Infected: Shift (17 page)

Holden met his glare with one of his own. “And he shot him in the chest. Do you know what a good shot Roan is? He could have easily taken a head shot and closed the book on this instantly, but he took a chest shot, because for some unfathomable reason he gave that scumbag a chance to survive. If it was me, I’d have blown his head off and pissed down his neck hole.” Brand sat back, looking stunned, like he didn’t know whether to cry or beat the shit out of him. “I realize he was an ex-partner and perhaps a friend, but from what I know of Carey, he was a lost cause even before he blew his wife’s head off in front of his own kids. Do you have a defense for that? No, I didn’t think so. In Roan’s place, would you have done differently? Would you have let him shoot his kids too?”

He actually waited for a response, never looking away from Brand’s soft, colorless eyes, and the man’s mouth opened and closed silently for a moment before he found his voice. “N—no, of course not—”

“So why judge Roan so harshly for something you would have done as well? Hardly seems fair, does it?” He stood up, and said, “Thank you for your time. We’ll be in touch.” Holden showed himself out, leaving Brand to chew that one over.

Of course, now he had something to chew over as well. For two days, Switzer wasn’t with Braun. Who gave a damn? Well, you’d give a damn if it was the two days before he killed his wife.

Okay, so where would an otherwise friendless man go? He’d want privacy, and just maybe to plan the death of his wife and kids. Where did one go to do that?

Holden’s first thought was Disneyland, but that was in another state. Fox News? Again, no, not here. Damn it. He sat in his car for a few minutes and wondered if he should just call it here, let Roan pick up the loose threads.

No—was he an assistant investigator or not? He could do this. What would Roan say about this? Probably that Switzer would go somewhere he felt safe, somewhere familiar… but it was unlikely April would let him stay at their home. So….

Scene of the crime?

No, not his house, not Jasmine’s apartment building, but the Alley Cat Motel. Switzer mostly raped prostitutes in his patrol car, but he was also known to occasionally hide out in the Alley Cat, as if afraid of being seen with a hooker while on duty. It was a shining paragon of no-tell motels—it only did business in cash (nope, credit cards weren’t welcome), and notations were made in the front office only to tell what rooms were in use for how long. No real names were given or expected. Hookers liked it a lot, as did sex traffickers, the occasional drug mule, and fugitives. If Switzer wanted to be alone to plot and target practice, there was no better place—besides maybe a sealed nuclear bunker. And the owner would never come forward to say Switzer had stayed there because media attention was the last thing he’d want. As a cop, Switzer would know that as well as any of the whores.

Holden took off for the Alley Cat and wondered when he’d last been there. How old was he then—nineteen? Good lord, it seemed like another lifetime. It was, wasn’t it? He was a different person then. It was hard to imagine they were even related.

In all that time, the Alley Cat hadn’t changed at all. A simple wooden sign with a poorly drawn winking cat on it had a buzzing “vacancy” sign flickering underneath in dim red letters, the shabby-looking collection of parallel rooms laid out like a speed bump in peeling white and green paint. The parking lot was cracked and filled with holes, litter occasionally filling one up and making it seem almost even, while standing puddles of liquid remained even days after the last rain. It looked like the very last stop on your way to skid row, the bottom of the barrel before you fell into your own grave.

The manager’s office was out front, which was unusual, but it had a nice window that allowed the manager to see the cop cars coming. The glass door let out a heavy cowbell noise as Holden opened it—that’s what was on the door, two cowbells, because chimes just weren’t good enough—and it revealed a cramped and dingy office with walls the color of tobacco-stained teeth and a waist-high front desk that cut the room in two. Immediately, the pale blue curtain separating the back of the office from the front parted, and he was genuinely shocked to see Mr. Jankowiak was still running the place. Shouldn’t he be dead by now?

He eyed Holden suspiciously. “You look familiar, yeah? Can’t place ya, though.”

Mr. Jankowiak—or Janko, as everybody called him—was anywhere between sixty and eighty, an age that varied along with the strength of his Polish accent. (There were even times he pretended only to speak pidgin English.) He was bald and plump and wrinkled, with a head like an ugli fruit and a stomach that looked like he was smuggling a bowling ball beneath his stained polyester shirt. His skin had a strangely enduring tan, even though he never seemed to get out of the perpetual gloom of his office, making Holden figure it was spray on, makeup, or a sign of some obscure illness. Today, he wore a white polyester shirt with blue and red pinstripes that was the ugliest thing Holden had seen outside of a theme restaurant. It had a big mustard stain near the bellybutton, but that actually seemed to make it look better. “I’m Fox. Remember me?”

He frowned in thought, scratching his head. How did you have a waxy scalp and dandruff at the same time? Janko managed. “One of Maldonado’s people, yeah?”

“No.” Who was Maldonado? “Look, I need you to tell me what room Carey Switzer stayed in while he was here, and if he left any stuff in it, I want to see it.”

Janko looked at him blankly with rheumy eyes that used to be blue but were now more gray. “Huh? I don’t know who you’re talking about.” His accent had just increased tenfold.

Holden scowled at him. “Don’t, Janko. Maybe you don’t remember me, but I remember you. Now either you tell me, or the cops are going to get an anonymous tip telling them all about your hidden cameras in the rooms. They’re gonna be interested in all your tapes, don’t you think?” Janko was a voyeur, and generally a skilled one, although if you knew where to look you could find the cameras.

