Matt Grudge and Leslie Crow, disenchanted private investigators with an affinity for the alternative lifestyle of the nineties, dubbed the Grunge Operatives, probe a murder that hits them where they live and breathe; the killing of the tattoo artist and proprietress of the parlor where their first tats were inked.
Face to face with sadistic captors who will stop at nothing to ensure their underground agenda remains secret, Matt is forced to sort out his discoveries before his interrogators learn he's merely a loose end to eliminate. Confronting the suicidal guilt over the victim she knew on intimate terms, her repressed emotions and feral instincts on a countdown to vengeance, Leslie struggles to untangle an international link to the crime. Meanwhile, Matt protects a seductive witness with a stranglehold on his heart, which leads to his capture and unmerciful interrogation.
When their paths converge, the duo unmask a vigilante whose inconsolable wrath will engulf them in a fiery rage.
From SKIN DEEP MOTIVES
Matt Grudge
I REGAINED consciousness to a burning throb in my biceps and shoulders. My lungs pressed against battered ribs, shooting sharp bursts of pain through my chest with every breath I drew. I tasted copper inside a mouth lacerated raw, much like the wrists that chafed within handcuffs.
The bright light from a fluorescent beam struck me in the face and lingered, pulling me out of my fog. I took stock of my condition. Working my jaw sent a warm mouthful of blood and saliva dribbling down my chin. I opened my left eye slowly, painfully, my right too swollen to operate.
Dark shadows materialized in the light. The drug I’d been slipped still had such a distorting effect on my sight that my abductors morphed from one person to sometimes three. The knockout drug also screwed with my hearing, making it difficult to comprehend what they were saying.
Until my attention fixed on another threat.
“ . . . that Pocahontas bitch you run with can’t save you, or herself, now. We know she’s close to mounting a rescue. An assassin on our payroll will shred her to pieces.”
I tried to stall them. I moaned the opening chords of “Come As You Are,” the last thing I remembered hearing before I couldn’t defend myself in the ambush.
“This cat thinks he’s got lives left,” one of my attackers noted, laughing.
“You dumb son of a bitch,” an accomplice said. “I told you not to give him too strong a dose.”
“Would you both shut your mouths and relax,” a feminine, whiskey-soaked voice with a Dutch accent said. “He’s just pretending to be a vegetable to bide time. Zap him.”
My head snapped back and I screamed into wooden rafters as a charge of electricity coursed from my navel out through my muscles and nerve endings. The jolt stopped, leaving my naked body swinging back and forth like a metronome. The vibrations of my torment spooked a horse nearby, and it kicked anxiously at its stall a few times.
“Good,” the throaty-sounding dominatrix drawled in approval. “Next time he doesn’t answer correctly, hit him for a full minute. Matthew, can you hear me?”
I lifted my head long enough to nod, then grinned, more a snarl. “I’ve had tattoos hurt worse than anything you can do to me,” I said, spitting blood.
“Charming. Apart from Leslie, who else knows about my operation?”
“Operation?” I gurgled, a stream of snot oozing from my nostril. I mulled over my response for a minute. How the hell did a covered-up murder turn into an operation? I might survive long enough to find out, if I played it stubborn and pretended to know more than I actually did.
“Well? I’m waiting, Matthew.”
“You threatened a friend of mine,” I said. “An artist I’ve sworn to protect. Suck. My. Tattooed. Dick.”
I screamed some more as the electrodes were held against my genitals this time, for a full minute. My sweaty body sizzled like bacon frying. One of the fillings in my mouth snapped off and I swallowed it. I gagged and lost my bladder control.
“Ah, shit!" one lackey complained. “He pissed on my suit. May I be excused so I can clean up?”
“Yes, but come right back.”
I heard the flick of a lighter, then smelled the rich tobacco scent of a cigarette that couldn’t be domestic.
“There are infinite ways I can make you suffer,” the bitch said. “I can cut you a thousand times, but the last thing I want is to mutilate the artwork on your body. Maybe I’ll rip the piercings out of your face and nipples. You have until I finish this smoke to furnish the names, then I’m going to plug the juice in until your eyeballs pop.”
Shutting my left eye tight, I tried to block out the pain and the sound of the horse’s increasingly agitated neighs.
Matt Grudge and Leslie Crow, disenchanted private investigators with an affinity for the alternative lifestyle of the nineties, dubbed the Grunge Operatives, probe a murder that hits them where they live and breathe; the killing of the tattoo artist and proprietress of the parlor where their first tats were inked.
This Special Edition contains illustrations by Daniel Cooney, and a bonus short story that introduces a key supporting character in book II of the Alternative Investigations series, The Grunge Operatives.
From SKIN DEEP MOTIVES: SPECIAL EDITION
Leslie Crow
THE SPEAKER that resembled a rock in the concrete planter by the front door to the Green Beans Coffee and Tea shop blared out reggae. I almost couldn’t hear the bell jingle at my entrance. The tantalizing aroma of cinnamon and java made me feel warm and welcome. I walked up to the counter between the row of bussed tables that smelled faintly of grapefruit, and a refinished hutch next to the basement entrance. I tilted a look down there and didn’t see any last-minute patrons hanging out.
Still a little shaky after the trouble out at Dee’s ranch, I helped myself to a bottle of juice from the upright cooler by the walkway that led to the kitchen. Elegant permanent marker lettering on a pumpkin next to the cash register read: Try A Pumpkin Pie Latte. The polished steel of the espresso machine gleamed.
I saw Alexi at the sink by the back door bopping her shoulders and swinging her slender hips, up to her elbows in dishwater. Long and layered ash blonde locks with platinum highlights swayed to the rhythm of the music. Alexi’s elfin, lush body filled out a tight charcoal tank and shredded gray jeans; I glimpsed scarlet bra straps. She was singing along with Damian Marley as he insisted that a person’s body, as a vessel for their soul, must not be judged by beauty alone.
The lyrics summed up Alexi’s faith and belief in wearing her tattoos. Skeptical friends and disgusted relatives gave her shit all the time about the memorial tats she wore proudly being tantamount to self-mutilation or an admission of guilt. Alexi just wanted to keep the memories of her loved ones close to her.
I’d met Alexi two years ago. She’d moved to Washington from Oklahoma for her son to be closer to his dad. The price of the house Alexi bought was a bargain due to a rise of crime in the neighborhood. To keep her boy safe, Alexi set out to hire a security company to install an alarm system. Her first choice, a larger, well-known central station, sent a corporate prick to perform the threat assessment; he tried picking Alexi up by making sexual innuendos about her tattoos.
While perusing the classifieds in the Oregonian for a coffee shop business to buy, Alexi saw our ad for Alternative Investigations. The skull and filigree design of our logo, which resembled a back piece tattoo, appealed to her. Our focus on kick-starting what needed to be done to ensure her safety won her over. Alexi confided that she’d also gone with our referral because Digital Domain, a local security company, had been formed by Rachel Houston, a Gulf War vet. Alexi would’ve done almost anything to support a soldier.
I heard a rattle as she placed a plate on the rack to dry. Smacking the water faucet valve off, Alexi grabbed a towel and wiped a froth of suds off her hands and arms, uncovering a Purple Heart service medal tat on the underside of her right forearm. It was for a soldier she’d broken up with after his fourth deployment to Iraq. Circumstances led Alexi to believe he’d been shot and killed following the break up.
“We’re closed,” Alexi shouted out. “No more free coffee.”
She mistook me for a transient whom she’d treated to a cup of Joe once. He’d started loitering four or five times every other day for another handout.
“What about to friends in need of a little refuge?” I yelled above the calypso beat that was rattling the mugs on the shelves opposite the espresso machine.
“Leslie! What’s up, girlfriend?”
Walking up to the register, she took a remote out of her back pocket and turned down the volume. Making fists with our right hands, we bumped our knuckles together.
“Oh, just the usual,” I said, giving Alexi a head bob. “Skip tracing, process serving, background checks. How are you?”
“Working my tail off. One of my baristas is on vacation, the other’s attending Portland State and only covers weekends. Other than that, awesome,” she said. “Mikey’s turning seven next week. I’m planning a big sleepover. Lots of Rock Hero. Movies. A chocolate sheet cake from Costco.”
“Mikey will love that,” I said, allowing a sincere grin to tug up the corner of my mouth. “But what are you going to do to celebrate seven years as a mom?”
Beaming, Alexi reached into her other back pocket and yanked out a folded piece of sketchbook paper. She opened it carefully, as if it contained a fragile pressed flower, then placed it on the counter.
My eyes widened. It was a full-color portrait of her son. The artist had captured the happiness of his innocent gaze in brilliant detail. Reading the note beneath the tribute, I forgot to draw air into my lungs.
I can still add an inscription, but it won’t be any stronger than his tattoo on your right arm. - Dee
The Celtic love knot in a green wooden frame hung by a string from a thumbtack on the top of her right forearm. Inscribed Mother’s Love, it promised protection to her son.
“I’ve got an appointment in a couple of weeks,” Alexi said. “She’s going to ink him on my ribcage below my left breast. Hey, you okay?”
I gasped to breathe. Oh Christ, I thought, she doesn’t know. That told me the media was still keeping the reports of Dee’s murder buried. Rubbing the tear ducts in my eyes to keep the moisture back, I cleared my throat. “Yeah, I’m just whipped,” I said. “Thanks. I dropped by to see if I could borrow the basement, stay the night. Maybe sort some shit out, line up a few motives and suspects in a high-profile case I’m working on.”
“You know I loan out my space to friends whenever they need some solitude,” Alexi said. “But isn’t your office better equipped for that stuff?”
I considered dropping by the office for a second. That meant running into Matt. He’d try and talk me out of working the case, or second-guess my every move. Fuck that. Wiggling the strap of my laptop bag I said, “All the access and files I need are right here in my MacBook.”
“Sounds razor,” she said. “Where’s Matt, though? He’s got your back, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah, he does,” I told her. “There are aspects of this case that are personal, though, and I need to see them through by myself.”
“Okay, sweetie.” Alexi rubbed my shoulder. “The spare key’s in the register. Just slip it through the front door mail slot when you’re done. If I don’t see it tomorrow, I’ll call you.”
“Thank you, Alexi.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said with a carefree chuckle. “Help me dry the rest of these dishes. I’m running late and it’s pizza night.”
Mikey’s favorite, I remembered. As I caught the dish towel Alexi threw at my head, I envisioned Dee hunched over her drawing board, pouring her soul and talent into that sketch of Alexi’s boy. I almost didn’t hear what she asked me next.
“So what’s this huge case you’re working on? Maybe talking about it in broad strokes will help you see the bigger details. You know how good a sounding board I am, and what’s said in my coffee shop, stays in my coffee shop.”
Tossing the towel aside, I rubbed my eyes as if I’d just chopped up an onion without running cold water. I still managed to keep the floodgates of my grief sealed. This wasn’t the time or the place. I let my hands fall away, then delivered the bad news to her face.
“Dee’s dead, Alexi,” I told her, my voice choking up. “She was . . . murdered. I’m sorry.”
“What? No way. You’re putting me on.”
I met her denial with a dread-filled gaze.
Slowly, the ice wall that kept her emotions sealed cracked right down the middle. Tears leaked through, streaking her cheeks in a crying jag. She dropped the blue mug she’d been drying and I heard it smash into pieces.
“Why would someone wanna kill her?” blubbered Alexi.
“That’s what I’m going to find out,” I said.
Leaning back against the edge of the sink for support, Alexi covered her face with both hands and wept louder. I slouched across from her, my head bowed. Sorrow boiled underneath every tattoo Dee had inked onto my skin.
On vacation in San Francisco for personal reasons and to conduct a routine background check, Leslie Crow’s ethics and grit come under threat. Her spirit is invigorated by a foreign diplomat’s offer of vengeance. Meanwhile, Matt Grudge’s skip trace through a tour of Portland’s sprawling strip joints clouds his instincts with desire, and reveals a past he can’t forget. Their paths merge to oppose a cunning and vicious adversary hell-bent on recovering his employer’s secrets, and exterminating two private eyes called the Grunge Operatives.
From THE GRUNGE OPERATIVES
Leslie Crow
BREATHING DEEPLY, I managed the pain and restrained my excitement for my finished ink. I’d been sitting backwards, draped on the tattoo chair since late morning with only a couple of short breaks in-between. I glanced up at the antique Dutch clock mounted above a Vargas Girl pin-up calendar. The metallic cogs and gears clacked as a wooden finch poked out to chirp and whistle cuckoo-cuckoo seven times. The buzz of the tattoo machine and the burning back massage from the stinging needles ended.
"Okay," Daniil Sokolov stood up, “all done. How are you doing, Leslie? Can I re-fill your water? Some hot tea maybe?"
"No, Daniil, I'm good."
"Rest here for a little while," he said. "I'm stepping outside for a smoke."
