Chapter 1
I obviously had no idea that they were going to be coming to kill me at that particular moment or I wouldn’t have decided to go to the bathroom right then; not that I'd actually thought about it, I'd just woken up with a woody from needing to pee—just one of the hazards of drinking too much beer before bedtime. As it was, I jumped so much at the sound of the front door crashing in that I sprayed piss all over the wall and floor beside the toilet.
As fast as I could, I finished my business and tucked my wedding tackle back into my underwear. I flung open the door that led to my bedroom, stepping in my own pee as I did. Perfect, just perfect. I grabbed my pistol from where it lay on my bedside table and squished my way to the door that led to my living room, intending to confront whoever had dared invade the sacred space of my domicile. I planned on teaching them a lesson in respect for personal space and property that they wouldn't soon forget.
Instead, upon opening the door, I suddenly found myself face to face with two guys dressed all in black wearing ski masks. They were as surprised as me, but one of them, the taller of the two, had a shotgun pointed almost right at me. Since I probably wouldn’t have come out on the good side of that particular confrontation, like the brave, battle-tried paratrooper turned lawman, turned PI/bounty hunter that I was, I slammed the door and ran for the bathroom, intending to exit via the window there. Just as I slammed and locked the bathroom door behind me, I heard the door to my bedroom crash open, and I dove into my fortuitously antiquated cast iron tub.
I would like to say that it was my finely tuned instincts that saved me, but it was probably just as much as plain dumb luck and antiquated plumbing choices as it was anything. Whatever it was, I had just slammed painfully into the cold, hard bottom of the tub when the unmistakable roar of shotguns broke the evening calm and pellets began to tear through the bathroom door and ricochet off the tub. When the shooting finally subsided, I heard the door come crashing in. Without looking, I reached over the edge of the tub and let fly five quick rounds from my .45 caliber Springfield XDE. It’s harder on the wrist than you would expect, firing at such an odd angle—my bowling was going to be off for a month!
I must have had luck on my side because the shooting from outside the tub never started back up. So, after I heard the outer door slam through the ringing in my ears, I gave it a good ten-second count and then peeked over the edge of the tub. Satisfied that no small pieces of metal flying at supersonic speeds were about to go careening through my body, I carefully climbed out and moved cautiously into my bedroom. It was clear—a mess—but clear. In all the excitement, I'd forgotten that I had stepped into my own pee and tracked it onto the carpet with my urine-drenched socks. The night was just getting better and better.
After I cleared the remainder of my small row house, I checked the yard outside through the front and back windows to make sure my new playmates had actually exited the scene. I noticed that the cheesy lock on the front door of my little house had simply popped open when they’d forced it, the door and jamb were undamaged. I made a mental note to get a metal door with a deadbolt or a burglar bar—it was the kind of neighbor where either would be a good investment anyway—that's why I slept with my pistol at the bedside. I closed the front door, locked it, and wedged a kitchen chair under the handle—just in case.
There wasn’t much else I could do at this point, so I went to the bedroom, tossed my piss-soaked socks into the tub, and threw on some clothes. I headed into the kitchen and got something to eat. I rummaged around in the fridge and found what I thought were the remnants of a not too old salami sandwich with what, due to its green color, I hoped was lettuce. Sandwich in hand, I grabbed a bag of chips from the tiny pantry and sat down at the table in the small kitchen.
Halfway through, it became harder and harder to keep the illusion that the lettuce was indeed lettuce, so I tossed the questionable comestible into the garbage and pulled a tub of butter pecan ice cream from the freezer and started to drown my sorrows in its creamy deliciousness. Fifteen minutes later, apparently called by some good Samaritan neighbor, the cops arrived.
Detective Sergeant Harvey Rivers from the Baltimore City Police Department nearly knocked my recently broken into door off its hinges with his heavy-handed pounding. When I opened the door, he just stood there staring down at me…and that’s not easy, given the fact that I stand about six feet and run around one-eighty. Rivers was a half a head taller and easily seventy pounds heavier than me and none of it was fat. The charcoal grey suit he was wearing strained at the seams to hold in his bulk. After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, I cleared my throat.
“Hey, Harve,” I said, “want a beer?” I hoisted the half-finished one in my hand. He shook his head, an indiscernible look on his face.
“What the hell are you up to, Berkowitz?” he asked, nodding for the two uniforms with him to go back to their car. I knew he was pissed because he only used my real surname when he had the ass; otherwise, he used my business nom de guerre Burke.
He pushed his way past me and walked through the small living room and into my bedroom. I didn’t object—it wouldn’t have done any good anyway. When he came back a minute later, I chided him for his bad manners.
“Hey, Harve,” I said. “What if I’d had company back there?” He stopped and looked at me disapprovingly.
“Then I’d be arresting you for indecent acts with animals,” he said in his usual monotone. “I’ll have that beer now.”
I went into the kitchen, drained my beer, got two fresh ones out of the fridge and the bag of chips from the table, and went back out. Rivers was on one knee looking at something on the floor. He pulled a small, sterile collection swab and dabbed at something on the carpet. He put it into a plastic evidence bag and deposited it into a pocket. He stepped back into the bedroom and used a pen to pick up the spent shot shells and drop them into a plastic evidence bag which he sealed and stuffed into another jacket pocket. He was so big that you could probably fit a Volkswagen into one of his pockets.
Finished, he moved back to the chair and I handed him the beer. I glanced to see what he’d been looking at and saw what might have been a bloodstain on the cheap beige carpet…if it was beige…I wasn’t really sure…maybe it used to be white? Anyway, there were several small dark splotches that looked very much like a blood trail. I sat down on the sofa, hitting an area that the springs had ceased springing.
