Fish Out of Water (8 page)

“Yeah?” Connie asked bitterly. “Well, where were your good cops when I was told I had to be there to take the fall for Collin Miles? There was supposed to be a ruckus—someone was supposed to make like they were raising hell and then
I
was supposed to shoot….” His voice broke. “Shoot….”

That damned black SUV ambled by again, and in the silence left after its dirty engine moved on, Connie started to cry. “Man, my dog got sick last year. I had to pay the vet to put her down. She was just… so trusting, you know? I can’t shoot no fucking cop!”

Jackson turned around and took a few steps toward the middle of the yard, fingers locked behind his head. “So you called in sick,” he said, seeing it fall into place.

“Yeah. Yeah.”

Jackson pushed against his locked fingers, twisting his torso so he could stretch out his chest. He glanced over his shoulder to smile gamely at Connie and wondered what to do with him. God, he was a witness. He was a witness against
cops
. But turning him over to the DA right
now
would get him killed, because the DA wasn’t going to start a case based on the hearsay of a guy with a gambling problem who worked in a gas station.

Jackson pivoted on his left foot, because his right knee was starting to swell, and took a step toward Connie, and the SUV engine blatted into the silence.

And a slug tore through Connie Coulson’s jaw, and another one hit his arm, and another one hit his chest before the sharp report of the Uzi hit Jackson’s eardrums.

Jackson threw himself down face-first, breathing the hardscrabble dust left by the drought, and listened as the Uzi tore the house above him to shreds.

Ten rounds per second
, Jackson recited, the details of his gun manual coming to haunt him like it had during his long stay in the hospital.
Israeli made, telescoping muzzle, ten rounds per second, three seconds to pass the house, thirty, maybe forty rounds, just wait, Jackson, wait and they’ll drive on, ’cause they’re cowards and they think Connie’s the only person here….

Ten rounds per second. When forty-five shell casings were found in the street, Jackson would know that it had taken less than five seconds. During the entire five seconds, he relived the bullets ripping his lungs, cracking his ribs, tearing a hole out of his chest—maybe ten times a second? Maybe fifty times a second? Maybe a hundred?

Maybe too goddamned many times for a guy who’d survived and knew what bullets could do to flesh.

The shooting stopped, the car rattled into the distance, and Jackson stayed on the ground taking inventory, counting bruises, bumps, his swelling knee, the fire along his cheek that meant he’d been grazed, his own breath harshed by panic.
Fine. Fine. You’re fine. No hits.

Oh fuck.

Connie.

Jackson looked at what remained of Connie Coulson, a shredded pile of flesh and bone bleeding into the dust.

The stupid gambler who couldn’t shoot his dying dog and who had called in sick because the only way to get out of the hole he’d dug himself was to go to ground.

Poor kid. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five.

With an oath, Jackson pulled his phone out and called 911. He asked for the fire department and a paramedic.

They’d get there first.

He thought briefly about running out to his car and taking off, but even if he wouldn’t have been fingered for the crime, he knew without looking that his car had been parked
right
in front of the fucking house.

Oh holy shitballs. When he was done cleaning what was left of the shit and the fan, he was going to need a ride home.

THE LAW
offices were a few blocks away from the county jail. After leaving Kaden in the infirmary, a guard by his bedside, Ellery had braved the baking heat to walk back, mostly so he could talk to the thin thirtyish woman who had looked so much more comfortable sitting alone in front of her keyboard than she did talking to Ellery.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Cramer, but it’s not as easy to render as they show it on television.”

Ellery took a deep breath and very, very carefully adjusted his tie. “I understand that,” he said, although he really didn’t on an emotional level. People said that all the time, that what took months in real life was often shown to take an afternoon or half an episode on television. Intellectually, he got it. In the television shows, he was supposed to be busy and cutthroat at work and then play golf on the weekends and get scads of ass on the side—but no, not happening.

Instead he was an asshole at work because he had to be, and on his great nights, he got an hour and a half on the elliptical machine while studying motions. On not-so-great nights, he fell asleep over his coffee—while writing motions.

