Rage Factor (30 page)

It wouldn’t slide.

Stretching harder, his ear being ripped off by the rubber tread, the other one losing skin on the rough metal, he gritted his teeth and pincered the handle between his first and second fingers, dragging it toward him.

His goddamn fingers were slimy with sweat, sliding off the metal like snot on a doorknob, and the fuckin tool—whatever the goddamn thing was—didn’t budge.

Sid lay still for a count of ten, forcing his muscles to relax, his anger to simmer down. A cool head, a strong arm, a stiff dick, and a steady heart, that’s what winning was all about, and he had it, aces full, all he had to do was concentrate. He concentrated on having long, thin muscles, muscles that could stretch forever, fluid like a snake. He wiped his hand on the tire tread, chafed his fingers against the rubber until they felt rough and tacky, then took a breath and blew it out slow through his mouth. Flexing his fingers, he eeled his arm toward the tool, stretching, stretching, pincered the handle again between his fingers, and slid the tool toward him an eighth of an inch, a quarter. Sweat seeped from his brow into his eyes, but he closed them, ignoring the salty
sting, and concentrated on pulling the tool another quarter inch closer. A little more and he could reach it with his thumb, get a real grip on it, but not yet, not yet, keep edging it closer. And then his thumb moved up to take the place of one finger, more strength now, but don’t go too fast. The handle maybe an inch and a half wide and flat, except for the groove that ran around the inside, and now it was in his hand and it felt like maybe twelve, fourteen inches long, like maybe a monkey wrench. Heavy.

When that little fucker—John, was that the name he said?—when the little fucker opened the goddamn trunk he was going to goddamn lose some teeth.

Dixie awoke abruptly to the hushed ring of a telephone. Expecting an update from Brew, she’d turned the ringer down on the cordless and placed it close to her side of the bed. She scooped it up and padded down the hall to the kitchen to avoid waking Parker.

“Found a homeless,” Brew told her, “says he was in Memorial Park Monday night. Might’ve seen Lawrence Coombs being chaperoned down one of the trails.”

“When can I talk to him?”

“That might be a problem. This dude’s as hard to find as a midnight shadow, and just about as talkative.”

“I’ll find him. What does he look like? Where does he hang out?” Something tickled Dixie’s nose. Brushing at it, she felt a string dangling over her face, and it took a moment to realize it was the pink helium-filled balloon.

“Dixie, even if you find the dude, he’ll spook and run.” Brew hesitated. “There’s one person who might be able to put you close to him.”

“All right, whatever.”

“You won’t like it.”

Uh-oh.
Dixie knew instantly who he meant. She got along fine with two of the trio who managed the Gypsy Filchers. The other distrusted and disliked her. Although Dixie no longer represented the law, she’d found it impossible to soften the girl’s attitude. “Ski?” she asked.

“Bingo. She’s one of the few people Loser talks to.”

Dixie groped for the balloon string, wrapped it around a finger. She was thoroughly awake now, and eager to find out whatever she could, even if it meant dealing with Ski. “Loser? I hope that wasn’t the name his parents christened him.”

“Louis, I think, Louis Boggs. But Loser’s what he answers to. When he answers at all.”

Louis Boggs. She’d heard the name somewhere. Dixie nudged a gingham curtain aside to look out at the night sky. The world looked beautiful at this early hour, especially through the tapestry of pine and pecan trees that encircled her home. Wishing life could be as peaceful as it felt, she fastened the balloon string to the curtain tieback. “When can we do this?”

“Just a minute.” Brew’s voice became muffled, as if he’d placed his hand over the phone. Then he came back. “Ski says she’ll take you to where Loser bunks down, but no promise he’ll be around tonight. Meet her at the Diamond Shamrock on Memorial, just east of the park.”

“It’ll take me twenty minutes.”

“She’ll be there.”

Dixie grabbed some clothes from the bedroom closet and clumped back into the kitchen, pulling them on and cursing the bulky cast that refused to slide through any but the widest jeans. She had split the seams on a pair of her older ones, but they must be in the laundry. She grabbed some scissors and cut her way into these.

Fifteen minutes later, she turned off the 610 Loop onto Memorial Drive. Worrying about Brenda had kept her awake late into the night. If the Avenging Angels had stopped
with one victim, Coombs, Dixie would simply forget it, bury her concerns, and move on. And maybe they
had
stopped there. She wished she believed they had. She hoped it was only her own fertile imagination inventing the connection between the Coombs reprisal and the disappearance of Patricia Carrera.

