Rapture

Chapter Nineteen

“Come on, Monty, you gotta give me something.”

Unlike the other reporters on scene at the motel, Mels wasn’t choking against the police line in front of the open room. She was over on the far end, standing in the fog that had rolled in with her good old friend Monty the Mouth. Monty was a decent cop, but what made him really useful was his ego. He loved to share just to prove he could, and didn’t that make him handy.

The difference tonight was that this was her own story. She wasn’t background gathering for someone else.

Mels leaned in over the tape. “I know you know what’s going on.”

Monty jacked his belt up higher on his bay window, and ran a hand over his moussed-back hair. Talk about from another era. A shave job on his dome and a Tootsie Pop and you had Kojak in the twenty-first century.

“Yeah, I was one of the first here. So, you know, on the ground floor.”

The problem with Monty was that he made you work for it. “When did you get called in?”

“Two hours ago. Manager dialed nine-one-one and I was the first responder. The guy who rented the room only wanted it for an hour around five, but the front office didn’t realize no one had checked out until nine. I knocked on the door. No answer. The manager used his key, and hello.”

“What do you think happened?” It was important to use the pronoun you.

“She was a known prostitute, so there’re three likelies.”

After a pause, she filled in, as she was supposed to. “Pimp, john, jealous boyfriend.”

“Not bad. Not bad.” He rejacked that belt. “No forced entry. Clearly a struggle, as her clothes were messed up. But not everything was blue alley.”

“Blue alley” was a reference to the hallway where generations of CPDers had led perps down to intake at headquarters. Over time, the term had codified itself to mean nothing unusual or unexpected when criminals were involved.

“And the surprise was…”

Monty leaned in, all state secret. “She’d colored her hair. For some reason, that had been part of the date. Long and blond was how she went. And then he killed her.”

“How do you know it was a ‘he’?”

Monty shot her a yeah-right look. “And no, I can’t give you her name—not released yet because we’re tracking down the family. But I know who she is, and she’s lucky to have lived through the last two years. Her record’s long and there’s violence in it—with her as the aggressor.”

“Okay, well, you’ll call me if you can share something? I don’t name sources—you know this.”

“Yeah, you’re good like that, but no offense, you don’t get bylines very often. Hey, can you set me up with your boy Tony? He’s usually on these kinds of gigs.”

At that moment, she didn’t respect Monty at all, and not because he was unimpressed with her lack of credentials at the CCJ. Damn it, he was not a rock star, and this was not a gig, and for the love of God, could he please stop jacking up that gun belt of his. This was a crime scene and there was someone’s daughter or sister and maybe girlfriend or wife dead on the tile in that bathroom.

He could at least feel awkward and slightly dirty about the exchange of information. As she did.

“Dick assigned this to me,” she said.

“Really? Hey, maybe you’re moving up. And yeah, I’ll call you, as long as you keep my name out of it.”

“I promise.”

“Talk to you later.” He nodded to the side, dismissing her. “And make sure you answer your phone when I hit you—I have a feeling about this one.”

She lifted the device. “I always do.”

As Mels turned away, she reached up to the back of her neck, the hairs pricking at her nape. Looking around, she saw only people who had a purpose: Cops. Detectives. A photographer striding toward the yellow tape like she was pissed off. There were also two news crews across the parking lot, one of which was doing a broadcast, the superbright light putting a dark-haired reporter onstage as they taped.

Mels turned all the way around. Rubbed her neck some more.

Man, this mist was creepy.

Checking her watch, she cocked her phone and hit send. When the call was answered, she cupped a hand around her mouth. “Mom? Hi, it’s me. Listen, I know I said I’d be home early, but I’m still at work. What? I’m sorry I can’t hear— Okay, you’re back. Yeah, I’m— Oh, no, don’t worry. I’m with about half the CPD—” Probably not the best thing to say. “No, I’m fine, Mom. Yes, it’s a homicide, but it’s a big case, and I’m glad Dick gave it to me. Yes, I promise. Okay—yup, okay, listen, I have to go—and I’ll knock on your door as soon as I get home.”

As she hung up, she didn’t think that was going to be anytime soon—and she was prepared to wait things out no matter how long it took. The body would need to be photographed, and CSI would also come in and do their thing, and then the victim could finally be removed.

Mels was going to stay until the CPD packed it in, and the newscasters went home, and any other reporter gave up.

Going over to Tony’s car, she texted him to let him know that, in fact, she hadn’t totaled his vehicle—and that she was going to treat him to lunch tomorrow as well as pick him up at eight thirty on her way in to the newsroom.

And then she crossed her coat around herself and settled back against her colleague’s front bumper.

Immediately, she stiffened again and glanced behind her. Nothing but streetlamps on the far edges of the motel’s fat parking lot. No masher sneaking up on her, no one at all, as a matter of fact.

So why the hell did she think she was being watched?

