Random Victim (27 page)

“Brice is really pissed at what you did to his boy,” Nuke said, moving forward. His face had a malicious grin that became
suddenly visible in the ambient lighting.

“Probably no more pissed than he is at you,” Leal said. He could feel the desperation edging into his tone. “For fucking the
kid in the ass.” He worked his way to the side as he taunted the bigger man, hoping to maneuver Nuke away from the stairs.

Nuke simply unsnapped a leather pouch on his belt and removed a large buck knife. He was still smiling.

“I ain’t stupid, cop,” he said. “Far from it.”

“So you need a knife to get up your fucking nerve, faggot?”

Nuke snorted. “Like I said, I ain’t stupid.” His voice was calm as he snapped open the blade to the locked position and began
to creep forward. “Think you can bait me, huh? That I’ll fall for that kind of shit?”

Leal tried to move diagonally, but Nuke, showing surprising agility for a big man, danced to the side and cut him off.

“Remember, cop, I told you it was personal now.” He grinned again. “I’m gonna slit open your belly and hang you upside down
so you can watch your guts seep out.”

Leal still had the lead pipe, but he didn’t think he’d fare well against a knife. He resigned himself to getting cut. And
to fighting as hard as he could. He shifted the pipe to his left hand as his right brushed the tough plastic covering a brick
stack. A broken half brick lay on top. Grabbing it, Leal pitched it at Nuke as hard as he could.

The sharp edge bounced off the big, overdeveloped pectoral muscle and tore a gash on Nuke’s right cheek. Recovering, Nuke
halted and did as Leal had hoped. He paused to wipe at the blood. That’s when Leal threw the second brick straight at Nuke’s
head. He ducked, but it caught him a glancing blow. Leal saw him drop the knife and watched it do a skittering bounce into
the shadows.

Before Leal could get another brick, Nuke bellowed and rushed forward. Leal swung the pipe hard, but only managed to smack
his large foe on the shoulder. Nuke snared Leal’s right wrist in a bone-crushing grip. Leal tried to twist away, but suddenly
found himself on his back. He still had the pipe in his hand, but Nuke’s big boot slammed downward, grinding Leal’s fingers,
with the pipe inside, against the solid floor. Pulling quickly, Leal managed to wring his fingers away from the pipe, recoiling
as it smashed his nails.

Nuke’s right fist swung downward, catching Leal under the chin. It was only an arm punch, but it still sent Leal reeling on
the edge of darkness for a moment. Instinctively, he tried to stagger to his feet, but Nuke was there again, driving a knee
up into Leal’s face, then following up with a couple of sharp punches to his side.

“I told you I was gonna enjoy this, cop,” Nuke said, laughing.

Leal reeled to the side, seeing a sawed-off two-by-four on the floor in front of him. Gripping it with his left hand, he lashed
out, catching Nuke on the right shin. He whipped another backhand, and heard a plunking sound as it connected against the
big man’s hip bone.

Nuke danced back a few feet, and Leal managed to straighten up all the way.

“You motherfucker,” Nuke said, his voice a snarl.

Leal swung the two-by-four again, but this time Nuke sidestepped the blow and slammed the edge of his fist against Leal’s
temple. Leal tried to react, but Nuke already had a grip on the board and ripped it from Leal’s grasp, leaving his hand bleeding
from a rash of splinters.

Nuke hefted the two-by-four clublike, as Leal held up his arms to cover up as best he could. He felt the blows crack into
his ribs and back, bringing him sinking downward. A kick sent his head reeling backward, and Leal bounced off a cinder block
wall. He felt himself drop to all fours, then roll onto his side, his uncontrolled breathing coming with jagged, searing pain
each time his chest moved.

Nuke strode across the floor, smacking the two-by-four into his palm with each step.

I’m not gonna die on my knees, Leal thought, struggling to right himself. His fingers touched the floor for support, causing
a stinging sensation. Something was there. The open buck knife.