If Brenda would just talk to her, tell her the venting of anger had taken its course, Dixie would stop worrying. Brenda Benson had a soft heart but a strong survival attitude. She’d realize the chances of getting caught for the Coombs assault were low, with the Houston police as angry as anyone else about the jury’s decision. But a continuing crusade was certain disaster. HPD didn’t like civilians trying to do their job. If a pattern of vigilantism became apparent, they’d step up the investigation—and even if Brenda were only guilty by association, it would cost the prosecutor her job and reputation.

Dixie stopped for a signal light and spied the green glow of the Diamond Shamrock sign several blocks ahead. Glancing at her watch, she decided right now might be the one time she’d catch Brenda at home. The prosecutor would be pissed, being awakened at this hour, but Dixie could handle pissed. She punched the number on her cell phone.

After the third ring, the answering machine picked up. Her friend was either a heavy sleeper or keeping strange hours. Dixie left a message. Turning into the Diamond Shamrock station, she powered the phone off and began searching the darkness for a willowy young woman with platinum hair, delicate features, and deadly hands. In a sheath at the small of her back, Ski carried a set of stilettos. Dixie had seen the target she used for practice, the bull’s-eye mushy from being punctured with a consistently tight grouping. Ski wasn’t her real name, of course. All the Gypsy Filchers used street names.

Ski emerged from a narrow shadow flanking the old building, dressed in her usual black turtleneck and black jeans. She moved like a cat, swift and graceful, sliding into
the passenger seat of the Targa, carrying a small grocery sack, folded over at the top.

“Dumb choice of wheels, Flannigan. You think Loser’s going to talk when you climb out of a rolling red money pit smelling like law?”

Good point. Dixie had grown so comfortable tooling around in the Targa, not having to worry about the clutch, she hadn’t considered how it would look to a homeless. “How far are we going? Maybe we can park it somewhere and walk.” Dixie had brought her cane.

The girl nodded. “Drive around the comer to the Skylane Apartments. Park at the curb.”

Dixie eased back onto Memorial Drive, glad to hear a note of cooperation in Ski’s voice. Chronologically, the girl was roughly Sarina’s age, but in street years at least a decade older. College had never been an option, high school probably just a nuisance. Dixie wondered if introducing the two girls might awaken Sarina’s awareness of how good she had it.

The Skylane Apartments were vintage 1980s, new for the neighborhood, actually. This end of Memorial Drive had been gentrified many times over. The building provided covered parking, by extending the second floor out farther than the first, but no guard or gate. Dixie found a spot where she could pull the Targa well off the street. She followed Ski, with her grocery sack, into the parking area. It smelled of motor oil and trapped exhaust fumes.

Ski switched on a penlight and focused it into the backseat of the first car they came to.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for Loser.” Ski swept the slender beam into a car on the other side of them.

Homeless.
Naturally, he wouldn’t be in one of the apartments. An abandoned car would be a good home, if your only other option was a concrete doorway. But none of these cars, Fords, Chevys, Toyotas mostly, looked abandoned.

Ski moved on, shining the penlight into each vehicle.

“Why here?” Dixie asked. “Does he know someone who lets him sleep in their backseat?”

“Shhh. If he hears us, hell run.”

It took ten minutes to finish combing the parking lot, with no sign of Loser Boggs. When Ski headed back toward the Porsche, Dixie asked, “So what do we do now?”

“Go to the next set of apartments. This is his neighborhood.”

Dixie didn’t have to ask why this neighborhood. Street people typically found an area that suited them and stayed close. Maybe he’d grown up here, either on the lower income side, which would indicate homelessness due to poverty or drugs or general laziness, or the high income side, which would suggest mental illness. Not that poor people didn’t sometimes have loose screws, but schizophrenia was one thing money couldn’t cure, and it produced a tidal wave of homeless after the government cutbacks on mental health facilities.

The next apartment complex was definitely upscale—Mercurys, Accords, the occasional Cadillac.

“What does he do,” Dixie asked, “break into a different car every night?”

“He doesn’t break in, just tries all the doors until he finds one unlocked.”

