Random Victim (11 page)

“Shania’s out,” he said. “Too much like an old Revlon commercial. Let’s use something from Madonna. ‘Impressive Instant.’
”

“You’re just saying that because she made that movie with Rupert Everett a couple of years ago,” Hart said. “It bombed, remember?”

Chalma fluttered his eyebrows. “But Rupert looked sooooo good.”

Hart frowned.

“Trust my instincts, babe,” he said. “Rory knows best.”

“Yeah, right.”

“It’ll give you an edge. The judges will remember you better.”

They were standing side by side now and Hart caught a glimpse of their flattened reflections again. She towered over Chalma
by what looked like half a foot, with his squat, muscular frame and thickly muscled arms giving him a barrel-like appearance.
Hart flexed her broad shoulders and deltoids. The muscles jumped to attention under her skin.

“How do I look?” she asked.

“Great. Fabulous.”

“You really think so?” She turned and stood, arms akimbo, and flexed her lats. Her V-shape accentuated distinctively.

“Look for yourself,” Chalma said, his eyes suddenly narrowing. “I’ve never seen you better.”

“I mean…” Hart said, turning sideways and drawing her hand over the chiseled symmetry of her legs. “Do I look feminine?”

“What is this all about?” Chalma said, frowning now. His tongue swept over his upper lip. “Are you having man trouble or something?”

“No, I just—”

“It’s that guy Frank, isn’t it?” Chalma asked, cutting her off. “He’s messing up your head, isn’t he?”

“No, he’s not.” Hart dropped her pose and looked down at him. “Really, he’s just a friend, that’s all.”

Chalma pursed his lips.

“Look, this thing’s ninety percent preparation. You can’t afford to get de-psyched. Otherwise, you’ll be finished before you
even start.”

Hart nodded. “I know.”

“I’m worried about you since you started this new job. I can see it’s putting a strain on you.”

“There’s no strain,” she said. “And I’m getting all my workouts in.”

He shook his head dubiously.

“It’s more than that,” he said. “It’s mentally preparing, too. You know how important this is.”

Hart had to suddenly fight back the urge to cry. Important? she thought. Important to you, maybe. But what about me? What’s
really best for me? But there was no way she was going to break now in front of Rory. No way in hell.

“Just lay off, okay? This new position is very important to me career-wise.”

“We can’t afford to have you get your head messed up by some guy.”

“Will you stop? I told you, Frank’s just my partner. A friend. And he’s very supportive.”

“I’ll bet he is.”

Hart started to say something, but instead just stared down at him.

“Are we going to get started, or what?” she asked.

Chalma drew his lips into a thin line and nodded.

Hart reached down and selected a CD out of her bag and handed it to him.

“Shania,” she said. “ ‘If You’re Not In It For Love (I’m Outta Here).’ ”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Doing Juice

Richard Connors swung the white Jaguar into the parking place directly in front of the ornately painted sign that advertised:
THE IRON MAN GYM: OPEN 24 HOURS. The front of the building, which was set at the end of a curving strip mall, was composed
of large windows set into brick pillars. From the parking lot Connors could see numerous people inside working out. He got
out of his car and began walking toward the glass doors, passing a young girl with a blond ponytail and tight-fitting blue
jeans. She eyed the car, and then Connors. He smiled as he passed her, regretting that he was too pressed for time to strike
up a conversation and get her number. He liked a girl who knew class when she saw it, and he knew he looked good in his gray
short-sleeve shirt and tailored black pants.

Several blocks away to the west the massive white brick walls of the Joliet Correctional Center loomed in the background.
Connors was cognizant of them, too, and felt the tinge of regret about the girl fade as he concentrated on setting up the
task at hand. He reached out for the angular metallic door handle, resting his fingers lightly on it until he saw Tex behind
the front counter hit the buzzer. Stenciled across the front of the door in solid black letters outlined in gold was: MEMBERS
ONLY.

“Hiya, boss,” Tex said, giving a respectful wave. The high counter hid his lower body from view. A portable television sat
a few feet away, playing a cable sports channel. “Come to check things out?”

“Nah, I’m looking for Nuke.”

Tex cocked his head toward the back and said, “Locker room.”

