Chaser (Jinx Ballou Bounty Hunter Book 1) Read online

  I smirked, unsure how to take his comment. “Thanks, I guess.”

  “Enough with the fashion show,” Fiddler grumbled. “We gonna do this or not? I got shit to do.”

  “Fine. I’ll go in and draw Freddie out. Rodeo, I want you in front to help me muscle him into the Gray Ghost. Fiddler, guard the rear door in case Freddie makes me and bolts out the back.”

  I turned off the ignition, and we climbed out. The heat hit me like a blast from a hot oven. I hoped my face didn’t melt before I got inside.

  “All right, everybody in position. Let’s take this guy down and call it a day.”

  Fiddler moseyed past the Subway shop at the end of the strip mall on his way around to the back of the bar. Rodeo took a position near a support column, shotgun at his side, where he watched me hustle toward the entrance.

  A mountain of a bouncer sat on a stool beside the door, staring at his cellphone. As I approached, he stood and looked up. “ID?”

  I handed him my driver’s license. The bouncer glanced at it, then looked me up and down.

  A tremor of nervousness rippled through me, accompanied by a memory of me with my best friend, Becca Alvarez, on our way to see the movie Anywhere but Here at the dollar theater. I was eleven and still new to going out dressed as a girl. Despite Becca’s reassurances that I looked very feminine, I was terrified someone would figure out I was transgender.

  I had handed our tickets to the woman in the theater lobby. She looked down at me and stopped in the middle of tearing the tickets, no doubt deciding whether I was a boy or a girl.

  I stood there feeling like a deer in the headlights until Becca nudged me and whispered, “Smile.”

  I did. The ticket taker reciprocated. “Enjoy the movie, girls.”

  I brought my mind back to the present and forced a smile. The bouncer handed me my driver’s license without a word and returned to his phone.

  I breathed a sigh of relief and opened the heavy front door. As my eyes adjusted to the dim interior, I realized Fiddler wasn’t kidding about the clientele.

  A dozen or so men looking like escapees from a supermax prison sat at mismatched tables, their eyes following me to the bar. Some chatted up young women with a definite pay-for-play vibe. A couple of bikers in leather vests and bandanas crowded around a pool table along the far wall. The place reeked of stale beer and dollar store perfume, with a metallic undertone I suspected was blood.

  On a flat screen mounted above the bar, the Arizona Diamondbacks were losing to the Phillies, while Keith Urban belted out a tune on the sound system.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d been in a place like this. Certainly not the last considering my line of work. I should’ve been terrified. Not the kind of joint a trans woman should linger in if she valued her life. But I was on the job, and my pulse raced with the thrill of the hunt.

  3

  My quarry, Freddie Colton, sat at the bar, nibbling pretzels and nursing a bottle of Bud Light. He looked to be in his midthirties, tall with muscular arms and wearing a royal-blue work shirt with his name stitched above the left pocket. His mug shot didn’t do him justice. Few did, I supposed. But he was definitely easy on the eyes in a rugged, Brad-Pitt-gone-bad sort of way. A girl could get herself in trouble if she didn’t know better.

  His eyes were glued to the ball game on the flat screen. I hopped onto the barstool between Freddie and the TV and flashed him a polite smile before waving down the bartender.

  The bartender had the face of a horse, a patch over one eye, and the scowl of a drill instructor. His cutoff denim shirt revealed a tattoo of a buxom woman waving a Confederate flag. I asked him for a Michelob.

  Freddie angled his body toward me. “Jack, her drink’s on me,” he said in a baritone as smooth as silk. He met my gaze after a longing glance at my chest. “Don’t think we’ve met. The name’s Freddie. What’s yours, sweet cheeks?”

  “Hi, I’m Melody!” I cranked the pitch of my voice and my Southern accent up to bubbly bimbo levels.

  “Melody? What a sexy name for a sexy babe. Damn glad to meet ya.”

  “Yo, honey!” a young guy shouted from one of the tables, patting his own lap. His tongue flicked across his upper lip. “Don’t waste your time with Freddie. He’s old. Come party with me. I’ll show you a real good time.”

  “Quit trying to cut in on my action, Mancini!” Freddie’s face colored with indignation. “Don’t mind him, Melody. He’s a dumb ass.”

