A Broken Woman

Chapter 2

2

Sirens alerted me that the police had arrived. I hated leaving the bottle of tequila behind. I was going to need it after dealing with this s**t. But best to leave the wiped bottle for the crime scene techs. I took a deep breath and wandered downstairs to face the music.

As a general rule, the local cops weren’t fond of people in my profession, especially after a team of bounty hunters mistakenly stormed the home of the Phoenix chief of police a few years back. I wasn’t involved, but it didn’t boost our reputation among those sworn to protect and serve.

When a uniformed officer showed up and asked me for an initial statement, I followed Kirsten’s instructions and said, “I’m not saying anything until my attorney gets here.” Statements like that naturally drew suspicion, but in my impaired state, it would have been way too easy to slip up and say something incriminating. I didn’t need to give the cops a win tonight.

I was sitting on a wooden bench outside the motel when Kirsten’s silver-blue Mercedes pulled up. We had met years earlier at the Phoenix Gender Alliance. She stood an inch over six feet and wore a black blazer over a revealing white blouse.

“Jiminy Christmas, Jinx. You look like the walking dead,” Kirsten said in her deep, sultry voice.

“Gee, thanks,” I replied sarcastically. I couldn’t stop the shivering, even after I’d grabbed a jacket from my car.

“Look, I’m not trying to be mean. I’m worried about you. You’re skinnier than a runway model, and you smell like a frat house after a kegger. You been smoking pot?”

“No!”

She glared at me over her yellow-framed glasses.

“Okay, maybe. Lately, things have just been so…I don’t know.”

She put a hand on my arm. “You know you’re more than a client to me, right? You’re my friend. What’s gotten into you? Is this because of what happened with Conor?”

Five months earlier, my fiancé, Conor Doyle, had attempted to stop a white nationalist with a truckload of explosives bound for Phoenix City Hall. Conor forced the truck off the highway several miles away from its destination. The driver triggered the bomb, killing forty-three people and injuring two hundred more.

Conor was lauded as a hero until the media learned that the Police Service of Northern Ireland had an outstanding warrant for him, dating back to his teenage years. Reporters hounded me at my house and followed me when I went out, making it impossible to do my job. By the time they had scavenged the last tasty morsel of gossip, I was a broken woman—traumatized, alone, and struggling to reassemble the shrapnel of my life.

“I don’t want to talk about Conor,” I told Kirsten. “Or about Toni.”

“Oh yeah, that corrections officer you were dating. Toni Bennett. Helluva name. I’d forgotten about her.”

I snickered darkly. “Wish I could.”

She put a hand on my arm. “I’m sorry. But if it’s any consolation, Conor died a hero. Had the driver reached City Hall, the death toll would have exceeded a thousand.”

It wasn’t any consolation. Nor was Conor dead as everyone thought.

“Back to the matter at hand. What happened this evening?” Kirsten asked.

“Wilhelm Penzler skipped on a money-laundering charge. I tracked him here and talked my way into his room. When I cuffed him, he freaked. Busted through the door so hard that he flipped over the railing and fell two stories.”

“Were you inside the motel room?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’d you get the pot?”

“He was already smoking it when I arrived. Looked like he’d also done some lines of coke before I got there.”

“So rather than arrest him right away, the two of you had a little party. How very Hunter S. Thompson of you.”

I shrugged. What could I say? Guilty as charged.

“What a mess.” She shook her head. “Do you have any drugs on you?”

“Sorry. No. You’ll have to get your own.” I burst out giggling. Couldn’t help it. This was all so absurd.

“Jinx, this is serious. You could be charged with involuntary manslaughter.”

That sobered me up a bit. “I didn’t bring any drugs other than a bottle of tequila.”

“Did he drink any?”

I tried to remember. So many of the details were muddled. “I don’t think so.”

“Well,” said Kirsten, “time to face the music.”

Detective Pierce Hardin was speaking with two other detectives near the staircase, then wandered in our direction when Kirsten waved him over.

Hardin’s graying hair contrasted with his dark skin. He’d started growing a beard since the last time I’d seen him. Ten years earlier, when I joined the Phoenix PD, Hardin had been my field-training officer. He was so tough and by the book, he’d earned the nickname Detective Hardass.

My pulse quickened as Hardin approached. I assured myself I wasn’t responsible for Penzler’s swan dive, but I still felt guilty.

“Detective Hardin,” said Kirsten.

“Evening, Counselor.” He gave her a brief, polite smile, which vanished the instant he looked at me. “Jesus, Ballou! What the hell’s going on with you? You look like s**t on a cracker. And you smell worse.”

“Pleasure to see you, too, Detective,” I said as soberly as I could.

