Blood Orchid (Holly Barker 3)

“In your house?”

“Yes.”

“Marina, I’m going to drive down there and pick it up.” She looked at her watch. “I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

“Thank you. I want to get rid of it.”

“If anybody else asks about it, you don’t know anything, understand?”

“I understand.”

“My cellphone number is on the card, if you need to get in touch with me before I get there.”

“Thank you.”

Holly hung up. “Come on, Daisy.” She stopped at the front desk and told them where she was going.

This time Holly didn’t bother staying anywhere near the speed limit. She turned on the flashing lights behind the grille on the unmarked car, and as soon as she was on I-95, she put her foot down, moderating her speed only when she hit 120 miles per hour. Names, she wanted names, and she didn’t want Harry Crisp to have them, unless he got them from her. She made the trip in record time, slowing down only when she entered Marina’s street.

She drove slowly down the street, passing a car parked in front of the house, a Hispanic male at the wheel reading something. She parked on the other side of the street, three or four houses down, put Daisy on a leash, and walked back up the street toward the parked car, allowing Daisy to water the grass on the way, just a woman walking her dog. The man in the car seemed engrossed in his reading.

At Marina’s house she turned up the walk, and as she did, she heard a commotion inside. The front door was wide open, the screen door closed. She put her hand inside her purse, opened the screen with her leash hand, and walked into the house.

The room was in disarray, and there was a man present, wearing a sport shirt, loose at the waist, revealing a bulge, his back to her, his hand drawn back. Holly let the screen door slam.

The man spun around to face her. Holly didn’t know him, but Marina Santos was standing behind him, in tears. He said something in Spanish.

“How’s that again?” Holly asked.

“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded, taking a step toward her.

“Daisy,” Holly said quietly, and Daisy bared her teeth and began growling. The man stopped. “Daisy, guard,” Holly said. Then to the man, she said, “I’m a police officer. If you move a muscle, the dog will kill you.” The man didn’t move.

“Marina,” Holly said, “go into the kitchen and call nine-one-one; tell them there’s an intruder in your home.”

The man said something sinister-sounding in Spanish, and Marina didn’t move.

“Don’t worry, Marina,” Holly said, “he won’t hurt you. If he tries, I’ll put the dog on him.”

Marina backed away from the man, then turned and went into the kitchen.

“You,” Holly said, “on your knees, hands behind your head.”

“Fuck that,” the man said, and his hand went behind him.

Holly shot him through the purse, the bullet striking him in the center of the chest, and he fell backward, a pistol flying from his hand. “Guard, Daisy,” she said, letting go of the leash. Daisy trotted over and stood perhaps five feet from the fallen man, still growling. Holly kicked the gun away from the man, then went and stood beside the door, waiting with her gun drawn for the man’s companion to enter. Instead, she heard the car start and drive away, burning rubber.

She checked to be sure, then turned back to the shot man. “Quiet, Daisy. Stay.” She knelt beside him, her gun under his chin. “Lie very still,” she said. “Marina,” she called out, “ask for an ambulance as well as for the police.” Holly held the fingers of her free hand to his neck, feeling for a pulse. It was weak and thready.

The man lay on his back, his breathing shallow and labored, his eyes open but unfocused, looking at the ceiling, his lips moving soundlessly. “Nothing I can do for you,” she said. She stood up and walked to the kitchen door. Marina was hanging up the phone.

“They’re on their way,” she said. “I asked for an ambulance.”

Holly heard a siren coming down the block. She put her gun back into her handbag and walked out the front door, stopping on the porch, holding her badge in sight.

Two officers, one a sergeant, spilled out of the police car, weapons drawn. “Police officer,” Holly said, waving the badge. “You won’t need weapons.”

The two officers stopped running and walked up the front steps. “I’ve got a perpetrator down in the living room,” she said, “one gunshot to the chest. He doesn’t look good, and there’s an ambulance on its way.”