Shift: Infected, #5, page 11
Of course, now he had something to chew over as well. For two days, Switzer wasn’t with Braun. Who gave a damn? Well, you’d give a damn if it was the two days before he killed his wife.
Okay, so where would an otherwise friendless man go? He’d want privacy, and just maybe to plan the death of his wife and kids. Where did one go to do that?
Holden’s first thought was Disneyland, but that was in another state. Fox News? Again, no, not here. Damn it. He sat in his car for a few minutes and wondered if he should just call it here, let Roan pick up the loose threads.
No—was he an assistant investigator or not? He could do this. What would Roan say about this? Probably that Switzer would go somewhere he felt safe, somewhere familiar... but it was unlikely April would let him stay at their home. So....
Scene of the crime?
No, not his house, not Jasmine’s apartment building, but the Alley Cat Motel. Switzer mostly raped prostitutes in his patrol car, but he was also known to occasionally hide out in the Alley Cat, as if afraid of being seen with a hooker while on duty. It was a shining paragon of no-tell motels—it only did business in cash (nope, credit cards weren’t welcome), and notations were made in the front office only to tell what rooms were in use for how long. No real names were given or expected. Hookers liked it a lot, as did sex traffickers, the occasional drug mule, and fugitives. If Switzer wanted to be alone to plot and target practice, there was no better place—besides maybe a sealed nuclear bunker. And the owner would never come forward to say Switzer had stayed there because media attention was the last thing he’d want. As a cop, Switzer would know that as well as any of the whores.
Holden took off for the Alley Cat and wondered when he’d last been there. How old was he then—nineteen? Good lord, it seemed like another lifetime. It was, wasn’t it? He was a different person then. It was hard to imagine they were even related.
In all that time, the Alley Cat hadn’t changed at all. A simple wooden sign with a poorly drawn winking cat on it had a buzzing “vacancy” sign flickering underneath in dim red letters, the shabby-looking collection of parallel rooms laid out like a speed bump in peeling white and green paint. The parking lot was cracked and filled with holes, litter occasionally filling one up and making it seem almost even, while standing puddles of liquid remained even days after the last rain. It looked like the very last stop on your way to skid row, the bottom of the barrel before you fell into your own grave.
The manager’s office was out front, which was unusual, but it had a nice window that allowed the manager to see the cop cars coming. The glass door let out a heavy cowbell noise as Holden opened it—that’s what was on the door, two cowbells, because chimes just weren’t good enough—and it revealed a cramped and dingy office with walls the color of tobacco-stained teeth and a waist-high front desk that cut the room in two. Immediately, the pale blue curtain separating the back of the office from the front parted, and he was genuinely shocked to see Mr. Jankowiak was still running the place. Shouldn’t he be dead by now?
He eyed Holden suspiciously. “You look familiar, yeah? Can’t place ya, though.”
Mr. Jankowiak—or Janko, as everybody called him—was anywhere between sixty and eighty, an age that varied along with the strength of his Polish accent. (There were even times he pretended only to speak pidgin English.) He was bald and plump and wrinkled, with a head like an ugli fruit and a stomach that looked like he was smuggling a bowling ball beneath his stained polyester shirt. His skin had a strangely enduring tan, even though he never seemed to get out of the perpetual gloom of his office, making Holden figure it was spray on, makeup, or a sign of some obscure illness. Today, he wore a white polyester shirt with blue and red pinstripes that was the ugliest thing Holden had seen outside of a theme restaurant. It had a big mustard stain near the bellybutton, but that actually seemed to make it look better. “I’m Fox. Remember me?”
He frowned in thought, scratching his head. How did you have a waxy scalp and dandruff at the same time? Janko managed. “One of Maldonado’s people, yeah?”
“No.” Who was Maldonado? “Look, I need you to tell me what room Carey Switzer stayed in while he was here, and if he left any stuff in it, I want to see it.”
Janko looked at him blankly with rheumy eyes that used to be blue but were now more gray. “Huh? I don’t know who you’re talking about.” His accent had just increased tenfold.