“Looks like you got lucky,” Harve said, nodding toward the blood stains and taking a long pull of his beer. “How many shots you fire?”
“Five,” I said. He nodded.
“Aimed?” he asked, sipping his Amstel Lite. I shook my head.
“Kinda just stuck it out there and let it fly,” I said.
“Sometimes lucky is better than good,” he said, reaching for the chips.
“Hey!” I said. “I’m good!” He gave me that same deadpan look. “I am,” I said again, this time in a quieter voice. He only grunted. “I am,” I almost whispered. He just sipped his beer. “Fine,” I said dejectedly. “I was lucky.” He grunted once more.
“You know who came calling?” he asked, popping a chip in his mouth. His perfectly white teeth made his dark brown skin seem even darker.
“Nope,” I said. “I never really got a look at ‘em; they were wearing masks and gloves.” Rivers nodded.
“And you’d tell me if you did?” he asked.
“Et tu, Harve?” I said, putting my free hand over my heart. “We go way back! You think I’d lie to you?” The deadpan look again. “About something important?” I added. Still the look. “That I didn’t need to keep quiet…for a client.” Still the look. “Honest! I swear, Harve!”
Rivers set his now empty beer bottle on the coffee table and stood up. I tried to get up, too, but the sofa seemed to be sucking my ass down into some sort of black hole. It took three rocking, aborted attempts before I was able to finally break free of the thing’s gravitational pull.
“Athletic and a crack shot,” he said flatly. “You’re a regular super soldier, there Joey.”
“You wound me, Harve,” I said. He shrugged.
“Better me than those guys who came by to bring you candy and flowers,” he said.
“Amen, brother,” I replied.
“You want me to get forensics in here?” he asked, obviously less than enthused with the idea. I shook my head.
“Naw,” I said. “I’m fine and I’ve got no idea who they were or why they were here, so what’s the point.” He nodded.
“You need to come down and make a statement,” Rivers said. “Now or the morning, makes no difference to me.”
“I’ll come in first thing in the morning,” I said. “You need the weapon?”
“Naw, not even sure you hit anything,” Harve said. “Try not to get killed between now and morning or I’ll be seriously pissed for having to come back over here.”
“I’ll do my best not to disappoint you,” I said.
“Too late,” he said turning to head out the door without looking back.
“Later!” I called out to his back.
He gave a little salute without turning. He climbed into the unmarked car, which dipped dangerously as his bulk settled onto the seat and took off. He never looked back at the house as he departed. The black and white unit followed in his wake.
I went back inside, locking the door behind me, for all the good that would do. I placed the chair back under the knob and gave one more glance out the small window at the dark and empty front yard. I took the empties and what was left of the chips back into the kitchen and sat down at the small bistro table. The clock on the stove said 3:47. I knew that was a lie because that clock was about like me with my bills—it was never on time. I looked at my watch and saw just a white watch-shaped area on my otherwise tanned arm. I’d hooked the Seiko two weeks ago for gas money. I’d gotten paid for a skip trace I did on an insurance fraud scam on a Mercedes a few weeks ago, but all that money had gone to pay off overdue bills and utilities. I got up, walked to the sofa and, after making sure all the blinds were down, sat down to try to figure out just who might have been mad enough at me to figure I needed killing.
The house phone startled me awake causing me to trip over the coffee table as I stumbled sleepily to my feet. By the time I got to it, I was wide awake and sincerely pissed off.
“Burke!” I shouted into the phone.
“Burke?” an elderly woman’s voice said. “Burke?” she repeated and I groaned.
“Ma,” I said. “I’m sorry I yelled.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I must have the wrong number,” she continued in a bitingly sarcastic tone, “because I’m looking for my son Myron Yosef Berkowitz.”
“Ma, don’t start,” I said, rubbing at my suddenly aching forehead. “I had a bad night.”
“And I’m supposed to be punished for that?” she asked. “Am I somehow now responsible for all that goes wrong in your life?”
“No, Ma,” I said trying to keep my head from exploding.
“And why are you ashamed to use your name?” she asked.
We’d had this discussion only roughly one gajillion times before. I shook my head and walked toward the small kitchen to make some coffee.
“I’m not ashamed, Ma.”
“Oh really?” she said. “You’re so proud that you use a made up goyim name?”
“I told you before, Ma. It’s safer this way. I cross paths with a lot of bad people. This way they can’t come after you because of me.”
“And I’m supposed to believe that?” she asked, the incredulity fairly dripping in her voice. “I’m sure your father is rolling over in his grave!”
“Ma,” I countered. “Pop is living in Ocean City with wife number four.”
“Who’s half his age!” she shrilled into the phone.
This was getting me nowhere fast. My mother was, in many ways, the quintessential Jewish mother. She believed that she should run the lives of those around her to suit her needs and desires and that objective truth was determined by her preconceived notions or situational convenience.
For example, she’d tried to turn in Mr. Immelman, the guy who ran the 7-Eleven near her house, as a Nazi concentration camp guard—despite his not being born until 1946…in Philadelphia...and he was Jewish. His real crime? He questioned the veracity of her contention that the milk he’d sold her a week before was spoiled. He had noted, quite rightly, that it was not expired and that more than half had been consumed when she attempted to return it. For this sin he was then, and would forever be, a Nazi.
The excuse I’d given her about the name was somewhat true—I did run afoul of bad people more often than not. It was kind of my job. But the real reason that I’d changed it when I left the US Marshal’s office was the whole Baltimore courthouse thing. I was tired of answering questions…what was the Federal courthouse thing? You must be the only person in the States that didn’t at least read about it. For about a week, I was more famous, or infamous, depending on your viewpoint than the President.
CHAPTER ONE
“Are you sure about this?” Larsen asked me for about the one jillionth time.
