Cheese Wrestling: A Lt. Jack Daniels/Chief Cole Clayton Thriller Read online

  Jack turned to look at Clayton, who ignored her and said, “Yes, he’s helping me a great deal. All right, darling. You, too. Get some sleep.” Clayton hung up the phone and let out a long, slow breath. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “No problem,” Jack said.

  “She couldn’t sleep because I’m not home and she’s… well, I guess you could say she’s old fashioned.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Jack said, smiling despite herself.

  Clayton turned his head toward her in the dark, his eyes burning blue points in the light glare of the streetlights coming in through the windshield and he said, “I hope you weren’t insulted.”

  “Takes a lot more than that.”

  “If she knew I was out here in the middle of the night with some pretty younger city girl, well, she’d probably show up and start shooting.” He frowned a little and said, “How about you?”

  “Would I start shooting, you mean?”

  “No, I mean, do you have someone to call? You can tell him I’m a female officer, I won’t be insulted. I can even put on a high voice or something in the background and talk about lady things if you want.”

  “Lady things, huh?”

  “You know, fashion secrets and cobbler recipes and all. That kind of stuff.”

  “You stepped out of Mayberry RFD, didn’t you?”

  “I’m just trying to help,” he said, flashing the smile.

  Jack laughed and said, “My guy is out of town for a few days.”

  Clayton scratched his beard and said, “How old are you?”

  “How old do you think I am?”

  “Question withdrawn. Didn’t mean to get personal.”

  “I don’t take anything personally. Nearing fifty faster than I’d like. But getting older beats the alternative.”

  “You folks out here retire at fifty?”

  “That’s when we can start to collect our pensions, but there’s incentives to stay.”

  “It’s not that far away, you know,” he said. “You have a plan for when you hang up your shield? Things you want to do when you don’t have to be out here all hours of the night with strange men, looking at dark houses?”

  They were close to one another now, close enough she could feel his arm next to hers.

  “I like what I do.”

  “I know,” he said. “But it’s not all there is to life, Jacqueline. Trust me on that one.”

  “I always trust my elders,” she said, her turn to give him the smile.

  Clayton nodded and said, “I knew you were trouble. All you city girls with your slick moves and fancy talk. Mama always warned me about you, and now I see why.”

  “You have no idea,” she muttered, smiling to herself. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him stiffen a little, catching himself before it turned into a full-on flinch. Then something passed in her side-view mirror and Jack instinctively reached between her seat and the center console, wrapping her fingers around the handle of the gun tucked there.

  “Behind us,” Clayton said, turning toward her.

  Jack checked the rearview and got eyes on the group of six black youths coming up on their six. Four more poured out of the alleyways, taking up various positions. It was a coordinated approach. Their baggy pants swished as they walked and the silver stickers on the brim of their baseball hats reflected in the streetlights. All of them wearing black and blue.

  “Gangster Disciples,” she whispered.

  “How bad?”

  “We’re on their turf, and have to assume they’re all packing. They make us as 5-0, and it could get ugly.”

  Clayton reached his arm behind her neck and pulled her across the seat toward him, pressing his face up alongside of hers. She felt his mouth against the side of hers, felt his scruff tickling her skin and both of his hands holding her in place, except for when his hand shot out behind her to hit the lock button, automatically securing all four doors.

  “Just wait,” Clayton whispered in her ear. “We’ll blow our surveillance if we badge them.”

  Funny he was worried about their cover, and she was worried they’d be firebombed and shot.

  Jack looked past him, seeing there were three gangsters on his side of the car, trying to look at what was happening inside. She turned her face in toward his, their mouths nearly touching as she squeezed his back and felt the leather strap of a shoulder holster there. Her other hand came up against his chest, feeling with her fingertips as she unbuttoned it.

  Clayton said, “What are you doing?”

  Jack reached inside Clayton’s shirt and found the handle of his pistol, quietly unsnapping it and withdrawing the gun. She kept her hand flat against the gun’s frame and Clayton’s hand came up to take it from her. He laid his hand on her lap, keeping the barrel of the gun aimed at the seat. She could feel his knuckles and the back of his fingers on her thighs as she moved to pick up her own weapon.

  This was certainly something she’d never done with Herb or Harry before.

  Clayton had her back covered and she had his, and everything was working until one of the gangsters reached for the driver’s side door handle and gave it a jiggle.

  She heard the soft mechanical click of Clayton’s hammer cock back.

  “Come on,” one of them finally said. “They ain’t messing with us. Old dude’s just trying to get some. Get back to your spots.”

  Jack turned her head slightly, watching as the crew sunk back into the shadows before she finally relaxed. Both of them withdrew back to their seats and quietly rearranged their weapons and clothing.

  Jack cleared her throat and said, “Use that one a lot where you come from?”

  “Nope,” he said, working the buttons on his shirt. “Never once.”

  ALICE MCDERMOTT

  Alice opened the bathroom door. The girl was there, looking annoyed.

  “I don’t wanna stay here anymore,” Alice said.

  The girl smiled at her, and it was an ugly thing.

  “You don’t, huh? Well, tough titties, blondie. You were sold to us, and someone already bought you.”