Holden scowled at him. “Don’t, Janko. Maybe you don’t remember me, but I remember you. Now either you tell me, or the cops are going to get an anonymous tip telling them all about your hidden cameras in the rooms. They’re gonna be interested in all your tapes, don’t you think?” Janko was a voyeur, and generally a skilled one, although if you knew where to look you could find the cameras.
His look turned stony and hard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Holden smirked, and dug a twenty out of his pocket, which he tossed on the counter. “Let me see his stuff and the cops never have to know. It’s up to you.”
Janko looked like an evil gnome—he was about five five at best—but he snatched up the money quickly with his sausage-thick fingers, and spat, “Now I remember you. You’re that smart-mouthed whore, the one who thought he was better than everyone else.”
“I never thought I was better than everyone else, just better than this. Now, where’s the stuff?”
Janko sighed heavily and cursed under his breath in Polish as he unlocked and lifted up the portion of the front desk that could actually move (it wasn’t immediately apparent), heading out of the office. Holden followed, although he kept his pace slow, otherwise he’d have trampled the old man. He got around fine, he just had a kind of awkward gait, like maybe he was wearing prescription shoes. (That would explain a lot.)
He took Holden around back of the motel, where, standing alone on the cracked asphalt (well, besides hidden parked cars) was what looked like an equipment shed, and certainly the stained mop and crusty bucket leaning against the side of the structure added to that impression. But it was also where Janko kept stuff he stole from rooms and patrons. He didn’t do it a lot, but it was a side enterprise.
The door had a heavy industrial padlock on it, and Janko made a production of taking out the keys and unlocking it. Once he cracked the door open, it let out a puff of stale air that reeked of cheap, lemon-scented cleanser and body odor. Janko reached overhead and pulled a dangling chain, making a naked light bulb burn with all sixty watts of its power. Holden had to stand outside the shed while Janko was inside, because it wasn’t big enough for two people. Janko had to move aside a very old-looking upright vacuum as he surveyed cardboard boxes that lined the built-in shelves, all marked according to a system that only Janko could figure out. Finally, he pulled out a box that still had the Dole logo on the side and said, “You may look, but no stealing. If you steal, I’ll know.”
Holden was tempted to point out stealing was Janko’s job, not his, but instead he gave him a sarcastic salute, which made the old man look at him funny as he left the shed. Holden went in and half closed the door behind him, leaving it open just enough to let some fresh air in.
There wasn’t really a lot in the box, just some random clothes (all men’s), a box of ammo (oh hey—Holden took out his cell and took a photo of it), and a cheap watch. Out of deference to Roan’s scouring every damn thing, he searched the pockets of the clothes and found some receipts that were less than insightful (oh, so he got a Whopper combo meal—Carey had struck him more as a Big Mac man) and a crumpled cigarette pack. Out of reflex, he squeezed the pack of Marlboro’s before returning them to the pants pocket and felt something solid in it. He opened it and shook it, and a small silver key fell out. What was this? Locker key? Safe key? Something like that. And the very fact that Janko didn’t have it meant he didn’t know it was here. Holden pocketed it and put the crumpled pack back where it had been.
He took a picture of the gathered items loosely piled in their box, in case Roan could see something of interest that he had missed, and then put the box back. After a brief thought of pillaging the others—what could Janko do to him, seriously?—he decided to leave it. He no longer needed to scavenge to survive, and picking the bones of such sad carcasses seemed beneath him.
He reached up and turned off the light before shoving the door open, and it was that that probably allowed him to see the shadow coming for him.
Holden was too far out of the shed to go back in (if that was even the wise move here), but he turned to meet the figure as it impacted with him, and he felt a solid blow to the gut. Although stunned, he still had enough presence of mind to punch the fucker in the face. His attacker reeled back and Holden backed up as a few things occurred to him simultaneously: namely, the guy was wearing a ski mask, Holden could feel something wet and warm running down his leg, and his abdomen felt cool in the otherwise humid night. Had he just been stabbed? He put a hand to his gut and felt warm wetness, so yes, that would be his guess.
