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“One major danger in the operating theater is Waste Gas. I was doing a rhinoplasty at the clinic when a small leak occurred in the patient’s anesthetic breathing circuit. Even with proper ventilation up to OSHA guidelines, my nurse collapsed.”

  “So it would work?”

  “It would knock out anything in the room. Including you.”

  “What about a gas mask?”

  “If the mask had a respirator, you’d be protected.”

  “I’m going to need help getting him into your ambulance.”

  Plastic doesn’t seem pleased. But he doesn’t object.

  “Is there a problem?” Erinyes asks.

  “If I help you…” Plastic says.

  “Then I won’t turn you in.”

  Plastic shakes his head. “That won’t happen. You turn me in, I turn you in. For kidnapping. And probably worse. This isn’t going to work based on blackmail. This has to be a partnership.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “You have a problem I can help with. I have a problem that you can help with. No one has anything over anyone.”

  “I’d be honored to help with your problem, Plastic. What is it?”

  “It’s a private detective named Harry McGlade.”

  “How can I help?”

  “Can you work a computer?”

  “I think I know enough to get by.”

  “Good. We can scratch each other’s backs. Quid pro quo.”

  Erinyes grins.

  I was right.

  This is all going to work out perfectly.

  Ready or not, Tom. Here I come.

  HARRY

  Present Time

  So you’re thinking Plastic owns an ambulance?” Jack said.

  I nodded, then belched. “Neighbor saw Donatello being put into the back of an ambulance.”

  “And she told this to the police?”

  “She did not. They never questioned her, and she didn’t know anything had happened to him. He’s kept out of the public eye.”

  “So the police didn’t question her, and neither did you.”

  “I just did.”

  “That’s because I told you to.”

  I patted her knee. “And that’s why I’m paying you the big bucks. I’ve got a contact at the DMV. We find out if any ambulances are registered to private owners, crosscheck with our list of plastic surgeons, and we got him.”

  “It won’t be that easy, McGlade. It never is.”

  Spoiler-alert!

  “I found the Gingerbread Man by watching a TV show I recorded. All that policework you did, all that crime-solving, and I’m the one that got him. Remember that?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Shot him in the head and saved your ass.”

  “I remember it differently.”

  I shrugged. “Memories are fluid. Like urine. Remember that time I went undercover in the Amish community?”

  “No.”

  “Me, neither. The memory keeps changing. Like it has a dozen different endings. Which is exactly what I mean. The past isn’t a perfect snapshot of time. It changes. Did I ever tell you about the time when I was a kid and a friendly alien visited me?”

  “That was the movie ET.”

  “He had a big head and blue eyes.”

  “ET.”

  “He kissed me on the mouth. With tongue.”

  “Definitely not ET,” Jack said.

  “I’m pretty sure it was a real space alien. Or a creepy neighbor with hydrocephalus.”

  “Yeah. Memory ain’t perfect.”

  And neither, apparently, was my plan to catch Plastic.

  “There are over four thousand licensed ambulances in California,” said my DMV contact over the phone. “Seventy-five percent are private.”

  “What if it isn’t a licensed? What if my guy bought a used ambulance?”

  “Then I need the make and model.”

  “So what kind of vehicle is an ambulance?”

  “Why would I know that? You think, because I work at the DMV, I’ve got vehicle information tattooed on my fat ass?”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  My DMV contact had passive/aggressive issues, stemming from the fact that she was a dick.

  But allow me to take this time to point out that serious mental illness isn’t something to laugh at. And neither is hydrocephaly. People who are different than you, who have challenges you couldn’t possibly understand, shouldn’t be the butt of offensive jokes. Freedom of speech doesn’t give you the right to hurt someone with words.

  Kidding!

  That’s exactly what freedom of speech is for!

  The First Amendment protects the speech that you don’t like. That’s the whole point.

  Everyone needs to lighten up, or toughen up, or learn to ignore the stuff that triggers you. If you’re easily offended, or overly concerned you’ll offend someone, the best advice I can offer is for you to choke on a bag of dicks and fuck off.

