Cut to the Quick (39 page)

“You’re making a lot of assumptions here.”

“Like my father used to say, live in hope, die in despair.”

“I vote we leave at noon.”

He screwed off the top of a plastic water bottle and took a swig. “Have it your way.”

Vining looked at the storefront businesses along the highway, which were mostly shuttered for the summer. “Wonder why the Jenkinses don’t close up.”

“I bet Connie would stay open all summer if all she sold was a pack of cigarettes. Speak of the devil.”

Vining and Kissick looked through binoculars at the diminutive but wiry old woman who left the house through the front door. Two dogs burst out with her. She walked through the cactus garden toward the front gate, the old dogs ambling alongside, tussling with each other.

She wore lightweight cotton pants and a tucked-in, short-sleeved, floral print T-shirt that showed off thin, deeply tanned arms. A broad white belt encircled her apple-shaped middle. Her silver hair was perfect.

She opened the gate, leaving the dogs inside. Her gait was definitive. She held her arms slightly bent and swung them in time with her legs, almost as if she was marching.

Inside the truck, Vining and Kissick didn’t move. The tinted windows, especially with the reflection from the sun, did a good job of concealing them.

They watched as Connie kept walking in a straight line toward them.

“Is she coming over here?” Kissick wondered.

She stopped at the edge of the property near the highway to pick up a tied bundle of newspapers. She easily bent over and hauled up the stack, carrying it to the mini-mart, where she dropped it on a bench outside. Taking keys from her pocket, she unlocked the screen door and the front door.

The door of the house opened again.

“Jack Jenkins.” Kissick bored in with his binoculars. “He looks older than his mug shot.”

“And blonder.”

Jenkins’s black hair was bleached platinum. It was short at the back and sides but long on top, where it had been teased, styled, and sprayed. He was holding a lit cigarette.

“Couldn’t resist a little lip gloss, mascara, and foundation,” Vining observed.

He headed toward the mini-mart’s front door. He wasn’t a big man, but he had a powerful build. He wore a Western-style short-sleeved shirt. Silver metallic thread ran through the pink-and-white stripes, catching the sun. His white jeans were snug. A silver belt and white sandals accented his outfit.

“Buttons are on the left. That’s a woman’s blouse.” Vining scrutinized his attire. “He hasn’t had sex reassignment surgery. He still has his private parts.”

“I didn’t go there.”

She frowned at Jenkins’s white pants in a five-pocket jeans style. “I think I have those pants. Cotton with a little spandex.”

“Spandex …” Kissick let the word dangle.

“Am I here with Alex ‘All Sex, All the Time’ Caspers? I thought you would have been satiated after last night … and early this morning.”

“Oh, darlin’. It just whets my appetite for more.”

“He’s wearing women’s clothing but nothing to make you turn your head. Guess he saves the high heels and pearls for when he goes into the big city.”

“High heels and pearls …” Kissick seemed to savor an image that had nothing to do with what Vining had described.

“Now you’re starting to get on my nerves.”

“Remember that time when you wore high heels and pearls? That was
all
you wore.…”

“Is the sun shining on that thing or something?”

“It’s just the closeness of you, dear.”

She noisily exhaled and returned her attention to Jenkins.

He went inside the mini-mart and came out again soon after. He tossed the cigarette on the ground, mashed it out, then went to the gas pumps. He fiddled with each one, unlocking them. He turned to look down the road that led toward Slab City and the mountains.

In the distance was the rumble of a heavy motorcycle.

Jenkins finished his work and started back inside, turning when the motorcycle became visible in the distance and quickly approached. It was a large Harley. The rider was cloaked in black, his face hidden beneath a black helmet with a tinted visor. He didn’t turn onto the highway but instead rode onto the Jenkins property, stopping a few feet from Jenkins.

Crowley dismounted, took off his helmet, and shook out his long hair.

“Hello, Jack.”

“Well, look what the cat dragged in. Bowie Crowley.” Jenkins smirked.

Crowley set his helmet on the seat and moved to stand a few feet from Jenkins. His sheathed knife was over his right thigh. “Didn’t expect to see me again, Jack? At least not vertical.”

“What brings you to our fair city, Bowie?”

