Dark Vengeance Page 8

  Dave shook his head as if he were deep in thought. "What's your feel, Nick?"

  She didn't too much like gut instincts. They had their place, sure, but she preferred facts. "I think he might not budge. It looks like he's crazy over this Melbourne."

  "You know I was senior detective on this case almost three decades ago," the captain addressed her.

  "Yes, sir. I read that in the file. This, uh, must be unsettling for you."

  "A shitload of years of unsettling." He chewed on a toothpick as he spoke. "Let's get Molly back in here for questioning. It'll be good for her."

  The Lacey Newcomer case. "Witness confirms Newcomer is included in a group of nine girls, now seven, who have been abducted, drugged, beaten, and forced into prostitution for mostly sick wealthy bastards who like 'em young. The witness is recovering in the care of her parents and a local therapist. She is available for questioning, but we agreed to keep interviews short and as scarce as possible for now. Witness's rendering from the sketch artist is due before noon—"

  "How do you do that?" Dave interrupted. "I'm still waiting for a sketch from yesterday."

  She smiled now.

  Dave returned the grin. "Go on, detective."

  "Witness identified the man in charge of this group as a 'Jack Henderson.' As soon as we get the face, we'll start a search."

  "You think there are more groups, detective?" the captain asked.

  "Yes, sir, I do. This was too organized. Top players at a public venue. This Henderson is likely a low man only above the meatheads he has with him."

  "How is Duncan?"

  His question startled her. "Duncan, sir?"

  He lifted a single brow at her response. "How is Duncan working out as your civil consult?"

  Shaking her head in two-quick movements, she responded, "Mr. Reed's assistance has helped us unearth a number of previously stated facts and leads, sir. Thank you."

  * * *

  Snow fell by the inches and accumulated on his skylights. Duncan sat on his stool in the midnight black with nothing but his spotlight shining on his three-foot-square sketch pad. He used charcoals that night in various shades of blacks and grays. He wasn't working on anything specific. Tonight, he used his artistry as an outlet, as an escape.

  He drew his platoon's Chinook, smoldering with a hole in the side the size of a Volkswagen. Background to foreground. Light to dark. Thick lines to thin. Using shades and shadows, he brought out the way it shook from the blast, the two blades hanging onto air as they descended. Deeper shades darkened the scene as a whole, illustrating the death that lay inside.

  Ripping the sheet from the pad, he tossed it away.

  Before the paper hit the floor, he began the gray outline of a hallway. Long and hot. The side of the chalk created a light cover, creating a feel of the heat of summer and the fire waiting to explode in the room next to him. He used a dark charcoal to draw the .22 caliber that had pressed an indentation in his right temple when he was a young boy. He sketched the scratch on the short barrel, the long, dark nails of the woman who held it there as it shook against his head.

  Melbourne.

  Her face was drawn void of eyes, nose or mouth. That was the way he thought of her. Empty. He drew the diamond shape of his aunt's face, the long medium brown hair that draped over her shoulders. Lighter grays created the lines along her terrified forehead as Melbourne spoke of things a boy that age should never have to hear. Threats of murder, of exploding heads and of the things she did with Brie's ex-boyfriend.

  The same blacks and grays mimicked the licks of flames that tangled his left forearm as they engulfed the east side of what was Brie's home before she married his uncle.

  As that paper drifted to the floor, he picked up a silver gray piece of chalk, then hesitated. Looking down at it, he carefully placed it back in its spot in the tray that held the rest of the broken, used and worn pieces. Reaching, he selected a new tray and set it on top of the grays. He found a chip of honey wheat and used it to draw long locks of subtle waves. They framed a smooth face he tinted the color of warm sand. Steel gray eyes looked at him with the desperation of a detective needing to know the fate of a young girl. Next to it, the anger of a cop lied to by a suspect. To the appreciation of a person who's secret had been kept. To the woman who pressed her female shape to him with lips and body.