  PSA over. Back to the riveting story.

  “So the DMV idea may take a little longer than we thought,” I said to Jack. “Did you have a chance to go over the ViCAT reports the Feebies sent me?”

  Jack gave me a drama queen sigh. “I did. The Violent Criminal Apprehension Team’s computer—”

  “Vicky. Her name is Vicky.”

  “—profiled Plastic as a white male, twenty-five to forty-five, lives alone, and has surgical experience. Wow. Vicky must be the smartest computer on the planet to reach those startling conclusions.”

  “You sound jealous. I like it when women get catty. It’s hot.”

  “I like it when smart people shut up.”

  Touché, Jackie. You got me there.

  I stayed unhappily quiet, but made a motion with my hands for her to keep going with the profile.

  “Lives within fifty miles of Los Angeles, may be disfigured; unattractive, scarred, deformed, maybe with a clubfoot or scoliosis. That’s a hunch.”

  “No, it’s not. Vicky is mathematically crunching possibilities.”

  “Scoliosis is a hunch, McGlade. Like a hunchback. That was a joke.”

  I frowned. “I thought we agreed I’d be the funny one when we’re together.”

  “Then you should have interrupted me and made the hunch joke before I did.”

  “I couldn’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “It isn’t the right day.”

  “What’s the right day?” Jack asked.

  “Hump day.”

  Zing! Been waiting sixteen years to use that joke. Surprising how rarely hunchbacks come up in everyday conversation.

  Jack shook her head and rolled her eyes.

  “I see you’re jelly of my pun-fu.”

  “Puns are where laughter goes to die, McGlade. They’re easy.”

  “So you do one.”

  “The hunch joke was a pun.”

  “Do another one.”

  “Fine. We should check golf courses for Plastic.”

  “Because all doctors golf?”

  “Because Vicky says he has a clubfoot.”

  That wasn’t bad. But you can’t encourage your opponent.

  “Read on, Jack-o.”

  Jack read on. “Plastic was likely bullied as a child, and had no friends. Father absent, or abusive.”

  “Who’s your daddy?”

  “Is that a pun?”

  “It’s more like a jab. When I meet Plastic I’ll say who’s your daddy, like it’s a sexual thing. Cringe humor. It’s popular these days.”

  “If a man ever asked me who’s your daddy in a sexual way I’d spank him and say you’re a bad boy. Who’s my bad boy.”

  That one amused me and I giggled. “Jesus, Jack. Where have you been?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I haven’t seen you act playful in years. You’ve been this brooding, self-hating, pessimistic, single-minded jerk. Like Bruce Wayne, but without the money and batsuit.”

  “Have I been that bad?”
/>   “I’m surprised anyone has stuck with you. Dark is okay for small periods of time. But you gotta lighten up. Even when times are tough. Especially when times are tough.”

  Jack actually seemed to consider it. Rare for Jack, who usually ignored me like I was the leper in a game of Naked Twister.

  “Duly noted, Harry. I’ll take that advice.”

  “Can I give you some wardrobe advice, too?”

  “No.”

  “You used to dress well. Now you dress like a Salvation Army ad.”

  “Gotcha. I think we can end the advice there.”

  “And that pot belly. I’ve got CHF. That’s my excuse. You’ve got a snacking disorder. I caught you on the security camera, inhaling a whole bag of Chips Ahoy.”

  “I realize that. Let’s move along.”

  “You poured them into a bowl and filled it with milk and gobbled them up with a ladle. You looked like a grizzly bear with a fresh kill. It depressed me, Jack. I ached inside.”

  “Enough.”

  “Or what? You’ll eat the rest of my cookies? I don’t have any left. That was like 3500 calories.”

  True to her word, she hit me, a poor dying guy, in the arm, hard enough to leave a bruise.

  I considered feigning a heart attack but didn’t want to crash my Vette. Plus, crying wolf wasn’t smart if I actually did have a heart attack.

