Cutting Edge Read online

  Damned nasty enough threat, he thought. But cops who've felt wronged had been known to use strong language. The other guy wanted to do him in, but the more controlled guy, the one who held the knife and kept calling him son, had balked at actually sticking Lucas with the pitchfork he was waving about.

  Fred Amelford was a lanky giant, a senior detective at the Twenty-second Precinct, and the apelike arms that'd draped over Lucas could've been his. The phantom in the dark had called his accomplice by the term partner, or had Lucas heard it wrong, had he said Pardee? And there was another word they used that sounded like a name, Sanger. But that must've been the daze talking.

  Pardee and Amelford. Fill in the blanks, he told himself now. Most likely a strong dose of warning to butt out of the Mootry investigation, to stay off their turf. He had imagined they would be pissed, but he hadn't bargained on this pissed.

  He had managed to pull to his knees and pull his bag to him, holding it now like a shield against the pain and humiliation they had visited upon him tonight. He prayed they had not gone from here to Meredyth's place, but he rather doubted this.

  He had to get to his feet, get his door opened, find the elevator and his apartment, telephone to be certain she was all right.

  It seemed simple enough, but it took him fifteen minutes to manage what was normally done in an easy three. Once inside the hallway, he'd collapsed again. Whoever hit him had used a military blow, the kind that could stop a Mack truck. He managed to get to the elevator but couldn't focus on the buttons. He played with them for quite some time before he found his floor.

  Once he got to his door, he began having more trouble fitting the key into the lock when a neighbor stepped out to ask if he was all right. The neighbor took him for drunk, came over and sorted out his problem for him and got him through the door and stretched out on the couch. The man was known only by his last name, Fleckner, a thin, raggedy man with beady eyes and the snout of a Manhattan rat, the smell of cheap whiskey lifting off him like heat off a Texas blacktop. In fact, he looked like someone on the run, and each time Lucas had seen him in the past, he'd seemed to skulk down the hallway rather than walk. Still, tonight he was welcome help.

  “You okay, pal?” he asked when Lucas was laid out on his bed. “Christ, you're bleeding. I'll get a towel.”

  Fleckner was as good as his word, finding a towel and stanching the flesh wounds. “Damn, somebody's took a knife to your throat. We gotta call 911 or an ambulance or something.”

  “No, no calls, no doctors, but if you could drag the phone over here, I'd appreciate it.”

  Fleckner was standing over Lucas in only his underwear. “Sure... sure, if that's the way you want it, but if you go and bleed to death, it ain't Morris Fleckner's fault.”

  'The phone, please.”

  Fleckner frowned, chewed his gums a bit, and finally nodded. “It's your funeral.” He mumbled disapproving words under his breath.

  Stonecoat thanked his neighbor and told him he'd be fine, and that Fleckner shouldn't bother himself a moment more with him. “Please, just go now. I'm fine, really.”

  “You don't want to call the cops ner nothin'?”

  “I... I am a cop.”

  “Geezus, I didn't know. Damn, you, you sure don't look like no cop I ever saw.” He said it as if, had he known, he might not have offered help to begin with. As if he might be a fugitive whose face had appeared on America's Most Wanted.

  “Thanks again,” Lucas called out to the retreating ghostly figure.

  Morris Fleckner's only reply was the closing of the door behind him as the ill-looking, hungry-eyed man left.

  Lucas quickly telephoned Meredyth, who picked up on the third ring.

  “It's me, Lucas,” he muttered.

  'This is getting to be a bad habit with you,” she responded. “I thought you said you were bushed. You know, your insomnia shouldn't have to involve me, and another thing—”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I'm fine. Why shouldn't I be?”

  “I had a little visit from the boys working the Mootry case. Least, I think it was them.” He coughed uncontrollably, the pain in his ribs excruciating.

  “Oh, no. I hope there wasn't any trouble.”

  He managed to get control. “Not too terribly much.”

  “But there was some?”

  “I just wanted to be sure they... they weren't harassing you tonight, too.”