Connors nodded and began to weave his way across the floor where several sets of heavily muscled men strained and screamed
as they struggled with metallic plates on iron bars. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors made the inside look twice as big as it really
was, reflecting back the rows of dumbbells, weight machines, and stationary bicycles. The rubber-tiled floor was littered
with discarded plates and two short Hispanic men in maintenance outfits scurried around, replacing the weights in the appropriate
racks.

Connors pushed through the swinging wooden doors that marked the men’s locker room and glanced around. The rows of lockers
and benches were empty, but at the far end, where the toilet and shower facilities were, Con-nors saw two sets of masculine-looking
feet inside the same cubicle. Both sets of feet were pointed in the same direction toward the porcelain bowl. Connors blew
a snort out his nose.

Nuke’s bearded face appeared around the corner of the open stall and gave a leering wink of acknowledgment before disappearing
again into the confines of the cubicle. The front pair of feet shifted slightly, and Connors heard someone grunt sharply.
Nuke backed out of the stall, dropping a hypodermic syringe and a blood-spotted sheet of toilet paper into a paper bag. He
was followed by another man, a muscular but short young blond guy, about nineteen or twenty, who was fiddling with the drawstring
of his sweat pants. He stopped suddenly when he saw Connors and looked at Nuke.

“It’s okay,” Nuke said, adjusting a wad of tobacco inside his lower lip. “He owns this place.” The sleeves of Nuke’s black
Harley Davidson sweatshirt had been chopped off to accommodate his massive shoulders and arms. A brocade of veins stood out,
forming a trellis of bas-relief on his swollen forearms, and a crude, homemade tattoo spelled out
NUKE
on the well-developed left deltoid. On his right shoulder a professionally done mushroom cloud exploded upward, under which
was lettered
DON’T
FUCK WITH ME.

The young blond guy shook his leg a couple of times and grimaced.

“Well, shit, go workout, you dumb fuck,” Nuke said, slapping the kid’s head. “You’ll feel the difference doing squats.”

The young guy grinned, nodded to Connors, and left. They watched him hobble out.

“What the hell was that all about?” he asked.

“Just trying out some new juice,” Nuke said. He unlocked his locker, reached in his pocket, and pulled out two fifties. “What’s
up?”

Connors frowned. “What if I’d been an undercover cop or something?”

“Relax, boss. I’m careful about things.” He removed a roll of bills from his boot and slipped the fifties around it. “Ain’t
no way I’m going back inside for nothing. Besides, I got cops who work out here that are on the juice, too.”

“That’s good to know,” Connors said, letting the sarcasm drift into his voice. “Look, I’m not fronting the bills here to see
it go up in smoke from somebody being careless.”

Nuke smirked. “Like I said, it ain’t no big deal. Besides, I’m making a pretty good buck from it, too. Almost as much as I
make working for you.”

Connors nostrils flared. “Meaning what?”

Nuke smiled again, less derisively this time. “Okay, if it makes you feel better I’ll watch my ass. You been pretty square
with me, fronting for that fancy lawyer the last time, and all. I got no complaints.”

Connors realized that this conciliation was probably as far as he was going to get with this big, dumb prick. And he wasn’t
ready to sever all ties yet. He still needed Nuke to make those little trips to Mexico to pick up those special shipments.
What did it matter if he brought back some steroids along the way? It was an arrangement of mutual benefit. And Nuke was another
layer of insulation between Connors and the more sordid aspects of the business.

“For a minute I thought you were butt-fucking him,” Connors said, trying to inject some humor into the conversation.

But it seemed lost on Nuke. He shook his head and said, “Nah, with that AIDS shit, I never even done that on the inside. I’d
just get my bitch and make him give me a blow job.”

“Look,” Connors said. “I need you to do something pretty quick.”

“Oh yeah?” Nuke said. His big fingers fumbled through his clothes hanging in the locker, and he withdrew a dark brown vial
and a hypodermic syringe. “This is the good stuff. Sustanon 250,” he said, inverting the vial, and sticking the needle through
the gray rubber top of the bottle. After filling the reservoir of the syringe, he set the vial back inside the locker and
slammed the door shut, pressing the padlock closed. Nuke cocked his head, indicating the toilet area. Connors followed Nuke
to the cubicle and watched as the big man entered the stall and carefully set the syringe on the paper dispenser.

