Chapter 2 - Holding Steady

When Deira stepped out of the shower, there were voices in the kitchen. She could hear Gage speaking calmly, but couldn't make out what he said. She cracked the door a bit. Definitely a cop speaking now. She listened while she bandaged her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, what did you say your name is?" The cop wasn't sorry.

"Charles Randall. I think your partner wrote it down. Would you like my card? It might make it easier to reach me. I'm frequently away." Gage sounded like every suit who had ever hit on her. He also had no discernible accent.

"Thanks, that would be a help." Second cop, younger by the sound of it.

"Not a problem. Would you officers like some coffee? It's just finished brewing." The first cop said no as the second said yes. The younger cop changed his mind.

"You say you didn't hear anything tonight? There was some pretty serious fighting going on outside, including gunshots."

She stopped drying her hair to listen. This might go badly, and she had no way out of the bathroom that didn't lead past the cops.

"If you'll follow me, officers, I think you'll understand why I didn't hear anything." Gage must have put them at ease because they moved towards the door on the other side of the kitchen. The door closed and there was silence.

The robe hung on a hook. Stepping out of the bathroom, she noted that the clothes, and the rug on which she had put them, were gone. She was trying to figure out if she should step back in and close the door when the men emerged from the living room.

"That's a nice system." The young cop was obviously impressed. His partner grunted.

"I thought my girlfriend was going to have a fit when I put my bonus towards a home theatre set up. She wanted to go on a cruise. Or maybe she wanted something else. I'm trying not to think about what it might be." He chuckled and both cops joined in this time.

She hated them all at that moment. She loosed the robe slightly and plastered a smile on her face. If he wanted a needy girlfriend, she could play the role. It would serve him right.

"Charlie, honey," she cooed, running her fingers through her curls as she walked into the room, "don't make assumptions about what I want." She kissed him on the cheek, took his coffee cup out of his hands, and took a sip. Black, of course. At least there wasn't any sugar in it.

He had changed clothes. She assumed the ones he had been wearing had been burnt along with hers. Testing the air, she smelled nothing but the coffee. His tailored pants and cotton shirt showed obvious quality. The guy had money and didn't hide it. The loose clothes did nothing to mask his muscle definition. She doubted any clothing could. His brown hair was a little longer and wilder than most businessmen wore it, another indication of financial independence. She wondered if the cops noticed such things, then decided they must.

He fixed her with a look, and she realized she had been staring at him. Maybe the cops would see it as devotion. She handed the cup back to him. His smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Were you here earlier this evening?" The young cop asked, trying very hard not to look at the gap in her robe. She looked to Gage to see if he'd answered this question already. He looked mildly annoyed but showed no other concern.

"I got here a little while ago. I was typing deeds until seven o'clock. By the time I got here, I had to walk down that nasty alley because the street was blocked off." She pouted slightly.

"And after seven?" The older cop wasn't distracted by her cleavage.

"Afterward, I met Lydia for drinks at that awful wine bar down the street. Their selection isn't bad, but they let people smoke cigars in there. Ugh. I couldn't wait to get into the shower."

"Your name, miss?"

"Gina Sedoso. I'd offer you my card but, unlike Charlie, I don't keep those in every pocket I have." She smiled at Gage, who gave her a nasty look. Good, now we seem like a real couple.

"Honey, why don't you go up and get dressed?" he suggested and then turned to the cops. "Unless you need her?"

"No, go ahead, miss. We can get your information when you're dressed." The older cop looked closely at her, then frowned at Gage, his disapproval of the age difference obvious. Her appearance was deceiving that way. With any luck, the cop would chalk up the attraction to the lure of money.

She had a moment of panic as she realized she didn't know where to go to change, and then she fixed on the word "up." Gage had looked towards the hallway. She found the stairs. The first bedroom was no help. It was a guest room that had been taken over by weight training equipment. The second bedroom obviously belonged to Gage. Aside from having a distinctly Spartan décor, it held the faintest scent of him. She found it almost comforting. Best not to dwell on that.

As she opened the third door and found a woman's room, she thought of Goldilocks. This one is just right. Now if only the occupant was close enough in size for the next stage of the charade.

Thanking all the goddesses of fashion, she found a loose, long sleeved, silk shirt and a floral skirt that on a shorter woman would have been ankle length but on her fell right below her calves. It was casual, but still classy enough to pull off the ruse. She couldn't find a bra and didn't bother to look for shoes. Turning to the mirror on the overlarge vanity, she tried very hard to comb out her curls with her fingers. It wouldn't cooperate, so she gave up and twisted her hair into a loose bun, securing it with hair sticks she found in the middle drawer. It would have to do.

An animated discussion was taking place in the kitchen when she got downstairs. Gage had obviously been entertaining the cops, who looked a great deal more at ease.

