Swerve (8 page)

“I would…'cause nobody's heard of the guy. I keep trying to corner the captain but can't get near him.” Tommy said.

“Who the hell is he?” Keliegh asked, turning back to the morgue doors, debating if he would go back in and find out on his own.

“Want another mystery? I was doing some snooping around, you know, seeing who's on this case and well, nobody is. That means nobody's heard of this Maxwell cat or a shooting last night. I wouldn't be surprised if you weren't suspended either. Hold on…”

Keliegh could hear the commotion through the muted phone. “You hear that? Captain stormed through asking what the hell was going on. He asked where you were. He said, ‘Mike's dead?' This is like a sick joke.”

“No joke. Apparently, somebody is claiming that Romia took out some guys at The Spot about an hour ago. For real. One of them was Mike.”

“She killed Mike? Is that what all the hubbub is about? Things are getting really nutty around here. Mike is dead? Hey, wait a sec…who knew before we did?”

“Maxwell,” they said at the same time.

“I'ma see if I can find out more about this Maxwell dude, maybe find out his game. Then I'm headed out to The Spot.”

“I'll meet you there. Hey, what about your girlfriend?” Tommy said, allowing plenty of sarcasm to come through. “I mean, she just dropped outta sight and that's not like her.”

Keliegh sighed heavily and hung up. “Oh, don't I know it. I still need to go see her.”

After storming back into the morgue, Keliegh was told that Maxwell and his partner were gone. “How? I didn't see them leave.” he asked the receptionist.

“Guess what? Apparently there is more than one way outta here, Mr. Bad Luck!”

“Hey, by the way, who all came in last night? I'll just take the entire roster.”

“Ah, well, this I can tell you. Mr. Huntington told me not to tell you anything else. So as far as you're concerned, nobody did.”

“Fine!” Keliegh growled before rushing back out of the morgue to his car.

Shashoni barely cracked the door after Keliegh knocked relentlessly. “Go away,” she whined.

“Open the door, baby. What's the matter with you?”

“I can't talk about it,” she cried.

Pushing the door open, he stormed in like Bogart.

She stepped back. She was wearing a robe and her hair was a mess. Dark circles had formed under her sleepless red eyes. She looked as if she'd been through the mill.

“What's going on?”

Holding back for a moment longer she finally burst into tears, falling into his open arms. “Oh, Keliegh. I was abducted by aliens!”

“What?” he asked. Holding back his first thoughts, he held her up. He supported her in her clearly weakened state, while moving her over to her sofa. Shashoni looked frightful and although Keliegh didn't believe for a moment it was aliens, he did know something horrible had happened. Besides, where had she been since the shooting last night? Where was she
during
all that madness?

“They kidnapped me and, well…” She shook her head vehemently as if trying to forget. “It was awful.”

Keliegh held her tight now, as she cried pitiably in his arms. His mind spun while trying to get ahead of her side of this conversation. He had nothing to say that would help, so he planned to just listen. After a moment or two, she kissed him, urging him to return the affection. Moving his hands inside her robe, he found her naked underneath. Sex for pity…pity for sex was what she wanted now. Keliegh knew the signs. No talking, just sex: that was Shashoni. “Shash, where were you?” He pushed himself back, closing her robe quickly.

“I don't know,” she answered in a whiny voice. “This man grabbed me when I ran out of the bar. They threw me in a big car.”

“He or they?”

“What?”

“You said ‘he grabbed you' and then you said ‘they threw you in the car,' which one was it?”

“He,” she answered, sitting up now, showing irritation with Keliegh's lack of concern for her near-death experience. “He grabbed me and threw me in this big black car and
they
…there was a
they
in the car…they drove me to this awful place and wouldn't let me leave until just a few hours ago. Then they brought me home.”

“So nothing happened. Well, I mean, something happened, but nothing. Can you ID them?”

Shashoni sat back on the sofa, fully cooling the space between them. “You don't even care that they could have killed me.”

“Did you hear any names? Could you identify them if you saw a picture or heard them again? Did you call the police?”

“No.” Shashoni stood and adjusted her robe, making sure she was fully covered and out of Keliegh's reach in case he changed his mind. “They said they were the police.”

“And you believed them?”

