Читать книгу Kiss Of The Blue Dragon - Julie Beard - Страница 9

The Day From Hell

I like to make men sweat.

I like to tie a man in a chair and watch the beads of perspiration bubble on his upper lip one at a time, the air growing steamy from his nervous heat as I press the cold shaft of my Glock against his pulsating temple.

“You’re gonna die, sucker,” I whisper. “Too bad you had to be such an asshole.”

That line works almost every time. That’s because the world is full of Grade-A A-holes. Make that triple A. And I’m not just talking about men. I’ve seen women commit crimes so harrowing it would turn your blood into shaved ice. I blame part of that on the meltdown in the American justice system.

The Scientific Justice Act of 2032 ensured that no criminal could spend more than two years in jail without DNA evidence. God forbid they should suffer cruel and unusual punishments like their victims did. Naturally, what followed on the Internet were virtual manuals teaching criminals how not to leave DNA evidence at the scene of a crime. So now—more than seventy years later—executions, even for heinous serial murders, are so rare they make top ratings on pay-per-view. And punishment for run-of-the-mill murders? Forgetaboutit. Two years and you’re out without that sacred DNA proof of a crime.

In too many instances, if victims and their families want justice, they have to hire a Certified Retribution Specialist like me—Angel Baker, CRS. I don’t mete out vengeance myself. I simply haul in sorry-ass criminals so victims can have at it themselves. And the government looks the other way. It’s cheaper than building new prisons.

So I shouldn’t complain about all the jerks, creeps and sociopaths I have to deal with. Without them I’d be out of work.

Then again, I’m not in it for the money. But that’s another story.

I knew this was going to be a tricky job. I had invited a ROVOR to meet me at a secluded green lot on Roscoe in the old Wrigleyville neighborhood on the north side of Chicago. I live close to Southport in a charming redbrick two-flat with a walled-in garden on a double lot squeezed in on either side by apartment buildings. I picked it up for a song—a mere two million—when the neighborhood went downhill. That was right after the Cubs relocated at the end of the twenty-first century to a TerraForma stadium in the middle of Lake Michigan.

ROVOR stands for Restraining Order Violator. A ROVOR is usually an abusive man who repeatedly violates court orders to stay away from his wife and/or kids until he kills them. I handle all kinds of criminals—rapists, thieves, white-collar criminals—but I feel especially sorry for domestic abuse victims and have taken on more than my share of cases to try to prevent tragedy.

I was doing this latest one pro bono. Call me a sucker, but I hate men who treat their loved ones like punching bags.

The ROVOR was Tommy Drummond, a ham-fisted laborer who liked to show his love for his wife and kid by breaking their bones in drunken rages. The family was hiding in an abuse shelter. Drummond had found out where they were and had violated his restraining order twice. I planned to let him know in no uncertain terms his visitor pass had expired.

It used to be that a job like this involved the usual tricks of the trade—some hand-to-hand combat, threats, smoke and mirrors and a little luck. All that changed two months ago when Chief Judge of the Circuit Court of Cook County, Able T. Gibson, started giving retribution specialists warrants to execute ROVORs who were repeat offenders. Instead of three strikes and you’re out, now it was three strikes and you’re dead.

Problem is, I’ve never killed anyone, even accidentally, and had no intention of starting now. Sure, I carry a semiautomatic pistol on occasion, but that’s just the show part of my show-and-tell act. If retribution specialists were going to evolve into assassins, I would retire. Meanwhile, I wasn’t above using the threat of a Gibson Warrant to my advantage.

The question I hadn’t quite answered in my mind was how good of a liar I could be. In the past, my biggest challenge usually was figuring out how to scare the hell out of a man twice my size without shooting his nuts off. Now I had to confront Tommy Drummond and pretend that I had a Gibson Warrant with his name on it, then convince him to leave his wife and kid alone. Forever. And all this without ever showing him the warrant I didn’t have. He had to think I was willing to kill him when I wasn’t.

My door buzzer rang, jerking me out of my thoughts. I had no time for visitors, not when I only had fifteen minutes before I met up with Drummond. I raced down the stairs and opened the door to find none other than Lola the Soothsayer. She looked like a cross between a bag lady and the twentieth-century comedian Lucille Ball on a really bad hair day.

This I knew because I was a huge fan of old movies. While the jury was still out on how my own Technicolor life would turn out, I usually could count on a happy ending when I watched a classic film, especially those shot in black and white.

“Ah, Angel!” Lola said in that electrifying way of hers that always made me think she’d just discovered I was a reincarnation of Cleopatra or Catherine the Great. “Angel, Angel, Aaaaannnnggggeeeellllll.”

“What do you want? I’m meeting someone, and he’ll be here any minute.”

“Someone?” Lola adjusted the gold-lamé turban that was tilting to the right on her nest of brassy dyed-red hair and gave me a suggestive wink. “Glad to hear it, honey. It’s about time you settled down.”