I allowed myself a brief grin. His tone, augmented by a rich Ukrainian accent, sounded as fulfilled as a lover's post coitus. I'd made a wise decision in tracking down Dee's mentor to color her last back piece.
My iPhone vibrated. Unclipping the handset, I checked the display to read: Matt.
"What?" I answered.
I concentrated to hear over the heavy metal music blaring in the background.
"Hey, partner," Matt shouted, "you hadn't checked into the hotel yet, so I wanted to make sure everything's cool."
"Matt, I'm on vacation . . ." I bit my tongue before I could call him an asshole.
"Working vacation. What's wrong, Leslie?"
"Nothing," I said. "I arrived a few days early to take care of personal things and I don't need you looming."
"Hey Matt," a girl's low-pitched, sultry voice called out, "I'm taking a break. In fifteen minutes I'll give you that lap dance."
"Two songs, or three?" he said, then came back to me. "What's that, Leslie? Where were we?"
He sure sounded chipper for a private detective whose fuck buddy had recently set him up, then left him beaten, tortured, handcuffed and hanging from a meathook. The fantastic healing powers of strip joints.
"I'll check in with you in two days," I said. "Then you can brag about how many stripper bars you staked out to get a lead on Alec Winter."
"Gentleman clubs," he corrected.
"Don't quibble with me, Matt."
"I'm not trying to. You know how many clubs operate here. But so far, I can't complain about the . . . fringe benefits of this case."
"Oh, brother . . . Remember what happened with Pepper, Matt. I think you'll do better if you just admire the menu and keep your dick in your pants."
I ended the call and turned my phone off.
By the fresh aroma of nicotine I smelled, Daniil had returned.
I inhaled the lemongrass scent of the sanitizer he washed his hands with. He snapped on a fresh pair of Latex gloves. The flicker of the flashbulb lit our shadows up on the wall. I heard the shutter click of an old school Polaroid camera and the slide mechanism eject the film.
I turned my head right ninety-degrees. The sharp movement was a little too quick after relaxing backwards on a chair for several hours. The vertebrae in my neck cracked.
“Ouch."
As Daniil fanned the picture in one hand, his other hand clutched the back of my neck and stroked it firmly.
Oh. My. God. I moaned. He stopped squeezing. I heard him peel the positive from the negative.
"Here," Daniil said, handing me the photograph. "Take a look. Not bad for an old man, huh?"
I pinched the photo of my back piece and scrutinized Dee's final masterpiece in vivid color. My eyes widened. The last time colors had tapped into my senses so magically I was four. I'd caught a glimpse on a color TV through a storefront window in a town off the reservation. Judy Garland was stepping foot into Oz.
No one on the res owned a color TV in the late seventies. I'd wanted to just stand there in the freezing winter chill and watch a little more, but my mom hurried me along, pointing at the sign in the window that'd read No Indians or Loitering.
I racked my vocabulary, searching for the right words to convey my feelings.
"I wish Dee and my mom were still alive to see this," I finally said.
"How did your mom die, Leslie?"
"Thanks for asking. I appreciate it. I really do. But I'm feeling too much bliss right now to kill the mood. Some other time."
"I'm going to bandage you up now, then. I figure that with all your other tats, I don't have to remind you about after-care to stave off infection."
“No, but each one has healed differently. Go ahead and give me a refresher."
"For starters, I'm going to relieve the swelling," he said.
A squeeze bottle gurgled, then alcohol trickled down my back. The cool liquid tamed the heat. After rubbing the alcohol in with his strong hands, Daniil applied a generous coat of Vaseline. Next, I heard the sheets of plastic wrap he tore off, before he affixed them to my back with medical tape.
"Leave this bandage on for two-to-twelve hours. Wash your hands before removing it. Take the bandage off slowly. If it won't come off easily, don't pull—moisten the bandage with warm water instead. In the shower is best. Don't soak the tattoo. Don't scrub or use a washcloth. Gently work off anything on the surface with your hands. Pat it dry, never rub it. Wear something that breathes. Cotton's good. No nylon or polyester. Also, try to avoid any hard workouts that flex the tattoo or cause excessive perspiration. Keep the tattoo moist over the next several days with Curel or Lubriderm."
"Okay," I said.
"Do you have something else you can wear other than the T-shirt you came in with?"
"In my messenger bag," I told him.
After retrieving it for me, Daniil waited in the outer room. I got up out of the chair and stood still for a moment to keep my legs from cramping up. I reached into the bag.
Forgoing the restraint and push of a bra, I pulled out a sleeveless satin blouse and pulled the wispy, red garment on over my torso. I left the two bottom buttons undone to parade my abs, rising phoenix tat, and pierced naval. A friend once told me my outie was my sexiest feature and that I should show it off as often as possible.
I pulled the messenger bag up over my shoulder. The curtain of beads rattled as I parted them to enter the main room. Daniil was sitting in a straight-back chair, holding the heart-shaped box I'd delivered, trails of tears staining his cheeks. He got up quickly. Setting Dee's ashes down on the counter by the cash register, he wiped his eyes off with the cuff of his corduroy shirt.
"Daniil, do you want me to hang out for a while longer? You shouldn't be alone right now."
“Nah, being able to finish Dee's vision has helped with the grieving process. My boyfriend will return from work within the hour. I'll be alright."
"Okay. I'll see you in a couple days for Dee's funeral."
"Where are you staying?"
“The Sheraton at Fisherman’s Wharf,” I said.
“Isn’t that a little touristy for a P.I.?”
Oh no, what kind of hotel did Matt book me into?
“I’ll check in with you tomorrow night. Call me if you need any help with the funeral arrangements, or if you just need to talk.”
“Sure. Take care of that tattoo, Leslie.”
"Thanks. Goodnight." I actually smiled, then walked out of the Boogie Clay Crafts and Gifts head shop.
A chilly breeze brushed against my exposed skin and sprouted goosebumps. Pulling my leather jacket on, I stowed my messenger bag in one of the storage pods on the back of my motorcycle. I glanced left and right.
Across the street, a pair of twenty-something guys were walking and holding hands. The younger man held a leash in his clenched fist.
I turned and headed right, on a parallel course with the boys.
Their white and brown dog bounded up the sidewalk, pausing only to sniff a garbage can and a fire hydrant. The dog barked and leapt ahead, jerking his owner's right arm upward. The leash handle clicked to feed the rambunctious canine a little more line.
"Archie," the young man strong-arming the leash said, "slow down, boy."
The mutt panted rapidly and wagged his tail in response. He barked again.
I mounted my motorcycle. Donning my helmet, I planted my feet firmly on the asphalt to balance the bike, then swiveled the kickstand up with my riding boot heel. I stomped the engine on. It vibrated steadily against my thighs.
A good memory rushed to my head. My first date when I was sixteen had showed up on a motorcycle. We’d sped around San Francisco for hours. Arms wrapped around him tight, I kept screaming, “Faster!”
Putting the Streetfighter in gear, I looked behind me in both directions, and slowly backed out. I liked to think that I'd outgrown being a reckless teenager a long time ago.
Since my body was still consumed by endorphins and adrenaline, I didn't go to the hotel right away. In two days my vacation would be over and the paying case that'd brought me to the Bay would require several exhaustive hours of surveillance. I needed to know my way around.
I toured the districts of San Francisco. Having lived here in my youth, reorienting my directional senses didn't take much time. The traffic lights switching to yellow or red did, though.
I resigned myself to admiring the mishmash of architecture and cultures: a lush green park with clean playground equipment and basketball courts sandwiched in between suburban houses; medium-sized condominiums rising up out of pubs, clothing shops, or hand-made jewelry boutiques; the gaudy blue and pink neon marquee of The Castro Theater that read Bogie Film Festival beginning with The Petrified Forrest and Jerry Goldsmith Tribute featuring Chinatown.
I didn't know either one of those movies.
A trio of drag queens, colorful peacock feathers highlighting their bouffant hairdos and high heels click-clacking, negotiated a trip down a steep flight of stone steps in front of a tall Victorian house with gingerbread trim. They moved with more grace than I would've ever been able to pull off in a pair of those damn things. A hand-carved wooden sign staked in the grass beside the stairs read Tommie's Bed & Breakfast: Free Wi-Fi. The vibrant red neon Vacancy sign glowed like a beacon.
Cholos cruising in a lowrider pulled out in front of me on Mission Street. I squeezed the brakes hard. The sudden stop jostled the Streetfighter and jerked my body forward. The curse I hurled was absorbed by the live salsa music blasting from a nearby cantina.
Spicy aromas of grilled meats and vegetables drifting around the strip flooded the vents of my helmet and made me salivate. My stomach rumbled. The last time I'd eaten was around noon. Daniil had ordered a late lunch delivery from Orphan Andy's. I'd devoured a creamy tuna and sharp cheddar melt piled with sliced red onions and tomatoes on lightly-toasted dark rye.
I licked my lips. It wasn't from hunger, though. Unwilling to be stuck behind a street gang cruising the town, I spot-checked oncoming traffic, then made a split-second left turn onto a side street. Motorists forced to stop leaned on their horns.
Whipping past some of the colorful murals for which the Mission District is famous, I hung a right onto Church Street. At Seventeenth Street, I coasted to a smooth stop. The Mission District's namesake and San Francisco's oldest building, Mission Dolores, loomed ahead.
Crossing over to Guerrero, I sped five blocks north up to Market Street and hung another right. Once I hit the Embarcadero traffic thinned out. As I cruised closer to the Bay, I inhaled salty air.
I checked the Honda's fuel gauge. The needle pointed at about a quarter full. A Chevron Station sign glowed up ahead. I swung into the lot and pulled up to the pump. As I listened to the petroleum flow through the nozzle and watched the numbers on the meter flicker, I looked around.
A silver Blazer full of noisy twenty-something guys arguing over what brand of beer to pick up stopped bickering to ogle a foursome of college cheerleaders that rolled up in a jeep. Pop music blaring from their speakers and subwoofer polluted the atmosphere. The girls hip-walked in unison toward the convenience store entrance.
A tall guy, his long albino hair tied back in a ponytail, was washing the windshield of his black Charger.
He was watching me. Our eyes met; not in a cordial manner. His predatory gaze faced front, gauging the distance to his prey. My instincts told me that I'd just been marked.
That intimidation shit didn't work on me.
At the impressionable age of ten, I had stared down a rabid coyote. My dog's blood was dripping from its muzzle and growling fangs. As the drooling beast leapt at me, I had shot an arrow right through its heart.
The albino relented and turned back to his car. Finished with the squeegee, he placed it back in the bucket (careful not to splash any dirty water on his suit), then pumped a few squirts of hand sanitizer on his palms. I noticed he wasn't getting any gas.
"Asshole," one of the cheerleaders hollered.
A bald-headed fella, stocky but muscular, wearing a suit and a tie, nudged the girls out of his path. He stuffed a pack of cigarettes in his front pocket.
Ponytail's lip curled up before he hurled foreign words at his associate. Then the tall albino nodded with a rapid jerk of his V-shaped chin. The angry gesture could've been aimed at the passenger door of their car, or at me.
The pump clicked and a computerized voice thanked me for my purchase. Getting back on the blue and silver chassis, I started the ignition, then wheeled over to the exit. Oncoming traffic made me wait. I saw the Charger's gleaming windshield pull up behind me in my side mirrors.
I turned left onto Embarcadero and headed north. So did the Charger.
Coming up on Pier 39, the air grew thick with the stench of dumped frier oil from battered seafood. Stomach growling, I thought about my mom's fry bread.
I saw Alcatraz Island. The prison's bleached structure resembled a tomb. Paiutes, Papagoes, Apaches, Shoshones, Modocs, Hopis—long before Al Capone or "the Birdman of Alcatraz" made the Rock famous—were sentenced to the dungeons below the cell block. In the case of a few Hopi prisoners in the 1890s, their crimes were no worse than refusing to surrender their children to missionary boarding schools. Their spirit to preserve their identity was smothered, confined in holes of solid rock where no light could reach.
In 1969, Richard Oakes and Adam Nordwall launched an incursion of the island. American Indians from Nations all over the country made the journey to join the occupation, eager to participate in the rise of traditional Indian consciousness and activism. Being an AIM (American Indian Movement) supporter, my mother, Mina Crow Bear, was one of them. She got pregnant with me—either somewhere in San Francisco or on the Rock after she made landfall—and hoped that I'd be the first baby born there. Tragically, on a January morning in 1970, the mysterious death of a thirteen-year-old girl, Yvonne—Richard Oakes' daughter, scared my mom. She fled back to the res.
Two vehicles back, the Charger's bright headlights still followed.
I told myself to be cool. My parking angel gave me a spot to pull in a block away from the Sheraton. The Charger parallel parked in a Customers Only space for an IHOP. Booths near the window featured a lengthy view of the street and my hotel. They didn't climb out of their car.