“I’m not asking for this person’s life story and third-grade photo or anything. I would settle for some sort of identification or proof that he or she—”

“She,” Crystal said with confidence. With brief keystrokes, she pulled up a photo in the process of rendering. “See?”

Ellery squinted at the reflection of the would-be photographer in the shiny stainless steel edge of the counter. He was reluctantly impressed—she’d said it wasn’t finished; she hadn’t said it was so far along.

“Christ, it’s still not that clear,” he muttered.

“Yeah. You can tell it’s not a crime-scene photo—those are much higher definition and taken from several angles. This one is just head-on. But you can see her, right? Jeans, high heels—”

“Turquoise glitter polish,” Ellery noted. “Yeah. Girl.” The feet were tiny, the toes almost absurdly plump and sausage shaped, pale as eggs. “Little girl, little girl… what were you doing in that scary place?”

“Why didn’t anybody see her?” Crystal asked, and Ellery glanced at her, frowning. She was actually a pretty woman—dirty-blonde hair, straight, pulled from a heart-shaped face in a careless ponytail. And she’d already justified Jackson’s faith in her tenfold.

“That is a good question,” Ellery mumbled. “And why isn’t she mentioned in the police reports….”

“Yeah—I mean, they used her picture. Shouldn’t they know about her?”

Ellery resisted the urge to bang his head against Crystal’s giant computer. “You know, usually when you see a guy with a gun near his hand, the guy did it. I mean, it may have been self-defense, it may have been drug rage—but he usually did it. Straight as an ice pick—not a question to be asked.
This
is a goddamned Gordian knot.”

Crystal grunted. “Yeah, well, you maybe wanna stop trying to knit and start looking to see if anyone’s filed a missing persons report on a white girl with pink hair, young—maybe fifteen to twenty—and….” Crystal grimaced. “Track marks.”

Ellery frowned and squinted at the rendering. “Are you sure—”

“Look right there.”

The picture was blurry, but sure enough, Crystal had caught the tiny detail.

“Shit,” Ellery muttered. “How did you—”

Crystal met his eyes and pushed up the sleeve of her summer-weight cardigan. And showed him the scars on the inside of her elbow. “I know, Mr. Cramer. Which is why I turn all my evidence over to Trish at the end of the day so she can be the one to testify.”

Trish was a solid-looking mother of three—you’d trust Trish with your life, your dinner, and your best suit at the dry cleaner.

Ellery nodded and tried not to pass judgment—and then remembered that Jackson had gotten her the job.

“So, uh—Jackson?” Ellery asked tentatively.

She looked at him with suspicion. “You want to hit that?”

“I don’t do crowd scenes,” he snapped, and she rolled her eyes at him.

“Neither does he. He just….” She grimaced. “He just
none of your business
. If you ever end up at his place, you keep his business his.”

“Look, I don’t want to compare dick size—”

“Pretty fuckin’ big—”

“I just want to know what happened to him. Why’d he leave the force?”

She raised her eyebrows, her gray eyes wide behind her thick glasses. “You’re not from Sacramento, are you?”

“No—”

“Let me guess. Somewhere back East.”

“Boston,” he said, again impressed.

“You went to school in the West—”

“Stanford,” he said. The computer tech was winning at
This is Ellery Cramer’s Life
—it was a little humiliating.

“Parents have money,” she said thoughtfully, and he ground his teeth. “Still together—one of them, probably Mom, has completely unrealistic expectations. You’re on the quick track—want to be partner so you can show Mommy what you’re made of. And because whether or not she approves of the gay, you want to prove that you’re just as good as the brother or sister who came before you and is gleefully producing spawn with a vetted partner.”

Ellery swallowed. “Have you been running my personal information?” he asked, horrified.

Crystal snorted. “Dude, I’d get fired for that. No, I read your aura. You’re like, all cream and pink and dashes of maroon. Some navy. I mean, it’s a handsome aura, really strong, but sort of predictable, you know?”

“I have pink in my aura,” Ellery said numbly. “You know my life history and I have pink in my aura and none of this tells me who tried to kill Jackson Rivers and why he hates cops.”

