ZERO HERO (The Kate Huntington Mystery series) (7 page)

            “Got another man in the truck.”

            “He as big as you?”

            Skip shook his head. “Nope. On the short side and scraggly-looking. Ex-Green Beret.”

            “Three’s about right,” Cooper said. “Any more and Frederico would interpret the crowd as a sign of fear, not strength. You need anything else?”

            “Don’t think so. Thanks for your help, Detective,” Skip stood up and offered his hand.

            Cooper stood. “Tyrell,” he said, shaking Skip’s hand. He held Dolph’s for an extra half a beat. “Tell Judith I’m happy to help. Hope you guys can save her bacon.”

            Skip waited until they were across the bullpen and out the door before saying, in a low voice, “Did she tell him what’s going on?”

            Dolph shook his head. “Educated guess. Matthews’ case has been all over the news last couple a days, along with the info that Jamieson’s a 9/11 hero. If this goes to court and he’s acquitted...” He shook his head again, this time in disgust. “That weasel Fitzsimmons’ll look for a way to make it Judith’s fault, not his.”

~~~~~~~~

            Skip pushed through the door of Santiago’s first, Dolph close on his heels. Mac slid in behind them and moved to the right. Skip spotted a dingy curtain over a doorway to a back room. He caught Mac’s eye and tilted his head in that direction.

            Mac nodded slightly, his gaze now glued to the curtain.

            The lighting was poor. Just three of the hanging fixtures had bulbs that worked, casting shadows across the laminated tables and red-vinyl cushioned chairs. Someone, a long time ago, had tried to make the place cheery. But the fake flowers in little vases on the tables were now covered in dust, and the once brightly colored red, orange and yellow striped curtains were gray with grime, the stripes blurred together.

            Skip had been in worse dives, but he couldn’t remember when.

            Two men were standing in the shadows at the back of the room. Another three sat at a table. The one in the middle had to be Frederico. They had half-empty glasses of beer and greasy empty plates in front of them.

            A swarthy-skinned old man hurried out of the shadows. “Sorry,
señores.
We are closed,” he said in a Spanish accent thickened by anxiety. “All filled up. Private party.”

            “We’re here to talk to the guest of honor,” Dolph said. “Detective Cooper suggested we drop in for a visit while we were downtown.”

            Skip scanned the faces of the men in the room, as best he could in the dim light. Three of them were Hispanic. The fourth guy, standing near the doorway to the backroom, was tall and beefy. He was the only one wearing a suit. Skip couldn’t see his face very well. He was swarthy but Skip would bet money he wasn’t from Central or South America.

            Frederico was tall and lean. He wasn’t as flashy as some pimps Skip had known but he dressed the part–a black silk T-shirt over the dark purple pants of a track suit. The purple jacket hung on the back of his chair. Several gold chains adorned his chest and there were three earrings in one ear, two in the other.

            His parents’ genes hadn’t mixed well. A wide flat nose separated chiseled cheekbones on a broad face the color of spicy mustard. His black hair had been straightened but frizzed at the ends.

            “I don’t recall invitin’ no
gringos
to my party,” he said, in the bad Spanish accent Tyrell Cooper had warned them about.

            Careful to keep any hint of Texas out of his voice, Skip said, “Sorry for the intrusion. We’re looking into the Matthews’ homicide. Just have a few questions.”

            “Don’t think we got no answers today, white boy,” one of the other seated men said.

            Frederico shot him a glance. “Ya got badges?” he said to Skip.

            The men in the room tensed as Skip reached for his back pocket. He slowed his movements, carefully pulling the leather case containing his P.I. license out and flipping it open. He took a step toward the table and held it out. “We’re private.”

            Another of Frederico’s underlings leaned forward and silently mouthed the words on the license. He burst out laughing. “Dis here
hombre
iz
Reginald
William Canfield, de
tird
.” His accent was genuine.

            Frederico’s face broke into a big grin, exposing teeth that had received very little dental care. “Yer shittin’ me.”

            The other guy leaned over and took the license case from Skip’s hand. “Nope. He’s Reginald, de tird, alright.”