  “Bought me?”

  “You signed a contract, remember? To get another hit?”

  Alice kind of remembered signing something, when she was with that bike gang. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

  But that couldn’t have been real. Right? People can’t buy and sell each other.

  She looked over the girl’s shoulder, to the hallway behind her.

  I could get past her. Get out of here.

  And go where?

  Does it matter? Isn’t anywhere better than here?

  “You wanna run?” the girl said. “Is that what you wanna do? Or do you want some of this?”

  She held up a syringe.

  Alice looked at the needle and ached for it.

  “Back into the cage, and you’ll get some candy. Deal, blondie?”

  Alice glanced behind the girl once more. To the hallway. To freedom.

  Then she obediently marched back to her cage, and let the heroin make life, and her, beautiful again.

  JACK DANIELS

  I looked at the clock on the dashboard. Four in the morning. The only other people on the streets now were the newspaper men and a few early morning commuters who would have to navigate several hours’ worth of buses and trains and crowded interstates to get wherever they had to go. I turned on the police radio in my car and listened, nothing but standard chatter. There was nothing happening anywhere in the world, I imagined, but at least I wasn’t in my bedroom staring at the ceiling until sunrise.

  I pulled up the data sheet on the target house and said, “There’s not even anything on paper we can use to get a search warrant. It’s owned by some old lady we’ve never had any contact with. It’s in the middle of a residential neighborhood and no one has even filed so much as a noise complaint against it. We’ve got nada.”

  Clayton’s eyes looked heavy now, like he might pass out at any moment. Finally, he said, “Listen, I a
ppreciate you coming out here with me. Why don’t you go home and get some sleep. If I see anything, I’ll call it in and hope for the best.”

  I looked at him. “You’re serious? You think I’m just gonna let you hang out here by yourself?”

  “I’ll rent a car or something.”

  “No. I’m not saying I want to bail, I’m just saying we’re not getting anywhere just sitting here. We need to come up with a new plan.”

  “What we need,” he said, “is to go into that house and take a look. If she isn’t here, we’re wasting precious time. If she is, we’re wasting precious time. Right?”

  “Barring a search warrant or some sort of exigent circumstance, I don’t see how. Unless you want to just knock on the door and see if the old lady will let us look around?”

  “Not particularly,” he said. “I can picture them cutting her throat in the basement while the old lady stalls us on the porch and tells us to get lost.”

  I sighed and leaned back in my seat, trying to get comfortable. “I am open for suggestions, then, but we have to do something.”

  Clayton looked at the house, then at me, then said, “All right.” He lifted up from the seat and reached for his wallet, pulling it out and opening the top fold to look at the money inside. There wasn’t much. He peeked behind the credit cards in the middle flap and then stuck one of his fingers way down inside it, tugging and turning the wallet until he came out with a folded hundred dollar bill.

  “I keep it there for emergencies,” he said.

  He moved to get out of the car and I said, “Want to clue me in?”

  He left without replying. I watched him hurry down to the end of the street and stand on the corner, hands stuffed in his pockets, checking in every direction like he was waiting for a ride. A pair of headlights shined on him as a large older-model Buick came up the block and he held his hands in the air and started waving them, flagging the person down.

  The car stopped and Clayton said something to the driver. The driver said something back, and Clayton held up the hundred dollar bill. The driver waved for him to come over and handed him his cellphone. Clayton took the phone, spoke very rapidly into it, saying something specific over and over. I could only make out his tone and emphatic hand movements, but then he hung up the phone and handed it back to the driver, then started up the street back to my car.

  He got in and pulled the door shut behind him and I said, “And that was…?”

  “Is your police radio on?” he said.

  I nodded.

  “Get ready to go.”

  I looked back at the radio and the dispatcher’s voice crackled through the speaker, as if on cue. “Any units in the area of Ukrainian Village, be advised we have the report of a female screaming someone is keeping her hostage in one of the residences. Caller hung up before we could get more information.”

  I shook my head as the dispatcher gave the address of the house we were looking at, and I turned to Clayton and whispered, “You crazy son of a bitch. You paid him a hundred bucks to borrow his cell phone and call 911, and now we have probable cause. And here I was thinking you were Andy Griffith.”

  “You don’t have to come,” he said. “We can wait for a patrol car.”

  I picked up the radio mic, “This is Daniels. I’m in the area. I’ll check it out.”

  “Received,” the dispatcher said.

  “Too late to turn back now,” I said.

  Clayton watched me with a mixture of disappointment and admiration. “They don’t make them like you back home, Jacqueline. That is for sure.”

  We dropped our badges across our chests and drew our guns, crouching as we advanced on the house, trying to avoid the illuminated halo on the sidewalks from the streetlights.

  “These houses all have basement doors, accessible from the rear,” I said. “But if they’re keeping people down there, it’s likely reinforced. We’d be better off going in from the front.”

  Clayton nodded and we moved around the front of the house and made our way slowly up to the front door. He took the point and I stacked up behind him, keeping my gun aimed at the living room windows as I checked and re-checked the upstairs bedrooms for any signs of movement.