Walking up the driveway that separated the hotel's lodgings, I entered the lobby foyer through sliding doors. The posh atmosphere catered to the average business person or family on vacation. American food sizzled in the restaurant on the fringes of the lobby to my left. I walked purposefully to the check-in desk and signed in. The clerk handed over my keycard and wished me a nice stay. She emphasized that my room was located across the way in the brand new wing, closer to the gymnasium and the swimming pool for my convenience.
I inserted the card into the reader slot. The second the mechanism’s light switched to green and the lock clicked to release, I pushed the door open and flipped the lights on. My facial muscles drooped with disappointment. Pastel blues, pinks, and yellows brightened the room. The basic amenities didn't include a refrigerator. Fuck, no. This would not do.
I checked out and got back on my Streetfighter. Gunning the engine, I swung out onto the street and the Charger pulled out to follow me from a distance once more. Daniil had been right. I pulled into the parking garage of a Safeway a block away. The assholes in the Charger pulled into a spot just a few spaces away from me.
I bopped into the grocery store. The clicking of my steel riding boots on the slanted concrete echoed throughout the structure.
Grabbing a basket, I placed it in the crook of my arm. I moseyed into the produce department. I gently squeezed a few avocados in my hand for ripeness. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my follower's elongated shadows proceed their shapes through the sliders.
They split up. The squat one headed for the coolers on the opposite end of the store, while Ponytail stood at an end cap juice display. He snatched a mango smoothie.
I headed over to the perishable veggies. Thunder clapped through the speakers overhead and water jets began to spray a mist. I grabbed a small bunch of cilantro and bagging it, tossed the leafy greens in the basket next to the avocado and a squeeze bottle of lime juice. Wiping my hand off on my thigh, I hipped it slowly to the back of the department and continued on to the next aisles.
In the ethnic foods section I snatched a bottle of Sriracha. In my peripheral vision, I saw Ponytail grab a can of refried beans. I walked towards him. He acted like I no longer existed. Even when I stood right beside him and stooped forward, accentuating my toned curves a little, to select a can of organic black beans.
I walked around him.
Strolling up the cooking aisle, I grabbed a travel-sized set of sea salt and pepper shakers. The next aisle over I got a pouch of microwavable brown rice, then kept moving.
Ponytail stepped right in my path, the front of his body perfectly open. I bumped into him. While pressing against his chest with my free hand to brace myself, I rammed his balls up into his body cavity with my knee.
Releasing his items, which bounced off the scuffed linoleum floor, Ponytail dropped to his knees, clutching his testicles with both hands. A pair of clerks rushed over to offer help. He wagged his head no.
I sidestepped and made my way to the kitchen aid products section. I picked out a set of disposable plastic containers and a box of utensils. Lastly, I remembered that bottle of Lubriderm.
All done shopping, I went through the express line. As the checker handed me my bagged groceries and wished me goodnight, I noticed Ponytail's partner, Q Ball, had finally caught up with his accomplice and was trying to help him stand up enough to walk.
Heading for the main entry sliders, I stopped by the boxed displays of candy bars to open my plastic bag in shock.
"Shit! I forgot to grab Inked."
I swung around and headed for the periodicals. Q Ball patted Ponytail on the shoulder, then followed after me to intercept.
A gap separated the paperbacks from the magazines. I darted through it and hustled to the rear of the store. I pushed out the emergency exit in the foyer between the pharmacy and the row of dairy cases.
Q Ball entered the area. Clasping palms over his ears to mute the shrieking alarm that emanated from the speaker on the crash bar, Q Ball nudged the door open. He took two steps outside.
Springing up from a crouch near the aspirin shelves in his blind spot, I drove a side kick into Q Ball's hip. He slammed into the asphalt. I pulled the door shut. To get back inside he'd have to traverse a trip around the entire block.
I jogged up to the front of the store, mindful of any clerks rushing to the back to check on the alarm. I grinned. It seemed that all the other customers had chosen that particular moment to swarm into the register lanes. As I dashed through the sliders, I could hear management over the PA system calling all checkers for assistance.
Stashing my sack of groceries in one of the pods on the back of my bike, I hopped onto the seat, strapped my helmet on, stomped the engine into a roar, and sped away from the wharf.
Now that my unwanted appendage wasn't around, I could figure out a safe place to stay. I recalled that another one of my girlfriends from my teen years was staying in San Francisco.
Ali lived in one of those brand new, sheik condos that'd sprouted up in Haight-Ashbury. This hip district reminded me of Hawthorne or the Pearl in Portland. A neighborhood for second-generation hippies, struggling artists, and pot enthusiasts.
I parked in a loading zone between her building and a pawn shop. Trudging uphill to the front stoop, I ran my finger over the call buttons until I zeroed in on Ali's number. The name tag above the buzzer was gone. I double-checked the address. No, I had it right. Ali had moved without staying in touch with me. Well that sneaky bitch . . .
What other option did I have for a place to stay? Then I remembered the bed and breakfast in the Castro I’d seen.
•
FROM THE moment I walked inside the Victorian's parlor, an atmosphere laden with incense and solid wood furnishings enveloped me with warmth.
My upstairs room at the end of the hall featured a queen-size bed, a compact fridge that contained an honor bar, a microwave, a bathroom with a cast iron tub, and a detachable shower head. An oasis to an urban Indian like me.
I unpacked my clothes and stored them in the meticulously sanded and varnished maple chest of drawers across from the foot of the bed. On the right side of the bed near the door I pulled my boots off and stretched my toes. I padded into the bathroom to wash the streets off my hands.
Sliding my iPad out of my satchel, I set the case stand up on the walnut-lacquered nightstand. I tapped the Music icon and selected an Enigma playlist to help me relax.
As the monks began to cantillate, I popped the pouch of rice in the microwave for ninety-seconds. I used the can opener on my Leatherman tool to pry open the can of beans, then drained them in the bathroom sink. When the microwave timer dinged, I was cutting the avocado in two.
I dumped half the rice into one of the disposable bowls, dashed a little salt, twisted some pepper, then fluffed it with a fork. Spooning black beans on, I topped it with the avocado flesh, cilantro sprigs, and hot sauce shaken on like a maraca. Meatless Monday dinner was served.
Sitting down cross-legged at the head of the bed, I swiveled the tablet around. I took a bite of my simple meal and connected to the streaming Wi-Fi. Browsing blogs and news sites for Portland to keep up on current events, I discovered a headline interesting enough to read aloud with my mouth full.
"Can't Beat a Classic: Premier Detective Wildly Apprehends Strangler Suspect, Driving Bullitt Mustang . . ."
At a homecoming celebration, Emma Rooney crawls out of the woods brutalized and raped. Ten years later, she’s marshaled her drawing skills, and overcomes the terror from that night by becoming a forensic sketch artist for the police, until budget cuts and computer software take Emma’s job away. Her passion for art endures, designing tattoos and doing freelance work for private eyes, like the Grunge Operatives of Alternative Investigations. Unbeknownst to Emma, their deadliest case will pit her desire for justice and vengeful survival instincts against an international terrorist.
A Dying Art is a novella approximately 26,000 words long.
From A DYING ART
October 2000
THE TEENAGE girl stumbled out of the tree line. Dead leaves clung to her knotted black hair. The skin of her upper arms and thighs bore scratches from Douglas Fir needles, and claw marks from where the bastards had held her down. An owl perched on a branch nearby hooted. The wavering sound startled her. As her bare feet negotiated the steep, uneven terrain, she slipped on a patch of sodden mulch. Tumbling forward, she struck a ditch.
Emma Rooney’s face crunched against bedrock. The impact broke her nose; surprisingly enough, it hadn't been during the assault earlier. Emma stiffened her split, swollen lips, and pushed herself up. A fresh stream of blood ran into her mouth. A worm squeezed through her fingers as she clutched a handful of moist earth.
Standing up on heavy, wobbly legs, Emma stepped onto asphalt. She focused on following the white line and reflectors. She took comfort in leaving behind the tree frogs croaking in the woods for the vehicles zooming past her on the interstate.
A gust of wind knocked her off balance. Emma waved her arms to compensate. A Mercedes Benz sped along, a guy standing up through the sunroof. He howled at the moon, a fifth of booze in his fist.
"Nice tits!" he yelled.
Overcome with shame and shock, Emma covered up her nude breasts with her arms. She started to walk. It was more of a hobble.
She didn't know how many miles she covered. All she focused on was trying to breathe through blood-clotted nostrils and making distance.
A road sign up ahead indicated Portland was twenty miles north. She shivered and moved on. Her teeth chattered. Just a few feet past the sign, a gut-wrenching abdominal pain forced her over. The pressure reminded her of a kickoff, only her stomach and her uterus were the football. She fell down; jagged gravel scraped up her kneecaps.
The scream that exploded through her lips was covered up by a log truck. She gagged and retched. The few bites of chicken salad she'd consumed at the homecoming tailgate party resembled moldy cream of mushroom soup.
Her nerves acclimated to the pain. Gritting her teeth, she stood back up. Pressing a hand to her stomach, she noticed that her pink cotton panties were now soiled through with blood, dirt, and sweat. Despite feeling dizzy, Emma began to move again.
Raindrops started to spit. The dark gray shroud of clouds coughed a set of rolling booms before dumping sheets of rain. The thick droplets streamed down Emma's ravaged body. The water washed away the blood on her black and blue thighs. She wept.
Looking down at her feet, Emma continued to follow the white line. Rainwater coursing down the incline distorted the safety zone beneath ripples. She didn't realize that she'd walked out into the highway until a horn blared.
Spinning around, Emma screamed for the car to stop, then threw her arms up to her bruised and battered face. The pickup swerved around, splashing her with water that tasted of motor oil. She smelled burnt rubber. She backpedaled, terrified.
The massive lights of a semi truck were climbing up the hill toward her. Its horn blared. The whining of the air breaks caused Emma’s legs to shake, before she froze in the drenching coldness.
The rig shuddered to a halt. Squinting through the rain dripping from her soaked eyelashes and bangs, Emma discerned a Washington State license plate. The passenger door flew open. She could hear “Take Me Home, Country Roads” playing on the radio in the cab. A big-boned woman in overalls and a baseball cap climbed down. Her boots touched down with a splash. The rig’s turn signals flashed.
Slowly, the trucker approached the hyperventilating teenager. She held out a gentle, motherly hand of support.
"Oh, sweetie," the trucker said, "you're in a world of hurt. Let me and my man take you to a hospital."
Emma collapsed into the woman's arms.
Despite her arthritic knees, the lady trucker ran up to the injured teen and caught her.
•
DEPUTY GLEN Hart heard a scream carry loudly through the abandoned lot at Southeast Twenty-Eighth and Steele. It sounded more awkward and clumsy than terrified. Celebratory. Nevertheless, he set the textbook he'd been studying down on the white livery of his Dodge Charger’s dashboard.
He was looking forward to delving into the next chapter, Interrogation Techniques. Simple concept, really.
Glen already possessed a sharp perception for reading a person's body language to discover their tell. Playing poker every weekend with his fellow police officers aided him in developing that skill.
He wiped the condensation off the windshield and scanned the area for any signs of trouble.
A couple of women in their twenties, a blonde and a brunette, were walking south with a drunken gait. Glen took them for a pair of college students heading back to their dorm after letting loose from their studies on a Friday night. The blonde filled out a crimson red sweatshirt snugly. Stitched letters made even bigger by her voluptuous figure spelled:
R-E-E-D
Glen allowed himself a smug grin at his deduction skills. He picked up his large coffee from the carrier in the center console below the onboard computer. After taking a big drink of the black, strong brew, Glen put the steaming cup back, then reached for the textbook. He peered at the clock radio; thirty minutes of his lunch break remained. Plenty of time to read a few more pages and scribble highlights down in his notebook.
His high school sweetheart and wife, Jenny, would tease him for not using the PalmPilot she'd given him on their ten-year anniversary.
He smiled at the college girls. As they got closer to the intersection they were howling and squealing. Glen remembered having good times like that in college. For a fleeting moment he thought about an old friend in his fraternity that he had a falling out with. The girls screamed some more, louder now. The blonde wrapped her arms around the redhead as if the ground had vanished beneath her feet. Glen hoped they didn't make enough racket to trip the sensitive motion sensors in the chiropractor clinic across the street.
The night shift's patrol duty was relaxing, overall, and he wanted it to stay that way.
He was watching the college girls jaywalk across the intersection towards 7-Eleven. He didn't need a radar gun to know that the muddy yellow pickup hauling ass down Steele was speeding. His cracked open passenger window vibrated from the subwoofers in their truck bellowing out a metal tune, while a whoosh of westerly wind ruffled his jet black hair. Glen spotted a gun rack with hunting rifles mounted. The truck came to a hard stop, brakes whining.