Crystal snorted. “Well he
hates
them because they tried to
kill
him.
Duh.
But that’s why I asked about where you came from. Eight years ago this was front-page news for a year. The trial lasted ten weeks, and Jackson was in protective custody until it was over. Which was easy, because, you know, he was in the hospital for another four months after that. I mean, I think they had to grow him a new goddamned lung or something.”

“But I thought he
was
a cop,” Ellery said. There was no mistaking ex–law enforcement.

Crystal met his eyes seriously, all trace of mockery gone. “Well yeah, Mr. Cramer. But you turn in a dirty cop and your career is pretty much over. It’s over even more quickly if you’ll never be back to 100 percent.”

Ellery was gritting his teeth again. He wanted details, but Kaden had been right: if this had been front-page news eight years earlier, he needed to read up on the front page. Just not when he was trying to save Kaden’s life.

“You’re probably right,” he said, trying desperately to relax his jaw. “And if you could print out the rendering as far as you’ve got it, I’d be really grateful.”

“No, you won’t,” Crystal said wisely, looking at him through her glasses with knowing eyes. “But it really is kind of you to try to mask your impatience. Look Jackson up—and if you have any questions beyond that, let me know.”

Why are people content to go home with him if they know it’s going to be a one-night stand?

“Thank you,” he said—sincerely this time. “I will.”

“Because he’s a good guy,” she answered out of the blue. “Anyone who’s gone home with him has a story to tell about how he helped them out—even if it was just saving them from being alone on a really shitty night.” Her voice dropped, and she looked down at her computer keyboard, her expression embarrassed. “Or from using after five years of being clean and off the streets.”

Oh. “Oh.” He could barely swallow, his throat was so dry. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be,” she said, and her full-lipped smile was winsome and pretty and wise beyond her years. “I didn’t use, and I felt better, and that’s really all that sex has to be sometimes.”

“True,” he said, trying to remember the last time that was all sex had been for
him
.

“Until it’s not,” she said.

That was it. He was done. “I have stuff to do at my desk,” he muttered. But God, anything other than having his entrails read by Grunhilde the computer tech witch woman here.

“Sure, Mr. Cramer. And I prefer Madame Arcati—I played her in high school.”

“Good-bye, Crystal.”

“Bye, Mr. Cramer.” She waved cheerfully and he fled.

KADEN WAS
snoring softly on the infirmary bed when Ellery got back to the jail. So was the guard, a paperback dangling limply from his hand. In a way it was comforting—at least Ellery knew he wasn’t the only one who was pretty sure Kaden wasn’t a ruthless killer who had shot a policeman in cold blood.

On the other hand, if Kaden
had
been a ruthless killer, he would have escaped by now, and Ellery’s career would have been over.

Awesome.

With a deep breath, Ellery sat down near the medical counter and started pulling shit out of his briefcase. First things first: he reread the notes on his legal pad, trying to figure out what he needed to do next. Hm… star
render picture
, add
heroin-addicted teenager
next to that, underline it. Put
missing persons and DBs
in the margins.

Witnesses. They needed—

Well, they
had
a witness—someone bearing
false
witness, but it was always entertaining and informative to watch someone lie.

With the impetus of direction, he took out his phone and called ADA Arizona Brooks.

“Zona?”

“Ellery,” she said with genuine happiness. “Good to hear from you—which case are we talking about today?”

“
The People v. Kaden Cameron
,” he said, and he could hear the sunshine turn cold on the other end of the line.

“Tell me you didn’t catch that one,” she said tensely. “Ellery, I like you—I do. But this is… this is bad.”

“It’s particularly bad if the guy doesn’t have a defense attorney on his side,” Ellery said, his voice hard. He could admit it—he was channeling his inner Jackson Rivers, because the fear in Arizona’s voice disturbed him. Arizona was a fiftyish amazonian woman with cropped gray hair who faced down criminals with little more than a fierce glare and a shrug.

“Yeah, but you don’t get it. I’m getting pressure from all sorts of places to put this guy away—”

“But it’s fishy—I mean, can you not
smell
the fish? It’s like someone threw a brace of trout in your car in the morning and let them cook on your backseat!”