Racing the Devil Page 5

  The Judicial Commissioner set bail at two million dollars.

  The pronouncement was like a fist to the gut. I guess I was lucky he’d set bail at all. But I would have to come up with ten percent plus twenty-five dollars, if I could even convince a bail bondsman to take a chance on me, and two hundred thousand dollars was a lot of money.

  A lot of money I didn’t have.

  If I had somehow managed to come up with the cash, and if I could find a bail bondsman willing to guarantee me for two million dollars if I skipped, I could have walked out of the courtroom a relatively free man. Since I didn’t have it, the Judicial Commissioner set a date for jail docket, and a balding man whose swollen belly strained at the buttons of his uniform led me out of the courtroom through a side door.

  Before the door shut behind me, I heard Randall’s voice call after me. “Don’t worry, Little Buddy. We’ll get you out real soon.”

  I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN what was coming next.

  The only thing worse than being an ex-cop in jail is being a suspected child molester in jail.

  By the time I realized I was being taken to the common dormitory and not the private cell they usually reserved for high-risk types, I was already there.

  “I think there’s been a mistake,” I started, though I didn’t want to come right out and tell him why I needed protection from the general population. Not there in front of a bunch of guys who would want to skin me and make gloves from my hide.

  “Sure, buddy.” The guard, whose nametag read Hal Meacham, swung the cell door open. “That’s what they all say.”

  “Look, can we just—?”

  He fingered his baton. “You can just get your sorry ass in there, is what we can do. Hey, fellas, guess what’s for dinner. Chicken hawk.”

  At the name, slang for pedophile, every head in the cell turned to face me. For a moment, I knew what a fox must feel like just before the hounds tear it apart.

  Meacham gave a hard shove to the center of my back, and I stumbled inside.

  The door clanged shut behind me, and I backed up against it and looked around.

  “Hey,” drawled one of my cellmates, a potbellied good ol’ boy with a ruddy complexion made ruddier by a web of broken capillaries.

  Shelly, I remembered, my heart sinking. Ryfert Shelly. I could see in his face that he remembered me too.

  “I know that boy,” said Shelly. “That boy’s a cop.”

  A smaller man who looked to be in his fifties swaggered closer. He smelled of old beer and stale cigarettes, and when he spoke, his breath was foul and fetid with decay. I reckoned he would be toothless in a couple of years. “A cop and a chicken hawk?” He poked me in the chest with one bony finger. “That so?”

  “No.”

  “He’s lyin’, Fish. I remember him. He busted me and Roley once.”

  Fish blinked once, slow and somehow menacing. “I don’t like liars, boy.”

  “I’m not a cop anymore.”

  “Mm.” Fish gave his companions an exaggerated wink. “You know what they say. Once a cop, always a cop.”

  A Latino with a pencil-thin mustache glowered at me. “And once a cabron, always a cabron.”

  Fish grinned broadly. “You know what I think? I think we ought to give our new friend a proper welcome. How about it, pretty boy? You up for a blanket party?”

  “Nah.” I’d heard of blanket parties, but I had no desire to experience one. “I’m all partied out.”

  “Tough shit. I’m givin’ you a personal invitation.” He laughed and walked back to his bunk.

  The Latino leaned in and whispered, “Everybody got to sleep sometime. You better sleep with one eye open, malparido.”

  For the rest of the day, they pointedly ignored me. I knew the reprieve was temporary, but took the time to stake out a bunk and familiarize myself with my surroundings.

  The cell was dank and crowded with a metal sink and toilet, and a concrete tank in the center of the floor for the drunks to throw up in. The stained mattresses stank of urine. Above one of the bunks, someone had scrawled, For a good time, call Martha Stewart.

  I sat cross-legged on my bunk and tried to sort out who was who and who fell where in the pecking order.

  In addition to Shelly and Fish, whose real name was James Roy Breem, my cellmates were a penny ante crackhead by the name of Tyrone Majors, a career thug named LeQuintus, and the Latino, a chop shop mechanic named Jorge Ramirez. LeQuintus, in for assault with a deadly weapon, looked like he could have taken the top three places in a Musclemania competition all by himself.

