Broken

Broken

Matthew Storm

Copyright © 2013
Cranberry Lane Press

Follow Matthew on
Twitter: @mjstorm

This is a work of
fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does
not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

All rights reserved.

Cover art by Clarissa
Yeo.

No part of this book
may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form
without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of
copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only
authorized editions.

FOR JALANIE

Thank you.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Many thanks go to my friend Michele, who suffered through my early drafts.
I appreciate the help.

Chapter 1

I don’t know how long I
lay in my bed listening to the wind chimes before I realized they weren’t wind
chimes at all, but the sound of my doorbell ringing. Nobody had rung my
doorbell in quite some time and I’d forgotten what it sounded like. I didn’t
get a lot of visitors.

Who could
be at the door? A particularly aggressive bill collector, maybe? That was
awfully ambitious of them. It would also be fruitless. I didn’t have any money
in the house to give anyone, and there was very little anyone could threaten me
with anymore.

I considered
ignoring the bell, but the noise was interspersed with knocking now. Whoever
was out there was not going to give up. I groaned and looked over at my bedside
clock. It was 10:42 am. But on what day? The last day I had been aware of had
been Thursday, but my blackouts were getting longer and longer these days,
lasting upwards of a week sometimes. That made it hard to say for sure. Not
that it really mattered. I didn’t have a job and it wasn’t like I had any place
I needed to be.

The
doorbell rang again and I finally gave up. I hauled myself out of bed and
noticed that my legs were already beginning to tremble. That wasn’t a good sign
this early in the morning. A small glass tumbler sat on the bedside table, half
full of clear liquid. I reached for it and took a sip, hoping that I hadn’t
gone crazy during the night and poured myself a glass of water. It was vodka,
thank god. I downed the glass. The rush of alcohol hitting my stomach made me
choke, and then I had to spend a minute swallowing hard to suppress my gag
reflex to keep myself from throwing up. As long as I could keep it down, the
vodka would keep withdrawal at bay for a little while.

I’d
blacked out in street clothes, dirty jeans and an old t-shirt. At least I
didn’t need to get dressed. That would save me a minute of listening to that
damn doorbell. I frowned, noticing I was only wearing one tennis shoe. What had
happened to the other one? I pried the shoe off of my foot so I wouldn’t be
forced to limp around the house. I could find its mate later.

My
bedroom floor was a forest of empty vodka bottles littered with fast-food
wrappers I hadn’t bothered to throw away. I tended not to worry about trash
until insects started showing up in my house, and even then I was rarely sober
enough to worry about it all that much. I started for the bedroom door,
carefully picking my way through the mess. If I fell down in this condition, I
wasn’t going to be getting up again for quite a while.

The
living room was in no better shape than the bedroom. The piles of garbage were
bad enough, but worse was a sour smell that lingered in the air. It had to be something
rotting, or maybe I had vomited on the carpet recently and failed to clean it
up? That also would have done it. Later on I’d open a window up and get some fresh
air into the place. That would help, at least a little bit.

The
person outside was knocking again. “God damn it!” I snarled. The police
department had taken my gun away when they’d fired me, but I could find another
way to make whoever was out there wish they’d spent their morning bothering
somebody else.

I made
it to the door and opened it without bothering to look through the peephole. A
tall, grey-haired man stood on the other side. He wore a dark suit that had
never seen the rack and shoes that looked like they’d been shined two minutes
before he’d started ringing my bell. The man smiled pleasantly at me. “Nevada
James?”

“I gave
at the office,” I said.

A
puzzled expression crossed the man’s face. “Gave what?”

“Never
mind,” I said. I was never funny first thing in the morning. “What do you
want?”

“My name
is Chandler Emerson,” the man said, extending a hand to shake. It was difficult
not to notice his perfect manicure. He was definitely not a bill collector,
then. I didn’t offer him my hand, anyway. He held his own in the air for a
moment, then dropped it back to his side as casually as if he’d never made the
gesture.

“What do
you want?” I repeated.