Leal grasped it tightly, covering his movements by hunching his back, the blade pointing upward. He waited on one knee, his
face toward the floor.

Nuke’s massive feet and legs suddenly appeared in front of him. Leal lurched forward with the knife, and upward, along Nuke’s
inseam, driving it into the crotch with all the strength he could muster.

Leal heard the other man scream, then felt a tremendous blow strike the top of his head. He felt the rush of blood streaming
down his face seconds later. Somehow Leal managed to rotate the blade, causing yet another scream. He saw the board drop to
the floor. Leal felt a sudden surge of strength in his legs, and he pushed upward against Nuke. They slammed into the cinder
block wall, Nuke’s broad back hitting the gray blocks which suddenly began folding inward behind him. A stupid expression
swept over Nuke’s face and his big arms fumbled in front of him, grasping first at Leal, and then at the air itself. Leal
fell forward, too, but his hands hit the solidness of the floor, and he watched as Nuke seemed temporarily suspended in a
black void.

Then he was gone, his scream lasting about two or three seconds. Leal managed to place his palm on the base of the wall where
it was still intact and pushed himself away from the opening. As he rolled over on his back, another cinder block fell into
the darkness and landed with sodden impact below. Leal looked across the fifteen-foot space and saw the sign in bold block
letters: CAUTION—ELEVATOR SHAFT.

He struggled for two rasping breaths before pushing himself farther from the edge. Droplets of blood and sweat splashed the
concrete under him.

I gotta get up, he thought. I gotta get up.

He was struggling to rise, fighting the waves of nausea that swept over him, cognizant of the warm rush of blood over his
face, the stinging sensation in his hands, the wracking pain every time he tried to move. Put one foot in front of the other,
he told himself. Like a drunk intent on getting to his car. One step at a time, and I’ll get there, he thought. He reached
out to steady himself with a nearby pile of lumber.

“Stand up, Leal,” the voice said. “I’ll make it quick and clean. I promise.”

Brice.

Leal saw him now, through the haze of blood and sweat. He wished the constant ringing inside his skull would stop. Brice was
about fifteen feet away, the shiny Magnum hanging loosely in his hand. Leal could still tell, even in the dim light, that
the man’s face was glistening.

“Stand up, dammit, Leal,” Brice said. He swallowed hard. “I’ll see you get a hero’s funeral.”

“Why, Brice?” Leal managed to say. “Why?” He saw Brice lick his lips.

“Blood’s thicker than rum,” he said. He moved forward half a step and raised the pistol.

Leal’s eyes desperately searched the floor for the buck knife.

It must have gone over the edge with Nuke.

Brice looked past him to the elevator shaft. He moved in front of Leal, as if anticipating the motion necessary to kick him
over the edge.

“I gotta admit, Leal, I never thought you’d be able to take out a guy like Nuke.” He still held the revolver pointed at Leal’s
head. “But to tell you the truth, I was gonna shoot him after he took care of you anyway.”

Small consolation, thought Leal. He tried to summon his remaining strength for one last leap, but his body wouldn’t obey.
Blood’s thicker than rum, he thought as he lowered his head and waited for the bullet, the remembered Catholic school catechism
racing through his mind:
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at
the hour of our death. Amen.

“Sorry, Leal,” Brice said. Leal heard the hammer cock. “I’d like to say it’s nothing personal, but…”

“Hold it, Brice. Drop the fucking gun.”

Am I dreaming? Leal wondered. His head twisted to the side and he saw a slim silhouette with blond hair holding a stainless
steel revolver in the starkly lit stairwell.

Ollie.

Brice hesitated, did a little half turn, and fired a round at the stairs. Leal saw two bright flashes from the stairs, lighting
up the room and sending a half foot of flame shooting toward them. Brice grimaced, did an exaggerated stutter step, and tried
to raise his gun again. But his arm just extended out in front of him, while his legs curled in the opposite direction. He
folded onto the concrete with a soft thud.

