Night Kills (33 page)

The tin container flew from his hand and slid beneath the stall door.

Maria tried to pick it up in time but missed, fell down herself, and crawled into the stall.

There it is! Behind the toilet bowl! There!

As her hand closed around the tin container, she felt the leather guy's hand close around her right ankle. He had the grip of a man who'd spent thousands of hours squeezing motorcycle handlebars.

Maria clasped the container with one hand, and the edge of the stall door with the other. She managed to haul herself up to a standing position, but he still had her ankle.

The leather guy was lying on his back and had his mace-burned eyes clenched closed. There were tears streaming down his beefy face. He wasn't about to let go of her. Maria was glad to know he couldn't see her. She had a fighting chance.

Maintaining her grip on the steel door so she wouldn't lose her balance, she raised her left foot high and came down on his hand with the four-inch stiletto heel.

No reaction.

Again! Harder!

He yelped and released his grip on her ankle. The narrow tip of the heel had penetrated the web of flesh between his thumb and forefinger so deep that when he'd yanked his hand back it had almost pulled off her shoe. He was holding his injured hand in tight to his body, as if trying to stanch the bleeding. Still lying on his back, he began kicking out blindly with both feet, hoping one of his heavy boots would find her.

Maria stayed in the stall out of range and chose precisely the right time to dash past him. One of his flailing legs barely missed her. He was screaming now, but probably no one could hear him upstairs over the din of voices and the loud thudding of the amplified heartbeat.

Her attacker was swiveling on the floor like a crazed break-dancer, wasting his time now kicking at the opposite wall. She knew she'd made it. Edging from the restroom, she leaned down and said, “Asshole,” between his screams. Making sure it was loud enough for him to hear.

Immediately he zeroed in on her voice and brought his huge body around on the tiles.

So graceful for such a big man.

As she left, he kicked the door shut after her.

She'd been down there too long. It was a worry.

Officer Nancy Weaver, seated at the bar in Billy G's, glanced at her watch. The new Madeline had been downstairs in the restroom for almost fifteen minutes. It wasn't the kind of place where anyone stayed a second longer than was necessary.

Weaver had made a trip to the restrooms herself and knew there was no way out of the building other than to come back upstairs. But no one had done that except for the somewhat alarmed-looking man who'd apparently gone downstairs and then immediately turned around and come back up.

Weaver knew there were a lot of things that could instantly repel someone from a restroom in a place like this. Still, the expression on the man's face stayed with her. Probably it had nothing to do with the new Madeline. Probably.

It was the long time Madeline was spending down there that bothered Weaver. She—

A commotion at the other end of the bar drew her attention. She heard the word
police
several times. She strained forward over her drink to see into the back bar mirror.

Great! Just what I need.

It looked like undercovers from the narcotics squad were making a collar. They had the guys in black leather lined up braced against the bar while they frisked them. One of the undercovers, a skinny guy with wildly spiked hair—who'd made an earlier buy Weaver had witnessed—had his 9mm stuck in one of the leather creeps' ear.

Movement caught her eye to the left. The new Madeline had just come back upstairs. She saw what was happening down the bar and froze at the top of the steps, looking terrified.

She had good reason. The expression on her face was already drawing attention. The way she was dressed was holding it.

Weaver had to make a decision. She knew it was one that could make or break a career.

It took her only a few seconds to decide that becoming identifiable to Madeline was preferable to Madeline being scooped up in a drug raid.

This had to be fast and smooth. One of the cops was already walking over to shut down the music. Everybody in the place would be subject to at least a cursory questioning or body search.

She slid down off her stool, noticing that Madeline's eyes were already exploring, looking for a way out. She'd never make it. At the least she'd be suspected of prostitution, possibly taken in. Weaver herself was dressed kind of sexy, taking advantage of her plainclothes role, and might be accosted and have to show her shield.

She approached Madeline and clutched her elbow. “I'm your friend. Follow me.”

Madeline stared at her with surprisingly calm, appraising eyes.

“Like I've got a choice,” she said.

Weaver led her diagonally across the dance floor toward the front exit, where a couple of uniforms were now standing. She kept her left hand on Madeline's elbow. Cupped in her right was her shield. She'd need a little luck, but she might be able to get clear of Billy G's without Madeline discovering she was a cop.