“I
represent Alan…” he began, but then his face suddenly wrinkled and he took a
step back. The smell had hit him, then, either my own or whatever was stinking
up the inside of my house. I wasn’t sure when I had last changed clothes, but I
probably hadn’t showered in even longer. I didn’t much care how I smelled. It
wasn’t as if I had a social life. I only left the house for food and alcohol.

“You
were saying?” I asked.

Emerson
cleared his throat. “I was saying, I represent Alan Davies.” He looked at me
expectantly, as if I was supposed to be impressed with this information.

I
thought about it for a moment. I’d heard that name before, hadn’t I? Was it
someone I had borrowed money from? No, I’d probably be able to remember that.
But then I placed him. “Alan Davies? The Mafia guy?” What the hell could Alan
Davies possibly want with
me
?

Emerson
scowled. “Mr. Davies is a well-respected businessman, and scurrilous
accusations like that…”

“Oh, I
don’t give a shit,” I interrupted. “I’m not a cop anymore. You said you
represent him. You’re his lawyer?”

“Yes.”

“Why are
you here?”

I saw
Emerson’s lips tighten into a thin line. “Mr. Davies has a business proposition
he would like to discuss with you. I have come to convey you to his estate.”

I looked
toward the street and saw a black Lincoln Town Car parked at the curb. A
muscular man in a grey chauffeur’s uniform stood waiting next to an open rear
door. He even wore a jaunty little cap to complete the outfit, but I was more
interested in the bulge I could see in the left side of his jacket. He was
either carrying a pistol or his lunch under there, and he didn’t look all that
hungry.

“Some
people call,” I told Emerson.

“Mr.
Davies felt that would be impersonal, and asked me to come myself in order to
convey his respect for you.”

I
stifled a laugh. I had no idea what Alan Davies looked like, but it was hard
not to imagine Marlon Brando when Emerson talked like that. “So I’m supposed to
get in there and take a ride with you?” I asked.

“Indeed.”

I shook
my head. “Look, I don’t know what your boss is thinking, but I didn’t switch
teams when the cops fired me. I don’t do jobs for gangsters. Tell him to fuck
off.”

“The
proposition Mr. Davies wishes to discuss with you is entirely legal,” Emerson
said primly. “I can assure you that none of your ethics will be compromised.”

“Get
lost.” I started to close the door on him.

“Mr.
Davies will pay you ten thousand dollars simply to meet with him,” Emerson said
quickly.

I
hesitated for a moment, then opened the door again. “You’re serious?” I asked
him. “Ten grand?”

“Ten
thousand dollars,” Emerson repeated, looking annoyed. “Cash. If you don’t care
for what he has to say, you can walk away, and the money is yours to keep.”

“He’ll
let me just walk off with ten grand, and I don’t have to do anything but listen
to him? Why am I having trouble believing that?”

“He
gives you his solemn word.”

I thought
it over. Alan Davies’s solemn word didn’t mean a lot to me, but ten thousand
dollars would pay a lot of bills, and I was behind on my rent and…I was behind
on
everything
.

“He’s
wasting his time if he asks me to do anything illegal,” I said. “Don’t give me
that legitimate businessman shit.”

“Nothing
illegal,” Emerson said.

I
frowned. “He knows I didn’t work organized crime? If he wants to know what the
cops have on him, I have no idea, and I wouldn’t tell him even if I did.”

Emerson
opened his mouth and I could tell he was about to deny what Alan Davies did for
a living again. I cocked my head at him and he caught himself. “Mr. Davies
knows you were a homicide detective. He will not ask you for any information
with regards to your former employer.”

I shrugged.
“Fine. Let’s go.”

Emerson
pursed his lips, looking at me skeptically. “Perhaps you’d like to…”

“What?”

“Bathe?”
he suggested. “And change clothes, perhaps?”

I looked
down at my t-shirt. I really had been wearing it for quite a while. It was stained
with things I didn’t particularly want to think about. I should probably change
it before it rotted and fell off. Maybe I’d even stick it in the washing
machine. “All right,” I told Emerson. “You can wait out here.” Even if I had
been in the habit of inviting Mafia lawyers into my house, it probably would
have been a good idea to clean the place up a little first. I wasn’t sure
Emerson would have been able to handle the smell.

