Death of the Black Widow Page 2

  Walter squeezed his cane and quickly turned, started toward the stairs. “Shoot up the entrance! Keep them inside! Sealey, reposition—you’ve been spotted—I’m going down there!”

  He limped into the open stairwell and started down; his chest began burning before he made it halfway. By the time he reached the ground level and pushed through the door out onto the sidewalk, he was coughing again. Blood stained his chin.

  As the door swung shut behind him, three Detroit PD squad cars squealed to a halt on Park. Four more came in from Woodward. One ambulance. No, two. More sirens screamed in the distance.

  Walter looked up and down the various roads and cursed when he didn’t see it. “Where’s the truck?”

  No response.

  “Where’s the damn truck!?”

  “Couple minutes out,” Sealey replied. “Five. Maybe ten.”

  Too slow. Shit.

  Walter shook his head. “Nobody makes a move without my order. This isn’t a firefight with the locals. I don’t want it to turn into that. Remember your instructions.”

  “You’re sure about this?” Red asked. “This is what you want?”

  Pivoting on his cane, Walter stumbled toward the center of the intersection, lowered his broken body until he was kneeling on the ground, and set his cane at his side. He had both hands above his head when a patrol car skidded to an awkward stop about ten feet to his left.

  What Walter wanted didn’t much matter anymore. He’d be dead in an hour.

  Chapter

  2

  “You sure you heard screaming?”

  The elderly woman from 1A clearly didn’t like cops. But she had only needed a moment to size up Officer Herb Nadler from behind the safety chain on her door before deciding he wasn’t a threat. She unlatched the chain and stepped out into the hallway to get as close to his face as her five-foot-nothing frame would allow. She barely gave Walter O’Brien a second glance, flat-out dismissed him before bobbing her head back at the stairwell. “I ain’t never said it was screaming; I said howls. Up in 2D. You need to do something about it. Can’t let it go on another night.”

  “Howls? What, like a hurt dog?” Nadler asked.

  “Yeah, but not a dog. It was a person.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Think I would have called if I wasn’t?”

  Her faded pink terry-cloth robe fell open again and she made no effort to close it. She was wearing a ratty Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes T-shirt beneath the robe along with a pair of cutoff gray sweatpants. No bra. And that was unfortunate, as her no-bra days had ended at least fifty years ago. Purple curlers were knotted up in her hair, several held with rubber bands.

  Standing a few paces behind his new partner, Walter tried to unsee the image burned in his retinas. He hitched up his gun belt, the weight of it a constant reminder that the size was wrong. The duty officer back at the precinct had insisted he had nothing smaller when he handed the belt to Walter along with two pairs of handcuffs, knife, mace, radio, spare batteries, baton, flashlight, and other assorted odds and ends. At least thirty pounds’ worth of items, and that was before Walter added the Smith & Wesson revolver and spare ammunition he’d received the day before.

  The woman shifted her considerable bulk from her left foot to her right. “This nonsense has been going on for the better part of two weeks.”

  “Why didn’t you call sooner?”

  “I called eight times. You’re the first ones to show up. Why didn’t you come out sooner?”

  Walter’s partner gave her a blank stare. Walter knew what the man wanted to say because he’d said it in the car on the way over here—It’s snowing balls outside and cops who venture into the Forest Park corner of Detroit after eleven tend to get shot at. Half the calls that come in from this shithole are bogus, just a ploy to get a cop to drive out so the bangers have someone in uniform to shoot at. Most situations out here tend to resolve themselves, and it’s always best to question the survivors at the hospital when it’s over rather than arrive early and take part in the big show. Nadler had gone on like that for the twenty minutes it took to get here, breaking it up with complaints about having to haul a rookie like Walter (out on his first night, no less) with him on this death march.

  “It’s quiet now,” Walter pointed out, looking up the stairs.

  Her eyes became narrow slits. “And you think that’s a good thing?”