Moving with her feline grace, Ski went through the same drill, sliding between the cars and focusing the penlight into one backseat, then another. They’d searched two-thirds of the lot when the narrow beam fell on a mound of curly brown hair. Ski waved Dixie back, then opened the Buick’s rear door.

“Loser?” She spoke softly, like a mother waking a child. “It’s Ski. Can we talk?”

The mound of hair sat up. The car’s interior light came on, and Dixie caught a glimpse of curly beard beneath a long, downturned nose.

“Ski?” the single word sounded both surprised and agreeable.

“I brought a friend, Loser. Can we all talk?”

“Friend? Where?”

“She’s right here.” Ski opened the door wider. “I brought some milk and Strawberry Newtons.”

“Newtons.” He scooted to make room. “Come in, Ski. Bring the Newtons.”

“I want my friend to come, too, Loser. Is that all right with you?” Ski had made no move to get into the car. She waved Dixie closer.

“Your friend?” He sounded skeptical as his gaze swept toward Dixie, the moisture of his eyes reflecting the orange light of a nearby sodium vapor lamp.

“She can be your friend, too. I brought lots of Newtons.”

“Okay.”

He scooted to the far side of the velour-covered seat. Ski got in and handed Loser the paper sack. Dixie leaned her cane against the car and slid in beside her. Loser Boggs wore three tattered sweaters, only the bottom one fully buttoned, and a pair of corduroy pants that looked as if another pair might be hiding beneath them. His collar-length brown hair appeared clean, and his beard soft. He opened the bag eagerly.

Dixie had questioned skittish witnesses before. She knew not to move fast, though she wanted to start shooting questions at him. Ski had done such a good job so far, Dixie decided to let her continue.

As he popped an entire Strawberry Newton into his mouth, then turned his attention to opening the milk, Dixie glanced at her watch, wondering how soon the Buick’s owner would be needing the car. The sun wouldn’t be up for several hours.

Ski looked at Dixie, and when she nodded, turned back to Loser. “You told me you saw something scary in the park on Monday.”

He fished another cookie out of the package, started to pop it in his mouth, then seemed to realize he wasn’t the only one in the car, and offered it to Ski.

“Thank you. Loser, what was it you saw in the park?”

He studied the mouth of the milk carton. “Nothing.”

“But you said—”

“Heard
something scary.” He gulped the milk. “Saw some people, then heard them.”

His words were hesitant, but clear and well formed.

“What exactly did you hear?” Dixie asked carefully.

He darted a suspicious look from Dixie to Ski.

“It’s okay,” Ski murmured. “She’s a friend.”

He finished chewing another cookie, eyeing Dixie the whole time.

“Heard someone getting hit.”

“How could you tell? Screams, shouts … blows—?”

“Grunts. The kind when someone’s face is in a pillow, Dad going after him with a strap, sayin’, ‘Don’t cry or you’ll get ten more whacks just as hard.’”

He popped another cookie in his mouth. Dixie noticed he no longer looked anxious, just suspicious.

“You said you saw them…?”

“Between the trees. Walking in the park.”

“Men? Women?”

“One of them was small, a woman, I think. All dressed in dark clothes—except this one guy.”

“Guy? You could tell?”

“White shirt, suit pants. Like he’d taken off his jacket after work, loosened his tie. Like that. The others all wore jeans, dark jackets, and those knitted caps that fit down over your ears.” He looked at Ski and smiled. “I don’t like hats.”

“You have nice hair,” she said, smiling back.

“You have nice hair.” He offered her another cookie, but she hadn’t even tasted the first one.

Something about Loser Boggs’ smile triggered a memory, and Dixie figured she’d probably had him on a docket at one time or another. Trespassing, maybe.

“How many people were there?”

“Four.”

“And only one was a woman?”

“Didn’t say that. Dark. Hair covered with those knitted
caps?” He shrugged. “One might’ve been a woman, or a short man. Maybe all men. Maybe all women.”

“Except the one in suit pants.”

He nodded and scarfed up another cookie.

“Did you see his face?”

“Nope. Had a bag over his head.”

Shit! It had to ye been Coombs.
Dixie wanted to ask Loser if he saw someone being taken into the woods with a bag over his head, why he hadn’t
done
anything. But she knew. Street survival meant keeping your eyes and your mouth shut.