Swerve (6 page)

Romia reached The Spot—the tavern where everything had gone down just a few hours prior. There was no caution tape and no sign of police activity. It wasn't open, but there were a couple of cars parked in the lot. She looked the cars over from a distance to see if, perhaps, any were unmarked police cars. But none met the description. Looking around, she searched for any immediate hints or clues that might lead her to answers about the night before. “Somebody died here, for crying out loud. There should be signs or indications,” she mumbled under her breath. There wasn't so much as a chalk outline, or even blood stains in the dirt…not even her own.

Feeling odd about things, she pushed the door open and eased into the bar, quickly skimming the room. There were only two or three people there—employees apparently—and Mike, the owner and bartender. Pulling the hood from her head, she slid up on a stool and waited for him to turn around. When he did, she marked his expression. It was one of surprise.

“What are you doing here, Romee? I thought you'd be in jail or out of the country.” His voice was an undertone; it was obvious he was trying to be discreet.

“Not me. Maybe that woman who shot that man here last night…but not me.” She glanced around. Mike handed her a small bottle of mineral water instead of pouring it into a glass. Accepting it, she turned the cap and took a swig. “I figured you'd be closed up tighter than a drum.”

“Not me. Cops did what they had to do last night and that was that.”

“Really, and what was it exactly that they did? A man died outside your business and it doesn't appear they did much.”

“Well, I didn't kill him, so…”

“Neither did I. That woman…”

“What woman, Romee?” he asked, rubbing a tumbler dry. “You keep saying that.”

“What woman? Mike, what…?” Romia sighed and shook her head in disbelief of his comment. “The woman who was screaming bloody murder and accusing me of the same. Surely, your memory can't be that short,” Romia whispered, leaning in close to his face.

“Oh, that woman,” Mike said, chuckling nervously, redrying the same tumbler as if his mind and actions were no longer working as one. “Romia, I've never seen her before. I noticed her when she came in. She was new. I watched her for a while, ya know, just making sure she wasn't a hooker or anything like that. Can't have that kind of trash in here stirring up trouble. Anyway, I watched her and it was like she was waiting for somebody, okay? Then you came in and all that ruckus with Shoni and Kel and then boom. I look up; everybody is outside and there's been a shooting.”

“Did you hear a shot? Did the woman come back in?”

“I swear. She didn't come back in. She never came back in. By the time I got everybody outta here, she was not one of them.”

“Where did she go?”

Mike splayed his fingers in the air as if imitating a mist dissipating. “It was like a ghost. She was gone.”

“Damn!” Romia spat. Mike was a little taken aback by her language. Romia wasn't one to curse.

“How is Keliegh? He got carted off so fast I figured he was going to jail too.”

“Nothing happened to him…I guess.”

“Good. Would hate to see his career all messed up over…” Mike paused. Looking Romia straight in the eyes, he asked, “Did you shoot that guy, Romee? I mean, everybody is saying you did. That IA guy said you did. He called you a swerve.”

“Swerve? What is that?”

“Like a disgruntled postal worker, I guess. You know, a cop who finally snaps. You never heard the term? I never heard the term.”

“Never needed to know the term, and no, I haven't snapped.” Romia felt her blood beginning to boil. This was the second time she'd heard her mental state being questioned. Tommy had said something about it last night and now Mike was inquiring. Was everyone thinking she was crazy? She sure was starting to feel that way. Crazy.

“Romia, everybody knows your temper. Your jacket got messed up with that little Jack Daniels and you…you got out of control and shot that guy…for nothing. It was your gun that killed him, I heard,” Mike added, looking around. “And now you're on the lam. And, actually, I think you need to leave here before you bring the heat on me for real. That Maxwell guy said he'd have my license if I even ‘thought out loud' about last night, let alone talk about it with anybody.”

“Mike, come on, you know I didn't shoot that guy. For what. Bumping me—”

“Yeah, just like that. He got booze on that fancy jacket of yours and you lost it.”

