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    Dead Even: River City, #8
    Dead Even: River City, #8
    Dead Even: River City, #8
    Ebook323 pages4 hours

    Dead Even: River City, #8

    By Frank Zafiro

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    About this ebook

    Detectives and mobsters, missing mummies and a shootout with Gypsies – here are fifteen stories featuring major and minor characters from the novels of Frank Zafiro, now given their own chance to shine. The good, the bad, and the in-between of River City come together in this fast-paced collection of theft, mystery, murder and detection, where the heroes of River City will keep fighting until the scales of justice are once again…Dead Even.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCode 4 Press
    Release dateOct 2, 2010
    ISBN9781502247933
    Dead Even: River City, #8
    Author

    Frank Zafiro

    Frank Zafiro was a police officer from 1993 to 2013. He is the author of more than two dozen crime novels. In addition to writing, Frank is an avid hockey fan and a tortured guitarist. He lives in Redmond, Oregon.  

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      Book preview

      Dead Even - Frank Zafiro

      Introduction

      If you’re a loyal River City reader, you’ll notice something different about this installment in the series—it isn’t a novel. Instead, this is a collection of short stories, all set in River City and featuring characters from the series.

      Some, like Katie MacLeod, often play a central part of the story. Others, like Paul Hiero or the duo of Finch and Elias, have secondary or support roles. Still others, like Dominic Bracco, have only appeared in short fiction (although Bracco does get some page time in the second Stefan Kopriva mystery, Lovely, Dark, and Deep, a spinoff series).

      These are the stories that don’t make it into novels for one reason or another. Despite its much fuller form, the novel has to be focused as tightly as a short story. And in these stories, characters are crying out for stage time or taking interesting side trips that will probably never be explored in a River City novel.

      They are grouped here by character, so that their interwoven nature is apparent. They are also chronological within each character’s experience, though some of these events take place elsewhere in the River City timeline. That means there are occasionally small spoilers but also some explanations that don’t find their way into the novels. Also, most of these stories are previously published (if you’re interested in that, a full accounting is available in the Notes section of this book), while a couple are new to this volume. I’ve taken the time to note what year in the River City timeline each of these occur.

      All of these stories have a special, if smaller, room in my heart where all our children go.

      As long as we’re talking here, I’d like to thank a few people:

      Russ Davis at Gray Dog Press (Jen, too) for being the home of River City for a time.

      Andrew Corder, for the final edit of Dead Even.

      Jill Maser, editor extraordinaire. Thanks for taking a shot at each of these and making them good enough to find publication…and then taking one final hit at them.

      Each of the publishers and editors who originally accepted these stories for publication. You’ve helped me reach out and put more readers in touch with River City.

      My wife, Kristi, for her constant and unequivocal support.

      Frank Zafiro

      June 2022

      Redmond, Oregon

      Katie MacLeod

      Last Day in Paradise was the first story I ever wrote in the first person with a female narrator. I thought it might be strange or difficult, but I didn’t find it to be either. Perhaps knowing the character of Katie MacLeod as well as I do helped. Or maybe gender identification as a writer isn’t as rigid as I’d feared.

      Both of the Christmas stories highlight a period of Katie’s life as it exists around the time of their publication—a full twelve years after the events in Under a Raging Moon, the first novel she appears in. It should be clear to the reader that around 2004, Katie becomes a detective…and that even as late as 2007, she’s still dealing with some of the mother issues that are revealed in Beneath a Weeping Sky.

      I have a confession to make. I love Katie. She’s my absolute favorite character. You can tell my wife—she already knows. She loves her, too, as a matter of fact. Katie MacLeod rocks.

      It wasn’t always so. When I first wrote Under a Raging Moon, I think Stefan Kopriva was my favorite character. And though he took center stage for the first two books (and will again somewhere down the road in a book I’ve already written called Waist Deep), Katie always had an important support role. Her star rose as Kopriva’s fell. Chisolm runs a distant second to Katie as my favorite. His steadiness and his guilt are two things that I keep coming back to in the River City series. Chisolm is also the only character that is (albeit loosely) based upon a real police officer, so he holds a special place in my heart.

