Dirty Deeds (24 page)

"Oh, come on. Not show them to Harry? He knows this crap better than anyone in the city. If anybody can make sense of them, it's Studhorse."

Chucky's deep blue eyes were not sparkling when his gaze met hers. His mouth was turned down into a slight frown. "That's my point, darling."

Okay, now she was confused. Or, rather more confused than she already was. It was more than the simple fact Harry knew both guns and the rounds they shot. Harry was, in many ways, her partner. They were a two-person team and had been for five years. He shared everything with her and she shared everything with him.

"Your point,
darling
, is over my head. Explain it in nice plain English please."

"Stay with me, junior," he said as he laid out the three reports across the long counter, side-by-side. "What I'm talking about here is more than the ballistics match. Your buddy Joe up in Metaline Falls is right; whoever did the shooting is no amateur."

She tapped her fingers on the counter. So far, he wasn't telling her anything she didn't already know. But why should she keep it secret from Harry? "I know." She couldn't keep the impatience out of her voice.

"Right. Stay with me a little longer." He reached over and squeezed her lightly on the shoulder. "Take the accuracy of the shooting and combine it with the type of rounds the shooter used and we gots us a conundrum."

She was just about to open her mouth when his train of thought hit her square between the eyes. "Oh, Lord." She'd come to Chucky thinking things couldn't get any worse. She'd been wrong.

He patted her on the back. "You got it, baby."

The conclusion seemed outrageous and plausible all at the same time. "He couldn't be."

"And maybe he isn't, but the reality is there are only a handful of shooters around here who can do this."

"Harry's one of them," she said slowly, her eyes still on the reports.

"Bingo, baby sister."

She shook her head. "No, I refuse to believe it. It's got to be one of those horrible coincidences." Her hands were shaking as she picked up the last page of the report and read.

"Then again, you remember what they taught us in the academy?" he asked.

She'd never forgotten, but at the moment she didn't want to believe it could be true. "There is no such thing as a coincidence," she repeated as if she was the student just called on by the teacher to answer a test question.

He nodded. "That's the reigning philosophy here, Lou. I really think you need to err on the side of caution. For the moment anyway."

"Don't tell Harry."

Tapping the report, Chucky nodded even harder. "Don't tell Harry. I hope I'm wrong. If I'm not, well…"

She put a hand to his lips. "Don't even say it."

Harry.

Christ, Harry.

There is no such thing as a coincidence.
The thought stayed with her on the drive back to the office. She parked in the far corner of the lot or, as she liked to call it, the ding-free zone. Near the rear entrance to the building, Harry's late model extended cab pickup was in its usual spot; he didn't have the same distaste for door dings that she did. For a moment, she sat in the car, her eyes narrowed.

Something wasn't right here and it had nothing to do with her visit to Chucky. Granted, everything around her the last few days had been out of whack. This was something else. Then she realized: Meg. Where was Meg?

Every day for the last week, Louie had found Meg pushing her silver cart across the parking lot. Now the parking lot was quiet. A rush went up Louie's spine. She hoped Meg was feeling all right. After all, time was taking its toll on the fascinating woman, which worried Louie.

He gaze rose to the second story windows. Nothing moved. She had to assume Meg was upstairs taking it easy. She hoped so anyway. Later, she'd stop in and check.

Taking a deep breath, she got of the car and headed to the office. On a normal day, she'd have charged through the door, spread everything out on her desk and picked Harry's brain. He was like Chris in a lot of ways, or rather like Chris used to be. Harry possessed a wealth of experience and could see details everyone else missed. That talent had made both Chris and Harry great Army Rangers.

The difference between the two men was evident after they'd left the Army. Chris felt his talents were still needed and was quickly snapped up by DEA. Harry turned down the DEA and every other law enforcement agency that offered him a job. He'd done his time for his country, he'd explained, and now wanted to work in his own way and on his own time. Bail bonding was a perfect profession for a wild card like Harry.

Still, he did have an eye for detail and in this instance she could use his expertise. He'd be able to look at the pictures, read the reports, and then give her the details of her prey as well as any FBI profiler. She could use his help. Except she wasn't going to ask for it.