  Chest rising and falling in rapid succession, he pulled back like he'd come up for air after too long under water. In front of him lay a dozen sketches of the detective all on the same sheet. Filled with color and varied levels of feeling and warmth and heat. He left it looking at him as the dawn began to break and walked over to fall on his bed fully clothed.

  * * *

  Gil stood in the doorway of Nickie's apartment. "Calm down, we're not late."

  She stopped, took a deep breath and used her knuckles to turn her chin to one side, then the other, cracking her neck. "You're right. I need to come down from high gear."

  He waited for her, shaking his head.

  Stopping again, she turned to him, "What?"

  "You're a slob, man."

  Nodding in agreement, she draped a string of beads over her head that matched the ones that dangled from her ears. A bit more makeup, a pair of four-inch heeled boots and she was good to go.

  Her guitar case was weathered, but that's the way she liked it.

  She reminded herself to have the bartender keep the Diet Coke coming. It was going to be a caffeine kind of night.

  Patting Gil on the cheek, she held the door open for him.

  * * *

  The Pub was packed as it generally was on a Friday night. With an hour before closing the twenties and thirties crowd at the bar seemed to let loose, not caring so much about getting thrown out. Nickie reminded herself she had promised Gil she would never let on that she was a cop when she worked with him. He figured, probably accurately, if she did, they would clear the place whenever he was booked.

  The waft of tobacco from the frosty smokers blew in each time the outside door opened. Nicotine satisfied patrons wove their way around a trio of dartboards and two worn pool tables through the tiny tables that held twice the number of people they should.

  Although she would prefer a night alone with her cello, the change of atmosphere helped her clear her head. She closed her eyes as she sang of promises to keep towels off bathroom floors and as Gil thrummed his symbols with his wire brushes.

  When she opened her eyes, she saw him. Tall, dark and a walking cliché. It had been a full week since they'd seen or spoken to each other. Her eyes inadvertently rolled as the women—and some men—craned their heads like they were watching a slow motion tennis volley. He took off deep brown leather gloves and a matching jacket as he made his way through the crowd. A wheat-colored, button-down shirt, rolled up at the sleeves tucked loosely into blue jeans worn with age. She thought to stop the next waitress and suggest passing out some extra napkins so the customers could wipe up their drool.

  As he found an empty table, he turned and locked eyes with her. Shit, she might need a napkin. She tilted her head to the side in casual greeting before shifting her focus to a short acoustic solo.

  It wasn't long before she discovered what Duncan was doing at the bar so late. It wasn't to see her. The door opened, the waft of cigarette smoke, then his brother walked in. Andy stopped just inside the doorway and started scanning the bar, obviously looking for Duncan. For the first time, she decided they looked much the same. Their mannerisms, gestures, the way they held their heads. But Andy was shorter, his hair cropped short. Where Duncan was lanky and cut, Andy was built like a brick. The muscles in his chest and arms showed through his thick jacket. As he spotted Duncan, Andy simultaneously nodded once in recognition and rotated his body to hold the door open for his wife.

  Rose looked like she could pop, but what did Nickie know about those things? Her short, strawberry blonde hair came over her forehead and neck in spiky lines. Nickie thought it was adorable. She remembered Rose
worked at a research and action center. There must have been an emergency, because she wore rubber boots that came to her knees over bib overalls. Nickie noticed leather gloves sticking out of her back pocket as they weaved in front of the stage toward Duncan's table.

  Nickie questioned why Andy would bring his extremely pregnant wife into a bar at this hour. Her question was answered before she could think it all the way through. With barely enough time for greetings, he set a light brown briefcase on the table and opened it.

  They sat at the circular table barely big enough for two of them. Nickie sang about a man that made her smile to the active beat of Gil's drums as she watched Andy take a piece of paper from his pocket, fold it twice and reach down to place it underneath a leg of the table base. Picky much? He could probably do that for every table at the pub.

  Closing her eyes, she settled back into her chorus. Cold air blew a few loose strands of hair across her cheek, a waft of cigarette smoke filled her nose and three preppie college boys moseyed in. Stumbling by the Reed table, the tallest one bumped it with his thigh. He looked over his shoulder, acknowledging his intrusion, but no apologies seem to have been offered. Even over the sound of Gil's drums, Nickie could hear as they snorted, ignoring both Andy and Rose's stony glares. Andy put an arm in front of Rose as she nearly lifted from her chair. Interesting.

