Malevolent (Lieutenant Kane series Book 1) (26 page)

“Thanks,” Bob said. He totaled them up and handed her thirty dollars.

“Hold on, I’ll grab your change,” Callie said.

“Nope, we’re all set. The rest is for you.” He left her an eight-dollar tip on a twenty-two dollar tab. Bob slammed the beer and stood from his table.

“Oh, thanks. Want me to tell the lieutenant you’re picking up his beers?”

He held out a hand to wave her question off. “No, no. It’s the least I can do for what he does for the city. No recognition required.”

She smiled widely. “Yeah, he’s keeping us all safe. Okay, thanks. Have a good night.” She left to head back to the bar. As Bob headed out the front door, he saw Kane wave her over.

Is that his girlfriend?

He walked around the corner and up the next street. He stopped in the darkness and waited to see if Kane would come looking for him.

I sat in a fog, staring at the television above the bar. Callie came to check on me a handful of times. I told her I’d be fine. The last beer I ordered went warm. The thought of me sitting there getting drunk registered in my head as pathetic. I waved Callie over.

“Heading out?” she asked.

“Yeah. Can you close me out?”

“Someone already got your tab.”

“Someone got my tab? Who?”

“The guy who sat at the table back there.” She pointed toward the back of the bar. “He paid his bill and told me he wanted to get yours too. Said he recognized you from the news. Got up and left a little bit ago.”

No one, other than Hank, had ever picked up my bar tab there before—especially because they recognized me as a cop. I spun around in my chair and looked at the door.

“What did he look like?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, just some guy.”

“Describe him. Big guy, little guy?”

“Smaller, I guess.”

“Hair?”

She shrugged.

“Did he have longer, stringy hair?”

“No.”

“Have you seen him in here before?”

“I couldn’t say. Maybe?”

“Did he have a beard?”

She shook her head. “A beard?”

I rubbed my face. “Beard?”

“No. Why? What’s with all the questions about who picked up your tab?”

“Did he come in after me, or was he already here?”

“He came in an hour or so before you. What is going on with you? I feel like I’m being interrogated.”

I let out a breath. “Nothing. I’m sorry.”

She grabbed me by my chin and lifted my head. “Are you okay?”

I sat quietly.

A look of concern spread across her face.

“I’m just beat. I need to get home and go to bed. If you see the guy again, tell him I said thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem. You want me to get you a cab?”

“Nah, I’m going to hoof it. Try to clear my head some more. Again, I’m sorry.” I looked down at the bar.

“Don’t worry about me. Remember, you can call me to talk, okay?”

I nodded.

“Okay?” she asked again.

“Okay.”

I said my farewell and started the walk home. I wondered if Cross had been at the bar—but why?

It couldn’t have been him. You’re just being paranoid.

An odd noise behind me caught my attention. I patted my side—no gun. I heard the noise again and turned around. A couple of college kids crossed the street a half a block back. I let out a deep breath. My constant thinking about Cross, mixed with a severe lack of sleep over the last week, was catching up to me.

My walk home ended up being event free. I got back to my condo and climbed the stairs to the fifth floor. My leg was saved from Butch’s wrath again when I scooped him up and placed him on the breakfast bar. I looked at my gun sitting in the holster hanging from the barstool. I slid it out and dropped the clip into my hand. The gun was still loaded. I ejected the bullet in the chamber and reloaded. Then I went room to room, clearing my condo. It was empty, aside from the cat and me.

I made my way out to the patio, slid the door closed behind me, and had a seat. I sat in silence and looked out over the water. The lights from the hospital shone off the bay’s surface in the distance. I wondered how Sam was doing. Lately, she had been on my mind more than ever before, since the divorce, and any prior thoughts had usually been filled with anger. The anger was gone. I just wanted her to be all right. I checked the time. My watch read a couple minutes after one o’clock. My bed was calling. I had to get some rest. I decided to stop in at the hospital in the morning to see if someone could give me an update on her condition.

