so like a man approaching a wild deer that might disappear back into the brush at the snap of a twig.
He said something to him, but I couldn’t hear their voices through the closed doors of the car. The man hesitated and then removed his hands from the pouch on his hoodie, holding them out palms up.
Marx stepped up to him and patted him down. If a cop ever tried to do that to me, I would get arrested for assault, because I would resist—violently.
Apparently satisfied the man was carrying no weapons, Marx stepped back. The thread of trust between them must have been very thin if he was concerned the man might come to their meeting armed.
I was pretty sure I saw Marx’s lips form the word “talk.”
His informant flipped back his hood, revealing coal-black hair and a tattoo on the side of his neck that, as I squinted, resembled a Star of David. I quickly realized he was a hand talker, because he gestured with agitated emphasis as he spoke.
Curious about what they were discussing, I slid into the driver’s seat and cracked open the door. I heard a Hispanic voice say something about heroin.
Ha! And Marx said this had nothing to do with drugs.
I was too far away to hear more than the occasional word or two, but his informant mentioned something about three kids overdosing.
I wasn’t sure what the statistics surrounding drug-related deaths were, but three deaths sounded high to me, and the fact that there were children involved made it even worse.
Something metallic squeaked from somewhere to my left. I yanked the door shut and smacked the lock down. I was not about to be murdered by a gang just because I was disobediently snooping.
I wasn’t the only one startled.
The informant bolted back into the factory at the sound, and Marx swore; I couldn’t hear the swearing, but his lips were moving and he wore his I-wanna-slam-someone’s-head-off-the-hood-of-my-car expression.
A clattering sound echoed through the lot, and Marx drew his gun, eyes sweeping over the graveyard of cars. His gaze fixed on a single point, and I looked through the rear window to see what had captured his attention.
An older woman in a threadbare jacket was pushing a shopping cart between the cars and appliances, perusing the items like she was searching for the best pasta option on a grocery store shelf.
Marx lowered his gun, clearly relieved. His gaze shifted to me, and he mouthed the word “stay” before following his informant into the building.
Irritation trickled through me. I didn’t appreciate being told to stay like a dog. I slumped down in my seat and looked around the car for something interesting to do. I opened the glove compartment and rummaged through the contents, finding nothing more interesting than a road map, a registration card, and spare keys.
Men were boring.
I searched the compartment between the seats next. I pulled out an oblong-shaped object and turned it over with curiosity. My eyes widened when I realized it was full of bullets, and I dropped it.
Probably shouldn’t mess with that.
“Ooh, gum.”
I fished out the pack of mint gum and pulled a piece out. I unwrapped it, popped it into my mouth, and chewed happily. I put the rest back and was just about to close the compartment lid when a sharp knock on the driver’s side window made me jump and nearly choke on my gum.
I looked up, expecting to see Marx, but it was the old woman. Her cloudy gray eyes looked at me from a lined, weathered face. She motioned for me to follow her before turning away.
Ummm . . .
I looked around for signs of danger, but everything was still. How dangerous could one old woman be? She motioned me forward with her fingers again.
Okay then. It couldn’t hurt to make sure everything was okay. I tugged my shoes back on, gripped the pepper spray tightly in my palm, and opened the door. “Do you need help with something?”
She nodded emphatically. “He’s dying.” Her voice was frail and cracked with age, but it wasn’t the sound of her voice that grabbed my attention.
“Who’s dying?”
I glanced at her cart behind her. It was filled with things most people discarded: old blankets, bottles, boxes, another pair of boots that looked no better than the holey pair she wore now.
She was homeless.
I had lived on the street from time to time while on the run from Collin, and it was a hard life. No place was truly safe, the winter was unbearably cold, there was never enough food, and most people regarded you as a nuisance or a leech on society.
She didn’t answer my question; she just wrapped her hands around her cart and started pushing it back down the cluttered aisle of the lot. I looked back at the factory, but there was no sign of Marx.
He’s gonna be so mad at me.
Maybe I could help her and be back before he realized I ever left. And if he didn’t ask, I wouldn’t need to tell him. I got out and closed the door soundlessly behind me.
“Wait,” I whispered, walking in the direction the old woman had gone.
I stifled a noise of surprise when my foot landed on something soft and it let out a warped, dying giggle. I looked down at the naked, armless baby doll lying on the ground. The giggle faded, and her single blue eye blinked lazily. Oh my word, that was creepy. I gave the doll a wary look as I tiptoed around it.
“Hello?” I whispered.
She was a seventyish-year-old woman with a squeaky shopping cart. She wasn’t a ninja. Where could she possibly have gone? I wandered deeper, looking for her.
Male voices drifted across the scrapyard from somewhere to my left, and I froze. My eyes darted over the cars and heaping piles of trash in search of them.
Why had I left the relative safety of the car?
“You see his face?” one of them asked.
“You mean what was left of it?” another replied. “He ain’t gonna be runnin’ his mouth no mo’.”
Laughter reminiscent of a pack of cackling hyenas broke out, and I realized with a sinking feeling in my gut that the men were coming this way. I looked back in the direction of Marx’s car.
It was too far.
“Man, I could go for a line right now.”
“Not me, bro. I got a six pack and a smokin’ little blonde waitin’ for . . .”