“So what you need, boss?” he said, and dropped his pants, exposing his big, hairy ass. The muscles of his legs bulged like
bundles of steel cables under the skin. “You gotta excuse me, but I’m way overdue for this.”

“Better bodies through chemistry,” Connors said, more than a little pissed off at Nuke’s inattention. But, he re minded himself,
he needed him. For the present, anyway. Especially for the task at hand. “Go ahead and take care of business,” Connors said.
“I’ll wait.”

Nuke nodded and picked up the syringe, tapping it to consolidate the tiny air bubbles, then depressing the plunger until a
viscous drop of yellow liquid appeared at the end of the needle. He worked the needle into a thorny patch of skin on the top
of his buttocks and injected the two cubic centimeters of the steroid.

“Like I mentioned, I’ve got a problem,” Connors said.

“Haaaah,” Nuke slowly grunted as he finished depressing the plunger. “No problem’s too great. What is it?”

“There’s someone,” Connors said, “I want you to eliminate.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Chinatown

Leal went through his mental checklist as he prepared to embark on what he hoped would be a very pleasant evening. He checked
his watch: six twenty-five. No sense rushing, he thought. It’s only in Evergreen Park. Twenty minutes tops. And he didn’t
want to arrive early, although that was preferable to arriving late. Grinning, he slipped on his sports jacket and grabbed
his keys, taking a final look around to make sure his earlier cleaning sprint had been successful.

Gone were the unseemly stacks of dirty clothes, old newspapers, and scattered dishes. In the off chance that he’d invite Sharon
over, he wanted to be sure the place was at least presentable. Plus it was overdue for a cleaning anyway. The straightening,
dusting, and vacuuming had been almost as exhausting as the workout the night before with Hart. Leal thought about her and
the progression of the case.

Hart was starting to shape up. He felt he could do worse for a partner. At least she listened and always gave it her best
shot. With a little more confidence, she could turn out real good. Maybe. Leal remembered her sudden nervousness right before
they’d gone in to interview Walker.
I haven’t really got a lot of experience doing this sort
of thing
, she’d said. But she had picked up on the inconsistencies in Walker’s actions and statements. That was an intuitive ability.
You either had it or you didn’t. It couldn’t be taught. Refined and developed, yes. Taught, no. Someone like Brice just didn’t
have it. Never had, never would.

Brice, he thought. The epitome of the Peter Principle. Yeah, he’s a Peter all right. Random victims, carjackings, chop-shop
rings…The bastard couldn’t find his ass with both hands. And Ryan going right along with Brice’s half-assed theories.
The consummate yes-man.

Shit, thought Leal, checking his watch again. I’m supposed to be relaxing on my night off, I got a date with an angel, and
here I am thinking about the stupid case.

It was time to get going.

As he walked out to the unmarked squad, he grabbed the box of condoms that he’d picked up, just in case, at the drug store.
Being prepared was essential, even though his expectations only fell into the realm of a pleasant dinner and stimulating conversation.

But, if we really hit it off, who knows, he thought, whistling as he appraised the job the guys had done at the car wash.
At least it smelled nice with the aromatic air freshener. Like strawberries or something. He removed two of the condoms from
the box and slipped them in his inside jacket pocket. Unobtrusive, yet easily obtainable if needed. The box was another matter.

Should’ve left it at home, he thought. But now it was already six thirty-five. Where did the extra time go? He opened the
glove box and stuck the box under the maps and gas-log papers, then closed it.

I hope she doesn’t mind the county car, he thought, twisting the key. He felt a slight twinge in his side. This was his first
real date since the shooting, too. If things did get that far, he wondered how she’d react to the railroad track scar on his
chest.

One step at a time, he thought. One step at a time.

Sharon’s apartment was one of those two-story brownstones that had proliferated on the south side and its contiguous suburbs.
The name next to the upper buzzer read
S.A. Devain
. Sharon Ann? he wondered. Her distorted voice came out of the speaker and the door buzzed. Leal went inside the little foyer
and glanced up the stairway to his left. A door popped open at the top and he heard her call, “Come on up.”

