The Wrong Side of Dead (5 page)

And the sensation was…exhilarating.

She had changed and assumed Garrett had been the reason. Like an obsession, her need for sex had intensified. All she cared about was pleasing a man in every way he wanted, without holding back. For her, nothing else mattered. The effect Garrett had on her had been consuming.

But what if he’d only been the catalyst, a trigger that cultivated a darker side to her nature? Is that what he’d seen in her from the start? She closed her eyes tight—giving in to every subtle demand of Garrett’s body—blocking that thought from her head.

Surviving the cutting edge of life and death had forced them to live every moment as if it would be their last—a mentality that had been a gift and a curse. Without regret or restraint, they had seized every opportunity to be together, living life to the fullest. Their gift.

Yet their curse had been living their lives without the naïve hope of a tomorrow. They couldn’t count on anything. Perhaps that was why they were together in the first place—another facet of their relationship she refused to probe.

Examining her life too closely scared her more than a barrage of bullets.

Cook County Jail
Chicago

By the look on Harper’s face, Jess knew she’d guessed right that a woman had been involved in his missing hours. But several questions later and her best tactics, she still hadn’t gotten him to ’fess up. And time was running thin. The duty cop would be knocking on the door soon, and her time with him would be up.

“I don’t want to bring her into this. She’s got enough problems.” He crossed his arms and slumped in his chair. “And she’s not exactly a fan of law enforcement, if you know what I mean.”

“I get that same sense from you, hotshot. What’s up with you and the boys in blue?”

She’d hit another raw nerve, one she hadn’t expected. He was definitely protecting a woman, but the cop thing got a reaction from him, one she’d file away for later.

“Talk to me, Seth. We’re almost out of time.”

“Look, you don’t need to know everything, Jessie. If I don’t remember making it to that bar, I probably didn’t. And if that’s so, then having her name won’t help. She’s not a part of this.”

Jess sat back in her chair. Harper had a stubborn streak and had been a real pain in the ass. The whole experience had been like looking in a damned mirror.

“You know I won’t narc for the cops. If this friend of yours wants to steer clear of the law, I’m okay with that. But we need all the pieces to the puzzle, and with your memory being Swiss cheese, we gotta start somewhere.” She leaned forward and fixed her eyes on him until he returned her stare.

“You gotta trust me, Harper. Give me her name and where I can find her. We won’t know what kind of help she’ll be unless we ask. Maybe she can fill in the gaps of what happened that night, lead us somewhere worth going. Please…trust me. None of this is going to the cops. I’ll keep her name out of it. I promise.”

She’d finally struck a chord with him or had worn him down. She saw it in his eyes.

After a heavy sigh, he said, “Her name is Amanda Vincent, Mandy. But her street name is Desiree.” He gave a general description of how to find the woman and what she looked like. A waiflike blonde who sold her soul every time she wanted to get high.

“And, Jess, be careful when you cross over into her world. It ain’t safe there.”

“Thanks, Harper, for trusting me.” She reached into a pocket for her cell phone. “Now I need something from you. Try not to look like a booking photo.”

She raised her cell phone to take his picture. She’d need it for her stop at Dirty Monty’s. Someone might remember seeing him last night. After she got a reasonable likeness, she wanted to press him for more, but a loud knock interrupted their session. The on-duty cop opened the door, telling her what she already knew.

Her time with Harper was done. But as for his mystery blonde, Mandy “Desiree” Vincent—well, that was another story.

Given Harper’s word of warning about the dangerous world Desiree lived in, she’d have to come up with a backup plan to make sure she walked away with all her body parts. Jess knew what to expect, but she’d need more than that to face it.

South Side of Chicago
8:20
P.M.

Jess knew something about Desiree’s world because she lived on its fringes, one of many reasons she didn’t go alone. Her Colt Python made good company, plus she’d brought an unexpected surprise if she got cornered. Not being known for her subtlety, she firmly believed one thing.

Stun grenades made righteous icebreakers.

Englewood Police Station covered the 7th District, an area that ran north and south from 55th Street to 75th and west to east from the Penn Central Railroad to the Dan Ryan Expressway. The district had a vibe to it, even in daylight. But after dark, the place took on the razor’s edge of a war zone. Street gangs protected their turf—boundaries defined in spray paint—each vying for control of their slice of the shit heap. Its seedy underbelly sprouted from every sidewalk crack, reflected off every shard of glass strewn down murky alleys, and snaked like caustic smoke from every discarded cigarette tossed on the street.