  “Me? Why should they? I didn't break their yellow tape.”

  “No, but they mentioned you prominently when they threatened my life.”

  “Holy... they threatened your life? Those creeps. Are you hurt?”

  “Not too.”

  “How about them? Did you hurt them good?”

  He would have liked to answer in the affirmative. Instead, he stuck with, “Not too.”

  “Aren't you going to give me any of the details? What is it with you and details?”

  “Mere... think I'm go... ing... hang up now.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Fine. Good”—he held himself together—”night.” He quickly hung up. In a few minutes, he passed out again, thinking, Damn, that SOB hits harder than a tree falling, and my neck's going to be as stiff as a pine tomorrow—if I ever wake up again.

  Earlier in the evening, Randy Oglesby had telephoned Dr. Sanger, but he'd gotten no answer. He didn't want to leave a message of such importance as he had on her answering machine, so he cut off before the beep. He tried Stonecoat at home, having gotten his number from the personnel files on the Net. Once again, no answer, and this time no answering machine.

  He had made second and third attempts to get in touch, finally assuming that so much work had confronted them in Oregon that they had had to stay over. He wondered if anything of a romantic nature was taking place between them, but rather doubted this since Dr. Sanger was always and forever talking about her beau—her swain, her suitor, her escort, her fiancee, Conrad, ugh! Conrad could, according to Dr. Sanger, become the next Newton or Einstein or Stephen Hawking, he was that brilliant. Bullshit.

  But he didn't care tonight one way or the other about Dr. Sanger's boyfriend, because he couldn't believe his own great fortune. Not only had Darlene Muentes been petite, beautiful, and exotic, but she had laughed at all his stories in the right places, had gone somber during all his stories at the right moments, and had thrilled to the adventure of his police detective's life. She was so enthralled that she wanted to see him again. Life was grand as Jim Pardee.

  Darlene, to save time, had brought the two goblets and the bill directly to him when they met for lunch. It had been an exquisite lunch meeting. God, he thought now, what a rush!

  Randy had praised Darlene for her sense of duty in getting the evidence back into his hands as quickly as she had. She shyly accepted the compliment, eating like a butterfly trying on a horse's appetite. She was so well-mannered and delicate, but she certainly could pack the food away. There was something about that he liked.

  He had been pleasantly surprised that she found him good-looking—a real “hunk,” as she'd put it. She had confessed to having never met anyone over the phone before. He told her he had never met anyone in any “blind” way before, but that her voice just rang so pure and clear, like a bell in a wooded glen. She giggled at the image and wondered if he was lying.

  She had no idea, not a clue.

  It was great. Detective Randy Jim Pardee Oglesby thought now as he made his way to dreamland and found Darlene Muentes waiting there for him. Their next date was for Saturday night. He could hardly wait.

  He gave a momentary thought to Dr. Meredyth Sanger, to whom he owed so much for getting him placed in the hierarchy of the support staff at the station. He had secretly admired her all the time they'd been together, but she was way out of his league and much older, which meant about ten years his senior. Still, he knew the odds of his ever interesting her romantically were as astronomical as winning the Texas State Lottery or of the Houston Astro
s ever again having a pitcher as good as Nolan Ryan, the first man in history to strike out four thousand batters.

  Surrounded by this swirl of thought, light and apprehension, Randy Oglesby slept, Judge Mootry's goblets sitting atop his bookcase, the lab results beside the glasses, the bill below this.

  TWENTY

  A little makeup applied professionally by the barber down the street, and Lucas's unkind wounds were made to pretty well disappear. It beat a giant Band-Aid, he decided. The neck was, as he'd predicted, stiff as a board, and his head still ached somewhat dully, but he was otherwise well. It had been the massive, bear like blow to the back of his head that had wreaked most of the havoc. When he had stepped over his blood in the gutter this morning, the sight made him boil and seethe with anger.

  He wasn't used to being taken so easily. Maybe he should let it go, but his pride was bruised along with his neck.

