Irony 3: Fare is Fair

By Robert Shroud

Forced to work undercover by Captain Freeman, Detective Reginald Thomas Williams is sucked into a whirlwind of stolen cars, gangsters, a crazy German, and his volatile partner—Officer Carmen Sanchez. Heated sparks fly between Reg and Sanchez, hot enough to burn down the case and kill them both. Detective Reuben Garcia must track a mystery killer eliminating lawyers for the prosecution. A bullet to the head and they’re dead. His haunted past could derail the investigation, sending Reuben spiraling down a dark, familiar path. Then comes the Animal. Back from the dead? Impossible. The trail of bodies he’s leaving behind suggests it isn’t. Johnathan Fare destroyed everything Reg lived for. It’s time to balance the scales and put the Animal in the ground for good

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Shroud
• Release date: Feb 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370178933

Robert Shroud

I could regale you with a biography which would include snippets of my life. I could highlight for you over forty years of both accomplishments and failures. Well, maybe not failures. I’ve never read an ‘about the author’ that included falling out of a tree in your youth. I have no grandiose yarns to spin here. I am just a guy who has always wanted to be a writer. I have been writing off and on since the age of twelve. What I want to do more than anything is concentrate on delivering you, the reader, quality works. If I can do that, then I believe over time you will come to know more about me than you ever wanted to. Sincerely, Robert Shroud. [e-mail]

Book preview

Part One

Disheveled Sheets

1

BIG PAPI TO UNDERCOVER LOVER, our man just rounded the corner out of my view. You pick him up?

Undercover Lover? Is that supposed to be me? Reg asked.

Rama-lama-ding-dong, baby, Reuben said.

"Detectives Garcia and Williams, knock off the grab-ass, an officer’s life is in play. Williams, do you have eyes on the target?" the lieutenant in charge of the surveillance team squawked in their earpieces.

This guy ain’t going nowhere, lieutenant, Detective Rivers chimed in. He makes his move, he’d better hope we get there before Sanchez castrates him.

On a hawkish Spring night, of the five man team tasked to take down a killer, Detectives Alton Rivers, Reuben Garcia, Reginald Williams, Lieutenant Murtaugh, and the decoy, Officer Carmen Sanchez, three of them shared a laugh.

You would be the duck instead of me, Rivers, but the nightgown wouldn’t fit over your man-boobs, Sanchez said.

Okay, people, blinders on, I got our man. He just turned onto Sanchez’s block. Hopefully, this is the night he bites.

Parked diagonally across from the apartment they’d set up for Officer Sanchez, Lt. Murtaugh’s call to arms cut through his team’s digs, at just how good Detective Rivers would look in a pink, see-through nightie.

You can all lick the fungus under my toenails, Rivers said, stashed inside the apartment’s cramped, bedroom closet.

Officer Carmen Sanchez, selected because she fit the dark-haired, South American profile of previous victims—and paraded in front of the suspect for a week at his hardware store—crawled into bed. On the three occasions their mark had come to watch her, Sanchez shut the lights off at 10PM. As far as their killer knew, she’d been tucked away in dreamland for two hours.

Confirmed. Suspect is engaging locks on street entrance. Along comes a spider to kiss the girl, Reg said.

His fourth night atop the six-story tenement, Detective Reginald Thomas Williams escaped the frosty Spring, slipping past the roof door and down the landing stairs. As with each time they ran a drill for what was now the real thing, an aromatic medley of Mediterranean and South American dishes, long since eaten and digested, embraced every inhale.

The smells made him wish he had banged on a couple of doors earlier in the evening, flashed his badge, and invited himself in for dinner. It may not have gone over well with Lieutenant Murtaugh, or his Captain, but his churning stomach, the recipient of a lone Chunky bar six hours ago, wouldn’t be cursing him at the moment.

They had set Sanchez up on the fourth floor. He would wait on the fifth until their 42 year old suspect entered. Reuben, trailing from the street, would meet him outside Sanchez’s apartment.

The fox is in the henhouse. Let’s make sure he doesn’t kill our hen, Murtaugh said.

Listening to the acknowledgements from team members, and then Sanchez, who asked if being called a hen could be considered sexual harassment, Reg called in his confirmation.

He’s moving fast. Reg, we still on point? Reuben said.

