The Blood Dahlia (The Dark Angel Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  The coolness of the room exploded in against his skin. A pair of hands were exploring the left side of his back before he could roll over to cover the poor patch job he’d attempted with a gauze pad and white tape. It had been good enough to keep it from bleeding through his clothes for the last day or so, but that was about it. When he got home last night, he’d neglected to change it out. The white gauze was now a soaked, bloody mess. Luckily for Lynch, before Gina started turning tricks for the wealthy and powerful, she was a hell of a nurse. A skill she used to stitch him up more times than he could count.

  “I have seen worse. What was it? Looks like a seven inch blade. Didn’t go deep, but cut clean.”

  “I ran into a corner,” he answered. As far as he could guess, she was right though. About every type of blade, shape, size, and edge had contacted his skin through the years. He even felt he could tell the blade geometry based on how it cut or tore his flesh.

  Her hands probed the gash, inside and out. “A corner. That corner had a handle and was slashed across you, not a puncture thrust. Good thing, your kidneys are just behind it. I may be good, but I can’t stitch that for you. You would have to make a visit for that.” She pinched the skin together at the top and bottom of the cut and made a few sounds.

  “Looks good,” said Totter.

  “I think so, too. Good thing this was a clean slash. It won’t leave much of a scar, not that it matters, it will just blend in with the rest of them back here. Before I start, do you want the juice?”

  “Hell yeah, T, go get me a scotch.”

  “Not what I meant,” Gina said

  Lynch moaned, “I know. Go ahead.”

  He lay still while there were a series of pinches, sticks, and tugs on his back. None were painful. The sensation of pain was something of a distant memory that he’d parted ways with decades ago. Left lying in a pile with it on the roadway of life were the emotions of regret and remorse. Each were things he had to part with. If he didn’t, the path he chose, if it really were a choice, would have eaten him alive from the inside.

  “So, which one of them was it? Teddy? Cortez? I know it wasn’t Georgie, he ain’t got the balls to use a blade.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Lynch. There was a little pause between “you” and “are” as the cold point of a hypodermic needle pressed into his flesh, delivering antibiotics. He may have been disposed of pain years ago, but infection stops for no one.

  “Of course, you don’t. I am sure you know nothing about them being tied to a hydrant over on 4th, either.”

  “Lucas mentioned something about it to me last night. Good thing for Lucas.”

  “I am all done,” Gina slapped him right on the spot she’d just finished stitching up. It didn’t hurt him any, but Lynch knew she enjoyed testing the theory.

  “Should make his job easier,” he continued as he sat up in bed. The room spun a little as he pushed up to his feet. The legs below his waist were skilled at steadying a world that moved around him. There weren’t many mornings that things didn’t seem out of sort at first, at least until he took his first steps. He pulled on a clean undershirt. The one he wore last night still lay on the floor where he’d dropped it. A large stain of dark red eliminated the chance it would be worn again. He kicked it toward the trash bin in the corner. One of its brothers sat inside the bin, with a similar stain and a large slice through it.

  “That was nice you did that for your old partner.”

  Lynch turned around, toward the middle-aged blonde that had just stitched him up. He half expected to see her in a mid-rift top, mini-skirt, and twelve inch heels, but instead she stood there in a sundress with her hair pulled back. The image, combined with his quick spin, sent the world out of balance yet again, but only for a few seconds. “I had nothing to do with it. I told him as much last night.”

  “Of course,` you didn’t. You haven’t done anything like that in what 8 years-”

  Lynch interrupted, “NEVER!”

  Gina continued, unfazed, while she packed up her Lynch-repair-kit and put it back in her purse. “You were good at your job. Why you ever handed in your badge, will remain a mystery to me.”

  “No mystery. Too many rules, and they got rid of the guns. That neural taser shit don’t work.” It was true, it wasn’t a mystery. The rules the force had, and their new commitment to reduced violence, didn’t work well with Lynch. He saw each rule as more of a challenge to his authority and responsibility. Speed bumps to make their job, which was hard enough as it was, a little bit harder. That is why the private side of the job was so appealing. He could dance the fine line between private life and law enforcement, and not answer to anyone but himself, and that was fine by him.