The passenger shoved his head out through the window. A swastika covered the back of his bald cranium.
Glen frowned in anger. He could think of nothing better than cracking that skull open like a hard-boiled egg.
"You stupid cunts," the Aryan yelled, "why don'tcha' watch where the fuck you're goin'?"
"Fuck you, ya' Nazi piece a' shit," the redhead yelled right back, throwing her middle finger up high. The girls were less than a foot away from stepping up onto the opposite curb.
The pickup driver revved the engine, drowning out the women's threatening voices.
Glen despised men that abused women or children. He flipped switches. The cherries on top of the patrol car rolled and screeched. The entire block lit up with a blue and red aura of don't fuck with the law.
The guy with the tattoo on his head jerked his face around to sneer at Glen. The cop glared right back. The Aryan's eyes widened. His muscular arm, every inch of flesh covered in tattoos, waved around to give Glen the finger. Then the bald-headed thug latched onto the doorframe because the driver tore away from the intersection in a sharp left turn. Heavy-duty radials screamed and smoked.
Glen scrunched his eyes at the Oregon license plate. He could only make out partial letters before the vehicle sped away.
The motion alarm in the clinic annunciated, shrieking throughout the slumbering neighborhood. In his rear view mirror, Glen saw lights in the apartment complex wink on.
Shit, so much for a peaceful night.
The garbled voice of a dispatcher came on, asking for what sounded like his handle. He turned up the radio, then unclipped the handset. Holding down the transmit button, he radioed dispatch and asked them to repeat the transmission.
"Officer Hart, we're patching in a call for you," the dispatcher said.
"Okay. Go."
"Officer Hart, this is Nurse Carpenter at North Providence. You're an emergency contact for Emma Rooney."
"Yes," he said. "She's my cousin. Is Emma—"
"Emma's in the ICU. She's been assaulted and raped."
"Oh God, no."
He dropped the handset and turned the Charger over. As he barreled north up Twenty-Eighth, Glen didn't bother to slow down for the speed bumps on the suburban streets. The metal undercarriage ground along the blacktop like Glen's teeth in his set jaw. He sped on behind the Fred Meyer Corporate Office Headquarters along Twenty-Sixth. More of the lights in their new five-story building were lit up.
A cop that wants to get somewhere fast doesn't travel in straight lines. Glen swerved around a Volvo stopped for the light at Powell, then made a wide left into thin late-night traffic. Burgerville's billboard boasted fresh peach milkshakes. He jagged right to pass a Ford puttering five miles under the speed limit in the fast lane.
Emma was hurt bad. He needed to be at her side and find out what the fuck happened.
•
INSTITUTIONAL WHITE blurred in Glen's peripheral vision. He'd rushed past the packed admitting area in the emergency room and was sprinting down the hallway. As a police officer, Glen knew exactly which wing he needed to get to. He'd taken statements from hospital staff, rape victims, or witnesses there several times. On occasion he'd even run an errand to pick up evidence for forensics.
Anything he could do to make detective before thirty.
"Move!" Glen said as he barged through a morose group of visitors that looked like they were lost or didn't care to be there.
The corridors had never seemed so claustrophobic or long before.
A charge of adrenaline boosted his pace as he stormed across the sky bridge. Heavy rain pelted the window panes. Glen's ribs and side began to ache. He reminded himself to breathe.
Glen sidestepped out of the path of a wide-eyed janitor pushing a cleaning cart. He collided with a patient trying to walk on crutches. The elderly man smacked the linoleum.
He looked up at Glen with enraged, wrinkly eyes. "You asshole. I'll sue."
"Shit, I'm so sorry," he said, skidding to a stop. He bent over to help the patient up.
"What did you call me?" the cranky senior scolded. "Don't touch me."
Glen held his hands up in surrender before he whipped back around to start running again.
"Hey!" an orderly said as he swooped in to assist. "Take it easy. Mr. Curry, you know you're not supposed to be walking around without an escort."
Glen scurried away and burst onto the ward.
A candy-striper at the nurse’s station stood up from her computer monitor. “Can I help you, officer?”
“My cousin, Emma,” he said, pausing to catch his breath, “Rooney—”
Glen bowed his head so he wouldn't cough into the woman's heart-shaped face. He’d given up smoking after college; smoked his last pack at his bachelor party. The damage to his lungs had been done though, and the side effects always came back after a sprint.
She got him a paper cup of water from the cooler near row of filing cabinets. “Here, drink this and I'll look up her room number.”
“Thanks,” Glen said. He picked up the cup. His hands were shaky from adrenaline and a plethora of emotions flooding his body and soul. Water dribbled on the countertop.
Her delicate fingers click-clacked on the keyboard. Glen noticed that she wasn't using her fingertips, but the ends of her long manicured nails that were just as efficient.
“You two must be close,” she said warmly.
“Yeah, I gave her her first stick driving lesson on our grandparents’ farm.”
“Hay season, right,” the candy-striper commented. She struck the enter key, then studied the screen.
Glen nodded and sipped water. He heard a ding sound and spotted the large elevator slide open. A pair of women in scrubs wheeled a gurney out.
“She just left X-ray,” the candy-striper informed Glen, only he’d rushed away from the station.
He recognized Emma’s brunette locks spilled over the edge of the gurney. He fell in alongside, careful not to nudge it. One of the orderlies warned him to watch out anyway.
“I’m family,” Glen said curtly.
Emma turned her head around at the sound of his voice.
Glen winced. Emma’s face had been pulverized. Her right eye was swollen shut, the tissue of her eyelid the diameter of a golf ball. A metal splint covered her nose. Oxygen tubes ran from her nostrils. Knuckle marks had scuffed her wide cheekbones to bruise her fair skin black and blue. Dried blood caked her lips. A gash serrated her left earlobe from where an earring had been ripped out.
Tears oozed from Emma’s left eye, an anguished pattern that made for a stark contrast over smeared makeup and scraped flesh.
“I’m here for you, Cuz,” Glen said.
He reached for Emma’s hand to squeeze it, but she curled it into a tight fist.
“I . . . I . . .” she wheezed. Her face scrunched with intense pain. She’d overheard the X-ray technician mention that several of her ribs were cracked. “I don't want you to see me like this.”
“Emma . . .?”
She turned her head. “Go away,” Emma wept. “Leave me alone.”
Glen skidded to a halt as the scrubs wheeled her into a recovery room. The woman pushing the foot of the gurney stopped to kick the door stop up and shut the door.
She made eye contact before the gap closed. “She’ll be alright. We’ll take good care of her.”
Glen watched them move the gurney alongside the bed. As one of the scrubs lowered the railing to begin the transfer, the other one wheeled a privacy screen around to obfuscate the view into shadows.
Shoulders slumped, Glen reflected how his training as a cop didn't prepare him to stand in the shoes of a victim, or a loved one helpless to prevent the crime. He felt sharp nails touch his bicep through his sweat-soaked uniform. Glen spun around.
It gave the candy-striper a start. The clipboard in her hand fell.
Glen bent his knees and stooped down. He clutched the clipboard before it could smack the linoleum. He apologized and stood back up, slowly. For a second he admired her beautiful legs. He offered the board back.
“It’s for you, actually,” she said. “Would you mind filling out the paperwork?”
“Sure. Can you please get a message to Emma’s doctor that I’d like to speak with him?”
“Of course, Officer Hart.”
“Just call me Glen.”
“Tiffany,” she said.
“Thanks, Tiffany.”
She returned to the nurse’s station.
Glen headed for the waiting area. He ducked into the bathroom. Disinfectant stung his nose and tear ducts that ached to purge, but this wasn't the time. Setting the clipboard on top of the paper towel dispenser, he washed his face off.
His cell phone rang and he answered it.
“Why the hell did you abandon your patrol, Hart?” Sergeant Lou Mulgrew asked.
Glen explained the family emergency.
“Do what you have to do, son. Next time, though, use the radio.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Call me if you need anything, Hart.”
Glen cleared his throat. “I’m going to need a couple days.”
“I don't like the sound of that, son.”
“It’s just to watch over Emma,” Glen lied.
His imagination was ablaze with violent images of what he wanted to do to the bastards that’d sexually assaulted his little cousin.
“Time off isn't the problem,” Mulgrew said. “It’s that sullen pitch of vengeance I hear in your voice. We’ll talk soon.”
The sergeant ended the call.
Glen shoved the phone back into his pocket. He mumbled curse words and scowled at his reflection in the mirror.
Fuck that, he thought, I’m not going to just stand by and do nothing.
Emma deserved justice.
Glen meandered over to the waiting room. On his way there he passed a vending nook. A fat woman in overalls was perusing the junk food. The space wasn't big enough for Glen to get in and grab a quick soda. She grabbed a soiled dollar bill from her pocket. Once her stubby fingers straightened out the currency she fed it into the machine. The bill rolled back out like an obstinate child sticking out its tongue.
Glen couldn't wait. He moved into the waiting room. He unsheathed his nightstick and plopped down in a padded wooden chair. He set the club down amidst the back issues of Newsweek and National Geographic strewn on the coffee table in front of him. He rapidly scribbled information down on Emma’s paperwork in block letters. Just on the other side of the table, a big guy in baggy blue jeans and an even baggier Hawaiian shirt was laid out on the couch, snoring. Every now and then a hair of his immaculately-trimmed chevron mustache tickled his nose and hushed his snoring, but not enough to wake him up. He reeked of nicotine and made Glen think about lighting up a smoke.
Glen scrawled his signature on the last line. He tried calling Emma’s parents and voicemail answered. He’d already left two messages and chose not to leave a third. Where the hell could they be?
Standing up, Glen waited for the blood to flow through his legs, then slid the nightstick back into his belt. He wondered what bashing in the skulls of Emma’s attackers could feel like.
He dropped the paperwork off at the nurse’s station, and asked Tiffany if she’d heard anything from the doctor.
“I’m afraid not, Glen. He’s going to be in the ER for hours. Three-car collision on Thirty-Ninth, near the highway exit.”
The cop nodded sternly, then left.
•
IN AN alternate timeline where Emma wouldn't have been raped and the night’s homecoming festivities had transpired as normal, arrangements had been made for her to sleep over at Glen and Jenny’s place. In the morning Jenny would've made Emma’s favorite breakfast: whole-wheat banana pancakes smothered with apple butter. The Harts would've been eager and supportive, listening to Emma go on-and-on about the party, the successes of her cheerleading squad, and her ex-boyfriend.
They’d just broken up, but for appearance’s sake, and to maintain their friendship, Jake had agreed to escort Emma to homecoming. Emma wouldn't have been able to find another date at the last minute, and the captain of the squad showing up without one would've been an act of social suicide. Jake was supposed to drop her off at the Hart’s home after a tailgate party.
So that’s how Glen knew Jake’s mobile number. He was calling it just a few minutes past the witching hour.
The jock’s cocky message greeting came on. “You know what to do after the beeeep.”
“You’ve got some explaining to do, Jake. Call me back before I have to come looking for your dumb ass,” Glen said, leaving his fourth message in less than thirty minutes.
“Shit.” He tossed his cell phone aside. It bounced off the passenger’s seat and smacked the floorboard.
Smothered by anger and guilt, Glen almost sped right past his own house in Sellwood. He made a last-second course correction, and in a hairpin turn, pulled into the two-car driveway. Jenny always parked her BMW in the garage. The crime was frequent in their neighborhood. Crackheads broke the antenna off the jeep to utilize it as a single-use crack pipe. The vehicle jerked upward and something crunched under the right front wheel.
Christ, please don't let that be the stray cat Jenny feeds scraps to.
The impact didn't seem squishy enough to have been an animal. Then again, the way the night was going . . .
After retrieving his phone and clutching his gym bag, Glen hopped down from the jeep. On his way to the front door he paused and peered at the driveway entrance to see what he’d run over. Pumpkin chunks were strewn everywhere. Jenny was going to be pissed. The trio of jack o’ lanterns she’d carved last weekend were crushed to pieces. At least he hadn’t knocked over her hand-painted sign that bid trick r’ treaters welcome in gruesome, cobwebbed Gothic lettering.
And it wasn't the damn cat either.
Glen heard Drake’s loud bark through the door before his key slid into the deadbolt. Jenny ordered him to hush. Glen opened the door and hustled inside.
The aroma of garlic permeated the air. A television screen flickered in the dim light of the living room where a woman screamed in stereo. Glen’s shoulders flinched.
“Aww . . .” his wife said affectionately, “did the scary movie frighten you?”
Jenny put a small glass dish of roasted pumpkin seeds down on the small end table by the recliner, then untucked her shapely legs out from underneath her lithe torso. The flames crackling in the fireplace between her and the idiot box lit up her wide cheekbones. Her nipples poked out beneath one of Glen’s silky, black button-down dress shirts. Tiny black cats freckled her orange panties. Shifting her creamy green eyes away from the commercial break, Jenny stretched her body out in a seductive offering. The golden hue of the fire lightened her strands of waist-length, chestnut-colored hair into luxurious ribbons of smooth caramel elegance.