On point, Reg whispered into his collar microphone.

Moments later, he heard the worming steps of their suspect reach Sanchez’s floor. He breathed silent relief that they would soon have their man, and he could get away from late night improvs as a gargoyle statue. The raw Spring he didn’t mind. He would take that over the summer heat any day. But following the two weeks it took Reuben to convince him, that the New Year’s Eve call telling him his wife’s killer lived, was a hoax, he had been early to bed and rise.

3-to-1 side action, Sanchez has her knee in his crotch before any of us get to him.

Detective Rivers, one more word, and your assignment the rest of the night will be guarding the clothes in that closet, Lt. Murtaugh said.

You guys, I think something’s wrong. I haven’t heard him come in yet, Sanchez whispered.

Garcia, Williams, either of you have location on our man? Murtaugh said.

Holding position on the third floor, Lieutenant, no sign, Reuben said in hushed tones.

Williams?

Entry to their trap pad drew a penalty squeak of its rusted door. The high pitched grate was Reg’s signal for descent, meeting Reuben outside the apartment. He hadn’t heard it.

Williams? Murtaugh called again.

In the relatively quiet thirty unit building, featuring an elaborate, winding stairwell at its center, Reg tilted his free ear toward the fourth floor. Where is the fox? Even if their man, Richard Pusey, had been able to get around the door squeak, they should have a killer in cuffs, taken down by Rivers and Sanchez.

Guys, I still don’t hear anything. Should I get up, go for a glass of water? Sanchez said.

Hold tight, Sanchez. Dammit, Williams, if I don’t get something from you, we’re converging on your position.

Had some ambient night sound spooked the mark? If Richard Pusey stood motionless outside of Sanchez’s door, and for whatever reason balked at claiming his prize, did he dare risk the whisper to answer Murtaugh? He wanted Pusey badly, but for attempted homicide, not burglary.

"Williams?"

"Hold it, L.T., don’t breach," Reg said, risking it.

Talk to me, Murtaugh demanded.

Quietly, swiftly, he leaned over the stairwell bannister for a peek below. Nothing. No Pusey having trouble with an easy lock, no Pusey frozen in a paranoid stance. Where was the fox? Inside the apartment? Hiding?

Sanchez, Rivers, search the apartment. Reuben, meet me in front, Reg said. He swooped down the one flight and took position by the door.

Converge and breach. Converge and breach, Murtaugh ordered.

Reuben huffed up and over the final landing step. His 6’2, 260 pound imposing frame took position on the opposite side of the door. Our man inside?

No idea, and it’s confusing the hell out of me.

You ready?

Ain’t nothing to it but to do it, Reg said.

Sanchez in their ears stopped them. Did we miss him? How did he get passed us?

Detectives Williams and Garcia, partners when not teamed with others, traded perplexed stares. Rivers piggybacked Sanchez. We got nothing, lieutenant. Pusey is not in the apartment.

Like hell he’s not, open up, Reuben said.

Door locks clicked open. Reuben spun and reached for the knob. As he did, the apartment behind him caught Reg’s eye.

‘You guys check the Rita in 4D? If Sanchez doesn’t bait this guy, I bet she would.’

Acting on Reuben’s words from two nights before, Reg brushed past his partner, raised a determined leg, and kicked. The door dented, but didn’t give way. A second kick crashed it in. He flew inside the Rita’s apartment, streaking around shadowy furniture, thanking God the layout of the two apartments was identical.

He ignored a startled Reuben in tow and the clatter of team members in his ear. He heard a loud crash before annihilating her bedroom door. Charging into the darkness, he saw the silhouette of Richard Pusey’s lanky frame, against the backdrop of a busted window.

Pusey held up a fistful of Rita hair, flashed a sadistic grin, and vanished.

He’s on the run, Reg called to the others, Fire escape. Fire escape.

He left Reuben to check on the victim and followed Pusey’s lead. He spied Pusey two floors below, searching out a cushioned landing spot for the leap from the second floor. Fast bastard, but can’t let him get away. Reg dashed to the third floor landing. Yielding body parts clanked against unforgiving iron.

Richard Pusey, Bay City Police, stop right there.

His command reached the ears of a hurtling suspect. BADOW! Pusey landed on and exploded a neat grouping of garbage bags, nestled to the side of the building.