  So instead I acted like the bigger person and insincerely apologized.

  But I was gonna lock up my damn cookies.

  Jack continued reading the report. “Moving along, Vicky ends the Plastic profile stating he likely has a large car or van, access to medical drugs, an operating room in his house, and microcephaly.”

  “Microcephaly? Really? Too coincidental. I just made a balloonhead hydrocephaly joke. I don’t believe Vicky profiled him with a tiny pinhead.”

  “That’s because both of you are narrow-minded.”

  Jack smiled, triumphant.

  I winced. “Ouch. That one was good, Jackie. The set-up, the pun, and the burn. Nicely done. Now read the report on Erinyes.”

  “The ViCAT report is less speculative, obviously, because we know Erinyes is Walter Cissick. Looks like Vicky focused on where he lives and how he’s getting his victims. Says he’s homeless, likely panhandling. I guess that means he’s working in a diner. Get it? Panhandling?”

  “They can’t all be good.” But the homeless reference made me remember something. I told my car to dial my contact at LA’s traffic control center, someone Tom introduced me to.

  “This is Deiter.”

  “Deb! Harry McGlade.”

  “Hiya, Harry. Still missing a hand?”

  “Yep. Hasn’t grown back yet, and I water it every day. Still missing both legs?”

  “I am. But I shaved three minutes off my N-Som Triathlon time this year. And I beat Mal by fifteen.”

  “You still married?”

  “Happily married.”

  “Too bad. I was hoping for a shot.”

  “A shot with me?”

  “A shot with your husband. He’s a cutie.”

  Insert pleasant small-talk chuckles.

  “You’re calling about the picture you sent.”

  “Walter Cissick. Yeah.”

  “No hits yet, but the program has only gotten through about a third of the traffic cams.”

  “How many days you going back?”

  “Ten.”

  “Reduce it to two.”

  “It’ll go faster, but won’t be as thorough.”

  “I like it fast and sloppy. Call me the moment you get a match.”

  “Will do. How are Tom and Joan doing?”

  “I’m calling Tom right after I call you. Love to your hubby.”

  I hung up and called Tom.

  “Tell me Tom is with you, McGlade,” Roy said.

  Uh-oh. “He’s not. Lemme guess; he’s missing and that’s why you have his phone.”

  “Got here two minutes ago to pick him up. Stallone is out cold. Drugged. Joan is at work, hasn’t seen him since she left the boat this morning.”

  “How long ago?”

  “About ninety minutes.”

  I met Jack’s stare, knowing she heard the conversation.

  “Call the cops and the Feebies, Roy.”

  “This shit just got real, McGlade. If that asshole hurts my boy, I’m gonna mess him up.”

  “Take a ticket and get in line. See you at my place.”

  I hung up and called Deb back. “Cissick got Tom. Do you have any cameras around the Las Cruces Marina?”

  “Hold on.” A few seconds passed. “I have seven cameras in that area.”

  “Tom had his boat moored there. Look for Cissick, or anything unusual. Go back four hours.”

  “I’m on it.”

  I disconnected and looked at Jack. “I think Tom is kind of whitebread and boring, and I think he thinks he’s related to Thomas Jefferson, but all that aside he’s a good cop. And a friend. We have to save him.”

  “We will,” Jack said.

  I blew out a breath.

  I’d been at the mercy of psychos before.

  They had no mercy.

  Ninety minutes was an eternity.

  TOM

  Tom woke up disoriented, sweating, mouth dry.

  The first thing he noticed was being naked.

  The second thing he noticed was the leather dog collar padlocked to his neck, a thick chain attached and trailing to an iron hook set into the concrete floor.

  It was bright, like headlights were shining on him.

  Hot and humid, the air heavy.

  Then the memories came back.

  I was talking to Firoz, getting drowsy… then…

  Erinyes.

