A New Day (StrikeForce #1) (4 page)

Class finally ended, and I filed out with the rest of my classmates, setting my assignment on Father Heinlein’s desk. Most of the profs had moved to online systems for assignments, but not Father Heinlein. It was probably weird, but I liked him a little more for that.

I glanced at my phone. I had an hour to grab a bus and get to Luther’s. I wore a thin bag under my sweater, across my body, with the shit I’d lifted the night before inside. It clanked comfortingly against my side, and I gripped the pepper spray in my sweater pocket as I walked out of the building.

There was a bus stop across from campus, and I jogged across the busy street, waited there. I stood, looking at everyone who passed, making sure they knew I saw them. I wasn’t a dumb chick, just waiting to get mugged. Bunch of opportunists around college campuses. I could hardly blame them, as long as it wasn’t me they were messing with.

After a few minutes, the big green and yellow bus pulled up to the curb, brakes wheezing, squeaking to a halt. The door opened, and I swiped my card and found a seat near the front. Luther was over in Hamtramck, so I didn't have too long of a ride ahead of me. I crossed my arms over my chest and didn’t let my guard down. The bus wasn’t crowded, which was nice. Fewer people to keep an eye on.

When the bus pulled up to my stop, it was a relief. Sitting still, even for a short time with that much bank strapped to me had me on pins and needles. You just never knew when someone might try to do something stupid, and I definitely wasn’t in the mood for stupid. All I wanted was to get this stuff to Luther and get paid.

I walked down the narrow sidewalk, tall old houses on either side of the street. Back in the day, Hamtramck had been an almost-exclusively Polish neighborhood. Like everything, it evolved over time, becoming one of the more diverse areas of the city. Mosques rose alongside the old Catholic churches, church bells and calls for prayer singing out over the slanted roofs. I ended up here once every few weeks or so. Not because it was convenient, because it wasn’t.

But good fences were hard to find. And Luther was the best there was.

I’d been working with Luther for over three years now. Most of my “professional” thieving career. Best decision I’d ever made was agreeing to work with Luther, who was the kind of person who made your life easier, while also making it more stressful. But that’s the price I paid for working with the best.

I made my way to the big white house at the end of the block and bounced up the well-worn wooden steps. I rang the bell and stepped back, looking around. Luther’s giant 1980-something Buick sat in the driveway. It always reminded me of a big black boat. I grimaced.

The door opened, and a short woman peered out at me. Snow-white hair in that traditional little-old lady hairstyle, the kind you just knew had been set with actual curlers. Bright blue eyes squinted though bifocals, and she wore her usual housedress, as if it was the 1950s or something.

“Did you still need a ride to church today?” I asked.

She smiled up at me. “What a sweet girl, to remember a little old woman like me.” Her voice was like sandpaper, rough and worn, the slightest accent underlying her words. I knew she had been born in Poland, had lived there for a time, but beyond that, I knew very little about Luther, and she knew just as little about me.

Luther. Irene Lutharski. The best goddamn fence in the city of Detroit, and the only one I trusted to move the shit I stole. She more than earned the healthy cut she took of my money.

“Let me get my pocketbook. Go ahead and get the car started, sweetie,” she said. She handed me a key ring, and I nodded, took it. I went back down the stairs, unlocked the Buick, and slipped behind the steering wheel. I took the bag off of my body, settled it beside me on the bench seat. The car started smoothly, and I sat there, hands on the steering wheel, waiting for Luther to make her way down the steps. Once she was in the car, she buckled up, and we pulled away.

