Absolute Instinct (53 page)

“
To hell with tests and doctors and shrinks, Captain. I wanna go after Cantu.”

““
You’re in for evaluation and overhaul, Marcus!” Brunner ordered. “That’s the holy all of it.”

“
I want that murdering SOB!”

He was ordered to stand down, jockey a desk, take the tests, and all the while Cantu avoided capture, using the thick, Georgia mountains as his refuge.

In fact, Cantu had disappeared like smoke. No one knew where he was, and now four years later, the fugitive cop-killer remained at large. Some people wanted to believe he’d fallen off the earth, was swallowed by quicksand, gored by a monster razorback in the wilds and devoured by the hog. Certainly would be a fitting end to the monster. Satan wanted Cantu as much as Marcus did, but not by much.

Marcus’s personal life had fallen apart in tandem with his professional life. Beverly had filed for divorce soon after the drinking and depression had claimed Rydell along with the guilt that mired him. Bev said it was for the sake of the kids and her sanity. A faithful devotee of the Oprah and Dr. Phil TV shows, Bev went for the jugular, first emptying their joint accounts and then moving on to divorce him. She’d taken his kids to freaking Ohio, and the courts gave him no recourse to her actions except to order him to pay child support. His son, James Wesley, fifteen, precious; his daughter, Kelsey Marie, eleven, priceless. His bank account in 2009 zero.

It’d been close to two years now since the divorce, and four since the divorce from Atlanta PD. Internal Affairs Detective Self-Righteous-Ass, otherwise known as Robert Charles, had made his life hell. The rat had made it a personal vendetta to see that Marcus turn in his badge and gun.

A buyout of sorts, supported by Brunner at that point.

He might have fought it a few more months, but he learned he had no one on his side. Even his union rep and his lawyer doubted his black out story since no medical cause had ever been established for the black out that day—or any of the subsequent black outs— which only he knew of.

As a result of all this personal and professional turmoil, Marcus had gotten his license as a private investigator—otherwise known as early cop retirement. He’d tried to make a go of the Insite PI Agency, even set up a website for the agency as he worked largely from his computer, demonstrating some techniques on YouTube. But cases were few and far between; even the handful he did sign amounted to catching some idiot dropping his trousers someplace other than home. Catching indiscretions on camera, now a popular TV sport as well, proved as tedious and as unfulfilling as Marcus had always imagined. His more interesting cases so far involved bounty hunting, cases wherein for whatever reason, a guy had bolted from a bondsman, a girlfriend, the law, or a spouse. It came as no surprise to Marcus just how many people wanted to disappear.

Marcus was the first to admit he was no DAWG, and after a while, this kind of work felt like following alley cats about. The only reward was payment. No such thing in this racket as a job well done and pride in the doing of it. No real winners, while up to his neck in pathetic losers. No sense of justice served; no proper feeling of closure. Line between right and wrong, good and evil completely blurred. Just wasn’t there, and the money couldn’t make up for the need to bathe afterwards.

As a once respected and admired city detective, he’d never judged success in terms of the paycheck. He’d measured his life out in a series of cases, many of them sensational, and all of them solved except for the one that brought him down. All the cases in the win column meant nothing now. In detective work as in sports and many another field, you were only as good as your last win.

So here he sat in the darkened room.

Gun in hand.

Clock ticking away.

Gun barrel wet from his sucking on it.

A wrecking ball pounded somewhere off in the distance, strangely, seemingly growing louder, nearer with each explosion of brick and mortar. Outside his sparse apartment the usual Atlanta nightlife had revved up. In fact, life went by in the manner of an old Nickelodeon theater—the noisy music of the street. The kind of thing Neil Diamond turned into music. But here the same sounds only brought on more isolation.

Still, that pulse, the rhythms of life, electric and vibrant and exclusive to a city the size of Atlanta somehow reverberated in his veins and arteries as well, hinting at music within, hinting at life within.

The ’Lanta, Georgia night had come awake The apartment building, too, had come awake. Part of the city’s pulse. Here came the incessant stomping in the hallway, shouting on the stairwell, and clanging and banging in an overhead apartment that he’d learned to ignore, now filled with a CSI team and detectives. All the while, Marcus had sat in silence alongside darkness, wondering if he’d ever again see morning light. But now came an added, unusual shuffle of life and activity banging about overhead. He couldn’t chalk it up to the usual domestic squabbles that fill an old apartment building. This was the noise of sirens, stretchers boarding elevators with rusty springs. Why should this venerable old place on Oleander Street, here since 1979, be any different than any other place in the city—a possible crime scene?

Sleep had been so fitful. One reason for his inability to find slumber was how terribly he missed his children, Kelsey and James. A real problem, insomnia. Too much pressure. Too much on his mind. Enough to drive a good man mad.

He looked again at his latest crummy suicide note. Mrs. Page, his high school English teacher would reach out from the grave, scrawl a big red D+ across this one only because she liked him. Marcus wadded it up, tossed it on the pile in the corner, and pressed the trigger slightly harder this time. This time, it’s done…over…kaput.

An enormous explosion rocked his ears, he’d heard right. Didn’t feel a thing. Why’m I alive to hear the explosion? After all, who but the wounded remain alive to hear and feel the reverb of the explosion? Oughta be stone dead or at least stone deaf from a Glock going off in my mouth. Then he thought that damn wrecking ball had somehow come through his wall. Then he realized the giant bang had not come from his nine-millimeter or a wrecker, but from the apartment overhead. As fine plaster rained down over him. Some fool among the authorities had no doubt slipped on the blood and had hit the floor hard. Hopefully, it was Dobbins.

