Heat Page 6
aka Criminal
Tonight, dinner.
My reply is again short and to the point.
No.
aka Criminal
I’ll pick you up at seven.
My growl is louder than the one Gomez gave me. If Moon thinks I’ll be here at seven, he’s insane. Am I running away? Damn straight and that pisses me off even more. I don’t run away from trouble, I run toward it. But this trouble is of an entirely different nature. It’s colossal trouble with a capital T.
I hit the shower again. This is what we do in the Valley of the Sun. We cool down in a shower at least twice a day and sometimes more. Hitting the pool counts too. Practically everyone has their own swimming pool or access to one. I plan to work out this afternoon after I’ve finished the business with Penny Dandridge, and I’ll shower again before I go to bed. I also have some phone calls to make regarding another case. This one is embezzlement, and no matter how much I hate math, I’ll take on anything and enjoy it more than finding out who’s screwing whom. I haven’t even had a good “Sancho” case recently. It’s all been men cheating on their wives. I’ve become so jaded, and I’m positive that the entire married male population is having sex outside their wedding vows.
I have exactly two cases right now. After I give Penny her pictures, I’ll have one. I dread what needs to be done next, but I have little choice. I’ll go by Terry Lewis’ office to see if he has anything for me. Just the thought turns my empty stomach upside down. Terry Lewis is the epitome of scumbag defense attorney, and going to his office, where he sits behind his behemoth desk in his slimy suit with his greasy hair and slender pointy stick fingers, makes me sick.
Even with thoughts of Terry fresh on my mind, I eat a bowl of cereal and drink two glasses of water before I e-mail Penny. I include the best picture of Harry with his dick swallowed whole and inform her I have the others on a thumb drive. I also mention that Harry was picked up by some goons for a prostitute he roughed up. I do not name the goons or Moon. Penny replies instantly. She’s packing her things while Harry is at the hospital having his broken fingers examined. Apparently she dropped him at the local medical center this morning and high-tailed it home. I’ll find out why he didn’t go to the hospital last night when I see her.
I guess if you knock around one of Moon’s prostitutes, your fingers mysteriously break. I also figure it’s better than dead. I have absolutely no sympathy for Dandridge. Maybe he’ll lose all desire to knock anyone around.
Penny is meeting me at Starbucks in an hour. I have just enough time to go by Terry’s office, or Terry the Fairy as I call him. From the way Terry stares at my tits and the rumors of all the women he’s been caught having sex with, I doubt he’s gay. It’s the color of his polyester suits and effeminate nature that gives him the nickname. Truth—Terry gives gay men a bad rep, and they don’t want to claim him either. The last time I saw Terry, he was wearing lime green. Where do you even find a suit in lime green?
I head out to Sally minus one cell phone. I’ll be damned if I carry Moon’s phone around. I have no idea what keeps me from throwing it in the outside dumpster.
I’m dressed in beige BDU trousers, a light blue tee, and my old police boots. My gun is attached to my belt and my cell, wallet, and the thumb drive for Penny are in the mid-thigh pocket. BDUs are the greatest carry-all trousers ever designed; I have seven pairs in assorted colors.
It’s nine in the morning and it’s already hotter than hell. The only good thing is during the early part of the day, Sally is parked in the shade. She’s still warm inside, but not the blistering burn I’ll deal with after visiting Terry’s office. I’m thankful that I can buckle up without squirming to avoid the hot metal of the seat belt.
Sally’s engine turns over without a gargle or choke. She actually purrs. Sally does not purr. Ever. So why, at this very moment, does her engine sound like a different car? I turn on the air conditioner and cold air filters through the vents. Not oscillating fan, barely cool air. No, this is downright chilly. This happens within sixty seconds.
I turn off the engine, march back into my apartment, and go straight to Moon’s phone. I angrily press the only name in the damn phone’s contacts.
I get three beeps for my trouble. No answer, no answering message asking me to leave a name and number. Three stupid beeps. “I don’t know if you will hear my message or not. Either way, I don’t appreciate whatever you did to my car. I owe you nothing. I will not be indebted to criminal drug and gun-running scum. You get me?”
I press the End button and turn on my kick ass cop boot-heels and head outside. If that message doesn’t give Moon a clue that I will not be a part of whatever game he’s playing, then he’s cracked in the head. I will not think about the possibility that my mouth and temper could land me in a six-foot hole. I’ve given up on the cement idea. A deep watery grave is more Moon’s style, or maybe he’ll have me drawn and quartered for speaking to him that way. I have a gun and I can take care of myself. He needs to back off and leave me the hell alone.
