Devil With a Gun (9 page)

Fifteen

The driver rolls past
The Russian Tea House and I notice the place is packed. From the few tables I can see through the lace-draped windows, most of the clientele appear to be older gentlemen with a penchant for moustaches, tailored finery, and escorting much, much younger women.

“Father-daughter night at the tea house?” I ask the driver, who introduced himself as Detective Russell Shaw. Before getting in the car, I asked to see his badge just to make sure it wasn't made of cardboard and crayon.

Dixie's Tips #15:
Just because a police officer looks like a high school hall monitor doesn't mean that we ladies are getting older. Men use moisturizer now, too. We're still young and gorgeous.

Shaw smiles. “I had to observe that place for three weeks last year. Every night is like that except Thursdays.”

“What happens on Thursdays?” I ask, intrigued.

“The same men come, but with their wives. There are so many mink shawls and coats that I kept worrying some PETA fanatics would show up with buckets of red paint.”

I picture it in my mind. Scantily clad vegans throwing fake blood over spouses of the Russian mob. It wouldn't be any animal's skin they'd have to worry about after that.

We turn left at the next intersection and head down a few blocks to where the neighborhood starts to shed some of its old-world charm in favor of modern survival. Shaw pulls to the curb and points to a nearby alley.

“Detective Sergeant Fury's down there,” he says.

I look around at the absence of streetlights and police activity, the bars and metal shutters on the store windows, and the unnerving stillness of it all. It's like everyone is huddled indoors in expectance of a storm. Had I missed the weather warning?

“This isn't a crime scene?” I ask, figuring that's the usual reason Frank calls me after the sun goes down.

“It is, but the sergeant wants it kept low-key for now.”

I study the deserted street and the yawning mouth of the dark alley. After the day I've had, I'm not in the mood for any more surprises.

“Er—not to sound too girly, but are you planning to escort me down there?”

Shaw flashes a smile and his teeth are like bleached corn nibblets on a summer's day. I wonder if he tastes of salt and butter, but then quickly blink the thought away. He must be ten years my junior. But then again …

“It wouldn't be gentlemanly not to,” he says.

“That's what I was thinking.”

I climb out of the car and breathe in the night air. Somebody's boiling cabbage or old socks nearby, and a neighbor has burned a frying pan of ground beef and onions. The air also carries the scent of fresh rain and soggy garbage left too long between pickups.

It makes me think it's been too long since I left the city and went for a walk in old-growth forest where the oxygen is so thick you can almost slice off a piece and slip it into your pocket for later.

I make a mental note to do something about that soon.

“This way, Ms. Flynn,” says Shaw.

He's slipped on a blue rain jacket with
SFPD
printed in yellow on the back. For some reason, the jacket makes me feel better.

I follow him into the alley.

Halfway down the brick-sided and puddle-strewn corridor, Frank is standing over a blue tarp that's being lit by two battery-operated lights on aluminum tripods. His car blocks the far end of the alley and several long strands of crime scene tape are strewn on the ground.

I point at the discarded yellow tape. “Trying to stop the cockroaches from gawking?”

Frank's lips twitch. “Just the media,” he says.

“Most of us stand erect now,” I say. “Evolution.”

“Hmmm. Who knew?”

“Guess the tape didn't stick,” says Shaw. “Sorry, sir. I'll fix that.”

“String it at each end,” says Frank. “Coroner's on her way over. Make it look nice and official.”

I smile as I glide over to stand beside him. “I'm surprised Ruth's not already here,” I say. “Tittle tattle says you've been spending a lot of time together.”

“Never listen to gossip.”

“Normally, I wouldn't, but this was pillow talk.” I grin wickedly as Frank's eyebrows arch upward. “My pillow,” I say teasingly, before adding, “but I was talking to myself
.
”

Frank's lips practically do a rumba as he shakes his head. “We enjoy each other's company,” he admits, “but we also need our own space. She's still Audrey Hepburn, while I prefer John Wayne.”

“Now there's a surprise.”

Frank snorts and nods toward the tarp. “Aren't you going to unwrap your present?”

“For me? You shouldn't have.”

“I want to see if you know him.”

