“From the size of the entry and exit wound, and the powder burn on the forehead, I’m guessing a twenty-two, twenty-five caliber. Most likely a silencer fitted Colt. That’s probably why no one heard anything.
Sounds more like a mosquito whisper than a bullet.” Robert stroked his chin. “Then whoever did this is a pro.” Miller knew more than he revealed. Why did they kill him? Did he know where Charlie was and refused to talk? Wouldn’t that be more reason to keep him alive?
Durbin looked as though he were trying to read Robert’s mind. “It would be nice if you shared with us Mr. Veil. The man deserves to have his killer hung up by the toes.”
Robert agreed. Seeing Miller lifeless only increased his anger. “Like I said, it’s a missing person’s case,” Robert repeated. “I thought Miller might be able to help me find someone.”
“A homeless person?” Durbin asked.
“I can’t say.”
“You need to tell us something.”
“Why? I won’t say this again. It’s a confidential matter, and none of your fucking business!”
Durbin stepped toward Robert, Thorne slid in his way. “Is there anything else detective?”
Durbin’s eyes flashed from Robert, to Thorne, then back to Robert.
“There’s nothing at the moment,” he said, backing up. “But I’ll take you up on that gun residue test later, after we finish here. If anything comes up before then, I’ll call.”
Thorne moved a little closer to the detective, with a Grinch-like smile on her face. Gently, but firm, she grabbed his balls. Durbin looked around, embarrassed, grunting. Thorne smiled then slowly let go. “Just wanted to see if they were as big as the rest of you,” she said. “I’ll wait by the elevator,” she told Robert, then left the room.
Durbin thudded back against the wall. Robert remembered something Thorne once told him. “It’s hard not to be in control with a man’s balls in your hand. Without balls, a man’s just not a man.” Robert cleared his throat. “Please be in touch, and let me know when you’re ready for that test.”
Durbin mumbled something that sounded like, okay I will, and Robert caught up with Thorne at the elevator. Outside on the street he pulled her to the side. “A little heavy handed wouldn’t you say?” Thorne flashed a confident smile. “A girl’s gotta have her fun.” Robert shook his head in amazement. From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Popeye. The old vet waved him over. “Wait here, I’ll be right back,” he told Thorne, and jogged across the street.
Popeye looked rattled, defeat in his eyes. “Wondered if you’d show up.”
“It wasn’t me Popeye,” said Robert. “I didn’t kill him. You must know that.”
Popeye took a swig from his brown paper bag and looked off into nowhere. “I know,” he said. “I saw you leave. I told everyone to say you were the last one seen with him. It was the only way to make sure you came back.”
Robert knelt. “What do you know? Did anyone see or hear anything the police don’t already know?”
Popeye sat back in his wheelchair, looked to see if anyone was listening, then leaned in close to Robert’s ear. “Charlie was here,” he whispered. “I saw him cut through the alley in back of the mission.
Next thing I know, the police are all over the place and Miller’s dead.” Robert watched Popeye fight back tears. “Did you get a chance to talk to Charlie?”
“Miller was the only one who really cared around here,” Popeye said to the night. “A lot of people gonna just fold up and die.” Robert put a hand on Popeye’s shoulder. He looked up, and spotted the weasel who tailed him earlier. Their eyes met, the man lowered his head, and quickened his pace in the opposite direction, vanishing down an alley.
“Thorne,” Robert called, signaling for her to follow him. “That guy trailed me to the mission earlier today.” Thorne caught up. They reached the alley. The weasel looked back, saw them following, and took off-ass on fire. They sprinted hard and fast but he moved like a cheetah, cutting out of the alley, sprinting down a deserted street, disappearing into another alley at the far end of the block.
Robert and Thorne drew their weapons, each falling to a different side of the alleyway, taking cover behind crates and dumpsters.
Robert agreed with Detective Durbin. Most people couldn’t tell the difference between a silencer and a mosquito whisper. He wasn’t most people.
With a silencer screwed on, the added volume in a gun barrel allowed the gas to expand, and it whooshed out behind the bullet quietly, like air carefully let out of a balloon-a mosquito whisper.
Angry mosquitoes whispered past their ears, ricocheting off the surrounding buildings. He heard the man reload several times, but signaled Thorne not to fire back. He counted the shots, motioned for his partner to cover him, slid out on his belly and crawled toward the crates where the weasel hid.
Halfway there, Thorne bolted to the dumpster he’d just left, drawing fire. She let off a volley of gunfire, keeping the weasel pinned down.
He fired back, then focused his attention on Robert, sending streams of mosquitoes rocketing just above his skull.
Robert took a deep breath and pressed closer to the ground. Two clips later, he heard the weasel’s gun disengage. Empty.
He sprang to his feet, jumped over the crates and garbage cans, crashing down on top of the weasel. Wiry and strong, he wrapped over Robert like a full-grown boa constrictor.
Both men jumped to their feet, punching like cowboys in a western bar room brawl. The wiry little man surprised Robert, landing several fast blows to his face and neck, knocking him to the ground.
Thorne leapt like a panther, knocking the goon to the pavement with a roundhouse kick to the chest. Robert scrambled and rushed forward, like a crazed Chicago Bears linebacker.
Like shotgun blasts, two hard-soled shoes hit Robert hard in the gut, sending him backwards in the air, crashing to the concrete. He righted himself, head spinning.
The weasel sprang to his feet like an Olympic gymnast. Thorne rushed over and hit him with a combination to the body and face, like Sugar Ray Leonard in a Marvin Hagler fight. The man doubled over then snapped upright, back handed her in the head and kicked her hard between the legs, sending her crashing into a pile of boxes.
Robert recovered, rushed over, and drop kicked him to the ground.
Back to his feet, the weasel picked up his gun and sprinted out of the alley, Robert on his heels.
Congestion on the street didn’t slow the weasel. He knocked down unlucky pedestrians, stomping and kicking several rag-covered people asleep on the street. A couple of blocks down, he stopped and fired. His silencer gone, the gun erupted a familiar melody, and everyone dove for cover.
Robert dropped to the ground with them and felt for his guns, but both holsters were empty. The shooting stopped. He snapped to his feet.
Shit!
The weasel, more than two blocks away, sprinted hard, fast, and disappeared around a corner. When Robert got there, the agile killer, with the strength of an anaconda, vanished.
Thorne limped up next to him breathing heavy, and handed him his guns. They searched the faces along the street, the buildings, and alleyways, but found nothing.
Sirens screamed, coming their way. Unwilling to endure more questioning from Durbin and the police, they gave up and headed back to Crossroads.
They reached the shelter as the coroner loaded Miller’s body. A crowd of homeless men, women, and children looked on, sullied, sad.
Robert’s anger seared like alcohol on an open wound.
Detective Durbin lumbered out of the mission, spotted them and walked over. He stopped in his tracks and looked them up and down.
“Should I ask?”
“Don’t bother,” said Robert.
“Another missing person case I guess,” said Durbin, directing a facetious smirk at Thorne.
“Is there something you need from us?” asked Robert, exhausted.
Durbin laughed and shook his head. “It seems you’re in the clear.