      But Katie…well, she is just my favorite. Why? Because she is so real to me. She has grit, but experiences fear. She suffers doubt, but overcomes. In those ways, to me at least, she is perhaps the most universal of all of the characters in River City…and believe me, all of these characters are very much alive to me.

      Last Day in Paradise

      2004

      Spread your legs three feet apart. I wrinkled my nose at the rancid body odor that rose from his grimy clothing.

      Why don’t you spread yours, sweetie, he cooed over his shoulder at me. His breath reeked of beer and vomit, coupled with a lifetime of poor dental hygiene.

      I applied some pressure on his wrist and he yelped. Spread your legs, I repeated.

      Aw’right, aw’right, he said and stepped out with his left foot. Jesus, lady. I like a little pain when I’m with a woman, but—

      Do you have any weapons or sharp objects, anything that will poke me? I recited, and immediately regretted it.

      He let out a chuckle. I’ve got something that’ll poke ya.

      Do you have any weapons or needles on you?

      He grinned, exposing his brown Chiclets in a leer. It ain’t a needle, Officer Sweetie. It’s a great, big—

      I tuned him out. Keeping the wristlock technique snug against the handcuffs, I put my boot behind his foot and started checking his pockets. He stank of cigarettes and stale body odor and his clothes were greasy. As much as I would have liked to rush through the search and be done with having any physical contact with the maggot, I had to take my time. Quick searches were poor searches.

      I removed his cigarettes from his torn flannel shirt pocket and tossed them onto the trunk of the patrol car.

      Don’t lose those, the suspect, Ernie Heiser, said. Cigarettes cost a shitload nowadays.

      You can’t have them in jail, I told him, checking under his collar.

      I know, but they’ll keep them on my book for when I get out.

      You won’t be getting out soon, I wanted to say, but I held my tongue. It wouldn’t be very professional, for one thing. For another, even though he was going to jail on a warrant for first-degree assault, for all I knew he would get out soon. The system is screwed up.

      I moved to his waistline, knowing what was coming.

      Ooh, baby, aren’t ya even gonna ask me on a date first?

      His waistline was clear and I felt his front jeans pocket.

      Little to the left there, baby.

      Nothing but keys in the right front pocket. I pulled them out and put them on the trunk next to the cigarettes. His rear pocket held his wallet. I set that next to the keys.

      Bend over at the waist, I instructed him.

      I’d like to bend you over at the waist, sweetheart. His voice had the low grumble of a leering threat.

      I didn’t reply. Instead, I slid his elbow between my back and my own elbow and pinned it there. Then I torqued his wrist with my hand.

      Aw’right! Heiser said and bent over.

      I bent with him, keeping control of his arm and checking the legs and pant cuffs of his grimy jeans, then his holey tennis shoes.

      I’m getting haaaaaaarrrrrrrd, he whispered at me.

      I should arrest you for assault based on your breath alone.

      Up, I said.

      Heiser stood and I shifted to his left side and searched. His front and rear pocket seemed empty. In the course of squeezing the front pocket before reaching inside, my small finger grazed his erection.

      He pretended to shiver. Oooh, that’s it, baby. You know you want it.

      My stomach churned, but I ignored him. The pocket was clear. Bend over at the waist.

      I’ll stab myself in the stomach, he complained.

      Hardly. I locked his elbow in and torqued his wrist again. He was obviously a slow learner.

      This time, Heiser grunted more than he yelped, but still bent over. I’m about to coooooommmmme, he whispered at me.

      And I’m about to puke.

      Once I searched his lower leg and shoe, I stood him up. Lean into the car, I told him.

      You want me to hump your car first?