She smacked her lips. “Well, I'm not believing you! What a foul attitude you have. I think we need to break up,” she said, sounding impulsive.

Rolling his eyes, he stood. “Do you even know what happened last night?”

“Yes. I was kidnapped and my man was too busy with his ex-partner to notice I was even gone until over twenty-four hours later.”

“It hasn't been twenty-four hours, but—”

“Get outta here!” Shashoni rushed to the door and opened it. Keliegh stood his ground.

“I really want to know who threw you in the car. I just wish you could tell me something. Romia needs all the help—”

“Romia? Ugh,” Shashoni gasped. “That's all those men were talking about too. Romia this and Romia that. They were saying she was a communist or something.”

Shashoni ran out and was detained out of the way until conveniently everything was over. Why? Who knew what was about to happen? And why were they talking about Romia?
Standing in the foyer in front of the door, Keliegh tried to put some thoughts together. “They were talking about Romia? The men who nabbed you were talking about her. Did they have accents?”

“Ugh,” Shashoni gasped again, this time shoving him out the door. Suddenly Shashoni's door flew open. “Keliegh, come back. You need to hear this!”

“Shash, I—”

“The TV. Keliegh! It's about your ex-partner!”

Keliegh dashed back into the small apartment in time to hear the end of the newsflash.

“Again, she is believed to be armed and dangerous. Anyone seeing this woman is urged to call the San Francisco Police Department immediately. Do not try to apprehend this woman, as she is suspected to have single-handedly slaughtered five people on a killing spree, which started last night at approximately ten
P.M
. at The Spot tavern in the Palemos. This spree has resulted in the murder of the tavern's owner, Mike Brumsky…”

“Mike is really dead,” Keliegh repeated, sitting back down on the sofa. Mike, their Mike, the bartender who over the years had become a friend to all on the force. The day's news was catching up to his brain, fact by awful fact. Sure he'd heard that Mike was dead, but reality was hitting him. “Dead! Romia?” How could Romia be a murder suspect?

Shashoni wrapped her arms around his shoulders, embracing him, consolingly nuzzling his neck. Slowly, her hands wandered over his shoulders to his chest, where she began to massage him sensually.

He grabbed her hands, pulling them over his head as he stood and spun to face her. “Look, this is serious!”

“I am serious. This all is very crazy and I'm scared, Kel. I need you to hold me,” she added, outstretching her arms.

“Here is a picture of the suspect,” the newscaster went on as a very unflattering photo of Romia flashed on the screen.

“God, she looks horrible,” Shashoni gasped, turning her head toward the TV just as Romia's picture flashed on the screen. “Where did they find that god-awful photo? She needs to sue them. Well, I guess if she's out killing people it doesn't really matter. That's crazy, Kel…and to think that you thought you knew her.”

Keliegh turned back to the screen with wide eyes, and then, without saying good-bye, he darted out the door. His head was whirling and his cell phone was ringing. It was Tommy.

He didn't pick up.

Keliegh's trip out to The Spot was different from Romia's in that he was met with yellow tape, photographers, plenty of plastic gloves, and a grimacing uncle who was making his way through blood and gore while looking for evidence.

“So you knew about this?” Lawrence Miller asked Keliegh, who still seemed amazed at the sight he was seeing.

People gathering to get a glimpse of dead bodies was always what Keliegh hated most about scenes like this. He worked vice, but sometimes it overlapped with homicide and when it did, it was usually bad news.

“Tell me how in the hell you knew about this before it happened?”

“I didn't…I don't.” Keliegh was fighting shock. “I want to know what you got, though. I want to know who's dead.”

“How should I know, nobody seems to carry ID anymore.”

Keliegh shook his head. He was thinking of Maxwell Huntington. How did he know about this? “Damn.”

“So, you need to get back to finding your little ex-partner. We have some questions for her and if we find her first…” Lawrence said before gagging.

His partner then joined their conversation. Jim Beem was a shorter white guy with a cool, scruffy look. On some level he was probably considered a handsome man, but to Keliegh he just seemed like an odd little man. “You gonna puke? Please don't puke,” Jim said before turning his attention to Keliegh. “Hey, Kel, you rubberneckin' or what?”