Leal tried to look into Brice’s eyes, but he saw they were closed, the man’s lips twisted in pain.

“Ollie,” he called out, wanting to warn her about Brice’s other gun, but the words were all jumbled in his head. Nothing would
come out in the right order.

“On your stomach, Brice,” Hart called out. “Arms spread-eagle, palms up.”

Good, Leal thought. She was still behind the cover of the wall.

“I’m shot, you fucking bitch,” Brice said. “Get me an ambulance.”

“Get on your stomach, or I’ll put the next one right between your eyes,” Hart said. “I’ve got backups with me. It’s all over
now.”

Leal watched Brice’s face sag. He released his hold on the Magnum and slowly rolled onto his stomach. Hart was there, suddenly
snapping her handcuff over his left wrist, twisting his arm into a hammerlock, and locking the arm with her knees as she bent
back his right arm and secured that one also.

Leal tried to tell her about the second gun again, but she’d already found it, pulling up Brice’s jacket and removing a snub-nosed
.38 from a holster on his belt.

He gathered his strength and managed to say, “Good job, Ollie.”

Hart stood up, and Leal took some measure of delight at seeing the darkening puddle spreading out from beneath his former
boss. Then he felt Hart cradling his head against her breasts.

“Oh, God, Frank,” she said, taking his pulse. Then into her radio, “We’ve got an officer down on the sixth floor. Get the
paramedics. There’s a suspect down, too. In custody.”

Leal felt a surge of pride as he watched her, the light from the bulb seeming to make a halo around her blond head. He started
to tell her she looked like an angel when dark walls pushed closer, sending a swarm of black dots in front of his eyes.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Cisco and Pancho

The only thing Leal remembered about the ambulance ride, besides the sirens blaring, was the paramedic holding a white plastic
bucket under Leal’s mouth so he could puke. The dark vomit, mixed with copious amounts of blood, made him wonder if he had
internal injuries.

That was one hell of an ass whipping, he thought, then tried to smile as he remembered Brice’s whimpering. The fucker was
actually crying, he tried to tell the paramedic.

“Just vomit into the bucket, sir,” the paramedic said.

When he opened his eyes again, bright lights shone down from above. The numbing pain suddenly felt good, because at least
he knew he was still alive. A nurse was swabbing his face with something. Alcohol. She was, he reflected, the most beautiful
nurse he’d ever seen. Then her face was replaced by a bearded man in a lab coat, probing him with latex-covered fingers.

Then he saw her. Ollie.

“How you feeling?” she asked.

“I been better,” he said.

“You’re going to be okay, Frank,” she said, touching his face. “I’ve already called Captain O’Herlieghy and Special Prosecutions.”

“Brice?”

“In surgery,” she said. “He’s expected to live. To stand trial.”

Leal nodded.

“What about Murphy?”

“As soon as I showed up with Will County, he boogied,” she said. “There’s an ISPERN dispatch out on him. It’s only a matter
of time before he gets spotted.”

Leal grunted suddenly as pain shot up his arm.

“I believe your shoulder is dislocated, sir,” the bearded guy said. “I know it’s painful, but I’m trying to slip it back in.
I guess the pain medication hasn’t quite kicked in yet.”

Leal grunted a response through clenched teeth.

“Ollie, how did you know where?”

“After your lady friend beeped me, I made a couple of calls right away.” Her fingers brushed back some of his dark hair. “I
was afraid to call your cell if you were on a stakeout. But neither Joliet PD nor Will County knew what I was talking about.
I figured they’d have to be in on it, so I started to get worried. I called HQ, and as far as they knew, Brice never checked
in with them, either. I figured I’d better get out there.”

“Intuition.”

She smiled.

“So I got real lucky, then. I followed the directions to the diner that Sharon gave me, and I found a Will County officer
finishing up his lunch there.”

