Blank Slate (A Kyle Jackle Thriller) (3 page)

The door exploded inward as he threw his shoulder into it while in the same motion smoothly pulling the Glock from his shoulder holster. Time slowed to a crawl in the first seconds as he surveyed the utter devastation in the room. His heart sank as he saw the fresh blood splattered high on the walls of the room and the pieces of broken furniture scattered everywhere. After a long moment that stretched to eternity, he saw Jean lying unconscious on her side under the bedside table. He knelt beside her and gently pulled the damp wisps of hair back from her face.
Thank God she was breathing
.

Her eyes fluttered slowly open as he held her. She struggled to speak and finally managed to choke out, “God, he hurt me. Some guy was trying to kill my patient when I walked in on him. What happened?”

“It’s OK Jean, you’re safe, I’ll get you some help,” said Rivera. As he glanced behind him, he could see the hospital staff standing in the doorway unsure of what had just happened or how they should react. “It’s OK,” he said flipping open his badge for them to see. “I’m a cop with Miami Dade. Get her some help in here.”

As he stood back to give the medical personnel more room to work on Jean, he could see an outstretched arm lying under the bed in a rapidly growing pool of blood. For the second time in as many minutes, he cursed his carelessness. He should have cleared the room before allowing anyone to enter.

Taking a quick step around the end of the bed leading the way with the muzzle of his gun, it was immediately obvious this guy was no threat to anyone. His skull was crushed on the left side and his face was completely unrecognizable under the mask of blood that had run from the head wound. Judging from the bloody, bent metal shaft of the IV stand lying on top of him, it was pretty obvious how the killer had done the deed.

Rivera’s job had just gone from difficult to damn near impossible. Instead of a living John Doe who he could at least question, he had nothing to work with except for two dead bodies-the girl in the alley and the John Doe. A complete dead end at this point and no one still around to answer the hard questions.

After the CIU arrived to secure the crime scene, Rivera stepped outside to check on Jean. He was relieved to see she was sitting in a wheelchair. “Jean, are you doing OK?”

“I’ve been better,” she said managing to muster a least a weak smile in spite of her hands betraying her words by continuing to shake uncontrollably. “How’s my patient doing?” she asked.

“Dead,” Rivera said.

As he was about to elaborate, the lead CIU investigator walked out shaking his head. “What a lousy way to die-I’m not sure his own mother would recognize him. Should be a fairly easy ID though-how many Docs with prison tattoos you have working in the ICU today?”

I was a wounded animal-no reasoning, just an overwhelming primal urge to escape and survive. I was fading in and out of consciousness as I drove away from the hospital-just flashes of memories like bolts of lightning exploding out of turbulent storm clouds over the bay. The night before was a complete blur-some memory of an iguana, searing pain, flashing lights echoing in my head. A few vague memories from then, but all jumbled together in a way that I couldn’t make sense of.

Next came the dream this morning-a really bad one. It felt like drowning-a crushing pressure on my chest while I tried desperately to breath. It ended as suddenly as it began when the pressure disappeared. A loud crashing like the thunder that’s so damn close you can you can feel it throbbing through your bones. That crushing pressure started again-worse than before. And that’s when I woke up… to a nightmare.

I could see the grayish white fabric of the hospital pillow that was being used to smother me. I could feel the weight of the guy-he felt like a linebacker-all muscle and lots of it as he tried to get more leverage to finish me off. Fortunately for me, he dropped the metal rail on the side of the bed. As he shifted his feet to bring more weight to bear, he slipped in the fluid from the broken IV bottle on the floor.

For me it was pure, desperate instinct-when he lost his footing, I rolled into the fall and landed on top as his head smacked into the unyielding linoleum floor with a dull thud. I grabbed the IV stand in both hands while I straddled him. He started to move and I hit him hard …and then maybe a few more times for good measure. Stole his wallet and cell phone-not too sure why. Could be I didn’t have an identity and it seemed only right that I should take his.

Not too sure of the details after that-everything going fuzzy around the edges-rolling down a hall in a wheelchair wearing a gown…out the front door like I was checking out… A vague memory – did I steal a car from the valet?

