Humpty Dumpty: The killer wants us to put him back together again (Book 1 of the Nursery Rhyme Murders Series) (4 page)

He snorted. “You have no idea how not-young that makes me feel, Agent Cooper. But no, I don’t think I want to help.”

“What? Too busy here? Too tied down with your important job mopping up piss and vomit?” The agent—what was her nickname?—seemed to be putting as much scorn into her voice as she possibly could. What she couldn’t know was just how inured to shame he’d become. She was competing with a crusty old man with a razor blade for a tongue and a cesspool for a mind. This woman didn’t even come close.

“This isn’t a job, honey. It’s a Band-Aid. And in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m bleeding out from an arterial wound.” Joshua shrugged. “Besides, they let me drink on the job. That’s not ever going to happen back in DC.”

Coop… that was her name… nodded. “Yeah. They sent me with one of these.” She pulled what looked like an ankle bracelet out of her pocket and held it up. “Blood alcohol monitor. To keep you on the wagon.”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna work for me.”

“You think I don’t know that?” the agent shot back. “My guess? You can’t function without booze.” She stared at him, her eyes calculating. “What, you’ve had six, seven drinks at this point?”

Joshua ticked them off on his fingers. “Nine. Impressed?”

She grunted. “Something like that. Wouldn’t take more than a few hours for you to start shaking and sweating. Am I in the ballpark?”

“Not sure why we’re still talking. I’m not going anywhere I can’t drink.”

Coop lifted up the right leg of her slacks, exposing a well-toned calf. She might not be Joshua’s type, but man was she beautiful. Opening up the blood alcohol monitor, the agent placed it around her own ankle and snapped it shut with a loud click that reverberated off the walls of the close space.

“I wear the bracelet,” she said, holding his gaze. “You stay in control of your fine motor skills and keep the spiders from dancing around in your peripheral vision.”

Joshua shook his head. “Man. He must have had it bad.”

“Who?”

“Your daddy.”

Agent Cooper looked like she was about to say something when her cell phone rang. Standard factory-setting ringtone. So predictable. So by the book.

So boring.

She glanced at the incoming number, then up at Joshua, her expression concerned. “I have to take this. Hold on a second?”

“Sure thing. I’m not going anywhere,” he replied, waving his hands around in a vague gesture that included the bar.

Joshua waited until Agent Cooper walked away and turned around before making his way to the back entrance to the bar. He wasn’t sticking around for the hard sell that was coming on the tail end of that call.

Before stepping through the door, Joshua glanced back at the agent, realizing it was the first time in almost a decade that he had talked to someone who had sought him out. Adult conversation that didn’t include an order to clean up alcohol or bodily fluids. There was a sense of belonging in that. Enough to almost make him change his mind and stay put.

But then he thought of Humpty Dumpty and spun back around so fast it came close to giving him whiplash. There was no way he was going back to that case.

Not a chance in hell.

* * *

The call had been from Had… Officer Had Hadderly, the newest member of her crack team of specialists working on the Humpty Dumpty case. The crack team that currently included only Had and herself. She had answered the call more than a little panicked, thinking that there was an emergency that would keep him from boarding the plane tomorrow.

Instead, Had was just checking through his wardrobe with her.

“And I know DC’s a big city, but should I bring my cowboy boots anyway? Maybe it could be sort of a self-aware ironic statement or something. They’re pretty cool boots.” Had's tone was excited, almost frenetic. Sariah’s irritation with him for the bad timing of the call dissipated.

“Use your best judgment, Had,” she responded, keeping the sigh that wanted to spill out of her locked up tight. She started to disconnect the call, then added, “But I love cowboy boots.” Punching the end button, Sariah turned on her heel to deal once more with Joshua Wright.

He was nowhere to be found.

Sariah started to swear, beginning with the more benign ones and working her way up to the Australian level. It wasn’t long before it was all just one long stream of obscenities pouring out of her mouth. This was bad.

Sariah knew what investigating this case had cost the former agent. She might not know all of the details, but she had learned enough to understand why it was that Joshua wanted nothing to do with this.