AAAIIEEEYYOOWWW! His screech of pain echoed off moonlit alley debris.

From his fire escape perch, Reg saw Lieutenant Murtaugh hustling through the darkness, his gun sight trained on their suspect. Immobilized, Pusey wailed like a horde of cats scratching it out over discarded tuna steaks.

What happened? Reg called down.

Murtaugh kicked trash clear and took in the spectacle. He looked up at Reg and shook his head. You don’t want to know.

Try me.

Dumb bastard impaled his balls on a fireplace poker.

Heh, hope it was a rusty one, Reg said, rubbing his yielding body parts.

Yep, that qualifies him as a dumb bastard, Reuben said, looking down on them from the Rita’s window.

Garcia, how’s the girl? Murtaugh asked.

Looks like he snipped the hair and bolted when he heard us coming. I called for a bus, but I think she’s going to be okay, thanks to Reg.

Thanks to all of us, you mean. Good job, people, Murtaugh said, then added, All reports in sync. No one goes home until they’re in my hand—oh, and we’re going to need another ambulance for our suspect.

2

GOOD WORK ACCOMPANIED BY GOOD REPORTS. Captain Lawrence Freeman’s new edict. So long as no one’s constitutional rights were assaulted, trampled, and left for dead, then the report should reflect good men doing good work.

Reg completed the details on his good report at precisely 3AM, the witching hour. Without question an omen, because his bones hurt and were chilled to themselves. Several May nights on an exposed rooftop probably put him on the sick side of healthy. Even with the car heater on full blast, a rarity in the four year old Lincoln, his bone chill lingered.

He cut the engine. The Town Car choked, sputtered, and settled in for the night. Stepping out into the near freezing temperatures, he hesitated, salivating at Asian Cuisine vapors spiraling up into a cloudless night. Weary bones objected to the cross street sojourn for General Tso’s Takeout. Reg sustained, turning toward his five story walk-up. Delicate spices of his favored Beef and Broccoli dish, would have to wait for a night wrought with less muscle fatigue. Furball, a stray who’d taken to night loitering near his doorway in recent months, was a no show.

Mangy rat with hair finally got himself run over.

He retracted a hand from the bag of snacks in his jacket pocket, and dug into another for a ringing Samsung.

Ay, Rube.

You coming down with something? I thought so earlier, but wasn’t sure. Sounds like it now, though.

Reg sneezed too suddenly to get his hand up.

Guess I got my answer, Reuben said.

He fished out the handkerchief his wife always made him carry and wiped his nose. I’ll be fine, what’s up?

Least now I know why you left after the first drink.

Following a successful sting, a customary toast is standard operating procedure. If a team member took a bullet, the first glass aided his recovery. If killed, drinks were postponed until all off duty personnel could attend. Since the only thing murdered that night was Richard Pusey’s love life, Reg made himself scarce after the ceremonial offering.

Heard my bed calling. You guys are too hardcore for me.

He emerged on the second floor, gimping a lethargic pace down the narrow corridor to his apartment.

"Hmm, do I foresee some tender loving care from a certain animated villainess?"

Reg figured that’s what Reuben meant when he called him Undercover Lover during the OP. He could also hear the rum in his partner’s words now.

Sounds like you stuck around a while after I left.

Eh, had a few. Didn’t hurt that Leuy bagged the tab and gave us the day off.

Reg rotated his key ring, happy to have steered the conversation away from Harley Quinn. You home yet?

Ten minutes.

Stupid question, cause you’re already doing it, but you okay to drive?

Tip-top, partner, tip-top, Reuben said.

The apartment door two over from Reg’s swung open.

Oh, hell.

What?

"Fergus Tiberius Gulliver."

Ha-ha-hah. That’s all you need right now, Reuben said.

Hurriedly, Reg inserted, turned, yanked, and rotated the ring for the key to his second lock.

Ever consider just shooting him? Reuben laughed.

Wouldn’t do any good. He wears some kind of bullet blocker suit under his clothing.

You lying.

Not, Reg assured.

All the buildings, in all the cities, in all the world, and the new year lands him in yours.

Don’t know what I’m going to do with all that lottery money, Reg said.