“Trick r’ . . . Glen, what’s wrong?”
He dropped his bag. Kicking the door shut with his heel, Glen rushed down the hallway off the kitchen and dining room.
Jenny bolted up from her chair and jogged after him. “What's wrong?”
“Emma’s been raped, Jenny.”
Her eyes widened and she covered the gasp rushing from her parted lips with her hand.
Glen went into the bedroom. While Jenny sat on their king-sized bed, she watched her husband take off his uniform and dress down into black jeans, T-shirt, and boots.
“What are you going to do?” she said.
He clasped his belt and left the room. Jenny saw the light turn on in his den next door. She stood up and took baby steps out into the hallway.
She saw that the gun cabinet doors were opened. Glen clenched his Mossberg 500 pump action shotgun as he thumbed shells into the magazine tube. His eyes refused to meet her worried gaze. She heard the click of his finger switching the safety off.
“Glen, what the fuck are you going to do?!” she screamed.
He marched out of the den and ducked into Jenny’s art room at the end of the hallway. Every inch of wall space was adorned with her framed pencil and ink illustrations that ranged from pretty flowers and provocative human subjects to majestic landscapes. It doubled as a guest room, complete with a twin bed and an antique bureau that Glen had restored. He opened the top drawer. It contained assorted articles of Emma’s clothing left behind from previous sleepovers. He grabbed a pair of panties and stuffed them into his pocket.
“Drake and I are going hunting,” Glen said bluntly.
“Where are you going to start?” Jenny asked.
“With that quarterback asshole, Jake. I’ll make him take me to where the tailgate party was held. Drake will pick up Emma’s scent from there.”
Jenny followed Glen back to the living room. “Then what?”
“Find the bastards that raped my little cousin and maybe ram this 12 gauge up their asses.”
The television station announced, “Now, back to Wes Craven’s The Last House on the Left.”
Glen whistled. “Come here, Drake! Come here, boy!”
The bloodhound mastiff’s head reared up fast. Drake shot from his bed near Jenny’s chair. He circled around Glen and immediately began to sniff at the air. Glen petted Drake’s fawn coat enthusiastically. Drake barked with purpose and drooled all over Glenn’s boots.
“That’s a good dog. Yes . . .”
“This is a bad idea,” Jenny said.
“What the hell else am I supposed to do? Wait to hear about the suspects being caught on the news? She’s my cousin, dammit.”
“For Chrissake, ease up, Glen,” she said. “You’re a police officer.”
“Not tonight.” He picked up his gym bag. “I’ll check in before dinner.”
Glen kissed his wife goodbye and opened the door to leave. They stepped out onto the stoop. A floodlight in front of the house clicked on and shined directly in their astonished faces. Drake barked rapidly.
Racking the slide, Glen aimed the Mossberg just a few inches above the powerful light. His index finger moved from outside the trigger guard to curl around the trigger. Jenny dropped to her knees and covered both ears. Welcome mat bristles chafed her skin.
“Who goes there?” Glen shouted.
White spots were floating on the edge of his vision. He could make out the outline of a pickup truck and a large man. Puffs of cold breath or smoke drifted up into the atmosphere and dissipated. Glen took a deep breath to steady the waves of adrenaline flooding his body.
He inhaled a nauseous cigar odor he’d last smelled at a department BBQ last summer.
“Lou, is that you?” he asked the massive silhouette.
“I cut my fishing trip short. Put that scatter gun down before you do something we both regret, Hart,” Sergeant Mulgrew said in his Western drawl.
Glen lowered the weapon.
Mulgrew stepped out from behind the light. He had on waders and a flannel shirt. Pushing paper had chained him to a desk and pronounced his beer belly, but his large hands were the paws of a black bear.
“Stand up, Jenny,” Mulgrew said. “Why don't you go inside so your husband and I can sort this matter out.”
The masculine sound of Mulgrew’s resonant voice reminded Jenny of Sam Elliott. She stood up and huddled close to Glen.
He shook his head. “You can hear this, too. I don't keep secrets from my wife, Lou.”
“Fair enough. What the hell are you up to, Hart? Shouldn't you be at the hospital, watching over your cousin?”
“Thought I’d do a little deer hunting,” Glen said.
“With a shotgun,” Mulgrew chuckled, then the laughter dropped off abruptly. “Bullshit.”
An uncomfortable silence of despair lingered in the drizzling rain.
Mulgrew broke it and said, “Remember your oath.”
“To uphold the law,” Hart said. “Where does that leave Emma though? She’s wired up to a bed. Beaten. Broken. Soaked in blood and semen.”
Slowly, the senior police officer walked forward, closing the distance between himself and the finest deputy he’d ever trained. He could see the kid making captain someday.
“The sex offenders that did it will be caught,” Mulgrew assured, “and the justice system will seal their fate. Not a rogue cop forsaking his code for vigilantism. You’ve got one helluva career path in front of you. Don't stray off it for revenge.”
Mulgrew placed his hand on the Mossberg, clicked the safety on.
Glen slumped forward. He sniffled up tears in the cold dampness. His lower lip quivered. Droplets of moisture beaded his moody eyebrows.
“Let it go, son.” The sergeant took the gun out of Glen’s loosened grip, then patted him on the shoulder. “Good man. I’m going to hold onto this for a few days. Jenny, get him inside. Keep each other warm tonight.”
As she fastened the deadbolt, Jenny heard the engine in Mulgrew’s rig turn over. She bent forward to turn the television off.
“Hold it,” Glen said. “Is this about the criminals that rape and murder two girls, then stay in a house nearby to get out of a storm? Only the occupants are the parents of one of the girls, and they avenge their daughter.”
“Yeah, I think so.”
They snuggled up on the love seat next to the recliner and finished watching the movie. Drake fell asleep curled up in his bed. He snored so loud that Jenny had to turn up the volume. As the credits began to roll, the beeps of Glen’s cell phone ringing perforated their all-too-brief alone time. He released a long exhale before answering it.
Now what?
Seconds after the call ended, Glen dropped the handset. The calm in his face gave way to a look of anguish as his eyes shut. He couldn't restrain his sorrow any longer and wept. Jenny hugged and soothed him to find out what happened. Emma’s folks had been struck by a three-car collision on their way to the hospital.
They were dead on arrival.
When a sting operation recovers stolen evidence from a serial rape case, homicide detective Heather MacGraw leaks information to the private eyes she’s hired to augment the investigation. The clue leads Leslie Crow and Matt Grudge to the Brooklyn Yard. After canvassing the neighborhood, they stake out the railroad yard. As the night wears on, Leslie reflects on how their partnership started. A terrifying discovery brings her face-to-face with an enemy from the past unleashed to destroy the proof they seek.
Bad Night at Brooklyn Yard is a novella approximately 20,000 words long.
From BAD NIGHT AT BROOKLYN YARD
Early November, 2010
MARK GROVER watched a very attractive and frequent customer flirting with one of his new employees on a video monitor by the till. The flickering black-and-white screen showed multiple security camera angles of the aisles in his store, the Lady Liberty Buy-Sell-Trade pawn shop. The entrepreneur and locksmith oversaw sales from his sturdy oak stool behind a long glass case that displayed collectibles and other high-theft merchandise: Cellular phones, handguns, jewelry, knives, out-of-print films on VHS or DVD, and a few rare books. Fingerprints from excited shoppers dirtied the surface. So did crumbs from the bags of nuts or chips Grover liked to snack on while passing the time.
Rifles and shotguns adorned the wall behind him. The collection was finished off by a taxidermied buck’s head with huge antlers mounted in the middle. The sweet scent of cherry pipe tobacco clung to the trophy’s fur. Every whiff reminded him of his dad.
Approaching retirement himself now, Grover despised growing old. As Grover waited on his latest customer, he groaned a little at having to put on a pair of eyeglasses to read price tags and the buttons on the cash register.
Then again, if the leggy blonde ended up being the last person he saw in his life, he’d be alright with that. She possessed the brightest smile he’d ever had the pleasure to smile back at. Her Marlboro red lips accentuated perfectly straight, pearly white teeth. Skintight jeans pronounced an athletic figure and a low cut blouse showed off plentiful cleavage.
They were certainly a good place to conceal a wire microphone.
She complimented the baggy, red Hawaiian shirt she’d suggested he wear to hide his wire. With fall temperatures dropping, Grover would have preferred to keep his portly torso warm in a snug sweater, but knew he couldn’t afford the outline of the surveillance device showing.
His life and reputation depended on it.
His eyes fell to the silver necklace of the Oregon Duck dangling from her graceful neck.
A surge of pride warmed Grover’s heart. He’d earned his bachelor’s degree in business at the University of Oregon.
“Find everything you need?” he asked.
“Yes, I did,” the blonde chimed, handing Grover a DVD.
The phone on her hip sounded with the theme from Peter Gunn. She silenced the handset. Her fingernails, immaculately manicured, were colored U of O green and yellow.
Grover opened the DVD case and thumbed the disc out, flipped it over to inspect the reflective surface for any scratches. Grover was stalling. He found comfort in the blonde’s presence.
Still, Mark Grover was a man that preferred to confront trouble on his own.
“Your clerk, Bud, was very nice and helped me locate the stuff I was looking for. I’ll be back tomorrow after payday.”
Her last statement was a code phrase they’d pre-arranged. It meant that Bud had offered to sell her a piece of stolen property he’d tried to conceal in Grover’s massive inventory.
The crime had been committed while he was on a fishing trip last week. First thing upon his return, Grover had inventoried the rings. Since he’d ordered Bud not to accept any jewelry while he was gone, he noticed the discrepancy right away. Dumb ass punk kid.
Grover’s face was beginning to turn red from anger. His hands trembled as he rang up the purchase. An appreciation for cinema steadied his upset, frustrated nerves.
“The Getaway with Steve McQueen and Ali MacGraw,” he said. “You have good taste.”
“Really . . .?” she replied in a ditzy tone. “Thanks, mister. I used to have a copy of this classic on tape until it got lost in the move here.”
Grover snatched a breath to speak up and correct the blonde to call him by his surname.
She held an index finger between her puckered lips and shushed him silently.
Bud appeared at the other end of the counter, well within earshot, and began to wipe the glass down with a pink cleaner that reeked of ammonia and potpourri.
Bud never did such a thorough job of cleaning before. He sure as shit didn’t clean the stolen class ring that he’d attempted to fence using Grover’s place. Every chance he’d gotten to help a customer interested in buying jewelry over the last few days, Bud rifled through the ring boxes, looking for the small, platinum class ring with a flawed emerald.
Little did Bud know that Grover had sealed the woman’s ring in a baggie to preserve whatever evidence remained, then secured it in his hidden fire safe.
Grover acknowledged that he understood with a nod. “Thanks for stopping by. Come back again, soon.”
The blonde tossed a cool, easygoing look over her shoulder at Grover as she walked out of his establishment.
Grover heard the purring sound of her Mustang’s V-8 engine start on Southeast Eighty-Second and Woodstock before it dissipated in the distance.
•
HALF-PAST the witching hour, the frame around the back door to Lady Liberty groaned. The wood near the deadbolt and doorknob creaked and warped. The resistance didn’t hold against an assault of considerable muscle and steel. Hissed curses accompanied a spray of splinters. Finally, a thick-soled work boot kicked the door open.
A pair of flashlight beams criss-crossed in the hallway. One of them zeroed in on the alarm system keypad near the archway that lead to the main floor. Fingers in rubber gloves rapidly entered the code and disarmed the security system.
Both of the intruders failed to notice that the Arm On Stay light had been red.
It meant the moment they’d penetrated the door, the alarm company had registered the alarm, but the motion sensors had been left off.
The bright beams and hurried footsteps fumbled through the dark for the main counter.
Someone turned the lights on.
Disoriented by the sudden illumination, Bud and his accomplice dropped their flashlights and bumped into some nearby shelves. A porcelain vase fell on the floor and shattered to pieces. The two burglars wore overalls. Pantyhose masks contorted their features into hideous facsimiles of human faces.
Mark Grover was perched on his stool. Glaring vigilantly, his eyes locked on the two assholes that’d broken into his store. The men smelled of train yard grease. Just like the class ring. He could pinpoint Bud out of the two by the God awful body spray he always wore to impress women.
“Bud, it’s not too late to turn yourself in,” Grover reasoned. “Did you know that class ring you tried to sell belonged to a murder victim some jogger found cut into little pieces? She’d been raped and strangled first. The cops make the Tabor Strangler for the killing. This makes you an A-1 suspect of being a serial rapist.”