So maybe that’s why she wasn’t chasing him down right at this very second. Why she wasn’t trying to track him back to wherever he was living, the mystical apartment that Sariah had been unable to track down, no matter how many avenues she’d tried. Well, that and the fact that the guy had a head start on her in a city that she didn’t know and he did.

They needed Joshua’s help. There was no one out there who knew this case better. With that said, the whole thing was just so heartbreaking. A part of Sariah wanted to just leave well enough alone. Granted, it was a very small part.

Maybe she could strong-arm the bartender into coughing up Joshua’s current address. They had to have something on file for him.

After that, she had to figure out what the hell she was going to do next. She was supposed to be headed back to DC tomorrow morning to meet with Had, but getting Joshua to help was important enough that if she couldn’t find him fast, she would need to spend another day or two here. It was worth it.

She sighed and started moving toward the back entrance to the bar. Looking at the situation with honesty, Sariah knew that even once she found him again, getting Joshua to help out was more than just a tough challenge. It might be the most difficult thing she’d attempted in her career to date.

Squeezing herself up past the pool table in the back, Sariah headed up toward the long bar against the wall on her left. The jukebox was blaring “Brown Sugar” by the Stones loud enough to hurt her ears.

The bartender was chatting with two women who looked to be in their late 30s but who were trying to pretend that they were nearer to 20. She rapped on the bar to get the man’s attention, with no noticeable effect. Waving her hand finally seemed to get his attention.

“Looks like you found the bastard. Went wobbling out of here like a drunk bat out of hell,” the tatted man growled over the music. “So my question is, who’s gonna clean up after my customers? You?”

The question appeared to be rhetorical, and Sariah didn’t have the patience for idle chitchat. “I need an address for him.”

The bartender shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. He usually gets paid out in cash. The only contact info I’ve got for the guy is a PO Box.”

“Get it for me? Or do I need to posture and threaten first? You know…
'I can get a warrant. I’ll shut you down.'
That kind of stuff.” Sariah kept her tone light enough that it could be taken as a joke, while the implied threat settled in.

“Whatever. Just don’t tell anyone I gave it to you.” He fished behind him in a drawer and pulled out a little black book. Grabbing a pen from the same place, he started to write the address down on a napkin, but the pen was out of ink. “Got something I can write with?” he yelled over at the two ladies he’d been talking to.

“Whatcha gonna give me for it, huh, Danny?” the one with bright red hair that looked like it came straight out of a bottle simpered. She was doing everything she could to push her breasts together with her arms, turning what couldn’t be more than C-cups into double Ds. She pouted her candy-apple painted lips at him, holding the pen just out of reach.

“I’ll tell you exactly what I’ll give you, Gabby. I won’t tell your husband you’re down here flirting with the bartender,” Danny replied. The redhead somehow managed to deepen her pout while handing the pen over to the bartender. He grinned and touched the pen to an imaginary hat.

Scribbling the address down on the bar napkin, Danny handed it over to Sariah. “Hey, Joshua’s a mess, but he’s a good guy. Whatever he’s done, go easy on him, okay?”

The bartender’s words echoed in Sariah’s ears. There were a lot of things she was trying to do.

Going easy on Joshua unfortunately wasn’t one of them.

This night was turning out to be
awesome
. All she wanted to do right now was order a stiff drink. She contemplated it for a moment before realizing that she couldn’t. The blood-alcohol monitor was still strapped to her leg, and would be for at least another 48 hours. Sariah groaned. She could use that drink.

She had a feeling that before this night was through, she was going to
need
one.

* * *

It was close to midnight by the time Joshua stumbled around the corner of the street that led to his car. It might not be much, but right now the puke-brown sedan called to him with all of the charms of a bed with a feather tick. He was so tired.

As he rounded the turn, he saw two Latinos, one hunched over the LeSabre, the other leaning against its side. They both sported shaved heads and wife-beaters, with tattoos covering most of their exposed skin. The hunched one was at the driver’s side door with a Slim Jim sawing up and down against the window. The other seemed to be on lookout.

“Hey!” Joshua yelled. “That’s my car!”

The watcher started, jumping up from his lounging perch against the car. He looked ready to bolt, but then appeared to take a closer look at Joshua. He nudged his partner and pointed at the former FBI agent.