She equated the ’hood to a hostile living thing that stirred when provoked. And tonight had given her more faith in that analogy.

Jess had started with those she knew and trusted, then eventually hit the danger zone, resorting to a flash of cash to get someone talking. A calculated risk. In the ’hood, money had a way of multiplying influence like a modern-day miracle of biblical proportions. Sure, it would get her noticed, but not always by the right people. She had wanted information bad enough to pay, and that meant someone else could barter for the flip side of that morsel. After all, everyone had to eat. But not all negotiations were about money.

Favors could get someone in tight with the local powers that be. Long after she’d gone and taken her meager bankroll, others more influential endured. Information was king in most places. The ’hood was no different.

She had spent a few hours working her street connections. But no matter how cautious she’d been in her search, she suspected the word had leaked that she was looking for Desiree. Cooperation had dried up, and things had gotten real quiet—the eerie dead calm found in the eye of a storm.

Dirty Monty’s would be her last stop of the night. By the time she’d get to the sleazy bar, it’d be in full swing. On her way there, she cruised the side streets around the bar looking for Harper’s ’65 Mustang, but came up empty. She made a mental note to try the crime-scene parking lot later—the last place she wanted to find his vehicle. Even though the cops probably weren’t looking for Harper’s Mustang, locating it at the scene of a grizzly murder would be another damning nail in his coffin.

So far tonight, she’d discovered nothing that would help Harper. And frustration closed in tight.

After she’d found a prime spot to park the blue van, a block down from Dirty Monty’s, she hoped her luck had changed, but that didn’t happen either. Not one waitress recalled seeing Harper, but a young bleached blonde shared her thoughts on what she’d like to do to the boy after seeing his photo on her phone.

“Thanks, honey,” Jess raised an eyebrow. “I’ll let him know. And just between you and me? Nothing says true love like a ball gag and paddle.”

Oblivious to her sarcasm, the woman grinned, but before she walked off to serve drinks, Jess asked, “I need to talk to one of the bartenders. Which one?”

The waitress pointed to one of the guys behind the bar. “Try Jake Cordell. He’s a prick, but he’s in charge.”

“They usually are.” She tossed a tip on the woman’s serving tray. “Thanks.”

Jess claimed a barstool nearest Cordell and started a conversation with him. At first, the stout spiky-haired man with a nose ring had no recollection of the night Seth had been there. The guy hardly looked at Harper’s digital photo when she held up her phone, but he kept up his end of the conversation as he served drinks.

“I see a lot of faces in a night. Sorry, lady. Don’t remember him.”

Money might jog his memory, but she opted for a cheaper tactic—lying.

“The kid got into a car accident leaving here,” she said. “I do investigative work for his insurance company. They hired me to look into his DUI. I’m only trying to save you the hassle.”

The bartender stopped and gave his full attention. “What hassle?”

“I’ve seen this before. A kid has too much to drink and everyone comes lookin’ for the guy who let him get that way. Insurance is one thing, but civil lawsuits can get real ugly, man. When they arrested him, his blood-alcohol level was off the scale.”

“No way, he only had a few beers.” The man’s memory suddenly became crystal clear. He tossed a wet rag onto the counter, ignoring a patron tinkling his raised glass for a refill. “And besides, he had a buddy take him home. I saw ’em leave.”

“What did this buddy look like?” she asked.

“Oh hell, I don’t know.” He nudged his head to the other bartender, getting him to handle the insistent man with the hoisted glass, and kept talking. “The only reason I remembered your guy in the photo was because he made a scene. He nearly passed out, but someone came forward to help. He acted like a friend, but I never got a good look at him. Last I seen ’em, they were headin’ out the door, and your guy was walking…sort of.”

“So according to you, he only had a few beers. Yet he almost pulled a face plant and needed assistance to walk? That doesn’t make sense. Which is it? Was he drunk or not?”

“Lady, I have no idea. I know what I served him. Maybe the kid had the flu.”

The bartender stepped aside to serve a drink, but he soon came back with more.

“I only remember one thing about the guy who hauled him out last night.” He raised his beefy arm, giving her a visual aid by pointing to his biceps. “He had a tattoo on his arm, right here. I never got a good look, but from a distance, it looked like something with a black curve to it. Maybe a letter or a snake.”