The bigger guy hefting a crowbar moved in closer, then pushed through the swinging door that lead behind the counter. “Where’s the ring, old man?”
Grover ignored the thug. He scooted off his seat, then stepped and twisted sideways a few degrees. The firearm aficionado was posturing his weight to assume a confident shooter’s stance.
“Bud, you’re going to break your Aunt Patty’s heart. We go way back.”
“That’s it,” the intruder’s massive shoulder muscles flexed as he raised his weapon. “I’m gonna’ bash your brains in, old-timer. You’ll wish you hadn’t been here.”
“For Chrissakes, listen to me!” Grover yelled. “Call this mongrel off.”
Bud discerned an empty slot in one of the gun racks. “Ivan, stop!”
The giant turned his face away from Grover for a second to scold Bud. “Don’t use my name, imbecile.”
As he turned back, a yell built up in the big man’s throat to amplify his charging attack, then cut off abruptly when he saw the barrel.
“Eat this, you animal.” The 12-gauge Winchester pump shotgun Grover aimed at Ivan roared.
At such a close range, the full load of rock salt propelled the oaf down the length of the counter, like a soccer ball after a striker kicking it into the goal.
As Grover aimed at Bud, the misguided youth fled. Two steps out the rear entrance, he froze. His boots skidded across the rain-soaked pavement. A round metal tube stamped his temple. He gaped at the 1968, highland green Ford Mustang blocking Ivan’s vehicle.
“Halt,” the hot blonde’s voice that’d flirted with him earlier ordered in a husky tone. “Detective Heather MacGraw. If I break a nail squeezing this trigger, I’m going to be super pissed.”
“Suck my cock, bitch,” Bud taunted.
Heather kneed him in the balls. Bud dropped, grabbing his crotch harder than a backup dancer in a racy music video. She recited him his Miranda rights.
After cuffing him, Heather patted Bud down carefully. She found the security badge for his second job in his back pocket. Bud threw freight at the Brooklyn Yard.
The Peter Gunn theme sounded from her phone again. This time she answered it, excitedly.
“Hey Matt, you and Leslie are going to love this.”
Dancer Analia-Soré Selkirk’s sixteenth birthday takes a dangerous turn when a confrontation she can’t see coming endangers her. The grungy private eyes on a job for her father step up to stop it. A year later, Matt Grudge and Leslie Crow, hired again as the breakout fashion model’s bodyguards, face a challenging assignment in London, which triggers a sinister agenda to destroy them all.
From THE GIRL WITH THE DEADLY FIGURE
Part One: Sweet Lethal Sixteen
October 9, 2009
Friday
THE CLOCK radio on Analia Selkirk’s bedside table jerked her awake from a nightmare. She choked off a scream before it woke her parents. Classic rock rousted her up every day at 5 a.m. That morning, an in-service day, it was Guns N’ Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle.” Reaching over to the end table, she silenced the song with a swat of her palm.
It took a bit of time for Analia’s breath control exercises to slow her rapid air intake. She’d broken out into a cold sweat. Goosebumps prickled her lengthy arms. As her pulse steadied, her groggy memory tried focusing on a fragmented montage from her dream.
She could recall her high heels clicking loudly on cobblestones and a red telephone booth. Glimpses over her shoulder at her stalker, who wore a navy luster sharkskin suit and a gray felt fedora with a black band. A bolt of lightning had cracked the night sky above the end of a bridge in front of her, muffling a gunshot. She remembered the shock wave from the bullet brushing past her ear.
Analia sat up, leaned back against the headboard, and shook the intangible dread off. She already knew what her mom would say if the nightmare came up in conversation and one of them tried to psychoanalyze its meaning.
“You’ve been watching too many scary movies,” she said to herself, mimicking a grown-up’s stern voice of authority.
Analia chuckled and tumbled out of her queen-sized bed. She dressed in some workout clothes: a black sports bra, yoga pants, and a pair of thick-soled sneakers. Grabbing her smartphone, Analia briefly checked some texts and Facebook notifications. Dozens of people had already wished her happy birthday. Quietly, she padded downstairs and walked across the living room. Analia opened the door to the left of the dining room table and entered the two-car garage.
She wrinkled her nose at the stuffy air that reeked of motor oil and gasoline. The stench quickened her exit out onto the path of round stone steps between the garage and the carport. It felt quite warm for an autumn morning following the first frost.
Unlocking the side door with a key she wore on a silver chain around her long neck, Analia stepped inside. Her father had remodeled the space into a sort of rec room. In one corner sat a weight bench and a waist-high shelf of free weights. An antique pool table was placed off-center in the room. It gave Analia, her brothers, and their friends a fun game to play on rainy days. There were plenty of those in the Pacific Northwest.
Analia moved with a purposeful stride to her favorite side of the room. It featured a state-of-the-art treadmill, an oak exercise barre, and a modular dance floor that resembled light brown bamboo stalks. The surface and her imagination always transported her to a cozy, exotic getaway.
Holding on to the barre, Analia stepped an arms-length away from the rail. Heels together, she positioned her feet out into the “V” of first position. Gently, Analia bent her knees a couple of inches, then raised both heels a couple of inches. She pulsed up and down twenty times. The stretch worked her thighs and glutes. Analia’s energy surged.
Next, she clenched the support with both hands, arms distanced. Lifting one leg opposite the barre, Analia leaned forward, her torso and leg parallel to the floor. After holding an arabesque for twenty counts, she did it with her other leg as well. The weight-bearing exercise was good for Analia’s bones and improved her balance.
Stepping up onto the treadmill, Analia programmed a two-mile run that simulated mountainous terrain. An internet radio station streamed pop music through her iPhone’s wired earbuds. “Boom Boom Pow” by the Black Eyed Peas launched Analia into a marathoner’s pace. As the lifting element raised the treadmill’s frame and running deck to make the course more difficult, the oxygen circulating through her powerful lungs and legs enabled Analia to maintain a steep, upward trajectory.
At the end of the run, Analia jumped off the treadmill. She landed on the modular mat and did what she loved to do best.
She danced.
Her moves were inspired by a blend of styles: ballet, jazz, hip-hop, Irish dance, ballroom, and tap dancing.
Three songs later, Analia forgot about the nightmare.
She grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge by the door. She tipped her head back to guzzle and hydrate, splashing some of the cool liquid on her long brown hair that touched the middle of her back. Tossing the bottle in the recycle bin, Analia went back inside the house to take a hot shower.
•
SOPPING WET hair tied up under a mismatched towel and waffle weave Turkish robe cinched around her waist, Analia returned to her bedroom upstairs. She faced her dresser by the window. A set of clothes she’d already picked out the day before was sitting on top. Just a pair of jeans and a V-neck sweater. Practical clothes for colder weather at this time of the season, despite it being her special day. Then she noticed the brilliant rays of sunlight penetrating the drapes of her bedroom window.
The beams added sparkles to her dance competition trophies on a shelf above the dresser. A few family pictures and mementos preserved in wooden frames mounted below the shelf glimmered a bit, too. She always giggled at the snapshot of her and her brother when they were both five or six, holding their baby teeth like they were treasures that needed appraisal, and showing off toothless smiles. A recent photograph taken at SeaWorld San Diego showed Analia swimming with a dolphin, her hands forming a heart shape.
She parted the drapes, opened the window, and looked out across the sprawling Happy Valley suburb.
The bright sunshine felt like the warmth of a summer day, greeting her joyful gaze. Scattered clouds hovered in the cerulean sky. A brown bird landed on the power lines in front of her house, then chirped a series of repeating notes, before it launched into a piercing trill and flew away.
Foregoing the fall clothes, Analia put on a blue summer dress that matched her eyes. The white floral pattern on the fabric complemented the cream-colored flats she slipped on. She unwrapped the towel and deposited it into a laundry hamper. After blow-drying her hair, she ran a comb through the thick strands a few times. She decided to relinquish control and let the wind do whatever it wanted for the day.
A short glance at the mirror on the door later, and Analia snatched her go-bag—a blue and gray Coleman hiking backpack, and her phone of course—then headed downstairs for breakfast.
The comforting aromas of cooked brown rice farina and fresh dark roast coffee enveloped her as she bounced through the family room, smiling. Analia’s mother, Dania, and her grandmother, who would always be known affectionately to her grandchildren as Nana, were eating hot cereal garnished with sliced bananas and chopped walnuts. Steam curled up from the rustic ceramic bowls.
“Good morning,” Analia said.
Dania folded the top of her newspaper back and returned a smile to her only daughter.
“Good morning, sweetie,” she said. “Happy birthday!”
Nana didn’t repeat the sentiment. She’d just taken a small bite, and one of her hard-and-fast rules at the family table was don’t talk with your mouth full. The frail and ill matriarch of their clan grinned instead, chewing her food thoroughly. Eyes ringed in wrinkles behind thick bifocals beamed at her granddaughter with pride.
Putting the paper down next to her cup of English Breakfast, Dania scooted away from the table to stand.
“Don’t get up,” Analia urged, “don’t get up. Enjoy your breakfast while it’s hot.”
She kissed the top of Nana’s head, then pecked her mom’s cheek before heading for the kitchen. Her grandmother’s hair was getting a whole lot thinner than it used to be. At least it’d begun to grow back after her latest radiation treatment three months ago.
Analia reached up to open the cupboard and get a box of Cheerios.
A rugged left hand slammed the door shut.
“I don’t think so,” Jimmie said.
“Shit, Dad!” Analia said with a laugh. “You scared me.”
“Language, language,” Dania called out from behind the newspaper. “Your birthday doesn’t give you carte blanche to break the rules, Analia-Soré.”
“You just kissed your mother and grandma with that mouth,” Jimmie said. “Five dollars in the swear jar, young lady. Right now.”
Dania burst out in laughter. “Garfield cracks me up.”
“Five dollars,” Jimmie said again, “swear jar.”
“All right, all right,” Analia surrendered. “Tyrant.”
Lowering the funnies, Dania smirked at the sarcastic tone.
Analia rummaged through her go-bag for her pocketbook.
Jimmie looked at his wife and winked. He reached into the pantry where the Mason jar was stowed away. Carefully, he unscrewed the top with a rugged left hand and pried the lid off for her. His right hand still looked black and blue after sustaining an injury at a construction site weeks ago.
Analia found an Andrew Jackson.
“Can you break this?” she said.
“Sure,” Jimmie said.
He reached into his back jeans pocket and withdrew a thick leather wallet bulging with cash, business cards, and pictures of his kids. Jimmie pulled out four fives. He handed them over to Analia in exchange for the twenty.
Analia stuffed one inside the already full quart jar.
Her father was pouring coffee into a small silver thermos, careful not to spill any on his turquoise polo shirt.
“No daughter of mine,” he said, “is eating cold cereal on a historic birthday. I’m taking you out for breakfast. How does Shari’s sound? I know you enjoy their strawberry crêpes.”
What should have been a negligible cramp in Dania’s stomach flared, pushing beyond her pain threshold. The few bites of hot cereal she’d consumed tasted wretched shooting back up. Clamping a hand over her mouth, she jumped to her feet, knocking the chair over. She raced to the bathroom.
“Mom!”
“Stay put,” her dad said.
He followed his wife to the toilet.
Analia heard muted retching and sobbing. A few minutes later her ailing mother called out that she’d be fine. Her father came into the living room from the hallway that led to the downstairs bath.
“She’s alright, sweetheart,” Jimmie said. “I promise. Let’s go.”
They walked to the front door side-by-side.
“Can I drive?” Analia said. “Please?”
She unlocked the deadbolt.
Jimmie grabbed his matte black leather racer jacket off the row of hooks by the door. He felt inside both polyester-lined pockets to make sure he hadn’t forgotten Analia’s present.
“I don’t know . . .” he dilly-dallied, scratching his salt-and-pepper crew cut.
Analia had put in several hours throughout the year, driving her mom and grandmother to and from numerous doctor appointments.
“It’s her sweet sixteen,” Nana rasped. “Let her drive, Jimmie.”
The loving father compromised.
“You can drive us to the Shari’s on Sunnyside,” he said, “but not into downtown Portland.”
“You’re letting me drive the Jag?” Analia said.
“Yes,” Jimmie said.
The birthday girl cheered, “I get to drive the Jag!”
She rushed out. Jimmie took a step back before the door could hit him up alongside the head.
Those quick reflexes had saved his life when he’d stood up against a burly foreman trying to destroy a laptop that contained vital evidence.
Grabbing a sledgehammer leaning up against a corner wall, the exposed accomplice raised the hammer above his massive body to bring the head down on the computer. Jimmie snatched it off the desk. The crushing impact dented the lacquered particle board.
The big bastard took a swing at him next. Embracing the computer, Jimmie leaped aside. The flat steel edge scraped across his fingers and knuckles.