“No, just here to see if there really are dead bodies here this time,” Keliegh said without thinking.

“As opposed to a crime scene without any…now what fun is that?” Jim asked. “My question here is how many killers?”

“One,” Lawrence barked. “Witnesses say a woman fitting Romia's description came in to talk to”—he pointed at one of the body bags—“body number one, and when”—he pointed at the other three bags—“they came in, she turned into a ninja warrior and did a number on those three before tossing a knife into”—again he pointed at the first body bag in the row—“that guy.”

“Who are these witnesses?”

“Kel, this is not your case. You need to leave. I'm not giving you an option, I'm giving you a direct order. Now get outta here.”

“It's my ex-partner, guys. You have to let me—”

“No, we don't,” Lawrence argued, fanning over a uniformed cop. “Arrest him.”

The officer reached for cuffs.

Keliegh jumped back out of his reach. “Get the hell away from me. Look, Unk, you want Romia, this is not the way to get her.”

“I know. An APB is the way to get her. Blasting her cute little deadly ninja ass over every newspaper in the city will get her…”

“Ooh, a cute little ninja ass,” Jim teased before patting the officer on the shoulder, urging him to back off Keliegh and taking him back into the ongoing investigation. Jim then began pointing the photographers into the directions they needed to head into.

“Look, Unk,” Keliegh then whispered. “I'll get you Romia if you promise me you guys will listen to her.”

Lawrence took a deep breath as if regaining his composure. “Listen to what? Look, just get her to me. No promises.”

Keliegh shook his head. “Can't work with that.”

“Look, your ass better work with it because if you know where she is, you're gonna go down as an accomplice. To what, I don't know yet, but—”

“I don't. But I have a feeling she's gonna come to me.”

Lawrence rolled his eyes. “Why? You sleeping with her?”

“No. No. I just…” Keliegh sighed. “We're soulmates, Unk. We're…” Keliegh rubbed his heart that suddenly began to ache with just the words he'd said.

“Whatever,” Lawrence groaned while rolling his eyes.

“You recognize this?” Jim asked, holding up a small dirty piece of fabric brightly colored with the emblem Romia treasured—the phoenix.

Keliegh tightened his lips, knowing it was Romia's. He'd seen it in her apartment in a frame. He'd seen it on her gear. It was her symbol and represented who she was. This piece of fabric used to belong to her mother. He knew that much.

“No,” he lied. “Look, I'm gonna go see my girlfriend,” he lied, backing out of the conversation as best he could.

“You still seeing that Sha…sha…” Lawrence struggled.

“Shashoni, yeah, I'ma check with you all later,” Keliegh said, realizing then they had had no idea that Shashoni had been involved the night before. Actually, it was clear that Jim and Lawrence had no clue about anything that had to do with the night before.

His cell phone rang. It was Tommy.

Man, she is always quick to catch a whistle.

Only a crazy person would ride around on her motorcycle during broad daylight with a helmet that showed a brightly colored phoenix on it. Romia felt crazy and, frankly, too tired to care. There was no way she was going to hide out during all of this. But she wasn't just going to march into Maxwell's office and turn herself in. Something about that guy rubbed her the wrong way.

Right now she needed to figure out who the Shadow was and why he was helping her one minute and trying to kill her the next. It was obvious he had brought her motorcycle and helmet to her, because he had taken her helmet. But how did he get her bike back from the cops? She tried to remember all she could about him, but it was a waste, because he and she were always fighting in each other's presence.
Pretty hard to get acquainted,
she reasoned.

Entering Richmond city limits, she pulled into an out-of-the-way Japanese restaurant; one she knew served purely vegan cuisine. She smiled thinking about Keliegh and how impossible it was to convince him to give up meat. Pulling into the parking lot, she took off her helmet and loosed her hair from the staunch ponytail she wore. Still in her nightclothes, she thought about how easily she could be spotted, and unzipped her hoodie to reveal her wifebeater underneath. “I need to get on foot during the day,” she reasoned. “I need to park my bike somewhere safe.” Glancing at her watch, she saw that it had been only hours since the men were killed at the tavern. No doubt her face had been plastered all over the news. Glancing around at the few patrons, she gave second thought to her meal and opted for a Greek drive-thru she knew about. Quickly pulling herself back together, she jumped back on her bike and she headed for it.