  He and Sanger were to have met with Lawrence at nine, which time had come and gone an hour ago. He supposed that now not only would Sergeant Kelton be pissed, but the captain and Sanger as well; but there was no reason Mere couldn't advise Phil on her own about what they'd found in Medford, Oregon.

  He had slept until the phone rang. It was Kelton who had made the wake-up call, saying that Dr. Sanger was worried about him when he didn't show up at nine, and that if it wasn't bothering Stonecoat too awfully, would he get his bloody arse up and onto his duties! The last phrase was delivered in an earsplitting, painful war cry.

  “I'm on my way. I had a little medical emergency last night, Sarge,” he had replied.

  Now he was stepping through the doors to face Kelton, Lawrence and Sanger together. He hoped none would see the fresh wounds on his neck.

  Kelton immediately and silently, his anger rising off him like steam, escorted Lucas to Lawrence's door, announcing him as if he were the king of Siam, bowing loudly and exaggeratedly, making Stonecoat frown and blush at once.

  'That's not necessary, Sergeant,” said Phil Lawrence, dismissing Kelton. Meredyth stood in one comer of the room. “I'm told by Dr. Sanger you had some sort of brush last night with Pardee and Amelford from the Twenty-second.

  Is that right?”

  “Yeah, a slight brush, sir.”

  “Those boys can get rough.”

  “So I've noticed, sir.”

  “Have a seat, Lucas.

  “ Lucas did as told.

  “Dr. Sanger here's brought me up to speed on what you two found up in Medford. Damned strangebusiness... damned strange, wouldn't you say? Insane, really. What do you make of it?”

  “Like you say, sir, insane.”

  “Some kind of sociopath on the loose?”

  “If so, there're more than one.”

  He nodded. “Yes, Dr. Sanger told me about your theory. Well, there's no shortage of sociopaths who meet in prison, team up after they're released to work in tandem. The literature of crime is filled with team killers. What's next, you two?”

  “We're not sure just yet, sir, what our next step will be,” Lucas quickly said, “but I think we'll start talking to some of the hunting goods outlets and maybe some of the hunt club types around Houston, if that meets with your approval, sir.”

  “Hunt clubs? You know that involves some big muckety-muck types. No lowlife joins a Houston hunt club that I know of.”

  “No, sir, I mean, yes, sir, I know. Have it in my head, sir, that we're not dealing with the usual criminal element, sir.”

  “Really, now. Then what kind of criminal element are we dealing with, Lucas?”

  “High rollers, sir. Timothy Little was a rich man, and so was Mootry. They traveled in different circles, sir, but one thing they had in common was a lot of money to leave behind. Dr. Sanger's promised to look into their wills and scour for who stood to gain the most on their parting. Captain. Meanwhile, I thought I'd ask around at the local hunting goods outlets and clubs about members who prefer the crossbow to, say, a Remington automatic, sir.”

  “Sounds like a plan.

  Okay, you two... keep on it, run with it, and keep me apprised every step of the way.

  Do you understand that? I'll talk to the twenty-second guys.”

  After the perfunctory yes, sirs, bowing, and scraping, Lucas and Meredyth emerged. Meredyth was wearing a lime-green suit that made her look more youthful and beautiful than ever, he thought. “What is our next move?” Lucas asked.

  “Randy's got something for us,” she said, “on the goblets.”

  “Oh, yeah? What'd he find out?”

  The goblets were returned to him.”

  “Returned to him?” Lucas was amazed, nonplussed.

  “Whoever gave him the goblets thought he was Detective Pardee. “He joked, “Who could possibly make such a mistake?”

  “In any case, there were trace elements of sedatives, nothing particularly potent, but alongside the brandy, enough to induce sleep.

  And fingerprints?

  “Just as you predicted, wiped completely clean.”

  “And the paperwork, the bill from the lab?”

  She fetched it from her purse. “It's all yours. Do with it what you like.”

  He grimaced.