  A little boy, no more than two and wearing nothing but a loaded diaper, wandered out of the apartment, wrapped his arms around the woman’s leg, and stared up at them.

  She patted the boy’s head. “I’m gonna get back inside and put this one to bed for the third time so his momma’s got a chance at seeing him between jobs. You all get up there and take care of whatever the hell is going on, ’cause it ain’t right and nobody in the building wants to listen to it no more.”

  With that, she ushered the boy back in and slammed the door behind her, leaving Nadler and Walter alone in the hallway.

  Nadler looked back up the steps. “Ready to protect and serve?”

  Walter hitched up the belt again and swore when it dropped right back down.

  Nadler rolled his eyes. “Goddamn rookie pranks. Gonna get someone killed if they don’t stop that shit.” From his own belt, he took out a knife and held it out to Walter. “Punch out another notch before all that crap falls off you. They love to send you guys out on your first night with a belt too big, loaded up like a private marching off into the jungle on his first tour. You don’t need half that shit. When we get back out to the car, I’ll show you what you really need to carry. The rest can go in your locker. Tell anyone I helped you, and they’ll just do something else tomorrow, so it stays between us, understand?”

  “I’m fine,” Walter said, turning toward the stairs.

  “Look, you wanna wind up with that thing around your ankles while someone’s shooting at us, be my guest. If not, take the goddamn knife, hitch that thing up right, and save us both the paperwork.”

  Walter grabbed the knife, punched out a new hole, and refastened the belt. He dropped the knife back in Nadler’s hand without a word.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Nadler returned the knife and unsnapped the leather clasp on his revolver. He rested his hand on the butt. “Your gun stays put. You don’t draw unless I tell you. I don’t want you shooting anybody on your first night. Most likely, we’re looking at junkies holing up on an extended trip. A lot of ’em score horse around here, then lock themselves in and don’t come back out unless they run out of food or need to score again. I know of at least three dens just in this building where nothing else but that goes on. You go in there, you’ll find twenty bodies all lying around in their own filth, half dead, stoned out of their gourds. Most are harmless, but don’t let anyone spit on you. If they do, don’t let it get into your eyes or your mouth. You get it in your eyes or your mouth, you find the nearest sink and wash that shit out. They got whores around here with so many diseases the rats cross the street when they get too close. Take something like that home to your girlfriend, and she’s liable to cut off your pecker if it don’t fall off on its own.”

  Walter glanced back at the closed door for 1A.

  Nadler guessed exactly what was going through his head. “You’ll be arresting that kid before you know it. Ask his momma or his grandma there. They know what’s up. Just hope he sees you around enough to know your face and hesitate if he ever draws on you, so you can get a shot off first. Us versus them, rookie. Don’t ever forget that. Day you forget that is the day you die. Come on…”

  Nadler started up the worn steps then, one chubby hand on the rail, the other on his gun.

  Walter’s hand had drifted into his pocket. He rolled his fingers over the worn leather of the small dog collar he kept there. He traced the creases, the tiny holes, the edge of the metal tag. “Here we go,” he said softly, before following Nadler up the stairs.

  Chapter

  3

&nbsp
; The second floor looked no different than the first. A hundred years’ worth of paint covered the walls, peeling wallpaper beneath that. The stale air stunk of piss, and if not for the yellow light of the fluorescents dangling from the ceiling, the shadows would devour the space, making way for the roaches, spiders, rats, and mice Walter could feel watching him.

  At the top of the steps, Nadler stepped over a discarded condom and looked left and right before moving cautiously out into the hallway.

  Six apartments on this level.

  2D was the second door on the right.

  He gestured for Walter to move past him and stand on the far side of the door, then gave it a heavy-handed knock before stepping to the side himself.

  Never stand directly in front of a door—they drilled that in at the academy. If bad guys decided to shoot, they tended to aim for the center. This thought passed through Walter’s head as he pressed himself against the cracked drywall beside the door, fairly certain it would do nothing to stop a bullet if said bad guy had shitty aim or fired high and to the right instead.