After trotting up the stairs he pushed open the door and she stood there smiling at him in a light blue silk blouse and navy
skirt. The blouse was open at the neck and he could see the delicate serpentine loops of a gold chain against her neck. Her
hair looked freshly curled and her makeup perfectly accented her eyes and high cheekbones.

“I’m almost ready,” she said. “Make yourself at home.”

She closed the door behind him and disappeared into another room. Leal saw the apartment was furnished with a big, comfortable-looking
couch opposite a television and VCR. A coffee table with a lace doily in the middle was in front of the couch. An original
oil painting, a landscape depicting effulgent trees and bodies of water, hung on the wall. Looking closer he saw the name
S. Devain printed along the bottom. The next room looked more lived-in, with a computer sitting on a long table and a paperbound
volume of the criminal statutes next to it. Probably her office, he thought.

Sharon came into the room, slipping on a dark jacket and grabbing her purse from the couch. She flipped on the light switch
and said, “Okay, I’m ready.”

Leal smiled, appraising her, thinking she looked like a million dollars.

“Where would you like to go?” he asked. “Anyplace special?”

“You decide. But I have to be back by eleven, or so.”

Why was she giving him the time constraint up front? Was she trying to tell him something? He compressed his lips. Remember,
he thought, a pleasant dinner is all I’m hoping for. But he had to ask.

“Why?” he asked, trying to sound light. “Afraid my car will turn into a pumpkin or something?”

Sharon laughed. It sounded almost musical.

“Oh, I guess I should have told you, I got sort of roped into starting my next shift a little early. You see, my partner on
Felony Review was supposed to be on call tonight, but his sister’s getting married tomorrow and he asked if I could take anything
after midnight.”

Leal felt his confidence returning.

“I can understand that,” he said. “I’m on call a lot, too.”

Sharon smiled as they walked outside.

“Is that why you brought your squad car?”

Oh, shit, Leal thought, trying to think of an appropriate comeback. Suddenly his preplanned response that he might get called
at any time to handle a life-threatening emergency seemed pretty lame. But, his mind raced, I can’t very well tell her my
personal car is a piece of shit, can I? Deciding to hell with pretension, he said, “Actually, my personal car’s worse than
this one. It’s due for the auto graveyard, but I’ve been too busy to look for a new one.” He watched her reaction as he opened
the door and she slid inside. “Plus, I don’t have to worry about parking tickets.”

Sharon smiled.

They decided on dinner at Chinatown, and Leal headed down Ninety-fifth Street to the expressway. Sharon dug into her purse
for a cigarette and Leal immediately reached to press in the lighter. Except the lighter had been removed so that the emergency
light could be plugged in. Dammit, he thought, glancing over at her.

Sharon must have noticed his dilemma and smiled, flicking her own lighter and holding it to the cigarette.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I need this,” she said, cracking the window. She blew a cloud of smoke to the side. “You don’t
smoke, right?”

“I quit.”

“Wow, I wish I could. I’ve tried to so many times. How’d you do it? The patch?”

“I got shot in the chest,” he said. “But I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Yeah, I remember hearing about that. When they told me about you telling off Judge Gable.”

He grimaced. “That was really more of a misunderstanding.”

“Oh, I’ll bet,” she said, looking over at him with a wide grin. “I thought it was great that you did. It was about time somebody
told the son of a bitch what an asshole he is.”

Leal glanced over at her and smiled back. This girl doesn’t mince words, he thought.

They ate at the big Mandarin Restaurant on Twenty-second Street, the conversation floating along so pleasantly that Leal was
reluctant to even surreptitiously glance at his watch. For an after-dinner drink they each ordered wine.

“But only one glass,” Sharon said, smiling. “I have to keep my wits about me.”

He liked her smile. He liked everything about her.

“So tell me,” she said. “When you testified before the grand jury you gave your name as Francisco. Is that Hispanic?”

“Actually, it comes from my dad’s side of the family. My mom’s Irish, my dad’s Mexican. Guess you could call me sort of new
generation Black Irish.”

Her eyes swept over him. “So, do you speak Spanish?”

“Yeah. That’s why I did so well in MEG. Everybody thought I was your typical Latino drug dealer.” He grinned. “The bastard
probably wouldn’t have shot me if he’d thought I was a cop.”

