Andrew Peterson - First to Kill

She cocked her head, “Probably, but it isn’t around here. I’ve already looked in all the close places.”

Nathan watched her body language closely as Henning continued. “Has anyone called her lately?”

“You mean that dangerous man you mentioned?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I can’t say it was him for sure, but she did get a call the other night. She was upset afterward, got really drunk, and passed out on the floor right about where you’re standing.”

“Did you hear any of the call?”

“Not really, I was watchin’ American Idol. ”

Nathan took a closer look at Janey’s eyes. Piecing pale blue. He ran the calculation of her age through his head.

“What time does she go to work?”

“Eight at night. She works the graveyard shift.”

“Does she usually come back here before going to work?”

“Sometimes. Not always, though.”

Henning turned to Nathan. “Anything more?”

“That dangerous man is your father.”

Henning outwardly flinched at Nathan’s comment.

Janey narrowed her eyes, disgust stealing over her face. “I think you should get out.”

“You’re a lousy liar, Janey.”

“I said get out.”

Nathan took a step forward. “And if we don’t?”

“I’ll call the police.”

“We are the police.”

“I’ll still call.”

Nathan took another step toward her. “That’s going to be rather difficult after I’ve broken your jaw in three places.” He quickly scanned the room for a phone, which was in the kitchen.

“Listen, asshole. You can’t come in here and threaten me like this.”

Nathan spoke over his shoulder to Henning. “Why don’t you wait outside?”

Henning opened his mouth to respond, but hesitated, not sure what to do. “Yeah, I guess maybe I better,” he said. The FBI agent stepped through the door and closed it behind him.

When they were alone, Janey glanced at the phone behind Nathan. Her lower lip trembled when she spoke. “What do you want from me?” She was close to tears.

“The truth,” Nathan said. He moved between Janey and kitchen, trapping her in the living room. She crossed her arms over her chest as a tear rolled, but said nothing.

“It’s like this, Janey. I believe you about your mother having a drinking problem, and I believe your life has been difficult because of it. I also believe that when you went looking for her, you found her at a local bar. And I also believe that’s where she is right now.”

“You don’t understand, she hates cops. If you go in there, she’ll freak out.”

“Listen to me very carefully, Janey. I don’t blame you for what your father did. You didn’t ask for any of this, it just landed in your lap. It’s a raw deal, but that’s the hand life has dealt you.” Nathan pointed to his face. “I’ve had a raw deal too. Life goes on. The bomb in Sacramento was made of forty pounds of Czech-made plastic explosive. We think Ernie still has three hundred pounds of it. He murdered twenty-four people and wounded fifty-five others. Six of them will never walk again. They’ll spend the rest of their lives in wheelchairs. The blast wave blew people’s arms and legs clean off, and the heat from the explosion was so intense, it peeled the skin from their bodies like barbecued chicken. Have you ever seen a third-degree burn victim, Janey?”

She was openly crying now. “Why are you telling me this?”

“You know why.”

“She’ll kill me.”

“Maybe it’s time you were on your own. Don’t you want to get out of this place?”

She nodded.

“Do the right thing, Janey. Break the cycle. Make something of your life.”

“The Parrot’s Nest. She hangs out there before going to work.”

“Will you show us where it is?”

“What, right now?”

“Yes. Right now.”

Henning was visibly surprised at seeing Nathan emerge from the apartment with Janey in tow. She had changed into more respectable attire, wearing a formal, white-buttoned shirt with pressed jeans. Her fuzzy pink slippers had been replaced with tan walking shoes.

“Janey’s had a change of heart,” Nathan said. “She’s going to show us where her mother is.”

* * *

From the look of things, the Parrot’s Nest wasn’t in the best part of town. Most cities the size of Fresno and bigger had a skid row district and this area of downtown definitely qualified. Part of an abandoned five-story building made of brick, the Parrot’s Nest should’ve been called the Rat’s Nest. The small parking lot was lousy with trash, broken glass, dented pickups, run-down hogs, and various other beaters that looked like they may or may not start when their owners finally staggered out to them, assuming they could even find their keys.

“Is that your mother’s car?” Nathan asked. “The red Sentra?”

“Yes.”

Henning frowned.

Reading his mind, Nathan said, “It was in her NCIC file.”

Andrews parked on the curb in a red zone.

“Maybe I should go in with you,” Henning offered. “It looks like a rough joint.”

“They’ll make you right away. Just cover the rear door. Andrews, you stay with Janey.”

Andrews looked at Henning, then back to Nathan. His expression neutral, he nodded.

Nathan climbed out and walked toward the main entrance while Henning traversed the parking lot, heading for the rear of the building. The cracked sidewalk was peppered with hundreds of flattened, black gum wads. A staccato thump of bass emanated from within. Although it was the middle of the afternoon, the street was void of traffic. Most of the coin-hungry parking meters had been vandalized, their half-moon windows broken.

At the door, Nathan took a deep breath and stepped inside.

Nathan’s entrance ended up as cliched as any cheesy B movie. Every head turned and the pool game stopped. He strolled over to bar and avoided touching the grimy brass rails.

The bartender scowled and pointedly ignored him. Okay, fine. We’ll do this the hardway . Nathan used the time to study the place in the mirror behind the bar and spotted his mark right away, a tall, stringy blonde sitting at a table with three guys in sweatshirts, jeans, and stained ball caps. Scattered around the room, twenty or so other patrons stared in ape-faced silence. Aside from the bartender, who looked formidable, Nathan didn’t see any threats. Half a minute later, the bartender had made it plainly obvious he had no intention of serving someone who’d come in to case the joint.

Without looking at the bartender, Nathan walked over to the jukebox, grabbed its power cord, and yanked it free.

The machine went dark. Charlie Daniels went silent. All heads turned.

A few obscene grumbles spewed from dark corners.

“I’d like a Shirley Temple, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

The bartender shot Nathan a dirty look, came out from behind the bar, and plugged the jukebox back in. With his right hand, he pumped a quarter, and punched up another shit-kicker song. The music boomed again. Nathan waited for him to return to his hole, made eye contact, and pulled the plug again. The tension in the room instantly doubled, with all eyes now focused on the battle of wills unfolding. With an irritated expression, the bartender started back over.

A smile formed. Nathan McBride, in his environment.

He observed the bartender closely. Right-handed. Six-three or — four. Two hundred seventy-five plus. Weak left eye. Something was strapped to his ankle under his left pant leg, a knife or small gun. This gorilla probably runs the dive with an iron fist. As the bartender approached, Nathan saw a black nylon cord encircling his right wrist and his hand seemed to be half-closed around something, like a magician concealing a playing card. Using his left hand this time, the bartender reached down to plug the machine back in.