Smacking her lips, she readied her mouth to deny it, but then surrendered without a fight. “Yeah, well. Did you know him?”

“No. Just like that woman. Had never seen either of them before.”

“Dang, Mike, do better than that, gimmie something.”

“I can't. That guy talked to me, Romia. I can't talk to anybody about anything. He'll pull my liquor license and—”

“What guy?”

“The IA guy, Max…”

“Maxwell something. Yeah, been hearing that name a lot. Mike, you know everybody in this precinct and beyond. Who is that guy? Keliegh doesn't know him. I don't know him.”

“Never seen him before either, but he's good—new, I guess. But whatever he is, he got this place cleaned up in record time. Got that body outta here, questioned everybody, and, well…took care of it. I'm supposed to call him, ya know, if by chance I see you.”

“So you knew I wasn't in jail.” Romia sighed before looking around and then back at Mike. His eyes twinkled with the sparkle of a bad little boy. “So…have you seen me?” she asked, almost smiling, but not.

“Not by chance.” Mike grinned, reaching down and sliding her the card that carried Maxwell's phone number.

“Thanks, Mike.” Romia stood, patting the bar consolingly as if it were a longtime friend. “Mike. Believe it or not, I have an alibi.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, but I can't tell you right now, it's even crazier than thinking I shot that guy.” Romia chuckled slightly.

Just then the door opened behind her. Mike looked over her head. “Morning, officers,” he called out loud. Romia didn't turn around, but readied herself for whatever might happen next. Slowly, she pulled the hood of her sweat jacket over her head. Mike's eyes met hers and she doubted for just a second whether he would be loyal to her. His smile, however, gave her the answer. She eased to the side as they approached the bar.

“So you know we're cops?” one of the men asked. His English was good, but his accent was foreign.

“Been serving cops for years. Know 'em a mile away.”

“Good. Then I guess you know the cop we're looking for. Romia Smith. We heard she hangs out here. Have you seen her?” the other of the two men said, sounding flat. Both men had an accent that Romia wasn't sure at first she recognized. It was familiar, but for the life of her, if she'd ever heard it before it had been years. Maybe it was one of her mother's friends who spoke as this man did. She couldn't remember.

Romia was dying to look at him but she knew she'd better get out of there. Her coming back to the scene of the crime was not what normally would have been expected, even she knew that. Only on television did the perps come back to the murder scene…
unless they are psychopaths and just dropping in to watch the fire
. The thought made her suddenly swoon.
Maybe I am crazy
, she reasoned.
Swerved…

“Why would she do that?” Mike asked. “This would be the last place she'd come. You fellas must be new around here.”

“You could say that,” one of the men said before chuckling.

Romia moved away from the bar and on through the tavern toward the door, but before she could get out, the door opened and a third man walked in. The man was dressed in a business suit, complete with a tie that was clipped with a unique-looking clip. He was big and dark skinned, sporting a shiny ring loaded with gaudy-looking stones. He didn't look like any plainclothes cop she'd seen recently. Their eyes met for one second before he yelled out something in another language. It sounded…
French, maybe. A dialect…maybe Arabic.

Arabic?
she thought, wondering why that came to her mind.

Suddenly swinging on her, she blocked him and countered with a punch-and-kick combo, but he blocked, coming back with the same. Despite his attire, he was agile and skilled in martial arts—a mixture of many skill levels and different schools. The fight was on and, by all appearances, about to get vicious.

The employees cleaning tables backed out of the way as the two of them fought around the room. With one of his hard punches, Romia tumbled over one of those clean tables, landing on her feet. His grace was gone then as he turned into a wrestler straight from the WWE, picking Romia up and throwing her onto the stacked-up chairs in the corner. She hit them hard and rolled onto the floor, covering her head for protection from the crashing fold-up chairs, but was back on her feet within seconds. The two other men joined in, but were not as challenging as the big guy in the fancy threads. With a side kick to the face, Romia knocked one of the men out cold. But the other one swung on her, catching her off guard. She avoided a face punch, however. The big guy stepped closer and now she was cornered against the wall.