Taking off her helmet while in the drive-thru, she ordered a falafel to go. She handed the girl her money and whizzed past the window before the girl would have had time to identify her.
Now to eat and figure out where to hide my bike,
she thought while she cruised the streets. She remembered this neighborhood well; it was the one she grew up on while in the foster home. She then remembered the church that her mother took her to. It was a Catholic church with many paintings on the ceiling and walls. She remembered her mother taking her there. Her mother would often go into the confessional and visit the priest—confessing to sins that Romia could only now imagine her mother to have. How could such a perfect woman have ever done anything wrong?
But then, who is my father?
Romia asked herself for the first time in many years.

Thinking again about the church, Romia figured that if nothing else, she would be able to eat in peace there. Taking Interstate 80 North to the exit before the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, she jumped on the 580 until the next-to-last exit coming up then to the Chevron refinery. Heading left onto Tewksbury, she reached Santa Fe Avenue and West Richmond. That is where the rectory and church were. She was surprised she still remembered how to get there. It had been many years since she'd been there.

The church was open so she went in, slipping into a nice, comfortable-looking pew in the back to eat. She felt calm now. The walls, the paintings, the familiar all soothed her. The food was good as she basically inhaled it.

Leaning her head back, she must have appeared to be praying, although it had been years since Romia had done that. Just then, on the ceiling she noticed the tapestry embedded in the ceiling's artwork. Cocking her head to the side, she tried to follow the design. “I don't believe it,” she mumbled, noticing a familiar one. She reached inside her bra, only to find her tapestry piece missing. She began patting herself madly, pulling her clothes from her body and looking down the front of them. She must have lost it in the fight back at The Spot. She had to get back there before the police found it.

Just then, the priest entered the cathedral hall where she was. She stood quickly and quietly, hoping to leave before he engaged her in conversation. She needed to get out of there, to sort the questions that were forming in her mind based on what she had just seen—or thought she had seen. The priest saw her and jumped. “Hello, child, you startled me. I had no idea anyone was here.”

“I'm not, I'm leaving. Thanks for the use of your place,” she said coolly, picking up her helmet and her empty food container.

“Why are you running away? Stay and pray. You're hurt,” he said, noticing the tear in Romia's sleeve. She had forgotten about it, considering she didn't bleed heavily from anywhere else except her mouth. Apparently, the cut was just a graze as it had all but healed, or so it appeared.

“Thanks, Father, but no. I mean, not today. I'm not Catholic for one, and I'm kinda in a hurry for another.”

“Are you in trouble? You don't look rested. Have you been traveling?” he asked.

“Stop with the questions!” she snapped. “I'm a cop. I'm not supposed to rest. That's my job,” she smarted off. He looked at her sideways as if suddenly recognizing her…
perhaps from the newspaper
, she thought immediately.

“You're the one they're looking for,” he said.

“Look. I'm innocent. I haven't murdered anyone…not in the true sense of the word. I…” Romia stammered, watching the priest grow nervous. He wasn't like the ones on television who seemed to read minds and hearts. He was scared, and any minute would probably break and run for the phone. “Listen, Father, I'm going to leave now and you can do what you want.”

“No! Don't leave. They asked me to keep you here should you realize your destiny and come here. You're…you're the Phoenix,” he said in a foreign language that, for a second, Romia felt she understood. The chill that ran down her spine shook her whole body instantly.

“What did you just say?” she asked, thinking maybe her ears were playing tricks on her.

“You need to stay,” he said, clearly in English now.

“Not gonna happen,” she said before dashing out the back door of the church and hopping on her Phoenix, which she decided just that moment to name her bike. The way the bike just reappeared at that tavern was as if rising from the ashes. It was magical indeed.

Riding around for hours, the day slipped away.

“Keliegh, pick up the phone. I need to talk to you,” she said into the receiver after having stopped at a pay phone. She figured it was the safest way to contact him. Waiting only a second longer, she hung up and trudged back to her bike. She rode a while longer, jumping on Highway 1 and exiting at Half Moon Bay. Stepping off the bike, she pulled the helmet off and loosened her hair, pulling the rubber band around her wrist. She noticed her torn sleeve now and examined the nick for the first time. It was a little tender, but not enough to bother her. She thought about Mike for the first time today. He was dead.

