Last Call - A Thriller (Jacqueline "Jack" Daniels Mysteries Book 10) (19 page)

Phin figured twenty to one was about right. Kiler was big enough to be a professional wrestler, and unlike the other dozen or so men who were locked up in this hellhole, he seemed to actually be enjoying himself. On his cheek, under his right eye, were nine tattooed tears. Jailhouse tats. Each one represented a man Kiler had killed.

Or
kiled
.

“What’s your name, punk?” Kiler asked.

Phin knew better than to antagonize the gigantic psychopath that he’d eventually wind up having to fight, but his mood had been soured by being rudely awoken.

“Sheldon Liebowitz,” Phin said.

“That some kinda Jew name? I hate Jews. Hate them even worse than the stinky spics in this dump. You a Jew?”

“Half Jewish, half African-American,” Phin said. “My middle name is Tupac.”

Kiler unleashed a tirade of hate speech, which wasn’t as narrow-minded as Phin expected because his word usage was so limited.

When the large man finally calmed down, Phin said, “You spelled
killer
wrong on your stomach.”

“What?”

Phin figured Kiler never knew that, because no one ever had the guts to tell him to his face.

“Killer is spelled with two Ls, dummy.”

“No it ain’t.”

“Double L. They must have kicked you out of grammar school before you learned that.”

“I wasn’t kicked out,” Kiler said. “I just didn’t wanna go no more.”

“You should have stayed. Because that’s not all that’s wrong. That swastika on your neck is facing the wrong way. The way you’ve got it says you hate Nazis.”

Kiler’s eyes widened. “Does not.”

“You know how an upside down cross means you’re a Satanist? A backwards swastika means you think all men are equal.”

Kiler touched his neck. “That ain’t true! Take it back!”

“You know it’s true,” Phin said. “You claim you hate Jews, but you told me yourself that you want to have sex with me. In front of the whole arena. You’re obviously a Jew-lover. I bet you want to move to Israel.”

Kiler stretched his enormous arms through the bars, his biceps so big they almost didn’t fit, in an effort to reach Phin.

“Dead! You’re dead, Jew boy!”

As Kiler screamed in rage, Phin closed his eyes and tried to focus on Jack’s face. The tilt of her chin. The curve of her cheeks. The smile lines around her eyes. He remembered a night, not long after Samantha had been born, holding her at three in the morning to stop her from crying, Jack taking the baby from him just as Sam threw up all over her. Jack passed her back to Phin and she puked again. They both began laughing so hard they started to cry.

Phin had resolved himself to dying, years ago when he’d been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. The cancer was now in remission, but Phin no longer had the ability to look death in the face and spit in its eye. He wanted to get old with the woman he loved. He wanted to see his daughter grow up. He’d gotten a second chance.

Now he wanted a third one.

The guard came in, short and Mexican and smelling of Old Spice, and read off a clipboard in Spanglish.

“Número diecisiete…”

Seventeen. That was Phin.

“Y doce.”

Twelve.

Phin thought he knew who that was. Some college kid, built like a football player.

His cell door opened.

For some odd reason, Phin thought about the wedding ring he’d given his wife. The inscription inside the band.

For forever and beyond.

When Phin had written that, he’d meant that his love for Jack would outlive him.

Mexico was doing its damnedest to test that hypothesis.

“Ándale, puto!”

The leg shackles were removed, and then Phin was shoved roughly from behind. He still had his handcuffs on—heavy, rusty chains that had rubbed the skin on his wrists raw. As he was marched through the cell hallway, a machinegun at his back, the chains bumped against his broken ribs, causing a spike of pain with every step.

He was right. It was the football kid.

Phin beat him to death with an aluminum baseball bat, then tried and failed to find redemption in a six pack of warm beer as Kiler cursed at him.

T
he six-year old climbed to the top of the slide and looked to see if her parents were watching.

They weren’t. Daddy was yelling at Mommy, waving his hands around and using bad words. Mommy had that mean look; the kind she had when Lucy spilled juice on the carpet.

They were fighting about Lucy. Mommy didn’t like it that Daddy loved her more than he loved Mommy.

Lucy looked around the playground. There were some kids on the swings, and one on the green springy horse. No one was paying any attention to her.

She reached into her shorts and gently took out the frog she’d found by the pond. It wiggled, its long legs kicking out. The frog’s skin was still moist, and it smelled funny.

“Do you want to watch me go down the slide, Mr. Frog?”

The frog didn’t answer.

“How about we both go down?”

Lucy sat down, carefully cupped the animal in her hands, and anticlimactically slid to the ground. When she stood up, she checked to see if Mr. Frog was still safe.

He was.

“Was that fun, Mr. Frog? Want to do it again?”

The frog didn’t seem to care one way or the other. Lucy wondered if he might want to do something else instead.

“Are you hungry, Mr. Frog? Want something to eat?”

Lucy walked over to the sandbox, looking for bugs. She couldn’t find any. But she did find a bottle cap.

“Finish it, or you’re getting a spanking,” she ordered Mr. Frog.

Lucy used her thumb to push it all the way in, and the sharp edges came out of Mr. Frog’s belly, which bled all over her hands.

The blood made Mr. Frog smell soooooo much better.

When the frog stopped moving, Lucy dug a hole in the sand and buried him.

“Now you’re with your family,” she said, pushing sand over Mr. Frog’s body. The Lucy Garden Paradise Memorial Frog Cemetery contained six other frog corpses. But, unknown to Lucy, none of them were actually related. And one was actually a toad, not a frog.