“You mind telling me why this guy Penzler took a header onto the pavement? And why he’s wearing a pair of handcuffs, which I’d bet my left nut belong to you?”

Kirsten gave me a nod.

“He failed to appear in court. I tried to arrest him. He went berserk. Charged out of the room like an enraged bull on steroids, hit the rail, and belly-flopped onto the asphalt. If only he’d stuck the landing.” A guffaw threatened to surface. I covered my mouth to suppress it.

Hardin’s nostrils flared. “You think this s**t is funny? A man is dead, Ballou.”

“I know. Sorry.” I clamped down hard on the urge to laugh, but it felt like riding a bucking bronco. This whole thing was so absurd, it was hard not to laugh at it.

“You realize who Penzler worked for, right?”

I tried to remember, but the details were fuzzy. “s**t, some bar in Scottsdale, I think.”

This time, it was Hardin’s turn to scoff. “Some bar? Is that all you got? Used to be you’d know an FTA’s shoe size and their third-grade teacher’s maiden name. Now all you know is he worked at some bar?”

“Why? What’s the big deal?”

“That bar is a strip club run by the Volkov crime family.” The Volkovs were Chechen gangsters with ties to the Russian mafia.

“Volkov? Volkov’s dead. I—” I stopped when Kirsten gave me a red-light look.

“Yeah, Ballou, you killed Milo Volkov. I know all about it. But here’s the rub. Milo had a brother, Sergei, who now runs the organization. The tittie bars, the s*x trafficking, money laundering, and probably a whole host of other s**t we don’t even know about. And Penzler was in the middle of all of it. His attorneys had been in talks with the feds and the county attorney’s office about a plea deal.”

The fog in my mind burned away. Milo Volkov had been a ruthless Chechen mobster running a human trafficking organization. I’d landed in the son of a b***h’s crosshairs while pursuing a teenage murder suspect he had kidn*pped. When the smoke cleared, Volkov, several of his men, two federal agents, and a fellow bounty hunter were dead.

“Penzler had a plea deal? To testify against Volkov, I suppose.”

“So I’m told,” replied Hardin.

“s**t, that’d be suicide. Wait, maybe that’s why Penzler jumped. If Sergei’s anything like his s******c brother, jumping off a balcony’d be a helluva lot less painful than what awaited Penzler if he testified.”

“You’re saying he committed suicide?” Hardin didn’t look convinced.

“You have any proof he didn’t?” Kirsten countered.

Hardin shook his head. “You realize this was one of Special Agent Lovelace’s cases? I know you two have a history of butting heads. When she hears you wrecked their case against Sergei, she’s going to go ballistic.”

“Detective, do not threaten my client. She has had a rough few months. And yet, she’s here doing her job. It is not her fault Mr. Penzler skipped his hearing. Nor is it her fault he fell over a railing, whether accidentally or intentionally.”

“Unless you’re working for Volkov.” Hardin’s gaze landed on me.

Daggers flew from my eyes. “You know me better than that. I might bend the rules here and there. And I’ll admit, I’ve been in a funk the past few months, but I would never, ever work for the Volkov organization.”

Hardin didn’t look happy, but the fire in his eyes tempered a bit. “Anything else I should know about what happened here?”

“Nope. But I would like my handcuffs back.”

“Too bad. They’re evidence.” Hardin glared at me. “Now get the hell off my crime scene.”

“Gladly.” I turned and walked away, with Kirsten beside me.

“And get your act together!” he shouted at my back. “Because if s**t like this happens again, I will lock your skinny white a*s up and throw away the key. You got me?”

I ignored him. When we reached my car, Kirsten put a hand on my arm. Her face showed concern. “You okay to drive?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for tonight.”

“Jinx, I’m seriously worried about you.”

I yanked my arm out of her grip. “I said I’m fine.”

“You look anorexic.”

“Oh, so you’re going to body-shame me for being slender.”

“That’s not it, and you know it. I’m concerned. You’re not slender; you’re emaciated. You’re clearly not eating. You’re driving and working while under the influence. And if you don’t get help soon, situations like tonight or worse are going to happen again. And I may not be able to keep you out of jail. Or the morgue.”

“If I wanted someone to play armchair therapist, I’d call up my dad. At least he’s the real deal.”

“Jinx, I’m only saying this because I care.”

I turned away, irritated. “Maybe you shouldn’t care so much. Conor cared, and look where it got him.” I climbed behind the wheel of the Dodge Charger.

Kirsten started to say something, but I revved the engine.

“What’s that? I can’t hear you!”

“I said—”

I revved the engine louder and roared out of the parking lot, leaving twin trails of rubber on the pavement. I was a total b***h, and I knew it. But I didn’t need anyone feeling sorry for me. Especially her.