“No,” I answered a little testily. “I’m not sure about it at all.”
“I guess the real question is: Do we really have any choice?” she said.
We were driving to the Homeland Security Baltimore Field Office at the intersection of Gay and Lombard right by the Inner Harbor. The previous week, Baltimore PD Detective Kari Larsen and I had inadvertently been caught in the middle of a huge international criminal operation that encompassed human trafficking, drugs, illegal arms shipments, and possibly terrorist activities. I’d been shot and nearly killed and Larsen had been abducted, raped, and nearly murdered as well. It had been a big cluster fuck all the way around. You should buy my last book and read about it.
Anyway, in the end, we’d been sort of arm-twisted into this meeting with Homeland Security. The Homeland agents that had spoken to us at the hospital last week had given us until five this afternoon to decide if we wanted to join the Homeland team as agents or be prosecuted for a laundry list of crimes stemming from our activities of the previous week.
“Can these folks really just make everything from last week go away?” I asked. “I mean there were a shitload of deaths and the busload of trafficked young girls and a wounded dirty senior BPD detective.”
“I don’t know,” Larsen said with a shake of her head. “But there’s been like zero details in the news about any of it. Just ‘a big Homeland Security operation’ with ‘details yet to come’, is all they’ve released so far.”
I thought about the implications of that as I cast a side-eye at the woman driving. She was thirty-something with the pale skin white-blond hair one would expect from someone ofher Scandinavian descent. She wore her hair in a kind of mussed long pixie cut or bob or something that looked good on her. She was only five-four or so and maybe a buck-ten, but she was stronger than she looked. She had a chipped left front incisor, a gymnast’s build, and a sarcastic sense of humor. She was also cute, in a girl next door sort of way, with the brightest blue eyes I’d ever seen. All this was complemented by her experience as in intelligence officer in the Marines where she’d managed perfect scores—called a ‘possible’ in Marine jargon—on both the physical fitness test and the pistol range. She was plenty smart, too, having mastered several languages as part of her Marine training. Multiple tours in Southwest Asia proved that she was a tough cookie as well, but I was concerned that the recent events had left her more than a little emotionally damaged.
But then again, I was no prize either. Born Myron Yosef Berkowitz, I had been a soldier in the 75th Ranger Battalion, a Houston Police Officer, a Deputy US Marshal, and a private investigator. It’s a long story that you should catch up on in the first book. Let’s just say I’d had a checkered past and leave it at that. I’d been going by the name Joseph Burke since a major public relations faux pas back in my Marshal days. I was thirty-four, a tad under six feet and ran somewhere around one-eighty with wavy dark hair—okay, with a little gray in it—and currently a week-old growth of beard. Right now, I was in significant pain from my previous injuries, and nervous about what lay ahead, and more than a little worried about Larsen; she’d been through an awful lot.
We finally fought our way through the Baltimore traffic and parked in the garage. After Larsen, much to my chagrin, had to help me from the car, we walked slowly to the building. We paused just outside the doors. I was more than a little surprised when she took my hand. I looked at her and she looked at me and we squeezed hands. Just as quickly it was done and we released hands, took a breath, and entered.
At the information desk, a fairly heavyset young woman in a dark blue blazer asked us our business. She wore no name tag and there was no roster or directory or anything else to be seen to even hint at who was housed in the building. We introduced ourselves and the woman got on the phone. After a very short conversation, she directed us to some seats toone side of the lobby. The chairs were low, hard plastic that didn’t look like they’d be user-friendly with my recent injuries, so I opted to stand; Larsen stood with me. We didn’t have long to wait.
The elevators to our left dinged and Agent Holmes, the tall, stick-thin Homeland Security Investigations agent who had delivered the ultimatum to us the previous Tuesday, strode out, ramrod straight and impeccably dressed just as before. He spotted us and walked over, extending a perfectly manicured hand to each of us.
“Ah, excellent!” he said. “So glad to see you. Shall we go upstairs?”
He led the way to the elevators without waiting for a reply and used the ID card in his credentials pack to activate it since there were no buttons. There was no chatter as we ascended. On the fourth floor, he led us down a hall and to a small conference room. In it was a generic faux-wooden table and six chairs; I’d been expecting something fancier.
Special Agent Dumitru, the severe agent who we’d met previously with Holmes, was there, looking just as angry as before—I think it was her natural state. The only new player was a woman of probably mid-fifties, in a brown skirt suit with a beige blouse. Her greyish blond hair was in a sensible short, layered style. She looked up at us briefly over cheaters and then back down at the two files in front of her.
Larsen and I took seats next to each other and across from the other three. There was silence for a few minutes before the older woman set her reading glasses on the table with a clack and stared at us.
“I am Assistant Director Henderson,” she said, her voice clipped and precise. “I have read your files and am more than a little concerned.”
She put on the glasses and opened one of the files. She read for a moment and then looked directly at me.
“Mr. Berkowitz,” she began. “Your official record, while for the most part entirely adequate, ends quite unfortunately.”
“I’d say that’s a fair assessment,” I said, unconcerned. I’d made peace with that particular episode of my past and it didn’t bother me anymore.
“He was good enough to figure out what the bad guys were up to at the docks, where they were keeping me and to kill five of them in a close combat!” Larsen said, angry, her cheeks and neck red and the veins sticking out.
“It’s okay,” I said quietly, squeezing her leg under the table. She glanced at me.
“No, it’s not okay,” she said, and then turned her attention back to the older woman.
“And you, Detective Larsen,” the woman said, opening the second file. “You had an excellent military career. Your police career, on the other hand, has been completely unexceptional. Culminating in the near-fatal shooting of your partner Detective Sergeant Harvey Rivers.”