Massaging her temples, she wondered if Matthias’s paranoia wasn’t rubbing off on her. Or maybe it was more like what had happened on that bed had scrambled her brain.

Say what you would about his not remembering much, that man sure as hell knew what to do with his mouth…

On some level, she couldn’t believe that it had happened. She’d never been into casual hookups, even in college—but if Matthias hadn’t stopped them, she just might have let things go to their natural, naked conclusion.

Shocker. Especially as she knew she’d go there again.

If she ever got the chance.

Frozen in the Marriott’s basement corridor, with Jim Heron going blanket all over him, Matthias felt like a boxer. And not as in Muhammad Ali or George Foreman. As in their schlub sparring partners, the guys who the real fighters worked over at the gym before they punched the crap out of people worthy of their skills: Gun empty and by his thigh, rib cage panting, head swimming, he was beat to shit with all that running, and running into things. He didn’t think he’d been hit, however.

Someone had. The smell of fresh blood wafted down to them, and there was a dripping sound that suggested a pipe had a leak in it—and it probably wasn’t something tied to the hotel’s water system.

“Stay here,” Jim ordered.

Like he was a girl? “Fuck you.”

Together, they marched down toward the incapacitated shooter, with Jim in front because he could go a little faster.

Just inside the doors they’d busted through, a man in black, tight-fitting clothes lay flat on his back, eyes fixed and dilated on the afterlife. His throat had been sliced right under the jawline, the arteries and veins not nicked, but split clean apart.

“Messy,” Matthias muttered, glancing around and wondering about cleanup—and who in the hell their savior had been.

As he considered the pros and cons of various corporeal disposal techniques, he was dimly aware that he was totally unfazed by the death, the body, the violence of having nearly been gunned down: this was just business as usual, nothing but the practicalities of not wanting the police involved weighing on his mind.

This was how he’d lived, he thought. This was his zone.

Leaning into his cane, he lowered himself to his haunches, one knee cracking like a tree branch. “Do you have a car?”

“Not with me, but I can handle this. Do me a favor and—”

Matthias started working the body over, patting it down, peeling off extra ammo, a knife, another gun.

“Okaaaaay,” Jim said dryly. “I’m going to step outside and see if we’re clear.”

“So you don’t know who our Good Samaritan was, either.”

“Nope.”

The steel door squeaked again when Jim opened it, and for a split second, Matthias was paralyzed with fear, the terror freezing his body from his heart to his heels. Eyes bouncing around, he sought the shadows in the dark corridor, expecting them to jump out and glom onto him.

Nothing moved.

Muttering under his breath, he refocused and yanked up the man’s shirt. Kevlar vest had at least one slug in it—so he and Jim hadn’t wasted all their lead. No cell phone. And assuming Jim didn’t walk out into a bullet shower, it would appear that there was no one waiting in the wings to back this soldier up.

Sitting back, Matthias assessed the steel doors. In the center, around the locking mechanism, there was a scorched blast mark from where the now-dead attacker had blown the shit apart with some kind of a pocket bomb—

In a sudden burst, Matthias remembered his own hands on a detonator, saw himself fingering an IED with a vertical focus. He had prepared the thing for himself, the combination of electronics and blast potential a carefully constructed exit strategy….

Jim was wrong. He hadn’t hated himself or what he’d become. He’d just gotten exhausted with being who he was.

And that had been—

The headache came on strong, like his brain had the equivalent of a muscle cramp, the pain wiping his cognitive slate clean, his memories blocked by the agony.

Shit, he wanted access to what was hidden, but he couldn’t afford to get stuck defenseless, and crouching over a stiff.

Glancing down into the face of the dead, he forced himself to pull out of the amnesia and note the color change in the guy’s skin, the ruddy complexion from exertion draining out and being replaced with an opaque gray. Tracking the death process, focusing on it and it alone, he dragged himself back to reality.

“Do I know you?” he asked the remains.

Part of him was convinced he did. The face was a young white guy’s, lean from lack of body fat, pale from lack of sun, as if he were used to working at night. Then again, how many millions of midtwenty Caucasians were out there?

No, he thought, he knew this kid from somewhere.

In fact, he had the sense he had chosen the son of a bitch.

Had he been in recruiting? For the military?

Jim came back into the corridor, shut the door, and leaned against it, crossing his arms over his chest and looking like he wanted to punch a wall.

“Are we clear?” Matthias demanded.

“Pretty much.”

Abruptly, he noticed the holes in Heron’s shirt. “Good thing you’re wearing a vest, too.”

“What?”

Matthias frowned. “You’ve been hit—”

All at once, his brain coughed up another piece of the past: he saw the pair of them in a stainless-steel room, a cold body on a slab between them, a gun up, a trigger getting pulled…at fucking Heron. By himself.

“I’ve shot you in a morgue,” Matthias breathed. “I’ve shot you…right in the chest.”