I start Sally up again, turn on her air, and pull onto Cactus Road heading east to I-17 south. I then take Dunlap east to 7th Avenue, turn left and backtrack north to Hatcher. It’s the quickest route. Terry the Fairy’s office is off Hatcher on the side of a strip mall in Sunnyslope’s Wendell Police District. It’s how I know Terry. This is the district I worked. There are some decent areas in Sunnyslope, but it’s mostly known for its eclectic crazies. I say eclectic because where else can you find a large community of homeless individuals with animal companions. Not just dogs either. Mama Kane has a goat and Cucumber Bill has a desert tortoise who loves Big Macs. Big, the desert tortoise, weighs about twenty-five pounds and should be an herbivore. Not Big, though he does eat some vegetables. It’s a McDonald’s Big Mac that gets his beak, or whatever you call his giant jaws, munching.
After I graduated the academy, I was thrilled about being sent to the Sunnyslope area for my field training. Sunnyslope sees lots of action, and every new cop wants the adrenaline rush that comes with busy shifts. After I passed my field training requirements, I never left, at least not until I was forced to retire.
Usually when I come this way, I bring a few treats for my animal friends. Today, I don’t have time. I’ll make time in the next few days and hit all the old haunts. What I will not do is drop by the station. I am no longer wanted there, which hurts.
I pull into the parking lot of Terry’s building and drive around to the side. As a cop, I hated Terry. He was the dirtbag lawyer who pounded me on my first DUI. I lost the case. Yes, it was my fault because I didn’t keep my eyes on my drunk one hundred percent of the time during the two fifteen-minute deprivation periods. After I was sworn in by the judge, Terry asked if I could have missed his client vomiting in his mouth. He asked this because vomiting in your mouth can cause the breathalyzer to give a higher reading.
No, I could not positively swear I watched him from a few inches away the entire time. I told the truth and I lost the case. I gained a small bit of respect from Terry when I answered truthfully, but I couldn’t have cared less. It was a total bullshit defense that worked on a rookie cop. From that point on, I would take the extra time and call an all-night judge to get an over–the-phone blood draw warrant. This also meant I had to deliver the warrant-return to the courthouse first thing the next morning. It sucked after a long overnight shift, but it beat a drunk driver walking away.
Terry’s 1970 Corvette LT1 sits under a custom tarp so it escapes sun damage. The Vette is cherry red and gorgeous. If Terry wasn’t such a douche, I would have taken him up on his offer to drive the Vette around the block to check out how she handles. I also discovered that Terry’s offers are aliases for a quickie against the side of any semi-private shaded area he can find. I
swear I couldn’t make this shit up. I’m even sure Terry has his Lothario locations mapped out. With these thoughts, imaginary, creepy-crawlies slide across my skin. Why does my life suck so bad that I need to come here in hopes of a new case?
I enter the office and smile at Brenda. She’s Terry’s legal secretary, office manager, and all-around problem fixer rolled into one. She’s over fifty, though I’ve never asked her exact age. She’s also pleasantly plump in a grandma-hugs kinda way. She keeps her hair dyed a vivid red and wears smock tops with two pockets in the front. I have no idea where she buys the things, and for all I know, she sews them herself. Hell, she most likely wears them to keep Terry at arm’s length. It’s her hair that adds a wild spark to the entire ensemble. Today, the smock is white with green embroidery on the pockets and lace at the neckline. Her green eyes also show a bit of spark. I know immediately that something’s up.
“Hey, Brenda.” I say as I walk to her desk and peer to the back of a long hallway where Terry’s office is located.
“Mak, you have perfect timing,” she confides.
Terry’s office door is closed, which offers another clue. “Spill it, lady.”
“He’s in there with his attorney.” She points toward Terry’s door.
I’m stunned. “Attorney at Law Terry the Fairy has an attorney?”
Her grin widens at the use of Terry’s nickname. She has worked for Terry for more than ten years. I like her, even though she carries true affection for Terry. In my opinion, he doesn’t deserve her. This, however, does not mean she lacks a sense of humor. “Apparently, he took the wrong woman for a ride and she’s filed a lawsuit and made a complaint to the state bar.”
I don’t like Terry, but I’ve never heard that he forces women. A lawsuit means she wants money. Now, I get the humor. Filing a lawsuit for something outrageous is something Terry would do. Today, he’s getting back some of his own medicine.