She was grateful she wouldn't have to be the charming one. She was dizzy and sick and some part of her was convinced the cops knew everything she had done that night.

He handed her a cup of coffee. He must have seen her grimace when she'd sipped his, because he had put plenty of cream in hers. Her hands trembled slightly she took it. She knew cops noticed things like that and forced herself to keep them still. She moved to the table, set down her cup, and sat on the bench.

"Did you need to ask Gina anything else, officers?" Gage asked. He glanced at her hands on the table and gave her a warning look. She folded them on her lap. The younger cop turned to her.

"We'll need contact information for your friend. It's just procedure, but we have to check out everyone's story." He sounded genuinely apologetic.

"No problem. Charlie, would you hand me a piece of paper and pen?" She turned to the cop. "She might not be home. She left with some guy after I told her I didn't need a ride. I know she'll be in the office tomorrow morning. She has a showing at nine." Taking the notepad Gage offered her, Deira wrote down the information, glad she had accepted Lydia's offer to go out after work. At the time, it had seemed an annoyance that might mess up her schedule.

"What did you do after your friend left?" The older cop wasn't letting it go.

"I talked to some people at the bar, ate some really bad food, and pretended to watch a soccer match. I had hoped someone would give me a lead on a property, so maybe one of the agents would sponsor me for classes, but it was a wash. I did manage to get hit on half a dozen times." She didn't have to feign displeasure.

"Okay. We have all we need from you folks tonight. We'll be in touch if necessary." They put away their note pads.

Gage showed the cops to the door, then returned to the kitchen.

She finally took a sip of the coffee. Considering how much she hated the stuff, it wasn't bad. If she wrapped both her hands around the cup, they didn't shake much.

"The name you gave them had better check out." Gage leaned his hip against the counter, but there was nothing casual about his stance.

"I'm not an idiot."

"That remains to be seen. Where did you get the name, and how far back can it be traced?"

"Five years, minimum, current up to today. Gina's a model citizen. She's surprisingly successful at whatever she tries and never even cheats on her tax return." This part she had worked out.

"Great. Where did you get the name?" He was not impressed.

"She was a friend in college."

"So how did you end up using your friend's name?"

"Her dad was from Spain and took her there when she got sick during our junior year. Said the medical care is better. He paid for a bunch of us to visit her over spring break because she was dying and wanted to see us. She gave us all her information, including the information about her private bank accounts, and made us promise to keep her name alive by using her money to do what we really wanted to do."

"And your other friends do not use this name?"

"No. They left the details up to me, since I'm the only one who took Accounting. Gina has investments in a bed and breakfast in Vermont and an art studio in San Francisco. Her portfolio is managed by a close friend. She gives to charity and owns a nice vacation house in Tuscany. Six months ago, she started working at a real estate firm, just for fun. Is that enough information to put me above suspicion?"

"Mine or the cops?" He moved across the room. There was something... liquid... about it. She realized he was pacing, but without agitation.

"Either. Both." She kept her eyes on him. "What do you want?"

"To be out of whatever it is you got yourself into, but that is no longer possible. You are going to have to continue to come by here, at least for a while, because there's a good chance they will be watching the house. I need to know everything about this fucking mess so I can see if it can be cleaned up quietly. Once that is done, I want to forget I ever met you. That is what I want. Think you can manage any of that? Because if you can't, we have a problem." His accent got heavier the more agitated he became.

"We don't have a problem now?" She snorted.

"No. You have a problem now, and you need to fix it. I thought that was clear. Let's start with who sent you to die in my front yard." He was still.

"No one sent me. It was my job." She had liked it better when he was moving.

"That is not enough information to make me happy. Right now, you should be very concerned about making me happy."

"Short version? The guys who were trying to kill me work for the asshole who killed my sister. I took out two of those responsible. The other four came after me. Two took off after a truck they thought I jumped on. The other two, well, I assume you killed them." She took a sip of her coffee and realized her hands were now shaking hard, an after effect of pump. She tried to still them.

"So who killed your sister, one man or six?"

"All of them did. And there were seven. I haven't seen the one ultimately responsible. He got her hooked on pump. The others raped and killed her for sport. He's harder to reach so I started with them."

"How old was she?"

"Twenty. She didn't even get to graduate. Why does her age matter?"

"It doesn't." But it obviously did. "Twenty years old, and a student at university," he whispered.

He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. When he opened them, she wished he hadn't. They were blank, like staring into the eyes of a dead dog. She looked away. When she turned back, they were almost normal.

"Most people go to the police when they know who killed someone."

"That's rich, you saying I should have called the cops."

"The police have their uses, and investigating murders is one of them. A good hit does not leave bodies. You have taken that option away from me, so now you will tell me why you thought doing the job yourself was better than calling in professionals of any kind."

"I tried to contract it. No one would take the job."

"Excuse me?"

"No one wanted the job. Inquiries were made, and no one was willing to do it. So that left me."