I took a few steps back when I saw a dark head bobbing closer, and sucked in a sharp breath when I bumped into a pile of junk and something clattered to the ground.
“Sh!” one of the men said loudly, and the conversation died. “You hear dat?”
I looked around for a place to hide. I retreated between two cars and peered through the broken rear window of a purple-and-pink one. It was as good a place as any. With one final glance in the direction of the approaching voices, I climbed through the window into the backseat.
I hunkered down behind the passenger seat and tried not to think about the filth littering the floorboards. The sound of glass breaking just behind the car had me shrinking down.
God, please don’t let them see me.
Something shook and rattled, and one of the men taunted, “Out shoppin’?”
A female whimper drew me up from my hiding place, and I peered through the rear window at the old woman. Five men crowded around her, laughing and taunting her as they shoved her cart and tossed her belongings to the ground.
I could see her fear in the slump of her shoulders and the jerkiness of her movements, and I wanted to help her. She caught my eye and gave a subtle shake of her head.
She didn’t want me to help her?
“Whatcha got in here, Grandma?” one of the men asked. He overturned her cart completely, and all her belongings spilled onto the pavement. “Oops.”
They deliberately stomped all over everything, crushing the cans and bottles she had collected. Two of the men stretched out her blanket while a third shredded it with a knife.
Their cruelty sent anger scorching through me, and my fingers curled into fists. She had so little, and they were destroying it.
God, what do I do?
I knew what I wanted to do.
The man who had tipped over her cart shoved her, knocking her to the ground, and that solidified my decision. I wasn’t sure what I could do against five men and a knife, but I couldn’t sit by and watch them hurt her.
“Filthy old hag,” he spat.
The men laughed and kicked her things as they walked away. Were they leaving? I hesitated, watching them from my hiding place. Maybe I wouldn’t have to fight them to try to protect her.
They passed by the car, and I held my breath, praying silently that they would keep walking. The breath left me in a shaky rush when they disappeared from view.
I waited until their voices faded before I scrambled back out the window to help the old woman.
“Are you okay?” I asked, crouching beside her.
Tears left shining tracks down her grimy cheeks, and my heart ached for her. There was no reason for her to be treated with such disrespect.
I helped her to sit up and then began collecting what was left of her belongings. The bottles and the blanket were ruined, but everything else was just scattered.
“I’m Holly,” I said, handing her a boot. “What’s your name?”
“Agnes.”
“Agnes, why didn’t you want me to help you?”
I suppressed a flinch when she reached out a hand and touched my cheek. Her gray eyes that had seemed so distant and confused when she first approached me were suddenly full of awareness.
“Pretty girl,” she said, patting my cheek. “They would do worse to you.”
I swallowed uneasily. Those men had been looking for someone to torment purely for the fun of it, and if I had stepped in to help her . . .
Marx probably would’ve had to shoot people.
“Do they bother you a lot?” I asked.
“Sometimes.” She searched inside the shoe I had handed her and pulled out a picture. Joy filled her eyes as she showed it to me. It was a picture of a couple holding hands. She pointed to the woman. “Me.” And then at the man. “My husband.”
“Where is he?”
Sadness and grief overshadowed her momentary joy. “Gone.” She tucked the faded and cracked photo back into her boot for safekeeping. Her face darkened with renewed worry, and she looked back at me. “He’s dying.”
Confused, I asked, “Your husband?” But I thought she just said he was gone.
She shook her head and took my hand, trying to pull me to my feet with her. She didn’t have the strength, so I stood and helped her up instead.
“What about your things?” I asked.
“Just things. Come.”
“Agnes, I d—” I began to protest, but she pulled me along behind her.
“This way.”
I glanced over my shoulder in the direction of Marx’s car. I was worried those men might come back and catch both of us out in the open.
“Dying,” she reminded me, and I let her pull me along toward whomever or whatever she thought was dying.
We bypassed a few more stripped, graffiti-covered cars and . . . a bathtub . . . before she stopped and pointed. I stepped around her and inhaled sharply.
A German shepherd lay on the ground, his stomach rising and falling slowly, and his eyes glassy. A red stain spread through the fur on his side and spilled over onto the pavement.
I crouched cautiously beside him and looked him over. There was a shiny tag around his neck. I reached forward, pausing only when he let out a pained wheeze, and then caught it with my fingertips. The name engraved into it made my breath catch.
Riley.
Could it be the same Riley?
Then I saw the snapped leash dangling from his collar, and I knew it had to be him. How many German shepherds named Riley had a habit of breaking their leashes?
This was the same dog who had saved me last autumn. I knew it hadn’t been chance that put Riley and his owner on that walking path in the park. I had prayed for help, and it had come in the shape of a former police dog.
Riley suffered from PTSD, and the sound of my screams that night had made him break his leash and rush to my aid.
“Riley,” I whispered, brushing my fingers through his coarse fur. The old woman was right: he was dying.
What had happened? Why was he here? Where was his owner? I looked around, half-afraid I would find a body, but I didn’t see any sign of the old man Riley belonged to.
I lifted my eyes to Agnes. “What happened? Who did this to him?”
Her mouth drew down at the corners. “Found him.”
“Holly!” Marx shouted, and I flinched in surprise. He must have returned to the car and realized I wasn’t there. So much for my plan to be back before he noticed I wasn’t where he’d told me to stay.
