Sink In Your Claws

  Einar lowered his head.

  Layton frowned. Turned to Kait. “Your client must have a name. What do you call him?”

  “Mr. John Doe.”

  “Fine.” Layton was not amused. “Mr. Doe. On late December 24, 2013, you had an unidentified drug in your possession. Vial found by two uniformed officers. Correct?”

  “They roughed me up. Cops roughed me up,” Michael fidgeted and tapped fingers on the table, scraping them along the surface.

  “That’s not what I asked. Pay attention. Answer the question.”

  “Had it in my pocket. Don’t remember much bout that evening.”

  “No kidding. You were high. Reeked of booze. Jumped into razor wire. Tweaking like a fucking rat and raving about monsters. Proud of that?”

  He didn’t answer. Fuck proud. Try terrified and add ashamed. Kait was learning how messed up he’d been when Einar found him. She'd have no illusions about his sorry existence.

  “Look.” Layton leaned forward. “We know you had a role in those deaths.” He waited for a response but got a stare.

  Einar turned to him. “Robert, I think—”

  “You’re not a bad guy, Mr. Doe. You want to do the right thing. Make a change. Drugs are bad, man, but murder’s a whole different level.”

  “I didn't kill anyone and I'm clean. Have been,” he hesitated and caught Einar's eye, “for a month now.”

  “Sure you are. Tell us what you know, cooperate, and we can get help for your mental issues. Connect you to a good psych hospital . . . ”

  “I’m not nuts.”

  “Detective,” Kait said, “my client isn’t—”

  “Mental illness isn’t a crime, buddy.” Layton scribbled on the tablet. “Clearly you have issues.”

  Michael cocked his head. “What kind of interrogation tactic is this? Insult and belittle?”

  Layton glowered. “I’ll treat you as a suspect if you don’t—”

  “Where’d you get the drug?” Einar said. “Who gave it to you?”

  “Dealer frequents the zone by the old wire factory and metal press plant. Supplies the homeless . . . ”

  Layton scribbled more notes.

  “Don’t know where he gets the drugs.”

  “Name?” Layton said. “Need the asshole’s name.”

  “Don’t know.” It was true. He’d never been on a first name basis with the dealer. No one in the zone used real names. They might be wasted and loaded but were street smart at preserving anonymity. And some of them didn’t remember they had names.

  “His name?” Layton slammed the tablet on the table.

  “Told you, cop. Don’t know!” Michael bolted to his feet and got within an inch of Layton's face.

  Layton and Kait rose at the same time. Einar reached across and restrained Michael with both hands. He motioned for them all to sit.

  Einar glanced at him. “I believe you. No one uses names, right?”

  Michael nodded, feigning aggravation. “Christ, cops. Why would they? Too dangerous.”

  “Remember details?”

  “Yeah. Crude tattoos on his knuckles. Spell K-I-N-G R-A-T-S when he balls his fingers. That’s his street name. King Rat.”

  “Good. That’s helpful,” Einar said.

  “Christ, Iceland, we need more than that.” Layton rolled his eyes. “What was in the vial?”

  “Don’t know.” Michael squirmed, eyes wandering. He tapped a repeating rhythm with his fingers. “Don’t want to know. Was brutal.” He’d wanted to die. If Einar hadn’t found him, he’d be a corpse. “It was bad shit. That’s all I can tell you. Poison.”

  Einar closed his eyes, bent his head to the table. Kait glanced at him.

  “What’d it cost?” Layton’s voice rose. “What’d you pay? What’d you trade? Yourself? Who’d you bang?” He leaned forward.

  “Nothing and no one. I’m not prime goods, in case you hadn’t fucking noticed.” Michael jutted his chin out, hair falling in his eyes. “They aren’t waiting in line to get a piece of my ass.” Kait put her hand on his arm. Her fingers were shaking.

  “Nothing? No one hands out drugs for free. Don’t jack shit me.”

  Kait blocked him. “Detective. If you harass my client we’re leaving.”

  Layton turned red, jaw clenched.

  Ease off. Don’t go overboard.

  Michael slumped back and cocked his head. “What do you want me to say?”

  Einar leaned to Layton. “Take it easy, Robert. Want answers. No need to jerk him around.”