      I tapped him behind the knee with my foot and nudged him forward at the same time. He fell forward into the patrol car, his face pressed up against the frame behind the rear door.

      What the hell was that?

      Stay against the car. I held onto his elbow with my right hand and popped the door release with my left. When I glanced back at Heiser, he was thrusting his pelvis into the car.

      I shook my head in weary disgust.

      Get in, I told him, guiding him into the back seat. Watch your head.

      He sat down without any resistance, but kept his mouth running. I’d like to watch you give me head. Just get your mouth down there and start—

      I slammed the door shut, catching the tip of his nose with the door window. He yelled in pain and started cursing at me in earnest. I guess the honeymoon was over. I removed a tightly folded plastic baggie from my sap pocket and dropped his keys, cigarettes, and grimy wallet into it. The car door muffled Heiser’s screaming, but not enough for my taste. I stepped a few feet away from the car and waited on the sidewalk in front of the chain-link gate.

      Officer Glen Bates came out of the house about five minutes later. His walk appeared casual, but he covered ground quickly with his long stride. Despite the gray in his thinning hair and the slight paunch that pressed against his uniform shirt, the corded muscles of his forearms reminded me that he could toss bad guys with the best of them.

      A toothpick hung from the corner of his mouth. He removed it and tossed it into the street. You get Mr. Personality squared away?

      Cuffed and stuffed.

      He give you any trouble? Bates took a fresh toothpick from his breast pocket and slipped it into his mouth.

      No, I told him.

      Bates regarded me for a moment, then shrugged. Well, we’re done here. His girlfriend won’t tell me anything.

      That doesn’t surprise me.

      Me, neither. Stupid bit—uh, woman. Bates worked the toothpick to the opposite corner of his mouth. Anyway, let’s move this guy to my car.

      I can transport him for you.

      Nah, dispatch sent me. You’re backup.

      I know, but I don’t mind. Aren’t you supposed to meet Gio and Ridgeway for coffee, anyway?

      Bates nodded. Yeah, but—

      Really, it’s okay. He’s already in my car. I’ll run him in and you guys go to coffee.

      MacLeod…

      What?

      He switched the toothpick back. I just don’t wanna be taking advantage of you on your last day in patrol, that’s all.

      Why should today be any different? I asked him, and managed to keep a straight face.

      Bates blinked and his lips parted in surprise. The toothpick hung off his bottom lip. Then he broke into a grin. Good one, girly. Ya got me.

      Who’s joking? I said, but I couldn’t keep up the act and smiled back.

      Bates reached out to clap me on the shoulder, but hesitated. It ended up being a weak tap instead. Well, thanks, then. See you later on.

      I got back into my patrol car and tossed the baggie full of property onto the seat next to me.

      Heiser immediately started in. Was that your boyfriend, bitch? Little old for you, isn’t he? Looked like your daddy to me.

      How original.

      I tapped the touch-screen computer, noting that I was transporting a prisoner to jail.

      Do you even have a boyfriend? he continued. What man would screw a stupid bitch like you?

      Funny, you wanted to five minutes ago.

      I zeroed the odometer and dropped the car into gear.

      You’re probably a lesbian, anyway, huh? A butch dyke, that’s what you are! Heiser shouted.

      My girlfriend’s butch. I’m the lipstick lesbian. Get it straight.

      I figured him for a heavy metal fan, but there was always the chance he liked country music, too. So I opted for the Christian music station and twisted the balance knob to the rear. A joyous woman singing loudly about God’s Forever Choir flooded the back seat and Heiser tried to shout over the top of it.

      I drove to jail.

      The late summer air blew through the open car window. I had a feeling winter was coming early this year. The wind had a crisp bite to it, just enough to smell clean. It reminded me of changes, but then again, changes were on my mind anyway.

      At the jail, I pulled up to the sally port entrance and pushed the call button. I had to turn down God’s music so I could talk on the intercom and Heiser let me have it with a verbal barrage.