Leslie Crow, a Lakota Sioux private eye posing as a nearby food truck employee, had stormed inside the construction trailer. When the foreman reached for the battered laptop Jimmie had dropped on the trailer floor to cradle his lacerated right hand, she took the opportunity to attack.
Letting out a merciless cry, she’d chopped off the foreman’s arm at the elbow with a fire axe.
The project was delayed another week to mop up all the blood.
He needed a good day with his daughter.
•
THE SERVER arrived at their booth, balancing hot plates in their hands. Jimmie had ordered a Denver omelet with hash browns, while Analia had decided to indulge a little spontaneity in her appetite. She cut into her thick slices of cinnamon roll French toast. A few minutes later, another waitress topped off Jimmie’s black coffee and refilled Analia’s lemon water.
Jimmie thought of a word. He jotted it down on a napkin, then stashed it inside his leather jacket hung up on the post behind his right shoulder.
“Did you finish writing your speech, Dad?” she asked.
“Yup,” Jimmie said. “All I have to do is memorize it.”
“You’re not going to use a teleprompter,” Analia said.
“Nope,” he said, “I’m going to use this.”
Jimmie pointed at his heart with his fork, then his temple.
“And this,” he added. “It’ll boost my credibility.”
“I think it’s amazing you’re building a homeless shelter downtown,” Analia said.
“It’s a team effort,” Jimmie said. “Are you nervous about the party?”
“Nah, not really,” she said. “I’ve danced for international diplomats. Tonight will be a cakewalk.”
“That’s my girl,” he said.
Jimmie speared some egg, a piece of ham, and a glob of melted cheddar, then put the generous bite in his mouth.
After washing down some of her crispy applewood-smoked bacon with some water, Analia gestured with a nod at her father’s right hand. The swelling had gone down, considerably.
“I’m glad that’s healing,” she said. “How did it happen again?”
Her father’s hand flinched. The bite of shredded potatoes he almost took fell back onto the plate.
His eyes looked right and straight up.
“Like I said,” Jimmie said, “I was helping to put up drywall at the new site, and my fingers holding the nail slipped.”
“I thought you preferred to use a nail gun,” Analia said.
“They were all in use at the time,” he said. “Besides, sometimes hand tools work the best.”
Analia’s college prep language arts class last year had introduced her to debating. Intrigued by the aspects of persuasion, she’d studied how reading body language exposed a person’s thoughts. Looking to the right activated the imagination and the left activated memory.
Her father had lied.
She reached into her go-bag for her phone and responded to a few birthday texts with smiley faces or heart emojis.
They finished eating breakfast in an uneasy silence.
Jimmie hated lying to Dania and Analia about the incident. The operatives of Alternative Investigations he’d hired to probe the embezzlement of public funds within his architectural firm had insisted on the omission for his family’s safety. Although the concealed financial data had been recovered, the principal villain remained to be apprehended later that night.
Their server cleared the plates, refilled drinks, and then set the check down.
“Derek enjoyed running errands for you last summer,” Analia said. “I think he wants to work for you full-time after he graduates.”
“He was a reliable gopher,” Jimmie reflected. “If he keeps his grades up, he shouldn’t have any problems going to college on a football scholarship. I’ll write him a letter of recommendation.”
“That’s terrific, Dad. Thank you,” she said. “I’ll let Derek know the next time I see him.”
Analia’s genuine smile caused the muscles in her cheeks to contract, which made them appear fuller. It accentuated the freckles there that looked to Jimmie like a pastry chef had been liberal with the cinnamon and sugar dusting.
Jimmie knew he risked annoying Analia, but couldn’t help himself.
“I don’t mean to spoil the mood on your birthday,” he said, “but there’s a hard reality about Derek that you might need to face. The relationship you two have had since you were both little could change when he goes off to college.”
Analia stopped smiling. Her core temperature was beginning to rise. She took a long drink and crunched a melted ice cube between her molars.
“I understand what you mean,” Analia muttered. “It already did. Derek and I broke up.”
“Oh no,” Jimmie said, “I’m sorry. When? What happened?”
“Homecoming,” she said. “I caught him kissing a senior varsity cheerleader at the dance.”
“Forget about that letter,” he said, lifting his coffee mug.
“No, no,” Analia said. “He earned it working for you.”
She thought of how all the hours she’d spent driving had contributed to her feelings of independence.
Throughout the past year, Analia was beginning to realize that her direction in life was totally up to her. She had no problems severing relationships with selfish or unfaithful people. It wasn’t anything personal. She wouldn’t hold a grudge. She didn’t have time for any more bullshit. Life was too short. Her grandmother’s failing health constantly reminded her of that.
“There are more important things for me to do right now than sulk over a cheating boyfriend,” she said.
Jimmie reached across the table with his right hand and squeezed Analia’s hand.
A brief soreness in his metacarpals and phalanges made him wince from the pain, but he covered it up with a pursed-lipped grin.
“I’m so proud to have such a wonderful daughter,” he said.
Letting go, Jimmie reached behind him to search inside his twin leather jacket pockets, then placed her birthday present on the table.
Analia’s eyes widened when she caught sight of the eggshell blue Tiffany & Co. box.
“Are you kidding me?” she said.
“Don’t just sit there,” he chuckled. “Open it.”
Analia pulled the lid off the box.
The corners of her lips curved up and showed perfect teeth as she picked up the gift, a heart tag key ring inlaid in palladium-plate brass. She let it dangle between her fingertips.
“I love it, Dad,” Analia said. “Thank you.”
“Your mother’s taking you to the DMV for your driver’s test next week. I know you’ll ace it,” Jimmie said. “We’ll go car shopping the following weekend.”
Analia scooted out of the booth, then hustled around the table to kiss her dad’s cheek.
•
THE SLEEK emerald green Jaguar XF was cruising west along Southeast Powell Boulevard. A supercharged 4.2 liter V8 engine under the hood purred. The luxury vehicle had been a bonus from a retired Hollywood couple very satisfied with Jimmie erecting their beachfront condo months ahead of schedule. He braked for a red light at Twenty-First Avenue.
A Caucasian, clean-shaven twenty-something guy on the corner turned a swift glance toward oncoming traffic, sprinting across the busy intersection as the traffic light turned green. He wore dark slacks, brown loafers, rectangular glasses, and a black letterman jacket with white sleeves. A stiff breeze almost blew the gray fedora off the top of his head. He placed a hand on the crown to hold it in place.
Analia’s eyes happened to look up from her smartphone screen and followed the runner.
A black-and-white photograph of the stalker’s featureless silhouette wearing a similar fedora in Analia’s nightmare flashed in her memory. She blinked to clear the frightening image out of her head.
Motorists blasted their horns at the pedestrian for slowing everyone down. Analia thought pedestrians had the right of way at crosswalks. However, she noticed how it always became more aggressive the closer she got to downtown. Another vehicle’s brakes squealed. A habanero orange Honda Civic heading eastbound shimmied to a stop in the middle of the intersection, inches away from the pedestrian’s knees.
Analia’s heart raced.
“Oh shit!” she said. “That idiot almost got hit.”
“Yeah,” Jimmie agreed. “That tall fella sure was in a hurry. Late for work maybe. And you owe me five bucks, potty mouth.”
Analia let out a sigh of annoyance, then handed the bill over.
Her father tucked the swearing fine in his right jacket pocket fast so he could steer with both hands at ten and two. He was probably driving the sports sedan too carefully, but the roads were still slick from last week’s constant rainfall, and the Jag didn’t have all-wheel-drive. Above all, he wanted to be a good example.
The street curved into an underpass. Gang tags marred the side of the railway bridge. In his peripheral vision on the driver’s side, Jimmie spotted a homeless camp strewn across the elevated walkway. A bearded, long-haired transient dressed in raggedy clothes was stowing his sleeping bag on the bottom of a shopping cart piled high with their belongings.
The proof of a harsh inner-city existence told Jimmie that he needed to double his efforts to build the new shelter downtown. Once the structure put a roof over unhoused people’s heads and helped them get back on their feet, the headway would hopefully persuade other counties to permit him to raise more of them throughout the Portland metro area.
In the course of researching a national crisis as critical as homelessness, Jimmie learned several myths about it in the Portland area. His speech, to be delivered at a black-and-white ball that night, would educate his business associates on the facts, and expose the criminals preying on the homeless.
On the other hand, Jimmie was aware of several belligerent individuals in the growing homeless population. They were understandably pissed. The city had demolished their old shelters and the new ones touted by elected power-hungry officials became just more broken campaign promises. Some of those homeless people fueled their rage by downing cheap booze. A member of Jimmie’s crew had already confronted an intoxicated transient who was loitering near the construction site.
The violent derelict had slashed at the security guard’s throat with a broken bottle.
Whether progress in a backwater burg like Portland was obstructed by corruption, greed, or vice, Jimmie’s hometown had been falling into degradation for quite some time, and he intended to help fix it.
Until that happened, awareness and prevention were essential.
Horns tooted like the brass section of an orchestra playing a chaotic mix of warm-up notes behind the Jag.
“Dad, you’re driving five miles under the speed limit,” Analia said. “You’ll get a ticket.”
Jimmie sped up.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ve got a lot of things on my mind.”
Like another thing you’re going to omit to protect me, she thought.
The light at Milwaukie Avenue stayed red for a while. She squinted at the Aladdin Theater’s aqua-blue marquee. It advertised a live music venue that sounded grungy.
“Which neighborhood are we in?” Analia asked.
“Brooklyn,” Jimmie said. “The Aladdin originally opened as a vaudeville house called Geller’s Theatre on Christmas Day in 1927.”
“Vaudeville?” she said.
“Yeah,” he said. “Remember the silly dancing act Naomi Watts performed in King Kong?”
Analia giggled.
“You seem to know an awful lot about Portland’s weird history, Dad,” she said.
“As I should,” Jimmie said, “since I was born here.”
“I didn’t know that,” Analia said. “Which hospital?”
“Adventist or Providence,” he said, tilting his head. “I get them mixed up.”
Neither, Jimmie thought, I was born in a sanitarium on Mount Tabor.
Analia stared at her father for a moment and then shrugged his evasiveness off. She went back to scrolling through social media on her phone. She could’ve called him out on it—not to mention the lie earlier—but it was much too beautiful of a day to argue, and it was her birthday. Besides, if she pressed him about the omissions, he’d just remind her that fretting over problems was his responsibility and to mind her business.
Jimmie tapped the brake pedal, yielding for a utility vehicle, which merged onto Powell from the Industrial blocks and then sped up to get ahead of them. On any other day, he would’ve said something nasty, but Analia was in the car. The Jag traveled slowly across the Ross Island Bridge.
In the corner of his left eye, he flashed an appreciative look at the South Waterfront high-rise district. He remembered that, a little over a decade ago, all that brownfield industrial land consisted of muddy, contaminated soil and rundown, abandoned warehouses. Today, residential condominiums and research towers, such as the thirty-story Mirabella, had sprouted up from one of the most ambitious urban redevelopment projects in the country. He noticed the tram ascending to OHSU.
The site reassured Jimmie that if Multnomah County could erect facilities for medical science that quickly, maybe they’d do the same for affordable housing.
Are you kidding, his cynical side weighed in, there’s no money in that.
To Analia, riding in the Jag felt like moving through air. She stopped looking at adorable cat pictures on her pocket-sized screen and looked out in awe across the Willamette River and Interstate arteries to the tall buildings reaching upward from downtown Portland, instead. They were something for a small-town girl from Forest Grove and Happy Valley to gander at. Her attention focused on Big Pink, the U.S. Bancorp Tower. At forty-two stories tall, it was the second tallest skyscraper in the city.
Thinking ahead to the future, the explorer in her couldn’t wait to visit bigger cities: Los Angeles, New York, London, Paris, Milan, Tokyo.
Hanging a right from Naito Parkway, Jimmie entered the small parking area for the Portland Rose Festival Foundation and the Portland Spirit Salmon Springs Dock. Unfastening her seatbelt, Analia clenched the handle at the top of her go-bag with her left hand, while opening the passenger door with her right. She leaned sideways to step out of the car.
“Hey!” Jimmie said. “Not so fast, birthday girl.”
He tapped his clean-shaven cheek.
Analia exhaled with an exasperated expression on her face before she took a few seconds to kiss him goodbye.
“I love you, Dad. I’ll see you tonight.”
As he turned back onto Naito Parkway, Jimmie caught a glimpse of Analia entering the Tom McCall Waterfront Park. He realized that he forgot to tell her not to venture North of Burnside, even if she felt compelled to visit the construction site for the homeless shelter in Old Town his firm was building. Too dangerous. He’d text her from his office later.
•
STEADY WIND gusts blowing in from the east whipped at the hemline of Analia’s summer dress as she walked by the Salmon Street Springs fountain. Its 137 jets spewed thousands of gallons of recycled water per minute. A cold mist sprayed her calves. Leaping aside, she slightly adjusted her course to put a little distance between herself and the popular landmark.