  His action, I thought. Keep dreaming, buddy.

  “How come I ain’t never seen you here before, girl?” He shifted closer to me and slipped a hand onto my thigh.

  My internal warning system went off with a surge of adrenaline. I resisted the urge to twist his wrist in a pinch hold and drive the heel of my palm into his nose. Instead, I plastered a coy smile on my face. “Just moved to town.”

  He leaned in, inches from my face. “Oh yeah? Where from?”

  “A little place in Texas no one ever heard of.” His cologne smelled like an earthy blend of fine leather, moss, and musk, causing my body to respond in ways it shouldn’t with a guy like him.

  “What brings you to Phoenix this time o’ year?”

  “I’m a nurse. I start work at John C. Lincoln on Monday.” It was a story I’d used before. My mother was an RN, so I knew enough medical lingo to bluff my way with a guy like Freddie.

  “Is that so? Well, welcome to Valley of the Sun, Nurse Melody.” His hand slipped farther up my thigh, causing the grip on my beer bottle to tighten. “You’re just in time for summer.”

  “Yeah, can’t believe it’s hit a hundred and ten already and it’s only June.”

  “I think things are ’bout to get a whole lot hotter.” He squeezed my thigh, sending an unexpected wave of heat into my pelvis.

  “Hotter. Yeah, uh, sure is.” It came out breathier than I intended. What the hell’s wrong with you, girl? Keep your mind on the job.

  “Wanna continue this conversation in private?”

  “Um, definitely.”

  “I’d invite you to my house, but my roommate … Not a lot of privacy, you understand.”

  You are such a liar, Freddie Colton. “I have a motel room just off I-17. Will that do?”

  His gaze narrowed. “You ain’t hustling me, are you? Cause I ain’t the kind of man to have to pay for it.”

  “What? You think I’m a hooker? As if. I’m a medical professional.” I turned to leave.

  He grabbed my arm with a grip strong enough to leave a bruise then released it. “Shit, I’m sorry. Don’t know what I was thinking. Forget I said it.”

  I gave him a side-eye and a reluctant, forgiving smile to replant the hook firmly into my prey. “Well, okay.”

  “That mean your offer still stands, Nurse Melody? I’d love to see your bedside manner.” He set some bills on the bar to pay for our drinks.

  “Sure, why not.”

  He held the door for me as we stepped outside into the glaring sunlight.

  “My Trans Am’s over here.” Freddie pointed across the parking lot.

  I let him take the lead as I reached for the handcuffs in my pocket. Rodeo stepped into our path, shotgun raised. “Freddie Colton, you’re under arrest.”

  “Aw, hell no!” Freddie nearly knocked me over as he pivoted and raced back into the bar. I chased after him with Rodeo on my heels.

  Freddie overturned tables and chairs in his wake. I used my parkour skills to maneuver past them, dodging pissed-off patrons along the way. I followed him down a narrow hallway, past the restrooms. He was thirty feet ahead of me when he blasted out the back door. I hoped Fiddler was ready to grab him on the other side.

  When I rushed out the exit, Freddie was hightailing it down the alley with Fiddler nowhere in sight. I took off after Freddie, cursing Fiddler under my breath.

  I quickly gained on him, but bringing him down wasn’t going to be easy. He was a big guy, and his rap sheet told me he was a scrapper. I scrambled up a stack of wooden pallet
s onto a dumpster and vaulted into the air. I landed on his back like a cougar taking down an elk. He fell face-first onto the pavement and struggled to throw me off. I slapped the cuffs on him.

  “Jesus Christ! What the fuck, Melody?” He tried to get up, and I put a knee in his back.

  “Bail enforcement, asshole! You missed your court date. You’re going back to jail.”

  “Like hell I am.” Freddie tried to buck me off. “I’m gonna beat you bloody.”

  I drew my revolver and pressed it against his cheek. “Settle down, Freddie. I’d hate to have to shoot you.”

  “Can’t collect your bounty if you kill me, bitch.”

  “Who said anything about killing you?” I flipped him over to face me. “I could put a .357 slug in your elbow or in your knee. Won’t kill you, but it’ll hurt like hell for a very long time.” I pressed the nose of the revolver against his crotch. “Or maybe here. After all the times you beat up Vanessa, it’s the least you deserve.”