He watched Kane from the darkness up the street. He was on foot, and Bob contemplated a surprise attack, but that seemed wrong. It didn’t fit in with the game the two were playing. After Kane was out of sight, Bob made his way to the alley behind the bar. He waited patiently until a few minutes after three, figuring the staff had to be leaving soon. Three cars sat parked against the side of the building—a newer BMW, a Ford pickup, and an old, beat-up Toyota. Bob sat in the darkness behind a dumpster and watched the back door across the alley. His backpack leaned against the brick wall behind him. In his hands were a syringe filled with five milliliters of Xylazine and the cop’s gun. Between the two, he could handle any situation when the staff left.

The back door opened. A man in a white apron walked out and tossed two bags of trash into the dumpster Bob was hiding behind. The garbage bags clanged to the bottom, and the guy flipped the lids closed. Bob crouched close to the wall. The man turned his back and walked toward the pickup truck. He hopped in, fired up the motor, and rolled down the windows. Loud rock music filled the alley. He pulled out and made a right onto the street.
Perfect.
From what he had seen inside, two bartenders remained—both female. He’d caught their names from their name tags. Callie was the dark-haired one talking to Kane. Becky was the shorter, chunkier one.

He waited another ten minutes until the door opened again. Both women filed out at the same time. The girl that had talked to Kane, Callie, stuck a key in the door and locked it. Becky stood and waited. Bob waited too—across the alley, just twenty feet away.

“You have to work tomorrow?” Becky asked.

“Nope. Off day. I was supposed to have a date, but it’s not looking that way now.”

“Oh yeah, your date with the lieutenant? What happened?”

“Long story.” She hit a button on her key fob, and the BMW’s lights flashed.

Becky walked toward the beat-up Toyota. “He’s a catch Cal. Don’t give up.”

Callie laughed. “I don’t plan on it. There’s just something about him.” She dug into her purse. “Dammit, I forgot my phone.”

“Want me to wait?” Becky asked.

“Nah, go ahead.”

“Okay. See you Monday.” She stepped into her car and closed the door.

Callie unlocked the building’s back door and headed inside. Becky started her car.

Bob waited. “Come on, leave,” he said under his breath.

The Toyota inched forward and stopped.

“Leave.” Bob willed her to pull out.

He waited. Thirty seconds passed. The car hadn’t moved. His window was closing. The Toyota’s brake lights lit the alley. The transmission clicked down into drive. She pulled forward. Bob scooped up his backpack and stayed low. He rushed to the rear door of the BMW. The Toyota still sat, waiting to turn out. It pulled into the street as Bob pulled the door handle to get into the back of Callie’s car. As he closed the door behind himself, he heard the back door of the bar slam shut. The interior light of the car was still on. He glanced over the front seats, and the girl wasn’t looking. She stood facing the back door of the bar, locking up. The lights inside the car faded off. Bob lay still.

The door opened, and the interior lights came back on. The girl hopped into the driver’s seat and started the car. Bob sprang up and wrapped his left arm around her chin. The syringe in his right hand found the side of her neck. He held her as she struggled. She went unconscious in a matter of seconds. Bob got out and opened the driver’s door. He pushed her into the passenger seat and flopped her legs over. Her purse lay at his feet. Bob dug through it, found her wallet, and tossed the bag over his shoulder. He dug through the wallet and found her driver’s license. It listed her address out in Tampa Palms. Bob clicked through the prompts on the car’s navigation screen and clicked the button that said Go Home. The car mapped the course to the address on her license.

He cranked up the volume on the radio for the twenty-minute drive from the bar to her house. He pulled up to the subdivision. The iron front gates were closed. Over his shoulder, he checked the car’s rear window for a gate-entry sticker—nothing. He checked her key chain for a clicker that would open them—again nothing. He found four buttons on the visor and pressed them one after the other. When he reached the fourth button on the visor, the subdivision’s gates let out a screech as they parted. He pulled in.

The second street to the right was hers. He followed it to the address and pulled into the driveway. The house was a newer beige two story. In that part of town and that neighborhood, it had to be over a quarter-million dollars. Landscaping lights lined the driveway on both sides. Small shrubs and a handful of palm trees surrounded the small sidewalk leading to the front door. The girl, house, and car didn’t fit. Bob wondered if a man was at home.