“He was dirty,” I said, interrupting her. Henderson simply stared at me. “He was,” I repeated but without much spirit. She continued to stare at me.
“What the hell is it that you’re driving at?” Larsen said irritably.
“What I am attempting to determine whether you are up to the tasks with which you will be faced if we decide to follow through with this offer,” she said.
“And if you don’t think we’re up to it?” I asked.
“Then Agents Holmes and Dumitru will place you under arrest,” she replied matter-of-factly.
There was no talking for a long moment. Henderson closed the files and tapped her reading glasses on them. Finally, she spoke.
“I am of the opinion that, while neither of your records is particularly distinguished, together, you seem to have that intangible essence that makes an effective team. If you are willing, I am prepared to extend an offer to you.”
“Exactly what does that offer entail?” Larsen asked.
“You will both receive credentials as Homeland Security Special Agents, with all pay and privileges associated therewith,” Henderson said. “You will, at least for now, be based out of the Baltimore area. You will receive your assignments directly from me and you will report directly to me.”
“And the fallout from the stuff that happened last week?” I asked.
“It will all be classified as Top Secret,” she said, “and declared a matter of national security. You will not face any charges. You have my word.”
“What do you think, Larsen,” I asked, grinning at her.
“And we stay a team, that’s guaranteed?” she asked, looking back at the woman.
“It is,” Henderson replied.
Larsen looked at me, I shrugged. She faced Henderson.
“We’re in.”
CHAPTER ONE
Saturday Nov 13th
The ride home from the hospital was as somber as the dreary, overcast Baltimore sky outside the windows of the Toyota 4Runner, with neither my Department of Homeland Security partner Kari Larsen nor I saying a word. I was tempted to comment on her driving with just the one arm but opted not to—discretion being the better part of valor and whatnot. See, I’m not as dumb as some folks seem to think I am. Who am I?
The name is Joe Berkowitz. Okay, so it’s really Myron Yosef Berkowitz; I think you can see why I go by Joe. Right out of high school, I joined the Army and served for six years in the 75th Ranger Battalion, where I did multiple deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. Once I got out, I went back to Houston, Texas, where my mother still lived. Big mistake.
While there, I joined the Houston Police Department. Then, after only a couple of years, I rapidly tired of my mother trying to run every aspect of my life and switched to the U.S.Marshals Service, which relocated me to Baltimore. That went well until a mishap with a witness under my protection. The said witness accidentally got pushed in front of a bus. Yes, I’m the one who pushed him! I’m sure you’ve seen the videos on YouTube. I’m pretty sure that everyone has.
In my defense, you’ll notice on those videos that I was heroically trying to protect him from a shooter who actually shot me twice before I killed him. Anyway, the bus did what the shooter didn’t, and they shuffled me off to Billings, Montana, and then laid me off six months later. But not before my almost fiancée dumped me.
Still keeping as far from my mother as possible, I returned to Baltimore and began to work as a private investigator and bail recovery agent. I was pretty successful until the whole COVID thing did to my business what it did to a whole bunch of small-time operations.
I’d been on the verge of bankruptcy only a few weeks ago when I’d been recruited along with Larsen to join a special detachment of Homeland Security Investigations. I’m thirty-four, around five-ten and one-eighty. I have the dark, wavy hair you’d expect from someone of my Jewish lineage, and I currently sport a short, four-week beard. Fine, there is a little grey in both. Happy now?
Larsen, the woman driving, was about five-four and one-ten, and she’d just turned thirty-five a few days ago. She had short white-blond hair, bright blue eyes, and pale skin you'd expect from someone of Scandinavian roots. She also had a chipped front incisor, a sarcastic sense of humor, and an occasional bad attitude. She graduated from the US Naval Academy, served as a Ground Intelligence Specialist in the Marine Corps for six years, and then, after exiting the military to take care of her widowed mother, she’d done six more years with the Baltimore Police Department as a beat cop, vice detective, and homicide detective. It was in that last capacity that I’d run into her.
Our relationship had started on a very stormy note. But we respected each other and, after my coming to her rescue on several occasions and her doing the same for me, we had grown extremely close. That was one of the reasons for the intense quiet of the ride.
As we’d been waiting for my discharge paperwork at Walter Reed Military Medical Facility for treatment of gunshot wounds, which I’d received in our most recent assignment, my ex, Michelle, had managed to track me down. It turned out that it had been with my mother’s assistance and encouragement. At any rate, Michelle had swooped in on my injured carcass like the scavenger that she was. Oh, she was gorgeous, and she could do things with her...well, never mind. Let’s just say that the physical part of the relationship had been exceptional. She was, however, still married to the now quite destitute investment broker that she’d married three months after she ditched me when I was transferred to Billings.
At a very uncomfortable exchange in the hospital room, Michelle had made it abundantly clear that she was re-establishing her claim on me. Larsen had told Michelle that doing so was no longer an option because she, Kari, loved me now and I loved her. That little revelation had come as quite a shock to both Michelle and me, though for different reasons.
Michelle had been stunned because, in her conceit, she couldn’t understand how anyone as unattractive as Larsen—though Kari could only be considered unattractive in juxtaposition with Michelle, who was Victoria’s Secret pretty—could possibly displace Michelle from my affection.
I, on the other hand, had been stunned because Larsen and I had never spoken those words, or anything like them, to each other. We’d held hands, shared hugs, and even shared a bed every night; though that last was only because Larsen, partially through my fault, had been abducted and serially raped only a month or so before and, due to her PTSD, couldn’t sleep alone without having horrendous nightmares. We’d gone into danger with each other, teased and taunted each other, and helped each other with our ongoing battles with life, but we’d never broached the topic of love, nor had we embarked on anything remotely physical.