He’d love to know that Dobbins had landed on her ass. Still not reason enough to postpone a good suicide, he told himself and went about the attempt anew.

Excerpt from Shot of Tequila by J.A. Konrath

CHICAGO

1993

-1-

Winter meant death in Chicago.

Death to the homeless, turned away from overcrowded shelters and forced to stuff their ragged clothes with day-old newspaper.

Death to the motorists, skidding on filthy, snow-covered highways into the paths of trucks and guard rails and head-crunching support posts.

Death to the elderly, slipping on sidewalks and shattering brittle bones, and to the poor, unable to pay both the food bill and the gas bill.

Death to Billy Chico.

Chico was a small-time hustler and big-time loser who liked to bet the ponies and hit women. He was more successful at the latter. On his more reflective days—and there weren’t many—Chico figured he’d lost more than eighty thousand dollars in the ten or so years he’d been placing bets. He would have lost even more if the
puta
he married hadn’t sent the Man after him for child support. Chico knew the kid wasn’t really his. That child was bug-eyed, bare-assed ugly, and couldn’t have had any of Chico’s genes in his roly-poly body. Chico often compared himself to the ponies he loved to throw money after; sleek and muscled and hung, with a mane of gorgeous black and eyes that could stare through you, sister. A thoroughbred if there ever was.

Unfortunately, the thoroughbred just caught a bad tip, and couldn’t cover the bet he’d made with his very connected bookie. Two thousand bucks worth of bad tip, baby, five weeks of factory wages. A debt he couldn’t pay, especially since he had to fork out cash for rent, the bills, and child support for that skank and her ugly brat.

Chico, in a word, was powerfucked. And getting more PFed by the minute, because his marker was due and Marty the Maniac had definitely alerted his goons to begin collection proceedings.

Collection proceedings didn’t involve friendly chit-chat over coffee. They involved hurt. Lots of hurt. And Chico was far too fine to have anything broken, scarred, burned, or severed.

So Billy Chico took his last sixty bucks, bought a piece from a runner with gang ties, and went out to rob Teddy’s Liquors on 23
^rd
and Cal.

It was cold, cold enough to freeze the juice that your brain floats in. Chico wore his trademark black leather jacket with the fringes hanging from the sleeves and he looked fly, even though it kept him warm for shit. The liquor store he picked was three blocks from his apartment; one with late-night hours and a constant flow of business. Not a corner store that just sold beer by the bottle, but a classy joint that had all that expensive wine and gift packs and overpriced whiskey in ceramic jugs shaped like Corvettes. Fancy shit like that. Chico figured on one of the busiest liquor days of the year—Super Bowl Sunday—the place would have at least two k in green. He might even come out a couple bucks ahead on the deal.

Billy Chico stopped at the front door, his skinny ass cheeks knocking together like two frozen oranges, an icy hand wrapped around the butt of the .32 in his jacket pocket. He hesitated. Having grown up on the streets, fear was something common to Chico, so fear wasn’t what gave him pause. But staring at his reflection in the heavy glass door made him realize he’d forgotten to bring something to cover his face. The asshole in the store could identify him. Murder never occurred to Chico, because that was for psychos. He was too good-looking to do hard time. Prison scared him, almost more than that crazy bookie did.

Almost.

He considered turning back when he remembered the mesh hair net covering his wavy mane. With a nervous giggle he stretched it down over his face, staring out through fishnet.

In and out. Should be quick. He took a deep breath of cold city air and pushed the door open, rushing in with his weapon pointed.

“
Gimme all the money! Now!”

The proprietor was an old white dude, skinny and small with tiny little Santa Claus glasses. He held up his hands and looked appropriately terrified.

“
Move your ass, old man!”

Chico thrust the revolver into the prune’s face, letting him see death through the half-inch hole in the barrel.

The old man stood stock-still, not moving an inch.

“
What the hell is your problem, Grandpa? You deaf? I said get the goddamn money pronto or I’ll shoot off your head!”

The old man remained where he was.

Chico stole a nervous glance at the door to see if any customers were coming in, then got closer to the old man, cocking his gun to show he wasn’t playing around.

“
I can’t open the safe,” the old man said.

“
What?”

The old man pointed to the large sign sticking to the counter. Chico backed away and read the oversized words silently, even though his lips moved.

THE SAFE HAS A TIME LOCK AND CANNOT BE OPENED.

“
What the fuck is a time lock?”

“
Magnetic lock. Can only be opened in the morning at eight a.m.” The old man swallowed. “You’re welcome to wait around, if you want.”

“
Then gimme the cash register money!”

He pointed to another sign.

THE CASH REGISTER CONTAINS LESS THAN $50.

The .32 in Chico’s hand felt heavy and foreign. His heart was beating in his throat. Even if he took the fifty, the gun cost him sixty, so he came out behind in the deal. What the hell should he do now? Leave and rob someone else? Or beat this old bastard senseless to see if he was lying?

The answer came to him in the shape of a champagne bottle. All Chico had to do was conk him on the head a few times with a magnum of
Totts,
then we’d see what was up with this time lock bullshit. Chico used his free hand to grab the handy bottle neck, holding the champagne like a club.

“
You want to play rough, old man? I’ll give you a punt-shaped head!”

A sound; the electronic bell attached to the front door, beeping when a customer left or came in. Billy Chico and the old man looked to see a short guy in a Blackhawks jacket enter.

“
Get on the floor, corto!”

The short man gave Chico an even stare and stopped where he stood.

“
On the goddamn floor or I’ll blow your little head off!”

The man remained standing where he was. Weren’t people afraid of guns anymore?