“Manuel. Check it out.
Vato
wants his car.”

Manuel, the guy with the lock pick, straightened up, taking his time, then turned around and watched as Joshua ran closer to his car. His car, nothing. It was his home.

“You want your car,
ese
?” He smiled the smile of a shark as he pulled a knife out of his back pocket, whipping it open with a practiced flourish. “I think it must be another one, no? ‘Cause this is our car,
pendejo
.”

This didn’t feel like it was going to end well, but Joshua couldn’t bring himself to just walk away. His entire life was stuffed into that car, and he wasn’t about to let it go without a fight.

Even if he was still drunk.

He spread his arms out. “C’mon, guys. That car’s all I got. Everything I own’s in there.”

The thug’s smile stretched even farther across his face, like it was trying to cut his head in two. “No, no,
maric
ó
n
. That
mierda
’s mine.
Comprendes
? Mine.”

His partner had slipped around to Joshua’s side, clearly thinking that all of their victim’s attention was riveted on the guy with the knife. As the sidekick sidled in closer, Joshua leapt across the space separating them, landing on the man’s instep with all of his weight, causing him to howl in pain. At the same time, he swung his elbow around at the car thief’s face, clocking him with all of the momentum of the jump forward. His opponent collapsed to the ground, swearing a blue streak in rapid Spanish.

But alcohol had dulled both Joshua’s senses and his reaction time. A hot, searing slash of pain carved its way across his exposed left side as Manuel, the guy with the knife, darted in to help his friend. Joshua danced back, adrenaline and alcohol fighting in his body for dominance. The hand that he had pressed to his side came away wet and sticky. He stumbled and fell to one knee.

Manuel lashed out with one of his heavy work boots, catching Joshua in the head. His eyesight exploded into flashing points of light. He dimly felt his face make contact with the asphalt, every nerve ending in his skull ablaze.

A face leaned in close to his. The smell of stale cigarettes wafted into Joshua’s nostrils as Manuel breathed on him.

“You should have walked away,
cabr
ó
n
. I told you. That car is mine.”

“Please,” Joshua managed to croak.

Another stomp, and he felt the impact on the right side of his chest. The pain was distant now, his vision tunneling in on him.

“Hey,
gringo
. What is it with you?” the voice droned on in his ear, the Mexican accent giving an almost pleasant lilt to the speech. “You can see you’re beat, but you fight anyways.
Est
á
s loco
?”

Est
á
s loco?
Are you crazy? Joshua felt something bubbling up inside of him. Something that tugged at his broken rib, making him wince. But it didn’t go away. It grew stronger and stronger, bursting out of him in waves that brought nothing but pain.

He was laughing.

“
Puta madre
,” Manuel muttered, backing away and grabbing his friend by the shoulder. “
Vámonos. Ese gringo está chingada
.”

Est
á
s loco?
Are you crazy? The words played over and over in his head while he lay in the street, giggling.

Yes
, he thought to himself.
Yes, I am.

CHAPTER 3

As putrid as Manhattan was, it didn’t take long for Sariah to discover that she liked Queens far less. At least Manhattan had some charm to it. But this neighborhood was just row after row of sardine-packed apartment buildings.

Sariah had booked a hotel room in Queens after tracking down the PO Box she’d been given to a tiny business crammed in on the lower level of an apartment complex. Boxes Etc. It was closed, but she idled and double-parked in her rental car, watching the door to see if maybe someone was there working the night shift. She might get lucky.

But it was late. Close to eleven. She knew she was grasping at straws, but wasn’t sure what else to do. Cruising down the streets in a grid-like pattern, Sariah kept moving until she gave up around an hour later.

Pulling into the parking lot behind the Clarion Hotel, Sariah checked the schedule for the train back down to DC. Even without Joshua, she should go back on time. They had to get started, or new victims would start piling up before they could even begin.

Maybe she would even manage to get some sleep in. She wanted to be able to hit the ground running once she got back to Washington and met up with Had, and right now she was pretty wiped out. The combination of the oppressive heat, the stress of finding Joshua and then the subsequent emotional argument had left her feeling like she’d been flattened out by a steamroller.