“I’ll
wait in the car,” Emerson said, looking just a bit relieved. “See you soon, Ms.
James.”

Chapter 2

We left my
small Ocean Beach house half an hour later and were quickly heading north on
I-5, away from San Diego. I’d showered and changed into another pair of jeans
and a t-shirt I’d chosen because it stank less than anything else lying on my
bedroom floor. I really did need to do laundry soon. Maybe I’d get really
ambitious and put away the clothes once they were clean. Well, I probably
wouldn’t, but it’s fun to pretend.

After a few minutes on the freeway I nodded off, waking
up only when I felt the car pull to a stop. We were at a tall metal security
gate in what could only have been an extremely upscale neighborhood. Our
chauffeur rolled down his window and spoke to a security guard who had walked
up to the car. This guard had a bulge under his jacket, as well. Another
concealed weapon, then, but his was bigger than the driver’s, and too bulky to
be an ordinary pistol. I wondered what he was carrying under there. Something
that could fire a lot of bullets in a short amount of time, I was guessing.

“Where are we?” I asked. My voice was scratchy and my
mouth tasted like something had crawled in there and died. I wished I’d
remembered to brush my teeth when I’d been cleaning up earlier, or at least
brought along some mints.

Emerson gave me a sidelong glance, barely concealed
disgust in his eyes. “Solana Beach.”

I knew the area, although I’d never spent much time up
here. Solana Beach was nestled on the Pacific coast between Del Mar and
Cardiff-by-the-Sea, about half an hour north of San Diego. Houses up here could
easily cost more than I’d have ever made in my entire career as a cop. It was
an area where movie stars and hedge fund managers lived. I wondered if any of
them knew they had a gangster for a neighbor.

“Drug business pays pretty good, huh?” I asked Emerson.

He glared at me. “Mr. Davies is not…” he stopped the
sentence short as I raised my eyebrows at him. “Never mind,” he said, looking
away.

I smirked. “Problem?”

Emerson looked back at me as the security gate rolled
open and we passed through. “I was given instructions to bring you to Mr.
Davies,” he explained. “If that hadn’t been the case, I would have left you
where I found you. This will be a short meeting. You’re clearly in no condition
to be of any use to anyone.”

He was right, of course, but I pouted anyway. “Aw,” I
said. “You don’t like me?”

“No.”

“I like
you
,” I said.

His eyes widened just a bit. “You do?”

“No,” I said. “Not really.”

Emerson sighed and went back to looking out the window.
“Waste of time,” he muttered to himself, just loudly enough for me to hear.

Alan Davies lived in a white Greek Revival house,
although
house
didn’t seem like the right word in this case.
Monstrosity
would have been better. It was of a type that had been popular in the 1980’s
among people who had too much money and far too little taste, although I’d
never seen the design carried out on this scale before. It was easily the
biggest house I had ever seen, and probably cost more than a mid-sized
Gulfstream jet.

“Good
god
,” I marveled at it. “How many rooms are
in that thing?”

Emerson allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.
“Forty-seven. It’s impressive, isn’t it?”

“I was going to say
grotesque,
but that’s close
enough.”

He sniffed. “I wouldn’t expect you to have any
experience of the finer things, having had to make do on your police officer’s
salary.”

I looked over at him. “I hope I don’t remember my police
officer’s training,” I said. “I might start asking questions about where your
boss got the money to pay for that thing.”

Emerson turned to me, anger flashing in his eyes. He
opened his mouth to speak but I cut him off before he could start. “Fucking
threaten me,” I said. My voice had an edge in it I hadn’t heard in quite some
time, and I was secretly pleased that I could still summon it when I wanted it.
“Do it. You’ve read the papers. You know all about me. What do you think I’ll
do to you?”

I could tell he was thinking about it, but he looked
into my eyes and didn’t like what he saw there. Few people did. He shut his
mouth. I thought about taunting him a little more, but I held my tongue. It
wasn’t his fault I’d been waking up on the wrong side of the bed for the last
three years.