  Nickie was a cop, a detective. She was trained to inadvertently and continually scan for fuses like this. Only, she had strict instructions from Gil not to ruin his stint in the pub. Glancing behind her, she realized she wasn't the only one who noticed the boys. Gil gave her one of his endearing threatening smiles that said, 'Don't even think about it.' She smiled back and winked as she returned to her microphone. As she glanced over to Duncan, she thought his eyes looked black in the dim light. Penny for your thoughts, Mr. Reed.

  So, she would pretend she didn't notice as the drunken boys slammed their last few beers before closing time. Two were skinny and shorter, maybe five-foot-five and five-foot-six with medium brown hair, one prematurely receding. The third was taller but still didn't reach six foot, heavier, blond and the only one that looked like he could hold his liquor.

  She wouldn't judge the bartender on duty for allowing them two more pitchers. Instead, she would pay attention to the three Reeds and what the hell was in Andy's briefcase.

  He and Rose waved away the waitress, and Andy took out some papers. He barely had them in his hand before the tallest of the terrific trio walked past the table, gesturing to Rose's boots and making some remark that caused Rose to nearly jump out of her chair. Huh. Nickie liked this feisty pregnant woman. Rose clenched her fists and sat back down, pushing Andy's arm down from in front of her.

  Damn, she would have liked to have heard what Andy said to the blond dude because the look on his face was priceless. Ignoring him, Andy seemed to explain about the papers that were either stapled or paper clipped in the corner. Gesturing for a few moments, Andy handed them to Duncan, then stepped behind Rose to help with her chair.

  The owner had requested they cut a full half hour before closing time, the real closing time, not bar time. That left just enough for two more songs. Something slow and laid back ought to do, she decided. She didn't want to get everyone too riled before they headed for their cars. So much for no-cop mode.

  Andy left with Rose but Duncan stayed. His waitress filled his water glass as the patrons filled the cramped dance floor for their last chance at foreplay before closing. As she sang, her eyes went from Duncan to the door. The college assholes left soon after Andy and Rose.

  Drunken applause was appreciated; pay for the evening was more appreciated and spending time with Gil, the most. Then, why did she feel like a high school girl waiting for her date? Because he was Duncan Reed, she convinced herself, as she wrapped an amp cord around her upper arm, then hand and again. Who wouldn't? And she didn't know if he was waiting for her. Stupid, of course he was. He was alone, drinking water in a bar and sitting at the table with his broody expression that rarely changed.

  Except, then he left. Shit. He took a call and practically knocked over a half-dozen people as he ran for the door.

  Chapter 10

  It wasn't hard to piece together, Duncan berated himself. Fuck. Why hadn't he noticed the wannabe frat boys followed Andy and Rose out? How long had it been? He looked around at the cars. The lot was about half full. Where the hell was he? A couple in their forties was getting into a gray minivan. A trio of younger women into a blue sedan.

  He ran around to the side of the building, steam from his breath following behind him. Andy would have been right on Rose's bumper all the way home. Her call was all wrong.

  Then, he heard the inexplicable sound of fist on flesh.

  As he rounded the back of the building, he saw the smaller boys holding Andy's arms as the big one laid one punch after another into his brother's gut. It was a picture he would hold forever in his mind even if he didn't have an eidetic memory.

  His fists balled as he ran. He wished the numbing rage would cloud his vision, but Duncan knew that would never happen. Andy's head bobbed limply on his chest, blood dripped from his nose and chin. His arms lay at his sides like a gorilla as his body jerked from each impact.

  One of the smaller ones saw him first. His gaze jerked from the big one to shrimp number two and back again.

  Yes, you should run, Duncan thought through the haze of fire red fury.

