Last Diner Standing, page 23
He looked at Sullivan, but pointed at me. “Is she always this stupid?”
His eyes met mine and he walked toward me, kneeling down in front of me. “Because those hits weren’t planned. See Marcus and Kyle and the great big bullet holes in their heads? I had time to sweat them out, gave them the opportunity to tell me what I want to know. And I have time to get rid of the bodies.”
He leaned closer, his face an inch from mine. “But the thing is, neither one would tell me about the money. And I’m obviously willing to kill to get it, so maybe you’ll be smarter than either of them. But I’m not holding my breath.”
“Why did Sheik have it in the first place?” Sullivan asked.
Mike held my gaze a moment longer before rising. “Stuart put the money in a clean car that I was going to use so you wouldn’t recognize my truck. And since you seem to be slow to figure things out, Rose, that’s the same truck I used to run you off the road the other night. You were supposed to die, by the way.
“Anyway, Sheik stole my clean car. Dumb luck, huh?”
I didn’t know if he was talking about Asshat’s bad luck or his own. Didn’t really care because I was worried about my own misfortune just then.
Mike planted himself in front of Sullivan. “Now, enough chitchat.” He slammed his right fist into Sullivan’s nose. “I want. My fucking. Money.” He punctuated each phrase with a punch to Sullivan’s chin, jaw, and gut.
Sullivan breathed hard through his bloody nose. He finally looked at me, rage and hatred burning from his eyes.
Mike straightened. He ran a hand through his short, dark hair and walked behind the desk. He opened the bottom drawer, pulled out the bottle of brandy, and shook it. “Still here, even has a few swallows left. You always kept the good stuff for yourself.”
Before he could uncap it, a ring tone broke the stillness. Mike pulled out his phone and glanced at it. “Shit, I’ve got to take this. It’s work.” He seemed conflicted as he looked back at Sullivan. “If you two don’t keep quiet, I’ll cut out your tongues. And Rose, if you’ve moved an inch when I get back, I’ll turn what’s left of your brain into spaghetti.” Then he left the room, shutting the door behind him.
“How are we going to get out of here?” I asked.
“We’re not,” Sullivan said.
That’s not what I wanted to hear. I wanted reassurance. Not a death sentence.
I wished I had time to take a couple of pain relievers before I got abducted. Getting kidnapped sucked balls and my head felt like it would split open like a cantaloupe. Oh my God. Pills. I had pills in my pocket. The Clonazepam.
My heart pounded, out of fear of getting caught by Mike and excitement that maybe we had a way out. But what if he came back and found me trying to drug his brandy?
Stupid Rose, what the hell did it matter? He was going to kill us anyway. I’d rather go quickly than with a long, drawn out torture scenario.
I pushed myself up against the wall, inch by inch. I’d made it to a crouching position, every breath agony in my chest and head.
“What are you doing, Rose?” Sullivan whispered.
“I’m going to drug him. Hope this works, because this is all we’ve got.”
With every ounce of strength I possessed, I pushed up and forced myself to walk to the desk. Tears pricked my eyes from the lightning bolts shooting through my brain with each step. As quickly as I could, I shoved my hand in my pocket, searching for the pills the doctor’s wife gave me. Don’t mix with booze or take on an empty stomach, she’d said. With shaking hands, I unscrewed the brandy cap, fumbled a bit as I quickly broke each pill in half and dropped them into the bottle. I recapped it and gave it a shake before staggering back to the wall, where I allowed myself to collapse.
Sullivan watched me. “Rose, I want to tell you—”
The door opened. “All right, let’s make this happen,” Mike said, striding into the office. He glared at me, but I barely lifted my eyes to meet his gaze. “You ready to tell me?”
I said nothing.
With agitation Mike grabbed the bottle, unscrewed the top, and chugged the contents. He threw it against the side wall and glass rained down the damp, heat-blistered surface.