  “Iceland, you’re kiss-ass soft on this witness. Need to beat it out of his raving ass. Junkie knows more than he’s saying. Piece of useless trash should start talking.”

  Michael flinched. Truth hurt. Trash. He’d been lost in oblivion at the time but he’d be dealing with that miserable baggage the rest of his life.

  “No beatings.” Einar stole a glance at Michael.

  “I don’t agree.” Layton threw up his hands. “Case is our priority. We need answers. He knows them. He’s playing you. I’m taking it up with Cap.”

  “Suit yourself, Robert.”

  “Suit yourself, Robert,” Michael echoed.

  Layton bolted, pushing his chair out of the way. He paced spewing expletives.

  Einar ignored him and turned to Michael. “How’d you get the drug?”

  “The dealer. Had no money. I was wasted. Needed a fix. I fucking pleaded. He handed me a vial.” He traced patterns in the wood grain. The down side of remembering, begging a drug dealer for shit to get high—a low point. “Rat said something like here’s a Merry Fucking Christmas ‘sink-your-mind-into-the-haze’ gift.” Kait squeezed his arm then took hold of his hand.

  He glanced at her. “Sorry, but it’s true.”

  “What kind of drug?” Einar said. “Did he tell you?”

  “No. Didn’t matter. I’d have downed lighter fluid.”

  Einar looked him hard in the eye. “But you didn’t . . .”

  “It was bad. Hallucinations mixed with delusions and paranoia. Lightening to the brain.” He shivered. Wasn’t an act. He’d never forget how bad it’d been. Another mark on the freak show tally.

  “Didn’t you care?” Layton shook his head. “How can you people live like that? You want to jack-off into nothing?”

  “There are worse things than oblivion. Believe me.”

  Layton leaned in his face. “Didn’t you give a shit?”

  “Detective Layton, back up,” Kait said.

  “I was wasted.” Michael glared. “To answer your question, cop. No. I did not give a shit.”

  “Fuck. Street trash makes me sick. Want to puke my guts out.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Puke. Your. Guts. Out.”

  Einar raised an eyebrow.

  “Goddamn it! You’re wasting my time.”

  Michael turned to Einar. “Dealer was . . . trying out new product. That’s why it was free.”

  “Would you recognize him?” Einar said

  “Yeah.”

  “Enough bullshit.” Layton came up fast. “The charade is over. You know the dealer. Let’s go, junkie. Now.” He yanked him from the chair.

  “Remove your hands!” Kait yelled.

  Einar bolted and blocked the door, grabbed Michael with one hand and slammed his other across Layton’s chest.

  Kait pulled Michael back. Layton wouldn’t let go.

  “Fuck, Robert. The man isn’t under arrest.” Einar glared at him. “What are you thinking?”

  Michael resisted and whispered to Kait. She grabbed Layton’s arm.

  “Take your hand off my client.”

  Layton glared. He shook her hand away, stepped back from Einar.

  “My client will help find the dealer,” Kait said. “But on the condition that only you,” she pointed to Einar, “accompany him. He resents your partner’s treatment. He came and answered questions. He’s not a suspect, not under arrest.”


  “I agree,” Einar said.

  Layton fumed. “When does street trash dictate procedure? You have no right to limit my role. This is bullshit and you goddamn know it. Junkie’s a hostile witness. Force him to do what we need him to do!” He kicked his chair, sending it flying across the room.

  Kait stood. “We’re finished.” She motioned for Michael to stand. “I’ll be in touch, Detective Hannesson, to facilitate my client’s cooperation.” She shook Einar’s hand. “Detective Layton,” she said, “take tranquilizers. Anger isn’t good for your health.”

  Einar opened the door and escorted them to the station’s entry. He was quiet.

  Michael turned. Layton headed to the Captain’s office and entered without knocking, slamming the door. Yelling echoed. Shit. Wasn’t going to be good for Einar.

  Cresson stood near the office door, all eyes and ears. He smiled watching Layton storm away dropping the bomb on Einar to the Captain. Cresson sidled to Einar and slapped his back. “Well, Iceland, too bad whacko junkie witness pissed off your partner. Phil’s spewing like a volcano all over your ass. Once again, you’ve a special way with people. Another partner bites the dust. Score ZERO for Iceland.”

