Rogue Alliance

TWO



Shyla jolted awake, the incessant ringing of her work cell phone interrupting her alcohol-induced coma. The sound infiltrated her inebriated dreams of torment, bringing her to consciousness, which wasn’t much better. Without opening her eyes, she reached to her belt clip and hit the ‘receive call’ button.

“Ericson, here.”

Her voice came out a croak; her mouth was desiccated. She swallowed but kept her eyes closed. Her head was pounding and she knew that, when she lifted her lids, the dull drumbeat in her skull would escalate to sharp explosions of chaos.

Hangover. Situation normal.

“Ericson, where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you for the past half-hour.”

Eli Stratton’s tone was strict but not accusatory.

“Hey, Boss. I’m uhh…”

She warily opened one eye and looked around. The pulsing pain behind her forehead sharpened. Sitting in the driver’s side of her car, she pulled at the seatbelt which had been holding her upright and rubbing her collarbone raw. Dammit, she’d driven after a few too many drinks and passed out in the garage. Again. She should have called a cab. Risking her badge was never something she took lightly.

Her door was cracked open and the accessory light was on. The key was still in the ignition and the ding, ding, dinging was nearly enough to send her over the edge.

“I’m home. I was sleeping. It’s what most people do at this time of night. Morning. Whatever. What time is it?”

She glanced at the digital clock on her console; it read 5:50. She didn’t wait for his answer.

“What’s up?”

She sat up straight, her lower back complaining. Hungover or not, she knew Stratton wasn’t making a social call.

“A pig farmer, twenty minutes south, found the remains of a body with the rest of the slop when he went out to feed this morning. Says there’s not much left, but there’s no doubt that it was human. He rounded up all fifty-eight of his pigs and penned ‘em up so that they couldn’t get at the rest of it.

“Yum.”

“Homicide’s already out, but I want you down there because the victim has the gang’s necklace on.”

Shyla sat straighter, suddenly on alert.

“The double-headed eagle?”

“Yep. And it’s an exact replica of the last one we found on that dead body in Huntington Park.”

“Yeah, that screams of Ricardo’s crew. Maybe this time we’ll be able to get something on him. Figures he’d have a bunch of hogs clean up after his dirty work. I’m a little shocked there’s a pig farm within a thirty mile radius, though. The homicide guys aren’t going to want us out there getting in their way - you know how territorial they are. They hate us Federal goons.”

“I know, but you’re on that case and with the body having the same necklace I thought it best to get you out there. The farm’s not much of a farm; it’s more a facility. Nasty place. We have no clue how this will pan out, but I have a hunch that Ricardo has his hands in it, somehow or other. I don’t want those numb-nuts messing this up.”

“Got it. Body. Farmer. No numb nuts. I’m on it. Have you talked with Johnson?”

“Yes, Shyla, of course. He’s already on his way.”

“Why didn’t he just swing by and pick me up?”

“We didn’t know where the hell you where at. Both he and I have called your home phone a few times. It’s not like you not to answer. We thought maybe you…well…we weren’t sure what to think.”

Shit. She hung up. She desperately wanted to take a few minutes to get out of the car and stretch her cramped legs. Brushing her teeth to rid herself of the rotten, post-tequila dragon breath would have been the next priority. But, as Eli had mentioned, she needed to get her butt to the scene. And her partner, Daniel Johnson, was surely going to give her hell for not being available. The last thing she needed was to give him another reason to hate her. Maybe hate was too harsh a word, she thought. She guessed it was more a discomfort than anything else. She was used to it. Most of her associates acted uncomfortably around her.

She started the car and backed out of the garage. Tilting the rear-view mirror, she sneaked a quick glace at her appearance. Bypassing her blood-shot, jade green eyes, she tamed the wisps of hairs that sprang out around her head. A flicker of panic shot up her spine. Where was her hair clip? After rummaging around she came up empty handed. Shit. She ran a dry tongue over her lips.

Well, no time to gussy up, she thought, especially when you had a couple of cops on scene who didn’t know what they were looking for and a bunch of hungry swine waiting for breakfast.



*





The stiff breeze whipped Shyla’s dark brown hair into disarray. She swore under her breath as she pulled a long strand from the corner of her mouth. Irritated, she jerked back the loathsome mane and tucked it under the hood of the department issued wind-breaker she wore. Normally – obsessively - she kept it tamed and tied back.

She was mucking around in thick, ankle-deep mud, her hair loose and at the mercy of the blustery weather. At some point during the previous evening’s binge she’d managed to lose her hair tie. She felt the eyes of the crew - they had never seen it down; no one had since she was a little girl. Now, as she plodded through the pig shit and mud, it frustrated her that they were distracted so easily.

She ignored them and made a bee-line toward her partner. He was hunched over the farthest section of the thirty-foot, rusted-out feeding trough. As if sensing her, he stood up, turned and met her halfway.

He raised one bushy brow in question but remained silent.

