Chapter 12 #3
Cloister hefted the crowbar with absent-minded familiarity as he objected. “I should do that,” he said. “I’ve got Bourneville, and—”
“And you’re suspended,” Javi reminded him as he unclipped his holster and drew his gun. “I’m going to have a hard enough time explaining you being here as it is. This is an FBI investigation. Call the dog off. Check the car.”
A whistle and a clipped “Aus” made Bourneville reluctantly abandon the door. Javi gave her a wide berth, opened the door, and headed into the main house.
It smelled like neglect. The heavy, earthy smell of the mold that crusted scabs on the walls behind the stacks of magazines and bags of clothes, undercut with the sour, sharp smell of urine.
Joel would want to claw her skin off.
For a beat, Javi paused, breathing through his mouth and gun held loosely, as he tried to work out how that was useful. It wasn’t. The idea hung around, though, sticky with unexpected sympathy for a woman whose weekly grocery list always included antibiotic wipes.
He ignored it as he made his way through the house. The muzzle of his gun tracked to doors and corners as he methodically searched.
Kitchen. Hall. Living room.
All clear.
A sudden scuttle in the corner of his vision made him twitch the gun in that direction.
His finger tightened on the trigger and then relaxed as he saw a big ginger cat jump up the stack of crumpled McDonald’s bags on the coffee table.
It stared at him, eyes big and yellow and unbothered, and then jumped down.
The kick-off from its dismount sent the bags spilling to the floor.
Javi expected to hear the soft thud of paper cups and leftovers; instead, he got the crack and smash of broken glass.
It made him jump, his breath sour and tight in his throat as he caught it. He had a second to feel embarrassed at the reaction, even though no one saw him. Then, from the back of the house, he heard someone demand, “Who’s there! Get out! I’ve called the cops!”
Javi glanced briefly at the cat. It puffed itself out at the sound of yelling and ran out of the room. He didn’t know what else he’d expected of it, but…
“Sir, I’m with the FBI,” Javi said. “Come out with your hands up. You’re not in trouble. I just need to see you.”
There was tense silence for a second. Then the door to the…probably bathroom…opened and a stocky man in a baggy set of stained gray sweats stepped out into the hall. He was pale and shiny-sweaty, his lips cracked and dotted with blood where he’d worried at the dry skin.
Drugs?
“Who are you with?” he asked urgently. “Are you with them? Or with us? Let me see. Let me see your arms.”
Drugs.
Javi kept the gun up. “You can see my arms,” he said.
The man lifted his hand. He had a knife gripped in it, the blade slick with blood.
“I need to see your arms,” he said. “Take your shirt off. Are you marked? Do you have the mark?”
Javi took a step forward, sliding his feet along the floor. “Why don’t we make a deal?” he said. “You put that down, and I’ll put this down. Then I can show you my arms.”
The man licked his lips. He took a step forward, body inclined as if he was going to do as he was asked.
Then he threw the knife at Javi and bolted toward the back of the house.
Javi slapped the knife out of the air, catching the blade on the side of his gun.
It bounced off the wall and dropped into a stack of sour-smelling white bags.
Javi started after the intruder. He glanced to the side as he passed the open door and skidded to a halt, grabbing the jamb of the door with one hand to help break his momentum.
A woman slouched on the toilet, stripped down to shorts and a sports bra. She was covered with blood and bruises, her hair cut down to the scalp in chunks.
“Joel,” Javi said. Then, because it felt more appropriate, “Tracy. It’s me. It’s Javi.”
She didn’t respond; her head lolled back against the grimy white-painted sill of the low window. Javi glanced after the suspect and then back to her. Adrenaline twitched in his muscles, but—
“Shit,” he muttered as he backed up a step and went in to her. He pitched his voice to carry. “Witte! I’ve got Joel! Perp’s on the move!”
It wasn’t by the book, but they could pay that piper when the bill came due. He just had to hope Cloister heard him. Javi grabbed a towel from the rail, the cotton unpleasant and greasy against his fingers, and draped it over Joel’s body as he crouched next to her.
He cupped one hand around the back of her neck to support her head as he got his phone out.
“Tracy?” he said. “Hold on. Help’s on the way.”
She moved slightly, her lips sticking together as she tried to talk. Her arm twitched as she tried to raise her hand, but couldn’t. Bloody fingers just bumped Javi’s knee.
“They…they took him,” she slurred out, her voice mushy and somehow desperate at the same time.
Javi slid her off the toilet and lowered her onto the floor, his hand between her skull and the tiles.
Something back there gave under his fingers in a way that didn’t feel right. “Don’t… don’t fuck up again.”