            Frederico kicked the leg of the only empty chair at the table. It flopped over on its back with a bang. No one flinched.

            “You amuse me, Reggie, de turd. Ya got five minutes.”

            Skip picked up the chair and straddled it backwards. He wanted easy access to the gun at the small of his back, covered by his windbreaker. His hand snaked out and retrieved the license case that Frederico's man had dropped on the table.

            Four minutes later, they had nothing, other than confirmation that the man’s Spanish accent was indeed fake. It seemed to come and go.

            Frederico denied having any interest in Jimmy Matthews’ encroachment on his territory. “He’s a minnow. I’m a shark. Why I be worried ’bout him? He’s not even worth takin’ a bite out of.”

            “Even when he started collecting girls at the bus station?” Dolph said.

            Frederico shrugged. “Long as he kept his hands off a mine, I got no beef wid him. Plenty a johns to go ’round.”

            Skip pushed a bit. “So it’s just a coincidence that Matthews ends up dead a few months after he sets up shop on your turf?”

            “Look, I got more important things to do den worry ’bout some white boy, thinks he’s hot shit. ’Sides, de girls, dey just a sideline for me.”

            Skip caught movement out of the corner of his eye. The big guy in the shadows had twitched. Now he was edging toward the backroom doorway.

           
Might be time to get outta here.
Skip stood up slowly. “Thanks for your time.”

            Mac stayed by the door until Dolph and Skip had gone through it. Then he backed out after them.

            “Who the hell was the big guy?” Dolph said, in a low voice, once they were on the sidewalk headed for Skip’s Expedition.

            “Good question. He sure as hell isn’t Hispanic,” Skip said.

            They were almost to the truck–Skip had already hit the key fob button to unlock it–when they heard a shout. “
Amigos
, look out!”

            A barely audible popping sound. Dirt flew up from the patch of scraggly grass next to the sidewalk. Dolph and Skip whirled around, guns drawn. Another pop. A chunk of cement flew up from the sidewalk and bounced off the side of the truck.

            Mac was several feet behind them. He crouched down and started running in a zigzag pattern.

            Skip raised his gun but he didn’t dare try to provide covering fire. In the city, a stray bullet could kill an innocent bystander blocks away. His eyes scanned the dilapidated buildings.
Where the hell’s the shooter?

            Another pop.

            Mac’s eyes grew wide. He pitched forward into Skip’s arms.

CHAPTER FIVE

            Skip hefted Mac onto his shoulder and ran around the back end of his truck, putting it between them and the shooter.

            Dolph had yanked the back door open. Skip laid Mac on the back seat. Dolph now had the front door open and was crouched behind it, prepared to return fire. But there were no more shots.

            Skip crawled into the passenger seat, then across to the driver’s side. Dolph jumped in after him and slammed the door. The pop of a fourth shot was drowned out by the roar of the engine starting. The bullet ricocheted off the driver’s door.

            Skip jammed the truck into drive and took off. Dolph scrambled over the console between the seats. He tore at Mac’s clothing, trying to find the wound.

            A block away, Skip took his eyes off the road just long enough to glance in the rearview mirror. All he saw was the back of Dolph’s head. “How is he?”

            “Bleedin’ like a stuck pig. Find a hospital.”

~~~~~~~~

            Kate reached over and took Rose’s hand. The younger woman did not resist. That in itself spoke volumes.

            They had been sitting on the hard vinyl couch for what seemed like hours. Skip slouched in a nearby chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, a hand over his eyes. But Kate knew he wasn’t asleep.

            Dolph was downstairs, in a small room commandeered by the City police to take statements. Skip had already given them his.

            Kate tried to think of something reassuring to say to the woman next to her. But her mind kept wandering. To her parents’ backyard in the summertime, she and her siblings and Mac catching fireflies and locking them in mason jars, with holes jabbed in the lids for air. To Sean Reilly’s empty bar on Sunday afternoons after church, where they played hide and seek while the adults lingered over their lunch.