The smile leaves my face as I read the seriousness in Frank's. This isn't about tipping me off to a story.

Bending down, I take a deep breath and reach for the corner of the tarp.

“Prepare yourself,” says Frank. “It ain't nowhere near pretty.”

I've developed a fairly strong stomach from covering grizzly crime scenes over the last decade or so. Admittedly, the first few haunted my dreams—especially the burnings and the smell, each stage of decomposition so different—but over time even olfactory memory can fade.

I lift the tarp and make a noise halfway between a squeal and a gasp.

“Jeez, Frank, what the hell is that?”

“Look at his wrists.”

I lift the tarp higher and look down at the body's wrists. His arms end in bloody stumps. I return to the deformed head and see that what I first thought was some kind of alien sea creature bursting out of his stretched mouth is actually both of his hands, bound together with twine and stuffed, wrist first, down his throat. Bloodless blue fingers crawl out of his mouth, while the force needed to lodge them there has broken and distended the man's jaw.

“He was holding this in his fingers.”

I drop the tarp and turn to see Frank holding a plastic evidence bag containing one of my business cards. Disturbingly, a circular burn has removed most of the picture of my face.

“He was really holding that?” I ask.

“It was sticking out between his fingers. We were meant to see it.”

“And the body was here?” I ask. “Just lying in the open? Not stuffed in a dumpster or anything?”

Franks nods.

“How did you discover it?” I ask.

“Anonymous tip.”

“Convenient.”

“Do you know him?” Franks asks.

Despite my repulsion, I lift the tarp again to exam the body in more detail. Even in its altered state, it's not an easy face to forget. And if I look past the crisscross of scars and melted lip, the stench of rot wafting from his black fingertips is a dead giveaway.

“
How
do you know him?” Frank asks, reading my body language.

“He tried to kill me.”

“What?” Frank's voice is tight, angry. “When?”

“This afternoon,” I say. “After … ” I pause and wince.

“After you went to meet Krasnyi Lebed?”

“Yes,” I admit. “I know you told me not to, but—”

“Start from the beginning,” Frank growls.

“But just so we're clear: you know I didn't do this, right?”

Frank's eyes crinkle. “It doesn't fit your usual MO.”

“Maybe we could go for a drink,” I say as a shiver runs through me. “The Dog House or—”

“I need to wait for Ruth. Tell me here.”

I stand and wrap my arms across my chest in a self-comforting hug. The night is colder than I'm dressed for, and I suddenly feel so incredibly tired. I wish I smoked cigarettes just for something to do with my hands.

“You don't have a cigar do you?” I ask.

Occasionally, Frank and I smoke a cigar while strolling homeward after a late evening of beers and bullshit at the Dog House. Frank introduced me to this brand from the Dominican Republic called Macanudo Maduro that is dark leafed, wet, and smooth with subtle caramel undertones.

No wonder I have trouble getting a date.

“Quit stallin'
,
” says Frank.

I sigh and tell him the whole story, ending with the Good Samaritan who came to my rescue by cracking the Russian's skull with a piece of lumber. I pull my collar to one side to show him the bruising.

“These marks will match his fingers,” I say.

“You should've called me.”

“I know, but I was just relieved to get away. Who knew he'd end up dead in an alley?”

“And the guy who stepped in to help you?”

“Took off before I did. I have no idea who he was.”

“Cutting off the hands is a message,” says Frank. “I'm just not sure who it's directed at.”

“But whoever killed him wanted me to know about it?” I say. “That's why he left my card.”

“Yeah, but if the message is meant to let you know that this guy won't be laying his hands on anyone else, then why burn your face off the card?”

I wince. “That
is
unsettling.”

“It could be both an apology and a warning in one, but I've never seen the like.”

The young detective returns from stringing a line of tape across both entrances to the alley and says, “Coroner just pulled up.”

Frank tilts his chin toward me. “You need Ruth to take a look at those bruises?”

I shake off the suggestion. “I'm fine. Nothing a bath and a good mattress can't fix.”

“Go home, then. I'll be in touch when I know more. And if you think of anything else—”

“I'll call. Promise.”