Detective Williams, I need to speak with you about a matter of utmost importance. The slight statured, chipmunk-voiced, bespectacled man rushed at him. An amalgamation of jittery body parts reluctantly cooperating toward a decisive end.

Can’t right now, Fergus. Left the stove on. Insert, turn, open, enter.

Bay County is at risk, and you have the connections to stop the terrorists from exploding the M-25 overpass. I have eviden—

Look at it tomorrow, Fergus, promise. The Bay City Police Department thanks you for your vigilance. Close.

Oh, yes, tomorrow then.

Reg could still hear him in the hallway, just outside the door.

It will give me time to complete the ancillary project for you. We can go over it all, tomorrow.

You get away? Reuben asked.

Barely. I have a bad feeling, though, next time I may have to hear him out.

He tossed his getaway keys on the kitchen counter, sighed at being home, and rummaged the fridge for orange juice.

My money’s on you, Ghost Brother. You’ve ducked him for what, four months now?

Minus the flashbacks of sneaking in after curfew trying not to wake my mother.

His hand slipped passed the container of OJ, gripping the bottle of draft behind it. The fifth in what started out as a six pack four days ago.

Aw, Reg, Conspiracy Guy is harmless. I bet if you stopped to hear–

What stop? He talks me right into my apartment.

Twist, discard cap, satisfying first sip.

Think about it, does he say the same things every time?

Reg’s eyes brightened. My Precious, I think you’re onto something.

See where I’m going?

One day, I’ll invite him over and hear every crackpot theory he’s got. From who really assassinated JFK, to the government putting fluoride in the drinking water, as a mind controlling agent.

I’ll bring a couple of beers and we can laugh our asses off, Reuben said.

"Don’t think I can do it without beer, but we have to snow him that we’re serious. That way, I can always tell him we have our top men on it.

Reg, you’re a conniving brother.

Says the person who formulated the plan.

Yeah, but you’re actually gonna do it. When is this meeting of the paranoid minds supposed to take place?

Got some vacation time coming. Probably then.

Sandpaper toilet tissue, man, you serious? Reuben said.

Second sip, almost as satisfying as the first. Why not? I could threaten to take him in, but like you said, the guy is as dangerous as cork-filler.

"No, I meant some people use their vacation time to go on vacation."

True, Reg stifled a beer burp, "but those are the people with the do-rae-me to get away. I put my ATM card in the machine, I hear a laugh track from 70’s sitcoms.

I have a nest egg squirreled away. I know you’re good for it, Reuben said.

Reg plopped on the sofa. He let his new IKEA living room table hold his beer, and scooped up the t.v. remote. His old table lost to Reuben’s fist, in an explosion of rage over his then kidnapped daughter.

"Hiding money from the wife, Rube? Tsk, tsk."

What makes you say that?

The Law of Marriage, my beefy compadre. If Gloria knew anything about that egg, it would be cracked and scrambled already.

Law of Reuben: What my baby doesn’t know won’t hurt anybody, especially me.

Reg chuckled over Reuben’s hearty laughter and clicked the remote, bringing his thirty-two-inch flatscreen to life. Cable television news, instead of Carol, acknowledged his presence home.

No joke, partner, I can lend you something.

It’s not just the money, Reg frowned.

I had a feeling.

Yeah, well … his sentence trailed, buried under the 5-day forecast.

You’ve never been on vacation without her, have you?

Reg breathed silence, not the least upset to hear the chilly weather would continue.

I know you’re still, you know, but what about Linda?

What about her? Reg said, surprised his response sounded like an assault.

I only mentioned her–

—because I told you we slept together, and you figured if I let her in that much, why not take her on vacation?

To be honest, yes, Reuben confessed.

Linda’s a fine woman, Rube, and we had some fun, but she ain’t wrapped too tight. I owe her for getting me through these last few months, most of all for helping to save your daughter’s life.

Third sip, extended due to the subject matter.

But, bottom line, if she isn’t on her local precinct’s radar, she will be. She’s an adrenaline junkie, gets off on the danger. Great for the sack, not so much for the homemaking department.

"To hell with you, too."

3

HIS BODY JERKED, TIDAL-WAVING DRAFT IN THE BOTTLE. He swiveled a cringing expression to his right. Broiling him with her eyes, the person he had just flayed hovered in the short hallway, outside his bedroom door.

