ARC: Peacemaker (6 page)

I retold my story to make out that the person who stabbed the dead guy had already disappeared when I arrived. Y’know… rather than say he turned into a bird and flew away!

“Then why are there only two sets of footprints?” asked Chance. “Yours and the dead guys.”

I laughed. “Footprints? In the desert. You
are
shitting me.”

“We can tell more than you think.”

“People come and go through that Interchange all the time?”

“But you just happened to go back into the park without any monitoring devices?”

“I was in a hurry to get to the airport.”

“Aaaah, yes. Mr Sixkiller.” Chance began tapping notes into her tablet. “So you claim to have never met the deceased before?”

“Which deceased?”

“Which one would you prefer to tell me about?”

“Tell you about? I’ve never seen either of them before.”

“So you don’t know Leo Teng either?”

“Is that the dead guy in my apartment? Sounds like a bad alias. Nope. Never met or heard of him. Or the guy in the park. What was his name?”

She ignored my question. “What do you know about aliases?”

“Jees, nothing. It was just a throwaway line.”

Chance ahuh-ed and did some clumsy finger-play on her tablet.

“I’ve read your statement to the duty sergeant about the incident in your apartment. You claim the intruder was a complete stranger as well?”

I nodded. “Bad day, yesterday.”

“Very bad day,
Ms
Jackson. Possibly the worst day of your life. I think that you’re up to your neck in something. You arranged to meet someone in the park to receive or deliver an illicit item. It went wrong and you shot him. The ambush later that night in your apartment was his people trying to recover said item.”

“You’re a vivid story teller, detective,” I croaked. My mouth had suddenly dried up and my stomach had hollowed. Chance really wanted to pin this murder on me.

“The only reason you’re not going to jail for a
double
murder is that the creepy little fuck you work with had footage of the events in your apartment showing Mr Sixkiller shot Teng in self-defense.”

I tried unsuccessfully to swallow.

“The park killing is a different matter. We don’t have proof that you did it, and you don’t have proof that you didn’t. So while you’re going about your business, you’ll remain a person of interest to us. I’m going to find a link between you and both these deaths and then I’m going to send you down for so long you’ll need a memory stick just to remember your name.”

She delivered her homily with such flat, hard-eyed dispassion that I wanted to throw up.

“But I didn’t do it,” I whispered again.

She leaned over and patted my hand, her eyes full of mockery.

I snatched my hand away and stared her in the eye. “Can I go?”

Chance got up and walked to the door which she opened. “Step right this way.”

Sixkiller had already been signed out when I reached the front desk. The detective with him shook his hand warmly before leaving and slapped him on the back.

“Was an honour sir,” the man blurted.” Can I drop you somewhere?”

What the…?

“
We’ll take a cab,” I said shortly, and led the way out.

Once out of Chance’s line of sight, I began to breathe a little easier. As we walked, I called Caro.

“Sweetie?” she answered.

“Leo Teng. Find out everything you can about him and a tattoo shaped like a crow with circle around it.”

“Is everything cool?”

“Nothing is cool.”

“Then we’ll make it so,” she said and hung up.

Sixkiller didn’t proffer conversation and when we got in the taxi he just stared out the window.

“Which government posted your bail?” I asked him eventually.

“Bail?” He looked puzzled. “No one. They were very understanding. The visual footage collected by your… colleague clearly shows what happened was self-defense. No charges are being laid. Besides, the intruder was wanted for questioning in several murder cases and some illegal importation enquires.” He turned his head a little so he could see me. “You had problems?”

The dryness in my throat which had just started to ease got all scratchy again. I told him in short, quiet phrases so the cabby couldn’t hear, what Chance had said.

“Do you flex?” he asked when I’d finished.

I flashed on the guys and girls in the gym windows who did their weights routine for the benefit of the passersby on the street. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

“I mean that you should call work and tell them you’re having the afternoon off.”

A blank stare from me.

He sighed and gave me a patient father-to-confused-child look. “What I mean is… let me buy you a drink.”

Chapter Seven

I rang Hunt and told him I was taking Sixkiller on an orientation of the Western Quarter. It was partly true, and he didn’t argue with me.