  “You cunts are all alike. It’s a goddamned conspiracy.”

  “Conspiracy! You’re so full of shit.” A laugh escaped my throat. “What’ll it be, Freddie? You going to come along peacefully, or do I blast your junk into steak tartare?”

  His eyes blazed at me until I pressed the gun harder into his crotch. “Five seconds. Four. Three. Two.”

  “All right, all right! I’ll come along peaceful. Just don’t shoot.”

  “Good dog.” I patted him on the head and pulled him to his feet, keeping a firm grip on his arm. “I knew you’d see reason.”

  The pounding of boots on pavement approached from behind. I pivoted and raised the revolver only to see Rodeo rushing toward us, shotgun in hand.

  “Ya got him?” he asked.

  “I got him. What took you so long?”

  “Got kinda crazy in there. Where the hell’s Fiddler?”

  Before I could answer, a mob burst out the bar’s back door and headed in our direction. Jack the bartender marched in the lead with a sawed-off twelve-gauge leveled at us. Freddie’s buddy, Mancini, swung a baseball bat menacingly. Others brandished an assortment of knives, broken bottles, and pool cues.

  Rodeo and I pointed our weapons at the approaching throng. I held Colton by the back of his collar, using his body as a shield.

  “Stop right there! Bail enforcement!” I shouted in my most commanding voice. “Drop your weapons and go back inside.”

  They stopped but didn’t drop their weapons.

  “Let him go, sweetheart,” Jack said, “and we may just let you live.”

  “Yeah, after we fuck y’all up good,” Mancini added.

  “The lady told you to put down your weapons,” Rodeo said. “I suggest you do it.”

  “Fuck you!” Mancini replied, whacking his bat on the ground.

  “Which one of you wants to die first?” I aimed the .357 at Mancini. “How about you, Babe Ruth? Wanna try my fastball?”

  Mancini glared at me for a few seconds, then dropped the bat with a hollow clunk that echoed in the alley. He held up his hands in surrender.

  “Didn’t think so. How about you, Jackie Boy? Wanna take one for the team? Show ’em what a tough guy you are?”

  Jack tossed his shotgun on the ground. The other men dropped their weapons and held up their hands.

  I smiled. “Good boys. Now go back inside.”

  With a lot of cursing, grumbling, and single-finger salutes, they complied.

  Once the back door had shut, I breathed a sigh of relief and turned to Rodeo. “Well, that was exciting.”

  “Ya think?” He smirked, reclaimed his Stetson, and gathered up Jack’s sawed-off and Mancini’s bat. “Where’s Fiddler?”

  “Son of a bitch was gone when I got out here.” I kicked a discarded whiskey bottle, sending it smashing into the back wall of the building. “I’m going to wring his fat neck next time I see him. So sick of his bullshit.”

  “The other day, he told me he was working the Holly Schwartz job. Maybe that call he got was a tip. Not that it justifies him going AWOL.”

  The Schwartz case had been a recent news sensation. Holly Schwartz was a seventeen-year-old with a rare neuromuscular condition that left her wheelchair-bound and mentally impaired. She and her mother, Bonnie, were darlings of the charity fundraising scene, appearing on countless telethons and national talk shows to entertain, inspire hope, and attract donations.

  Six months ago, Bonnie was murdered. According to the news, a black man had broken in to abducted her. Her mother was stabbed and killed fending him off. Holly escaped somehow and called 911.

  The situation went from tragic to bizarre when Phoenix police arrested Holly for her mother’s murder. Fans of the mother-daughter duo protested, claiming police were further victimizing a traumatized orphaned girl. The latest development was that Holly had vanished shortly before a competency hearing.

  “Did Liberty post Schwartz’s bond?” I asked.

  “No, some other agency did. Not sure who,” Rodeo said as we perp-walked Freddie around the back of the building.

  “But Fiddler’s working the job? On his own?”

  “For the past few weeks.” Rodeo shrugged. “He’s been having money problems, Jinx. Combination of medical expenses and gambling debts.”

  “Why am I just now hearing about this?”

  Freddie guffawed.

  I smacked him on the back of the head. “Shut the hell up.”

  “Fiddler and I met for beers last Saturday,” Rodeo explained. “He gets chatty after he’s had a few. That’s when he told me.”