“Okay, we’re going to have to expedite matters.” With a sniff, he pulled out a sheathed knife from his inner pocket. He extracted the long, serrated blade and held it up to the portable light. His eyes met mine. “Ever seen a man gutted?”
How fast would the pills work? Why wasn’t he calming down? I thought those suckers were for anxiety, but maybe he was too hopped up on adrenalin.
“I know where the money is,” I blurted out.
Mike blinked at me. “Oh, do you now? What a coincidence.”
“Kyle hid it, but I know where it is.”
He smiled. “Really? Because I did some pretty horrible things to him and he never said a word.” He rubbed his eyes. “This wouldn’t be a ploy, would it? A bid to buy more time?”
Totally.
“Sullivan and I will take you to it,” I said.
He waved the knife in front of his own face. “Unh, unh, unh. I don’t believe you.”
My eyes flew to Sullivan’s. Blood still ran from his nose and a bruise was forming on his cheek.
Mike leaned against the desk and rubbed his forehead. “I feel weird.” He took a deep breath and straightened. With halting steps he moved to the desk chair and sank down, dropping the knife. “What were we talking about?”
“The money,” I said.
His eyes drifted closed, but then he snapped them open. “The money. I want my money.”
I sat in silence, waiting to see if the pills were going to put Mike out completely. Nope. He hung onto consciousness.
“Worked hard for that money. Sheik stole it from me.” He seemed beyond drunk. A nice combination of sedated and wasted.
Sullivan may have been handcuffed, but I wasn’t. This was my chance. I shoved myself to my feet and slowly placed one foot in front of another. I stopped to pick up a long, narrow piece of wood off the floor. Used to be a table leg in its former life. The wet splinters dug into my palm.
“What are you doing?” Mike asked, his words slurred.
I took a deep breath, gathered every bit of strength I had, and hit his head as if going for a home run. The sound of the wood on his skull was a sickening thud and I felt the vibration clear up to my shoulders. Mike slouched face down on the desk.
I stumbled toward him, my makeshift bat at the ready, but he didn’t move. I grabbed the knife and flung it across the room, then dug into Mike’s coat pocket for both his gun and Sullivan’s, which I shoved in my own pockets. I found the handcuff key in his jeans, and step by painful step, made my way toward Sullivan.
When I unlocked the cuffs, he swiftly rose to his feet and rubbed his wrists. “Is he dead?”
I glanced over at Mike. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. “No.”
Sullivan grabbed the wooden scrap from me and raised it above his head to finish what I had started.
I grabbed his arm. “No.”
He glared down at me. “I’m going to end this.”
I shook my head, almost collapsed from the pain stabbing through my temples. “No. Please. I don’t want to decide who lives and who dies. Not this time.”
He stared at me a moment, then threw down the wood. After he retrieved the Mercedes keys from Mike’s jacket, he scooped me up in his arms and carried me to the car.
*
The next morning, the news repeatedly replayed Mike’s perp walk and the tale of how the crooked cop murdered three people, put one in a coma, and set fire to a local bar.
Janelle got her fifteen minutes of fame. She was interviewed by every local station and full of ‘I told those fools I was innocent.’ She threatened to sue the police department. Seems the I’m-sorry-we-accused-you-of-assault-and-murder gift basket didn’t quite cut it.
Sullivan insisted I go to the emergency room. Their conclusion? A mild concussion. Rest and take it easy for a couple of days. Didn’t need a doctor to tell me that.
At Ma’s insistence, I skipped work the next day. But that night, I let Roxy do what she does best—break into Fit and Flex. I figured if Mike couldn’t find the money in Kyle’s apartment, this was the next logical place.
Armed with flashlights and Ax fiddling with the alarm code, we snuck into the locker room and cut off seven combination locks until we found the bag of money.
We did a four way split: Ax, Roxy, Janelle, and me. But we all agreed that Janelle got most of it because of the kids and her legal fees. Which left the rest of us fifteen thousand dollars each. I tried to give my share to Ax for wrecking his car, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
“Dude, if anyone needs this money, it’s you. Buy a car already,” he said.