I knew, however, that even as Larsen said them, the words and the sentiment were absolutely true. We had personal baggage that would make any relationship hard, but together we were each better than we were alone. We complemented each other, strengths balancing out weaknesses. I respected her abilities, enjoyed her company, and trusted her judgment more than anyone I’d ever known. She’d walk through fire for me, and I’d do the same for her; in fact, in a very real sense, we had done exactly that in the preceding weeks.
As I said, there’d been no physical aspects other than comforting presence, an occasional hug, and some hand-holding; and given Larsen’s recent sexual and psychological trauma, there might not be any time soon, or maybe ever. But surprisingly, I found that I was okay with that, at least for now. The sex with Michelle had been great, but everything else had been missing. All things considered, I had a much better deal going on now.
We pulled down the oyster shell drive and stopped in front of Larsen’s small cabin that we’d been calling home for several weeks. Sam, her massive chocolate pit bull, was still down the road with a neighbor, and we’d decided to leave him there for at least a few more days. A small cloud of white dust flew past us as we came to a halt and Larsen turned off the engine in the 4Runner. She made no move to get out, so neither did I. She kept her hands on the wheel and stared out the front window, looking for all the world like she was about to have a panic attack. The engine clicked as it cooled.
“I’m sorry, Joey,” she said without looking at me.
“For what?” I asked.
“For putting you on the spot that way at the hospital,” she said. “That wasn’t fair to you.”
“I’m not,” I replied. She turned her head to look at me, a puzzled expression on her cute face.
“You’re not what?” she asked.
“I’m not sorry, nor am I on the spot,” I said. I looked hard into her eyes. “Did you mean what you said? Do you love me?”
I saw her pupils go wide and her neck flush. Her eyes filled with tears, but she held my gaze even though I could see her trembling.
“I do,” she said just above a whisper. I smiled and nodded.
“Good,” I said. “Because I love you, too, and it would be really awkward if you didn’t love me back. I’ve already been in one of those relationships, and that was enough; thank you very much.”
A smile broke out on her lips, revealing the chipped front incisor. Tears slid down her cheeks as she reached over and put her one good hand against my bearded cheek. She suddenly looked a little sad and uncertain.
“Joey,” she said, her voice small and tremulous. “I do love you. But I don’t know...you know...if I can...”
I reached up and put my big hand over hers on my cheek and then turned my head to kiss her palm before looking back into her oh-so-sincere bright blue eyes. I smiled, and she smiled back, and I could see the tension literally drop from her shoulders.
“That’ll be what it’s going to be,” I said. “I’m just glad to have you in my life, Sundance.”
She let out a little laugh at my Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid movie reference. I’d used it before, when we were heading into danger, and she’d made me promise not to shield her by leaving her behind. Then, to my surprise and, judging from the blushing that followed, to hers as well, she leaned over and planted a big, warm kiss on my lips.
When it was done, she sat back up without any comment and climbed out of the SUV. She walked around and grabbed my crutches from the back seat and presented them to me as she opened my door. She helped me out, and I hobbled into the cabin.
I settled onto the sofa, and she got us each a beer from the fridge. She handed me mine and then grabbed her enormous, combined volume of The Lord of the Rings trilogy and settled on the opposite end of the couch as usual. I grabbed my Wheel of Time book from the table and began to read as I sipped the beer.
About an hour later, Larsen looked at her watch and set the book down. She got up and went to the kitchen to turn on the oven. She started struggling to get a frozen pizza out of the box one-handed, and I got up and hobbled on my crutches to her side. I took the box from her, opened it, and set it on the pizza stone she’d gotten out of the cupboard. She took the stone and set it in the oven and then turned around, almost bumping into me in the small kitchen as I tried to get past her and back to the couch. She caught herself with her good hand against my chest and her face looking up into mine. I smiled. She smiled back. I leaned down and gave her a brief, gentle kiss on the lips and then moved past as she stepped out of the way. It was going to be awkward for a while; that was for sure.
Over dinner, we talked about what we were going to do next. She was on medical leave for three more weeks, and I was going to be off field duty for at least twelve or more as I waited for my right femur to heal. Mrs. Henderson, the Assistant Director who was our direct supervisor with the Department of Homeland Security, had guaranteed that we’dstay a team, but she also had no intention of letting us just sit idle while we healed. She’dforwarded us a veritable mountain of intelligence to sort through while we convalesced. Our initial mission had been to follow the trail of a weapons and human trafficking operation that we’d accidentally uncovered prior to joining her little operation with the DHS. She intended for us to continue with the task ASAP.
We, rather, Larsen, came up with a strategy to tackle the mission, and we agreed that we’d start sorting through things tomorrow. Tonight, we’d just relax and get to bed early. I was grateful because, despite trying to keep a brave face on things, I was quickly running out of gas.
About nine, I told her that I was going to bed. I went to the can, took care of my nighttime toilet, and then moved to the bed in my small room and sat on the edge. I managed to get my pants off and over the immobilizer. I even picked them up with the end of the crutch and set them on the room’s only chair. As I climbed under the covers, I heard Larsen in the bathroom.
A few minutes later, clad in her usual oversized T-shirt and gym shorts that she used as sleep attire, she trundled into the room, turning out the light and climbing under the covers on the other side of the bed. As usual, she’d left the door open and the kitchen light on so that the room was not entirely dark. Unlike our usual routine, she didn’t scoot over against me and rest a hand or foot against me. I let it go for a moment and then reached over and turned on the small bedside lamp. I got up on an elbow and looked at Larsen, who was lying with her back to me.
“Hey,” I said quietly.
“Hmm?” she replied, without looking at me.