“You fellas have names?” she asked. Her fists were up to protect her face. She was breathing hard but far from ready to surrender. “Or is that a secret you plan to take to your grave?”

“Ha! You and your cocky attitude…just like your father,” the big guy said, smiling broadly. “You truly are a phoenix.”

Confusion filled Romia's brain. She thought of the tapestry piece taken from the frame, the beautiful handcrafted stitchery that depicted the redivivus bird. “Phoenix? My father?” Noticing the fists of the big guy, she saw the ring up close. “Phoenix?” she asked.

“Don't play coy. We know who you are—but clearly you won't live to know as much,” the smaller man said, flipping out a switchblade. The larger one looked at him, and then pulled out a larger knife, showing his compliance with the plan to slice and dice over the first plan of just pummeling her to death.

“So, I'm starting to think you're not the police,” Romia said, sarcasm dripping from her lips. She felt at home in this battle and was ready to take it to the death.

“Hey!” Mike called out, rising from behind the bar with his gun pointed. But the smaller man's aim shut off Mike's voice and ended his intent.

The young female employee was still in the bar area. She had been standing against the wall, paralyzed with fear until that moment. She screamed, seeing the switchblade sticking from Mike's throat.

The smaller man drew his gun then, and took aim at the screaming girl.

Romia's instincts were instantaneous. She went for the gun, snapping the man's wrist in the process. He screamed in pain but was silenced when Romia, in one movement, broke his neck. She used him as a shield to block the inward jab of the larger man's blade. In a fluid motion, she moved him in front of her just in time. The blade went through his arm, catching the fabric of her hoodie, cutting the fabric, nicking her skin.

“Come on!” the young man yelled, coming from the back room where he had taken cover. He ran out, pulled the young female to him, and slammed the back door of the bar, making their escape.

Romia was livid. She could no longer see straight. Visions of her mother's smile were all that filled her eyes now.
“Romia,” her mother called. “Slow down, honey. Faster isn't always best. You could get hurt, and you know Mother would be devastated if something happened to her little heartbeat.” she said.

The tapestry flashed before Romia's eyes now, as the voice repeated the words.
My little heartbeat…slow down…your father…the Phoenix…you don't know who you are.

The car barreling toward them was all Romia could see, as her mind went back in time. “Mama!” she screamed out…then and now!

As if suddenly possessed, Romia's rage was taken out on the big man. Combinations of her immediate conception came to her with remarkable quickness. Again and again she pummeled the man's face and chest, taking his breath away until finally a slice from the side of her hand to his throat caused him to gasp and choke. Blood spurted forth from his open mouth from a swift kick to his chest. He stumbled backward, but Romia didn't stop there. She kicked high, reaching his chin. The sound of the man's bones cracking under her foot sickened her—much like the sound of her mother going over the hood of that car.

He fell, bleeding from his mouth and nose, his face resembling a prize fighter's. He was dead.

Without a doubt, Romia figured real cops were coming. But it didn't matter at that moment, not really. Out of instinct, though, she quickly rifled through their jackets for ID. She found none. Regardless of who they were, there would be no way the authorities who headed her way would understand her side of things. There was no way they would believe that she had not killed Mike, instead of having killed on Mike's behalf.

Rushing out the back door, she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. Her Ducati with her helmet hanging from the bungee sat waiting. “My God!” she screamed, rushing toward her bike. She wanted to hug it, kiss it as she would a lost love, but instead she mounted it, slammed her helmet on her head, and took off.

 

“They're here and they found her. We're out of time now,” the Shadow said in Arabic, running while talking on the small transmission device. He was headed toward the freeway overpass.

“Dammit! How did they find her?”

“I don't know, but they beat me here. I suppose after tearing up her apartment they decided to use their brains instead of their brawn. So whatever game you were playin' with her, it just got stepped up a notch.”