Dave Zeltserman - Blood Crimes Book One

Raze laughed a soft, rumbling laugh. “What the fuck, we’ll do it your way. Have Pearce call back within a half hour or your girl’s being put to work.”

“Let me talk to her.”

“Can’t. She’s in transit. You got a half hour.”

Raze hung up. Jim steeled himself, handed the phone back to Pearce. The sun was hitting him hard and it hurt like hell, but he couldn’t afford to show Pearce any weakness. He told Pearce to leave his bike where it was, that he could pick it up later, then led him to his beat up Chevy Nova. Pearce made a face looking at it.

“This ain’t nothin’ but a tin can on wheels,” he complained.

“Shut up and get in.”

Pearce squeezed his way in and barely fit in the passenger seat, his knees pressed against the dashboard and his head crammed at an awkward angle. He watched with a smirk as Jim put on a pair of driving gloves.

“You take driving this tin can seriously?” Pearce asked.

Jim ignored him. He tried to sink low into his seat to avoid the sunlight, but it still found unprotected areas of his face and parts of his wrists where there was a gap between his jacket and gloves. Wherever the sunlight hit him it was like his flesh was boiling. Nausea welled up inside. He wanted to vomit, but the last thing he could afford to do was to start retching in front of Pearce. He fought back the urge. The biker seemed to sense his distress, his smirk hardening as he watched Jim.

“You don’t look too good,” Pearce said.

“Shut up.”

“This is inhumane making me ride in this tin can. Probably against the Geneva convention.”

“I said shut up.”

“And I heard you. How’d you do that to Zeke?”

“If you want I’ll give you a demonstration. What do you want pulled off, a finger or thumb? Or maybe your whole hand?”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to demonstrate nothin’. But how’d you learn to do that?”

Jim showed a grim smile. “Special forces training,” he said.

Pearce appeared to digest that. He chewed on his bottom lip for a minute, then asked if Jim was the guy who did the meth dealer that was all over the news. “The asshole with half his face gone and his blood missing. You’re the guy who did him, didn’t you?”

Jim didn’t answer him.

“What did you do with his blood?”

“Last time. Shut up.”

Jim pulled into the motor lodge’s parking lot. There were no bikes in sight. Of course if they had gotten Carol to tell them where she and Jim were staying, their bikes would be hidden, but he doubted there was anything they could’ve done to make Carol tell them that or anything else. He braced himself for the blast of sunlight that was coming, then left the car. The damn sun made it feel like his bones and joints were welded together and it made it hard for him to move normally. Using his thumb, he signaled for Pearce to get out of the car. The way the biker looked at him, it was clear that he knew something was wrong, but he left the car and followed Jim into his motel room without incident. Once inside the darkened room, Jim felt better, his nausea mostly gone and his strength back. The biker was still eyeing him, and Jim knew he was trying to decide whether to jump him, trying to decide how much of a weakened state Jim had fallen into. He didn’t give Pearce the chance to act. Instead he lifted the waterbed with one hand and took the money roll that was stashed underneath it. Pearce’s eyes dimmed watching that, realizing whatever chance he had was gone. Jim tossed him the money roll.

“Count the money and call Raze,” he said.

Pearce did exactly that.

Hayes had been in Cleveland for two hours and had already talked to the detectives investigating Duane Posey’s murder, and realized quickly they had nothing. They wanted to know why he was interested in the murder, and he fed them his standard bullshit story about researching it for a novelist. The lead investigator was a Detective Joe Colvin, and he appeared skeptical about that and wanted a name. That took Hayes aback. He knew he was sweating when he stumbled out with an excuse why he couldn’t give them that. He knew the guy thought he was full of shit, and all he could think was, fuck, if they arrest me and make me take a drug test I’m probably still loaded with ecstasy, fuck! His brain just wasn’t working right, still fuzzy from the three hours of sleep he had managed the night before, along with the booze and drugs. Colvin was a big bruising guy who from his scarred face and flattened off-centered nose must’ve been an amateur boxer when he was younger. He asked for Hayes’ PI license, then spent a good few minutes studying it. After that he wanted Hayes’ flight information and an alibi of where he was the night before. It occurred to Hayes that Colvin considered him a suspect for the murder-maybe thought he was some psycho who got off on talking to the cops after a killing, and the thought of that made him start sweating more. He found himself holding his breath until Colvin dismissed him. That was a half hour ago, and the incident mostly sobered Hayes up. Since then he had been making his way to bars that were within walking distance of the murder site. He had hit three of them without any luck, and the one he had just entered was more divey than any of the others. The smell in the place was a mix of stale beer, urine and perspiration. The only customers were hardcore alkies, all staring bleary-eyed and seeing nothing as they nursed their drinks. Several of them with their stained pants were probably the source of the urine stench. Hayes approached the bartender and showed him a picture he had gotten from one of the newspapers of Duane Posey.

“You know him?” Hayes asked.

The bartender glanced at the picture, nodded. “Yeah, good old Duane,” he said.

“So you do know him?”

“Unfortunately.”

“You don’t like him much?”

“Nobody who knew Duane liked him much. The guy was an animal.”

“You know he was murdered last night.”

“Yeah, saw it on the news. Because of that I was able to come to work this morning with a smile on my face.” The bartender scratched his jaw, his lips pulled back to show his teeth. “Someone out there deserves a medal. Or at least a lot of free drinks.”

“Was he here last night?”

The bartender’s eyes faded for a moment, then he shook his head. “He could’ve been. I can’t remember. Whenever Duane came here, I tried not to pay attention.”

“He had his share of enemies then?”

“Yeah, I’d say so. You could probably count anyone he ever met in that category.”

Hayes showed him a picture of Jim’s girlfriend.

“How about her? Ever see her?”

The bartender looked at the drawing and slowly shook his head. From his eyes and the way his mouth tightened, Hayes knew he had seen her recently.

“Nope,” the bartender said. “Sure would like to, though. That’s one beautiful girl. Not the type of customer I tend to get in here.”

Hayes collected the drawing and thanked the bartender for his time. “If she does come in here, call me on my cell.”

He handed the bartender a business card, who stood frowning severely as he stared at it.

“I don’t get it,” he said. “What’s the connection between this girl and a scumbag like Duane?”

Hayes smiled thinly. “None. The police told me he was seen hassling her. She’s the one I care about, I couldn’t care less about Duane. Her mom just died and her family hired me to find her so I could bring her back home for the funeral.”

The bartender almost bit. Almost. He started to open his mouth before closing it firmly, deciding that Hayes was bullshitting him. It didn’t matter. Hayes had what he needed, and when he left the bar an adrenaline rush was surging through him. He called Serena on her cell and told her that Jim’s in Cleveland. “Or at least he was last night,” he added.