Was that—?

Gotta go, Rube.

Reg vaulted off the sofa, tossing the cell phone over his shoulder.

I know what that sounded like—

"I know what it sounded like, too, even though I ain’t wrapped too tight," Linda Myers said.

His eyes fluttered in embarrassment, taking shallow notice of teddy lace sculpting a bronzed body. Robust legs protruding from that lace paraded into the bedroom. He set aside his draft and rushed after them.

I come over to surprise your sorry excuse for a man ass, and this is the thanks I get?

If there was a time to regret gifting her a key to his apartment, following a night of toe-curling passion, this qualified. She promised never to use it without his knowledge. Joke’s on him.

Look, Linda—

Save it, her chest heaved, Whatever you have to say isn’t worth fertilizing my African Violets. Dammit, can’t believe I was kicking myself for falling asleep.

It’s a pleasant surprise, really, he said, for lack of other words finding his mouth.

Linda Myers draped a purple blouse over her lace outfit. She paused with skinny jeans in hand, and stared a burning hole of contempt through to the back of his skull.

Did I mean anything, or was I just a diversion fuck to get your mind off your dead wife?

Beneath her cutting glare he saw subdued hope for an answer he couldn’t give. In truth, an answer he didn’t want to give.

Bastard.

The contortion of hurt on her face pricked him more for not being honest, than for what she had overheard. He should have told her the truth from the start, they had no chance of making it. Instead, he rode the Linda Myers Orgasm Train to overcome his Carol grief.

"You do mean something to me," he said finally, over his shame.

Her amber eyes softened. Without another word or indignant stare, she wriggled into her skinny jeans and sat at the foot of the bed.

We can talk this out, he pleaded. Yes, I said some things I wished you hadn’t heard—

It’s coral, Reginald, I’m okay. She slipped on designer flats and stood, nimbling between him and the bed to retrieve her purse from the nightstand. He stepped back, inhaling her perfume, a mixture of berries and cream. He resisted the urge to wrap her in apologetic arms. A body’s distance separated their pensive faces.

I was fitting you for a coffin, then realized it’s not all your fault. I knew there was a chance you would only see her when you looked at me.

Linda, I …

Let me finish. She drew close, placing a gentile hand on his chest. When you asked for my help to save the girl, and shared with me the reason you denied my offer, I thought it was the most romantic thing I’d ever heard. I wanted to be that reason in someone’s life.

You can. It’s just—

She slid her hand up to his mouth, pressing a finger to his lips. I’m just not good enough to be that reason in yours. She set his lips free and drifted around him to the open door.

He didn’t turn immediately, but studied the disheveled sheets Linda Myers not long ago cradled in comfort. He couldn’t help thinking they matched his disheveled emotions.

"For the record, you weren’t wrong, I am Madame Harley again. Just a few girls, nothing big. Naughty, it’s what I do."

He turned to see her posing, a hand on her hip, the other propped against the door frame. Curly-fry red hair kissed her shoulders.

You’ve always been able to handle your own, Linda. I respect that.

"In the sex trade, you either learn to do the spanking, or be satisfied with forever spanked. I can’t say as I don’t enjoy a good spanking, as you know," she said, batting playful lashes.

Reg sheepishly browsed the Christmas gift from his sister. A Charcoal Sky piece painting hanging on the wall, next to his unexpected house guest.

But the truth of the matter is, doing the spanking is where it’s at.

He looked back to her, pouting approval. Nothing wrong with that.

Reg stared a long moment into the amber pools of her clever gaze. A gaze he likened to that of an ardent moviegoer, panning the rolling credits of a transcendent film.

I’ll ride home with you, follow in my car, he said, finally.

No, she said, a thin smile, You look like Charlie Sheen, on a good day. I’ll take a cab, call you when I get there.

Car in the shop again?

Pfft. Practically pushed it there this morning—oh, if you’re hungry, there’s a rotisserie chicken in the fridge. She motioned down the hall to the kitchen.

Really? Didn’t see it when I looked.

Tucked away in the crisper.

Oh ... guess that would be why I didn’t see it.

Pliable silence clothed the short distance between them. Her soft features he’d come to know well these past few months, reflected the