“It’s just hair. Get over it. Where’s the body? Oh and don’t get too close to me. I haven’t brushed my teeth yet. My mouth tastes like ass and probably doesn’t smell much better, either.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Johnson said, “but the hair I like. I always wondered what it looked like down.”

“Are we bonding now?”

She watched his expression flatten. Once again, her dour mood had squelched any chance of making friends with her partner. A small twinge of regret fluttered in her belly.

“Why would we want to do that? Forget I said anything.”

He turned and walked away. She followed with her head held high but felt like a louse. She had never made sense of why she couldn’t bring herself to be polite to Johnson. It was logical that if she could, they would be a stronger team.

Her position as detective on the Federal Agency of Narcotic Control was everything to her. Other than a few minor mishaps from her tendency to bend the rules, she was building a solid and respectable career for herself. Her dedication was stalwart and she expected everyone else around her to perform to the same degree. She knew it was an unrealistic expectation but couldn’t change it. Biting sarcasm was her usual means of communication. It kept people just where she wanted them - at a distance. She absolutely did not want to be friends. She wanted to work. She wanted to solve cases. She wanted to be left the hell alone, which was why, even after a year, Johnson still didn’t like working with her.

“Quentin’s already here,” Johnson said over his shoulder, “I knew you’d want him specifically.”

Shyla had already spotted him.

“I know he’s quirky but he’s the best forensics guy on the west coast. Hey, Quentin, what’s the 411?”

He looked up, peeking over his thick-rimmed glasses, which seemed to be the newest style. He’d been wearing them long before the latest fad was to look like nerd extraordinaire, though, so she didn’t tease him about it. His eyes lit up and he broke into a smile.

“Morning, Sunshine. Glad you’re here. Come have a look.”

Shyla braced herself for grotesque and stepped forward. It never got easier.

Straton had been right. There wasn’t much left. It was a body. The only way she could see that it was human were the strands of bright pink hair streaming from the skull. Other than that, it was hard to conclude much more. Nearly all the flesh had been torn away. It wasn’t even that repulsive, just looked like mangled up chunks of meat dangling from a set of bones. Shyla had seen worse. This didn’t even have a face anymore. Without a face, it was easier to look at the cadaver from a professional and disengaged perspective. When they had a face, they looked at you and wanted answers.

Shyla was relieved those eyes weren’t looking back at her that cold morning. She felt like shit. Having a corpse stare up at you when you’re already miserable is not the best of ways to start the morning.

“She’s late teens- early twenties. Caucasian. Dark-blonde hair dyed hot pink,” Quentin’s energetic voice piped up.

“Yeah, I see the hair. That’s where you get white female?”

Hands gloved, he tugged with a pair of small sterile forceps and pulled up a chunk of what must have been scalp. By the curve of the bone, she guessed forehead.

“You have to look real close, but just at the roots you can make out the color of her skin. Nowadays, pink hair isn’t real gender specific, but the bone structure, femur length, and the pelvis, says female- late teens, early twenties.”

Shyla raised a speculative eyebrow.

“I’ll take your word for it. I want to see the necklace. Straton said it’s identical to the one’s Ricardo’s gang wears.”

“Sure. I bagged it.”

“I already took a peek,” Johnson said. “It does look the same.”

Shyla nodded and kept her expression bland.

“Anything else?” she asked.

Quentin snorted and gently bagged his specimen.

“No. This is a mess. I’m gonna have to wait until she’s back at the lab before I can have my way with her. Give me at least a few days. Probably not going to be much to go off given her condition, but her skeleton might reveal the cause of death. We’ll see.”

“Meanwhile,” Shyla said, “we’ll stick to protocol - keep tabs on everything that the State authorities find, run her DNA, see if we can match her up with a missing profile. I know that Straton thinks she’s one of Ricardo’s but I want to know if she had any association with Victor Champlain.”

“Champlain? I didn’t know you were on that case.”

Johnson rolled his eyes.

“We’re not. Jesus, Shyla, let it go. I’m going to go have a talk with the farmer.” He stomped off.

Shyla felt Quentin’s curiosity, as thick as the mud under her boots.

“Ricardo’s gang is our main focus. But let’s face it - he’s small potatoes. I have a hard time believing he doesn’t answer to someone bigger. You and I both know that Champlain wouldn’t let just anyone deal in his territory. He has a whole fleet under him and I’m willing to bet Ricardo is one of them.”

Quentin peered over the rim of his glasses.

“Well if you can draw that conclusion, then why hasn’t anyone else?” he asked.

“They have. Even Johnson,” Shyla said, averting her eyes, “But everyone has their hands full. Champlain’s reach is far. And he has a lot of people in his pockets, if you know what I mean. I’m not sure it’s a case that’s meant to be solved. But little guys, like Ricardo, they are perfect fall guys. So they focus on them.”

“But not you. You want to nail Champlain and use guys like Ricardo to do it.”

Shyla gave a rare sideways grin.

“Who, me?”