  4

  Spiders still crawled along the cobwebs in Lynch’s brain as he pulled down the alley and around the back to his parking spot, right between the dumpster from the cleaners and the Chinese restaurant that were located on the ground floor. He always found it interesting that Mr. Wong owned the cleaners, but Mr. Lopez owned the restaurant. One of the few mysteries in life he pondered, but never asked. Each spent a good amount of the time pissed off at him for bumping their trash from time to time. Bumping may be a loose description of the impact. A little more than just a bump was needed to knock over

  the 10x8 dumpsters, spilling the contents of the rotting food or cleaning chemicals out into the alley. The way he saw it, asking a question that might be considered racist would just add more fuel to the fire, or rotting food to the pile.

  The stairs shook as he walked up. They always did, so he knew it wasn’t his legs and current state of inebriation. He’d called his landlord a few times to see if they could be fixed. He said, “I will fix them as soon as your white ass falls through them”, so Lynch wasn’t holding his breath. There was a set at the front that his clients used, they were better, and inside, with a carpet runner. Well, the runner was now two lines of faded red carpet going up, the center had been worn through over the last several decades.

  Lynch walked in the front door, a door he never felt the need to lock, and past the front desk. “Any messages?” he asked out loud. “Good,” he replied to the imaginary response from his receptionist that didn’t exist. He could hire one, but he didn’t need one. If he ever caved in and did, it would just be for show, to be like those on the upper east side in their nice clean shiny offices. If he ever did that, those that knew him would know he’d finally cracked, and they should put him out of his misery.

  The inner door to his office was open, and he walked in and slammed it shut, rattling the glass in the frame. He plopped his weight down into his wooden office chair, causing a groan from the spring. As part of his daily ritual, he pulled out the second drawer to his left. Then he removed his sidearm from the holster under his left arm and placed the gun in the drawer, muzzle facing forward, cocked, with the handle toward him. This wasn’t out of fear, but he wanted to be sure in case someone came around looking for trouble, he needed to be ready to let his big dog bark.

  Lynch opened the bottom drawer on the right and pulled out a half-empty bottle of scotch and a dirty glass. A quick yank of his shirt pulled out the shirt tail that was tucked into his pants. That became a makeshift towel as he used it to polish the residue out of the glass. Once it was clean enough to see through, he poured himself a drink, tucked his shirt back in, and flipped on the television. Like at home, he clicked through channel after channel, avoiding the 24-hour news channels, local news shows, investigative shows, or anything that came close to resembling them. The pace slowed down as he cycled through various all-day sports networks. Most were in the middle of their version of morning news shows to show highlights of the night before. There weren’t any to see from his game, from what he remembers, so kept changing. It finally landed on something he could enjoy, an axe throwing contest.

  The two competitors, dressed in jeans and flannel shirts with large sponsorship tags on them, took turns throwing an axe at a tar
get painted on a large stump. Now that is a sport you shouldn’t let anyone with an imbalance take part in, Lynch thought. “Here is Red, he is competing against Willis for the national championship today. Willis goes first. Oh, so close. Almost a bullseye,” he mocked out loud. “Wait, Red. Wait. You have to wait. Oh, I am sorry fans. Red didn’t wait on Willis to retrieve his axe before he threw. It split poor Willis right in two.”

  The race of sirens down the road behind him pulled him away from finding ways to improve the sport. He spun around and peeked through his dusty blinds. Two black and whites chased two people on a motorcycle. Inside, he knew they didn’t have a chance. The motorcycle had better acceleration, braking, and maneuvering than the cruisers. Something he’d learned early on, during his days as a patrol officer. The chase was worthless, use the radio to set up roadblocks to catch them. More effective and doesn’t put the public at risk. Not that there was anyone at risk. The sidewalk was empty, mostly. None of the living were walking on either side. A few from the other world that invaded his, like he did theirs, were passing by. Another of the benefits of his gift, and one he ignored unless it was useful. Lynch was just happy he didn’t recognize them. It was bad enough for their screams to invade his sleep. He didn’t need their spirits hanging around.