She pressed him for more, but the guy came up dry. A tattoo of a black curve—a letter or snake—was the best he could do. It wasn’t much, but more than she’d had.

“Do you know a woman named Desiree? Was she in last night when the kid was?”

Nose Ring Boy gave her the stink eye. Clearly she’d hit a nerve. At first, she wasn’t sure he’d answer. Eventually, he did.

“Yeah I know who she is, but that girl is seriously messed up. She sells it for crank. If she was here last night, I didn’t see her. Last time I saw her, I told her to beat it.”

“When was that?”

“Maybe a month ago. I caught her working outside, in front of the bar. She’d hit up guys as they left. And she’d settle business in an alley down the block. Blow and go.”

If what he’d told her was true, that meant Desiree might be freelancing, working without a pimp. No pimp would allow her to skim off enough to feed a habit. That would take low dollar and high volume, not a pretty picture and a real dangerous lifestyle. But the bartender avoided her eyes as he wiped down the bar. He was hiding something.

“Yeah, I can see how you’d be upset. Dirty Monty’s has such an upstanding reputation. A hooker would only spoil the ambience.” She cocked her head, letting him know she wasn’t buying any of it. “You mean she never gave you a piece of the action for letting her conduct business out front?”

The guy took in a heavy breath, still having trouble looking her in the eye.

“Look, I don’t begrudge anyone a livin’.” He lowered his voice even though the place was loud enough, staying out of earshot of those at the bar. “And I’m all for free enterprise. She came to me first. All she asked me to do was keep my mouth shut about what she was doin’.”

“For a piece of the action.” Jess pushed him to admit it.

“I never saw it that way. For me, she was only feedin’ the tip jar.” He rattled the nearby glass decanter, filled with dollar bills and coins.

Jess had enough of his smug attitude. She leaned closer, putting her elbows on the bar. “You ever take it out in trade?”

She’d hit another soft spot. Score one for the home team. He shut his eyes tight and shook his head, no doubt regretting having started the conversation.

“Yeah, from time to time, she’d do me for free. What about it? It was consensual. She said she couldn’t get enough of the old kielbasa.” He shrugged with a smirk. “Me? I chalked it up to quality control. The girl doesn’t look like much, but she has a lip-lock that makes your eyes water.”

Thankfully, he shifted gears. “But I started gettin’ complaints from the customers. Crank makes her crazy. Real paranoid. I was afraid someone might call the cops. And I knew if that bitch got hauled in, she’d spill her guts on anybody. And with our history, she’d drag me in out of spite.”

“Yeah, I can see how you’d be concerned, you being completely innocent and all.”

He shrugged again, ignoring her cynicism.

“Anyway, I kicked her ass out, and I hadn’t seen her back. End of story.” He pointed a finger at her. “I never did nothin’ illegal. She did me for free, and it’s her word against mine on anythin’ else. Who’d believe a crank whore?”

The jerk walked away, saying, “I gotta get back to work.”

Good move.
Jess had heard all she could stand from the arrogant ass. She questioned a couple more waitresses but came up empty. Time to call it a night.

With her ears ringing and her clothes smelling of smoke, Jess needed a breath of fresh air. She had a lot on her mind as she walked out the front door of Dirty Monty’s. How did Mandy Vincent turn into a pathetic street urchin named Desiree? And what connection did this woman have to Seth Harper? A part of her was scared to know the truth—the part with the nagging voice that questioned who Harper really was. He had too many secrets. And although she’d given him plenty of opportunity to speak up, he refused to share.

She reached for the car keys in her jean jacket, but as she headed for her van, a hulking man blocked her path, his ugly mug mercifully steeped in shadow. And another man, who looked Middle Eastern, leaned against a truck parked on the street, sucking on a cigarette. He tossed his smoke aside and joined the one who stood in her way.

Jess held her ground, assessing her options. She felt the weight of the Colt Python holstered under her jacket. But if she played her cards right, she wouldn’t have to use it. Her backup plan had more potential to bail her out. She slipped a hand into her pocket, taking hold of the M84 stun grenade.

If the guys were the Welcome Wagon for the block, she wanted to make a good first impression.

With a smile, she said, “If you boys hurry, you can still make karaoke hour.”

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