Big Sick Heart

A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery

(Excerpt only)

Mike Markel

BooksForABuck.com

2010

Copyright © 2010 by Mike Markel, all rights reserved.

No portion of this novel may be duplicated, transmitted, or stored in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and locations are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or people is coincidental.

BooksForABuck.com

April 2010

ISBN: 978-1-60215-119-2

Chapter 1

The ugly, low-pitched growl from the laptop ricocheted around the cruiser. Ryan swiveled the laptop. Whatever it was on the screen--a doper in a ski mask knocking over a minimart, a teenage girl texting a really cute guy while her car climbed a power pole, a woman who was absolutely certain it wasn't her son but one of the Hispanic roofers across the street who took the Chablis from the garage fridge--whatever it was, Ryan would be up for it.

I know that because he has been my partner now for three days. I glanced at my watch--another hour and a half left on the clock, another good chance I'd be donating some free overtime to the city of Rawlings, Montana.

"Domestic Disturbance on Harlan. It's just a couple of blocks up here," he said. "You wanna take it?"

What else could I say? Domestics were for the uniforms, but the nearest car was supposed to respond, even if it carried a couple of detectives. So, once a month or so me and my partner would have to stop a bout between a man and a woman from way different weight classes. Then, if she wasn't unconscious or dead, we'd try to get her to press charges, or at least move out. Most of the time, the guy would be looking all hangdog and saying he was real sorry and how he'd never do it again, and unless he'd beaten the crap out of her at least six or eight times before, she'd probably take him at his worthless word.

"Absolutely," Ryan said, like a puppy on a leash. "I miss the Domestics." He had been promoted to detective only a couple of weeks ago. A big, strong kid whose shoulders would definitely send the right message when he entered a house, he radioed that we were on our way.

We were driving down Matthews, watching the black clouds stack up a couple of miles off. A few big drops were already blipping the windshield, a heads up for the serious rain that would arrive in a few minutes. We'd been heading back from interviewing a couple in one of the senior retirement parks, the kind with the mobile homes lined up neat in a fishbone pattern, each house with an aluminum carport protecting the paint on the Accord. When we got out there, all we had was a name and address. Since the Chief sent us rather than uniforms, it probably wasn't a kid who'd taken the muffler off his Harley or the neighbor's dog crapping on their lawn. Most likely, it was a scam.

The man was about seventy, his long face saddle colored, wrinkles running down his cheeks like gullies. His expression said he was the one who screwed up. His wife, a short, potato-shaped woman with a helmet of permed white hair, didn't seem to be busting his balls about it, but he looked ashamed, as if real men don't fall for grifters. He explained to me and Ryan that it was about new windows. A guy in a pickup, no name on the side, said he wasn't in the phone book because he was new in town and he just needed some cash up front to buy the windows due to the building-supply store wouldn't give him credit yet.

When I asked how much they were out, the man answered so soft I had to ask him to repeat it. He was studying his shoes. I could barely make out "fourteen hundred." When he finally raised his head and looked at me, I knew he was going to say how this had never happened to him before. Before he said it, I knew it was true.

I said, "I know, sir. They're good at it. It's how they make their living."

He was looking over my shoulder, miles away. The back of his hand came up fast to wipe a tear. Fourteen hundred was probably a lot of money for these two, but it was plain he had lost a lot more than that to the guy in the pickup, no name on the side.

The wife was all business. The guy was white, she told me and Ryan, medium height, maybe in his forties, couple days' stubble. And, oh, yes, I think he was wearing a baseball cap, dark blue, with something written on it.

The husband said in a low voice that he thought the cap was more black than blue.

Ryan was dutifully writing down this useless information. They had just described half of the male population of Montana.

I gave the man my card and told them they could fill out a report at headquarters. Said I'd get back to them as soon as we had any information. I was ready for the next question, but you have to let them ask it. "No," I answered, "I wouldn't count on getting your money back, but, yes, we're certainly gonna try."