She was sure the wrong people were dying in this battle.
And I don't even know why I'm at war. But I do know I'm the one they are after…whoever they are. Mike shouldn'a died
. She shook her head sadly. She thought about the three men who had come to the tavern and attacked her. The accents…She tried again to place them but everything moved so quickly.
How did they know about…?
She turned her helmet and looked at the emblem.
But then that just let me know they wanted me. They were there to get me. But why?

Looking around, she noticed the beach was basically empty, only a couple of dog walkers. She took her helmet under her arm as she ventured down the rocky crag toward the water's edge. Looking out over the bay, she tried to sort her feelings. She'd killed today, with her bare hands. She'd done what she was sworn to never do. “But I had to,” she said aloud.

She felt unlike herself. She felt as if maybe…

Maybe her strange dreams had come true.

“That dream. My gosh, it was so horrible,” she said, remembering it, speaking aloud. It didn't matter that she spoke at full voice. No one was noticing her, no one cared. The tall man walking his dog had no overt awareness of her presence. The lonely looking woman just walked with folded arms, staring out over the ocean as she meandered mindlessly along. Surely that woman wasn't noticing her. “It's as if they can't see me. It's as if I'm dead and they can't see me.” It was a strange feeling—almost an invisible feeling. Romia had never felt the sensation before—as if she were dead, yet walking among the living.

Quickly, she shook her head free of the morbid thought. “Come on, chosen one,” she said to herself, using the term of endearment her mother used for her when teasing. No one other than her mother had ever referred to her as such, even in jest. She felt chosen by no one other than her mother. When her mother died, she felt nothing more than the opposite: unchosen, unwanted, alone. “It's just not that serious,” she said, contemplating her morbid thoughts and chuckling under her breath.

Turning to climb back up the rocks, she stopped suddenly at a sight that confused and, for a second, frightened her. There at the top of the crag stood the white man from the night before.

The dead man.

He was smiling at her, the front of his shirt red with blood.

“What the…” she gasped. “You're not dead! Who are you?” she cried out. She rushed up the jagged hillside, back to where she had parked her bike. She was trying not to take her eyes off him for fear he would disappear, but her feet were missing solid landings. She was sliding, stumbling, fumbling.

“Wait right there!” she called out, gaining solid footing and moving quickly up the crag.

The man fanned his hand and started walking away.

“Wait!” she screamed, slamming the helmet on her head and doubling her speed up the hillside.

Reaching the top, she looked for him but only saw the dust his motorcycle kicked up, and the woman riding on the back of it. “Dammit!” She stomped. “Dammit,” she spat again, before running to her motorcycle to follow them.

She gasped suddenly, noticing her jacket lying neatly over the seat. Looking around again for any sign of the man, she reached slowly for her jacket. Her hands shook. “What's happening to me?” she asked, shrugging into the leather. The comfort came immediately. She rubbed the sleeves, inhaling the scent. “Hello, old friend. I could have used you when that fool was cutting at me. Where have you been?” she asked her favorite garment. Just then, she realized again how quickly her arm had seemed to heal. A smile crept to her lips. “Well, at least I wasn't chosen to bleed to death.”

Mounting her bike, she headed in the direction the man and woman had gone. Finding him was a fantasy now, she knew, but at least she could try.

Strangely enough, the panic she once felt was leaving her heart. She felt almost euphoric, otherworldly. Perhaps it was the satisfaction that indeed she hadn't killed that man. Perhaps it was insanity showing its head through her logical senses. Either way, giving up without much effort, she turned south and headed down the peninsula until she reached Santa Cruz. There she sat on the beach until sunset. She sat there, emptying her head of all rational thoughts and fears. Finally, she pulled herself together. She needed to confront Maxwell Huntington. She needed to find out who those men were who tried to kill her back at The Spot. She needed to confront her fears of being arrested and confined.

Climbing on her bike, she headed back north to the city. She was tempted to go back to the church but changed her mind. Instead, she headed where she felt she would find understanding.

She was in the middle of something—a key player maybe. Unfortunately for her, she didn't even know the game, let alone the rules.