  As he leaned back from the window, his eyes caught sight of a picture on the bureau. It was one of those frames that had a medal pinned on a board on the left side, and a picture on the right. The picture was of a sleek and trim looking officer, in a pressed black uniform, shaking the hand of another person wearing the same uniform, but with more hardware dangling from it. The medal pinned to the board was a distinguished service medal presented to him in 2037, just a year after he’d joined the detective ranks, and three years before he left the force altogether.

  The medal should be a sense of honor to him, and in some ways it was. It reminded him of the two lives he’d saved, but the verbiage on the medal was a farce. There was no distinguished service involved in it at all. He was following up the lead for another case and lucked into discovering two young girls in the backseat of a car.

  Just that morning there was a missing person alert sent out to them for a Mary Beth and Melissa Anderson, sisters, one eight and the other six. They were taken, or went missing, from their home the night before, just before dusk. Like many cases, their parents were the last ones to see them. You could tell when each of the detectives reached that part of the briefing, by that sigh, groan, or moan that echoed through the collective office space. History had taught each of them, these cases always ended with the same outcome. Bodies found, and one of the parents accused of a crime that would haunt the investigators for years.

  When he headed out, he put that page in his notebook, but never gave it another thought. There were bigger fish for him to fry that day. Over the last month there had been frequent discoveries of body parts around town. The coroner was piecing together who they belonged to, but Lynch’s job was to find who was murdering them and distributing them around. In the prior weeks, he’d shaken the trees of the regulars to see what might shake out. Now he was heading back into those neighborhoods to see if anything had fallen.

  One of his favorite tactics was to ask so many questions they eventually make someone uncomfortable enough to turn stool pigeon and talk. The top level of the various crime families and drug gangs never talked. He didn’t expect them to, and if they did, he wouldn’t believe a word they said. They had nothing to gain by telling him the truth, but everything to gain by pushing him in the wrong direction. The local informant, or lower level stooge that was disposable, was always looking for an angle to play in advance of his next incarceration. Those are the ones Lynch wanted to shake, and in this particular neighborhood he knew who he needed to shake, Jimmie McHale.

  Jimmie McHale was the do nothing, mean nothing, low-level pot pusher. His bosses didn’t trust him with much of their product because he had a habit of getting pinched. Get a few grams of their stuff taken and destroyed, they will let you swing in the breeze in the system, but forgive you once you get out. Get pounds or more taken and destroyed, you better beg for a life sentence just for protection. Even then, each of the families had people on the inside that would take care of business.

  Lynch found Jimmie where he always was, the corner of 17th and 22nd. Jimmie saw him coming from two blocks away and walked in the other direction. Lynch followed and picked up his pace. He said to himself over and over, “Don’t run, Jimmie, don’t run.” He wasn’t that concerned about him running and getting away. Not only was Jimmie a dealer, but also a regular user. His mid-30s body had the lung capacity of an eighty-year-old, Lynch would either catch him on the run, or catch up with him after he collapsed to the ground. His concern was about Jimmie making a scene, for his sake. There were always a lot of eyes around, watching.

  “Lynch, I got nothing to say to you,” he yelled back at him from half a block away.

  Lynch thought, Damn, idiot. You just gave yourself away to everyone watching. He continued to follow him down the street. While Lynch walked a straight line, Jimmie weaved back and forth, bouncing off parked cars and storefronts like a pinball. His long lanky legs kept getting wrapped around one another, making his attempt to get away more of a comedic stumble.

  With every step Lynch closed in on him, until he could grab him by the collar of the “Got Weed?” t-shirt he wore. He whipped Jimmie across the sidewalk like a rag-doll, sending him crashing into a parked car. “Not real smart, making a scene like that. I’ll be shocked if you survive the night,” Lynch said as he strolled over to Jimmie’s slumping body. He grabbed him around the throat and helped him stand up straight, leaning him back over the roof of the car.

  “I just wanted to talk to an old friend,” he said.