The punch hadn’t stunned the guy enough; he came back at him, and Holden could now see the flash of a silver blade in the dim reflection of a streetlight. Holden grabbed his wrist, stopping him before he could stab him again, but the guy was strong and tried to muscle him down. Holden stumbled on the cracked asphalt and fell to his knees, but he almost dragged his assailant with him. He wrenched his arm free, and Holden knew he was going to attack him again, so he threw a punch with all his strength right at the guy’s crotch.
It sounded like he tried to scream, but instead he dropped the knife and fell back on his ass, making a sort of squealing, retching noise, grabbing his dick like he was afraid it would fall off. Holden was pretty sure he'd ruptured a testicle, which was a fair trade for a stab wound. “You a shitty mugger, or is this personal?” he wondered, considering he and Grey had been shot at.
He heard the footfall behind him but was in the process of turning when something wooden and solid hit him on the head, sending him crashing to the pavement. “Fucking faggot,” the new guy said, and brought the baseball bat down on his back, sending a shock of pain down his spinal cord.
Okay, they knew him. Holden reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his lucky butterfly knife as the second man hit him again with the bat. He was going for body blows, which hurt like fuck, but it would have been smarter to go for the head. No, he wasn’t Roan, but he wasn’t helpless. All he could see of the second man was his legs and his shitty Nikes, but that was all he needed to see.
With a single motion, he flicked open his knife and stabbed it deep in the fucker’s leg, just above the ankle. He then ripped up, as far as he could before the bat hit his arm hard enough for him to lose his grip, numbness traveling like a lightning bolt through his fingers.
“Motherfucker!” the guy shouted, falling backwards and dropping his bat. Holden had hit something major—he was spurting blood all over the lot. “He fuckin’ stabbed me!”
“No shit,” Holden muttered, feeling a lancing pain in his side. Still he forced himself to move, grabbing his knife with still numb fingers and shoving himself back up to his knees. He was feeling woozy, his head was throbbing, but he wasn’t going to die without taking them with him.
The first assailant—the leader, presumably—got that, and considering both of them could barely stand, he apparently didn’t like their odds. He staggered up to his feet and grabbed his friend with the bat by the shoulder. “C’mon, we gotta get out of here.”
Holden had already pulled out his cell from his other pocket. “Don’t go on my account,” he said, and his words sounded slightly slurred to his own ears. “Party’s just getting started.” He took a picture of them as they staggered away, helping each other, stupidly leaving their weapons behind. They’d be caught in no time. He was pretty sure guy #1 had a prison tattoo, meaning his prints were in the system.
He dialed 9-1-1, and a woman asked, “How can I direct your call?”
“Well, I’ve been stabbed, so ambulance please.” Distantly, Holden was amazed at his own calm. He tucked his knife away in his pocket and put a hand over his stab wound, sitting up against the door of the shed so no one else could attack him from behind. He hurt all over, and he could feel blood seeping, warm and sticky, through his fingers. He was inexplicably tired for some reason.
He wasn’t sure if he should blame the calm on shock, or on Roan really rubbing off on him.
11
Orestes
IT HAD been a pretty strange day.
Lunch with much of the defensive lineup of the Falcons had led to them all but insisting Roan attend the game that night, so he called Dylan and asked if he wanted to attend a game with him. Dylan thought it was an odd request to come straight out of the blue, but he’d never been to a hockey game and had no plans, so he figured why not.
The comped seats Roan got put them right behind the Falcons’ bench, and the players could see them through the Plexiglas. During the warm-up skate, Grey gave him a thumbs-up, and Tank waved his hockey stick at them as he skated out to the goal net. Dylan asked, somewhat jokingly (and somewhat not), if Roan was the adopted gay of the team. Perhaps. For a bunch of jock-boy straight guys, they were all right. They were certainly the guys you wanted at your back when you were jumped by a bunch of skinheads.