“How did the interview go?” he asked before I hung up.

“About as bad as it could. They think I killed the guy in the park.”

“But you didn’t. Right?”

“Bull!” I was stunned that he was asking. We might not always get on but he knew me, and more importantly he knew my dad.

“It’s alright, Virgin. I’ve got your back on this. But make sure you’re squeaky clean in every way.”

He sounded just like me talking to Leecey. “Any cleaner and I could bleach your white undies.”

He was quiet for a moment. “That’s not funny. Be careful. OK?”

“Always.” I hung up, paid the taxi and we got out on the corner of Dry Ditch Boulevard and Tombstone Avenue.

The names in the Quarter were kitsch, as were most of the stage acts in the theatre bars, but there was an undercurrent to the place that was just the opposite. Beneath the mash-up of local Country Hicks and American Western-o-philes something hard and unhealthy was going on here. Like the fusion had sprung some kinda screw loose in the patrons. I both liked and loathed it, depending on my mood.

We settled on some stools inside Beef and Horners. It was heading into closing time for most offices and the place had already begun to fill up with sequined shirts, ten gallon hats and shiny dance boots. An old Keith Urban track was on the E-box. Was that old guy even alive still?

“What’ll it be?”Sixkiller was back in colloquial-speak now he was out.

“You do that so easy,” I said.

“Do what?”

“Switch from Cowboy to Yale in a breath.”

“You’ve heard of Yale?”

“Last I checked we were still part of the Global Village.”

He smiled. “And you’re having…?”

“A Dark and Stormy.” Just how I was feeling.

The woman behind the bar planted the rum mixer and a schooner of beer in front of us, and went off to serve two middle-aged women in long boots and short skirts.

“I thought you didn’t drink?”

“Only on special occasions,” he said.

“So what’s the occasion this time? Me going to jail?”I took a long swallow that barely wet my lips but left the glass empty.

“You want another?” He hadn’t had a sip of his beer.

“Sure,” I said. “My buy though.”

Our unimpressed bartender lined two more drinks up and moved on, dabbing at bar stains with a dirty wet cloth.

My throat lubricated a little with the second rum and ginger ale and by the third I was able to speak without catching a lump. “That Detective Chance’s got some kind of axe to grind, or a quota to fill, and I think I’m in the cross hair as the bounty.”

Sixkiller shrugged. “Look at it from her side. The man in the park… you were only one there.”

“I thought you were supposed to be cheering me up.”

“When did I say that?”

“You offered to buy me a drink. Out here, that means you’re either hitting on someone or you’re trying to cheer them up…”

His reply to that was a smile hovering at the edges of his mouth.

I felt myself blushing. Surely… Surely he didn’t mean… Did he?

He drained his beer and placed it down. “There’s a man sitting by the door wearing a black felt hat. What do you call them?”

“Akubra?”

“Yes. He’s been following us since the police station. You know him?”

I stretched and let my glance slide idly across the room. The lighting was dim, but good enough for me to glean that I didn’t know the person in question. Not a cop though.

“That’s why you suggested a drink?” I said.

Sixkiller gave a faint nod.

Heat warmed my cheeks. I’d thought for a moment that he’d…Why had I even contemplated such a thing? “Well, I’ve never seen him before. You sure he isn’t following you?”

“No. But I’ve never seen him before either.”

I grimaced. “So where does that leave us?”

He got up slowly. “Reckon that leaves me and him having a private conflab.”

“Oh?” This could be interesting.

He gave me an earnest look. “Virgin, wait here. Please.”

With that he threaded through the tables, past the small stage and the banjo and fiddle band that were setting up for the night, and approached the guy from behind.

He dropped his hand on the guy’s shoulder and the man’s pained expression told me Sixkiller had pinched something tender. A moment later he transferred hold to the man’s elbow. They got up together and headed towards the restrooms.

“Leave our drinks here. I’ll be back,” I told the bartender and hustled after them. My movements were a little clumsy after four drinks in as many minutes and I collided with the roadie carrying a drum kit.

He swore at me but I wasn’t in the mood to apologise. I shoved him out of the way so he fell onto the stage, hands outstretched to save the drum. Before he could recover, I was out into the corridor heading for the john.