A sound plan, but I needed to pay Sullivan first.
Axton had retrieved his car from my sister’s house and handed the keys over after our little bout of B & E.
*
The next morning before work, I stopped in at Rudy’s Roundup Restaurant. When I walked in the door, Sarah looked shocked to see me and hurried over. “What happened?”
“I ran into a fist. A few times. Where’s Rudy?” She pointed to his office next to the restrooms. Without knocking, I walked in.
He glanced up from his desk. “What’re you doing in here?”
“Listen up,” I said, “because you only get one chance to do the right thing. I know people in this town and if you don’t cut out this breakfast bullshit, I’m going to have you inspected by the health department every week. I’m going to have your license revoked. I’m going to let everyone know that Rudy’s is nothing but a mouse magnet. You’re not going to have a business at all by the time I’m done with you.”
I wasn’t sure I could pull any of that off, but I figured Sullivan could. And I was already in debt to him, might as well go for broke. Or broker, in my case.
“You can’t do any of that.”
I smiled. “All right. But don’t say you weren’t warned.”
I turned to go.
“Wait.”
I peered at him over my shoulder.
“Ma would have to give up lunch.”
“Of course. Right after you apologize.”
I could see the thoughts chugging through his tiny brain. “Fine. I’m about to lose my staff anyway.”
I was five minutes late for work. Roxy and Ma scurried around the diner, which was already filling up with customers.
They forced me to work the counter. And at nine, Officer Hardass strode in, his eyes scouring every nook and cranny of the place. With his thumbs hooked in his belt, he sauntered up to the counter.
“Miss Strickland, is there somewhere we can talk?”
I sighed. “Sure.” I took him to Ma’s office. I propped my hip on the desk. “What is it? I’ve got customers.”
“You told me that day at the station to look closer to home to find Crystal Waters’ killer. How did you know about Officer Goedecker?”
I hadn’t. I’d been talking about Police Chief and stripper connoisseur, Martin Mathers. “Just a hunch.”
He narrowed his hazel eyes and tried to stare me down. I just let him and refused to get flustered.
“Well, if you get any more hunches, I’d like a heads up.”
I finished out my shift and even helped clean up a little. As I sat at the counter, rolling silverware into napkins, Ma got a phone call. When she hung up, she grinned at Roxy and me.
“That jackass, Rudy, has given up. I win!”
Roxy and I clapped. Jorge and Ray stepped out of the kitchen.
“Is lunch over?” Roxy asked.
“Yeah,” Ma said. “We’re a breakfast diner. It’s worked for almost sixty years, I say we keep it that way.”
There was much rejoicing.
I went home and napped. I was exhausted and still sore. Even working the counter had zapped my energy.
Sullivan woke me up when he dropped by around six with a green wrapped package in his hand. A large bruise covered his jaw and his nose was a tad swollen.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Clay is still gunning for you.”
“It’s no longer a problem.”
“What do you mean?” I was scared he’d say the words. I didn’t want to hear them, but I couldn’t bury my head in the sand. Had Sullivan killed Clay?
“He left town and sold me his business interests. And if he wants to live, he won’t come back.”
“How?”
“Henry and I found the recordings of Martin Mathers. And several other items Clay wouldn’t want leaked to the world.”
I felt my shoulders relax. “Good.” I was just glad that Clay was still breathing. “What about Stuart?”
“Also gone.” He handed me the package. “Open it.”
I sat on my futon, but he remained standing, his coat buttoned, a blue scarf wrapped around his neck.
Out of the rectangular box, I pulled out the softest pair of red leather gloves lined with silk. I stroked them, tried them on and they fit like …well, you know. “Thanks. They’re beautiful.”
He pocketed his hands. “I’m starting my business back up.”
I felt a twinge of disappointment. “Okay.”
“It’s what I do, Rose. It’s who I am.”