“I’m dying to ask what he did, but I’m almost afraid.”
She bites her lip before releasing it and replies, “I’m horrible for even smiling.” She laughs into her hand. “He dropped her.”
It takes a moment for her meaning to sink in. Terry’s thing is plowing women against an outside wall. “Come again.”
“He dropped her on her ass while doing the vertical.”
I’m only able to hold back my laughter because I hear Terry’s office door open. A professionally dressed woman enters the hallway.
“I’ll be in touch later this week,” she says as she walks into the lobby and turns her attention to me and Brenda. She simply nods and leaves the office. Brenda presses the phone system’s intercom and announces my presence. Terry sticks his head into the hallway three seconds later.
“And to what do we owe this great honor that you’ve graced us with your presence?” That’s Terry—a wiseass, a creep, and a great defense attorney who speaks his greeting to my tits.
“My cupboards are bare and I’m hungry.”
He doesn’t look up. “Good, because you won’t like the case I need you for. Step into my office and I’ll go over the details.” He turns to Brenda. “Bring the Connor file in, please.”
I follow Terry into his office and take a seat at his massive cherry oak desk. His office is large and showy. He has invested a great deal of money in the furniture alone. From the desk to the cherry oak bookcases that cover the walls, there’s obviously money in defending scumbags. And right now, I need some of that money.
Brenda walks in thirty seconds later and places the file on Terry’s desk. She leaves without looking at me and closes the door behind her. Strange. She’s never done that before.
Terry glances up and holds my gaze. He opens the file and hands me an eight-by-ten color photo. It’s a booking photo. The young man is badly bruised and chances are good he cleaned blood from his face before the photo was snapped. I can see a small cut above his eye, and I know those tend to bleed a lot.
“Dixon Connor, arrested last night for criminal damage. He had the misfortune to have a small amount of methamphetamine in his pocket when they searched him. He was tagged for one count of possession of a narcotic and three counts of drug paraphernalia, making it a felony arrest. His father is Don Connor, the main pastor at First Methodist in Paradise Valley, which also happens to be the church I attend. At Don’s request, I went down to see Dixon this morning. As you can imagine, he was jumpy. What surprised me the most is that he’s scared shitless.”
I try to absorb the story, but somewhere I get stuck on the fact that Terry attends church. Who knew? I feel no sympathy for a strung out, scared shitless junkie, nor do I find it odd. It makes even more sense given his father’s career. “So where do I come in?”
Terry lets out a small humph of breath. “When I said scared shitless, I mean exactly that. This kid whispered to me as soon as I got in the room with him that he’s one of Alonzo’s boys.”
“Wonderful,” I offer with clear sarcasm. Alonzo is a petty drug dealer and also fences stolen goods for the druggies in this area.
Terry’s eyes go hard, which is unusual. Even in a courtroom, he likes to come across as a nice guy, when in all actuality, he’s a shark. A bit of uneasiness travels up my spine.
“That’s not why he’s afraid.” Terry’s fist hits the desk, which makes me jump. “One of yours is taking payoffs and running Alonzo’s show now…”
I don’t let him finish. My chair flies back several inches when I stand. I point at Terry. “That’s bullshit and you know it. Just because you don’t like cops, it does not mean that they’re dirty. You’re an asshole,” I add.
Terry rolls his eyes. “And just because you think cops walk on water doesn’t mean they’re clean. You’re naïve, Mak. You have no idea what truly goes on. You weren’t on the streets long enough. In cop years you were just a baby when you left the force.”
My blood boils. Terry is always mouthing off about officers lying under oath. That’s his best tactic when it comes to getting his clients off. A cop’s word on the stand is what we live by. It’s our reputation. Sure, we make mistakes and when we do, defense attorneys are like flies on rancid meat.
The daily stress and lack of sleep from doing shift work don’t help. Add in the need to appear in court the morning after an all-night shift and mistakes happen in testimony. The defense attorney changes your words around to confuse you, asks a single question in several different ways, and basically tries his best to screw up your story. I know—I’ve been there. Now, Terry’s trying to say there’s a crooked cop at the Wendell Precinct. The men and women I worked with may no longer include me as family, but to me they are, and I’m no longer taking Terry’s shit. Eating is highly overrated; I’ll find another avenue to drum up cases. I’m unwilling to spend a minute more of my time with this jackass. I turn on my heels.
“Kennedy,” Terry huffs out.
I freeze for a moment before turning around and taking my chair again. “Fuck.”
Chapter Seven