The pair was nowhere to be seen. I searched the Ladies and then flung open the door of the Gents, setting off a ripple of whistles and shouts. But no Sixkiller.

The only door left led to the kitchen.

I opened it and peered in, taking in the spilled gravy on the floor and smell of roasting meat and potatoes. The cook was blowing cigarette smoke out a window, lecturing the young guy dishwashing about something. His smoke curled around and back into the kitchen rendering his attempt at hygiene null. I watched where the draught was blowing it and spied the wide open back door.

As the chef stubbed out his butt and turned to stir his vat of soup, I skidded straight through and out.

The alley was a patch-work of shadow and light. One end opened into Tombstone Ave, the other was dead end banked up with two overflowing skip bins. Obligatory graffiti and a bent
Do Not Park
sign decorated the walls.

Sixkiller had the man pinned up against the bricks, his Peacemaker pressed to the guy’s temple.

“Nate!”I ran over to them.

“Hey lady, this guy’s a loony. Get the fucker off me.”

Instant sobriety banished the warmer feelings alcohol had lent me. “Why were you following us?”

“I wasn’t. Never seen you before.”

I nodded at Sixkiller. “My mistake. Do what you have to.”

He gave me a grim look and began searching the man’s pockets. From inside the guy’s leather coat he produced a wrapped object. I stepped closer to get a better look.

“Let me see,” I said, pulling out my phone for light.

Sixkiller handed it over and proceeded to check the other pockets. I wasn’t interested. The thing in my hand had me curious. I unwrapped the cloth and stared at a sharpened bone with a feather attached to one end.

I walked away from both men and called Caro. “I’m sending you a photo of something. See if you can find out what it is
now
.” I hung up, took the snap and e-mailed it to her.

She called me back within a minute. “The closest I can find is a sharpened bone, no feather, which is a Vodun marker said to call the strongest of the Loas. Usually used before a battle. Where did you get it?”

“I can’t talk now,” I whispered.

“Are you safe?”

“Yes.”

“Get back to me.”

“Will do.”

“And by the way, that tattoo you asked about... Local intelligence services have an alert out on it but I can’t get specifics. My source says the security clearance is beyond them.”

“You think it signifies an active group of some kind?”

“My contact says yes but has no idea who.”

A camera in the park, a random guy belonging to a new gang or cartel trying to kill me and now this. I wondered if Indira Chance had guessed right on there being a connection between the two murders – but not the kind she was trying to make.

I wanted to talk it over with Caro more but Sixkiller looked like he was strangling the guy.

“Laters.”

I hung up, turned and ran back to them.

Too late because the alley made like a dirty bomb.

Chapter Eight

OK, not nearly that bad, but enough to knock me hard against the skip. Momentarily winded and totally confused by a loud detonation and a lot of smoke, my first thought was how bad something stank.

A few blinks and head-shakes later, I realized it was me, covered in some kind of red slime. Vegetable matter I hoped, not human.

A hand thrust in front of my nose, motioning to help me up.

“I’m OK,” I said, scrabbling to my feet. “Where is he? What happened?”

“A mild percussion device. Knocked me down too while someone snatched him.”

Sixkiller sounded distant. Like we were talking though a door or window.

“Whadya mean,
mild
?”I tugged at my ears a few times and the near deafness improved to a ringing noise.

At the open end of the alley, a couple of passersby peered in. Down at our end, the previously overflowing rubbish was now pasted on the walls and the rear door of the bar hung off its hinges. The cook was pressed against the fame, a cleaver in his hand.

I gave him the reassuring thumbs up.

“He got away,” said Sixkiller.

“No shit.” I wiped some of the slime off my face. “Don’t know about you but I don’t want a return trip to Pol-Central to explain the unexplainable.”

He stared at me for a moment then nodded. “Let’s git.”

He picked up the bone feather that I’d dropped and headed out past the curious young couple in ponchos and moccasins. I followed, stopping long enough to slip them all the remaining cash I had in my wallet.

“Drinks on me if you can forget this?”

We slapped hands in agreement and that was that.