“Fran-cis-co,” she said, drawing out the pronunciation. “I like that. So it’s Frank for short.”

“Actually, my mother calls me Cisco. And that was a primary motivation for me taking up boxing in school.”

She laughed again.

“What about you?” he asked. “I saw those paintings in your apartment. Did you paint them?”

Sharon sipped the wine slowly, looking at him over the rim.

“I wish,” she said. “My sister Sara did. She got all the artistic talent in the family. I, on the other hand, inherited all
the brashness. Hence, my profession.”

The waiter came over to their table with a small platter containing the check and two fortune cookies. Leal slipped some money
in the folder and told him to keep the change. The waiter bowed deferentially and left. Sharon was already breaking open her
cookie.

“What does yours say?” she asked.

He snapped in two and pulled out the slip of paper.

“Great things are in store for you,” he read. “Yours?”

She smiled slowly, her tongue darting over her teeth for only a second.

“It says I’m going to meet a tall, dark, handsome man,” she said. She twisted the paper and put it in her pocket. “But I already
have. Maybe we both can share yours.”

Outside the night was cooling off, but it was still comfortable enough for them to walk down Wentworth through a few of the
blocks that comprised Chinatown, looking at all the shops, the bright neon signs displaying foreign lettering, the designs
on the windows, and the throngs of Asians crowding the sidewalks and speaking in foreign tongues. They walked back to the
car holding hands, stopping in front of the big ceremonial gate to admire the ornate Chinese characters. Sharon lit a cigarette
and asked him what time it was.

“Almost ten,” he said. Dammit, where had the time gone?

“I guess we’d better head back then,” she said.

He nodded. Just dinner and some pleasant conversation, that’s all, he reminded himself.

The ride home went uneventfully, with the traffic seeming lighter than usual. When they pulled up in front of her building,
she turned toward him.

“I had a nice time, Frank,” she said.

“Yeah, me, too. Maybe we can do it again sometime.”

She nodded, staring up at him, her fine features illuminated by the overhead streetlights, and kissed him softly on the lips.
“Do you want to come up for a while?”

Do I? Leal thought.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that very much.”

She looked at him for a moment, then smiled wickedly.

“Just remember, Francisco, that I’m subject to get beeped after midnight.”

The beep came while they were still making love. Abrupt and intrusive, its piercing sharpness shocked both of them. Sharon,
who was on top, inhaled quickly with a sudden sharpness, kissed him, and then was off padding around in the darkness.

“Shit,” she said. “Where did I put that fucking thing?”

Leal rolled on his side, watching her naked ass, opalescent in the moonlight, as she moved around the bedroom sorting through
the helter-skelter array of clothes they’d left lying in their wake. Finally she stooped over and grabbed something from the
floor. The insistent chirping stopped.

She came back and sat on the edge of the bed, her back to him, and turned on the night-light. The phone was on the table next
to the lamp.

“We’ve only got so many minutes to answer these damn pages,” she said, dialing the number. He reached up and softly caressed
her shoulder. To his surprise she turned and faced him, kissing his fingers lightly, then leaned forward to kiss him on the
lips.

“Yes, this is ASA Sharon Devain. What have you got?” she said into the phone.

Leal leaned back, trying to follow the periphery of the conversation, but losing much of it due to her monosyllabic responses.
“Okay, I’ll call them in a few minutes.” She hung up after scribbling down a number and turned back to him.

“Looks like I’ll have to go,” she said, her long legs snuggling down next to his. “They’ve got an armed robbery/rape, and
I’ll have to go interview the offender before he lawyers up.”

Leal didn’t know what to say, sensing that the mood of the moment had faded.

“So do you want me to go with you?” he asked.

She shook her head. “And how would that look?”

He laughed slightly. “Not too good, I guess.”

She kissed him again, harder, and said, “I told you I was subject to getting beeped in the night, so we’ll just have to continue
this another time, okay?”

For the first time, Leal sensed that the roles had been strangely reversed for him. Getting kicked out of bed while she went
off to fight crime in the middle of the night. Was this what it felt like to be the girl? Looks like both of us got beeped
tonight, he thought.