  Shelly and Breem were also in for assault. They’d beaten up a black man with a chain, and it was clear that by the time I joined this happy little family, there had been more than a little friction and a few blows passed between the white boys and the black boys in this cell.

  It must have been a relief for them to discover a common enemy who just happened to be me.

  That night, lying on the too-thin, lumpy mattress, I fought to keep my eyes from closing. It wasn’t hard at first. Anxiety and adrenaline kept me awake, with some help from the bare light bulb in the hallway that shone in my eyes. But as the night wore on, anxiety gave way to exhaustion. My eyelids fluttered, snapped open, closed. I jerked myself awake, swung my legs over the edge of the bunk, and listened to the snores and heavy breathing of my cellmates.

  Were they asleep, or faking? Some of each, I thought, but that was just an educated guess.

  I must have dozed off at some point, because I awoke with a start as a musty-smelling blanket fell across my face. Rough hands hauled me out of the bunk. My head struck the metal bed frame, and a sharp wet pain pierced my scalp.

  “Shit!” I jerked one arm free, and the blanket slipped enough to show a flash of orange jumpsuit before the cloth was yanked roughly across my face. “Motherfu—”

  I sucked in a moldy breath, coughed and gasped at what felt like a dried leaf caught in my windpipe.

  Then a painful bear hug pinned my arms to my sides. Someone else’s arms snaked around my knees and lifted, held me suspended above the floor while I bucked and flailed against a flurry of kicks and punches that rained against my belly, back, and sides.

  The blanket muffled my curses, but I knew the guard could hear the ruckus. I also knew he’d take his own sweet time getting there.

  I bunched my knees and kicked out with both feet. My range of motion was limited by whoever had me by the legs, but I managed to connect with something.

  “Oof! Shit!” It sounded like Tyrone. With my arms clamped to my sides, I couldn’t do much in the way of self-defense, so I jerked my head back sharply, hoping to smash someone’s nose cartilage into his brain.

  “Ow!” The one behind me howled and loosened his grip. My tailbone hit the concrete floor, and a jolt of pain shot through my pelvis. Somewhere down the hall, a door clanged open. At the sound, my cellmates scattered. I lay there for a moment, stunned. Then with my arms free at last, I struggled to untangle myself from the blanket.

  By the time the guard got there, I had freed myself, and my cellmates were back on their cots. My lip was swollen, and blood streamed from my mouth and nose. The hair at the top of my head was tacky with it. My body ached, but nothing felt broken. Not much, anyway.

  “Okay, buddy.” Officer Meacham sounded bored. “Who did this to you?”

  I waved a hand to indicate my cellmates. “They threw a blanket over my head and beat the hell out of me.”

  “Did you see which ones were involved?”

  “How could I see that, with a blanket over my head?”

  “No need to get smart with me, boy. There’s nothing I can do, if you didn’t see who did it.”

  “Sure. That’s why they do it that way. Because it works.”

  He shrugged and handed me a handkerchief. “Hey. You can’t do the time, don’t do the crime,” he quoted. “Baretta. Early seventies.”

  When he had gone, I turned back to my cellmates.

  “Okay, fel
las. Have you got your meanness out, or am I gonna have to beat the shit out of you?”

  The one called Fish sat up and grinned. A trickle of blood flowed from one nostril, and his crooked yellow teeth were tinged with red.

  “You? Beat the shit out of us? I’d like to see that. I really would.”

  I shrugged. “I’ll take on any or all of you. But let’s keep this fair, okay? You’ve already done this the chicken shit way. At least give me a fighting chance.”

  I wasn’t entirely bluffing. I knew I’d be hurt if I had to fight them all, but I was good enough to hurt at least a couple of them first. It might be just enough to earn a little respect.

  “You calling me chicken shit?” Fish’s rheumy eyes narrowed.

  “Five men ambush one man in his sleep. What would you call it?”

  He tapped his forehead with his forefinger. “I’d call it smart. But I tell you what. If you can take LeQuintus . . .” He gestured toward the massively muscled black man. “Then we’ll lay off you for a while. Course, ain’t nobody never beat LeQuintus.”

  LeQuintus flashed a set of laser-white teeth and flexed his muscles. “Damn straight.”