      Goddamn dyke Jesus freak! Who the hell—

      Jail booking, came the tinny voice of Jeff Recchi over the intercom.

      —do you think you are? I oughta kick—

      City police, one prisoner, I said directly into the intercom microphone.

      —your worthless ass!

      The intercom clicked. A live one, it sounds like.

      Hey, up yours, too, you faggot! Heiser screamed from the back seat.

      I smiled slightly. Mistake. Jail ain’t the street.

      The voice on the intercom didn’t answer, but a moment later, the secure garage door engaged. Heiser and I watched it roll slowly upward. He remained silent, as if the reality of the situation was finally sinking in for him. When the door was high enough, I nudged my car forward, pulled into the nearest slot, and turned off the engine.

      Home again, Heiser said, his voice somewhere between weary resignation and ironic humor. Or maybe I was projecting those traits onto him. Either way, it was better than his yelling.

      I got out of the car and secured my pistol in one of the lockboxes. Three jailers strolled out of the booking area and toward my car.

      Hank said you had a live one, the jail sergeant said.

      I’ve had worse, I answered, noticing Jeff Recchi in the threesome. Most of the day shift jailers were older men with wives and a case of burnout. The younger, nice-looking jailers worked graveyard, where their seniority put them and where most of the action seemed to be. Somehow Jeff managed to get on day shift, and I was glad for it. He was good-looking and had a nice smile. I figured he was about two conversations from asking me out and I was about three from asking him.

      Didja rough him up, MacLeod? Arnie, the third jailer, asked me. He looked like Bates, only five inches shorter, forty pounds heavier and minus the toothpick. He’d already asked me out, shortly after I came to day shift last year. He didn’t appreciate me asking him if his wife would be joining us for dinner.

      Not a scratch, I told him. Jeff flashed me a smile and I returned it.

      Why’s he so jacked up then? Arnie asked.

      Life, I said with a shrug. The whole world is against him.

      Jeff opened the front door and popped the release on the back door.

      Who the hell are you? Heiser asked him.

      I, Jeff said in perfectly calm tone, am the quote faggot unquote you were yelling at a few moments ago.

      Heiser eyed Jeff’s muscled frame. Oh. Sorry, dude. That bitch hit me with the door, that’s all. And these cuffs are on too tight.

      Yeah, they’re not built for comfort, are they? Jeff tipped me a wink. Slide on out, he directed Heiser.

      Heiser swung his legs out and leaned forward. Jeff took him by the arm and helped him out of the car.

      You have his property? Jeff asked me.

      I nodded and retrieved the plastic bag from the front seat while the three of them walked Heiser into the booking area.

      The actual booking went quickly and with a minimum of backtalk from Heiser, even when I read the details of his warrant to him. I’d hoped to have a few minutes to chat with Jeff, but Arnie kept him busy the whole time. I completed my paperwork, retrieved my handcuffs and my pistol, and returned to patrol.

      Dispatch nabbed me immediately and sent me on a neighborhood dispute. The address, 1119 West Prudence, seemed like one I should know. When I parked up the street and walked to the house, the same sense of vague familiarity struck me. That’s what I get after thirteen years of patrol—ghosts on every block.

      I knocked on the door.

      A woman in her fifties answered, her face twisted in a sneer. Well, it’s about goddamn time! I’ve been waiting for over an hour.

      I gave her my automatic reply. Sorry you had to wait, ma’am. I just got the call from dispatch about three minutes ago.

      Good thing I wasn’t choking to death, the woman snapped back.

      I pressed my lips together, then relaxed and forced myself to smile at her. Good thing. I removed my pen and notebook from my shirt pocket. Can I get your name, ma’am?

      Oh, for Chrissakes, how many times are you people going to ask for the same stupid information? I already gave it twice!

      Not to me.

      Her eyes narrowed at me. Oh, so you’re something special, then?

      I shook my head. No, ma’am. I am just the one who is going to help you with your problem.

