Killer Z Read Free Page A

then years with no phone
calls had broken his mother’s heart and hardened Fred’s. Then, out of the blue,
Kyle called.
    “Dad, I don’t know what do to. She
died.”
    “Calm down, son. Who died?”
    “Sylvie, my wife,” Kyle replied,
sobbing. “The doctors don’t know what happened. She was taking this trial drug and
went into a coma. I can’t take care of a baby by myself!”
    The word baby stunned Fred. The
story came out in halting starts and vague details. A little over a year ago
Kyle met Sylvie at a bar. After a month of dating she turned up pregnant and
they flew out to Vegas and got married. Baby Anthony was born two months ago.
With the responsibility of a baby boy and no wife, Kyle finally remembered how
to pick up the phone. Fred tries to push the resentment aside.
    “My son and grandson need me, so I
have to forgive and forget.”
    Fred grips the steering wheel
tightly and wonders how to drive common sense into his son. He doesn’t notice
his foot on the pedal or the speedometer creeping past 85.

 
     

    4
     
     
    T he morning goes painfully slow for Larry Anderson.
Half the precinct called in sick with the flu. He twists his class ring around
his finger and misses home. The rings engraving reads John C. Fremont Senior
High, Los Angeles, California, Class of 1981. His last days in L.A. had been spent with K9s searching for bodies after multiple earthquakes destroyed
much of the coast. Many were still out there trying to rebuild, but his mother
insisted he relocate to D.C. She had moved years before with her fourth
husband, a retired chief of police.
    “Is a football game on or
something? Everybody called in sick,” Larry says.
    Alberto, his partner, shakes his
head. They have nothing in common. Alberto is young and spends way too much
time in the gym. Women liked real men, not pretty boys like that. In Larry’s
mind he looks like Bruce Willis, rough, heroic, and attractive. In reality
Larry is balding, built like an ox and has a tendency of offending women.
    “Larry, is Pixel ready?”
    “Yeah,” Larry mutters and glances
at the dog in the back seat.
    The German Sheppard barks.
    “Pixel is a stupid name for a
stupid dog,” Larry says.
    “What crawled up your ass?”
    “Just because some geek in
computer crimes made a stupid comment about her fur doesn’t mean it should be
her name.”
    “Joe’s right, her fur looks
pixilated.”
    “Whatever, I’m bored.”
    “We’re cops. Being bored is part
of the job.”
    Larry swishes his travel mug.
Adding vodka to his coffee keeps the stress away. He scowls realizing the cup
is empty.
    “Larry, we got one!”
    The radar gun clocks a truck with
a Minnesota license plate going 87 mph. Larry flicks on the red and blue
lights. Pixel’s eyes brighten and ears perk. The police cruiser zips into the
rushing I-270 traffic.
    The truck pulls over under a
Burger Baron billboard. Larry collects Pixel as Alberto approaches the driver’s
window. He makes a tsk directing the dog to sniff the suspect’s car.
Pixel whines and pulls him into the grass.
    “No stupid dog, this way.”
    Pixel sniffs at the grass for a
moment, loses interest, and then finally sniffs the car for narcotics and
explosives.
    “Car is clean,” he says and
returns Pixel to the police cruiser.
    Alberto writes out a speeding
ticket as the radio cackles, “Security detail needed at the West Lawn of the Capitol Building. K9 requested.”
     

 
     

    5
     
     
    “C heckmate,” Harry Riberdy says.
     The vet moves the white
queen across the weathered chess board and tips over his opponent’s black king.
    “Another ten dollars wasted,” Tom
replies and rises from the table.
    “You need to focus on your end
game.”
     Harry, a veteran of the
Korean War, shifts his weight on the bench of one of ten cement chess tables in
DuPont Circle. Congressmen, senators, businessmen, tourists and homeless vets
like himself could be found in the park any day of the week. He’s gained