But they all smelled good when they bled.

“Hello, Lucy.”

Lucy looked up, and saw a woman standing next to her.

“Hello.”

The woman was thin, and wore big sunglasses that covered most of her face.

“I saw what you did to that frog. How did it make you feel?”

“I dunno.”

“Did it make you feel happy?”

Lucy didn’t answer.

“Sometimes, when we hurt inside, we do things to feel better. Do you hurt inside, Lucy?”

Lucy shook her head.

“Never?”

“It hurts when I get spanked.”

“Do you get spanked a lot?”

Lucy nodded.

“For doing bad things?”

“I spill my juice sometimes. And I put Jarvis in the oven. I got spanked for that.”

“Jarvis is your cat?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did Jarvis die?”

“No. He just made a lot of noise and Mommy let him out and spanked me.”

“Was the oven on?”

“No,” Lucy said.

“Did you want to turn it on?”

“I couldn’t reach the knob.”

“You’re not big enough, yet.” The woman smiled. “But you will be, someday. You’ll grow up big and strong and never let anyone hurt you ever again.”

“What’s your name?”

“I’m your mommy, Lucy.”

That didn’t make any sense. “You’re not Mommy.”

“I’m your real mommy. Those people adopted you when you were just a baby. I had to give you away. But one day we’ll be together again. Would you like that?”

“You want to see Mr. Frog? I put him in a hole.”

“I wish I could, sweetie. But I have to go. Maybe next time. When the time is right, I’ll come for you, Lucy. I’ve been watching you for years. One day, we’re going to be a family again.”

Lucy began to dig up Mr. Frog. When she pulled him out of the sand, the woman was gone.

I
t felt good to get away from the pig.

They’d rolled into KC after sunset. Katie, Jack, and Tequila had gotten rooms at a Holiday Inn Express on Rainbow Boulevard, while Harry McGlade and Herb Bacondict drove off in search of a place to park and spend the night. Which would be uncomfortable for McGlade, because Herb had eaten his mattress.

Tequila went straight to the hotel gym. Katie suggested to Jack that they take a walk, maybe find a bar, but the ex-cop preferred instead to stay in her room and scour the Internet for anything related to Luther Kite.

Which was fine with Katie. She’d been fruitlessly searching for Luther for a long time, and she’d sought out Jack Daniels because the woman had a knack for tracking down psychopaths. Let the cop do her thing.

Katie needed some alone time anyway. She grabbed her backpack and ventured out into the night.

After a sub sandwich at a local shop, Katie wound up at a nondescript neighborhood tavern called Mike Kelly’s Westsider that didn’t seem worth her time. She almost walked past, but the sounds of live music gave Katie hope the place would have a diverse crowd. Katie paid a five dollar cover and went in.

The band was a trio, and the lanky lead singer had longish, gray hair and a voice like butter. Katie found a stool at the bar, ordered a Maker’s Mark neat, and sipped it while listening to a rock song about—of all things—the Dutch painter Jan Vermeer. It was an upbeat tune, there were a few people dancing, Katie found herself tapping her foot to the beat. When it was finished, the next song was something quieter, slower. Katie assumed it was a love song, until she started paying attention to the words.

“I scratch my name into your mirror,” he crooned. “I burn my face into your eyes.”

No. That wasn’t love. That was something else. Something eerie.

She continued to listen, and realized the song was about a predator. Someone who had harmed another person so badly it caused a scar that could never heal, and an unwelcome bond between abuser and victim.

Katie raised the bourbon to her lips and clinked the glass against her teeth.

Her hand was shaking.

She managed to set it down without spilling any, threw a tenner on the bar, and went to the ladies’ room, the lyric “Do not relax, you’re not alone,” following her inside.

At the sink she ran some cool water and wet her hands, then rubbed her face.

“Lock it down,” she told herself.

But rather than lock it down, her stomach rolled and she threw up the bourbon. Katie was spitting the last of it into the drain just as a woman came in.

“Tough night, honey?” she asked, standing next to Katie and applying red lip gloss.

Katie appraised her. She was in her late forties or early fifties, hair teased beyond any measure of beauty, crammed into a skirt that screamed
bar skank
.

“I’m new in town.” She put on what she knew was a pathetic smile. “I just really need to get fixed up. Any ideas?”

The woman stopped applying make-up long enough to lock eyes with Katie.
Fixed up
was a phrase that sounded innocent to the uninitiated, but was obvious to others. Depending on this lady’s past, she might understand Katie’s intent, or try to set her up with her second cousin.

“I don’t do that anymore,” the woman said.

Katie didn’t have to fake desperation; her yearning was honest. “I heard about Troost Avenue. East of Troost. Can I go there?”

“You should stick with booze. They pour an honest shot here. Music is great. Cute thing like you should be able to find some sweetheart for the night.”

“I don’t need a sweetheart. I need this.” Katie didn’t try to control her shaking. “Please.”

“Mess your life up with that shit,” the woman said.

“It’s my life.”
And it’s already messed up,
Katie thought.

The woman shrugged, as if deciding it wasn’t her problem. “Whatever. Troost isn’t good anymore. There’s a pawn shop on Independence. You can score around there. But that’s a bad area. Shouldn’t go alone.”

Katie mumbled a thank you and left the bathroom and the bar, music following her back out into the street. She headed west, found a fast food joint, and called a taxi from the toilet stall.