  LeQuintus looked like he ate baby ducks for breakfast and hand grenades for lunch. This was a man who’d skin the Easter Bunny for Sunday dinner. Oh, well. I hadn’t expected them to make this easy. At least I wouldn’t have to deal with all of them at once this time. Not if they played fair.

  I know. Only a fool would have expected them to play fair.

  “Okay,” I said. “Piece of cake.”

  “Hell,” LeQuintus said. “Maybe I’ll fuck you before I kill you.”

  “What’s the matter, LeQuintus? Not into necrophilia?”

  He looked blank for a moment, then cracked a smile. “Naw. I like to feel ‘em squirm.”

  “Now there’s a lovely image,” I said, grinning. Then, firmly believing that the best defense is a good offense, I caught him squarely in the solar plexus with the most beautiful spin kick you will ever see.

  I didn’t give him time to catch his balance or his breath before I followed up with a back-fist to the side of his head and a palm strike to the chin.

  His head snapped back and he reeled sideways, his eyes already glazed. He threw a weak punch, but I dodged the blow and came up under his guard with a spear hand to the throat.

  He gagged and wheezed for breath, his fingers opening and closing like a kitten kneading at its mother’s teat.

  In the movies, this is where I would have punched his lights out with my fist. In real life, that will get you broken knuckles or a sprained wrist. The bones of the hand are fragile and unstable compared to the hard, flat planes of the skull, and I suspected that LeQuintus had a head as hard as granite and about as dense.

  I could have killed him with a palm-heel strike to the bottom of the nose. I knew the technique, but I had never used it.

  In twelve years of police work and another year as a private eye, I’d never killed anyone. I didn’t want to start now.

  Instead, I came down with an axe kick to the back of his head and stepped back, hands up in a guarding position, waiting to see if he was stupid enough to get up and try again.

  I heard Tyrone move before I saw him. Instinctively, I struck out with my left leg. It sent him stumbling back against the bunk, where his head struck the metal bed frame with an ominous crack. He howled in pain and surprise, clutching at the back of his head.

  “Shit, man! You done broke my skull.”

  “Good.” I stepped over his outstretched leg and spun so my back was to the bars. If they all charged me, no one could move in from behind.

  Whistles, cheers, and catcalls poured from the other cells.

  “You go, dude!”

  “Pansies!”

  “Wassamatter? He too much for you?”

  “Sooo-eeee! Sooo-eeee!”

  “This little piggy went to prison!”

  I looked at Breem. “You said if I took LeQuintus, you’d leave me alone.”

  He shrugged. “Looks like I lied.”

  They moved in silently, my death in their eyes. I felt a surge of adrenaline and a twinge of something that might have been fear.

  “Your funeral,” I said.

  And they were on me.

  OKAY, ASSHOLES, break it up.”

  I looked up through a bloody blur and saw Frank pitch Shelly aside like a paper doll. Two guards pulled Ramirez and Breem away and held them at bay with their nightsticks. Meacham, looking sullen, blocked the exit.

  Maybe it wasn’t my day to die, after all.

  “You okay?” Frank grabbed my collar and hauled me to my feet.

  I put out a hand to steady myself against the bars. “Still breathing.”

  “Good.”

  I opened my mouth to thank him, but he held up a hand and said, “Don’t. I didn’t come here for conversation.”

  “What did you come here for?”

  “Apparently, to save your life. Don’t make me regret it.” He turned away and pushed past Meacham. “Put him in a private cell, Officer. And no ‘mistakes’ this time.”

  Meacham scowled. “Looks like someone’s got a guardian angel.” He hauled me into the hallway, shoved me into my new cell, and slammed the door behind me. Leaning close to the bars, he said, “Tell your buddy I don’t care what he does to me. It was worth it.”

  I wanted to punch him until there was nothing left of his smirk but shards of bone and shreds of bloody flesh. Instead, I gave him my Cool Hand Luke stare until he looked away. Then I stretched out on my new bunk and pretended to sleep. The voices from the other cells subsided, and eventually I dozed, waking every few hours to listen for the rustle of a blanket or the scuff of footsteps on the cell floor.