  “Shut up,” Einar said.

  “Villarna will love this one. Wait ‘til I tell him.” Cresson spun on his heels and headed in the other direction, passing the homeless man and his lawyer.

  Michael lurched sideways, feigned a stumble and blocked Cresson. He tilted his head up and whispered, “Go to hell, Crasshole.”

  Cresson froze.

  The junkie and his lawyer left the station.

  CHAPTER 22

  2014 Early February

  The Captain's door flew open. “Detective Hannesson, my office now.”

  Everyone looked up. Einar shook his head. Most of them were probably thinking the same thing. Iceland had gotten away with shit for a long time. Had it coming.

  Let them think what they want.

  Einar sulked in and sat next to his partner. Refused to look at him.

  Layton slouched, fingers gripping the armrest.

  The Captain slammed the door and laid down the law. Hannesson had been invisible too often in the last month and a half. Did he think the rules didn’t apply to him? No more attitude, no more games, no more leaving Layton in the dark, no more ‘solo cowboy act.’ If he wanted to remain in the division at his present rank in the homicide squad, he had to play by the rules regardless of his record, his commendations, and his past.

  Layton snickered at the dressing down.

  The department assigned partners for a reason, Cap bellowed. It was not an optional relationship. Layton and Hannesson were on priority assignment to track down the dealer. They were to work as a team according to protocol. They had one witness—he’d be used to find the dealer without delay.

  Because Einar refused to play by the rules, and had spent the last month on his own doing whatever the hell he was doing, Layton would be primary contact for the witness, who was to be regarded as a hostile confidential informant. Einar was relegated to secondary—he was to turn over all information to Layton.

  They had the witness. It was time to act.

  Working with narcotics cops and uniforms, they’d mount a stakeout that night, Layton in lead. Einar would coordinate with the uniforms monitoring the operation from a distance. He’d have to follow Layton’s instructions and not go off on his own, not interfere, not disappear for hours at a time, not be an obstacle.

  Layton beamed.

  Einar glared, seething. Time to retire.

  *

  Kait and Michael slammed the rental car doors to escape the weather. She turned on the ignition and cranked the heat, rubbing her hands, blowing on them. She undid the chignon, shaking her head, letting hair fall around her face. As it tumbled, she worked her fingers through it.

  Michael ached with sudden longing, wanting to reach for her. Fear stopped him. Knowing what she'd just heard, he wasn’t sure how she’d react.

  She dropped the earrings and necklace in the driver’s seat cup holder. “God, that’s better. Why do women dress up all the time? It’s one of my circles of hell.”

  “You make a good lawyer.” He pulled down the sweatshirt hood and pushed unruly hair out of his eyes. “Convincing and effectively cool but bitchy—that’s a compliment. You look the part, too. God, you're gorgeous.”

  She smiled. “You’re a fine crazy defendant,” she said and then exhaled. “Shit, Michael, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean it that way.”

  “No offense.” He hesitated. “I’m rather sure I’m crazy. And you’re not wrong.”

  “I don't think—.”

  “And sorry . . . you had to listen in there. Now you know. I’m not a pretty picture.” He gave a hesitant smile. “Thanks for helping, K.”

  “You’re not crazy, no apologies and you don’t have to thank me.” Her eyes met his and she stared harder. “Something’s different. Isn't it?”

  He looked down at his scarred hands. How would she react? He took a deep breath. Then another.

  “Michael . . . what?”

  “I remember—standing in the office. It sparked memories. People, sounds, details. My life.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “I remember you. Us.” He paused, tilted his head. “It’s hazy, some things make no sense, like a weird Technicolor drug trip. Why do I see a green iguana?”

  She smiled. “We met when you made kids laugh in a reptile exhibit. An iguana crawled up your arm. You were enchanting.”

  “Another life . . .”

  “No. Don't say that.”

  Memories and guilt dug a chasm in his soul. “K,” he hesitated. “I’m sorry. Don’t know . . . for everything you’ve . . . I never meant . . .”

  She looked away.

  “I put you through hell.”