  Adrenaline spiked, flushing his veins of whatever he’d been drugged with. Abruptly alert, Tom tugged at his collar, then tugged at the chain. When neither budged, he crawled forward, toward the spotlights, until his tether reached its full length and halted him.

  Looking to the sides, Tom saw black lining the walls. Geometric triangular patterns, repeating from floor to ceiling, and then covering the ceiling.

  Baffles. Foam sheets used in recording studios to eliminate noise.

  Cement floor.

  Sticky heat.

  Los Angeles doesn’t have a lot of basements, so assuming I’m still in town, I’m probably in a garage.

  A garage that has been soundproofed.

  But Tom had no idea how long he’d bee unconscious, so maybe he wasn’t in LA anymore.

  I could be in Mexico. Or Nevada. Or maybe even flown somewhere.

  Cissick has money. He obviously had help, because he isn’t strong enough to move me by himself.

  I could be in even bigger trouble than I think.

  He crawled in the opposite direction, seeing two empty plastic bowls on the floor. And beyond that…

  A doghouse.

  This is how I found Cissick.

  Chained up and treated like an animal.

  He’d been abused for years.

  Starved.

  Beaten.

  Tortured.

  Tom shook his head to dispel the thought, then stopped when he realized what he was doing.

  I’m shaking my head like a wet dog.

  He forced himself to take a deep breath and hold it, pushing away panic, pushing away fear.

  I’m going to get out of here.

  My friends will find me.

  They’re detectives. That’s what they do.

  I just need to survive long enough.

  And the first step is to remain calm.

  Tom sat on his bare ass, crossing his ankles in front of him. He closed his eyes and focused on his rapid heartbeat, willing it to slow down.

  I can get through this.

  I’ve gotten through worse.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen!” The voice was ringleader loud, coming from beyond the spotlights. Tom’s eyes flipped open and he squinted at the glare. His heartrate accelerated p
ast its previous heights.

  Cissick.

  “Welcome to the Human Dog channel! Streaming to you live from Usher House 2.0, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Thank you for subscribing!”

  Jesus Christ. He’s broadcasting live on a darknet snuff site.

  Tom stood up and cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted. “My name is Tom Mankowski. I was abducted in Los Angeles. I’m being held here by Walter Cissick.”

  “I prefer Erinyes,” Cissick said. “Who are you calling to, Tom? The perverts who are paying to see this? The FBI? CIA? Interpol? They’ve been trying to shut down Usher House for years. No one is going to find you. You’re going to die here.”

  Raging, Tom sprinted at the lights—

  —and the chain yanked him backward. He slammed onto the concrete, banging his shoulder and hip.

  Stupid move.

  “Tom is a dirty dog. And everyone knows dirty dogs get the hose.”

  Then a warm jet of garden hose water hit him in the chest, moving up to his face. Tom tucked his nose into his shoulder, turning away from the spray, crawling back toward the doghouse.

  “Better grab your bowl, Tom. This is all the water you’re getting today.”

  Tom did find one of the plastic bowls, getting on his knees and throwing it sidearm, trying to hit the lights.

  He missed.

  The hose stopped.

  “Bad Tom! Don’t throw your food bowl! No food for a week!”

  Tom elected not to answer. He waited.

  I’m not putting on a show.

  After a few minutes of nothing happening, he sat up, the concrete still damp with a few puddles.

  Goddammit. I’m thirsty.

  Tom glanced at the plastic bowl he didn’t throw. Only a few drops form the hose made it in.

  Which means the only water I have is quickly evaporating.

  The water still in my damp hair.

  The water on the cement floor.

  Tom considered trying to save it. Scoop it up into the bowl.

  Or lick it up.

  He did neither.

  I’m not at that point. Not yet.

  I won’t debase myself in front of a bunch of jerking-off degenerates.

  So Tom drew his knees up to his head and hugged them.

  Watching the water dry.

  Wondering if his pride and anger was a mistake.

  Wondering if his life was a mistake.

  I’m going to get out of here.

  He closed his eyes.