“I know.”
“I’m not changing.”
I stood. “I never asked you to. You’re a criminal, I get it.”
He stiffened. “I think of it as being an entrepreneur.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course you do. By the way, I have your ten thousand dollars.” I started walking to my freezer, but his voice stopped me.
“So, you found the money? Good, keep it.”
I faced him. “No, I owe you.”
His gold eyes narrowed in irritation. “Why do you have to argue every goddamned point?”
“I owe you ten thousand dollars for Janelle’s bail and I’m paying you back.”
“The debt’s clear. I’m not taking your money.”
I raised a brow. “Why? You don’t forgive loans. That’s not who you are either.”
He took three steps forward until he stood in front of me. Cradling my face in his hands, he slowly leaned toward me, his eyes on mine. “I can do whatever the hell I want. Besides, it’s Christmas.”
And then he kissed me.
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Diner Impossible
After shunning her overbearing parents’ wealthy lifestyle, waitress and part-time college student, Rose Strickland, is drawn back into their world when she tries to prove the impossible: the innocence of the town’s crooked police chief. He’s suspected in the gruesome death of Delia Cummings, his secretary and mistress, and all the evidence points to him. While she tracks down clues with the aid of her anime-loving bestie, Rose’s pal, Axton, and his Klingon gang are feuding with their Starfleet rivals. Things get hairier than a pile of well-fed Tribbles, so Rose gets involved. In between interrogating Trekkies and quizzing socialites at high tea, she discovers the secrets Delia Cummings took to her grave. Suspects abound, but when Chief Mathers threatens to bring down Rose’s criminally mischievous and maybe boyfriend, Sullivan, she makes it her mission to find the real killer before Sullivan finds himself in prison.
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They say you never forget your first time, but of course some firsts are more memorable than others. A first kiss. A first car. That first disastrous sexual encounter with a prom date because you figured what the hell, might as well see what everyone’s talking about. Turns out, they were talking about something completely different than what James Palmer and I did, fumbling around in the back of a white limo. The point is this: life’s chock full of first times. Some good, some bad, but all of them are turning points, dividing lines separating your life into befores and afters.
My name is Rose Strickland and tonight I racked up two more firsts. A clandestine meeting with a cop and a visit to a restaurant called Bob’s Fine Italian Cuisine. I still wasn’t sure if agreeing to meet with my nemesis was wise, but Bob’s definitely fell under the bad idea category.
Situated on the edge of Huntingford, Missouri and the county line, Bob’s wasn’t fine. The only lighting came from drippy white candles placed at all twelve tables and the darkened interior sucked me in, left me a little disoriented, able to make out only vague shapes and silhouettes spread throughout the small room. What it lacked in illumination it made up for in odor. Overpowering garlic and the stench of fish that had not only gone bad, but had turned downright evil. In fact, if I could have seen two feet in front of my face, I’m sure I would have been horrified at Bob’s lack of fine. Ei- ther this was the best place in town to bring a mistress or they didn’t want customers to notice the numerous health code viola- tions.
Thrusting my hands in my coat pockets, I hunkered down and glanced through the deep gloom, searching for Officer Andre Thomas, or as I liked to call him, Officer Hard Ass. Somewhere in his early thirties, he was built tight, with long, lean muscles and chiseled features. His dark wavy hair was cut so short it was just a whisker shy of buzzed and his café au lait skin accentuated his hazel eyes. Those sharp eyes watched the world from behind frameless glasses and didn’t miss a thing. Smart, handsome, observant. Un- fortunately, he also had a stick shoved so far up that firm ass, I wasn’t sure how he managed to sit down.
He’d stopped by Ma’s Diner earlier today where I’d been serv- ing pancakes and coffee—lots of coffee—to a table of young moms surrounded by strollers and screaming babies. When the bell jan- gled over the door, I glanced up, surprised to see him march inside, looking highly official in his starched police uniform and working an even starchier attitude.