“Kari, please look at me,” I said gently. She turned her head to see me, but didn’t roll all the way over. “This doesn’t need to be weird. I know that you can’t do the whole intimacy thing. I understand. I do. And I’m okay with that. It doesn’t mean that you can’t hold my hand or put your feet against me. I’m not going to interpret anything you do as a sign for me to jump your bones. You and only you are going to drive the intimacy train. I won’tassume, and I won’t impose. I promise. Just don’t be afraid to touch me. I don’t want to lose that part of our relationship. Okay?”
I saw a tear roll down her cheek, but she nodded. I turned off the light and lay down on my back. Seconds later, I heard the sheets rustle, and Kari was lying with her head on my shoulder, her good arm across my chest. She kissed my shoulder, and I kissed the top of her head as we’d done before. I heard her make a contented kind of noise, and then she was asleep. I was only seconds behind.
CHAPTER ONE
It looked like a typical Houston summer day through the window. The relentless Texas sun was beating down on the steel and concrete of the city like some demented evil supervillain bent on melting the entire place into one molten mass of tar and steel.
Heat waves shimmered up from the pavement, making everything look vaguely insubstantial. The scattering of people crazy enough to be out on the street were moving slowly and a little bent, as though they could feel the weight of the heat being cast down on them by the merciless, fiery globe in the clear, hazy, pale blue sky. The cars passing by on the street moved heedlessly on with their windows up, and their air conditioners cranked full-bore in a valiant but probably futile effort to keep their occupants from being stewed in their own juices. Even the colors on the vehicles seemed tired and washed out.
I sighed. At times I hated this city that I called home, but I was wedded to it more surely than to my ex-wife. My work was here; my life was here. Hell, who am I fooling, my life is pretty much my work, and it’s the only thing that I’ve ever really been good at.
I stepped away from the window and walked into the little bathroom attached to my office where I put some water on my face. When I raised up, I stared for a while at the man in the mirror.
What had once been considered, at best, a marginally handsome face stared back at me. I say ‘once’ because, after thirty-four hard years, it had lost any youthfulness in furrows and lines that, combined with the frequently broken nose and the scars on both brows and along the left jaw and neck, had made it lose much of any appeal it might once have had. Melissa, my ex-hooker secretary and PI partner, said it had ‘character’, but then again, I signed her checks. When you perched that mug on top of my thickly built six-foot frame, it gave me more the appearance of some two-bit thug than a licensed private investigator. Maybe looks weren’t all that deceiving after all.
“Character,” I said out loud to my reflection, which smiled back at me in the mirror with what looked to be more a sneer than a smile.
I shook my head and my doppelgänger in the mirror did the same. I dried my hands and walked back into my small office and flopped into my chair. It squawked and squealed, but I ignored it. My only appointment for the day was late and I was annoyed. I scratched my slightly stubbly jaw with one thick finger.
I liked the whole three-day-shadow-being-stylish thing, though I was getting too old to pull it off effectively and, with my face and build, it made me look more like a has-been gangster who had stayed out too late drinking and come straight from the bar to the office. Looks were definitely not deceiving.
If this appointment didn’t show, I wasn’t sure how I was going to make the rent payment on the office. I propped my scuffed, steel-toed Doc Martens up on the desk and sipped the still hot cup of java that Melissa had handed me on my way into the office as I pondered reaching out to people I knew to see about some personal security work or bail jump business to pay the bills.
Melissa, my secretary, receptionist, and PI partner, was a tall, leggy, blond-haired beauty of twenty-four. She’d been a runaway at fifteen who’d been plucked off the street less than a week after leaving home by a pimp who called himself Big Daddy.
Big Daddy, aka Leroy Randall, was a two-bit hoodlum who’d branched out into prostitution from low level drug dealing. He ran a small operation, three or four girls, and as a result didn’t attract much law enforcement attention. Like others of his ilk, he had lured Melissa in with the usual scam that pimps did with young runaway girls.
He took her off the streets and promised to protect her. He gave her a place to stay, bought her clothes, gave her drugs and liquor, and then, when he’d earned her trust, he’d raped her over and over, pumped her full of heroin and raped her some more. Once he had broken her spirit and convinced her that she couldn’t leave because nobody would have her anymore because of what she’d become, he turned her out on the street and clubs to make money, none of which she got to keep.
Nearly three years later, I had found her working a club on Fannin Street. I had actually been looking for another girl that I suspected Big Daddy might have procured when Melissa approached me at the bar.
The first thing that I noticed was how gorgeous she was. Five-eight, slim waist and hips, long, muscular dancer’s legs, large but still perky breasts, all topped with an oval face with high cheekbones, perfect skin, sparkling blue eyes and luscious slightly wavy, gold-blond hair that hung halfway to her waist--she was the whole package. Her smile was white and orthodontic perfect, with relatively thin but sensuous lips. Her short, peacock green bandage dress with its precipitously plunging neckline clung tightly to her stunning figure and successfully marketed her obvious assets. If General Motors had advertised half as effectively, they’d never have needed a bailout.
“Looking for a date?” she asked in a slightly raspy voice that made my flag go from half-mast to nearly tearing itself loose from its moorings.
On any other day, I would have taken her up on the offer of a little fun, regardless of the price tag; but I was on a job and in my usual pecuniary straits. That’s right. I said ‘pecuniary straits’. I might not have much formal education, but I read a lot and I’m addicted to crossword puzzles; so, I have a big vocabulary and... never mind and fuck you anyway! Now where was I? Oh yeah...
I was searching for a teenager from Omaha whose mommy and daddy had tracked her to Houston and as much as I wanted to mix business with pleasure and dabble in the wares that Melissa was so aptly marketing, I needed to wrap the case up. I had been working various likely clubs for three weeks before I got a tip that the girl might be working for this Big Daddy character and the old folks back in Omaha were running out of cash and thus, I was running out of time.