I can sure pick them-car must belong to somebody here on business-suitcase full of nice clothes…XL…almost fit me, but not quite. Checking the alligator wallet I lifted from the dead guy-hit the jackpot here-at least a couple of grand in hundreds, a Florida driver’s license for one Boris Kirov, sounded Russian maybe? …and an assortment of credit cards to complete the package.

Where the hell to go now? When you don’t know where home is, one place is about as good as any other. I checked a well worn map I found in the car stuck down alongside the driver’s seat-decided to head to the South end of Ocean Drive on South Beach-seemed somehow familiar to me.

Crowded-lots of action. Guys hustling business for the restaurants. Girls hustling fake Cuban cigars to the tourists. A Jamaican with a big python and a bird taking pictures with anybody drunk enough to think it was a good idea. I would be invisible here-after seeing a guy walking down the street wearing a leopard print miniskirt with high heels and his fat little hairy belly sticking out, I knew I’d fit right in. Had to lose the car-dumped it in front of some tacky tourist joint with girls dancing on the bar-Mango’s? Mongos? Who knows… left the keys in it. Figured it would last five minutes before someone stole it.

I had to get some new clothes that fit. Stopped in the first place I saw on the tourist strip and bought some flowery Tommy Bahama shirts that did a better job of hiding my two hundred thirty pound, six-four frame. The idea was for me to fit in, look like a tourist, be non-threatening to any cops that I might run across while I wandered down the street.

I actually began to relax a little. Walked casually down the street watching the people go by. A blend of every culture and color you could imagine. In the space of one block, I think I heard at least five languages being spoken and realized that I understood many of the snippets of conversation I overheard. Interesting-apparently I had either spent a lot of time either traveling or working overseas.

I started trying to sort through my priorities. I needed information. Starting with-who was I? That one could actually wait. A more immediate concern was who just tried to kill me and why? Might not play out, but at least I had wallet from the guy who tried to kill me in the hospital. I could try to retrace through his ID and contacts to see where it might lead.

I was passing an electronics store, paused and stepped through the heavy glass door. It closed with a faint swoosh behind me and cut out the cacophony of noise from the music, traffic, and hot, sweaty tourists on the street.

“Can I help you?” asked the clerk, a thin, pale kid featuring a pierced lip and jet-black hair falling over one eye.

“Ah, yeah I guess so,” I said. This was going to be harder than I thought. There seemed to be an endless number of computers lining the shelves. Too many damn choices.

“I’m down for a vacation and left my computer at home. Just need something to get on the Internet and check my email.”

“If you just need something to use until you get home, how about this,” he said handing me a thin rectangle with a black glass front.

The face lighted as I touched the button at the bottom. “That’s pretty amazing,” I said. “Is this some kind of computer?”

“Yeeaah…it’s called an iPad,” he said with a nasally, condescending voice reserved for anyone over the age of forty or the mentally challenged. “Let me show you how it works.” His fingers flew over the sleek tablet as he demonstrated the magic inside.

“I’ll take it.” I fumbled in the wallet and took out the first available credit card. Looked like a normal bank debit card. Took a deep breath, hoping there wasn’t an alert or hold on the account as the kid scanned the card. I exhaled a long, slow breath when APPROVED flashed across the terminal. I could feel myself sweating in the cool confines of the shop. Had to get back on the street.

“Thanks and have a good day,” I said as I grabbed the bag and headed for the exit. The kid acknowledged my departure with a roll of his eyes as he texted his friends yet another account of how stupid tourists could be.

I needed a place to stay for the night. Off the main drag, a low-key kind of place where cash talked and the management didn’t. I continued down Ocean and took a right on 5
^th
Ave to cut back over to the main street. It somehow reminded me of New Orleans-don’t know why that came to mind, because I didn’t have any specific memories of having ever been there. I went from a busy, bustling street filled with tourists to a dark narrow street lined with broken streetlights and dumpsters within the space of a few steps.

My internal radar started screaming-loudly…I rolled up to the balls of my feet and sharpened my senses to react to the slightest sound. No surprise to me when a couple of guys stepped out from the shadow of a dumpster and fanned out to either side of me. A quick glance behind me confirmed that a third man was closing the trap from the rear. I should have been scared or nervous, but nothing. Just a quick measuring of angles and distance between us.