“In uniform?” Leal asked. “Was he in uniform?”

She nodded.

“The guy Murphy didn’t wave to,” he said.

She looked down at him with a quizzical expression, then continued. “Anyway, he remembered seeing an unmarked squad take a
right down the gravel access road earlier. When I told him I was looking for a construction site, he led me right to it. Then
there was Murphy standing there, looking stupid, and Brice’s son unconscious and bleeding in the backseat. From the look on
Murphy’s face, I knew something was up. I tried to question him, but he got into his car and took off.”

“He stunk,” Leal said.

“What?”

“He stunk, didn’t he?”

She smiled again, and nodded.

“Yeah. So he bolts and the Will County guy and I are just standing there looking at each other. He calls for backups, and
I figured that if I could get up to the top of that building, I’d have a better view to look around. Then on the second floor
I saw all kinds of blood.”

“Mr. Leal,” the doctor said, “can you feel this?”

“Feel what?” Leal said. He felt the black lights starting to swarm again.

“Good, the meds are starting to kick in,” the doctor said. “I’m going to suture the top of your head. You’ve got a nasty gash
up there. Try to lie still, please.”

“I’ll do my best,” Leal said. “So was that Moose guy really Brice’s kid?”

“Uh-huh,” Hart said. “A real hardcase, I guess.”

“Like father, like son.”

“We haven’t got the whole story yet,” she said. “And Captain O’Herlieghy told us to wait till Special Prosecutions gets here,
but apparently Brice got drawn in trying to protect him. We’ll know more when we can interview them both.”

“And Murphy.”

“Right,” she said. “And Murphy.”

Leal took a deep breath, realized it hurt, and coughed a few times. The doctor told him to be still. Leal said he was sorry,
then canted his head slightly toward Hart.

“This is the second time you’ve saved my life,” he said.

“Well,” she said, her fingers caressing his face, “since I can’t remember the first, how about we just call it even, huh,
Cisco?”

“Okay, Pancho,” he said, trying to smile. “Ollie?”

She looked at him.

“You’re the best partner I’ve ever had,” he said thickly, as he felt a wave of slumber sweep over him.

Richard Connors hadn’t heard from Brice in two days, despite numerous attempts to get hold of him. But maybe no news is good
news, he thought as he slipped in a Sina-tra CD and began listening to “The Best is Yet to Come.” He hadn’t really appreciated
the Chairman of the Board until after he died, but now he’d come to realize the importance of calling all the shots and having
your own sense of style.

The doorbell rang as Candy was drying herself off from a session in the jacuzzi. Connors went to the door and looked out the
peephole. He could see some blond chick standing there with a paper in her hand. Maybe she was selling something, but he wasn’t
buying. He began to walk away when a persistent and rather loud knocking commenced.

What the hell? he thought, and was just about to go give her a piece of his mind when he heard a crash and the door flew inward.
The blond chick, now looking like some Amazon, burst inside, followed by a slew of uniforms. Before he could say or do anything
the bitch pointed a gun in his face and told him to “get on the floor.”

“What the hell is this?” he demanded.

“Search warrant, Mr. Connors,” she said. “You’re also under arrest for conspiracy and the attempted murder of a police officer.”

Attempted, he thought. Oh no, that goddamn Brice blew it and now he’s flipped on me. In his mind’s eye he saw the white chessmen
lining up to surround the black king. Mate in two moves, he thought. Game’s over.

Richard Connors disappeared completely two days after posting a one hundred thousand dollar cash bond. When Leal and Hart
went to interview Candy, his girlfriend, as to his whereabouts, she would only say that he’d called her the day he got out
of jail and said it was over.

“Over?” Hart asked. “Between the two of you, or with everything?”

Candy shrugged. “I don’t know. With me, I guess. Ricky always bragged that he had some kind of plan. An escape pod, he called
it.”

“Did he say where he might be going?” Leal asked. His right hand was still in a cast and his arm in a sling, but he felt very
safe with Hart.