What Chucky had told her niggled at the back of her mind, so she'd keep everything close even if she felt disloyal. Harry was the closest thing to family she had since Chris fell into the coma. Nobody could have been more loyal or attentive. The three of them had been close before the shooting, but afterward, she and Harry had become even closer. The seed of doubt Chucky had planted made her sick to her stomach.

Stepping inside the office, Louie wrinkled her nose. "Harry!" she bellowed.

Around the corner and sitting behind his big desk, Harry leaned back in his chair all wide-eyed and innocent. "What's doing, Louie?"

Putting thumb and forefinger to her nose, she made a face. "You promised not to smoke those things in the office anymore."

"Come on, beautiful." He brought his right hand up from beneath the desk, a big, brown, smoldering cigar held tight between two fingers. "They don't smell that bad. In fact, they smell incredible."

"It'll take a month of Sundays to get that awful stink out of here. You're not the only one who has to work here, you know."

He was smiling and his good humor reached all the way to his dark eyes. He held the cigar out in her direction. "You wanna puff?" He wagged his eyebrows.

She rolled her eyes and turned away. "Put it out."

In her office, she shut the door hoping that the smell could be held at bay. Not likely since the place already smelled like a cigar lounge. She walked to the window and opened it. The fresh air helped.

As she stood breathing in the clean air, another disturbing thought flitted through her already troubled mind. The cigar. That five-inch roll of tobacco sent chills up her arms, and not because the stench made her stomach roll. Since being diagnosed with diabetes two years earlier, Harry had been forced to give up the cancer-causing indulgence that also had a tendency to exacerbate his diabetes symptoms. But she knew he hadn't walked away from his vice one-hundred percent. No, he still smoked an occasional cigar, whenever he wanted to celebrate.

So what exactly was Harry celebrating today?

Before she delved into that quandary any further, she remembered the call from Amy Johnson and dug the note with Amy's number on it out of her pocket. She really was off her game. She should have taken five minutes and stopped by Amy's desk after she'd finished with Chucky. Okay, she'd call now and see what Amy needed. Louie couldn't imagine what it would be. Homicide hadn't been her area of expertise when she'd been on the job and she rarely dealt with death now. The last few days had been grimly exceptional.

She picked up the phone and punched in the number, still standing by the open window.

"Johnson."

"Amy, it's Louie."

"Hey girl, how are you? Been a long time. You never come by just to say hello."

"Life's good, and I promise next time I'm in your neighborhood, I'll stop by. So

what's up with the cryptic message?"

"Caught a DB this morning, and I'm wondering if you know her," Amy said, her voice shifting to all business.

"Me?"

"Yeah. The address in her wallet has her living in your office building."

A black thought raced across Louie's mind and her stomach sank anew. "Oh, dear God. Please tell me it's not Meg."

"If by Meg you mean Margaret Johnson…"

Louie didn't understand. Was there someone else living in the apartments with a similar name? "My friend's name is Meg English, not Margaret Johnson."

"I think we're talking about the same woman, Margaret English Johnson."

"How?" Louie couldn't finish the question. She simply couldn't say the word "die."

"It's still preliminary, but we're treating it as a homicide."

"Oh, sweet Jesus…" Her knees buckled and she sank to the chair.

* * * *

Paul left right after the funeral. He'd been hugged, patted and consoled about all he could take. Besides, he'd promised the folks he'd stop by Jamie's apartment and pack things up. They'd take care of getting the belongings moved if he'd get things packed up and ready to go. Paul figured it was the least he could do.

Jamie had lived in a part of the city that made Paul wonder if his car would be safe for the few hours it'd take him to pack the place. The building itself was tired, the brick gray with grit and age. Sad shrubs in planters flanked the main door, its glass smudged and filthy. Protective bars were installed on all the windows as well as the glass door. That was comforting.

It took three trips from the car to carry all the boxes to the second story cube Jamie called home. Once all of the boxes were out of the car and stacked up in the middle of what passed for a living room, Paul looked around the small apartment.