The driveway ran in a circle around a large marble
fountain that I’d have been tempted to throw a handful of change into, if I’d
had any change with me. Our chauffeur parked the town car at the point in the
driveway closest to the mansion’s front doors. Emerson got out of the car as
the chauffeur came around and held my door open for me. I wished I’d brought
sunglasses along. It was a bright, cloudless day, and while I was well past the
point in my drinking of waking up with hangovers, the sunlight didn’t feel
good. It made me feel like a vampire caught in the center of a football field
at noon.

I hauled myself out of the car and took stock of my
surroundings. I could see at least six armed guards patrolling the grounds.
Each carried an MP5 submachine gun. I was no expert on assault weapons but I
recognized those easily. The MP5 was one of the most popular guns in the world,
at least among militaries and law enforcement agencies. They were also highly
illegal in California, unless the laws had been changed in the last few years.
I hadn’t really been paying attention, to be honest.

“Looks like you’re expecting someone to storm the
place,” I said. “You think someone is going to try and reenact the end of
Scarface
up here?”

“One can never be too careful, Ms. James,” Emerson said.
“This way, please.” I was disappointed that he hadn’t said “walk this way” so
I’d have had an excuse to imitate him. I was even more disappointed when he
began walking toward a gazebo located in the center of an immaculate lawn about
fifty yards away.

“We’re not going into the house?” I asked. Aside from
getting out of the sun, I’d been hoping for a chance to make fun of Davies’s
furniture. God only knew what kind of crap he had in there.

Emerson looked at me as if I’d suggested we drag a dead
goat into the foyer together. “We are not,” he said. “Mr. Davies is this way.”

I wasn’t thrilled about the walk but I followed as
Emerson led me across the lawn. I had enough booze in my system to keep the
shakes at bay, but my legs were unsteady and this was more exertion than I was
accustomed to in the morning. When we were halfway to the gazebo I felt myself
starting to sweat, and I knew it wasn’t from the heat.

A round glass table sat in the center of the gazebo with
places set for two people. An assortment of pastries and fruit had been laid
out, but I was more interested in the crystal pitcher and two champagne glasses
I saw. They looked to be filled with orange juice, and if I was lucky,
champagne.

A man in his forties with thick salt and pepper hair
stood next to the table. He was solidly built but not fat, with a barrel chest
and a weight lifter’s arms. He wore shorts that went down to his knees and a
Tommy Bahama shirt.
Island lifestyles for the casual drug lord
, I
thought.

He extended his hand as I stepped into the gazebo. “Alan
Davies,” he smiled. “Thank you for coming, Ms. James.”

I ignored his hand. “Ten thousand dollars gets you a
meeting,” I said. “That’s it.”

He withdrew his hand but the warm smile stayed on his
face. “Won’t you sit down?” he made a sweeping gesture at the table.

I sat, reaching for the champagne glass closest to me.
As I’d hoped, it was a mimosa. I downed half of it in one swallow and sighed in
contentment. Either it was very good champagne, or I’d desperately needed it.
Probably a little of both. “Where’s the money?” I asked.

Davies sat down across from me, nodding at a leather
briefcase adjacent to the table. “Ten thousand dollars, as promised. Would you
like to count it before we begin?”

I chuckled. “You must be out of your damn mind,” I told
Davies. “Ten grand to sit here with you? Why did you call me up here?”

“I have a problem,” he said, sipping his own mimosa. “I
was told that you might be able to help me with it.”

“Oh, yeah? Who told you that?”

“Dan Evans.”

That got my attention. Dan was a captain in the San
Diego Police Department’s homicide division. He had been my boss back when I
was a detective, and he was quite possibly my only friend. I hadn’t seen him in
quite a while, though. The last time we’d spoken…well, the last time we’d
spoken I’d threatened to kill him if I ever saw him again. I had been roaring
drunk at the time, but that wasn’t much of an excuse for the way I’d behaved.

“Won’t you eat something?” Davies asked. “The fruit came
from the farmer’s market this morning. Please, help yourself.”