After six years the Marines, I had worked as a patrolman for three years with the Houston Police Department until allegations of excessive force made my services no longer required. Truth be told, they were really more facts than allegations, though no charges were ever formally filed. At any rate, through what few contacts I still had at the HPD, I’d been able to get enough info on this Big Daddy character to narrow my search down to several clubs in the midtown district. I had already hit two others tonight by the time I strolled into the Double Cross Lounge a little before midnight.
I was at the bar sipping my drink, when Melissa made her pitch. She looked almost as surprised to hear me tell her no thanks as I was; but there was also the briefest look of relief hidden behind those beautiful but haunted eyes as well. I offered to buy her a drink instead, but she mutely shook her head. As she turned to go, I watched her lift a slender, tanned arm to push her magnificent hair behind one ear and noticed the track marks—some still fresh—on the tender underside of her forearm.
I used the mirror to observe her as she moved away with a slow, vaguely unsteady, but still sensual gait. As I watched her go, with more than passing interest, I began to question the wisdom of my decision to decline her services. It was getting late, and I might not find Big Daddy or the girl that I was looking for anyway, and a little recreation probably wouldn’t be detrimental to my efforts and certainly not to my morale.
Just as I was about to get out of my seat and tell her that I had changed my mind, a large black man rose from a booth that she was approaching. I eyed him closely in the mirror.
He was shorter than me by a few inches, but probably fifty pounds heavier than my two-twenty-five. He was wearing baggy, black cargo shorts, red high-top canvas tennis shoes, and an oversized white t-shirt with—surprise, surprise— ‘Big Daddy’ emblazoned on it in large black letters over an enormous pair of red lips. The sheer mass of gold bling around his neck and on his hands would have made Mr. T blush.
I watched in the mirror as he said something to Melissa that I couldn’t hear over the din of the club’s annoying piped-in techno music. Her head moved as she answered.
Obviously dissatisfied with her reply, he frowned at her and snatched one of her wrists and began to jab at her face with one large, chubby finger as he started in on some tirade. I could vaguely hear his voice, but I couldn’t make out the words over the music.
She made a half-hearted attempt to pull her arm away, and he slapped her hard; hard enough for me to hear the report of it over the din of the club. Her back was to me, but the force of the blow staggered her.
I slammed home the last of my Seven and Seven and got to my feet. As I wove my way through the tables and approached them, he continued to yank on her wrist for emphasis and threaten her with his finger as he yelled at her. As I got closer, I could make out the words.
“…and when I tell you to score a trick, you score a goddamn trick, you understand me?” he said, snatching her jaw with his free hand and forcing her to look into his face. “If you don’t make no money for me, then you ain’t good for shit, bitch! I give you protection! I give you fine clothes! I give you everything! Without me you ain’t nothing but a goddamn junkie! Now you go turn a trick or I’ll sell your ass to the competition, and you’ll be fucking on the corner for five bucks a pop and living in a goddamn dumpster!”
I could see her back shaking as she cried. I felt my temper start to flare.
“I’m tired, Daddy,” she said, her voice tremulous and small now. “I’ve turned five tricks already tonight.”
He punched her this time, letting go of her face to wind up for a looping roundhouse right hand that struck her over her left ear. She made no attempt to defend herself, and if he hadn’t been holding her wrist with his other hand, she would have gone down off her four-inch heels. It wasn’t a great punch—his technique sucked—but he was heavy and she wasn’t, plus she was high and probably drunk and making no effort at self-defense. I was close enough to be heard at this point, so I moved in with my usual charm.
“Hit her again and I’ll tear your fucking arm off and feed it to you,” I said in a casual tone, keeping my face carefully placid; to anyone watching it would look like I was being the very voice of reason.
Melissa stepped away to look at me with confused and terrified eyes. Big Daddy still held her right wrist in his left hand and I could see a large red welt forming on the left side of her pretty face. Now I was really mad. You don’t hit women…if you can avoid it…especially if they’re pretty. And not in the face. I have my scruples, though truth be said, I usually keep them in an old cigar box under my bed.
The pimp just stared at me like I had lost my mind. I get that a lot, so I didn’t let it bother me.
“You gotta be fucking crazy, whiteboy!” the fat man said stridently. “This bitch is my property! This is my turf! Myturf!” He gestured broadly with his free hand. “You don’t come on my turf and threaten me!” He punctuated this by patting himself on his gilded chest with one ring-festooned hand.
I smiled my winningest smile and kept my hands down at my side. Melissa looked at me with wide eyes that had white showing all around. I kept my eyes fixed on the big pimp as I addressed her.
“What’s your name, doll?” I asked.
“Her name is Destiny,” the pimp said.
“I wasn’t talking to you, asshole,” I said.
“Melissa,” she said, her voice quiet and tremulous, like a small, lost child, not sexy at all now.
“Well, Melissa,” I said, keeping my voice as low as I could and still be heard over the music. “Why don’t you step away for a minute while a have a chat with Mr. Randall here.”
“My name is Big Daddy!” the pimp protested loudly.
“Your name is Leroy Randall,” I said. “So, why don’t you let the young lady go and you and I can discuss business.”
“She ain’t no goddamn lady, she’s a fucking whore!” he said querulously, his accent growing more gangster as if to impress upon me the gravity of my situation. “And if you don’t get yo’self out of my face, in about ten seconds I’m gonna bust a cap on yo ass.”
He lifted his oversized t-shirt to reveal a chrome-plated and engraved automatic pistol that probably cost more than my car, stuffed into his waistband that was being seriously overlapped by his belly. That was mistake number one; the only time anyone should see your weapon is just before you fire it.
“That,” I said gesturing at the pistol with my left hand, “will get you six years in the state pen.”
“What?” Big Daddy said, looking confused. My eyes never strayed from his as I continued.