  Jimmie croaked out from under the pressure of Lynch’s grip, “Got nothing for you.”

  A group of bystanders gathered on the sidewalk behind them and across the street. Violence was far from a stranger in this part of town, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be an audience. A fact that Lynch always found interesting. Plenty of people see everything, but no one saw anything. Snitches lived in the ditches. To put the group at ease, or to disperse them in a hurry, Lynch used his free hand to brush the edge of his brown suit coat up and over the edge of the badge hanging on his belt. It did the trick. The blue shield pressed on a star of shiny tin sent everyone back to their business, and he returned to his, Jimmie.

  “I am sure you don’t.” Lynch proceeded to search his suspect with his free hand. “You never do, but…,” he paused and pulled out a bag of finely chopped greenery and plopped it on the top of the trunk. As he did, his eyes caught a sight through the back window. Two girls were tied up and bound on the floorboard. One wore pink shorts, and a white shirt with what looked like a unicorn head visible. The other, denim shorts, pink shoes, black shirt, and a pink band in her hair. He had seen that description before, the pink hair-tie stuck out at him. Even if he hadn’t, the sight of two girls, under ten years of age, bound and gagged in the back of a truck, was enough for him to act.

  Lynch let go of Jimmie and pulled out his service revolver. He coiled up with his right hand and punched with the handle. Jimmie dropped to the ground to avoid being hit, but he was not the target. The back window smashed into balls of turquoise safety glass.

  “Go!” Jimmie did as ordered and crawled along the curb to get away as Lynch reached inside the car to open the back door. Out of the corner of his eye, Lynch saw Jimmie sneaking his hand up to the top of the trunk. “Leave it and go!”, Lynch ordered. “Get out of here before I feel less generous.” Jimmie made it to his feet and took off running, looking over his shoulder every few steps.

  The girls were crying inside, and Lynch did all he could to comfort them with his less-than-soothing voice. He pulled each out of the floorboard and sat them in the seat, removing the fabric that was wrapped around their heads, covering their mouths. They both cried and screamed until he reach
ed back and pulled his badge free from its place on his belt and showed it to them. “You’re safe,” he said. The sight of the badge quieted the crying, but didn’t dismiss the fear in their eyes.

  They both sat in the back of the car they had been held in while he called it in. What he would have given for that crowd of onlookers now. Of course, though, the sound of kids screaming didn’t bring a soul to the scene. A quick check of the car showed no tags or visible VIN plate. Someone had scratched it off. If he had to bet, the one that was located on the engine block was in the same shape, if it was there at all.

  “Officer,” said a voice behind Lynch, who spun around with his hand resting on the grip of his revolver. The simple-looking bald man, with glasses and a cookie duster mustache, held up both hands to show he was not holding anything. He wore an apron that had several stains on it over his white button-up shirt and black trousers. “If you would like, they can sit in my restaurant. They might be more comfortable.”

  “Huh?”

  “The girls,” he said. “I saw you break the window and get them out. They might be more comfortable inside. I can get them some water.”

  Behind the man was a hole in the wall restaurant with a large glass-front window with a tattered and dirty awning over it. Lynch looked at the girls and noticed it was probably traumatic to be forced to sit in the same car they were held in while he waited for more help to arrive. He said nothing, just nodded an acceptance and gathered the girls.

  It was obvious the shop owner was a parent. In an instant, both girls were sucking a cold soda through straws. Their feet swung above the ground from the bench they sat on. If you didn’t know what they had been through, and where Lynch had found them, you would think they were out for a pleasant lunch with their family.

  The local news called him a hero and covered the distinguished service medal ceremony. The next night, those same local news shows were interviewing people who lived in that area who saw the decorated cop choking an innocent man up against a car. The irony was not lost on Lynch, or his partner Lucas. If someone was murdered in a crowded street, no one saw anything, but if a cop is a little rough with a known drug dealer in the search for details or something even more dangerous, everyone sees it. The complaints grew into multiple days of coverage, with each story becoming more and more violent. Three days after receiving the distinguished service medal, they handed him a letter of reprimand for conduct unbecoming.