His look turned stony and hard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Holden smirked, and dug a twenty out of his pocket, which he tossed on the counter. “Let me see his stuff and the cops never have to know. It’s up to you.”

Janko looked like an evil gnome—he was about five five at best—but he snatched up the money quickly with his sausage-thick fingers, and spat, “Now I remember you. You’re that smart-mouthed whore, the one who thought he was better than everyone else.”

“I never thought I was better than everyone else, just better than this. Now, where’s the stuff?”

Janko sighed heavily and cursed under his breath in Polish as he unlocked and lifted up the portion of the front desk that could actually move (it wasn’t immediately apparent), heading out of the office. Holden followed, although he kept his pace slow, otherwise he’d have trampled the old man. He got around fine, he just had a kind of awkward gait, like maybe he was wearing prescription shoes. (That would explain a lot.)

He took Holden around back of the motel, where, standing alone on the cracked asphalt (well, besides hidden parked cars) was what looked like an equipment shed, and certainly the stained mop and crusty bucket leaning against the side of the structure added to that impression. But it was also where Janko kept stuff he stole from rooms and patrons. He didn’t do it a lot, but it was a side enterprise.

The door had a heavy industrial padlock on it, and Janko made a production of taking out the keys and unlocking it. Once he cracked the door open, it let out a puff of stale air that reeked of cheap, lemon-scented cleanser and body odor. Janko reached overhead and pulled a dangling chain, making a naked light bulb burn with all sixty watts of its power. Holden had to stand outside the shed while Janko was inside, because it wasn’t big enough for two people. Janko had to move aside a very old-looking upright vacuum as he surveyed cardboard boxes that lined the built-in shelves, all marked according to a system that only Janko could figure out. Finally, he pulled out a box that still had the Dole logo on the side and said, “You may look, but no stealing. If you steal, I’ll know.”

Holden was tempted to point out stealing was Janko’s job, not his, but instead he gave him a sarcastic salute, which made the old man look at him funny as he left the shed. Holden went in and half closed the door behind him, leaving it open just enough to let some fresh air in.

There wasn’t really a lot in the box, just some random clothes (all men’s), a box of ammo (oh hey—Holden took out his cell and took a photo of it), and a cheap watch. Out of deference to Roan’s scouring every damn thing, he searched the pockets of the clothes and found some receipts that were less than insightful (oh, so he got a Whopper combo meal—Carey had struck him more as a Big Mac man) and a crumpled cigarette pack. Out of reflex, he squeezed the pack of Marlboro’s before returning them to the pants pocket and felt something solid in it. He opened it and shook it, and a small silver key fell out. What was this? Locker key? Safe key? Something like that. And the very fact that Janko didn’t have it meant he didn’t know it was here. Holden pocketed it and put the crumpled pack back where it had been.

He took a picture of the gathered items loosely piled in their box, in case Roan could see something of interest that he had missed, and then put the box back. After a brief thought of pillaging the others—what could Janko do to him, seriously?—he decided to leave it. He no longer needed to scavenge to survive, and picking the bones of such sad carcasses seemed beneath him.

He reached up and turned off the light before shoving the door open, and it was that that probably allowed him to see the shadow coming for him.

Holden was too far out of the shed to go back in (if that was even the wise move here), but he turned to meet the figure as it impacted with him, and he felt a solid blow to the gut. Although stunned, he still had enough presence of mind to punch the fucker in the face. His attacker reeled back and Holden backed up as a couple of things occurred to him simultaneously: namely, the guy was wearing a ski mask, Holden could feel something wet and warm running down his leg, and his abdomen felt cool in the otherwise humid night. Had he just been stabbed? He put a hand to his gut and felt warm wetness, so yes, that would be his guess.

The punch hadn’t stunned the guy enough; he came back at him, and Holden could now see the flash of a silver blade in the dim reflection of a streetlight. Holden grabbed his wrist, stopping him before he could stab him again, but the guy was strong and tried to muscle him down. He stumbled on the cracked asphalt and fell to his knees, but he almost dragged his assailant with him. He wrenched his arm free, and Holden knew he was going to attack him again, so he threw a punch with all his strength right at the guy’s crotch.

It sounded like he tried to scream, but instead he dropped the knife and fell back on his ass, making a sort of squealing, retching noise, grabbing his dick like he was afraid it would fall off. Holden was pretty sure he'd ruptured a testicle, which was a fair trade for a stab wound. “You a shitty mugger, or is this personal?” he wondered, considering he and Grey had been shot at.

He heard the footfall behind him but was in the process of turning when something wooden and solid hit him on the head, sending him crashing to the pavement. “Fucking faggot,” the new guy said, and brought the baseball bat down on his back, sending a shock of pain down his spinal cord.

Okay, they knew him. Holden reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his lucky butterfly knife as the second man hit him again with the bat. He was going for body blows, which hurt like fuck, but it would have been smarter to go for the head. No, he wasn’t Roan, but he wasn’t helpless. All he could see of the second man was his legs and his shitty Nikes, but that was all he needed to see.

With a single motion, he flicked open his knife and stabbed it deep in the fucker’s leg, just above the ankle. He then ripped up, as far as he could before the bat hit his arm hard enough for him to lose his grip, numbness traveling like a lightning bolt through his fingers.

“Motherfucker!” the guy shouted, falling backwards and dropping his bat. Holden had hit something major—he was spurting blood all over the lot. “He fuckin’ stabbed me!”