  “No. You didn’t.”

  “But I—”

  She shifted the car into gear. “I want to show you something. Might help.” She drove to the east end, winding through avenues of brick homes and Victorian mansions before entering modest neighborhoods, turning onto a street with smaller homes. She pulled over and pointed to a small green bungalow with cream trim. Four large oak trees surrounded it and hedges led to a wide front porch and stepped entrance.

  “There,” she said. A woman guided two children out the door. Bundled for the snow, they tumbled into the yard near a snowman and threw snowballs.

  It’d been their house. He turned to her.

  She smiled but the expression didn’t reach her eyes.

  He saw her sadness. He bent his head. “Shit K. You don’t have to do this. Don’t need to be here. It isn’t fair.”

  Remembering is a bitch when you realize what you lost.

  “You need to remember. Familiar places spark your memory.”

  He took in small details, following the line of the snow-covered porch railing. The dog used to commandeer a swing behind that railing in summer. “Loki liked the swing.”

  “He did.” She folded her hands in her lap.

  “On summer evenings we sat on the step watching fireflies. Catching them. Listening to cicadas . . .”

  She laughed. A tear rolled down her cheek.

  He hesitated, reached over and brushed it away. Closed his eyes, wanted to make things better. Impossible not to long for the past, parked on a familiar street in such strange circumstances.

  “Remembering Loki, lizards and bugs—that’s so . . . you.” She looked down.

  “Kait?”

  “What?”

  “Why . . . did you leave the East Coast?”

  She took a deep breath. Then another.

  “I shouldn’t ha—” He’d overstepped. Had no right.

  “Your death devastated me. It was sudden, brutal. Needed a different frame of reference.” She undid the seatbelt, removed her heels and pulled her legs up underneath her. Faced him. “You can’t fathom how much someone means to your life unt
il they’re gone.”

  “God. I’m sorry. I put you through this ordeal.”

  “Stop apologizing.”

  “But, I—”

  She touched his forearm. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know what would happen. I had to leave, couldn’t go back. Frivolous pursuits seemed . . . ungrateful after . . . It made me reassess everything. Got the opportunity to switch back to a more meaningful field and I took it.”

  “In Texas.” He contemplated the distance between them.

  “Yes, Baylor University. Forensic anthropology. Associate. I’m low woman on the totem pole. I dig in dry ranch lands of south Texas and Arizona or I’m in the lab processing evidence. Away from people. I needed it.”

  He looked her in the eye. “Aloneness?”

  “Yes.”

  He paused. “Have you met anyone?” As soon as he asked he regretted it. He was the one who died. “Sorry,” he stammered, “I shouldn’t have pried. Not my—”

  “It’s okay.” She squeezed his arm. “Honest answer. Yes. I’ve dated, went out with a good man for six months, another for three.”

  “Don’t explain.”

  “Caring people, colleagues in Waco. Knew what I’d been through. I tried to move on. Unsuccessfully.” She looked away. “I tried to convince myself being alone was unhealthy.”

  He understood. “It’s alienating. Isolating.”

  “I gravitated to it.”

  “Alone isn’t good. You deserve happiness. Should find . . .” He struggled with words. “I hope you find someone . . .”

  “But, Mi—”

  “Undamaged.”

  She looked stung. “No.” She leaned forward. Brushed away the dark makeup under his eyes then traced the scar, resting her index finger at the corner of his lip.

  He froze.

  She took his face in her hands, pulled him close and kissed him, lips lingering on his. “I found someone. You—Michael Lewis, singer to lizards, bug lover, bad horror movie aficionado, kindred spirit. I didn’t, don’t want anyone else.”

  “I’m not who I was.” He pulled away. Didn’t want to hurt her again. “He . . .the person you knew . . . might never return. Might not be able . . .”

  “Michael. You don’t understand.”

  “You don’t need to deal with the freak show.”

  “I have no illusions—”

  “I’m a mess. Wreckage.”

  “Don’t care.”

  “Damaged. I’ll never heal.”

  She traced the scar up his temple and fingered the edge of his eyebrow. “Someone told me scars mark a survivor. They show how strong you are. I agree. Completely.”

  He remembered he'd said it. “But this is—”