They made it past the leather types being braced. The two big uniforms at the door were both staring at them. Why wouldn't they? A couple of ladies dressed for heavy action about to walk out on a drug raid. If nothing else, they'd be fun to search. Weaver thought she knew one of the uniforms slightly and hoped he wouldn't recognize her right away.

He smiled, but not at her. “Couple of working girls trying to slip away,” he said.

The other cop, who looked like a kid still, with his baby fat and trying to grow a mustache, stepped toward them.

Weaver shifted her body, holding her palm down near her hip and turning it out so the uniform could see the badge. He stopped, gave a hard look at the shield, then at Weaver. She gave him a hard look back and winked. No dummy, the child cop. He glanced at his partner, then moved toward him.

He was whispering to his partner as Weaver led Madeline out the door. The other cop, the one Weaver knew, was staring at her. She could see he recognized her now, but he said nothing.

She and Madeline were clear, out in the warm night, which felt cool after the body-packed Billy G's. Weaver held on to Madeline's elbow as they walked fast, Weaver leading. She could feel that she was stronger than the taller woman, and in better condition. Or maybe the difference was the wobbly high heels. Madeline was beginning to huff and puff.

A block down, Madeline suddenly yanked her elbow away and stopped.

“That was close,” Weaver said, thinking Madeline would figure her for a hooker who thought she, Madeline, was a sister prostitute who'd been working the bar at Billy G's.

“Sure was,” Madeline said. “Thanks for the help. We walked right past those dumb cops at the door.”

“Took them by surprise,” Weaver said, faking a giggle. “Stunned them with our beauty.”

She thought maybe they'd share a good laugh together, two losers temporarily on top. Bond a bit. Now that Madeline had seen her and would recognize her, maybe it would be a good idea to gain her confidence. Quinn would understand why Weaver had to act fast and get Madeline out of the club; maybe he'd want to take advantage of what had happened in some way, though at the moment Weaver couldn't figure how. What she wanted was to turn a piece of bad luck into something good.

Madeline wasn't having any. Without cracking a smile, still breathing hard, she unzipped the little black purse she was clutching and reached into it. “Let me give you something.”

Weaver thought she might be getting out money, offering her something for helping her out of Billy G's. “Listen, you don't have to do that, honey. Really.”

“I insist. You saved my ass in there.”

“Sisters gotta stick together.”

Madeline drew from her purse a small cylinder and extended it toward Weaver's face. Her thumb was on top pressing down.

An instant after Weaver recognized it as a mace container the fine spray hit her in the eyes and blinded her.
Jesus!
She desperately swatted out with her right hand to knock the mace bomb away, but it was too late. Her fingertips barely brushed Madeline's stiffened arm and didn't move it. Weaver tried to breathe but couldn't. As she started to choke and swipe at her eyes, Madeline shoved her to the sidewalk.

Ouch!
The back of her head bumped hard on concrete. Pain flared behind her eyes and she heard herself gasp.

The sudden involuntary intake of air at least cleared her nasal passages, but only temporarily. Her eyes were on fire.

I'll kill her! Kill the rotten bitch!

Not that she was in a position to kill anyone.

She experimented and found that she could breathe out without choking. In was harder.

Weaver started to get up but fell back. A pulsing ache began in her right knee. She must have landed on it before flipping onto her back.

Kill her…

Lying blinded and in pain on the damp concrete, coughing and wheezing, she distinctly heard the brittle
clack, clack, clack
of Madeline's ridiculous high-heeled shoes moving away.

Mace. Some goddamned gratitude!

She was still trying to breathe and knuckle the chemical from her burning eyes when she felt rather than heard someone step over her and hurry on.

Tonight was going to be different.

As he walked, Greeve thought about how tailing Weaver had paid off. Two days ago she'd led Greeve to the building where the woman he now knew as Madeline Scott lived. Greeve hadn't known her name at first, but it was simple enough to find out she was the reason why Weaver was watching the building. An hour had passed, and then Scott emerged and Weaver fell in behind her.

What to do but join in?