“You better.” He turns to Shaw. “Take her home and then come straight back. It's time to get this circus started.”

Sixteen

The Painted Lady is
quiet when young Detective Shaw drops me out front. Both Mrs. Pennell's and Mr. French's apartments are in darkness, as are the two apartments on the top floor. In the middle, however, lights are glowing. I take it as a hopeful sign that my reluctant guest has stayed put.

I didn't mention Roxanne to Frank because I don't want him thinking that I'm involved even more than he already knows. One butchered corpse is enough for him to be concerned about without adding angry Polish sailors, unconscious Russian henchmen, and the reluctant abduction of a prostitute to the mix.

I tell myself that I'm being thoughtful.

When I enter the lobby, Mrs. Pennell's door creaks open and she pokes her head through the gap. Her hair is wrapped in baby blue curlers and she's draped in a flowery nightgown that reaches almost to the ankles of her compression stockings and sensible rubber-soled slippers.

“Oh, hello, dear,” she says. “I hoped it was you. Kristy said you had gone out again. Long day?”

I nod and smile, not wanting to get corralled into a long conversation.

“I left a note on your door earlier, did you see it?”

I blanch. “Sorry, I completely forgot. It's been one of those crazy days. Did you need something?”

“Not to worry, dear. It's just a package that was dropped off for you. I took it inside because the man said it shouldn't be left unattended.”

Curious. I'm not expecting anything. “What kind of package?” I ask.

“A box wrapped in brown paper.” She holds out her hands to indicate its approximate width. “Little bit heavy and doesn't rattle. Not that I was shaking it, of course.”

“When was this?”

“This afternoon.”

I have no idea what it can be, and a shiver of paranoia makes
stiletto-heeled ants march down my spine. Had my handless Russian been missing any other parts? Or … I think of my card gripped in his fingers with my face burned off.

“Did you recognize the delivery man?” I ask.

“No, but he was older than usual. Normally they're young men on bicycles with their hats on backward and smelling of marijuana, but this man was more like one of their dads.”

Panic rises, but I try to keep it out of my voice. “Did he have an accent? Russian maybe?”

“Not that I noticed.”

“Do you still have the package?”

“I took it upstairs when I thought you were home, but you weren't there again. Kristy answered the door though and said she'd leave it on the counter for you. I hope that's alright?”

I attempt a smile. “That's just fine, Mrs. Pennell. Thanks for taking care of it.”

“Any time. You sleep tight now.”

“You, too.”

As soon as Mrs. Pennell closes her door, I rush up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

I push open the apartment door and take in the room. Kristy and Sam are cuddling on the couch with Prince Marmalade nestled on Kristy's lap. His purrs are vibrating like a subwoofer set on happy.

The door to my bedroom is open and I see Roxanne and Bailey sitting on my bed. They've both been crying.

A brown paper–wrapped package sits on the kitchen counter. Undisturbed. Innocent in its plainness.

“You OK, Dix?” Sam asks. “You look pale.”

I point at the package. “Anything about that look suspicious?”

“There was no address on it,” says Kristy. “Just your name … ” Her eyes widen and she stands up. “But it's not ticking or anything, if that's what you mean.”

Sam stands up beside her and slightly forward, protective. “Er, is there something we should know?”

I cross the room to examine the package. I sniff the paper, but it smells simply of paper. There's no lingering petroleum smell of crude explosive—nor of fresh human blood or decomposing flesh.

I place my ear close to it and listen. Everything is quiet. I reach down to my boot, pull out my knife, and flick open the blade.

Kristy pulls Sam down behind the couch. “Tell us if we need to run,” she says.

Prince, thinking it's a game, rubs his furry body across Sam's and Kristy's faces, purr increasing in volume.

Being careful to look for hidden wires, I slice open one end of the brown packaging and carefully peel back the folds. There is a blue plastic box inside.

I open the other end and unwrap the paper to fully expose the box. Only it's not a box. It has a foldaway handle. It's a protective case, and I recognize it.

Two snaps hold it closed.

I unsnap the latches and carefully open the lid.