He went through the buttons on the visor again until the garage door opened. The garage was empty, with no other cars, no work benches, no tool boxes, nor any signs that a man would be present. He pulled the car in, got out, and went to the passenger side. Bob opened the door and unbelted Callie. Her legs, which were resting against the door, flopped out. He’d have to drag her. He pulled her the rest of the way out of the car and did his best to keep her vertical while he hip bumped the passenger door closed. As he stood holding her up in the garage, he noticed a man walking past the front of the house. The guy looked up the driveway at Bob in the garage.

“Too much to drink!” Bob shouted down to him.

The guy let out a chuckle and threw him a wave. “Designated driver, huh?”

Bob waved back and smiled. “Something like that.”

The man continued walking. When he was out of sight, Bob let her flop to the ground. He went into the backseat, rummaged through her purse, and pulled out her cell phone. Bob slipped the phone into his pocket and pulled Callie’s body through the doorway into the house. He slapped the button on the wall to lower the garage door. Bob found a light switch inside and flicked it on.

“Nice place,” he said.

He dragged her out to the living room and dropped her onto the couch. He double-checked the house to make sure they were alone—they were. Bob’s stomach rumbled. He headed to the kitchen to raid the refrigerator. He fixed himself a sandwich, grabbed a soda, and went to sit at an unconscious Callie’s side. The television remote lay on a cushion by his right hand. He flicked on the TV and found the comedy channel. He laughed at the television as he ate. When he finished, he walked his plate to the kitchen and set it in the sink. Bob slapped his hands together.

“Are you ready for the fun?” he asked.

Callie didn’t respond.

Bob had spent the hours lying in wait in the alley planning out their final confrontation. His place in history would be cemented after he was done with the lieutenant. Bob chose the upstairs bathroom for the location. He rolled Callie from the couch to the floor and began the process of dragging her upstairs. A coughing attack overtook him halfway up. It was worse than the previous ones. He collapsed. Blood spattered the carpet of the stairs. More than a minute passed without him being able to get a breath. His lungs were shutting down, but he only needed a little longer. Bob used the railing to pull himself to his feet. He dragged Callie’s body the rest of the way upstairs and flopped her in the bathroom’s garden tub. His backpack rested on the counter while Bob dressed Callie in the lingerie.

He stood alongside the tub and balled up the clothing she’d worn. Bob wiped the blood from the side of his mouth. “You look just about ready. Well, two of the players are here. I guess we’re ready to call up the third.”

He pulled out the girl’s cell phone from his pocket. He scrolled the call log. The lieutenant’s number showed up. Bob hit Talk.

My phone vibrated across my nightstand and woke me. My alarm clock read 4:14 a.m. I’d been in bed for three hours—asleep for maybe one. I grabbed my phone and rubbed my eyes. The caller ID showed a number I didn’t recognize. I hit Talk. “Lieutenant Kane.”

“Hey, Lieutenant! I didn’t wake you, did I?”

I scooted up in bed. “Cross.”

“Ah, you remembered my voice. How did your ex-wife turn out?”

“You’re going to pay for what you did, you piece of shit.”

“I kind of had to hurry to get it done. Well, don’t leave me hanging. How is she?”

“None of your damn business how she is.”

“Did she turn out as good as the other one? Or is she dead?”

I didn’t respond. My blood was boiling.

“I guess it doesn’t matter.”

I balled my bedsheets in my hand and squeezed them in anger. “What do you want, Cross?”

“I just sent you a photo. Let me know when you get it.”

I looked at the screen of my phone. The indication for a text message came up, and I clicked it. It was a photo of a half-naked woman lying in a tub. She wore green lingerie. I zoomed in. The girl’s hair was covering her face, but I recognized the tattoos. It was Callie.

He laughed into the phone. “Hey Kane, did you enjoy the beers I bought you?”

Realization hit me like a flood. He had been at the bar. He had seen me talking to her. He had her. I sprang from my bed and grabbed the clothes I’d worn to the bar just a few hours earlier. I grabbed the napkin that Callie had written her phone number on. The number was the same as the one he was calling from. “What the hell did you do to her, Cross?”

“Watch that temper, Lieutenant. I haven’t done anything yet—just gave her a little something to put her to sleep. She’s pretty hot. Is she your girlfriend?”