She looked at him. His eyes had turned very, very dark. At least there's life in them.

"No one would take the job." He spoke slowly, quietly. "Who are you trying to kill, princess?"

"Jack Cavuto."

"Of course." The pacing resumed. "Jack Cavuto. You thought you could kill the main supplier of pump for the city. Just run through a few goons and pop the big boss. No problem." He laughed, the sound slicing across the kitchen.

"I didn't know who he was when I started – " she began. The anger in his eyes silenced her.

"And when you found out, you did not let go of your revenge fantasy. I should kill you right now. Save us both some time, since you seem hell-bent on dying anyway."

"Would you have taken the job?"

"No."

"You didn't even ask what it paid."

"No. It would not matter. How did you manage to come this far and remain so naive? Killing Cavuto simply makes room for the next drug lord. The economics do not change simply because the man in charge drops dead. I prefer the devil I know. And I really prefer it if the devil does not know my name. Pray he does not find out I am involved. Pray hard." He was pacing again.

"So he just gets away with it? He kills my sister and nothing happens to him?"

"Yes. That is exactly how it works. Your sister chose to do pump. Someone may have convinced her to try it the first time, but she came back for more. Repeatedly, if she got hooked. You killing the guy who runs the warehouse is not going to bring her back or change the system. You getting killed while trying to kill him is pointless. And you will die if you keep trying."

"She didn't choose to do it. They spiked her over a couple of weeks. A "friend" in one of her classes put small doses in her coffee, increasing it bit by bit. She didn't really know what was going on until they had her all twisted and something snapped in her head. She wasn't the only one. Several girls went missing over a couple of semesters. Two ended up dead. One got out, which is how I know what happened. The cops had all the information, too, but they didn't do anything. The girl I talked to left town and wouldn't testify. They eventually closed the case because they didn't have anything 'substantial' to go on."

"In my line of work, that indicates the people on the other side have done their jobs well. Something you might want to consider, since you've decided to become a criminal." He let that hang in the air before continuing. "I am assuming someone trained you to be the murderer you claim to be. I need to know who."

"No." She wasn't about to give up Sticks. Her conviction made her feel stronger.

The illusion of strength lasted about half a second. With alarming speed, Gage appeared next to her, one hand covering her throat, the other pressing her back on the seat.

"I'm sorry, princess. Did you think this was a conversation of equals? Were you under the impression that I killed those men out of some notion of chivalry? You left me in a fight and had me finish your job for you, so you are substantially in debt to me right now. We didn't get a chance to bargain on price, so you are going to pay me whatever I ask. So far, all I have asked for is answers to some very basic questions. You can either answer them or I can kill you. It is a simple equation." There was no emotion in his words. "I am going to let go now, and you are going to very politely tell me everything I want to know. I will tell you how you will settle the rest of the debt later."

He moved to the other side of the kitchen, turned his back to her and refilled his coffee cup. They both knew she wouldn't try anything. She took a deep breath, swallowed, and realized there was no bruising on her throat. Her hands were no longer shaking. Real adrenaline was better than pump when it came down to it. She'd had enough of both, and the night wasn't over.

"I am waiting for an answer. Who trained you?" He turned to face her.

"I don't know his real name." She ignored his snort. "But he goes by Sticks."

He lifted an eyebrow. It was the closest she had seen him come to showing surprise.

"Last I heard, Sticks was having trouble walking. I thought he got out of the business," he mused. "It is not like him to send someone out raw, and this is not his sort of job."

"I told you he didn't send me. He just trained me. He was against my going. He said I wasn't ready, and he was right." She wasn't going to put this on Sticks. He might be slow to move, but he made up for it, and if he wanted you hurt, you'd be hurt – badly.

"You seem to have trouble listening."

"Always have." She shrugged.

"Did he know you were on pump tonight?" His hard stare belied the casual tone.

"No, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell him. It's bad enough I have one professional willing to kill me."

"I hate to point out the obvious, princess, but there's a hell of a lot more than one. You really ought to consider the seriousness of the shit you're in when I am the least of your worries."

"Not at the moment you aren't."

"So the drug hasn't completely robbed you of reason. Good to know. Don't you find it ironic that you chose to take the drug that killed your sister, which most certainly was supplied by the person you are attempting to kill for dealing the drug in the first place?"

"The thought had occurred to me. But much like cops, the drug has its uses." She shrugged. "How did you know what I was on?"

"I know the signs. Go into the living room and make yourself comfortable. I have some calls to make." He pointed down the hall.

"Are you going to call Sticks?"

"He should know you managed to live through the night. Consider it professional courtesy. You will not be going back to his shop. The fewer people involved in this, the better. Go. You already have the shakes, and the chills will be next. There are blankets on the couch."

"Do you need the number?"

He looked at her as if she were a slow child. "Just go." She went.