Inside, nestled in custom-cut foam, is a gleaming Smith & Wesson Governor handgun, two boxes of ammo, a trigger lock, and a bore snake for keeping the barrel clean. Resting on top is one of Frank's business cards. I flip the card over and read:
Happy Birthday. I know even you must have one—Frank
.

“What is it?” asks Kristy. “Is it safe? Can we get up now?”

I laugh to release the tension and lift the gun from its cushioned rest.

“Sorry,” I say over my shoulder. “Paranoia. It's a present from Frank that he didn't tell me he was sending.”

“But you thought it was, what? A bomb,” asks Sam. “What kind of story are you into now?”

I turn around and show them the gun. “Obviously one that has Frank a little worried about my safety.”

Sam holds up her hands in shock. “You're not
keeping
it are you?”

“Of course I am. It's a lovely gesture. I was shooting one at the range earlier today and—”

Sam shakes her head. “I don't like guns, and I don't like the idea of you having one. More people in this country are killed from their own guns turned against them than other people's.” She heads for the door. “I don't want it here.”

“I'll get a gun safe,” I say. “And I'm being properly trained.”

“Come on, Kristy,” Sam calls. “We're not staying.”

“Sam,” I call after her. “I promise I'll get a proper safe. Tomorrow.”

Sam stops at the door and holds out her hand until Kristy arrives to take it. Her eyes lock onto mine and there is an anger there that I've never seen before.

“Until you do,” she bristles, “and that weapon is locked inside it, we won't be back.”

“But, Sam—”

She holds up her free hand again to stop me. “I can't be any clearer, Dix. Good night.”

They pull the door closed behind them as I replace the gun in its case.

“Problem?” asks Bailey as she appears in the bedroom doorway.

I close the gun case and snap the latches before turning to her.

“They're tired,” I say. “It's been a long day for everyone.”

Unexpectedly, Bailey rushes forward and wraps me in a lung-deflating hug.

“I can't thank you enough for getting my sister out of that place,” she says. “I was so … ” She struggles to find the word; to admit it to herself. “So scared, I guess. How did you do it?”

“I had help.”

Bailey releases me and looks into my eyes. “They'll come for her though, won't they?”

“Eventually,” I agree. “But they'll need to negotiate. They don't want the publicity that I can bring down on them, and now they can't hide her away. All we need is the price of her freedom.”

“And what will that be?” Bailey asks.

“I don't know.”

“Money?”

I shake my head. “The Red Swan has little need of money from the likes of us.”

Bailey pales. “Then what?”

I shrug. “I think your father is the key. If he's alive, he must know some valuable secrets that have kept him that way.”

“And if he's dead?”

“Then we'll think of something else.”

Bailey blinks away a spattering of tears. “I'm sorry I got you in-volved in all this.”

“You didn't.” I smile. “I jumped in with both clumsy feet and splashed half the water out of the pool like the baby hippo that I am.”

Bailey wipes her eyes and laughs. “Hippo?” she asks. “I think
you're
a swan.”

“Then clearly you are over-tired,” I say. “Why don't you and Roxanne spend the night in my room? I'll crash on the sofa and we'll make a fresh plan in the morning.”

“Are you sure?”

“I insist.”

Bailey wraps me in another hug before returning to the bedroom and gently closing the door.

Alone, I bring the gun case over to the coffee table and open it again. The Governor feels good in my hand, solid weight and comfortable grip. I open the boxes of ammunition and load it in an alternating pattern of one shotgun shell and one .45 until all six chambers are filled.

I make sure the safety is on, a matter that can be confusing for gun virgins because there is no visual indicator to say the gun is safe. It's only when you flick the thumb safety off that a painted red dot
appears to let you know the gun is ready to fire. That's why gun instructors tell you, “Red means dead.” I slip the Governor under the arm cushion that I'll be using as my pillow.

From the hall closet, I grab a spare blanket, strip down to my underwear, and eat a few mouthfuls of peanut butter out of the jar until my eyelids become heavy and my mouth too lazy to chew.

Prince jumps onto the couch and curls his furry body around my butt as I succumb to the dark, hoping I can bypass REM and sink blissfully into dreamless oblivion.

Pity it's to be so short-lived.