By the time we got to the Domestic Disturbance, the rain was coming down for real, dancing off the busted car bodies, banged-up motorcycles, and sun-bleached travel trailers in the front yards. Some of this junk had hand-written for-sale signs attached, the words running in the rain. Most of the cars and pickups looked like they had been there a long while, their skins a rusty orange, the colored runoff staining the cement-block wheels.

We pulled up to the curb at 79 Harlan. Before I could shut down the Crown Vic, Ryan was out the door, across the ragged lawn, his face up against the picture window next to the front door, trying to make out what was going on through the sheet pinned up inside the window.

Walking up to the front door, trying to avoid the puddles as big as pie plates, all I could see in the dull glow of a dim bulb in the ceiling was a couple of blobby shadows.

The screaming said one male and one female, the woman's voice cutting through the rain pinging on the steel roof.

Ryan shouted "Rawlings Police Department, open up" as I tried the handle on the cheap hollow-core front door with a push-button lock made for inside. It was locked.

The noise from inside stopped, like maybe they'd heard Ryan calling out or me trying the door. Then the shouting came back, louder and meaner, as if a visit from the police didn't surprise or scare them so much as give them something else to be pissed at each other about.

"Rawlings Police Department, open the door," Ryan shouted again.

"Take it down," I told him.

Ryan's fists came up to his chest as his knees bent. His left leg came up. His trunk leaning back, his leg shot out in a blurry sidekick.

With a lightning crack, the door exploded in a shower of splinters slamming against the inside wall. The room went silent. I remembered reading in Ryan's file last week that he was a black belt in Shotokan Karate. I had no idea what flavor that was, but I could see that the door and the frame were beyond fixing.

Ryan was into the living room, me right behind him. The couple were frozen, their eyes on us. The guy had his hands on the woman's throat. She was grabbing at his wrists, trying to break his grip.

I sized up the situation. It was good. The woman was about thirty-five, five-one or two, arms flabby, twenty or thirty pounds of belly pushing out the front of her stretch pants. Her face was contorted with screaming, but he hadn't pulped her up yet. The guy was the same age, a skinny one fifty, the slack skin and the obnoxious purple welts on his still-young face saying meth. But the good thing was, I could see all four hands, and they were unarmed.

Ryan went for the guy, reaching in over the left hand with his right, grabbing the guy's thumb, twisting it and pulling it down.

The guy cried out as Ryan pulled hard enough to break his grip, stopping just short of snapping his wrist. The guy lost his balance and fell over, landing at Ryan's feet.

I was already on the woman, grabbing her right wrist and her upper arm, hammerlocking her. The situation under control, Ryan and I dragged the two away from each other. The guy was screaming from pain, the woman from fear. Ryan had his knee on the meth guy's back, clamping the cuffs.

With all the racket, Ryan didn't hear the second man.

I caught a glimpse of him coming up behind Ryan from the dark hallway that led to the bedrooms. He was big, a heavy-duty scowl set in the middle of a matted brown-orange beard. The blade in his right hand was a serrated fishing knife with a good ten inches of steel. His arm was coming up, getting into the strike position. From that angle, he could've taken Ryan's head off or snapped his spinal cord like it was string.

"Ryan, behind you," I shouted.

Ryan pushed himself off the meth guy, hit the linoleum floor, tucking his arms in close to his body and rolling away fast, like he did it all the time.

Realizing it wouldn't be an easy kill, the guy with the knife had fury in his eyes as he turned to go after Ryan.

I calculated I had a second, tops. I wear my holster on my belt, right side. I grabbed my Smith & Wesson 9 mill service revolver. Not enough time to assume a firing stance. The guy had pushed off his back leg and was almost over Ryan, who was still rolling but about to run up against a heavy chair in the tiny living room.

I decided not to go for the guy's arm or shoulder--too small a target. If I missed, he could kill Ryan before I could get off a second shot. I aimed for the middle of his torso and squeezed off the round.

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