“I asked the same thing,” she said. “He just told me he was ‘going south.’ If I had to guess, I’d say it was someplace in
the islands.” She got a faraway look in her eyes. “Like, one time we went down to this Club Med place in the Caribbean. It
was so awesome. You didn’t even need to wear a suit on the beach. It was sooooo cool.”

Leal and Hart looked at each other.

“Maybe they’ll send us down there to pick him up for extradition,” he said.

“Be a good chance to work on our tans,” she said.

“It’s Over,” the caption under Sheriff Donald O’Hara’s picture proclaimed in the newspaper. The headline had more succinctly
summed up his concession speech:

O’HARA: IT’S AN HONOR TO HAVE SERVED.

“Despite having solved the Miriam Walker murder case, as he said he would, incumbent Donald O’Hara went down in flames election
day, the victim of the spiraling scandal within the ranks of the Cook County Sheriff’s Police Department.”

But in the same edition, one quasi-sympathetic editorial asked another pointed question: “Will Michael Shay be any better?”

Leal pondered this and other such imponderables as he folded the paper under his arm and flashed his badge at the security
guard. The guard grunted and let them by. He and Sharon proceeded backstage at the Rosemont convention center where the contestants
were pumping up for the Women’s National Bodybuilding Championships.

“You don’t think O’Hara lost because of that commercial I was in, do you?” Leal asked. His hand was now in a more flexible
cast, and the sling, reserved for only rare occasions, was in Sharon’s purse.

“Of course not. You and Hart looked very distinguished. If anything, it forestalled the inevitable.”

They walked down the back hallway to a room that was being used as a staging area. Inside, muscular women flexed and pumped
with various weights while their trainers applied copious layers of baby oil.

Some were already posing in front of the large mirrors that had been hung on the walls. Others sat on benches doing concentration
curls. Leal saw Hart in the corner, her big biceps muscles dancing under her taut sandy-colored skin as she waved at them.
Rory Chalma was on his knees, rubbing both hands over her back.

“Hi,” Hart said. “Thanks for coming.”

“We wouldn’t miss it,” Leal said, watching Rory reach around to apply more baby oil over Hart’s rippled abdominal muscles,
and thought it was too bad he couldn’t appreciate the unique opportunities of a job like that.

“Do you think this looks okay?” Hart said, pointing to her black posing bikini.

“More than okay,” Leal said, and felt Sharon slap him playfully.

“It looks great, Ollie,” Sharon said. “And so do you.”

“Yeah, you’ll knock ’em dead,” Leal said.

“Not if you don’t start pumping up,” Chalma said.

“Okay,” Hart said. “In a minute, Rory.” She looked at them and smiled crookedly. “I’ll get nervous if you watch me pump.”

Leal nodded. “We’ll be in the third row. Good luck, kid.”

“Thanks. I’d hug you both but I don’t want to cover you with baby oil and instant tanning dye.” Rory’s hands moved around
the inside of her thighs. “We’ll have ice cream after the contest,” Hart called as they were leaving. “My treat.”

In the hallway Sharon snared his left arm and brought it around her waist.

“I still think this women’s bodybuilding is a little too much,” she said.

“Yeah, but she’s one helluva a good partner,” he said.

“And do you think Sergeant-In-Charge Ryan will let you two go on working together?”

“He’d better,” Leal said, grinning, “Or I’ll have Ollie kick his butt.”

She smiled and leaned her head on his shoulder as they walked. They were coming to the end of the corridor, and the big ballroom
was filled with howling fans already screaming and cheering some of the preliminary lighter-weight competitors who were on
the stage. Leal saw Sharon looking at them going through the motions of the posedown and shaking her head.

“Well, Hart does look fantastic, in a muscular sort of way,” she said. “Do you think she’ll win the contest?”

“I don’t know,” he said as they continued toward their seats. “But she’ll always be a champion to me.”