It was typical Jamie. A kind of ordered chaos that made perfect sense to Jamie and no one else. It'd drive Paul crazy to live like this. Not Jamie. For as long as Paul could remember Jamie owned a whirlwind of clutter that moved with him anywhere he went. No one ever had to wonder if Jamie'd been around. He always left a trail.

For the first hour, Paul tried to make sense out of the clutter so that the packed boxes could be sorted easily when his parents got around to dealing with them. Unlike Jamie, Paul wanted a plan. He needed the structure.

At least ten different pairs of sneakers were scattered around along with dozens of magazines tossed aside in random disarray. The mess brought back memories of their childhood. The sneakers made him smile. They were so Jamie. He'd show up for Christmas dinner in nice slacks and a shirt he'd actually taken the time to press, and as likely as not, a bright red pair of sneakers.

Paul couldn't recall the last time he'd seen Jamie in dress shoes. Maybe Easter Sunday when Jamie was about six? His little brother loved a riot of color and style, which was why Paul had been less than surprised when he'd looked in his own closet to find Jamie's handiwork with the shoes. Jamie had hated Paul's compulsive tidiness. They might have had the same parents and been raised in the same household, but that didn't make them alike. They'd been different as night and day.

He'd just begun to pack up the living room when his cell phone rang. He didn't feel like talking to anyone. Not today. His hand went to his pocket anyway.

"Hello."

"Paul." Louie's gentle voice greeted him.

"Hi." He couldn't work up enthusiasm even for her though he was glad to hear her voice.

"I just wanted to see if you're okay."

He heard it then, a note, a sound in her voice that was off. His problems really didn't matter. "What's wrong, Louie?"

"Nothing."

"I don't believe you. What's happened? Is it your brother?" Wouldn't that be the mother of all ironies?

"No." He heard the catch in her voice.

"I'm here for you. Tell me what's wrong."

"It's my friend Meg. She's gone."

He had to think quickly and then remembered the spry little old lady who'd stopped Louie in the parking lot. What could have happened? The woman had looked okay to him. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know her, but I'm sure she was a sweet woman."

"She was a jewel. I've never met anyone quite like her."

"Tell me what else is wrong," he said. Something in her voice made him believe there was more.

Louie let out a long sigh. "She didn't just die. She was murdered."

"What's going on?" he barked. All around them people were being killed and it didn't make sense.
One day I'm coaching young men hockey and the next I'm picking up one body after another. This crazy shit has to stop
.

"I don't know. I don't know." Her voice trailed off with a choked sob.

"Look, I'll be done here in a couple of hours and then I'm on my way back to Spokane. I'll come by as soon as I get to town."

"That'd be nice. I'm heading over to the morgue now." Her voice was a touch shaky.

"If you need me, I'm only a call away."

"Thank you."

He flipped the phone shut and began to tackle the packing with new vigor. By the end of the second hour, he'd made pretty good progress in the combined living/kitchen area. Jamie had been a man of simple needs, so there wasn't much to pack. All that remained now was the bedroom and presumably the bathroom beyond. He walked through the door that separated the bedroom from the main living area, flipped the light switch, and stopped to stare at a picture on the wall of Jamie's bedroom.

After a moment tears began to blur his vision. "Damn it," he muttered, wiping at his face with the palms of his hands. "That isn't fair."

The bedroom, like the rest of the apartment, was spare although not nearly as cluttered. A double bed, a single dresser, and only one picture that decorated the otherwise bare walls.

Matted, framed, and hung in a place where everyone who walked to the bathroom would be certain to see it, the picture was of Paul racing across the ice with his stick pulled back in the moment just before he made his Stanley Cup winning goal. That picture represented the best moment of his career, that one moment in time when he reached as high as he could. He knew who'd created the amazing charcoal version of the photograph that had been on the front page of every paper in Canada. Jamie's talent was unmistakable.

Seeing that demonstration of his young brother's pride and loyalty humbled Paul. It also brought him to a new low. Paul stared at the picture, at the man he used to be, and it hit him exactly how far he'd fallen. He'd turned his back on his only brother, but Jamie had never turned his back on him.