  Nadler drummed his fingers over the butt of his revolver and let several seconds tick by before beating on the door again. “Police! Open up!”

  If anyone moved inside, they were quiet about it.

  Down the hall, the door to 2E opened a few inches, enough for a lanky Black teenager to get a look at what was going on. The teen’s eyes met Walter’s and he hesitated as he started to close the door, saying, “He got a girl in there.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know his name. Some white dude. Been there a couple months.”

  “Him or the girl?”

  The teen didn’t answer. Instead, he closed the door, and several locks clicked into place.

  Walter looked over at Nadler.

  Nadler was chewing the inside of his cheek. “He said he’s got a girl in there. He didn’t say against her will. Could just be a pro polishing his knob. Can’t go in without probable cause.”

  Walter looked back down the hall at 2E. “Should I get him back out here? Get something specific?”

  Nadler turned back to the door of 2D without replying.

  “He wouldn’t have said that if he didn’t think she was in trouble,” Walter continued.

  “You’re reaching, kid.”

  “Then why isn’t anyone opening the door?” Christ, Nadler’s scared, he realized. Some role model they saddled me with.

  Walter hammered at the door with the back of his fist. “We know you’re in there! Open the door. Now!”

  Nadler didn’t like that one bit. He glared at Walter and shook his head. “Goddamn rookie,” he muttered. “Wanna get killed on day one?”

  From behind the door came a thump.

  A loud thump. Something falling.

  Something large enough to be a body hitting the floor, Walter thought.

  That was followed by a short scream—muted and quickly silenced.

  Here we go.

  At this, Nadler perked up. He eased his revolver from the holster and moved to the opposite side of the hallway, leveling the barrel on the door. “Detroit PD, we’re coming in!”

  Walter didn’t give a shit what Nadler said; he wasn’t going in unarmed. He unsnapped the safety strap and took out his revolver.

  Nadler jerked his head toward the door and raised his eyebrows as if to say, Okay, kick it in, hotshot.

  Walter took a step back, gave a three-count, and kicked the door below the knob—three inches below the hardware, heel first, follow through with body weight. Academy 101.

  The frame splintered and the door jumped, but it didn’t open. Something was holding it near the top, probably a dead bolt. He had to kick it two more times before it finally gave and burst in on the room, bounced off the wall, and nearly slammed shut again.

  Nadler moved fast. Far quicker than Walter expected. Gun leading the way, he burst through the door, into the apartment, crouched, and spun in a semicircle, taking in the room.

  Walter followed.

  Small living room with a tiny kitchenette on the right.

  A ratty brown couch sat against the far wall facing a nineteen-inch television on milk crates. An open pizza box on the floor, two slices left. The cheese was crusty and covered in white mold. The room smelled of spoiled milk. There were crushed beer cans scattered about and a lamp with a bare bulb burning in the corner, casting sharp shadows over everything. The kitchen counter was buried under old take-out containers and trash.

  No guy or girl, though. Not in this room.

  With his gun, Nadler pointed at the dark doorway leading into what had to be a bedroom in the back.

  They’d practiced this drill a million times in the academy, and Walter let his training take over. Like leapfrog—partner first, then you, then them. Secure every room as quickly as possible. Move fast. Don’t give your bad guy a chance to react.

  Walter crossed the small room, passed by Nadler, and entered the bedroom while crouched low. He moved so fast he nearly tripped over the body just inside the door.

  A man.

  Wearing only a pair of stained boxers, the man was lying facedown on the hardwood, one arm up over his head, a rusty steak knife wrapped in his thick fingers, the other arm pinned under his sizable belly. His greasy gray hair was matted and damp with blood from a fresh crack in the back of his skull.

  Walter knelt and felt for a pulse.

  Nothing.

  The man’s neck was warm, though. He hadn’t been dead long.

