Jericho's Razor (6 page)

My old Triumph was not the best choice since the air was crisp and cold, heavy with the promise of winter. But I didn't want to walk where I was going either. Sean Booker lived in a part of town that the mayor and tourist bureau kept the tourists far away from. If residents ever did bother to call in gunshots, they had a better chance waiting until everybody ran out of bullets than they did of seeing a cop car. Shootings were mostly between gang members, and the police were content to let them sort it out themselves and stay out of the line of fire. It was also an area where many single parents tried to raise their kids on minimum wage jobs, doing their best to make sure that the rent got paid and the fridge had food, all the while hoping that a stray bullet did not zip through the living room. It was a neighborhood low on hope, scraping by, filled with predators. Predators such as Sean Booker. Booker not only sold drugs to the local kids, but recruited them as business partners. I thought about Booker's final moments tied to that chair, seeing the chainsaw coming for him like judgment day and that black part buried deep inside of me smiled. Even seeing firsthand how horrific his end had been, it was difficult to find any sympathy for him.

I parked my bike outside the apartment building as far from the street as I could get. Music blared from one of the apartments, angry lyrics that featured a rapper who swore worse than my ex-girlfriend. Although not a fan, I was grateful for the music, since it covered the sound of me smashing one of Sean Booker's windows. This wasn't the kind of neighborhood where you left a spare key under the mat.

I shut the door and waited in the entryway for my eyes to adjust to the dark. It was a simple setup. Living room. Kitchen off to the right. A small area by a window that held a laptop computer. From my pocket, I pulled a pair of surgical gloves and slipped them on. I then navigated around the furniture to the desk, pulling the drapes tightly shut over the window so I wouldn't be seen from the street. The laptop was a Dell. A screensaver of a blond with breasts busting out of a black negligee disappeared and was replaced by a prompting for a login and password. It took five minutes of low-budget hacking to realize that Booker wasn't dumb enough to use any combination of his name as a password.

“Shit,” I muttered. Sleuthing is so much easier when I'm writing it.

For me, the laptop was a dead end. But I knew the police would have people who would be able to get past the security. I went to the living room and looked around. I saw drugs laid out on the coffee table. There were also guns. A few semi-automatic handguns and a few assault rifles. I remembered Torrez mentioning that Booker was into illegal arm sales. He obviously took his work home with him.

There was something else. It was a black oblong shape that my mind instantly recognized as a guitar case. Hurrying over, I unzipped the case and found my stolen guitar from the club. It would be hard to explain how I got it back, but I wasn't about to leave it. I set the guitar case by the front door and continued to look around, not sure what I was hoping to find. And then I found it. A cell phone, black and sleek, sitting on the table beside a semiautomatic Uzi.

I scrolled through the recent call list. I stopped when I came to a name I recognized.

Eric Watts. Interesting. But further down the list, I found an even better one.

Preston Masters.

Watts was easy enough to explain since Booker was a drug dealer who hung around the club district. It was reasonable to assume that the club owner was one of his clients. But what business did a guy like Booker have with a United States congressman? Before I could come up with a reasonable answer, I heard the familiar sound of a gun being cocked behind me. The lights flicked on and a voice boomed like judgment day.

“Freeze!”

My hands reflexively shot over my head.

“Officer, my name is—”

“It's
detective
. Alyssa Jagger. And I know who you are, Sands.”

“You're Detective Torrez's partner?”

“That's right.”

I risked a glance over my shoulder. She stood off to my right, perfectly positioned with her feet spread at a good distance and her arms in front of her. Her weapon looked like a Glock, probably a 17 and most likely loaded with nine millimeter parabellums. Good stopping power. Overall, a very effective weapon. And it was aimed right at my spine.

“I'm just having a look around,” I said.

“You need a .45 for that?”

“It's a rough neighborhood.”

“Put your hands down, slick. And you can also set down the cell phone.”

“Cell phone?”

“The one that you tried to hide up the sleeve of your jacket.”

“Saw that, huh?”

“Like I said, buddy, I'm a detective. I do this for a living.”

I did as instructed, turned around and got my first real look at her. She wore faded blue jeans, a black leather jacket and a black T-shirt bearing the screaming feline of the Hell Kat logo. Green eyes gave me a thorough once-over. I wondered what she was thinking, but judging by her scowl, I wasn't rating very high. From her jacket she pulled my cell phone and tossed it to me.

“You being here saves me a trip back to your building.” She said. “I wasn't looking forward to going back and smelling that.”

“Were you able to trace the call?” I asked. Jagger shook her head.

“Just to a general area. The call came from a ten-mile radius of your building. If the guy has half a brain he's already gotten rid of it.”

“You're probably right.”

Jagger looked around. “Did you find anything besides your stolen guitar?”

“Not really.”

“Awesome. Hopefully you didn't contaminate the scene too much and we'll have something to work with.”

“I didn't expect you to come check it out this fast.”

“Why? Because the cops in your books are all morons who couldn't find their own dicks without a map and a flashlight?”

“Well—”

“Go home, Sands.”

“Sure.” I walked toward the door and grabbed my guitar. Standing in the doorway, I called over my shoulder, as though just remembering something only mildly important.

“Have you looked into where Eric Watts was last night?” I asked.

“Watts? The guy who owns the Dungeon? Why would he be involved in this?”

“I keep thinking about those footprints. Watts is a big guy. He used to play pro football.”

