Romeo's Rules Read online

  Romeo’s Rules

  A Mike Romeo Thriller

  James Scott Bell

  Contents

  ROMEO’S RULES

  Author’s Note

  ROMEO’S RULES

  There’s only one thing I need to know: Whose side are you on?

  - Paul Simon, “Paranoid Blues”

  Wherefore art thou Romeo?

  - William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

  Act II, Scene 2

  I WAS TALKING to a woman about flowers when John the Baptist blew up.

  The woman was around sixty, wearing a sunhat, clipping away at a rhododendron hedge near the sidewalk.

  “Those are beautiful,” I said, because they were—hearty pink, with rounded trusses. They were full and open to the sun, and offset the green shrubbery like chorus girls practicing leg kicks in a forest.

  “Thank you,” the woman said. She had friendly blue eyes and a fertile smile. Her silver hair was pulled back in ponytail. “You must be from around here.”

  “How could you tell?” I said.

  “Jogging clothes. You didn’t run over from Tarzana.”

  “Good call,” I said.

  She put her hand out. “Nell,” she said.

  “Mike,” I said.

  “Happy to meet you, Mike. Except …”

  “Yes—”

  “You don't look like a flower man.”

  “What do I look like?”

  “Football player, maybe?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then what exactly do you do with all those muscles?”

  “Are you flirting with me, Nell?”

  She pushed her hat back slightly. “If I was thirty years younger, I’d rip your T-shirt right off.”

  I laughed then, and it felt good, because I hadn't laughed in months. Not since I got attacked in San Antonio.

  I took her hand again. “Nell, it’s been a pleasure.”

  “Come back and see me again.”

  “Only if you promise to leave my T-shirt alone.”

  “No guarantee on that, sweet thing,” she said.

  That’s when the church exploded.

  THERE WERE OTHER people around us on the street.

  A woman walking her miniature poodle picked up the dog and held it close, like a baby. A couple of teenagers were shooting a video, acting crazy. Now their heads were up and scared.

  Then I thought of the children.

  I ran into the street.

  A black Lexus with tinted windows braked to a stop an inch from my knees. I put one hand on the hood, pushed off, did a three-sixty. On video it would have been a highlight clip.

  I ran another half block, then around the corner and smelled the smoke. Like toasted almonds and burnt rubber.

  Definitely a bomb.

  As I got closer I could see children running and screaming and adults and nuns yelling and trying to get the kids away from the building. Where there had once been a big stained-glass window of John the Baptist, there was now only a jagged gash. Black smoke slithered out of it like a serpent. Some of the edges of the Spanish tile roof were broken, making it look like the sharp upper teeth of a misshapen mouth.

  Below the window was the fenced-in yard of the day care center. Multi-colored monkey bars and a slide and a set of swings now seemed out of place in a murky, foul-smelling cloud. What should have been a safe, normal daycare morning was now a chaos of fear.

  I’d run by the church several times before. Our Lady of the Something, I couldn't remember what. But more than once I’d zipped by the chain link where a four- or five-year-old would wave at me and I’d wave back and think for two seconds that life on earth might be worth saving.

  Now I wasn’t so sure. I had a premonition of death. Not mine. The guy I was going to kill for doing this.

  Turn around, I told myself. Go back to Ira’s and read a book in the back yard, just like he said you should. Don’t rush it, Ira had said. Healing takes time. I almost believed him, that it was possible to heal.

  Some joke.

  Then I saw the woman with blood on her face.

  SHE WAS DRESSED like money. Black hair, silky and smooth. Cinnamon skin. A tight blouse of soft blue and a deep-burgundy coat. She was about thirty years old and in shape. The only mar was the blood seeping from her forehead. She held her hand over it and staggered like a drunk.

  She was about to fall.

  I went to her and held her shoulders. “Easy,” I said.

  “Where are they?” She seemed to be speaking to the sky.

  “You need to sit,” I said.

  “No!”

  She stiffened. Her knees went out. I lowered her gently to a grass patch by the curb.

  She scratched my leg, hard.

  I grabbed her wrist and dropped to my knees. “Can you hear me?”

  I waited until she nodded.

  I ripped a swatch off my T-shirt, folded it a couple times. I wiped blood from her face, put the swatch on the gash, and guided her hand to it. “Can you hold that?”

  She didn’t answer but held it. It was important to keep her upright until medics arrived.

  “I’m sorry,” she said “I hurt you.”

  “No worries.”

  “My kids.” She let her hand down. “Where are they?”

  “We’ll find them,” I said. “How many?”

  “Brianna, Sam … Sam needs …”

  “They’re probably with a nun.”

  “Please help me. Sam. Inhaler …”

  “The paramedics will be here soon,” I said, guiding her hand back to the gash.

  “Please check.”

  “Check?”

  “The church.”

  I didn’t move.

  “Please,” she said.

  “Will you stay just like this?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  I WENT TO the street-side doors. The concentration of activity was to my left, in the play yard with the chain-link fence. On the opposite side of the yard was a parking lot. That’s where everyone was gathering.