“Hand me my knitting, would you?” she asked quietly, and I handed the bag I’d had strapped to my body over to her. Everything we said to one another was a code. It probably seemed stupidly paranoid, but there was a reason Luther and her seven sisters, all of whom were fences in their respective cities, had been so successful for so long. They were careful in the extreme. Refused to take shit that could be traced easily. No custom-made shit, no art. Jewelry and other little trinkets. I didn’t know how many other thieves Luther worked with, but I knew that, the way it worked, she took my stuff, paid me based on what she thought she could make. Then she sent the shit to her sisters, out of state, and they sold it. Her sisters did the same thing, sending items to Luther to sell on their behalves. They’d been at it since the seventies. Back in the day, they’d made most of their sales in pawnshops and directly, Luther once told me. But the Internet had been a boon to their business. She adored eBay and Craigslist.

I drove through town, toward the Catholic church she attended regularly. She would actually go in, and I would go with her. To anyone who bothered to look, we appeared to be nothing more than a young woman helping an older woman run errands.

“This latest project is working out well. I think I’ll send it to my niece when I’m done with it,” she said, as if discussing her knitting.

I nodded. Send it to the niece was a very good sign. She was happy, and I’d get a good amount for at least some of the stuff I’d brought.

“This other project I’m working on, though… eh. Not as good,” she said. “Might be able to donate it.”

I glanced at her. She was holding the ruby and diamond necklace I’d grabbed at the last minute.

“I don’t know. I think it’s really nice,” I said calmly.

“Kind of bright. The colors clash,” she said. Too flashy. Too easy to trace.

“I’m sure someone will be happy to have it,” I said.

“Maybe. Beggars can’t be choosers, right?” she said, and I blew out a breath. She’d push it off to someone stupid, someone who she could make money off, and if he got caught with it, it wouldn’t be traced back to us after switching hands so many times. “I’ll have to be better about my color choices in the future,” she said, and I knew her well enough to be able to pick up the displeasure in her voice.

“Well. It’s tricky sometimes,” I said, trying not to be pissed. She knew this shit better than I did.

“Tricky. But I expect better. I was sloppy in some of my stitches. Even a new knitter could see that.”

I clamped my jaw shut. She was right. It was too flashy. Damn it.

“Practice makes perfect, right?” I said, keeping my tone light. I watched as she put the bag of jewelry into her large handbag, then rested her hands on it. She was the only one in the world who knew who the burglar was who’d been driving the cops nuts for so long. The only one who knew what I really was. And, I guess, I was one of the very few who knew that she was anything other than a nice little old lady.

We arrived at the humongous old church, and I parked in the lot. I helped her out of the car, and she held on to my arm as we climbed the stairs and stepped into the church.

She dipped her fingers in the font of holy water near the door, crossed herself, and bent her head to the cross at the front of the silent, empty church. I followed suit, and we made our way to a pew near the back. She pulled out the kneeler bench and settled herself onto it, hands clasped in prayer, head bowed, eyes closed. I mimicked her movements. While she seemed like she actually meant all of what she did, I was only play-acting. It’s not like I didn’t believe in God, but I seriously thought He’d find a few issues with me. I figured the less I did to call His attention to myself, the better.

I spent the time in “prayer” looking around the church. I wasn’t religious, but I liked these buildings, especially the old ones. This particular church had pews of dark, gleaming work, a rich red carpet leading up to the pulpit or whatever you called it. Behind that, tall, arching stained glass windows sparkled like sapphires and rubies in the late afternoon sun. The smell of incense and beeswax permeated the air, and I breathed it in while I waited for Luther to finish praying.

After a couple of minutes, Luther crossed herself again and then sat on the pew. I did the same. She dug around in her purse, hands concealed by the enormous bag. I could hear the sounds of paper shuffling.

Payday.

She held her hand out for mine, and I obediently placed my hands in her cool, soft palm. She firmly pressed a nice-sized wad of bills into my hand, closed my fingers around it.

“A little something for all you do for me. Don’t spend it all in one place,” she said quietly, still pretending to be nothing more than a sweet, grandmotherly little old lady.

“Thank you. It’s a pleasure, really,” I said, and I caught the hint of a smile on her wrinkled face. Her bright pink lipstick bled just a bit into the vertical wrinkles around her lips, the result of years of smoking.