It was fun being the caboose on the train. Scott, Weaver, Greeve. He thought Weaver was pretty good at her work.

Scott returned carrying a newspaper and some magazines. Weaver was nowhere in sight. But Greeve knew she was there.

Same thing had happened the next evening; Scott emerged from her building and Weaver appeared from a doorway across the street and tailed her.

That time Greeve didn't follow them. He waited until they returned about half an hour later. It looked as if Scott had only gone down to the corner deli for some takeout food. Weaver took up her post again when Scott entered the building.

Greeve watched the windows to see which lights came on.

Third floor east.

A later check of the mailboxes in the vestibule, when Weaver wasn't around, established that M. Scott was the tenant of that apartment. Greeve inserted a pen with a clip into the grilled front of the box and skillfully snagged a thin piece of mail and rolled it up on the pen. He withdrew it without damaging it. The piece of mail was an ad inviting Madeline Scott to open a free checking account at a nearby bank. Now he knew where M. Scott lived and knew her full name.

He inserted the undamaged mail back in the box and smiled.

Detective work. Greeve was so good at it, sometimes it amused him.

 

Tonight was different, all right. The usually sedately dressed Madeline Scott was something when she emerged from her apartment building. She was dressed like a hooker. Maybe she
was
a hooker. All Greeve really knew about her was that Quinn and his team were interested in her. And with those high heels, she had a helluva wiggle. He skillfully followed Weaver, who was tailing Madeline. Greeve loved this kind of thing.

After a short cab ride, Madeline walked from dive to dive, usually not spending much time inside. She seemed to be searching for someone. Or something. Greeve followed the two women into one of the clubs, an S&M place that was divided into cubicles. They were in there about ten minutes; then it was off again on the hunt.

He stayed outside of Billy G's. He'd been there before and knew the layout and figured the odds were too great that Weaver might notice him if he ventured inside.

From across the street, he watched the drug raid go down, wondering what that was all about, if it had anything to do with Madeline or Weaver. There was no way to know. A place like Billy G's might be raided frequently. He smiled, wondering if Madeline would be taken in as a prostitute. The way she was dressed, she shouldn't be surprised. He could imagine her being escorted to the police van parked down the block, and then climbing up into the back in that short skirt.

He was the one who was surprised when Weaver came out the door dragging Madeline along by the elbow.

What the hell's this all about?

At first he thought Weaver might be taking Madeline in. But they turned the wrong direction for that, away from the police van. He watched as the two women hurried down the block, and then he casually crossed the street to fall in behind them.

Behind them was a good place to be. It was something watching Madeline walk in those high heels. Weaver…she was worth watching, too.

They stopped, and Madeline yanked her arm free of Weaver's grip. They stood close to each other talking. The conversation seemed amiable, but the body language was all wrong. Greeve knew he was looking at two people who were wary of each other. Then Madeline reached into her purse and fished something out.

At first Greeve thought she might be drawing a gun, but it appeared that her fist was clenched around nothing—or something very small. She stuck her fist up close to the surprised Weaver's face, and instantly a fine mist became visible in the glow from a nearby streetlight.

Tear gas or mace.

Madeline used both hands to push Weaver to the sidewalk. Then she broke into a fast walk, clacking along in her high heels. After about ten feet she stumbled and almost fell. She bent gracefully and removed the stiletto-heeled shoes. With a quick glance back at Weaver, Madeline broke into a run, carrying her shoes as her nylon-stockinged feet hit the pavement. The whole thing had taken about ten seconds.

Shit!

Greeve didn't like anything resembling an outright pursuit, but he had to stay close to Madeline. He broke into a brisk jog, his gaze fixed on the pale action of Madeline's legs flashing in the shadows up ahead. She could really run, without those high heels. Thanks to the tight skirt inhibiting her leg movement, he thought he'd be able to stay with her.

When he reached where Weaver lay on the sidewalk, she was still gagging and coughing. Her eyes were swollen and unseeing. She hadn't had time to close them or turn away. She was clutching her gut and trying to catch her breath. Whatever she'd been sprayed with, tear gas or mace, she must have breathed in plenty of it.

He stepped over her and kept going.