  No one was coming out of the church.

  I pushed open the arched, wooden door and went into the sanctuary. Acrid smoke. I took off what was left of my T-shirt and held it over my face.

  A quick look around told me the blast’s point of origin was right in the middle. A ring of scarred pews was the tipoff. Where I was standing, near the sacramental font, the mahogany benches were moved but not scarred.

  “Anybody here?”

  I listened, heard nothing. Light shafted in from the broken windows, illuminating swirling smoke.

  I took a few steps further in.

  That’s when I saw the blood spatter. It was all over a white plaster saint, a woman with her hands held out. She was in an alcove. Her robe was dappled with red. The trajectory of the spatter meant the cause had been violent and near.

  I took another step and looked over the balustrade.

  It was a man. Latino. Lying on his side. The back of his head was blown off. He wore a gray knit shirt with some block writing on the back. I could see ST and that was it.

  “What is it?” The woman was behind me, looking woozy.

  I spun around, grabbed her shoulders and turned her away.

  “Blood?” she said.

  “Don’t look,” I said.

  She broke out of my grip and went to the railing.

  “Oh God!”

  I got my arm around her and guided her outside.

  She leaned her head on my chest.

  Her gash was still bleeding.

  THE FIRST COPS were arriving, and an L.A. Fire Department ambulance.

  I kept my arm around the woman. She was trembling. I walked her down the sidewalk, toward the ambu
lance.

  “What’s your name?” I said.

  “Natalia,” she said, and started to sag again. I sat her on the ground and checked her wound. “We’re going to get that looked at, Natalia.”

  “My kids.” Her eyes were violet flames. I knew that in other circumstances they could well set men on fire.

  I slipped my T-shirt back on. It was not much of a shirt, though. A big piece was missing right in the middle. I felt like an idiot.

  From behind me: “Sir?” It was a cop, tall and beefy, with red hair and a ruddy face. Huckleberry Finn all grown-up.

  “This woman’s hurt,” I said.

  “Were either of you a witness to any of this?” Officer Huck said.

  “I heard the blast,” I said. “That’s all.”

  He looked at Natalia. “Can she talk to me?”

  “She needs medical.”

  “Let’s start with your name,” he said.

  “Let’s not,” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll talk to the lead when he gets here. He needs to know something.”

  “Sir, if you will just—”

  “There’s a dead man inside the church,” I said. “And he wasn’t killed by the blast. Now notify a paramedic that we have an injured woman here.”

  A PARAMEDIC SHOWED up to check on Natalia. As he did, I looked out at the parking lot where the parents were arriving and kids were being comforted. And there was a boy, five or so. He was standing off to the side, with a dazed look on his face, not knowing where to turn.

  I ran over to him. “You looking for your mom?”

  He looked at me blankly, then nodded, then tears started streaming down his face. I picked him up and started walking him toward the parking lot. After a couple of steps, a nun who looked every bit of eighty feisty years called out, “Cody!”

  She came to us.

  “He looked lost,” I said.

  “Give him to me,” the nun said. I handed him over. “Thank you,” she said. “Who are you?”

  “A neighbor,” I said.

  But not for long. A neighbor is connected, and connecting to other people always gets me into trouble and ends up hurting the people around me.

  I was never meant to be a neighbor.

  “Sister,” I said. “Do you know the children Sam and Brianna?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Do you know where they are?”

  “I haven’t seen them. They should be in the yard.”

  I went to the fence and, amid the screams and sirens, managed to get another nun’s attention.

  “Sam and Brianna,” I said. “Are they here?”

  She turned and looked at the children and the clamor.

  “I don’t see them,” she said. “I’ll keep looking.”

  “Their mom is with me. If you see them, call her,” I said. “Will you do that?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Who are you?”

  I almost said neighbor again.

  “Just trying to help,” I said.

  THE LEAD DETECTIVE was a man in his forties named John Davis. He wore slacks and a white shirt with a blue tie. Shield on his belt. He seemed competent and professional and without any interest in going an inch beyond that boundary. Not like that cop from New Haven, the one who beat me up when I was eighteen. That was a cop who loved going over boundaries.

  I was with Natalia again. She had a gauze bandage on her gash now, the only flaw on a perfect face.

  “You found the body?” Davis asked me.

  “Right.”

  “What were you doing in there?”

  “Looking for her kids.”

  “Looking for them why?”

  “Because she asked me to.”

  “What’s your interest in this?”

  “Just helping.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “No need for that,” I said.

  Davis gave me one of those you-think-you-can-mess-with-me looks. Didn’t exactly set me back on my heels. I’d seen that look in every cage I ever fought in. It always made me smile right before I crushed a guy’s ribs or dislocated his jaw.

  Only now I didn’t smile.

  “What happened to your shirt?” Davis said.

  “I tore it,” I said. “To stanch her wound.”

  Davis gave Natalia a quick glance. “Ever been in trouble with the law?” he said.