  Clayton knocked rapidly several times and said, “Police department, open up!”

  There was no answer.

  “Knock again,” I said.

  He did, and still no answer, and no sign of movement or sound from within. Clayton looked back at me and said, “This is your town. Your call.”

  We’d come this far, I told myself. I took a deep breath. “I think I heard something inside.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah,” I sighed. “Might have been someone calling for help, I think. If not, it won’t be the first time the city has bought someone a new front door. Let’s go.”

  Clayton reared back and slammed against the door hard with such force the wooden frame and lock exploded inwards, and the two of us spilled into the living room, guns drawn as we called out, “Police, nobody move!” in unison.

  No response.

  I pulled out a small flashlight from my back pocket and checked the living room. Video game and movie discs tossed everywhere. Empty beer and liquor bottles stuffed with cigarette butts. Piles of cigarettes ashes on plates strewn on every table, nightstand and shelf in the room. There were a few old couches and plastic lawn chairs surrounding a gigantic television. Whoever lived here, it wasn’t some old lady.

  Clayton kept his gun trained on the stairs leading up to the second floor, and said, “Somebody’s got to hold the stairs and somebody’s got to check the kitchen and the basement. Tell you what, stay here and I’ll go have a look.”

  I had no great desire to go down into the basement and deal with God knows what, but it was one of those situations where the man I was working with instinctively assumed I would rather do the easy job. I suppose it was born of some deep-rooted chivalrous instinct. No good cop was gonna stand aside and let a lady get spiders in her hair if he could help it. That’s the reason I pushed past him and said, “If you’re afraid of the dark, just say so, Cole.”

  He smiled and said, “Holler if you need anything.”

  It was so dark anyone could have come down the steps with a shotgun and blasted him before he knew they were there, but I needed my flashlight too much to hand it over to him. Before I could say anything Clayton reached for the barrel of his handgun and flicked a switch, casting a blue cone of light on the steps that was bright enough to see with and dim enough to not raise suspicions. I looked at the light assembly mounted to his gun and said, “Pretty fancy.”

  “It helps when you’re the guy who decides what to spend the budget on,” he said. “Not bad for Mayberry, eh?”

  I inched past him and braced against the corner of the open doorway leading into the kitchen. I did a quick-peek, snapping my face and gun into the kitchen for a millisecond before I yanked back. I hadn’t seen anything. I bent down a little and did it again, going in low enough that if someone was expecting me to pop back in at the same spot, the bullet would fly over my head and I’d punch two rounds in their chest.

  Still nothing.

  I wound my way into the kitchen slowly, cutting the pie as I moved sideways, keeping my gun ahead of me, ready to fire at the first thing I saw. All I saw were more bottles. More cigarettes. Jesus, these people were doing their part to keep cancer researchers employed.

  The basement door was at the back of the kitchen, behind a set of mismatched chairs and a poker table covered with dirty paper plates and plastic cups. I kicked aside the trash blocking the basement door and took a deep breath before opening it. The boiler hummed noisily and the warped wooden stairs sunk in as I descended. There were cobwebs everywhere. Nobody had been down the steps in a while. I took the steps slowly, checking the corners, making sure I got eyes on any crevice deep enough for someone to hide in.

  I checked the boiler and the hot water heater and under the slop sink and around the sides o
f the washer and dryer. Nothing. On a whim I opened the dryer and looked in. Any doubts I had about this being the right house vanished and I turned and raced back up the steps.

  COLE CLAYTON

  Daniels burst into the kitchen and hurried to get behind Clayton, putting her hand on his shoulder and saying, “I think your intel from the Poops was good.”

  “Why?” he said.

  “They’ve got a photography studio in the basement. Lighting, backdrops, whole rack of sleazy underwear in a bunch of different sizes. My guess, they’re making the girls pose for pictures to send to potential buyers.”

  “This floor is empty. That leaves upstairs.”

  Clayton turned the blue light of his gun on the uppermost step and they moved in unison up the staircase, both of their guns trained on the hallway above as they crested the landing, searching for threats. They crept quietly on the worn carpet, Jack taking the left side of the hall, aiming her weapon on the first closed door on her side as Clayton said, “Open door on the right.”

  He turned with his gun into the doorway and said, “Bathroom. It’s clear. Filthy, but clear.”

  They were about to move toward her door when it opened softly. Clayton’s gun light framed the doorway in dark blue as a young woman with a face as old as Methuselah and the physique of a starving twelve-year old stopped at the sight of them. The large circles under her eyes were black in that light as she stood there blinking at them. The skin around her mouth was stretched into a tight grimace as she said, “Hey.”

  “Hey,” Jack whispered.

  “You here to see Sergei?”

  Jack and Clayton looked at one another and then Jack said, “Yeah. Is there anybody else?”

  “Not tonight,” the girl said. “They come by in the afternoon. You got any dope?”

  “We’re on our way to get it,” Clayton said.

  “Come see me when you do,” she said, pushing back from the doorway to shuffle through a field of debris as she headed back into the room. “I’m almost out and I’ll be hurting by tomorrow. I’ll take care of you, whatever you need for it.”