  He jumped enough to increase the impact of the first punch when he came down on the side of the big one's head. The guy stumbled and lost his footing, falling to the gravel. The little men dropped Andy and he went down. Duncan felt a wave of relief when he heard his brother, 'umph,' as he fell.

  They came at him together as fat ass found his footing. They circled as Duncan opened and closed his fists, so ready for this. He noticed Andy must have put up one kick ass of a fight. One of the smaller wimps had a cut and bleeding lip, another an eye almost swollen shut. Fat ass had inches on Andy and plenty of blubber, but the right side of his face had several welts forming, temple to chin. Andy was a leftie.

  He ducked the first blow, then used the momentum of the duck to back fist fat ass on the way up. Kicking shrimp number one in his chest to the ground, he threw a hook to the side of number two's cheekbone before grabbing his shoulders and thrusting a knee into his groin.

  Somewhere he heard Andy stumble to his feet. Tough bastard, that was his little brother, all right. Andy swayed like a drunk as Duncan barely felt number one's fists connect with his temple. He threw two jabs to return the favor before taking a solid connect to his own eye socket. Blinking, he felt a hand on his arm and he threw his head back, feeling the blunt thud of skull on skull.

  Fat ass grazed Duncan's nose enough to start the bleeding as he heard two sets of boots running over gravel. No. He wanted this. Number one and two practically disappeared as he shot out a quick jab to the center of fat ass's nose, followed by a full-force punch to his eye. The dude staggered against the back of the vinyl siding and Duncan let loose. He could feel the skin from his knuckles peel as he hit him again and again. Voices around him yelled, threatened and pleaded, but Duncan didn't stop. Couldn't stop. He felt hands snake around his arms. The body in front of him slinked down to the gravel. Duncan howled and gasped for air as he spun, fists ready.

  Until he saw her.

  Steel gray eyes scolded him like he was an annoying child. One of them red and swelling. He looked down at the loser at his feet, then remembered. Andy. He turned his head and looked down at the holds around his arms. "Let me go." They didn't. "I'm okay, where's my brother?" he yelled and realized he didn't sound okay.

  "Got 'em good, didn't I?" Andy slurred weakly as he blinked and staggered with an arm held high over to Duncan.

  Duncan let out a faithful sigh of relief. "That you did." He slapped Andy's outstretched hand before Andy bent over and set his hands on his knees.

  Nickie thought it was one of the most sentimental moments between
brothers she could remember. She would have said so if it weren't for the look in Duncan's eyes when he'd whirled on her. For someone who rarely showed emotion, his eyes had an overload in that moment. "If you two boys are finished, we could get this wrapped up."

  The two weasels sat next to each other near saplings that lined the back of the pub property. Each had their hands resting on their uplifted knees with Gil standing guard. They'd each had their share of the beating, but the taller one, ouch.

  Looking to Duncan and Andy, she asked, "Are you going to want to press charges?" She struggled to get it out as she looked at the face of the larger young man who rested his head against the siding.

  The boy must not have realized she wasn't speaking to him, because he croaked, "No ma'am."

  One of the weasels interrupted, "I do. You hit me!" He lifted to one knee, looking straight at her. "Twice! You cops?"

  "Nickie, you promised!" Of course, Gil would speak up now, she thought.

  As the weasel stood, he marched toward her.

  Duncan stepped between them and growled through his teeth, "I'm not a cop."

  "Right. Right, man." The weasel awkwardly sat back by his friend.

  "I've got a first aid kit in my car." She sighed.

  The first weasel opened his mouth to speak. She put up her hand for him to stop. "Not for you. Get out of here before I—" She looked over at Gil. "—call the cops."

  The weasels maneuvered the larger man to upright and helped him toward the parking lot. She waited for them to turn the corner before she rounded on Gil and the Reed brothers. Gil and Duncan were standing nose to nose. Gil had his arms crossed. Duncan's were straight to his side like he was ready for a pistol shoot-out. As if there wasn't enough testosterone for one evening.

  She stepped between the two of them and pushed each in the chest with the palm of her hands. "You." She looked at Duncan. "Do you think you could help your brother make it to my car? You know which one is mine."