“You oughta know, Jack.”

They stood with their hands slightly away from their sides, like gunslingers facing off.

THIRTY-SEVEN

K
issick checked
that the truck’s radio was off before turning the key in the ignition just far enough to activate the power so he could roll down the windows a little more. The two men by the gas pumps were too focused on their own drama to notice.

“The motorcycle guy has a big knife on his belt.” Kissick grimaced as he studied the bike’s license plate number through binoculars. “I can only make out a partial number.” He jotted it down.

“I can’t hear what they’re saying. Can you?” Vining watched through her binoculars.

He shook his head as he picked up the camera to take photos. “Jenkins is not happy to see this guy. Judging from their body language, they have a history.”

They watched as the two men shifted position, circling each other.

“Wait a minute …” Vining said as Crowley’s face came into view.

“Yeah.” Kissick grabbed his copy of
Razored Soul
, opened the cover to the author photo, and compared that image with the man talking to Jenkins. “That answers that question. They know each other.”

Vining moved magazines and anything else blocking her exit from the truck.

Kissick did the same. He took out his cell phone and found the Sheriff’s El Centro station in the list of recently
dialed calls. He got through and kept his voice low.

“This is Detective Jim Kissick with the Pasadena Police Department. I’m in Niland with Detective Nan Vining doing surveillance of Jenkins’s Stop ’N Go Market at the corner of Main Street and Highway One-Eleven. We’ve got two adult males having a heated discussion. One is Jack Jenkins, convicted felon, career criminal, and a suspect in a double homicide. He’s the son of the store’s owner. The other we’ve tentatively identified as Bowie Crowley, who did time in San Quentin for voluntary manslaughter. Crowley is wearing a knife that has about a six-inch blade. He’s got on a leather jacket so I can’t tell if he’s in possession of other weapons. Jenkins does not appear to be armed.” He gave them the partial license plate number off the motorcycle. “They’re just talking, but I’ve got a funny feeling. You got anybody at your Niland substation who could roll over here just in case something pops so we won’t blow our surveillance? Hello? Hello …”

Kissick angrily snapped the phone closed.

Vining looked at him.

“I think she said she’d send a car from El Centro, thirty-five miles away. Probably won’t need them, but …”

“Right.”

“So Scoville found the balls to come after you.” Jenkins let out a sinister laugh. “Course, you helped by screwing his wife.” He laughed louder.

As Jenkins stepped to the side, Crowley matched him, but didn’t respond.

“Is Scoville dead?”

“Scoville’s not your problem, Jack. I am.”

“That’s not news to me, Bowie. You’ve been my problem
since Quentin. I should say, since you betrayed me in Quentin.”

“You’re still stuck on that, Jack? Get over it.”

“Get over it?” Jenkins’s sarcastically joking demeanor changed. His body grew rigid, as if his tendons were retracting, like a sling on a catapult. “How do you get over betrayal, Bowie? How do you get over someone who you thought was your friend making fun of you in public? All those hours. All that conversation. Opening up, telling you about my life. My secrets. Then I find out that you didn’t give a rat’s ass about me.”

“I
was
your friend.”

“Bullshit!” Jenkins began shouting. “You pretended you were cool with my lifestyle just so you could pick my brain about it. You know what the Brotherhood did to me. I took twenty-eight stitches, man. All because of you.”

“I
am
cool with your lifestyle.”

“You called me a freak.”

“A
character
in my story called
the protagonist
a freak, not me. That’s not my opinion.”

Vining and Kissick could hear the two men now that they’d raised their voices.

“What do you want to do?” she asked.

“So far, they’re just talking. I hate blowing our cover. We found Jenkins, and we’re going to take him down. I don’t want him going across the border and disappearing.” He looked at his watch. “Even if the sheriffs sent a car, who knows when they’ll get here. I’ll try to get through again and tell them it’s a code three.”

“On the other hand, if Jenkins does something that causes us to arrest him, he’ll be safely locked up while we continue our investigation.”

“There’s that.”

Vining pulled her shield from her belt and clipped it onto her shirt pocket. Kissick displayed his as well.

Crowley and Jenkins paced in front of the gas pumps turning like spokes on a wheel, keeping the same distance between them.