  “Well, he can take his gambling problems and shove them up his ass. I’m done with him. I need people I can depend on.”

  We rounded the corner and approached the Gray Ghost. Rodeo opened the back hatch and tossed in the shotguns and the bat. “By the way, when’s Phoenix Living publishing that article about you?”

  Phoenix Living was an alternative weekly covering local culture, news, and politics. A month earlier, Thom Hensley, one of their reporters, had interviewed me for a cover story on female bounty hunters.

  I grinned. “Comes out tomorrow. I gotta admit, I’m a little excited to see what Hensley wrote.”

  “Our very own celebrity.” Rodeo patted me on the back. “Try not to get too big a head.”

  “Yeah, right. I’m just hoping some other bail bond agencies read it and send some jobs our way. Liberty’s been a bit lean lately.”

  4

  Shortly after sundown, we delivered Freddie Colton without incident to the Madison Street Jail in downtown Phoenix. The duty officer gave me a body receipt, which I would turn over to Liberty Bail Bonds the next morning in exchange for a six-thousand-dollar check. Not bad for a few days’ work.

  On the way home, I dropped Rodeo off to pick up his turquoise Mazda Miata at the Hub, a coworking space a couple of miles north of the jail, where I rented a desk.

  “Dude, when are you going to buy a real car?” I teased when I pulled into the lot next to his car.

  “Are you kidding? My Miata gets me plenty o’ action.”

  “Oh really? From where? The Lollipop Guild? That car’s so tiny it should have the Hot Wheels logo plastered on the side.”

  “Trust me, it ain’t the size that matters. It’s all in the ride.” Rodeo grinned like the Cheshire cat. “Speaking of which, wanna go grab a drink somewhere? Stallions, maybe?”

  Stallions was a country-style gay bar with a mostly male clientele, though it wasn’t unusual to see women there too. I’d been several times to dance and drink. Even brought Conor once or twice. Fun place with good music and nice people, but I wasn’t in the mood tonight.

  “Thanks, but my skin feels like the salted rim of a margarita glass. I just want to go home and take a shower.” Especially after Freddie had been pawing all over me. “Besides, Conor’s coming over later. Rain check?”

  “Date night. Got it.” Rodeo smiled knowingly. He stepped out of the truck and grabbed his shotgun from the back.
>
  I rolled down the window. “I’ll deliver the body receipt to Big Bobby first thing tomorrow. Should have a check for you no later than ten.”

  “Copy that. Have a good night, Jinx.” He gave me a fist bump.

  “You too.”

  He locked his shotgun in his trunk and got settled in the driver seat. As I waited for him to start his car before taking off, I checked my phone and noticed Conor had left me a voicemail an hour or so earlier. I played it.

  “Sorry, love, but I won’t make it tonight. I’m on a stakeout, looking for one of my skips. Could be an all-nighter. Cheeky bastard’s been giving me the slip at every turn. I’ll catch up with ya in the morning before ya go off with your geeky mates at Comicon. See ya!”

  So much for date night, I thought grimly. Since Conor and I had started dating, we saw each other less than when I worked for him. Didn’t seem right, but there wasn’t much either of us could do about it.

  With Conor a no-show, I opted for plan B, which involved devouring an entire pint of raspberry sorbet while marathoning the latest season of Orange is the New Black. After a much-needed shower, of course. Yeah, this girl knows how to live.

  I walked through the front door of my house on Cypress Street in Phoenix’s quaint—and grossly overpriced—Willo District. My brother, Jake, who renovated and flipped houses for a living, got it for well below market value. It was in the Central Corridor, a stone’s throw north of downtown, and was the closest thing to an LGBT-friendly neighborhood I’d found in Phoenix. Conor lived only a half mile away, so who was I to complain?

  I shuffled through the living room and down a short hallway to my bedroom. The artichoke-style ceiling light above my futon filled the room with a golden glow. I wriggled out of my clothes, stepped into the bathroom, and turned on the shower.

  As the hot water washed off a day’s worth of sweat—and the lingering memory of Freddie’s hand on my thigh drained away—a loud noise elsewhere in the house caught my attention. A thunk followed by a man cursing. A chill ran through me. Conor was on his stakeout. No one else was expected. So who the hell was in my house?