Roan told Dylan all about the time Paris took him to his first hockey game, a Canucks game. The audience was almost more entertaining than the game itself, as three men became so drunk and rowdy they were escorted out during the course of the game. Paris said it was the Canadian way. Dylan gave him a funny look but turned toward the rink in an attempt to hide it. “What?” Roan asked.
Dylan shrugged, and said, “That’s the first time you ever told me a Paris story without tearing up.”
Was it? Oh shit. Roan didn’t know what to say or how to react to his own general stupidity. It was rather painful to even think his name, never mind say it. But he felt so good today, right now, it just sort of got away from him. He was going to apologize, but that seemed weird, and the loud music over the arena speakers spared him from any further conversation.
It was a good game. The Falcons won easily—Grey got a goal and even Tank got an assist, which was kind of rare for a goalie. After the game, as the team was filtering back into the locker room, Scott pressed a towel against the Plexiglas with words written on it hastily with a Magic Marker: “Meet us around back.” Roan nodded and gave him the high sign, letting him know he got the message.
“We being invited to an orgy?” Dylan asked on their way out.
“Think we’d be welcome at one of their orgies?”
“Well, all sports seem to have an air of homoeroticism to them.”
“True. But it’s acceptable homoeroticism, nothing overt.”
“Technically, yeah. But I betcha there’s at least one gay guy on the team.”
He wouldn’t have been surprised really. But he asked, smiling, “What you wanna bet?”
Dylan grinned right back at him. “What’re you offering?”
They discussed possibilities as they went around to the back of the arena and loitered. The guard at the door was the one with the egg-shaped head, and he acknowledged Roan with a nod.
Some other people loitered, but not many; it wasn’t like a Broadway show or a rock concert. Some of them were kids with hockey gear, wanting it signed. The players started filtering out, signed some stuff for the kids, chatted with them a bit, and then Scott came out. After talking to a couple of kids, he came over to them, and Roan introduced Dylan to him. They shook hands and exchanged pleasant smiles, but they both seemed to be sizing each other up. Why? Did Dylan think Scott was going to punch him? Conversely, did Scott think Dylan was going to kiss him?
Whatever that was, it came and went quickly, and Scott told them that because they had a couple of days before their next game, some of the guys were going out drinking tonight, and he was wondering if they wanted to come along. Roan was tempted to ask if they just wanted them along in hopes of getting in a fight, but since Roan hadn’t mentioned the fight to Dylan yet, he kept it to himself.
Instead, he exchanged a questioning glance with Dylan. He knew Dylan would beg out, as he had work in two hours, but Dylan seemed curious if he’d accept the invitation without him. Roan was wondering that himself when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He held up a finger, indicating they should wait, and pulled out his phone. He thought it might be Holden, but it was Dee. “What’s up?” he wondered.
Dee exhaled, and that was a bad sign. “Holden’s been attacked, Ro. We just brought him in to County.”
Why did he never expect these sorts of phone calls? “What? How is he? What happened?” Roan turned away from them, not to be rude but just to focus more on what Dee was saying, but he saw the alarmed look that flashed on Dylan’s face—he knew something had gone wrong.
“He’s stable. He was stabbed in the abdomen and hit with a bat, but I know why you’ve made him an assistant, Ro—I think he’s the world’s toughest whore. He fought them off, and from the amount of blood at the scene, one of them is going to need medical treatment immediately. Hospitals and emergency clinics are being alerted now.”
Yeah, Holden never struck him as an easy target. Good for him. “Stable doesn’t tell me a lot. How’s the prognosis?”
“Pretty good. He lost a bit of blood, but it looks like nothing major was hit. He has a concussion, though, possibly broken bones in his hand.”
“Shit.”
“Look, he gave me some stuff to give you. He was conscious when we got to the scene, which just adds to his tough whore reputation. He told me to tell you that Brand lied, and you’d know what he meant. He means Brand as in a person’s name, doesn’t he? Otherwise I don’t get that sentence at all.”