  I said nothing.

  “You going to answer my question?” he said.

  I shook my head.

  “Yeah? Why not?”

  “It’s insulting,” I said.

  His nostrils took wing. “We are going to talk about your involvement.”

  “No involvement. The victim inside was shot, through the mouth, probably with a hollow-point.”

  “And how do you know all this?”

  Natalia, her voice shaking in panic mode, said to Davis, “Who was he? The man who was shot? Who?”

  “Ma’am—”

  “Please!” Natalia said.

  “If you’ll let me continue—”

  “I want to know!”

  I put my hand on her arm. At the same time I said to Davis, “I was out jogging, one street over. I heard the blast and ran here. I saw this woman and she looked bad off. I asked what happened and she wanted her kids. She asked me to check the church, so I went inside to see if they were in there. I looked around and saw the body. I didn’t touch anything. And that’s it.”

  “Why won’t you give your name?” Davis said.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “You may be involved, for all I know.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You got ID?”

  “No.”

  Natalia’s arm tensed under my hand. She was taking deep breaths.

  “I can run you for that,” Davis said.

  “You won’t,” I said.

  “No?”

  “You’ve got no probable cause to run me for anything,” I said. “You know it, and I know it. I’m not out to make your life hard. You have your sphere and I have mine.”

  “I have my what?”

  “A defined area of concern.”

  “Who talks like this? You sound like a college professor or something.”

  “Far from it,” I said. It was my dad who was the college professor. Tall and with authority, talking about free will, the problem of evil, Sartre. And chess and fishing. Fresh pain and guilt knifed through me. It always happened when I thought of my dad.

  And then something hit me. I said to Natalia, “Are you in a custody battle?”

  Her eyes widened. “How did you know?”

  “I think the kids may have been taken,” I said to Davis.

  Now Natalia grabbed my arm. “Why are you saying that?”

  “I talked to a nun at the yard, and she didn’t see them.” I looked at Davis. “A black Lexus almost hit me. Heavy tint on the windows. It was heading away from the blast. Maybe the kids were in that car.”

  “Wait a minute,” Davis said. “That’s a pretty big leap.”

  “A hunch,” I said, “like detectives get.”

  Natalia said, “My ex-husband is very much capable of doing something like this.”

  “This?” Davis said. “You mean a bomb?”

  “Have you heard of Mark David Mayne?” she said.

  “You’re Mrs. Mayne?”

  She nodded.

  “Put out an Amber Alert on a black Lexus,” I said.

  “Can’t just do it,” Davis said. “We need some evidence of abduction.”

  “I just gave it to you.”

  “Not enough,” Davis said.

  “I suggest you check any security cameras and canvass the neighborhood to see if anybody saw the car.”

  “Don’t play cop, Vincent,” Davis said.

  He was looking at my left forearm.

  I held it up so he could see the tattoo clearly.

  “It’s Latin,” I said.

  Davis gave me that cage
look again. It melted off me like frost.

  “Vincit Omnia Veritas,” I said.

  “What’s it mean?” Davis said.

  “Today it means I’m done here,” I said.

  His nostrils flared again. Or maybe it was the rest of his face narrowing.

  ACROSS THE STREET I saw the kids with the video camera. They were shooting the crime scene and chattering at each other like Peeping Toms. I told Natalia to wait. I didn’t tell Davis to do anything. He opened his mouth. I turned my back.

  I went across the street and heard one kid, the taller of the two, say to the one with the camera, “Get the nun. We can make it a devil movie.”

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  The two Spielbergs looked up.

  “You shot a car earlier,” I said.

  The tall one said, “What?”

  “Back there. I was running by, almost got hit by a car. You were messing around. I think you maybe got the car.”

  The tall kid said nothing. His buddy held the camera on his shoulder. It was a Sony. It looked big and expensive. I remembered my first camera, a disposable Kodak my mom bought me when I was eight. I used it to photograph people down in Washington Square. I wanted to read peoples’ faces. I wanted to catch them when they didn’t know it, see inside them and figure out what made them tick. Yeah, eight. I wasn’t into Pac Man or Space Invaders. I was into seeing inside people.

  I said, “Can you look at your footage and tell me if there’s a black Lexus in it?”

  Tall Kid nudged Kid Video with the back of his hand. “Let’s go.”

  Kid Video thought about it. To me he said, “I gotta go.”

  “It’s important,” I said. “There may have been some kidnapped kids in the car.”

  He looked at me pie-eyed.

  “Come on,” Tall Kid said to his companion.

  “Just rewind and let’s have look, okay?” I said.

  “Don’t do it,” Tall Kid said.

  “Guys, I’m going to have a look whether you let me or not. I’d rather you let me.”

  Tall Kid’s face twitched and he said, “I’m gonna call a cop.” He started to walk by me. I grabbed his T-shirt and pulled him back across my leg, setting him gently on the ground. At the same time I twisted the shirt around his throat so he couldn’t talk. I have a way with kids.