  “Don't be silly. I'm just teasing. Randy's already put it into the electronic maze. No one will ever know.”

  “So, where do we go from here?” Stonecoat asked.

  “I'm going to see Covey. I've already arranged it with him. He's anxious for company.”

  He darkened his gaze. “I'll bet he is. You weren't going to go see him alone this morning, without me, were you?”

  “He sounded real nice over the phone,” she said defensively.

  “I'll bet he did.”

  “Come on, Lucas. He's incarcerated.”

  “Exactly where is he being held?”

  'The new state pen at Hempstead. It's an hour's drive west.”

  “Hempstead, really? I thought he'd be in Huntsville. Damn, I was planning to introduce you to my folks out at the res.”

  “Huntsville's become too overcrowded. They opened a new state facility in Hempstead, much to the displeasure of the locals there.”

  “You driving?”

  “I know the way.”

  “Let's go see Mr. Covey, then.”

  “I got to thinking over what you said about Covey and Felipe, and it makes sense to see what we can shake loose from the man.”

  “Damn it, you were planning to go see him without me, weren't you?”

  “I wasn't going to wait around all morning for you, no.” She frowned and relented somewhat, adding, “Just where've you been, anyway? I telephoned your place this morning, but there was no answer.”

  Apparently, he had slept through the ringing phone, or else she had called while he was out having his neck wounds cosmetically covered at the barber's. “Let's just say I was out...”

  “Lucas, you wearing makeup? You don't have a secret life I don't know about, do you? What're those marks on your throat?” she asked.

  “God, you can be so nosy.” He grimaced and swore again. He'd paid the barber well, but apparently it was for naught.

  “I thought we were just getting to the point where we could be open and honest with one another, partner,” she complained.

  “I'll tell you about it on the way to Hempstead.

  “Deal”.

  As they were about to leave, Sergeant Kelton stopped Stonecoat in his tracks. “We got some settling up to do, mister.”

  “Sergeant,” began Dr. Sanger.

  “Ma'am, this is between Officer Stonecoat and me, ma'am.”

  “It's Doctor, Sergeant,” she countered, “and at the moment, Officer Stonecoat and I are working on special assignment for Captain Lawrence. If you've got a beef, take it up with Lawrence.”

  He just stared at her, chewing on his next move. Then he stepped aside and watched them, his intent narrow eyes never leaving them as they disappeared out the door.

  Damn it, thought Kelton, this means I gotta find someone
else to hold the keys to the Cold Room today. I wonder if Lawrence has a clue to the workload that goes by the wayside when he does shit like this. I wonder if Commander Bryce has any idea what goes on. Wonder if I should call Bryce on such petty matters. Maybe he'd give it some thought over a cup of coffee.

  But the coffee didn't help Kelton's disposition any. Soon after, he stalked off to see if he could shake anything loose from Captain Lawrence as to what gives with letting the Indian run in and out as freely as if he were a full-blown detective. Besides, he didn't like things going on in the precinct he knew nothing about.

  For one, it wasn't fair—not if he was responsible for the duty logs.

  Hempstead in Waller County was a picture-perfect, quiet little town with white picket fences, red mailboxes, lovely farms, schools and churches, not a one of which was in ill repair or need of painting. It was as if the town provided the paint. There were no overturned trash cans, discarded sofas, abandoned bikes, or a scrap of paper out of place, and this without a single warning sign about littering. The grass was greener, the sky bluer, the paint on the homes newer than any place Lucas Stonecoat had ever seen. There were no broken-down hovels, no ramshackle shacks, no ancient automobile relics or appliances on people's lawns or porches. It was as if those who'd dared these transgressions in the past were immediately run out of town. The main roads were narrow and the lines freshly painted.

  Only the state penitentiary on the outskirts of town detracted from the Disney appearance of the place.

  “You'd never know the place was once called Six-shooter Junction, would you?” she asked.

  “No, but I've heard that it once was. That it was a wild and woolly place for decades after the Civil War.”