I gripped the doorjamb instead of Lola’s throat. “No, not that kind of someone. He’s a ROVOR.”

“A ROVOR? That means he’s married, right?”

“Not always, but in this case, yes.”

“He could always get a divorce.”

“Lola! This is business. The guy is seriously dangerous.”

Her red lips thinned in a grimace, revealing a lower row of tobacco-stained teeth. “O-oh, I don’t like the sound of that, honey.”

“It’s all part of my job. And I can’t be late because I don’t want him to see where I live.”

“If this guy is breaking the law, you should let the cops handle it. They don’t like you horning in on their territory, believe you me. You’ll have trouble on your hands.”

I crossed my arms and leaned against the door frame. “You know more about trouble with the police than I do, Lola. You’ve got an arrest record longer than a roll of toilet paper.”

“That’s not my fault! Can I help it that the cops hate psychics?”

“They hate con artists.” I started to close the door. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

She stuck the toe of her scuffed boot in the doorway, stopping it with a thud. “Please, Angel.” When I shook my head, she whimpered, “Please. I’m in trouble.”

“With the cops?”

She shook her head. “They don’t scare me. It’s much worse than that.” Instead of eyeing me cunningly, as usual, she looked at me as if I were some kind of savior. It creeped me out.

“Come on, Lola, it can’t be that bad.” I reached into the back pocket of my jeans and pulled out a thousand-dollar bill. “Here. Take it. It’s all I have right now. Just don’t drink it away.”

Thankfully, her eyes hardened and she put her hands on plump hips exaggerated by a floor-length, confetti-colored gown. “I’ll have you know, young lady, I’ve been sober for six months.” She snatched the bill and stuffed it into her creped cleavage.

“Six months? Great.” She could have taken a Z580 pill twenty years ago that would have stopped her drinking cold, but she’d refused. She said it would stifle her creativity and she wanted to sober up the old-fashioned way. Unfortunately that had never happened. “Congratulations. Now, goodbye, Lola.”

“Please, honey.” Tears puddled in her eyes, dripping over her garishly lined lower eyelids. She stole a nervous glance over her shoulder. “I’m in big trouble.”

“What else is new?”

“Don’t talk to me in that tone of voice.”

“All right,” I growled. “Come in, but make it quick. I have to dress fast.”

There was no way I could face Drummond in blue jeans and a T-shirt. I breezed past the first floor entrance to my studio and bounded up the stairs two at a time to my living quarters, telling Lola over my shoulder to help herself to iced tea.

I dashed to my large bedroom in the back of the oblong flat, which faced the garden. I tore through my wardrobe, looking for the perfect costume. It was customary for retributionists to wear elaborate outfits on the job. That tradition was established in colorful New Orleans, where the first CRSs set up shop and established standards for the profession.

Most of us learn our trade on the street, and most come to the job with a background in martial arts or street fighting and a burning desire for justice. Actual certification is granted by a board of retired professionals. We’re not recognized by any state or national organization, but so far no one has outlawed us, either. Government officials know that as long as the justice system is broken, someone has to make sure crime doesn’t pay.

Enter moi—a five-foot-four chick with lots of muscle and even more chutzpah. But sometimes that’s not enough. Clothing heightens the mystique factor and adds an element of danger. It also protects my identity. Not that I hide my profession from anyone, but I don’t like the idea of being recognized on the street by someone I’ve recently hauled in for retribution.

I flipped past the Grim Reaper robe, my Crips gang wear and my nun’s habit. Hmm. That had possibilities. Drummond was Catholic. Nah, I decided, moving on. While a white wimple and black habit might guilt him into good behavior, it wouldn’t last. Better to scare the hell out of him, so to speak.

I briefly considered my Madame Dominatrix leather outfit. That would be a fitting irony since he obviously got off on dominating and abusing his poor wife, but I didn’t want to turn the scumbag on. Better to assume the identify of what frightened him most—an intelligent, independent twenty-second-century woman. Besides, if Judge Gibson’s warrants became protocol, I’d look like the Grim Reaper even without the costume.

I dressed in record time, pulling on flexible cobalt-blue pants over a paler blue crisscrossed spandex sleeveless shirt. Very feminine and conservative, but it also showed off my muscles and gave me complete freedom of movement. I snapped on spiked wristbands and a leather belt, and after serious consideration, put my Glock in the belt’s holster.

Last but certainly not least, I applied a blue dragon easy-stick tattoo on my forehead. It was just bizarre enough that it sometimes intimidated my opponents. When I wore the sign of the dragon, I was telling the world, and myself, that I meant business. I grabbed the bogus Gibson Warrant I’d created on my computer and rejoined Lola.