The leader was about a half step ahead and squared up in front of me. Started to say something to me, maybe “Got a light” or “What’s in the bag?” or “Have a nice night”. Didn’t wait for that-I threw the bag in his buddy’s face, took two steps forward and drove into a punch that lifted his feet off the ground. Pivoted and followed up with an elbow to the left side of his face. He hit the asphalt with a sound like a wet bag of cement hitting the floor. I took a quick stutter step to the side and drove my foot through the other guy’s knee. I seem to remember some doctor telling me once that four ligaments support the human knee-judging from the popping sound and the screams that erupted from this guy, I tore at least three of them. One more to go-I let my momentum carry me around and was greeted with the sight of the remaining would-be mugger running as if his life depended on it.

I picked the ripped remains of the bag up from the gutter. No real damage here. Other than a few dented and stained corners on the box; the computer seemed to have survived unscathed. Dusted off my clothes, took a last look at the punks still lying squirming in the street and started walking down the middle of the street. A minute later, I’m back on Collins and surrounded by tourists oblivious to the danger that waited just yards away. The high of the adrenalin rush has disappeared leaving me drained and lightheaded. Every bone in my body aches.

A yellow cab cruising down the street trolling for late night fares hesitates as it passes me. I nod to him and get in when the squealing brakes finally bring the cab to a halt. “lleveme a un hote, por favor,” I ask the Cuban cab driver. Two minutes later we arrive at the Beach Plaza Hotel further down Collins.

This is exactly what I was looking for. Small, funky, and ignored by the masses. And the cops. And apparently almost everyone else-the place is almost completely deserted. I walked in and headed straight to the De Carlos Bar. This place looks like it’s been here forever-old chipped marble from the 30’s and art deco columns that somehow escaped being ripped out by the interior designers during several rounds of remodeling over the decades. A few dusty glass hookahs indifferently scattered around apparently to try to give it a more exotic feel-someone wasted their time on that touch. The best part-a bartender who takes one glance at my battered face and silently sets a bottle of good single malt Scotch on the well-worn bar between us.

It was well after midnight when Rivera finally left the hospital. He was completely exhausted, and still concerned about leaving Jean alone. The doctors had run a CAT scan to check for head injuries, but she seemed to be just fine physically. Just as a precaution, they decided to keep her overnight for observation. The emotional damage was a different story.

She seemed in a distant daze from the stress and trauma of the past few hours. Every time he tried to touch her, she tensed and pulled away from him-he tried to avoid reading anything into that. Any effort to talk to her was met with nothing more than monosyllabic responses. No eye contact. The detectives from the CIU had tried to interview her, but got nothing. They promised to return in the morning to take a complete statement.

Rivera couldn’t put the facts together in any coherent framework. He expected his world to make sense most of the time. He might not like the senseless brutality that he saw all too often, but he usually could at least understand it. The John Doe had obviously been a victim of some crime. The murder of the woman in the dumpster had to be related in some way. And who was this guy to attract the attention of someone who was obviously a professional killer? Normal people were killed everyday in a number of tragically senseless ways, but nobody was targeted by a hitman without there being a damn good reason for it. And how did a guy who was in a coma suddenly wake up and not only defend himself, but manage to kill his attacker?

Jeez, too much information for one night. He popped the top off a cold beer with his thumb and took a long slow swallow that half emptied the can. Tired of the late night TV offerings, he stripped down to his wrinkled boxers and laid on top of the sheets sweating in the humidity that the struggling window air conditioner couldn’t quite push aside.

The mechanical drone of the air conditioner was finally overwhelmed by another sound as the first glimmers of the sun painted the Atlantic with pale golden streaks of color. Rivera groaned as the energetic flock of colorful Monk parrots began their noisy morning serenade to the dawning of a new day. He hated the filthy little beasts. There was a flock of around fifty birds that insisted on living in the tall palm tree just outside his condo, crapping on his car every day, and just raising holy hell every morning. He idly wondered how much trouble he would be in if he accidentally discharged his shotgun into the middle of the little feathered rats.