“For me as well,” she finally said. “Come see me again anytime you like.”

I nodded. And we sat there for a few more minutes. One thing I’d learned from Luther was never to look like you were in a rush, like you had anyplace to be other than right where you were. The art of looking disinterested while seeing everything was something she was a master of. The art of looking like she had every damn right to be somewhere was another. I could admit that I mimicked it often, until I felt like I had it mastered on my own.

“Happy birthday,” she murmured. “There’s a little extra in there. Go get yourself a bottle, or a man, or whatever with it.”

I snorted. “Waste of money, on both counts,” I muttered, and she did laugh then, a light cackle. She patted my knee.

“Smart girl. That’s why I like you,” she said, standing. Then she patted my cheek. “But you need to start paying closer attention to what you’re doing. Understand?”

I nodded, and she gave a terse nod back and took my arm as I led her back out of the church. The ride back to her house was silent, and we got out, and I gave the keys back to her and walked my ass back to the bus stop.

I was almost there when everything started shaking. I stumbled and ended up banging my shoulder on the wall of the bakery I’d been walking past. More shaking. Cars screeched to a halt and people started looking around, up at the sky, as if the answer was there.

I realized, in a fuzzy kind of way, that they were waiting for the lightning. The news reports from the night before came back to me. Earthquakes and lightning strikes in Asia and Europe, and we’d stupidly hoped we wouldn’t get hit with it. We should have known better.

The quakes intensified, and I lost my footing. I managed to catch myself just before I fell, but most of those around me, the people who had gotten out of their cars or left their homes in a blind panic, had fallen to the ground.

Buildings started cracking, fractures snaking up the brick or cinder block facades. Glass broke, and someone screamed. The sidewalk in front of me split, part of it raised a good foot higher than the other, and I fell, trying to back against a wall to get away from anything that might be falling.

I glanced up and saw a little girl looking around, walking unsteadily across the street from me as she surveyed the damage. She was crying. I realized I’d seen her when I’d left Luther’s, riding a pink scooter down the street. She seemed to be looking for someone.

I saw what she didn’t, the wall lining the alley about ready to topple over, right to where she was walking.

“Look out!” I shouted.

She was all of four, maybe. She looked at me, confused, but I was already running, darting around people and cars, watching in horror as the wall swung more, starting to fall toward her.

I reached her and swung her out of the way just as the wall crumbled, brick and cement smashing down onto me. I felt it across my back, my shoulders. The concrete felt like hard punches all across my body, knocking the air from my lungs.

I would be bruised pretty badly. She would have been dead.

I fell, making sure she was out of the way. It was at that second that the lightning struck, loud, ear-shattering booms, blinding light, the scent of sulfur. Every atom in my body felt electrified, my body buzzing, my teeth clenching against the sensation, the screams of the people nearby too much when added to the ringing in my ears.

I tried to get up, stumbled and fell again. The little girl was crying nearby, but she was okay and that was lovely, even if my body hurt like hell.

I sat, my head between my knees, and breathed. I must have gotten hit harder than I’d realized in the moment. Nausea was overwhelming, and my whole body hurt.

When the lightning struck a second time, it washed the entire neighborhood in terrible white light, and the screams were like daggers to my brain.

After blinking the spots away from my eyes, I glanced around. People were getting up, helping each other while keeping an eye on the sky.

How shitty was it that the first thing I did was pat my pockets to make sure that my phone and the wad of money Luther had handed me were still there? Once I knew they were, I stood up, shaky and still nauseous. A guy came toward me, offering to help, and I waved him off, assuring him that I was okay. I looked around for the little girl and saw that she was with an older woman. Grandma, maybe.

It looked like other than bumps, bruises, and scrapes, everyone had made it through the craziness all right. I glanced around and noted that the concrete had formed a sinkhole right where the bus stop was supposed to be.

I sighed to myself. If this had hit anywhere else in the city, I was going to have a hell of a time getting home.

Chapter Three