At the West Esplanade, a paved sidewalk along the Willamette River, Analia waited for a blonde twenty-something woman wearing a tie-dye tank top and bleached denim cut-offs on rollerblades to zip past her. Analia walked up to the railing. Folding her arms across the top, she leaned forward and admired the view. Sunlight shimmering off the choppy waters was beginning to hurt her eyes. A pair of round sunglasses with satin silver frames she pulled out of her go-bag remedied the ache.
She spotted bicyclists, joggers, and walkers on the East side taking advantage of one last sunny day before the fall gave way to winter. A weathered tugboat headed South, pushing a barge stacked with lumber. The sirens on the Hawthorne Bridge twirled and shrieked before it started to rise. She dropped her bag.
Inspired by the rhythmic pulse coupled with sound, Analia stepped well enough away from the railing to give her muscular legs enough room. Elegantly, she extended both arms away from her hips to form an aerodynamic semi-circle and then raised a foot to touch the knee of her supporting leg. She spun around a dozen times and took a bow for an imaginary audience.
A blaring round of applause and whistling nearby startled her.
“Woo-hoo!” Ted Lipton cheered. “Good morning, my friend. How’s my favorite ballerina on this uncharacteristically beautiful day?”
Analia felt her entire face—especially her cheeks—grow hot.
The bespectacled, energetic Filipino-American photographer walked up and embraced her fondly. A few strands of her hair got stuck in his black and gray stubble.
“Blushing,” she said. “Thanks, Teddy. What are you doing here?”
He unclipped the Canon EOS Rebel from a custom attachment on his belt.
“I’m breaking in a brand new 35mm f/1.4 lens,” he said with a contagious smile, “while waiting for a trio of late models trying to find parking close by. We’re taking a cruise aboard the Portland Spirit and I’m going to take some publicity shots.”
“Golden hour today should make for magnificent photographs,” Analia said, peering up at the sky.
“Speaking of magnificent,” Ted said. “I suppose I couldn’t talk you into letting me shoot a few pictures of you here, now. And if you want to do more pirouettes that would be awesome.”
Analia had worked with Teddy the previous spring. The session had used a cherry blossom orchard as a backdrop. The photos from that series had received the most likes ever on her social media page.
More importantly, she trusted him.
“In this outfit,” she said. “Are you certain?”
“I love your dress,” he said. “It’s very boho-chic.”
“I don’t know what that means,” she said.
“It’s a style that draws elements from bohemian and hippie countercultures,” informed Ted. “It became a thing in the sixties.”
“Here I thought it was just a pretty dress on the discount rack at Target,” Analia said, the humble tone of her voice downplaying her simple taste in clothes. “How did it come back after all that time?”
“Aspects of gothic and grunge,” Ted clarified. “If you added flannel layers, leggings, or leg warmers to your look right now, it’ll still trend.”
“Like Flashdance, yeah,” Analia said.
“Sure.” Ted nodded.
“How about a pair of well-worn, scruffy-looking pointe shoes?” she asked. “They’re in my bag.”
“That’s a wonderful idea!” A ringtone in Ted’s back jeans pocket interrupted his excited enthusiasm. “Wait a sec.”
While Ted answered his cell phone, Analia sat down on a bench. She kicked her flats off at the ankles with her toes. Removing the pink satin pointe shoes from the main compartment, she took her circular shades off and slid them back into the side pocket of her pack. She put the flats away next to a change of clothes that included a plain old baseball cap.
Bending forward, Analia slipped the ballet slippers on. She tied the ribbons together in double knots on the insides of her ankles. Nearly finished, she tucked the knot and the ends inside the ribbons underneath, so that the knot wouldn’t show and was less likely to come undone.
She shoved her bag underneath the bench and then leaned back to chill until Ted’s call ended.
An old man sat down at the other end. His bones snapped, crackled, and popped like milk poured over crisped rice cereal. The wrinkles on his face and around the eyes resembled a contour map of the Rocky Mountains. A straw pork pie hat with a black headband, worn at a tilted angle low on the forehead, added a touch of cool individuality to his persona that clashed with a rugged scowl. Loosening the Windsor knot of a black knit tie that accompanied a light-colored seersucker suit, he unfolded the Portland Chronicle and read.
Wow, she thought, people still read newspapers?
Time started to drag. The longer she waited for Ted and sat close to the dapper, well-groomed man, the more Analia recalled fragments of her bad dream from earlier that morning. Fortunately, the clothes didn’t match. The missing detail couldn’t stop her from occasionally glancing over at the senior citizen, though.
His mean, surly presence unnerved her.
She stopped checking him out.
Reaching beneath the park bench to clutch her go-bag, Analia stood up. She moseyed over to Ted. While waiting for the conversation to finish, she walked around him in circles. She shook off both hands before the impromptu photoshoot to make sure her fingers were relaxed at all times and not stiff. The trick would also help her avoid “dead hands”, reminding her to pose with them at all times.
Ted closed his flip phone with his goateed chin before stuffing the handset back in his rear pocket.
“My models finally found a spot in a Smart Park garage about eight blocks away,” he said. “Factoring in foot traffic and baggage, they’ll be here in about twenty, twenty-five minutes. Plenty of time for you and me to knock out a couple of shots. Hey . . . You okay?”
“Sure I am,” she said. “Let’s do this.”
Analia wasn’t about to let the appearance of a creepy, stoic old man affect her confidence. It wasn’t every day one got to make art with one of Portland’s most well-known and sought-after photographers. She got a compact makeup kit from her go-bag to check her teeth for bits of pepper and refresh her lip gloss.
“Where do you want me, Teddy? The fountain or the river?”
“Stand in front of the fountain on your right, please,” he said. “We’ll tell a story with a long shot to set the scene, and the mood.”
“Where would you like me to look?” she asked.
“The bridge,” Ted said.
He positioned Analia in the left foreground of the frame so that viewers could see her first, then the fountain and the old man with the paper blurred behind her.
Analia found a dry area far enough away from the fountain to keep herself from getting wet. Firm legs spread, she slowly lifted her arms over her head and then bent her right knee to support the left leg which she began to pirouette on. She twirled about, losing herself in the rapid movement.
She heard the Canon’s shutter clicking fast enough to keep up with her dancing.
“Good. Perfect! Well done. Beautiful. Let me know if you start to get dizzy and we’ll move on to another setup.”
Analia appreciated that Teddy’s words of encouragement avoided implying a hook up. She spun faster.
“Oh my goodness,” Ted said. “Look at this tiny dancer move. You’re incredible! Stretch your arms out.”
Analia stopped. She didn’t even break a sweat or pause to catch her breath. She headed for the railing.
The photographer hurriedly tagged along. His photography permit to take commercial pictures downtown, which he kept in a plastic card holder, dangled from a lanyard he wore around his neck.
“How do you do that?” he said.
“Discipline and endurance,” she asserted.
Tilting the DSLR in a vertical orientation, Ted snapped at least twenty exposures of her portrait. With the aperture at f/2.8, the lens melted the scenic background like butter while keeping his subject’s features and lines of beauty sharp. He stepped closer to focus only on her face and eyes.
For her part, Analia accentuated her smooth jawline. Bringing her forehead a bit forward and down created a more flattering look. Shoulders back, she elongated her neck. She played with strands of her silken hair. Her radiance sparkled. Now and then she tried on various emotions or a soft smile. Finally, her lips puckered up to give the camera a mock kiss.
She couldn’t resist being a kid, especially on her birthday. Raising her index fingers behind her head like they were horns, Analia’s glamorous appearance metamorphosed into that of a rascally imp.
They laughed spontaneously.
“You keep me young,” Ted said as Analia hugged him.
The pair of artists walked back up the broad flight of steps to the row of park benches under the trees. The well-groomed man had left. After they sat down, Ted handed Analia his camera so she could look at the pictures on the LCD screen on the back. The shade reduced the glare from the sun. Analia previewed the shots, picking out her favorites. She also noticed a few images where her wardrobe seemed a little wrinkled. Ted guaranteed her that he could fix that in post. She picked out one of the pirouette shots and noted how her knee on the supporting leg appeared perfectly straight and in solid form to exhibit the technique.
“Someday I’m going to choreograph a dance routine that showcases pirouettes,” Analia said, her eyes lighting up. “I love them.”
“It’s important to do what makes you happy,” Ted said, “but I’d be doing you a disservice if I neglected to remind you about all the legit photographers who asked me for your contact info after our cherry blossom session. As far as new modeling gigs are concerned though, other than a few projects for Mindi and Selma, your potential career as a model seems to . . . Never mind what I’m saying. At times I get preachy. Look, you’re a wonderful dancer. Pursue that.”
“Lately, I’m finding it a challenge just to keep up with school,” she fibbed a little, gently handing the Canon back over to Ted. “Algebra sucks. I’m also in training for another dance competition.”
Not to mention, she thought, I’ve been learning how to drive by transporting my ill mother and grandmother to and from their doctor appointments since the summer.
There’d even been a late-night rush to the emergency room for her mom in August.
“I’m stoked to look at these on the HD flatscreen in my home studio,” Ted said. “Give me a couple of weeks to process them and I’ll e-mail the final comps to you.”
“They’ll be terrific additions to my modeling portfolio,” Analia said. “Thanks, Teddy.”
Bending forward, she grabbed one of the straps of her go-bag to pull it out from underneath the bench where she’d concealed it during the shoot, right where she left it. She took her pointe shoes off and then put her flats back on. Getting up to leave for her next destination, Analia pulled the pack on over her shoulders.
“Enjoy your cruise,” she said. “See you later.”
As she started to walk away Ted called out, “Hey, pal.”
Analia stopped. She looked warmly at him over her shoulder. “Yes.”
“Happy birthday.”
•
CROSSING NAITO Parkway, Analia heard catcalling erupt from the cab of a rust-colored pickup. Two redneck neo-Nazi skinheads wearing facial piercings were a credit to skirt-chasing pigs everywhere. She kept walking, even increasing the length of her strides.
A little more than halfway through the crosswalk, she realized that the verbal assault wasn’t meant for her. On the north side of the three-way intersection, Analia’s peripheral vision discerned three tall women with elaborately coifed hairdos, wearing high-end clothing labels, wheeling luggage along the crosswalk. Ted’s models, she presumed. Analia smirked. A spunky brunette in the group who wore a power red dress and matching stilettos wrestled with her case on account of a missing wheel.
Analia continued to move west on the south side of Salmon Street. She walked by Building Three of the World Trade Center where an office space rental agency and city business operated. Making her way past a short row of the wide concrete columns that supported the building’s second and third floors, she glanced at a pair of windows beside the receiving dock.
She halted in mid-step.
Squinting at the reflection, Analia spotted the well-groomed man across the street. The straw hat gave away his position. He seemed to be strolling on a parallel course from the north side of the street.
Analia put her cleverness to work, wondering how she could expose a potential stalker at the next block.
“Let’s keep this simple,” she muttered to herself.
Analia continued west. She slowed down, watching a few people in expensive suits ride the escalators outside Building Three. The glass awning with ivory-colored steel supports above the steps was pyramid-shaped. She pretended to read the directory on a square stone pillar about fifteen feet away from the base of the escalators.
The natural cover afforded her a spot to partially conceal herself while she watched the well-groomed man.
He ambled to the west side of First, not once looking her way.
“That’s it, old man,” she said, her right eye peeking out from behind the sharp edge of the pillar. “Keep on walking.”
She proceeded left along First.
His shiny black loafers pivoted on the southeast corner of Building One to cross Salmon. He kept walking a path that corresponded to Analia’s.
She took a deep breath. There were still three more left turns to make before the well-groomed man, if still visible, became a threat.
At the southwest entrance of Building Three, she took the time to open one of the glass doors for a casually dressed blind man tapping the ground in front of him with a white, red-tipped walking stick, who wore his long dishwater gray hair in a messy bun. Swiveling left, she hopped down a short flight of stairs, through an open corridor alongside the southern end of the structure. She increased her pace this time, almost jogging.
Back on Naito Parkway, Analia made her third left. She sauntered up the east side of Building Three to finish a trip around the block.
Peering up both sides of Salmon Street, she couldn’t see any sign of the well-groomed man, or his straw hat. She sighed with relief.
“Girl, stop being afraid of shadows.”
Analia resumed a westerly course on Salmon. She didn’t look back.
•
BY NOW, the streets were becoming more occupied by workers going outside to take their mid-morning breaks. They headed for coffee shops or smoked cigarettes in designated areas. The temperature went up a couple of degrees also.
The well-groomed man emerged from behind the same stone pillar where his subject had hidden from him earlier. A thin sheen of sweat coated his tall, narrow forehead. Fanning his face with his pork pie hat, he recommenced tailing the girl.