  Walter could make out nothing in the thick darkness but the soft lines of a mattress on the floor with a box or nightstand beside it, maybe another milk crate. He couldn’t tell.

  Nadler came in behind him with his flashlight out. The beam cut over the body, drifted over an empty closet, and fell on the bed. The mattress wasn’t on the floor but on a low metal frame. Ropes were tied at the four corners. One was soaked in blood and frayed at the end as if chewed through. No sheets. The mattress was covered in stains and smelled of waste.

  Nadler swept the rest of the room. The flashlight beam landed on another door at the back—this one closed.

  Bathroom?

  Had to be.

  As Nadler crossed the room, something crunched under his shoes, sounded like glass. His foot caught, he nearly tripped, and when he hit it with the light, Walter realized it was another lamp. The bulb was shattered and the frame was bent at an odd angle in the heavy base. Possible murder weapon.

  Nadler carefully stepped over and positioned himself at the edge of the bathroom doorframe before gesturing for Walter to open the door.

  Avoiding the body and the mess on the floor, Walter went to the door and gripped the knob.

  Nadler counted, and when he hit three, Walter gave the knob a fast twist and pulled the door open.

  They both saw the girl at the same time, caught in the beam of Nadler’s flashlight.

  Early twenties at best.

  Nude.

  She was on the floor, wedged between the sink and toilet, her knees pulled up against her chest and her long, dark hair, twisted with knots, covering half her face. She looked up at them, a frantic heat in her eyes, every inch of her body quivering.

  “I didn’t mean to,” she said in a sheepish voice, looking beyond them at the body of the man. “Please help me?”

  Chapter

  4

  Walter reached into the room and fumbled with the switch. A single bulb filled the small windowless space with harsh, cold light. The girl pinched her eyes shut against it. She pushed farther back under the sink.

  It was then he saw the pair of handcuffs dangling from under the sink, one side fastened to the water pipe, the other open. A thin piece of rusty wire on the floor, some kind of improvised lockpick.

  Droplets of blood covered her cheek, blended with soft freckles on her bare shoulder.

  “Whoa, it’s okay. We won’t hurt you.” Walter holstered his weapon, took off his jacket, and knelt, but when he tried to drape
it over her, Nadler stopped him and indicated the blood. It was still wet.

  “Evidence,” he said in a soft voice.

  Walter covered the girl anyway. He brushed the hair from her face. “Everything’s going to be fine. You’re safe now.”

  She opened her eyes, hesitant against the light, cautious, and looked up at him. They were deep gray, dark pools unlike any Walter had ever seen. He didn’t realize he was staring into them until Nadler cleared his throat and pointed at the bathtub.

  A ratty green quilt and pillow were bunched up in the corner. Several candy bar wrappers were scattered around the floor. Walter spotted a half eaten loaf of bread, too. Someone had haphazardly scrubbed the tiles but only left swirl patterns in the grime. The towel on the floor next to the tub was crusty with what looked like blood in one of the folds. The rusted mirror frame above the sink was empty, the glass long gone.

  Christ, he kept her in here. The fucking monster kept her in this room chained to the wall.

  Standing behind Walter, Nadler asked the girl, “What’s your name?”

  She didn’t seem to hear him. Her gaze lingered on Walter. Then she looked down at the jacket. Her hands curled around the edges and pulled it tight, covering herself as best she could. She gripped it so tight, the zipper dug into her palm.

  Walter didn’t realize he was reaching for her until his fingertip brushed her ankle. She didn’t shy away from his touch, but instead pressed her foot against his hand. She felt so cold.

  An uncomfortable edge filled Nadler’s voice. “Go down to the car and call this in, O’Brien.”

  Walter shot him an irritated glance.

  “Now,” Nadler insisted.

  Her hand shot out from under the jacket and grabbed Walter’s wrist. Her fingers were small, delicate, but she squeezed him like a vise. “Please don’t leave me.”

  Nadler groaned. “Christ, okay. You stay, but don’t touch anything. I’ll be right back.”