“I know. From how he talks about it, you would think he was Howie Long. Played middle linebacker for Illinois State. Drafted in the second round by the Oakland Raiders. Washed out after repeated knee injuries. The Raiders cut him and he moved back here.”

I nodded, impressed with her efficient rundown of Watt's' information. Jagger took a breath. “He is also currently seeing Katrina Masters, your ex-girlfriend. I see them hanging all over each other at the club.”

I tried to my mask my disgust at the use of Jagger's phrase,
hanging all over each other.
She read my discomfort and stabbed at it.

“So now I'm wondering why you are so quick to point the finger of accusation his way.”

“You think I only suspect Watts because I'm jealous?”

The green eyes bore into me. That was obviously exactly what she thought, and my body language was probably confirming it for her. The thought of Kat hanging all over that mindless ape made me want to barf more than the memory of the headless drug dealer in my garage.

“You tell me,” she said.

“Did you know that Watts is a renowned steroid freak?”

“I'm aware of his history. So what?”

“So what?” I said. “People will never let me forget throwing Preston into a Dumpster, but Eric Watts once threw a guy out a window from a second-floor dorm room. He's big enough to wear a size eleven and a half and violent enough to cut a guy's head off.”

“Watt's actually wears a twelve and half. And since you brought up those bootprints, there is one critical point you have to consider. If the killer wore overshoes, which we are assuming he did since the tracks abruptly stop right outside your building, then the size of the prints would actually be a bit bigger than his normal size. Not smaller.”

I nodded. It was a good point.

“But if it makes you feel any better, I have already looked into Eric Watts and cleared him as a suspect.”

“In less than a few hours?”

“Katrina Masters can alibi him all night. Her band performed until ten o' clock last night. I was actually there and can alibi both of them. It was a good set. She played your song, of course. They stayed at the bar having drinks, then she said they drove to his place. So that clears him. Unless you think that she's in it with him?”

“No.” My heart pounded after hearing Jagger's cold rundown of Katrina's night. I especially hated the way she had said “drove to his place.”

“Good. Go home, and let us do our jobs. And if I catch you sniffing around my crime scenes again, I'll arrest you for obstruction. Now have a nice night and try not to conjure any more dead bodies.”

“Sure thing. And it was great meeting you too, Detective. We should do this again some time.”

I drove home and parked on the street, noting the absence of the black crime scene van. I also made a mental note to drive my truck through the car wash. About a dozen times or so ought to do it. Or maybe I could rent a power washer. The thought of pieces of Sean Booker oozing all over the fenders and windshield made me consider trading it in. I pulled my phone from my jacket and saw that I had a missed call from Gus Tanner.

“I have some info on that other detective,” he told me when I called back. “Her name is Alyssa Jagger.”

“Yeah, I just met her. She pointed a Glock at my head.”

“What the hell happened?”

“Apparently she didn't like the fact that I broke into a murder victim's apartment.”

“Jesus.”

I waited outside, knowing that I would lose reception the second I entered the stairwell. The pack of Camels I bought at the club that morning was in the coat pocket along with a book of matches.

“Do you really keep a damages tab for me?” I asked while lighting up.

“Absolutely.”

“How much is it up to?”

“I'll let you know the next time you sell the movie rights for one of your books.”

“Looking forward to it. In the meantime, why don't you tell me about Alyssa Jagger?”

“Thirty-two years old. Parents listed as Robert and Patricia Jagger. Both deceased. Looks like they were killed in a car crash by a drunk driver who crossed the median and hit their car head on.”

“How old was she when it happened?”

“Nineteen. They left her a sizable nest egg, plenty to finish college and live comfortably for a while. But after graduation she joined the Kansas City Police.”

“So she's a crusader.”

“She certainly looks like one. I've read some of her performance reviews. They're very impressive.”

I didn't bother to ask how Gus was able to access such information. He still had friends all over the place. One phone call to right person and Gus could probably find out what color underwear Jagger was wearing.

“Her degree is in criminal psychology. She made detective at twenty-nine. Spent less than a year in the three-nine before transferring to our neck of the woods.”

“What was the reason for the transfer?”

“Not sure. The money is better there, and she has no obvious ties to this area that I can see. It's weird for her to work her way up so fast and then move. But it happens. Maybe her lieutenant was an asshole. Maybe she got sick of the big city. Maybe a lot of things. But there is one thing that looks strange.”

“Tell me.”

“She was involved in a shooting while she was off duty. According to the reports, she walked in on a robbery in progress at a gas station and killed three suspects. The clerk was also killed, apparently in the crossfire. The department investigated, but didn't find—”

I interrupted Gus with a violent coughing fit. I hunched over while dry heaving, holding the phone off to the side with one hand while pitching the cigarette with the other.

“You really need to learn that quitting smoking means not doing it anymore.” Gus said while I hacked. “You can barely get through one without hacking up your spleen. Give them up already.”

“That would be no fun.”

“Funny. You like things that are bad for you. Cigarettes. Women.”

“You flatter me.”

“But speaking of women, this lady has ‘
up and comer and looking to make a name for herself
' written all over her. So watch your ass.”

That certainly sounded like the woman I just met.

“And by the way,” Gus said. “I hesitate to even bring this up, but it has not escaped my attention that Detective Jagger looks like she could cause a supermodel to have confidence issues. I'm positive it did not escape yours, seeing as how she is exactly your type.”