“There’s a 51% sign on the door out front.” He stared at me uncomprehendingly. “It’s a bar,” I said in an effort to clarify and in a tone that made it clear that I thought I was talking to a moron. “That makes it a felony to carry a firearm in here.” I let my face grow hard. “But if you decide to be stupid and pull that Hollywood piece of shit, you won’t have to worry about going to jail.”
“No?” he said with a smirk. I shook my head slightly, getting more and more angry about the growing red wheal on the girl’s face.
“Nope.”
“And why is that, cocksucker?” he asked with a sneer.
“Because I will kill you where you stand before you even get a shot off,” I said calmly.
As I spoke, I moved my hands up to rest my fists on my hips, like I was put out with him—just an angry parent talking to a recalcitrant child. As I did, I worked the ring and middle finger of my left hand into the slots on the handle of my Gerber Ghoststrike punch knife in its sheath inside my pants at my left hip.
The weapon is two and a half inches of stainless carbon steel with a single-edged blade. The skeletonized "T" handle is covered with a rubberized, diamond textured grip that makes it easy to hang onto even when it gets messy. It was designed so that you simply gripped the handle in a closed fist with the blade protruding out between the clenched fingers; then all you had to do was box. A bonus of the short, single edge blade was that it was legal to carry anywhere. I’d had it since my days in Force Recon as a Marine. A weapon of last resort, we called it back then; tonight, because of the firearm prohibition, it was my weapon du jour.
Big Daddy stared at me a little wild-eyed, and I could almost read his thought process. I’d embarrassed him on his home territory and his bluster wasn’t fazing me, so he was thinking hard about how far he wanted to take this. Sweat trickled down his face as he stood perfectly still, calculating as the music blared, and the drugged and drunken crowd around us ignored us with practiced indifference.
In case you didn’t get it earlier, I’m kind of a scary looking dude. Pretty large—taller than him anyway--put together like a wall, and all scarred up. All in all, it usually does a pretty good job of deterring people from being stupid. But Big Daddy was obviously stupider than most.
I saw his decision in his eyes just milliseconds before his right hand began to move toward the gun at his waist. Mistake number two, and unfortunately for him, in this particular at bat, I’d already decided he was only going to get two strikes before he was out.
Despite my size, I’m impressively quick with my hands and feet. I can’t sprint for shit, but I’ve trained in hapkido and aikido—I’m a big Steven Seagal fan, so sue me—and I’ve boxed professionally. Not extremely well maybe, but professionally. Anyway, my reflexes and hand and foot speed are still top notch.
By the time he got his hand to the pistol and began to pull the big semi-auto out of his pants, my left fist, with the wicked two and half inch carbon steel blade protruding like an enormous metallic claw, was already halfway to his shoulder.
My aim was pretty good, and my jab blurred in and buried the blade into his shoulder joint, plunging in where the clavicle and humerus met, cutting muscles, nerves, and tendons, and making it impossible for him to pull his arm up and forward. The front sight of the weapon hung up on the waistband of his pants, and the weapon tumbled out of his weakened grasp and onto the floor with a clatter that finally got people’s attention and started a general panic.
If the pimp had left the gun out of the equation, he’d have only gotten a serious ass whooping; but he’d decided to up the ante without understanding who he was dealing with. I probably should have stopped after the first punch, after all, his gun was now out of play. But he’d pissed me off, and I had no doubt that he’d take his embarrassment and anger out on the young hooker as soon as I walked away.
So, I took advantage of his occupied left hand which still held the girl’s wrist and followed my left jab to his shoulder with a straight right to his round face which split his lip and snapped his head back. Then I hooked him in the right side of his neck three times fast with my left hand—hard, solid blows. The Gerber did its job well—very well, in fact. Its blade isn’t even as long as my little finger, but then again, it doesn’t have to be long if you know where to put it. I did.
The major nerves, veins, and arteries in the neck are barely a fingerbreadth below the skin. My blade was three times that long, and I was backing it with two-hundred and twenty-five pounds of muscle and bad attitude.
His eyes registered surprise as he let go of Melissa’s arm and stumbled a couple of paces back; his left hand now clutched at his wounded neck trying to stanch the massive bleeding as his right arm hung uselessly at his side. He may as well have saved himself the effort—I’d done this before and knew what I was doing. His carotid artery and jugular vein were both severed. He was totally fucked; he just didn’t realize it yet.
Blood welled out past his fingers in what seemed like an impossible surging torrent. Nearly the entire front of his once mostly white shirt was now red with blood, and he was leaving a substantial trail on the floor as well—the housekeeping staff was really going to have the ass with me. My bad.
Big Daddy looked at me with confused and terrified eyes as he started to wheeze. Blood gurgled out of his mouth and ran down his chin—I must’ve gotten the trachea or esophagus, too. I gave him my best ‘I told you so’ grin and shrugged. There are some mistakes you only get to make once—he’d just discovered one of them.
He took one haphazard step to his left and then spiraled down to the floor where he lay on his back. He moved his feet and legs around a little and then finished exsanguinating and died less than a minute from my first punch landing. I wiped the knife blade clean on his trouser leg, laid it on his pants, and walked back over to where Melissa stood transfixed, staring wide-eyed down at the now lifeless body of her pimp.
“Melissa,” I said in a low, calm voice that could now be heard because the bar had magically emptied out, and the music had been turned off.
A siren was approaching outside. She slowly looked at me with dazed, confused eyes; her pupils pinpoint despite the low light in the club.
“Melissa,” I repeated and got some recognition. “Sit down over here,” I said, taking her gently by one arm and leading her to a now empty booth. She moved stiffly, like a robot, and kept looking at the body of Big Daddy, but she sat.
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