  Breakfast was cold oatmeal, powdered eggs, and shriveled strips of blackened bacon, after which I spent the morning counting cracks in the ceiling and feeling sorry for myself. My eyes were swollen to slits and crusted with blood. It hurt to move. It even hurt to breathe. If LeQuintus and the boys ever decided to go straight, I figured they could get jobs as meat tenderizers.

  It was Friday before the guard on duty came to tell me my bond had been paid, my preliminary hearing had been set for the next week, and a Randall McKean was here to take me home.

  As we passed the cell where I’d begun my odyssey, I noticed a stocky, bald man passing out Bibles to the prisoners. An angry red scar trailed from just beneath his left eye to the corner of his mouth. There was something familiar about him. I rifled through my mental files and came up empty.

  “Who’s that?” I asked the guard.

  He glanced over into the cell. “Name’s Reverend Avery. That woman you killed went to his church.” He gave a dry laugh. “Maybe she should’ve listened a little closer, huh? Especially the part about ‘thou shalt not commit adultery.’ ”

  I paused to peer more closely at the reverend. Clean-shaven. Ruddy complexion. Rolls of fat bulging on either side of the belt he’d buckled too tightly around his waist. His girlish mouth wore a smug smile.

  A feeling of revulsion coiled into the pit of my stomach.

  “I think I know him,” I said.

  “Seen his picture on your windshield, probably. You know, those religious flyers about how the Pope’s the anti-Christ and Madonna is the whore of Babylon.” He nudged me again. “You want to stick around and gab, I’ll be happy to throw away the key.”

  “No. I’m going.”

  LeQuintus looked up and broke away from the group. I was glad there were still bars between us. “It ain’t over with you and me, Cop. That Kung Fu shit ain’t gonna help you next time.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” I made a mental note to get another gun. You know the old saying: Don’t take a knife to a gunfight. I’d probably never see LeQuintus again, but I had a feeling that if I ever did, that advice would come in handy.

  I CROSSED THE PARKING LOT in Randall’s wake, noticed him limping, and said, “Knee bothering you again?”

/>   “Not again,” he said. “Still. It’s worse some days than others. Want to tell me how you got yourself into this mess?”

  I sighed and rubbed my eyes. “I’ve told this story so many times I feel like a damn tape recorder.”

  “Well, hit rewind and tell it again.”

  I started with meeting Heather at the First Edition Bar and Grill on Friday night. When I’d finished, he blew out a long breath and shook his head. “Women. You haven’t picked a good one since Maria. I still can’t believe you let her go.”

  I stared past my reflection in the window, remembering my first meeting with Maria. I could still see the flash of her tanned legs as she fanned her long white skirt, her dark hair pulled up in a careless ponytail, her pursed lips, the tiny furrow between her brows as she bent to inspect one of the hand-tinted prints she’d brought to the craft fair at Centennial Park.

  I was in college, one month shy of my twentieth birthday and working part-time for a man whose handcrafted dulcimers were on display in the tent next to Maria’s.

  Best assignment of my life.

  She was four years older than I was, which always bothered her. But she was beautiful then, and she was beautiful now. I suspected she’d be beautiful when she had silver hair and wrinkles.

  I looked back at Randall and said, “You can’t cage a hummingbird.”

  “That’s a load of bull. She wasn’t the one who couldn’t be caged.” He shot me an annoyed look. “And stop that drumming.”

  I froze, hands poised above the dashboard. His bobblehead Superman, fraternal twin to the Batman on mine, gave an approving nod. Slowly, pointedly, I placed my palms flat on my thighs and said, “You’re mad at me. I get the point. But what I don’t get is why. I didn’t kill that woman. And as far as Maria goes, I’m not the one who ended it.”

  “She put up twenty thousand dollars of your bond. She and D.W. You know that?”

  “No. I didn’t know.”

  “Maria asked him, and D.W. coughed up the money. No questions asked. They must have liquidated half their assets.”

  “And the rest?”

  “Besides what your lawyer got out of your accounts? Wendy and I took out a second mortgage on the house. Jay cashed in some stocks he had. Some of the guys on the force chipped in a little. Guys you used to work with. Even a couple of your clients. A hundred here, a couple thousand there. We’ve been raising the money since Sunday night.”