I had no idea when I’d eaten last, but these days I had
trouble keeping anything solid down for long. My drinking problem doubled as a
pretty effective weight-loss plan. “I’m fine,” I said. “How do you know Dan? I
would think gangsters and cops don’t generally travel in the same social
circles.”

Emerson, who had taken a standing position a few feet
behind his boss, stiffened visibly at the “gangster” comment, but Davies didn’t
flinch. “We grew up in the same neighborhood in El Cajon.”

“You’re kidding me?” Dan had never mentioned that when
we’d been on the force together, but I supposed it wasn’t quite the same thing
as saying you went to high school with Bono or Barack Obama.

“We weren’t especially close,” Davies said. “Don’t get
me wrong. But I always thought he was a good man and when I went to him for
help, he gave me your name.”

“He
recommended
me? Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“Then he was fucking with you,” I said. “You may not
have noticed this, but,” I held up my glass so he could see it and then downed
the second half of my mimosa as he watched. “I’m in no condition to help
anyone,” I finished.

“You’re very frank,” he mused as I refilled my glass
from the pitcher on the table. The mimosas were great, but I failed to see the
need for all the orange juice. It was just wasting space in the glass.

“That’s because I don’t give a shit anymore,” I said.

Davies studied my face. “Your confrontation with the
Laughing Man was…”

I pointed at him. “Don’t ever say that name to me.”

He nodded. “Excuse me, then. Your last case was the
subject of much media interest, of course, as was your subsequent breakdown and
dismissal from the police force. I knew all of that. Dan told me that things
had…
deteriorated
…for you since then. I admit he didn’t tell me it was…”
he motioned at my half-empty second mimosa. “He didn’t say it was that bad.”

“It’s even worse than you think,” I told him, nodding at
Chandler Emerson. The lawyer had been smirking quietly at me. “Ask
him
what I looked like when he came to pick me up.”

Davies glanced back at Emerson, who shook his head
slowly, the smirk still on his face. “This has been the most expensive waste of
time of your life,” I informed Davies. “I do like the mimosas, though. Thanks.”

Davies sighed and ate a strawberry, chewing it slowly as
he thought. I knew he’d heard the stories about me. Nevada James, youngest woman
ever to make detective in the SDPD. Nevada James, who cracked every case she
was given. Nevada James, who had gone one-on-one with the Laughing Man, the
most notorious serial killer in San Diego’s history…and lost. Nevada James, who
had been committed to a mental hospital, and who had been too unstable to keep
her job once she was released. What on earth had Davies expected to find, I
wondered. A hungry detective out to redeem herself? He must watch a lot of
television. I almost felt sorry for the naïve twit.

I suppose I should have felt sorry for
me
, but
the alcohol helped with that.

“Dan Evans tells me you are the finest investigator he
has ever met,” Davies said.

I shrugged. “I’m modest, but yeah. I was.” I frowned
thoughtfully. “Oh, I guess that wasn’t very modest at all, was it?”

“My wife and daughter are missing,” Davies said
abruptly.

I nearly spilled my second mimosa. “Jesus Christ,” I
laughed. “Are you serious with this?”

“Yes,” Davies said firmly.

I shook my head. “Look, you need to call the police, or
the FBI, or, I don’t know…” I motioned towards one of the armed guards he had
patrolling the grounds. “Get your goons on it.”

“
Goons
?”

“Do you people not say
goons
anymore?” I asked.

“Not since Prohibition.”

“Oh.”

“I think you know I can’t go to law enforcement,” he
continued. “And as for getting my people involved…well, for all I know this
isn’t even a problem.”

“How long have they been missing?”

“Ten days.”

I stared at him. “Then how could it possibly not be a
problem?”

“My wife and I are separated. She has her own condo in
La Jolla. We share custody of Anna.”

“Okay.”

“Often when my wife…
wants
something…” he
struggled to find the right words. “She can be prone to dramatic gestures.”

“Oh, really?”

“I would not be surprised if this were one of them.”
Davies spread his hands apart. “We had been arguing about money. She has very
likely taken Anna and checked into a hotel for a few days to make a point.”

“That sounds like something women do,” I nodded. “I’m
always going and checking into hotels at the first thing. I order a shitload of
room service, too.”