            She saw in her mind’s eye a scrawny kid yelling at her. Mac had talked his parents into buying him sweet potato fries at the Maryland State Fair. He’d never heard of such a thing and he had to try them. He’d yanked two out of the container and stuffed them in his mouth when Kate tried to grab a few as well. The flimsy cardboard container had slipped from his hand, the fries scattered on the ground.

            For months, Mac had acted like he hated her guts, calling her a big fat sweet potato–the taunt that had eventually morphed into the endearment
sweet pea
. Then one day she’d fallen off her bike and had almost been hit by a car. Mac had raced out into the road....

            The rest of the memory blurred as Rose pulled her hand free and jumped up. A doctor was coming down the hall toward the waiting area. Kate was on her feet and both women raced in his direction. He had stopped at the nurses’ station for a whispered consultation.

            “Ms. Hernandez,” he said, looking past Kate, a grim expression on his face.

           
How did I get in front of her?
She turned back. Rose stood, frozen, three paces behind her. Skip’s hands were on his partner’s shoulders.

            “May I speak to you alone?” the doctor said.

            “Is he alive?” Rose whispered.

            “Yes.”

            Rose wobbled. Skip grabbed her arms to hold her up.

            Kate realized the doctor wasn’t going to say much else in front of them.
Damn HIPAA law!
Out loud she said, through clenched teeth, “What is his condition?” Hospitals would release at least that much information.

            “Critical.”

            Kate’s own knees threatened to give out.

            Skip turned Rose around and steered her back to the waiting area. He nudged her down onto the couch as the doctor took the seat he had vacated. The doctor looked up at them. “I’m sorry. I know you’re worried too,” he said softly.

            Kate grabbed Skip’s arm and tugged him down the hall. The sooner they were out of earshot, the sooner the doctor could tell Rose what was going on.

            Skip wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair. She felt his lips moving against her scalp and realized he was praying. She clung to him, too scared to even find the words to pray.

            After a few minutes that felt like an hour, the doctor approached them. He nodded in the direction of Rose, still sitting in the waiting area, staring into space. The doctor walked away without saying anything.

            Dolph was standing in front of Rose, looking confused. He was juggling four styrofoam cups in his hands. He put the coffees down on a side table and flopped into a chair.

            Kate’s eyes stung. Her heart was in her throat as she and Skip raced back to the waiting area.

            She sat down next to Rose. Skip dropped onto the floor, cross-legged in front of them.

            “Is he going to be okay?” Kate asked. The look on Rose’s face terrified her.

            “He’s not sure. Mac...” Rose stopped, cleared her throat. “He lost a lot of blood. Bullet grazed his kidney. Doc said he’d be able to...” She stopped again, looked at the ceiling, blinking hard. “He’ll know more in the morning.”

            Kate fought down the sob that was building in her chest.
He’s alive! He’s alive!
she repeated to herself. There was still hope.

            “Where is he?” Skip asked.

            “Still in recovery. Then he’ll be in the ICU.”

            “You want to go there and wait?” Skip’s voice was rough with emotion.

            Rose shook her head. “Doc said it’ll be hours before he’s conscious. Told me to go home and get some rest.” She tried to snort, but it came out as a choked sob. “Rest! Not while that bastard’s still out there.”

            Kate glanced at her watch. It was only five-twenty, even though it felt like it should be midnight. Rest was definitely not what Rose needed right now.

            Kate stood up. “Let’s go down to the cafeteria.”

            Rose frowned at her. “I’m not hungry.”

            “Neither am I. But I figured that’s as good a place as any to have a war council.”

            Rose’s mouth twitched in an attempt to smile. That’s what Kate had dubbed their brain-storming sessions eight years ago, when she and the Franklins, with Mac’s help, were trying to track down Eddie’s killer. Rose had been a rookie cop back then, assigned as Kate’s police protection.

            “I’ll let the nurses know that’s where I’ll be.”

            Kate watched as Rose shuffled away. Blinking back tears, she got out her phone to try Rob again. He’d been in court all afternoon but he should be getting her voicemail messages about now.