“Oh, my God!” she barked in her post-menopausal smoker’s voice when I emerged from my bedroom. And damned if she wasn’t smoking a cigarette. “What is that thing on your forehead?”

“What is that thing in your mouth? Put it out!” I strode to the couch in the living room, my black ankle boot heels clicking on the polished wood floor, and grabbed the burning contraband dangling from her lips.

“Hey, hey, hey!” she cried. “Give me that!”

“No smoking, Lola! You’re going to get me arrested.” I went to the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet. “You know tobacco is illegal.”

“If I wanna die, it’s my right! What’s this world coming to? You can’t smoke. You can’t even have sex anymore without a license. When I was young, we used to do it in the back of a hydro Chevy!”

Sex was not a subject I wanted to talk about with my sixty-year-old mother. “Intercourse licenses are required only for people who want good health insurance,” I reminded her. “Now can we get back to your problems?”

She gave me a needling, curious look. “Do you have a sex license?”

I glared at her. “Mo-ther.”

That pleased her enormously and I took the opportunity to change the subject. Pulling up an ottoman near her and taking a seat, I said, “Now, what’s the problem? You need help?”

What followed was one of those rare moments when my mother’s hard, scheming expression melted into something that looked suspiciously like maternal pride. Her rheumy-brown eyes puddled up. I tensed. I’d never been comfortable with her unexpected bouts of affection.

“Honey, I’m so proud of you.”

I crossed my legs and adjusted the zipper on my boot. “Thanks.”

“To think you’re a retribution specialist! You actually do good in the world. Not like me. You’re so strong, honey. You’re such a good girl.”

“Not everyone shares your admiration for my profession. And I’m twenty-eight. Hardly a girl.” I nervously placed my hands on my slender knees. I was sure that wherever she was going with this, I wouldn’t like it. But she was my mother. She brought me into the world. The least I could do was allow her to be proud, even though she had nothing to do with my success. “But thank you, Lola. That’s nice of you to say.”

“I just have one question, Angel.”

“Yes?”

“Why in the hell do you have to ruin your beautiful face with that weird tattoo? I hate that Chinese crap.”

I gave her a crooked grin. “Don’t hold back, Lola. Tell me what you really think.” Relieved by the insult, I stood and examined myself in the full-length mirror near the front entrance, trying to see myself through her eyes.

My white-blond hair stood straight up in short, soft tufts that tapered down the back of my head to the middle of my neck. My lips were curvy and naturally pink. My robin’s-egg-blue eyes seemed almost innocent compared to the dramatic colors of my tattoo. Some women tried hard to be feminine. I tried hard not to be and was frustratingly unsuccessful, a disadvantage in my line of work.

That’s why I needed a mean, green-eyed dragon with blue shimmering scales hunched over my brows. Don’t look into her soft azure eyes, the dragon warned, look into mine and meet your fate.

Arched downward for the strike, the tattoo directed focus toward my neatly formed chin and, below that, a neck and body that was packed with more muscles than God had ever intended a petite, narrow-waisted, B-cup woman to have. I wasn’t born that way, of course. I work out daily with Mike, my martial arts guru, and I’d started taking Provigrip as soon as the FDA okayed its use for policing agencies, bounty hunters and retribution specialists. Lola told me that when she was young, athletes took dangerous steroids to build muscles. Provigrip increased my strength by twenty percent at no risk to my health. I don’t look like a body-building freak, but I can pack a punch.

“You really ought to dress normally, honey,” Lola added as I turned back to her. “Best way to get a man.”

I glanced at her outlandish everyday wear and shook my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My outfit looks normal to me.”

My whole body suddenly gave a quick shiver, like a divining rod honing in on water. My head jerked toward the window and a chill settled over my shoulders. “Someone’s here.”

It couldn’t be Drummond. How would he know where I lived? I’d given him a fake name and told him to meet me at the green lot down the street, luring him with the promise of a shady construction deal.

As I’d hoped, his desire to make some quick bucks had overcome any concerns he’d had about who I was and why I’d chosen him to help me with the scam.

The doorbell rang a second later.

Lola gave me a strange look. “How did you—?”

“Just sit tight. Don’t worry if you hear anything…unusual. Not even if you hear gunfire. I’ll be okay.”

I skipped sideways down the stairs, pulled out my Glock and flung open the door. I took aim at a man who had slightly curly dark brown hair with a touch of premature gray at his temples. He wore a sleek, camel-colored sport coat that stopped at his knees. His wide stance and packed build made it clear he wasn’t intimidated. He looked at me over the barrel of my gun with a deepening frown.

“Is that thing registered?” he asked in a deep voice.

“Yes. What’s it to you?” I started to lower the weapon when I realized this man wasn’t Tommy Drummond. “Who the hell are you anyway?”

“Detective Riccuccio Marco. I hope you’re not going anywhere, Ms. Baker, because you and I need to have a little chat.”