“Jack, I’ll admit my story was inspired by some of the things you told me, but it’s fiction. The main character couldn’t be more different from you.”

“Yeah, as different as a cross-dressing criminal with a hard-assed mother can be.” Jenkins snickered.

Jenkins and Crowley stared at each other, their pacing and positioning over.

“Jack, you not only tried to kill me yourself, you sent some guy to try to kill me. You’d leave my son without a father all because of a story I wrote.”

Jenkins made a face as if he didn’t get Crowley’s point.

Crowley clenched and opened his fists, as if wrestling with his impulses. “Okay, look … my actions harmed you, even though I didn’t do it intentionally. For that, Jack, I’m sorry. Will you accept my apology?” He wiped his hand against his jeans, then held out his palm. “I’m willing to forget the whole thing. Can we put it behind us?”

Jenkins stared at Crowley’s hand and laughed. His laughter grew, riding a wave. He slapped his knee and doubled over, holding his ribs. He then bowed his back and laughed at the whitening sky.

Crowley let his hand drop and sucked in his cheeks.

“Put it behind us, he says.” Howling with laughter, Jenkins staggered, heading toward the front door of the mini-mart. “Let bygones be bygones.” He wiped tears from his eyes. “Sure, Bowie.” When he was within striking distance of an old wooden pickle barrel, he lunged for it, tossing aside the lid and grabbing an AK-47 assault
rifle. By the time he had the gun in his hands and had spun around, Crowley had snatched his knife and was holding it ready to throw.

“Police! Drop your weapons!” Kissick and Vining burst from the truck’s passenger door and crouched behind the engine block, the most solid barrier the truck provided.

“Drop your weapons now or someone’s going to get hurt,” Vining commanded.

If the two men were surprised that the police were there, they didn’t show it.

“Drop it, Jack,” Crowley said. “I’ll drop mine.”

“You’re a riot,” Jenkins retorted.

Kissick yelled, “On the count of three, your weapons need to be on the ground and your hands behind your heads. One, two—”

The world exploded and Crowley was thrown backward off his feet before hitting the ground.

Jenkins ran for Crowley’s motorcycle, haphazardly firing a stream of bullets toward the detectives.

Vining and Kissick maintained their cover and returned Jenkins’s gunfire.

He revved the motorcycle’s engine and headed toward the mountains, the AK-47 slung across his back by a strap.

Vining and Kissick got off a few rounds, but he didn’t stop.

Crowley moaned and bled on the asphalt as Connie Jenkins, carrying the shotgun with which she’d shot him, ran inside the mini-mart and locked the door.

They looked at each other, at Crowley writhing, at Jenkins getting away, and at the mini-mart, where Connie was holed up.

Kissick tried to call 911 on his cell phone, looking as if he was about to throw the device as far as he could.

Vining darted back inside the truck and cranked the ignition. Kissick barely managed to get inside before she burned rubber as she turned around. She came to a screeching halt in front of the telephone booth. Using the truck as a shield, Kissick got out and called for assistance while Vining assumed a firing position behind the engine block, aiming at the mini-mart. She chewed her lip at the sight of Crowley bleeding and in pain but she couldn’t do anything to help him without endangering herself.

As Kissick called for help, they were surprised to hear sirens in the distance. Two Imperial County Sheriffs’ SUVs sped on scene, followed by paramedics.

Kissick and Vining held up their shields.

The deputies pulled their vehicles close to the truck, creating a barrier, and took position.

Kissick explained what had gone on to the field sergeant.

The paramedics remained in their van across the street, waiting for word that it was safe for them to move in and do their work.

Crowley became listless. He slowly dragged his arm across the asphalt and over his face to block the sun.

A bell tinkled when the mini-mart’s screen door opened. A white cloth jerkily waved through the opening.

“Don’t shoot,” Connie said in a raspy voice. “Don’t shoot me.”

A chorus of commands went up. “Come out with your hands—”

“Put your hands—”

“Walk out—”

The shotgun hit the ground when Connie tossed it out. She moved quickly, as if she’d been shoved, crossing the porch and walking into the clearing by the gas
pumps with her hands in the air. “I called the police. I didn’t want him to hurt my boy.”