      She sighed. Fine. Evelyn Masters.

      That’s when it hit me. I’d been on another call with her, years and years ago. Some kind of neighborhood dispute. She was the same way back then, even pointing out that her husband worked for—

      You know, my husband used to work for the county.

      I bit back a grin. Really?

      She nodded adamantly. Yes, he did. And don’t you think that just because he’s passed on that there aren’t people I can call to—

      Ma’am, this is the city.

      Her nostrils flared. "I know this is the city. Are you being some kind of smartass?"

      Look, we can come back to your personal information. Why don’t you tell me what I can help you with?

      She glared at me for another second, then snapped her arm outward and pointed to the street. "That is the problem."

      I followed her finger. A dark blue Honda sat at the curb directly in front of the house. The windows were tinted and a spoiler adorned the back end of the car. None of the windows were broken out, so I didn’t imagine the vehicle had been prowled. Stolen, maybe?

      What’s wrong with it? I asked her.

      "What’s wrong is that it is there. In front of my house. In my spot."

      Where’s your car?

      None of your business!

      I leaned back in surprise. I’d had just about enough of this woman. Listen, Mrs. Masters, I’m not here so you can yell at me. If you want my help, just tell me, but don’t yell—

      I just did tell you! I want that car towed!

      I glanced at the car again. It was legally parked and not blocking any driveways. Why should it be towed?

      You really are stupid, she snapped at me. It's in front of my house, that’s why.

      I lowered my voice. If you yell at me or call me stupid again, Mrs. Masters, I am leaving and listing this as a nuisance, do-not-respond call. Do you understand me?

      She snorted in disdain, but crossed her arms and remained quiet.

      As far as the car goes, it’s legally parked. I can’t tow it.

      It’s in front of my house!

      So it is. But you don’t own the street.

      Then where am I supposed to park?

      I shrugged. Wherever you legally can.

      Oh, this is just ridiculous! How stupid are you people?

      I clenched my jaw and gave her a strained grin. I warned you. Have a safe afternoon.

      I turned and strode away, ignoring her screams. After a few moments, she slammed the front door.

      I cleared the call one-David—officer handled, no report—and made a note in the computer regarding the disposition. I added a tag that listed Evelyn Masters as uncooperative and resisted the urge to hang the label of anti-police on her.

      I cruised around East Central, watching the ebb and flow of the neighborhood life. The population was largely poor white and black, living in one- and two-bedroom houses. Many were supplemented by welfare and food stamps and yet, in two out of three instances, the living room sported a big-screen TV that they were renting by the week at forty-three percent interest.

      A rusted out Ford truck busted the four-way stop at Fifth and Haven and I made a traffic stop. The driver, an unshaven man in his fifties, was a self-employed hauler on his way to the next dump job. I gave him a warning and cut him loose.

      Another twenty minutes passed without incident. I drove slowly, and wondered if I was going to miss patrol once I was in the detectives’ office. Patrol subsisted on a constant element of uncertainty, and that kept things interesting. Then again, I knew I wouldn’t miss dealing with the likes of Evelyn Masters.

      My computer beeped. I glanced down and read the screen.

      From C257/Hey, doll…join us for lunch?

      C257 was Anthony Giovanni. Us probably meant him, Bates, and Ridgeway. Since I came onto day shift, they’d adopted me like a little sister. Sometimes it was nice and other times it was a pain in the ass, but I knew they had good intentions. Well, mostly. Gio pestered me to go out with him a few times, but he eventually got used to the idea that I didn’t date coworkers. I did it once a long time ago and it turned out to be a disaster.

      Gio was the closest person to my own age, and he was a little past forty. Still looked twenty-eight, though, and probably never would get married.

      Look who’s talking.

      I tapped the keys one-handed while driving.

      To C257/Sure. Where?

      A reply came back almost immediately.

      From C257/David’s Pizza

      I considered

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