Winterkill. P.H. Turner

      

      

      WINTERKILL

      By PH TURNER

      LYRICAL PRESS

       http://lyricalpress.com/

      KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

       http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/

       To Marcia, Matthew, and Alison for your love and support. Always.

      

       Acknowledgements

      Kudos to Lyrical Press and to my untiring editor, Corinne DeMaagd, for their savvy advice and to Kevin Smith for saying, “Just write.”

       1

      I met him for happy hour at the Yella Feather bar over on the south side about 5:30 on a hot August evening. He was dead by 6:15. Ours was a short relationship.

      Lieutenant Deaver was one of the old guys with the San Antonio PD. He strolled in with the coroner, finding me where the first responder had put me. Over in a corner holding up a yellowed wall that reeked with years of stale nicotine.

      “You okay?” Deaver asked.

      “Yeah, think so.” I took a weak swallow of warm Coke.

      “What happened?” He pulled out a rickety chair and sat down.

      I slumped into a seat beside him. “I didn’t see the killer. My back was to the door when I heard the sound of a round chambered. Right in front me—Rodriguez was talking to me—a small, round hole drilled into his forehead. I heard the door bang shut and a car squeal off, but by the time I made it outside there was nothing to see and only cordite to smell.”

      I looked around the bar, broken-down scarred tabletops, wobbly chairs, flaking vinyl floors with duct tape covering the cracks. The stink of disinfectant and stale grease mingled with gun smoke. Helluva place for a kid to die.

      “How long you known him, Cahill?” Deaver asked softly.

      “I’d say about forty-five minutes, give or take.”

      He scratched his left armpit, his face screwed into thought. “What were you doing with Rodriguez? Source of yours?”

      “Yeah, for a Latin Kings story. I’ve been trying to get in front of him for weeks.”

      “Looks like your time with him is over. You get much outta him?”

      “Not much more than I already knew.”

      “Which is?” Lt. Deaver probed.

      “He and his older brother live two blocks down in the Oleander Projects with their mom. No dad around. He denied he was a King. Claimed he was twenty-one and an unemployed high school dropout. Just another guy from the south side.”

      “Hell, that’s a lie,” Lt. Deaver grunted. “He’s a King just like his brother. Rodriguez isn’t—wasn’t— eighteen. Let me know if you come up with anything else.” He shifted his bulk in the chair. “Why don’t you get a job fitting a woman, Ms. Cahill?”

      “What job would that be?” I tossed over my shoulder watching Deaver zeroing in on the bartender. I stepped out of the grimy bar into the oppressive heat, popping the lock on my Laredo.

      Rodriguez was just a kid, with scarcely a twist of beard masquerading as a goatee. My hands began to shake. I pulled over to the side of the curb, wrenched opened the door and puked on the street. When my head quit spinning, I slammed the door shut and hit the automatic lock. Air conditioning cooled the sweat on my upper lip. Easing the Jeep back into the San Antonio traffic, I headed toward the station. Maybe Deaver was right. Sawyer Cahill, you need to look at that job offer you have sitting on your desk.

       2

      I pushed open the barn doors to the studio area of NBC7. The news director Andy shouted over the bedlam of two electricians hanging metal lights on the grid. “Hey, look who just blew in. Did you get any footage of the Rodriguez shooting? We need it to cut in under Manuel’s lead. We don’t even have a body bag shot.”

      “I’m fine, thank you.”

      “You know the drill,” he barked. “Cryin’ babies, dead bodies. Great footage. Your job is to bring me, the news director, what I need—news.” Andy’s hands were on his hips.

      “No footage, Andy. I didn’t take a camera. I just went for background. I got damned little of that.”

      “Next time take some gear, Cahill. Amateur’s mistake,” he sniped.

      “Like hell, Andy. Rodriguez woulda split the second he saw a camera. How long since you were in the field?”

      I stepped over the cables snaked on the floor. Andy’s news rundown was on the desk. The lead story was Rodriguez’s killing.

      Andy walked up behind me. “You got a source to replace Rodriguez on the Kings story?”

      “Jesus, Andy! Rodriguez’s body is barely cold. What the hell’s wrong with you? All he was to you was a south side banger?” I threw the rundown on the desk. “He’s got a mother for Christ’s sake. You think she isn’t bawling her eyes out over her dead son? You have no compassion—none. He was a kid for god’s sake, not just one hundred-fifty pounds of dead meat in a body bag! Screw you, Andy. I’m done here.”

      “Get a source,” Andy called after me. “Soon, Cahill. Or I’ll pull you. I’ll get a reporter in there who knows how to get the job done.”

      A threat from Andy. All I need to cap my day.

      Exhaustion seeped into every pore. The adrenaline rush ended before I could get out of the station. In its wake, I felt lethargic. What a loss! A kid who would never get the opportunity to turn his life around. Rodriguez’s killer would probably never be found, leaving his mother to cry for justice.

      I made it home and threw my keys on the counter. Thumbing the mail, I dropped most of it in the trash. All I wanted was a long soak in my favorite lavender bath salts. I kicked off my shoes, leaving a trail of clothes on the way to the tub.

      My second glass of wine took the edge off. I had most of my right leg shaved when my mom called to ask about my love life. Since my dad died, she’d made her life’s work to get me presentable, paired and pregnant—in exactly that order. “Sawyer, honey. How’re you doing? I don’t get nearly enough time with you. I’ve been worrying about you.” I took a sip of wine and stuck my big toe in the spigot to catch the drips. This was going to take awhile. “All this running around down there on the bad side of San Antonio talking to gang members. I just want what’s best for you.”

      I shifted the razor to my left leg. “Yes, Mom…”

      “You know, you work too hard at that job. Crime reporting really doesn’t suit you. You know that, don’t you honey?”

      “Mom, I like my job and I’m damned good at it.” I immediately regretted the damned.

      “But Sawyer,” she wheedled, “a man wouldn’t want his wife to interview criminals. Think of your children. You couldn’t very well tell them what you did all day, could you?”

      The imaginary zygotes drove me nuts. “I’ll think about it,” I said. “Can I call you later and catch up with you?”

      “Sure. You call me now. Love you.”

      “Love you, too. Take care.” I slipped deeper into the lavender scented water letting the warmth work on the kinks in my neck.

      * * * *

      By seven AM, I was editing video, listening to a social worker